Monday Morning Music Ministry

1-14-13

We all walk along pathways, sometimes smooth, sometimes rocky – inevitably smooth AND rocky – and, taken together, the pathways are called Life. How we walk or run, how we deal with obstacles on the pathway, and our companions we choose or choose us, all define the journey. Today’s guest message is by my daughter Heather Shaw, sharing profound thoughts about her walk. —

I have been on this path for as long as I can remember – sometimes walking, sometimes running, but always moving forward.

Step, step, step.

For years the path was relatively easy. There had been some unexpected twists and bumps, as well as some detours, that had frustrated me. But overall there wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle, and it had been a pleasant path to be on.

After a long, rocky, twisty stretch, the path suddenly turned a corner and in front of me was a smooth, straight path. All around there were signs of springtime. It was a welcome sight after the last twists and turns, and I breathed a sigh of relief. It didn’t happen often to have this kind of an easy path, and I was filled with joy. I ran along happily, excited about all the sights I could see down the way. I couldn’t wait to get to those milestones, and dreamt about what it would be like when I would arrive.

Step, step, step.

Suddenly, without warning, Darkness descended and violently shoved me off my path and onto another path. This new path was not at all like the last path or any I had been on before. I’d done rocky paths before, but this one was covered by sharp, jagged boulders that I had to climb over or around. It was messy – muddy and covered by debris. As I regained my balance and started to move forward again, I realized that I had been severely injured when I had been shoved. I looked down at my legs and saw that both were mangled. Stopping was not an option. I had to keep moving forward on this messy, new path.

Step… step… step…

As I limped forward, I began to hear voices from others who were calling out while traveling on their paths:

“Don’t worry! That must have been the plan for you! It will all turn out good!” Good? I wondered. Darkness shoved me. Does Darkness ever have a good plan?

“You’re strong – you must have been chosen to travel your path since you can handle it!” Huh, I think. Sounds like a rotten gift.

“At least you still have your arms!” Someone yelled out. I wonder how in the world that is helpful as I limp along. I liked my legs. They were different from my arms and very much a part of me.

I nodded my head as each voice spoke. I understand. They try to make sense of what happened to me. I wished they would be quiet; they were hurting me more.

Some others ran up closer, rather than calling from a distance. They briefly came near and said, “Wow. That’s a hard path you’re on. You’re doing great!” and then quickly ran back to the safety of their own path. Again I nodded. I understand. They care for me, but don’t know what to do and are possibly scared that the same thing could happen to them.

Some who traveled my path returned again to tell me that it will be OK – there are some spots up ahead that will be better than where I am now. They said that I would slowly learn to walk better and the pain will lessen… but the limp will remain until the end of my path. These people are brave, to have gone back to places they had already struggled through, to encourage me. I admire them.

And then there were those voices I heard through the fog, calling out, “I’m here! I don’t know what to do or how to help, but I’m here, my friend.” And instead of running back to the safety of their paths, they rearrange their paths to be close to mine. They are getting messy right along with me.

Step… step… step…

People ask how I’m doing. They listen to me ramble on about how unfair it is or how in pain I am. They listen to me talk about my old path and how I miss it and what it would be like if I were still on it. They understand if I need to be silent. They let me cry. They don’t try to make up answers to the whys. They spend time with me just being friends. I can see on their faces that being close to my path sometimes makes them uncomfortable, but yet they stay close. They stay right by me, urging me to keep going. To do one more step, and then another, and then another.

Step… step… step…

And then there’s one more Friend. He doesn’t just walk near me – I feel His arm always around me. I don’t – or can’t – hear Him say much other than “I’m here.” I yell at this Friend often: Did He shove me off the path? Was this His idea to bring me, injured, to this muddy, boulder-filled path? Why didn’t He stop the Darkness as it shoved me and injured me? Other times I just cry to Him. I hurt. I’m not supposed to be here. I get no answers. Just, “I’m here.”

