Perceptions from a Pewboy

On Sunday evening, Tara and I are scheduled to go to the Fleetwood Mac concert at Mellon Arena. It should be quite a nostalgic night for us—a musical journey into the classic rock of yesteryear. Mick Fleetwood will be there. So will Lindsey Buckingham, John McVie, and Stevie Nicks. The only glaring absence will be Christine McVie, who lives in England and has a disdain for touring.

As trite as it may at first sound, my favorite Fleetwood Mac song is “Go Your Own Way.” Written by Lindsey Buckingham, the song was the first single released from the 1977 album, “Rumors.” Ostensibly a musical expression of a conversation that might take place between alienated lovers (a possibility made even more real by the fact that Lindsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks were in the midst of a complicated break-up at the time of the song was written), the song has survived for 32 years as one of rock and roll’s most bittersweet odes to the pain of letting someone go.

Some time ago, while listening to the song, it occurred to me that, if God were to sing songs to humankind (and I believe that God does just that), this could be something like the song that God might occasionally offer to a humankind that he desperately loves but refuses to coerce.

Think about it:

Loving you isn’t the right thing to do
How can I ever change things that I feel

If I could maybe I’d give you my world
How can I when you won’t take it from me

You can go your own way
Go your own way
You can call it another lonely day
You can go your own way
Go your own way

Tell me why everything turned around
Packing up, shacking up is all you wanna do

If I could baby I’d give you my world
Open up, everything’s waiting for you

You can go your own way

“Loving you isn’t the right thing to do.”
(How “right” is it—in other words, how much practical sense does it really make—for a perfectly holy God to be in a passionate relationship with people who, on their own, can never be consistently holy? Can’t you imagine God acknowledging that it is neither pragmatic nor sensible to perpetuate such a love relationship? Can’t you imagine God singing, however God sings, “loving these people isn’t the right thing to do,” at least according to a moralistic and practical understanding of rightness. However…)

“How can I ever change the things I feel”
(God cannot change the very nature of divinity, and the very nature of divinity is to be inwardly occupied by an all-encompassing love for the created order. God essentially sings this kind of a song: “Though it may not make practical sense, I cannot purge myself of the love that I have for my people and the love that I feel for their journey. Nor would I ever want to purge myself of this love, since this love is who I am.”)

“If I could, maybe I’d give you my world”
(What is God’s world? It is the realm of eternity, the realm of perfect relationship, the realm of deliverance and ever-creative redemption. That is the world to which God has connected us through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus.)

“How can I [give you my world] when you won’t take it from me”
(I wonder how frequently God has sung a song like this over humankind. I wonder how many days and nights God has wept over a world that stubbornly refuses to receive the love, the grace, the Way—the “world”—that God has so graciously offered.)

“You can go your own way…call it another lonely day”
(What choice does a loving God have when dealing with hardhearted people whom he refuses to bully, coerce, or manipulate? God’s only choice is to allow us to “go our own way,” which, with apologies to my predestinarian brothers and sisters, is the way of a “freed will.” Not a “free will” that is inherently ours, but a “freed will”—a will that has been set free by God’s prevenient grace in order to be able to accommodate important and life-altering decisions without divine compulsion.)

“Tell me why everything turned around
Packing up, shacking up is all you wanna do”
(Sounds like the kind of lament that God might occasionally sing over a stubbornly wayward humankind, doesn’t it?)

“If I could baby I’d give you my world
Open up everything’s waiting for you”
(A final word of saving grace, offered by a loving Parent who cannot allow the song to end without a final pronouncement of the door to redemptive reconciliation that will always remain open. In the end, it is a song about a relentlessly self-giving, self-emptying Lover whose most passionate desire is to give us his World.)

Nobody has to tell me that Christian soteriology was probably the furthest thing from Lindsey Buckingham’s mind when he wrote “Go Your Own Way.” On Sunday night, however, when I hear the song, I hope that you’ll understand why I am tempted to offer my own interpretation.

What do I see when I look upon the ashes of this day?

I see a tangible reminder of the stain of my iniquity that I do not, on my own, have the wherewithal to cleanse. As. C.S. Lewis once suggested, the good news of Christianity will be unintelligible unless it is preceded by a recognition of the bad news of our sinfulness and the resultant alienation from God that sin always causes.

The ashes of this day speak an unsettling word to my heart about the “bad news” of my personal transgression. They are a besmirching of my visage that calls to mind the very real way in which sin has besmirched my soul. Every time I see the ashes (either on my forehead or the forehead of another), the flame of authentic repentance burns more intensely in my heart. The ashes help me to cling even more urgently and gratefully to the saving grace of Jesus Christ, who willingly receives into himself the stain of my sin, thereby making it possible for me to experience the salvation that only he can provide.

