Advent: Awake

Awake is such an interesting word. What are you like when you're awake?

I have one daughter who insists she's awake when I first come into her room to get her up for school. Her eyes are shut, she's unresponsive to prodding, and ignores my entreaties to get up for school. If I come back in ten minutes, she won't have moved, but she'll swear she was awake all along.

Another daughter will audibly protest at being disturbed, but she's been known to go have lengthy conversations and even to go downstairs, eyes wide open;; only to have no recollection of the experience two hours later when you pry her from bed a second (or third, or fourth) time.

The third daughter springs out of bed alert, jumps into her clothes and is ready to face the door before you can say jack sassafras, but even she has been known to smack the alarm clock into next week and then complain that it never went off.

What does it mean to be awake, anyway?

I think a lot of us imagine ourselves as fully awake and alert, like the Buddha on the day he was born. According to Buddhist Scriptures, Siddharta Gautama came out of his mother's womb, looked around and presciently announced that this would be his final trip around the karmic wheel.

Being awake is a learned process, begun with the incoherent grunts that suggest we actually might be human, and running up the spectrum to the point that we actually know where and who we are, if nothing else. Usually we stop there, and become awake to our desires and needs.

Wake further. Learn to hear the lonely cry of the child seeking approval from her parents; the torment of those who struggle through life without friends to laugh, love and live with; and the pain of those whom the world was chewed on for too long and too well.

Wake still more, and discover that you have the tools within you to be the one who sets prisoners free, teaches the lame to dance, and even breathes new life to the dead.

Be awake.

Advent: When waiting is agony

Today’s the first day of Advent, the season when Christians traditionally mark with anticipation the birth of Jesus.

To the extent that we think of it, we usually think that Advent carries less importance than Christmas. It's an easily skipped prelude to the main event of the Incarnation, when the eternal, unchanging and unknowable Tao changed and became mortal for the first time and was an unremarkable baby few people outside his own family even noticed.

That’s so wrong. Oh God, we desperately miss the point when we do that.

Advent is a heavy season, darker even than Lent and that brutal Saturday when Jesus lay decomposing in the Tomb. Advent is heavy, oppressively so. It hunches our shoulders, bows our necks and furrows our foreheads with grief, with anger and despair.

Advent raises the accusing finger of human history, of every war, of every holocaust and genocide, every year of children’s lives stolen in slavery, every refugee denied safe harbor, every hour the wicked sit enthroned and defended by the powerful, and it points that finger in the face of the Almighty, and it demands justice.

“Don’t you give a shit?” it asks, and heaven’s only response is “Be patient.”

And the years grind slowly on, and God stays silent, and his people are patient, and they grow old and die; and another generation replaces them and it too is patient, and grows old and dies; and so does another generation, and another and then another.

“Come into the darkness,” the generations cry together. “Come into the darkness and make a difference.”

This month join the cloud of all the others throughout the ages who waited for something they knew was missing, even if they couldn’t express it. Learn the longing they felt, and decide with them if it was worth the wait.

Welcome to Advent.


Copyright © 2019 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Tweet

When the spirit of revival came

It was the summer of 1995, and the revival spirit had come to Easton. The days were a blaze of August heat that scorched the grass and trees and burned white skin to the color of bronze. Water flowed easily for those who worked and played outside, and every breeze was seized and set upon with a desperation that defied belief.

But if the body ached and burned during the day, at night the spirit yearned for new living. As the sun set, the faithful and their children would shower and change into clean pressed shirts and they'd out for the revival.

The revival! It came every year at this time, reliable as the start of school, as the idle on an '82 Chevy, as the ripening of the summer squash. From the third Sunday of August through the fourth, the revival preacher would arrive with a new word from the Lord and an unpredictable, uncontainable move of the Holy Spirit.

He would begin preaching in the early evening, once the music had stopped and the offering was given, exhorting the people of God to break anew from the ways of sin and return to their first love. Sweat would streak his forehead and soak his shirt under his arms, and as he called out the people would respond with one voice, holy and loud and determined.

There were no tongues of fire in those days, though you wouldn't know it by the people who were there. Women would swoon. Men would faint. Amid the clamor and the shouting of the revival preacher, the children would speak in tongues no one could understand and they would prophesy until peals of holy laughter would roll around those gathered and the church was filled with glory and the sighing of angels' wings.