Sometimes when I look to my side, I can faintly see my old smooth path through the trees. I see the milestones and the places where I thought I’d get to. I want to jump off my current path and go over there but I know it is impossible. Sometimes I want to curl up and just escape this nightmare of a path and go back to that dream. But my friends, and my Friend, help me keep putting one foot in front of the other. “You are doing great,” someone says, “You’re stronger than you think!” And that helps me keep going.

Step… step… step…

I hate this new path and the new way of walking, but at the same time I am starting to enjoy parts of it. I have learned to appreciate the moments where the path clears up a bit. I pause to look around and I enjoy the beauty that I see around me. I enjoy the small things, not knowing if around the bend Darkness waits for me again. I appreciate those who have gotten messy with me. I know as I watch them traveling close by that it can be uncomfortable for them, but never before have I fully understood or needed true friendship. And I have come to love the arm of my Friend that is always around me.

I used to think my Friend was just traveling the path near me – guiding me and pointing me the right way. But now I understand that His arm has always been tight around me. It is a love unlike any I have ever known.

And I keep walking.

Step…step…step…

+ + +

Heather has chosen the wonderful song “All My Praise” by the wonderful trio Selah, a music video with some wonderful graphics, to accompany her wonderful message. “Wonderful.” When Jesus is our companion on the journey, everything, in the end, is indeed filled with wonder. To see more of Heather’s writing, find her blog “Baby Steps – Sarah’s Journey” at http://sarahs-baby-steps.blogspot.com/

Click: All My Praise

A little departure — not a “religious” message; but, I hope, a spiritual one!

It is to share a moment with you who are engaged in creativity. Nobody run for the exit, because in a way, we all are so engaged. I thought of this because I was on the phone this afternoon with a friend, and I bollixed up a couple of things having to do with numbers… typical for me, stupid things. Some of us typically mumble things about “right brain, left brain,” but working in the creative arts is not always the same thing as exercising creativity!

Many of my friends are writers or cartoonists, and what I am about to say is common to them, and to musicians and poets and singers and painters and composers and actors and photographers. And public speakers. And counselors. And designers. And decorators. Teachers. Pastors. Charity workers. Those entrusted with law-enforcement. Ministers, by definition. Even accountants (ha) and politicians making claims and taping commercials (ha ha) have to be creative. Certainly mothers and caregivers, a thousand ways every day.

… Actually, you can’t name a human activity where creativity does not come into play. And if you think you have found someone, or some profession… surely that person ASPIRES to write or perform or draw in private time. Or to receive that mysterious, soul-satisfying sustenance from enjoying the works of people who do — which is, just as real, a Bond of Creativity.

All of this is commonplace — banal if it is in fact so universal — except that we don’t always realize it. We don’t appreciate it in others, but anyone who creates some work of art, on any level, bares his or her soul to a world that can reject or ridicule or despise it. Yet we do what we do because we have to. We have to share it; we have to “let it out”; we have to touch someone we probably will never meet. The cliched creator who lives a hermit-like existence is actually the most open and vulnerable of God’s creatures.

Create… creatures… Creator. Here we bring a message full circle. If we fail to appreciate creativity in others, surely a lot of us tend to miss the creativity in ourselves. It is there, it should be encouraged, and, as a principle of life, must be exercised to be healthy and strong. Some people believe that to say that humans “create” anything is blasphemous — that only God can create anything. I think that is true if you are playing word games.

God has given us, among His unique gifts, sparks of creativity. Anything we “create” is therefore an extension of His grace and His glory. J S Bach began every one of his works with the words, “Help me, Jesus,” and ended every work with the words, “To God be ALL the glory.” Nothing we can create is apart from Him.

Illustrating my message is a secular song, not by Bach but by the singer/songwriter Lacy J Dalton. It perfectly catches the creative process — the inchoate passion, the unquenchable dreams, the insane struggles, the breakthroughs; the success that is not always commercial, but measured by the “Aha!” moment in whatever pursuit you choose. Her metaphor is the singer/songwriter (the best art is inescapably self-referential). 16th Avenue, Nashville’s street of dreams where recording studios and performance stages abound, is her metaphor of the world. Oh, she nails it. Aha!

Appreciate your own creativity this week, and that in others. Celebrate it. Exercise it. And remember its source — the One who is reflected and honored in what you do.