Beyond this, when I look upon the ashes, I am compelled to be cognizant of my own mortality and the dust to which I will one day return. I say that, not as an expression of morbidity, but as a realistic discernment of the fragility of the human journey and the urgency of living well.

During the day of atonement in the orthodox Jewish tradition, it is not uncommon for Jewish people to wear the garment in which they will one day be buried. For that faith community, this tangible act is an expression of humble awareness and not a sign of hopeless despair.

In a sense, the ashes of this day are the garment in which I will one day be buried. They are a garment of dust that inspires me to ponder at least two things: first, that my earthly body will one day be no more; and, second, that my eternal life in Christ has just begun.

Recently, I’ve been spending a good bit of time listening to Bruce Springsteen’s newest album. Bruce’s performance during the Super Bowl halftime show seems to have put me in an E Street frame of mind.

The title of the new album is “Working on a Dream.” There is an appropriateness about the title, since the album’s thematic and stylistic diversity calls to mind a dream-like progression through vivid landscapes that one would not ordinarily put together.

The album begins with “Outlaw Pete,” a grandiose, eight-minute examination of the human condition though the eyes of a gunslinger. The song’s rugged instrumentation and desperate chorus call to mind the emotional rawness of a good western, complete with an Eastwoodian exploration of the themes of evil and redemption set against the backdrop of a rogue’s journey.

From there, Springsteen returns to his roots with “Lucky Day,” a contagious expression of rock and roll optimism with a New Jersey edge to it. It is a song best listened to in a convertible, preferably while driving along the Jersey coast.

The title song, “Working on a Dream” feels less like work and more like a nostalgic remembrance of what it means to be thoroughly engaged by the ebb and flow of hope. It is a musically winsome affirmation of the fact that all good dreams—even the American dream—become something real and redemptive only when they enable us to live and love more deeply.

“The Wrestler,” which Springsteen wrote for the film of the same name, ushers into the album’s conversation a broken-down soul who still believes that his voice is worth hearing, even though he feels like “a one-armed man punching at nothing but the breeze.” (By the way, “The Wrestler” is a film worth seeing, especially if you have any interest in catching a glimpse of the heart that beats beneath the ego and aspirations of an aging athlete that society has unceremoniously discarded. The film makes clear that Mickey Rourke still has the capacity to breathe a unique intensity into a character that few would be willing or able to bring to life.)

I think you get the point. Like a good dream, Springsteen’s newest album moves quickly and effortlessly through a panorama of moods and musical styles. One gets the impression that the Boss and his E Street Band are of the opinion that the current era demands, not the thematic symmetry of a well-organized plan, but the creativity and passion of a great dream.

My favorite song on the album is “The Last Carnival,” Springsteen’s ode to his longtime friend and E Street organist, Danny Federici, who died of cancer last year. The song represents Springsteen at his most poignant:

We’ll be riding the train without you tonight
The train that keeps on moving
It’s black smoke scorching the evening sky.
A million stars shining above us like every soul living and dead
Has been gathered together by God to sing a hymn
Over the old bones.

Through his musical grieving, Springsteen reminds us that, even in dreamland, hearts can break.

Citizenship is no small matter, is it? Our identity and privileges depend largely upon it. The parameters of our living are often dictated by it.

Perhaps it comes as no great surprise, then, that in the third chapter of the New Testament letter to the Philippians, the Apostle Paul utilizes the metaphor of citizenship to describe the reality of God’s salvation in Jesus Christ. Citizenship, after all, was as important to the people of 1st Century Palestine as it is to us, especially given the reality of the Roman Empire. Being able to establish one’s citizenship under Roman rule often meant the difference between life and death.

Therefore, given the considerable weight of the issue of citizenship, the Apostle Paul utilizes the issue as a metaphorical window through which to view the experience of God’s salvation offered to humankind through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. “For many live as enemies of the cross of Christ,” are the words of the 18th verse of the third chapter of Philippians. “Their end is destruction, their god is their belly, and their minds are set on earthly things.”

The Apostle then goes on to articulate what I consider to be one of Scripture’s most compelling expressions of our salvation in Christ: “Our citizenship is in heaven,” Paul writes. “It is from there that we are expecting a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ, who will transform our humiliation into glory.”