And now the revival preacher, would grow quiet and earnest. "Are you ready to commit yourself, brother? Sinner, are you ready to come home?" The music returned, soft and pleading until one by one, in the summer's heat, the wandering children found Jesus and the lost came home.

Testimonies came from the revival meetings like bulletins from the front. Little Warren Jameson had come to the Lord on Sunday night. Old Betsy Worthington had received a miracle on Tuesday, when her left leg had been healed and she had danced in the aisle like a young girl again, and let us pray for Old Betsy, as it is now three days later and Satan's attack has left her unable to stand or even get out of bed for three days now.

The Holy Spirit was moving, the messengers said. Come prepared for a tremendous work of God on Sunday night!

And Ystur Redneb listened to it all, and nodded his head, and he asked what the work was that God was doing. Were the elders going to open a soup kitchen in the city? Would there be a partnership going forward with Mt. Zion Holy Tabernacle Baptist Church? Was God raising an army from the church to enter the missions field? People are coming home excited, but what are they excited for, or will this all be another memory in just two more weeks?

To everyone he spoke, he asked the same question. "If this is real, please tell me. Give me a reason to go." And the pastor shook his head to see such lack of faith, and the elders shook their heads at his lack of faith, and the righteous shook their heads at his lack of faith.

And Ystur never did go, and he never knew whether it was all excitement without form or substance

... or if God truly spoke and he simply missed it.

Copyright © 2020 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Tweet

Suggestions to improve the men's retreat

It's time for the annual men's retreat once again, and my wife already has noted my negative attitude. (What can I say? I am nothing if not consistent.)

I would like to make a few modest proposals to improve these retreats, broaden their appeal, and deepen their value to attendees. Follow some of these, and I'm more likely to show up, as are other people who have avoided men's retreats for the past 20 years.

First, no speakers. Get someone to lead a group discussion instead. Truth does not follow a hierarchy; it spreads through relationships and we discover it together. Paul didn't lecture his audiences, he reasoned with them. 

Second, anyone who talks about the manly atmosphere or who says how great it is to be surrounded by men is a toxic, misogynistic asshole. Kick him out, even if he's the leader. Especially if he's the leader. 

Open the retreat to people of all genders, sexualities and identities who want to come. Please note that this includes gays, lesbians, bisexuals, the transgender and women. We won't learn and grow in grace until and unless we spend time with people different from us.

If you expect me to listen to you yammer on about the Mets, the Eagles and the NBA, you'd better be prepared to hear me explain why the Tenth Doctor is the best, why I'd rather serve under Kirk than Picard, and why I hate what DC Comics has done with the Watchmen characters.

Seriously. Not every guy likes sports. This cannot be the default conversation. Show some consideration for the rest of the room.

In fact, make way for me to talk about gardening, someone else to discuss his sewing hobby, and so on. You want us there? Then welcome us.

Just once, I'd like to have an actual Bible study. You know, where we study the Bible together and talk about it, rather than what the speaker said or what some author wrote. An actual Bible study, where we wrestle with how complicated Scripture really is.

Poetry slam. Give a chance for artistic types to go artistic, and give everyone else a chance to explore in a friendly, welcoming format. Share a poem, read a story you're working on, perform an original song or scene from a play. The arts speak in a way church rarely does.

What, that's too awkward to read a poem or share a song? Remember that time I didn't really want to play soccer with you guys but did anyway, in the name of "community?" Trust me, I'll be more gracious and encouraging than you were. 

Absolutely no "accountability time." If I want to talk about my personal stuff, I will. I'm not "wounded" or "afraid of vulnerability," I just don't share deeply personal feelings with people unless I have a deeply personal connection. 

Topics. Please don't pick "relevant" retreat topics; pick stuff we're actually dealing with, like "Help! My parents voted for Trump" or "Liberation: What the gospel really looks like when you're not a straight white male." Also, remember what I said about group discussions.

Downtime. I like you, but I don't want to spend every minute of the retreat in group meetings and discussions. Having time to read a book, work on some writing by myself or just chat with a couple close friends will do more to recharge me than everything else planned. 

Promote this event honestly. "It's the best hundred bucks you'll spend this year," "The food is excellent" and "It's an amazing time with God" are empty words. Tell me what's being planned, so I can make an honest and informed decision.