Click:  An Anthem to Creativity

This week, the whole world watched the rescue of the miners in Chile, and the whole world was inspired — it could not be otherwise.

I watched through the night; many of us did. Being an old guy, a portion of my amazement was the technology improvised for their rescue, but more, the fact the cameras could broadcast from half a mile under rock; and then, I could watch it in real time 6000 miles away. (Frankly, I was amazed that I could make my TV-remote work that evening, but that’s me)

We have heard a lot about the miners, and will hear a lot more as interviews, books, and movies will surely follow. But I share with you a few random impressions I had:

* 33 miners, 69 days… I am not into Bible codes and biblical numerology, but occasionally God DOES leave spiritual reminders in worldly events (three is the Biblical sign of godly perfection — the Trinity; three days before the Resurrection; etc) to remind us of His workings. That said…

* The miners were resourceful, strong, and organized… but also, it seems almost a man, spiritual. Reportedly half were Catholic and half evangelical or Pentecostal. The Vatican sent missals and Rosaries down the first shaft, when opened; and a Baptist church sent Bibles and hymn books. (Evangelicalism is sweeping the continent. There are more Pentecostals than Catholics, for instance, in neighboring Brazil.) There were frequent services and constant prayers underground.

* Through the night President Sebastian Pinera was seen praying quietly on a bench, not showing off but with head bowed, crossing himself afterward. The first rescuer who descended in the capsule said a prayer and crossed himself before the door was closed.

* Many miners used their first words above ground to thank God. Some fells to their knees immediately — were they collapsing? No, they were in prayer; some held their little Bibles high.

* Several miners donned T-shirts when they were unhooked from the capsule. Family members, too, had been wearing them. On the front they said, “Gracias Senor” — Thank you, Lord. And on the backs was a Bible verse: “To Him be the glory and honor. Because in His hands are the depths of the earth; and the heights of the mountains are His” (Psalm 95:4)

* At least one miner received Christ during the ordeal, and — regarding that number “3” — one miner said that there were really 34 in the mine, because he felt that Jesus was always with them.

* Finally, I remember that one miner said something along these lines: “We faced God down there… and we faced the devil. God won. We reached out and held His hand.”

Holding to God’s unchanging hand… do you know the simple but powerful song with that title? It seems almost written FOR this event we witnessed! Franklin L Eiland, composer of many great hymns, wrote this about 100 years ago (He was grandfather of Cindy Walker, the first female songwriters elected to the Country Music Hall of Fame).

This version is sung by Lindell Cooley, who was Worship Leader at the Brownsville Revival in Pensecola when I went there a couple times a dozen years ago. Today he is pastor of Grace Church in Nashville. Powerful performance, and relevant to the miracles of faith we just witnessed.

Click:  Hold to God’s Unchanging Hand

Have a great week holdin’ on…

Who is the person closest to you in life? Quick!

Sort of a trick question, because we should answer “Jesus,” but many of us think of family, spouses, friends; and great relationships should indeed spring to mind.

But Jesus is the answer to that question… even if people don’t feel like putting Him first on the list. Because He is always there, close to us. Closer than a shadow.

George Beverly Shea once told me a story that stuck with me (I can’t claim credit for such a great story with its deeper lesson!). An old farmer was driving his wife to town in their car. The wife looked across to her husband behind the wheel and said, “You know, when we were courting, we used to sit so close together in the front seat!” He looked over at her, and at the space between them, and asked, “Who moved?”

Of course the meaning is that sometimes we feel not as close to God as we used to. Sometimes the zeal of our young faith subsides; sometimes a crisis in our lives affects the intimacy we once had with God; sometimes doubts make God seem distant to us.

… but our cooling faith, our crises, our doubts do not place God at a distance. He will never leave us nor forsake us. Only we can make ourselves feel distant from Him.

So don’t “move” away from God, and then blame it on Him. Neither need we toss Him the wheel of the car, jump in His lap, or check off boxes on a list. Just invite Him: Abide With Me.

