Thelonious Clemmons

Well it has begun. We started training for our upcoming 5k about a month ago, and all is well. Mostly anyway. Though I began with high aspirations, I have since realized that I had nary a shred of reality upon which to base them. I’ll have to say that the training process has been much kinder to Laura. Her exploits in the mildly masochistic pastime of cross-country have reached legendary status, and it took her no time to regain her form. As for me? Well, I have at least looked the part. When we first decided to do this, my first act was to purchase a swanky new pair of light-weight nikes. I have since added a shiny/skin tight/long-sleeve running shirt to my ensemble. Unfortunately, I also possess the lungs of a fifty year old asthmatic chain-smoker. In some of my intial runs I have no doubt resembled a wheezing, gasping super hero with ample arch support (I would confess here that there is also a jogging stroller involved, but it’s too painful).

Anyway, we’re five weeks away from the big day, and we’re pretty much on schedule. Most encouragingly, we’ve begun to get some sponsors. Our goal continues to be to raise enough money to send 35 kids to camp this summer. If you want to find out how you can sponsor us-for any amount-just leave a comment, and we’d be more than happy to tell you how. Meanwhile, if you should happen upon a thirty-four year old man in a makeshift batman costume in frantic pursuit of a jogging stroller…..just look away.

When it comes to running, there are basically three types of people. There are those who are running to something….those who are running from something…and those who are running for something. The young girl with a Jansport strapped tightly to her back, shuffling her gladiator sandals as fast as she can to get to the Geometry class that started five minutes ago is running to something. The misguided young man darting down an alley-way sporting a ski mask, while toting a pillow-case filled with other people’s money is running from something. The disciplined athlete tearing around the fourth turn in a track and field event is running for something. You get the point.

When it comes to the first two categories, my experience is vast and unprecedented. I have mastered the “late-for-class-dash”, and I know how to run forward while looking backward. However, the more legitimate type of running has eluded me. I have not, to my recollection, ever run for something. That all changes on March 24th. Laura and I have made plans to run in The Human Race, a county-wide 5k run to benefit local non-profits.

The idea is that we run three miles, and you kind folks serve as our financial sponsors. All of the proceeds that our organization collects will be used to send kids to camp this summer. Our goal this year is to take thirty-five campers. At $275 a camper that amounts to ….a lot of money. By sponsoring us for any amount, you will be helping the cause. So, can you help? If not, then Laura and I will be participating in the dreaded fourth type of running…..running for nothing.

Do you have a kindle? A nook? An e-reader of any type? Do you indulge in the unsavory and mildly heretical pastime of reading scripture via the backlit screen of a smart phone? Me personally? I have a phone. I have books. Never the twain shall meet. I’m not saying definitively that all owners of e-readers are morally corrupt….but I’m beginning to entertain the possibility. I have friends who do all of their reading electronically. I pray for them. They wax poetically about the advantages of such devices, and invariably my protests amount to a series of questions. 1.) Can you smell the pages? 2.) Can you manually fold the corner of a page to mark your spot? 3.) Can you circle, underline, or otherwise highlight your favorite musings with a well-sharpened no. 2 pencil? 4.) Can you place it on a shelf betwixt other books of its kind?

If you can’t look me in the eye and answer yes to those questions, then I have no other recourse than open defiance. Now, I’m well aware that the world is moving at a pace which threatens to make the hard-copy obsolete, but I for one will not go down without protest. I hereby go on record as stating that any society with the arrogance and audacity to abandon the book is a society that should itself be abandoned. People of conscience…wake up…apprehend what’s at stake and make a move to stay our collective slide into moral oblivion!

For those of you on the other side of the proverbial aisle, I offer this sincere advice. Put down your radioactive compadre, and proceed to your local library as quickly as your pointy little hipster shoes will carry you. Cast a judgemental glare in the direction of the riff-raff who only use this long-neglected institution for free internet access, and swiftly procure the nearest hard-cover edition of To Kill a Mockingbird. Open. Insert face. Inhale. Breathe in the existential smelling salts of the printed page and reclaim your place among the living. Repeat every day for a month and you will not only clear your spiritual sinuses of their tech-savvy hubris, but you will also absorb the literary genius of Harper Lee by way of olfactory osmosis. And…go.

There once were ten virgins. Five were wise. Five were foolish. They were each set to be play a role in a swanky wedding. Everyone who was anyone would be in attendance. Apparently the groom was a pretty big deal. As custom had it, these young ladies were to wait patiently for the grooms announcement before proceeding to the pre-wedding festivities. The wise ones brought extra oil so their lamps wouldn’t burn out….just in case the groom was running late. In fact, it was this shrudeness that separated them from their foolish counterparts. Turns out, he was late….at least ffrom their perspective. His perceived lateness was no problem for the wise, but it proved problematic for the foolish, who made no preparations. They were out of oil. They were out of light. They were out of luck. It was too late to buy more oil, and without it, they could not see to follow the procession. The five wise virgins were observant and flexible. Their attention to the small things was credited to them as righteousness.