Saying that it's a men's retreat already has invited my derision. Focus on this with comments about how manly it is, and I'll never show up. I don't care about your testosterone.

Copyright © 2019 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Tweet

Understanding the wounded heart of God

I wonder sometimes about God's attachment pattern.

He claims he wants a close, loving relationship with us, and frequently describes an ideal where all know and are fully known, where our dignity and identity are affirmed, and when we pull away, he pursues.

Think of the Garden, when he comes looking for Adam and Eve after they break fellowship with him; or the Parable of the Prodigal Son, where the father goes out looking for the son who wandered away, and then for the self-righteous son who won't celebrate his brother's homecoming. These are all examples of a healthy attachment style. He wants to be close, but recognizes our moral agency. He asks respectful questions to understand our choices, but doesn't press the issue beyond what is comfortable,

In practice, he's extremely dysfunctional. You can talk to him for hours, asking the same question over and over, and never get an answer. He says he wants a close relationship, but then have you seen how he treats people who care about him? And on those rare occasions when he does speak to someone, off they go to get psychoactive medication so they don't have to go through that again.

I have a friend with a fearful avoidant attachment style, but at least I understand that because I know my friend's story.

Sometimes I just want to hold God close, let him cry it out, and ask "Who hurt you?" but if I did that, he'd probably just tell me to go to hell.


Copyright © 2020 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Tweet

Building bridges with my Muslim neighbors

Sunday evening found me at the local Islamic center cynically debating the merits of interfaith meetings and events such as the one I was attending, my third iftar in as many years. (The iftar is the sunset breaking of the fast during Ramadan, when faithful Muslims do not eat during daylight hours, to celebrate the revelation of the Quran.)

I've been to enough of these that I have the whole routine memorized. First the director of the Islamic center will say a few words to introduce the hafiz, who will proceed to chant a passage of the Quran. After he finishes, a rabbi from the area will speak, followed by a local representative of the Christian clergy. A few local political figures will speak, followed again by the director of the Islamic center. Everyone will say how nice it is that we're all here together; and everyone will stress our commonality and the value of community.

At sunset, there will be a signal, and everyone will take a date or a candy from the middle of the table and break the fast. (Children often sneak candies before sunset while the adults pretend not to notice.) After this there's a call to prayer and everyone moves into another room for the prayer service. The men pray up front and the women pray in back, everyone face down and turned toward Mecca.

With the prayers done, everyone returns to the dining area and eats the meal, which is delicious as always. Polite conversation ensues between guests and hosts. What's your name? Where do you live? (This year we sat with a gentleman who grew up in Bridgewater, attended Rutgers University, and now lives in Somerset. I'm pretty sure I sat with him the first year we came too.)

The whole evening is congenial and pleasant, but when it's over, we've built no bridges, and closed no gaps. Our communities are still separate from one another, our knowledge of our respective faiths is no deeper than it was before, and that great interfaith moment still hasn't arrived.

Meanwhile the hatred and Islamophobia that has permeated our nation for at least the past 11 years is as strong as ever. This interfaith event, which we attended to light a candle against the darkness, seems weak and pallid. What can it possibly do to thwart a Christian nationalist with a gun?

Never mind the nightmare scenarios, what about the smaller hatreds? For all our pretty words, I'm certain that if the preacher's son at my church attended one of these events and began a spiritual odyssey that led him to convert to Islam, there would be a strong negative reaction from some quarters of our church. A few people would affirm his right to self-determination if not his actual decision, but others would feel hurt, angry and betrayed. Some might even call for removing the pastor as unfit for the job.

I know very little about the internal culture of the local mosque, but I wouldn't be surprised if something similar happened should a family member of the hafiz convert to Christianity.

As we all attest at these interfaith events, Islam, Judaism and Christianity do have a lot in common. All three are Abrahamic religions, for starters, tracing a common spiritual heritage to a nomadic Hebrew who lived 3,500 years ago and worshiped one god. Our sacred books tell many of the same stories, about Noah and the Flood, God calling Abraham to sacrifice his son, Solomon and his wisdom, and more.

But for all that we have in common, there remain impressive gaps that keep us separate. Even when our different sets of Scriptures align with one another, our understanding of what they mean often will disagree. All three religions place a premium on peace, but the 1500 to 2000 years of history that we share are marred by bigotry, conflict and even outright war. And, amazingly, we can't even agree what monotheism looks like.