It is a biblical moment that makes clear to us that part of our salvation in Christ is a spiritual repatriation. Have you spent any time with that word before—“repatriation”? It is a word often used in political or legal conversations. The word itself, however, literally means returning to one’s homeland or going back to one’s native territory. In fact, the literal meaning of the word in Latin is precisely that: “Re,” which in Latin means “back”; and “patria,” which means “native land”. “Re-patria” means “going back to one’s native land.”

The proclamation of Philippians 3 makes clear to us that part of the salvation that God has offered to us in Jesus Christ is a spiritual repatriation, a return to our spiritual homeland, which is the kingdom of heaven.

What is the kingdom of heaven? People who know me well probably get tired of hearing me talk about it. The kingdom of heaven is not a geographical realm, defended by military and driven by a particular nation’s political ideology. Rather, the kingdom of heaven is the condition inaugurated through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. It is the realm of discipleship and transformed living, the boundaries of which are not nationalistic but rather christological and pneumatological. As a twelve-year-old acquaintance of mine once phrased it, the kingdom of heaven exists “wherever Jesus is living in people’s hearts and shining in people’s lives.”

To be saved by Jesus, then, is to claim a different primary citizenship. Grateful as we are for our nation and the freedoms that it affords to us, our primary citizenship (and, by implication, our primary means of identification) is to be found in a different kingdom, the ethics, priorities, and blessings of which are vastly different than any other kingdom that this world has to offer.

In one of the churches that I served, there was a man who had spent his entire adult life in the military. He had served his country bravely and faithfully. But privately, he frequently talked with me about the sadness of his vocation—the guilt he felt over ending the lives of others in combat, the pain he felt over the horrific memories of war that he could not jettison from his thoughts, the tension that he often experienced between carrying a weapon and carrying the cross. He was a faithful Christ-follower, but he was also a faithful soldier, and sometimes he felt as though he were a part of two worlds. One day he put it this way: “I’ve defended my country,” he said, “because I felt that I had to. But I’m so grateful that my first allegiance is to a kingdom that doesn’t have to be defended with guns and bombs.”

“That’s the kingdom that Jesus brought me into when I was 14 years old,” he said, “and that’s the kingdom in which I’m going to live forever.”

I knew in that moment that I was speaking to a soldier who understood the nature of his primary citizenship.

In my twenty years of pastoral ministry, I have officiated at 197 weddings. That averages out to be about 10 weddings a year. I know the wedding liturgy like the back of my hand. In fact, one time, I was dreaming that I was officiating at a wedding, and when I woke up, I actually was! My experience tells me that, in the cultural hoopla that often surrounds the contemporary wedding, it is becoming increasingly more difficult to maintain a spirit of worshipful and Christ-centered integrity in the process of planning and facilitating a service of Holy Matrimony.

But whenever I am tempted to lose my belief in the sanctity of weddings, I normally spend some time in the second chapter of John’s Gospel. I do this because, in that particular chapter, Jesus finds himself at a wedding. His presence there is a powerful reminder to me that Jesus must have believed that weddings were worth attending and celebrating. His presence at that wedding reminds me that I can ill afford to become so cynical that I lose sight of the sacred marital covenant that lies beneath all the layers of cultural distortion.

The wedding at which we find Jesus is not a celebrity wedding. It is not the wedding of a dignitary or a social bigwig. Rather, it is a small town wedding, filled with small town people. The small town in question is Cana of Galilee. Jesus is there. So is his mother, Mary, and so are his disciples. The fact that all of them were invited leads us to believe that perhaps the bride or groom is a relative of Jesus’ family, or at the very least a close family friend. At any rate, everyone is celebrating—and yes, no matter how hard the faithful United Methodist or Baptist might try to avoid this detail, wine was involved in the celebration. Not drunkenness. Scripture speaks against that. But we cannot deny the fact the celebration of a first century Palestinian wedding included the enjoyment of wine. That detail, of course, makes the crisis of John 2 all the more compelling, and that crisis is this: They run out of wine at the wedding celebration.

Were there more guests than they had anticipated? Were people consuming at a faster rate than they had calculated? Did somebody forget a case of Kendall Jackson down at the state store? We don’t know. All we do know is the celebration is still going on, and there is no more wine to be found.

There’s a panic—much like the panic that would occur at a Steeler tailgating party if the supply of Iron City ran out. Mary, the mother of Jesus, somehow gets pulled into the panic. Maybe someone in the wedding party pulled her aside and said, “Look, we have a little problem here. We’re out of wine. So we thought maybe you could talk to Jesus. We don’t know if it will do any good, but we figure that anyone whose baptism inspires the heavens to open could probably put together a few jugs of cabernet!”