When Jesus tells this parable, he makes a pretty clear allusion to his second coming. So, getting back to our subject, there are actually mulitple advents. The first of course was the initial incarnation in the manger….the one that let us know God is with us….that the very core of his existence is a relentless desire to be with us. The second advent is still future tense. Then he will bring full healing and restoration, and establish his administration of justice. And then there’s the third advent….the one that goes on every moment.

If advent is about the arrival of Jesus, then it’s always advent. Paul tells us in Acts that Jesus is the one in whom we live, and move, and have our being. He is the eternal substance of existence. John tells us that he is the vessel by which all things are created. As the eternal one, he lives in perpetual present. He has no past or future. Everything is “now” to the one that is not bound by time. As the essence of our being, he is steadily offering that newness to us, but only if we’re watchful. He makes all things new. Every moment is a re-start. Advent means we don’t have to live in the painful past or the frightening future. Newness is always here. Newness is healing. But it also means that we never get ahead. We never get off the ground. Getting ahead, or getting off the ground would mean getting away from our source; the one we are waiting for. For a Christian, the only progress is a backward progress toward surrender. The wise among us cherish relinquishment over achievement.

Earlier this week, we entered into the Advent season. Advent marks the beginning of the Christian year, and the meaning of the word is something close to “arriving”. It is a season of expectation, awaiting the long-anticipated arrival of our Lord. Just saying it’s a season of expectation doesn’t necessarily mean a whole lot. Lent too is a season of expectation. What separates Advent from Lent is the subject of our expectation. Because Lent is marked by the inevitablity of the Cross, it is entered into with mourning. It is a time of repentance. Advent is marked by the anticipation of the manger, so the sense of expectation is hopeful instead of heavy.

Old Testament sholars have noticed a very broad pattern throughout the Hebrew scriptures. It’s a three-fold pattern from peace to chaos, and from chaos to restoration. Peace….chaos….restoration. It may be seen most clearly in the story of creation. A state of absolute harmony between God and the created order was interrupted by the lies of the serpent, and the suspicion of our distant relatives. After the fall there commensed a long, on-going process of healing defined by the mercy and generosity of the forsaken Father. Peace….chaos….restoration. Long, leisurely walks with the LORD…..snakes, forbidden fruit, and fig-leaves…..forgiveness and starting over. Of course, life is too relentlessly messy for that to stand as any kind of formula. There is after all a measure of chaos even when life is most at rest. And there are no doubt deep levels of gracious restoration, even when we are at our most rebellious. But I defy you to not locate this basic pattern, not only in scripture, but in the world that the scriptures seek to make sense of.

As a season, Lent obviously finds itself in the chaos phase. The spirit of Lent is in the heart-wrenching sacrifice of the Son, even in the face of his own existential doubts. Advent is tougher. If I had to guess though, I would say that Advent lives between chaos and restoration. The chaos phase is marked by repentance and complaint; it’s about seeking the harmony that’s been lost through sin or random misfortune. In reality there’s always a gap between our cries for help and the response of the Father. There’s a sense in which we’ve said all we can say, and now we have to wait. I think Advent likes to hang out in that gap. We’ve cried our tears. We’ve made penance. We’ve voiced our complaint. We trust that God will answer. We have faith that he will arrive. There’s a quiet confidence that we have been heard. Now……let the waiting begin.

The other night I was watching a special on PBS. You heard correctly. This particular special happened to be on a subject of which I know next to nothing…..physics. I freely admit that most of it was over my head, but I was still amazed by what I heard. The basic theme was Einstein’s revolutionary insights on the nature of time and space, and how they have been experienced from Earth’s beginning. This of course led to a discussion on the “big bang theory.” At least twice, the scientists interviewed confessed, “We still don’t know why it happened.” They appeared confident when discussing what happened. But when it came to their own questions of why, they looked as naked as the rest of us. Through their study of physics, they were compelled to ask, yet unable to answer the most basic human question.

They were compelled to ask it because they’re human beings. We live with an inborn curiosity; an innate need for meaning. They were unable to answer it, because “why” is not answered with words. It’s answered through relationships. Connection is meaning. All humans ask “why”, but for those who live in a state of exclusion, the question is in all caps. For minorities of all kinds, life can become an exercise in exclusion. Many of the people that we have come to love seem to feel walled off and disconnected. In isolation, the “why” of curiosity can sometimes morph into the “why” of despair. Ultimately we don’t want an explanation. We just want to be involved. To connect with the disconnected. To experience the miracle of reconnection ourselves. Isn’t that why we’re here?