When the evening comes to an end, my hosts at the Islamic center and I are still strangers to one another, belonging to two separate communities that live side by side and rarely interact.

We need to stop waving the Mission Accomplished banners at these events. They're just the start.

I do have hope that we can forge a deeper interfaith connection. The director of the Islamic center laments that his children don't know the Beatles. I've heard Muslim congregants lament when speakers take too long that the food is getting cold, and I've watched as teens in hijab text their friends on the phone during the recitation of the Quran.

With minor variants, these are all things that happen in churches all over America. They seem minor and inconsequential, but they all speak to our common humanity. For all the differences in our religious beliefs, we're all weighted down by the same concerns, faced with the same distractions, and led ever onward and ever upward by the same insatiable longing for purpose and meaning.

It's a mystery how it works, but with effort we can find common cause in our common questions. Even if the answers each of us finds don't satisfy us all equally, still we can learn to appreciate the value others do see in them. Like everything of value, it won't come in just one evening. It will take work, and it will take time – a whole lifetime, to be exact – of respect, listening and open conversation.

As my family left the iftar Sunday night, the director of the Islamic center intercepted us at the door and invited us to come back for Family Night. It involves a talk or sermon, followed by group discussion. He stressed the other parts as well, such as the food and childcare. I joked later to my wife "We've been tagged as potential converts." (I'm sure that's not the main intent. He's probably just noticed we come whenever we're invited.)

So I find as I leave the iftar that I am given the answer to the quandary I mulled when I entered. Want to gain understanding and build bridges with the local Muslim community? Want to dispel stereotypes and poke a finger in the eye of those who peddle hate?

Family night is the fourth Friday of the month. Discussion and dinner start at 7:30 p.m., and child care is provided. This year the talks are based on "Treatise for the Seekers of Guidance," by Imam al-Muhasibi. I have no idea what that means.

I guess I'll find out on Friday.


Copyright © 2019 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Tweet

Lent: Be

This rock is part of a memorial near where I have my social work internship.

The memorial obviously is important to the borough, in how it honors a group of veterans The face of the rock anchors the plaque that explains the memorial's purpose.That's important, but it's not what the rock does that gives it its value, it's what the rock is.

The rock is large. It's solid. It's heavy. It's smooth. The rock is common, and not easily moved. Replace any of these intrinsic qualities of the rock -- replace it with a different rock-- and its value is gone. A larger rock would overwhelm the memorial, while a smaller rock would let the memorial be overshadowed by the very grass. A different sort of rock could be too fragile, too uneven to hold a plaque, too costly or too easy a target for vandals.

The rock doesn't have to do anything to make this memorial. It just is what it is, and that's all it needs to be.


Copyright © 2019 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Tweet

Lent: Name

Ever wonder what your name says about you? If you think about it, you'll find that it says quite a lot. My name, for instance, is David Learn. Let's break it down.

My first name is David. That name ultimately comes from the Hebrew Scriptures, and some people automatically assume that I was named for the biblical king of Judah To them this name suggests something about my religious devotion, or the religious devotion of my parents, since David was a man after God's own heart.

Alas, it is not so. I was named for my Uncle David. David Dahlman was a salesman who married my Aunt Frances, and even became an Episcopal to do so. (He was, as you might have guessed from his last name, born Jewish.) My mother liked her brother-in-law and saw qualities in him that she admired, and gave him his name when I was born.

My name is David, but my closer friends and intimates generally call me Dave, the name I prefer and usually introduce myself with. It's friendly. It's informal. It's relaxed and unassuming. "David" is the name I use professionally, in my byline or when I have to sign things; so it's usually how I'm known in formal contexts. (A theater director once asked if I prefer Dave, or David. I responded: "Well, my friends all call me Dave, so I guess you'd better call me Robert.")

Some people use their middle names to carry a piece of their identity, like ethnicity or a family name with meaning. My brother's middle name is Hayward, for instance; the maiden name of one of our great-grandmothers. My middle is name is Andrew. Its chief function in my childhood was to serve as an early warning system. I only heard it in the context of my full name, and when my mother called "David Andrew Learn," I knew I was in trouble.

My last name is Learn. What it reveals is less obvious than you might think. When a surname is also a common English word, it often reveals something about an ancestor: where he lived,,what he did, or who his father was, for instance.