Mary says to Jesus, in true, motherly, passive-aggressive fashion: “They have no wine.”

(Translation: “Jesus, do something!”)

Jesus response is interesting: “Woman,” he says, “what concern is this to you and me?” Don’t assume that there is annoyance or disrespect in Jesus’ words. What Jesus is really asking is a reasonable question: “Woman, is this really something that should concern us? I’m not sure that this is something significant enough for us to panic over. It’s just wine, for goodness sake. What does this have to do with us?” Then Jesus adds this phrase: “My hour has not yet come.” What does he mean by that? Does he mean that the time for miracles has not yet come? Does he mean that the time for revealing his glory has not come? We’re not certain. But it is clear that Jesus’ first inclination here is not to do anything that is going to draw attention to his miracle-working power. He senses that the time is not yet right for that, that the conditions are not yet conducive to people being receptive to what he might have to offer.

Mary, not receiving the response for which she had been hoping, walks off, but not before offering one final word of instruction to the servants who were standing nearby: “Do whatever he tells you,” she says to the servants.

(Translation: “Just in case he changes his mind about doing something to help our wine situation, follow his instructions, no matter how strange they might seem.”)

(Further translation: “Even if Jesus asks you to stand on your head and whistle, do it.”)

We are not told about Jesus’ thought process over the next few minutes of the story. But he must have been thinking about something that inspired him to change his mind. Perhaps it occurred to him how much of a social embarrassment it would be to the bride and groom to run out of wine at their own wedding. Or perhaps he sensed that people would lose their focus on the celebration and start griping about what they didn’t have. Or perhaps Jesus simply had a hankering for a good pinot noir! Whatever his reasoning, Jesus decides to do something significant. He instructs the servants to fill the jars with water, which they do. He then instructs them to give some of that water to the chief steward to try, which they also do. When the steward drinks the water, his tastebuds, along with the tingle in his throat, tell him a mysterious truth: The water was water no longer. Somehow, the water had become very good wine. Problem solved. Crisis averted. Miracle rendered.

This is Jesus’ first recorded miracle in John’s gospel. Part of what I appreciate about the miracle is that it is relatively insignificant and small in the larger scheme of things, especially when compared to some of Jesus’ other miracles. After all, compared to healing a leper, or making a lame man to walk, or blind man to see, or compared to causing Lazarus to walk out of the grave, what’s a little bit of wine at a wedding?

But therein, I think, is part of the revelation. The story tells us that it doesn’t have to be something monumental in order for Jesus to pay attention to it. It simply has to be something close to the human heart. Jesus cares about the things that mean something to us. Think about the significance of that. The God of the Universe becomes incarnate in a Jesus who pays attention even to the small things. People’s feelings. People’s dignity. People’s pain. People’s embarrassment over not ordering enough wine for the wedding. Jesus cares about those things.

He might have said to his mother, “Woman, does this small thing really concern me?” But he eventually answers his own question in the affirmative. “Yes, as a matter of fact, this small thing DOES concern me. And I’m going to do something about it.” In a world in which we are often made to feel anonymous and unknown, as though we are little more than a social security number, tonight we are blessed with a story that reminds us that Jesus is different than the world. Jesus is attentive to the small things like people’s feelings and their wedding celebrations. In that sense, maybe this first miracle is just as important as all the rest, but in a different kind of way.

Do you remember the excitement of going from this

…to this?

It was the most exciting 100 yards that I have ever experienced.

What a night. What a game. What a time to be a citizen in the Steeler Nation.

“And the rulers went down on their faces and gave worship!” (Revelation 5:14)
During an interview with Matt Lauer on NBC’s pre-game show, President Obama articulated his conviction that “the Steelers would eke it out in the end.” Well said, Mr. President.

“…Every spirit shall faint, and all KNEES shall be weak as water” (Ezekiel 21:7)
The mere fact that Hines Ward played in the Super Bowl was impressive enough, given the excruciating pain that he is experiencing in his knee as a result of medial collateral ligament damage. But the fact that he made two critical catches and threw several significant blocks sheds bright light on what many of us already know: Hines Ward is one of the toughest players in the league and a portion of the very soul of the Pittsburgh Steelers. Having lived through the Steelers Dynasty of the 1970’s, I never thought that Lynn Swann and John Stallworth would have peers in the “hall of fame of my heart.” There are now three wide receivers there.

