Emptiness and the Preacher

Yesterday I preached about the Constitution. It was titled "We the People." I gave words to "standing by someone else." It's a great gift to have a pulpit.

But today, I have the haunting feeling again. I wish for the freedom from the ties of the word preached. It draws me in, even holds me within its grasp - in knots.

It's not my word though, right? If it be prophecy, it belongs to the spirit of God. It has its own life and responsibilities. I speak it, let it go, from my belly to the ears of others. I become empty and the Spirit must continue to work on the ears of others. The Spirit must cultivate hearing from heads to hearts to hands. My job was to yield to that word and be a conduit for the Spirit to speak.

And so on Monday, I feel empty. And I feel loss... as if I held that word, that opportunity to speak, that calling, and I let go.

The word is out there, out of my head, my heart, and my hands. It is out of my grasp but it keeps me in its grasp in that I feel cavernous, I feel its absence. The absence haunts me the morning after.

Goodtime Jesus by James Tate

Jesus got up one day a little later than usual. He had been dream-
ing so deep there was nothing left in his head. What was it?
A nightmare, dead bodies walking all around him, eyes rolled
back, skin falling off. But he wasn't afraid of that. It was a beau-
tiful day. How 'bout some coffee? Don't mind if I do. Take a little
ride on my donkey, I love that donkey. Hell, I love everybody.

I hear America singing, by Walt Witman

I HEAR America singing, the varied carols I hear;
Those of mechanics—each one singing his, as it should be, blithe and strong;
The carpenter singing his, as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his, as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work;
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat—the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck; 5
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench—the hatter singing as he stands;
The wood-cutter’s song—the ploughboy’s, on his way in the morning, or at the noon intermission, or at sundown;
The delicious singing of the mother—or of the young wife at work—or of the girl sewing or washing—Each singing what belongs to her, and to none else;
The day what belongs to the day—At night, the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing, with open mouths, their strong melodious songs. 10

70 or 80 years

Gotta see the irony in preaching Psalm 90 tomorrow and Pete's mother being in the hospital today. She's 80 years old and not in the best health. Psalm 90 contains the phrase, "we've been given 70 years, if we're lucky 80." And the hope of the psalmist is that we would learn how to number our days that we would gain a wise heart.

How do we number our days? How do we measure a year (as the song asks?)

I say relationships, I say love, I say risks, I say hard conversations, I say honest answers, I say every breath easily taken because of faith and hope. Count 'em up - that's living.

Chimidunchik

I'm reading a fantastic book called Broken Open by Elizabeth Lesser, the founder of the Omega Institute. One chapter tells this fantastic story -

There is this man on a train, a crowded train and the man asks another if he would move the bag next to him. The man does nothing. It's a polish joke, or maybe a Russian joke... but an old joke and the old word for baggage was chimidunchik. The man asks again, and is once again ignored. More people enter the train. The man asks again and is ignored again and he gets so frustrated that he just starts yelling, "move your chimidunchik, move your chimidunchik..." He gets so angry that he picks up the bag and throws it out the window. He looks at the seatmate and says, "what are you going to do?" The man says, "nothing. it wasn't my chimidunchik."

Everyone has their own chimidunchik... and only we can carry it.