"Learn" is not actually an English name. Originally it was Loehrner, a name that reflects Prussian roots and a Germanic heritage. That it was shortened and given a common spelling reflects how long my family has been in America. (The earliest Learns on record fought in the Pennsylvania militia during the War for Independence.)

I first saw the value of a good name when I was 26 and trying without much success to buy auto parts with a check. Bob Plante happened to be working at the store, and rang me through because he knew me from church and trusted my name. His co-workers let him do it not because of any respect they had for my name but because of the respect they had for his.

My name as a whole has different meanings, depending on who says it. Some people hear the name and they think "hard worker." Others think "royal jerk." I'd like to think a few hear my name and think it means integrity, creativity, or decency and compassion. My name says many things about me, not all of which are pleasant to hear but most of which have some truth to them,

And what does your name reveal about you?


Copyright © 2019 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Tweet

Lent: Favor

Right now I'm killing time between dropping my daughter off for dress rehearsal for her end-of-term circus show and the show itself. While she practices her stilt-walking I'm taking a couple hours to get some work done and to eat.

Dinner tonight is a barbecue chicken sandwich on flatbread. Over the years since I first became aware of this place, I've found that this is the sandwich they have that I like most. I sometimes get something else to shake things up, but for the most part when I come in, I know what I want, I tell the cashier, and five minutes later I'm in gustatory paradise. It's good to have a favorite.

Granted, it's not such a great deal for the sandwich, but what can you do about it?

I read a story once that God asked all the peoples of earth to be his chosen people, and only the Jewish people were wiling to take the risk. Everyone recognized what a golden opportunity they were being offered to be God's favored, but they also recognized the burden that such a status would carry, with its obligations to keep Torah and to be a light to draw all nations to God.

Being favored with honor, wealth or status carries with it the obligation of using those things for the good of others. In the 1995 release "Braveheart," while Mel Gibson's William Wallace has been fighting a long battle for Scottish independence against King Edward Longshanks, the Scottish nobles have been bickering over status, titles and lands.

"There's a difference between us," Wallace tells them. "You think the people of this country exist to provide you with position. I think your position exists to provide those people with freedom."

Every gift,ever honor or privilege, every favor we enjoy, whether we were born into it, were awarded with it, or earned it with our own hard work, is never ours to enjoy exclusively. It comes with the responsibility to use it advance the welfare of others, particularly the lowest and least regarded.

It's a good thing to receive favor. And a tremendous burden.


Copyright © 2019 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Tweet

Lent: Ponder

"Ponder" sounds so weighty.

 If "think" means that you're dropping stones plink-plink-plink into the pond, and "meditate" means that you're floating belly-up somewhere out near the middle, then "ponder" is that big rock you drop kerplunk into deepest part of the lake, and watch as it sinks down to bottom.Tie a rope to that rock, and it'll anchor your canoe to the spot for a summer afternoon, if not for the entire season. It's not the length of time that matters to those who ponder, it's the depth of thought.

Pondering is a solitary process, best done in places that might be considered lonely, if we stopped to notice.

What is good? I have one thing, but want something else that I have no right to. How do I live like this?

If service means more when it is given than when someone compels it, then which is greater in the eyes of heaven: a rich man with many servants, or the servants who make soup in the kitchen?

Who am I? What is God?

And how is that the key to answering all these questions is "Who are you?"


Copyright © 2019 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Tweet

Lent: With

I like "with." Grammatically, it's a conjunction that shows the relationship between its object and the word it modifies. As words go, it's all about partnerships and doing things together. "I went to the store with Joey." Or "With Heather's help, I made sure we put frogs in the boots of everyone in first grade."

Some things just belong together, after all. Peanut butter and jelly, Abbott and Costello, Laurel and Hardy, Spidey and MJ, bacon and eggs, Sylvester and Tweety. They're a two-for-one package deal that can't be broken up without inviting calamity:

It makes it odd that we so often romanticize being alone.

And that's what Lent is about, isn't it? Kids whose families observe Lent frequently are admonished to pick something to give up for the six weeks of Lent, as teens and adults we tell ourselves that somehow not eating cheeseburgers will help our personal spiritual walk, and giving up Fortnite is just the penance God requires of us.

There's something to be said for entering the desert by yourself. Away from the press of the daily grind, you lose the distractions and start to notice what's essential. Separated from the inane and repetitious chatter that fills our lives, we start to hear One Voice clearly and we realize that there is another with us.