“Don’t you know that those who run in a race all run, but one receives the prize? Run like that, that you may win.” (1 Corinthians 9:24)
I won’t bore you with a detailed analysis of James Harrison’s 100-yard return of an interception for a touchdown at the end of the first half. I will simply tell you how it went down in the Park household. Fully anticipating a score by the Cardinals, I stood up and screamed “YES!” as soon as I realized that Harrison had purloined Kurt Warner’s pass. My heart began to race as he crossed the 25-yard line. When he passed mid-field, Tara tells me that I actually ran toward our 62-inch television, although I have no memory of this. (Perhaps it was a subconscious effort on my part to throw a block for the scrambling linebacker!). When Harrison finally rolled over Larry Fitzgerald and into the end zone, I actually started to run around our house (upstairs, downstairs, into the garage, around the living room) in an effort to give some physical expression to the profundity of my euphoria. It was a mercurial moment, unparalleled in its dramatic unfolding. As Al Michaels put it, “Harrison, ran through the entire state of Arizona en route to the end zone.” And we were running with him, weren’t we?

“Be angry, but do not sin.” (Ephesians 4:26)
Later on in the game, Harrison’s unsportsmanlike treatment of Aaron Francisco tarnished his reputation. Moreover, the resultant personal foul penalty hurt his team significantly. Come on, brother. You just made the most exciting interception in Super Bowl history. Don’t lower yourself to thuggery.

“Praise God with loud clashing cymbals” (Psalm 150:5)
Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band provided the most dynamic and energetic half-time show that I have ever seen. I am a big fan of the Boss, and I readily acknowledge my bias. But very few artists have the capacity to infuse a half time show with the kind of musical energy that compels people to forget about football, at least for a few moments. Springsteen is one of those artists. And, thanks be to God, there were no wardrobe malfunctions.

“If anyone wants to take your shirt, let him have your coat as well!” (Matthew 5:40)
The Coke Zero commercial featuring Troy Polamalu was my favorite of the night. Not only did the commercial pay homage to the great Mean Joe Greene Coke commercial from 1979, but it provided the added comedic bonus of seeing Troy tackle a man in a suit and rip off the man’s shirt. There’s something that one doesn’t see every day.

“For when they are saying ‘peace and SAFETY,’ then sudden destruction will come upon them.” (1 Thessalonians 5:3)
Justin Hartwig’s holding call in the end zone brought me to my knees in despair—literally. I fell to my knees from the couch when I saw that flag on the ground, covered my face with my hands, and muttered about the horrors of a center tackling a linebacker on a play that otherwise would have been a crucial reception for a first down.

“Let the enemy pursue my soul and overtake it. Yes, let him tread my life down to the earth and lay my glory in the dust.” (Psalm 7:5)
As I watched Larry Fitzgerald catch Kurt Warner’s perfect pass, then split the safeties en route to a 64-yard touchdown, things became sickeningly quiet at our little Super Bowl party. We sensed that our moment of glory was being taken away from us and laid “in the dust.”

“They run like mighty men. They climb the wall like warriors. They each march in his line, and they don’t swerve off course.” (Joel 2:7)
Ben Roethlisberger’s performance as quarterback on the Steelers’ final game-winning drive was nothing short of epic in its scope. It represented a young athlete stepping into the kind of leadership and poise that has long been expected of him. On his sport’s biggest stage, Roethlisberger engineered an eight-play, 78-yard drive that culminated with a six-yard touchdown pass to Santonio Holmes that was as artistic as it was precise. It was the kind of drive that makes people think of Elway and Montana. It was the kind of drive that convinces the world that the Steelers can no longer be described as a “superior defense with an adequate quarterback.” In short, it was the kind of drive that wins a Super Bowl and puts an exclamation point on the ever-deepening career of the Steel City’s field general.

“If you set your heart aright, stretch out your hands toward Him.” (Job 11:13)
Santanio Holmes’ used every segment of his five-foot-eleven frame to make what will surely be remembered as one of the greatest catches in Super Bowl history. Think about it: Big Ben threw the ball to the only place he could—over three defenders no less. Santonio stretched himself out, made the catch with his fingers, and, in a moment that defies the boundaries of all known human science, kept his toes in bounds and in contact with the paint of the end zone. As soon as it happened, I high-fived the other people with whom Tara and I were watching the game. Then I kissed Tara on the lips. Then I became worried because I knew that it was a close enough play to warrant a review from the booth. Then I waited. Then I sweat bullets. Then I erupted with shouts of rejoicing when the touchdown was confirmed. (Oh, and I kissed Tara a second time, just to make it official.)