The simple words of this simple hymn are basically all He asks of us. Trust and rely on Jesus, feel His presence. And know what the invitation means: Abide means to dwell (the word is related to “abode”), to stay, to continue, to wait patiently, to accept, to endure, to support, to live… within you.

Who moves apart? Never the Lord!

Here is a moving performance of that simple and mighty hymn by one of the world’s most beautiful voices, Hayley Westenra of New Zealand. If you can listen with earphones, treat yourself.

Click:  Abide With Me

It comes to our in-boxes with increased frequency: “So-and-so wants to be your friend” on Facebook or some other “social networking” site.

Many of these requests come from friends-of-friends-of-friends… or people we have never met.

Here we are in a society where acquaintances call themselves friends… where strangers want you to officially declare them friends… all without words spoken, hands shaken, or smiles exchanged.

We have forgotten the essence of friendship, but thirst for the qualities it represents.

Jesus told us what true friendship is all about. And He not only defined it, but lived it — embodied it. “No longer do I call you servants, for a servant does not know what his master is doing; but I have called you friends, for all things that I heard from My Father I have made known to you.” Greater love had no man than He had for us, laying down His life for… His friends.

I have felt guilty lately that my communications with friends have been sporadic. Nothing is so important in life that we should neglect out friends. When we’re too busy for that… we are TOO BUSY.

Today my new grandson, Zachary Alpheus Shaw, was baptized. The church service, hymns, and homily, reminded us all that Jesus is Zach’s friend, and all of ours. Today I also received a heartfelt report from a dear friend, Becky Spencer, who just returned from Africa, where she spent nine days in Mozambique, working alongside Israel Jovo and the Rhandzanani Christian School. Israel takes the Gospel to villages in the bush where they have no other preacher, and he trains other preachers/pastors and their wives. He has a case of recurring malaria, can’t so much as lift his legs, has a high fever, and is in horrible pain. He needs to get to South Africa where trained treatment awaits; he needs healing. Becky reports a downhill spiral just since she was there a few days ago saying her goodbyes.

Baby Zach in his innocence has a Friend; Israel Jovo in his distress needs a Friend. Yet the opposite locution is just as true: little Zach needs a Friend like Jesus — we all do — and the suffering servant Israel Jovo in Mozambique has a Friend indeed.

And the extent to which Christians are friends to each other directly relates to the “amount” of Jesus we invite into our hearts… and share.

Have a good week, friends! [update: Israel Jovo, in Mozambique, has been healed!]

Click:  Friends

A bit of a personal story, prompted by the video to Click, below.

A number of years ago I was working on a book, a three-part biography of rock ‘n’ roll pioneer Jerry Lee Lewis; evangelist Jimmy Swaggart; and country-music superstar Mickey Gilley, all first cousins to each other. A friend offered me his unused condo in Montgomery, Texas to get away for research and writing one summer. Since Lewis lived in Mississippi, Swaggart in Louisiana, and Gilley in nearby Pasadena TX, it made geographical sense.

Once settled, I took out the Yellow Pages to chart the location of Assembly of God churches for all the weeks ahead, intent on visiting as many as I could. East Texas was in every way new to me, and I wanted to experience everything I could.

Well, the first one I visited was in Cut and Shoot, Texas. That’s a town’s name; you can look it up. A small, white frame AG church was my first stop that summer… and I never visited another. For one thing — coincidence? — I learned that a member of the tiny congregation was the widow of a man who had pastored the AG church in Ferriday, Louisiana, the small town FOUR HOURS AWAY where, and when, those three cousins grew up in its pews. She knew them all, and their families, and had great stories. Beyond that, the pastor of the church in Cut and Shoot, Charles Wigley, had gone to Bible College with Jerry Lee Lewis and played in a band with him, until Jerry Lee got kicked out. Some more great stories.

But there was more than that kept me there for that summer. In that white-frame church and that tiny congregation, it was, um, obvious in three minutes that I was not from East Texas. Yet I was treated like family as if they had known me three decades. It was the Sunday before July 4th, and a fellow named Dave Gilbert asked me if I’d like to go to his farm for the Fourth where a bunch of people were just going to get together and “do some visitin’.”