But what I love about the story of Jesus' time in the wilderness was that the mystic journey wasn't enough. In order to be in harmony with that voice he needed to be with others.

I like to think that in the Judean desert, Jesus came to the same profound understanding that rocked John Steinbeck's preacher Jim Casy in "The Grapes of Wrath." Casy went out into the wilderness to find his own soul, only to discover he didn't have one. He just had one piece of a great big soul, and the only way to care for that piece was to care for the pieces held by others.

In the end, we all need to be with one another. It's a package deal and to break it up would only invite calamity.


Copyright © 2019 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Tweet

Lent: Fruit

I planted raspberry cane in a sunny corner of my back yard several years ago. New shoots have grown and old ones have died, but every year the cane grows a crop of berries. Not now, and not next month, but only during raspberry season.

Every year I've had to remove some stalks. They look healthy enough right now, in the early spring, but by the time summer comes, these stalks have turned brown, and produce no fruit. And if you're not going to produce fruit, what good are you anyway? I cut them off at the base and toss them into the compost pile, where they decay in short order and end up boosting the garden some other way. (I mean, come on, raspberry cane. You had one job.)


Copyright © 2019 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Tweet

Lent: Planted

Shortly after we bought our house in 1999, we planted a maple sapling in the hole that had been left in the front yard by the post of the Realtor's sign.

The tree was planted with two things in mind. One, we were planting it to celebrate the impending birth of our daughter. Second, like all things that we plant, it was an expression of hope for the future, that we one day would enjoy benefits from that act of faith.

That first summer was touch-and-go,and the tree didn't seem to grow any taller. The summer was hot and dry, and at the end of every day, the leaves of the sapling would droop and the tree as a whole looked wilted as a result. Every morning and every evening I would dutifully water the tree, the leaves would pick up and it would survive another day.

The second summer wasn't so bad. It was still hot, but not as dry; and while it no longer wilted, it grew a few new leaves but seemed no taller at the end  of the season than it had been at the start.

Something happened between years three and four. This tiny maple grew taller and stronger. The trunk shot up so quickly that you could hear it, and a crown of branches spread out that began to shield the rest of the front yard.It turns out that for the first two years the maple was putting down roots where it was planted to anchor itself and boost its own chances of survival.

We're coming up on 20 years since we planted that tree, and it's amazing the difference it has made. Its branches are so thick and so leafy that they shade the front of the house from the heat of the day during the summer. Every fall it blankets the front yard in a thick layer of color that our youngest rustles through on the way to school in the morning. Birds have built nests in its branches, squirrels have raced up and down its trunk, and on the ground below shade-tolerant plants have begun to establish themselves.

It's like that all over the yard where we've planted flower beds and gardens. Painted ladies and monarchs have had their fill at the butterfly garden, and bees of all sorts celebrate the arrival of spring as the crocuses life their faces to the sun. Whether I planted these things myself or if as is often the case they planted themselves is irrelevant. The plants are flourishing where they are planted, and they make the yard a wonderful place to sit in the evening, or to walk through during the day.

What about you? Where are you planted,and how is it better for your presence?


Copyright © 2019 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Tweet

Lent: Frame

We have a lot of picture frames in my house. We need them, for all the photos and art we have on display.

My kids have prints of classic art like "The Vetruvian Man" and "The Virgin on the Rocks" in their bedrooms, and on the fridge we've had originals like "Sleeping Beauty Descending a Staircase" and "The Big Bad Spotted Wolf." Around the living room are a zebra painted with coffee, a palm tree drawn in inks and this sunflower painted in oils, among many others.

Frames almost seem like an afterthought to the work, but they have a lot of potential to shape how people perceive the work that they're presenting. The wrong framing material can clash with the picture, tell a different story and provide so many distractions that anyone would be left wondering what the point was. But with the right framing, you can emphasize or draw out important details of the artwork, improve the story it tells, and make its beauty accessible in ways you never imagined. It just takes a little extra work.

For him with ears to hear.


Copyright © 2019 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Tweet

Lent: Sacrifice

There's a municipally owned cemetery a few blocks from where I live that includes this memorial. Everyone whose name is engraved in this block represented the city during the Civil War.