Norman Dale was the new coach with a checkered past. His unorthodox methods had gainedhim both success and infamy. The hand that he had been dealt at his new schoolin Indiana lacked the look of winner. Still, Coach Dale had principles. He also had rules, one of which procured the disdain of all on-lookers. That rule was…a minimum of four passes before a shot attempt. His Chuck Taylor clad players
were no fonder of this new-fangled idea than were the multitudes who paid good
money to witness it. But like I said, Coach Dale had principles.

 www.sportshollywood.com

This particular principle would be tested thoroughly when Rade Butcher got the hot hand. Three trips in a row, ol’ Rade came down the court and launched his one-legged excuse for a jump shot. He made all three. Although the crowd loved it, and it seemed to bolster the morale of the team, Coach Dale remained unmoved. All he saw were three shots and zero passes. Rade was offered a seat at the end of the bench. By games’ end, the team was left with just four other uniformed players. Coach Dale never wavered. “My team is on the floor”, he matter-of-factly informed the official. The old coach with the new ideas was promptly booed by the home crowd. His lone ally was a drunken Dennis Hopper who nodded winsomely in the
bleachers.

What’s the point?

First, Hoosiers is the greatest movie of all-time. Second, there comes a time when you have to stand by your word, unpopular though it may be. One of the toughest challenges I face in ministry is allowing my young men to feel the consequences of their actions. I want to rescue. I want to excuse. I want to make
exceptions. While there’s certainly a time to make exceptions, there’s also a
time to mean what you say and let life be the teacher.

Coach Dale wasn’t as reluctant to draw the line as I am. I guess he didn’t have the same affinity for popularity that I do. But God is using his fictitious example to teach me a very real lesson…..even if the whole town boos you, there’s at least one drunk who thinks you’re doing a knock-out job.

Three days ago, my dog died.  Jenny was twelve years old. She was a good dog, but not in the traditional sense. She was a ninety-five pound chocolate lab, who began as a gift to my brother from his then girlfriend. Jenny proved to have good bit more staying power than that star crossed courtship. Jenny was the owner of a sophisticated pallet…..with a particular taste for aged chihuahua. Yet for a border-line socio-path, she had  surprisingly little tolerance for detainment. Like all labs, she was always sniffing for freedom. No matter how big the yard, she would find the intended boundary and crawl under it.  But in spite of a few anti-social tendencies, she was always a happy dog……and even if you had gone two straight weeks without tossing her a tennis ball, she remained optimistic enough to assume that today would be different. As I mentioned earlier, Jenny started out with my brother. She also stayed a few years with my parents. She was sort of passed around. She lived with me for five of her twelve years, including the last four. I miss her.

To make matters worse, I had to be the one to bury her. I have neither the stomach nor the upper-body strength for such a task. The reality that this job lay outside of my comfort zone is best illustrated by two facts. First, I wore pink garden loves to perform the dirty deed. Second, until then I did not own a shovel. I just heard that for the first time….I did NOT own a shovel, but I DID own a pair of pink garden gloves. Dang. Anyway, I sort of felt like a serial killer strolling casually through Wal-Mart carrying nothing but a shovel and a bag of peanut m&m’s. And…bad nerves be darned, I carried out my duties. She deserved it.

From every spiritual high there is a consequent
come-down. It’s an undeniable reality that all of us have to face. If you want
to get biblical, there’s the famous story of Jesus’ transfiguration. Atop a
literal mountain with his best and brightest, Jesus is illuminated and joined
by some of Israel’s most decorated heroes. Of course, his disciples wanted to
stay. Peter even voiced his plans to establish a permanent community there.
Jesus knew better. He knew they all had to descend the mountain and face the
brokenness and general lack of spiritual fervor that lurked in the valley below.
Descending mountains is every bit as spiritual as climbing them.

I know that you know all of this. I’m telling you again because it’s a lesson that our kids are learning right now. As I shared last month, we took a record number of young people to camp this summer. Nearly all of them made a commitment of some type while there. But we’re not in Sophia anymore. Right now my kids are at school. No one is sharing God’s word with them there, there are no altar calls after class, and I doubt sincerely that anyone is fervently reminding them of the spiritual implications of line-breaking.

I don’t mean to sound pessimistic. There are plenty of good people in the school system, and many adults who genuinely care about their students. But in spite of all of that, public schools today can make Gomorrah look like Mayberry. The halls are filled with temptation, the conversation falls a good piece short of
edifying, and Satan would probably break dance on the bathroom floor were it
not so unsanitary. I guess I’m asking you to pray for our kids. Most of them
are only with us one day a week, which doesn’t leave us much time for damage
control. Pray that they would sense God’s presence in a culture that’s mostly
hostile toward him. For all of the brokenness in our schools, God continues to
get perfect attendance. May our kids be aware of him. May that awareness scare
them and comfort them all at once.