On the Fourth I bought the biggest watermelon I could find as my contribution to the pot-luck. Well, there were dozens and dozens of folks. I couldn’t tell which was family and who were friends, because everybody acted like family. When folks from East Texas ask, “How are you?” they really mean it. There were several monstrous barbecue smokers with chimneys, all slow-cooking beef brisket. (Every region brags about its barbecue traditions, but I’ll still fight anyone who doesn’t claim low-heat, slow-smoked, no sauce, East-Texas BBQ the best) There was visitin,’ after all; there were delicious side dishes; there was softball and volleyball and kids dirt-biking; and breaks for sweet tea and spontaneous singing of patriotic songs.

I sat back in a folding chair, and I thought, “This is America.”

As the sun set, the same food came out again — smoked brisket galore; all the side dishes; and desserts of all sorts. Better than the first time. Then the Gilberts cleared the porch of their house. People brought instruments out of their cars and trucks. Folks tuned their guitars; some microphones and amps were set up; chairs and blankets dotted the lawn. Dave Gilbert and his brothers, I learned, sang gospel music semi-professionally in the area. Pastor Wigley, later in the summer, opened for Gold City Quartet at a local concert, playing gospel music on the saxophone. But everyone else sang, too; of course in some churches, in some parts of America, you’re just expected to sing solo every once in a while. You’re not expected to — you want to. So into the evening, as the sun went down and the moon came up over those farms and fields, everyone at that picnic sang, together or solo or in duets or quartets. Spontaneously, mostly. Far into the night, exuberantly with smiles, or heartfelt with tears, singing unto the Lord.

I sat back in a folding chair, and I thought, “This is Heaven.”

(By the way, not only am I not from East Texas, although it is sort like home now; but I was born in New York City, so you might appreciate just how different, and not merely special, that day was for me.)

Here is a video that very closely captures the music, and the feeling — the fellowship — of that evening. A wooden ranch house, a barbecue picnic just ended, a campfire, and singers spontaneously worshiping, joining in, clapping, and “taking choruses.” There were cameras at this Gaither get-together, but it took this city boy back to that Fourth of JU-lye, finding himself amongst a brand-new family, the greatest barbecue I ever tasted before or since… and the sweetest songs I know.

Click:  The Sweetest Song I Know

I have had the privilege recently of reviewing the manuscript of a novel that might be (ought to be) published in the near future. I won’t give away the ending (or the beginning) (or the middle) (or the title) (or the characters) (or the message)…

… but I’d love to give away one of the subtexts, which is to beware of organized religion.

Speaking for myself, I tend to distrust anything organized, but that’s another matter. Now the world, which looks for any stick with which to beat Christianity, invariably points to religious wars as pro forma warning-labels against spirituality. In truth, however, most “religious” wars have probably been waged using religion only as an excuse.

Moreover, the serious attacks, excesses and atrocities committed in the name of Jesus… do not mean that Jesus would commit them. The world too often forgets that Jesus is the standard, True and Holy. When people scurry around, constructing and construing, blaming and naming, if they fall short of that Standard they dishonor themselves more than they dishonor the Savior.

Before the “amens” roll, it is good to recognize that Christians, also, forget this fact too often. The sad truth — the more important deal than wars and doctrinal arguments (although doctrine is important) — is that the church often fails its mission in direct proportion to the extent it is “organized” religion. Youth pastors who serve (Barna Research says) an average of only 1.5 years — what heartache must that represent? Churches that don’t preach the whole Word. Children abused by priests. Pastors involved in sexual scandals. Judgmentalism. “Open-Mindedness” so open that theologians’ brains fall out. Politics, bureaucracy, and pride on church boards and committees. Is this the church Jesus wanted? — the Bride of Christ awaiting His return?

“What sort of music accompanies this heavy message?” Well, it’s the same message, but a more light-hearted delivery. Hilarious, in fact. But the chorus that Buddy Greene returns to in this living-room get-together is the message for this week, and has been for 2000 years: “Jesus — That’s All!”

You can beware — that is, be wary — of organized religion’s pitfalls by keeping this song in your mental iPod!

Click:  Denomination Blues