It doesn't appear any of them died, but all of them made sacrifices: years of their lives, sleepless nights, memories of warfare that would haunt them forever, possibly even lost limbs. They did this in a war to keep the South from seceding over slavery, that eventually became a war to end legal slavery in the United States,

Those are both good causes, but I love the second more. As good as it is to have a unified nation, it's better to have one that is unified and committed to the welfare and freedom of all its people.


Copyright © 2019 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Tweet

Lent: Present

I like cooking.

The hours before mealtime are spent all over the place, pondering things that I have done, second-guessing myself and wondering if I could have done them better, and remonstrating myself for not having done the job right the first time.

Or I spent my time in the future. Can I make this trip, take care of this project, work on this goal, and fix that problem? If i screw it up,how many people will die?

Sometimes I feel like I live on the Enterprise on a mission where they have to slingshot around the sun perpetually around the sun. Everything is so focused on saving the past to rescue the future, there's no time for now.

But then I start to cook. There's an oven to preheat, ad food to prep. In a few minutes the oven is driving out the chill of the kitchen, and soon after that the air is filled with the sizzle of the pan and the slow simmer of chicken. There's a heady aroma that fills the senses, and gradually time narrows and comes into focus.

There's no future, there's just now. Later on there'll be time to worry about writing projects, reading assignments and important tasks. Right now, there's a pot that's starting to boil over, and I need to turn the burner down.

There's no past either, there's just now. In a few hours I can ponder the lessons there are to learn from the mistakes I made today, yesterday, last week and over the past 48 years, but right now there's a chicken baking under a rosemary seasoning that I need to baste, and there's a vegetarian alternative I need to find. I can't change the past, but I can keep the chicken from drying out.

This must be why God meets his people in the desert so much. In the cities you can worry what the queen will do if she finds you, and in the Promised Land you can dream about how you'll leverage your abundance to get the advantage over your neighbors. Not in the desert.

In the desert, we're free to plan the future and to learn from the past, but we don't have time to live there. In the desert we need enough water for today, and enough food. Right now is the present, and the present is all we need.


Copyright © 2019 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Tweet

Lent: Chosen

Lent: Good

Last night before I went to bed, I saw the news that a gunman in Christchurch, New Zealand, had shot up a mosque and killed or injured about 50 people during a worship service.

Domestically the same sort of nationalist extremism is loose here in America, and often fanned by our president. In Europe and elsewhere, the damage it's doing to the social contract could take decades to repair.

The wall to the city is broken, and the barbarians are pouring in.

What good is in this?

I'm reminded of events that happened in Billings, Mont., in December 1993, when a group of Neo-Nazis started throwing bricks through the windows where Jewish homeowners displayed their menorahs. The community banded together, and Gentile residents showed solidarity with their Jewish neighbors by placing menorahs in their own windows.

The message was clear, if costly: We're in this together. An attack on one of us is an attack on us all.

It's that same solidarity that the Dutch resistance showed during the Nazi occupation during World War II, as they hid their Jewish neighbors from the Nazis and smuggled them to freedom and safety. It's the same commitment to justice that Sunni Muslims in Egypt showed when they stood in solidarity with Coptic Christians to protect their houses of worship and services after terrorists struck on Palm Sunday in 2017.

It's that spirit that we must show now in the face of white nationalism and white supremacy, especially when it comes dressed in the outward clothing of Christianity. "Beware those who appear to be sheep but inwardly are ravenous wolves," Jesus told his followers. The words ring as true today as they ever did.

People of conscience and goodwill stand together in the face of hatred. Take a moment to let a Muslim neighbor know that you are horrified by the attack in Christchurch, and offer your support. When someone calls Islam a religion of hate or denigrates Muslims, speak up, shut them down, and tell them to go to hell.

When we see someone targeted for hate and it's not our fight, but we stand with them and make it ours, that's not just good, it's the very work of God.

Stand tall, stand together and we can repair the breach.


Copyright © 2019 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Tweet

Lent: Weigh

What's your favorite creepy Bible story?

Is it the zombie uprising in Matthew 27? The seance in Endor where a ghost appears, frightens the medium and tells Saul he's going to die tomorrow morning? For me there's no contest; I love the story of Belshezzar's banquet.

For those who don't know the story:

Belshezzar was the king of Babylon, which at the time was the mightiest empire in the ancient world. The book of Daniel doesn't say much about Belshezzar, but it gives us the picture of a king who was impressed with himself and therefor given to self-indulgence.

During a feast, Belshezzar decided to impress his guests by bringing out the fine china, which in this case happened to be gold plates and cups that had been taken from the Temple in Jerusalem, and proposed a toast to the gods that made him so impressive.

When he had done this a hand appeared in the air and wrote four words on the wall: MENE MENE TEKEL UPHARSIN.

The prophet Daniel was nearby and he translated the message, which had been written in Aramaic, and explained to the king what it all meant: "God has measured the days of you kingdom and brought it to an end. You have been weighed and found wanting. Your kingdom is to be taken from you, and given to the Medes and the Persians."

The Bible notes that that very night Darius the Mede entered Babylon, took the crown from Belshezzar and had him executed.

Like all good creepy stories, this one has a growing sense of foreboding to it. The party is going great, but a feeling of dread arises as the hand appears and draws tight as Daniel explains what it means. Belshezzar rewards Daniel for telling him what it means, but you get the sense it's because he doesn't know what else to do. He and all his revelers can feel the noose around their necks, and by the time the scaffolding drops out from beneath them it all has the sense of finality that comes with supernatural retribution.

A few things I enjoy about this story, beyond its night-around-the-campfire appeal.

One, there's a promise here that the wicked will not prosper forever. Sooner or later, they overstep themselves and ruin overtakes them.

Two, that's still no cause for celebration. Daniel took no joy in giving Belshezzar the warning he did. "Why do you look for the Day of the Lord?" another prophet asks in his own book. "That will be a day of terror, not of rejoicing." It doesn't take a genius to see that if Babylon falls, a lot of people are going to die and many others are going to suffer.

Three, there's some serious self-knowledge going on here. Daniel was pulled into the feast to advise the king because he had a reputation. He had served the previous king, and had been an official in the government of Babylon for most of his life. Whatever policies Babylon had kept, whatever it had done to maintain power, it's safe to say he bore some responsibility for forming and enforcing them, which meant he also carried some of the guilt.

Weigh, but weigh wisely and weigh generously. One day we all get measured.


Copyright © 2019 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Tweet

Lent: Accomplish

For as long as I can remember, I've been a writer, driven by a need to tell stories.

The earliest story I can remember writing was an assignment in second grade. It was a science-fiction story, written in the second person, about someone who time-traveled back to a blizzard in Massachusetts the winter of 1620 and met a pilgrim in the woods.

It was pretty bad stuff, and came complete with sound effects; but that didn't stop it from ending up on my grandmother's refrigerator. Also shared: an essay I'd written about the candlelight service at church on Christmas Eve.

I'd like to think the quality of my writing has improved since then -- by seventh grade I was writing "Moby Dick" fanfic that invariably involved the great whale trashing the middle school I attended while it fought off Ahab and his crew -- but that need to write has never gone away.

I have hobbies and fixations, I love my children and my wife, and I'm driven by the deep mysteries of life, but writing is what ties it all together. All around me is a world in pain. Writing is how I describe the injuries and how to set the bones. This is a divine spark planted in me before I was even born. Writing is not something I do; it's who I am. When I don't write, I begin to die.

You have this calling too.

Stop and think about the dream that animates you, the way that you know can help mend this broken world. It’s your personal mission or quest, the thing that you long to work at, the task that leaves you satisfied and fulfilled while you work at it. Maybe you're one of the fortunates with a career you find deeply fulfilling, or maybe you celebrate the quiet sacrament of cooking food to sow peace over a shared meal.

Whatever it is, it’s the sort of thing you need to do, but somehow it's not happening. The world is broken, and you know a way to fix part it, but somehow you keep not getting around to it, not like you'd like to.

A friend of mine from Georgia just announced this morning that she had sold a piece of speculative fiction to a magazine. I’m excited for her. This is her first step toward realizing a larger dream, of becoming a successful, published author.

It also was a needed reminder about all the half-begun stories littering my hard drive, and the notebooks I have crammed with ideas for characters, story scenes, three-act plays, essays, verse, polemics and God knows what else.

Out in my yard is a branch that fell from a tree back in January. Today I went outside and found the branch beginning to bud. It’s already dead, but that branch is so determined to accomplish its purpose, that even death won’t stop it.

What’s your reason?

Copyright © 2019 by David Learn. Used with permission.


Tweet