Author: danefowlkes

God’s goodness leaves me breathless;
Divine mercy stills my voice;
Consumed by boundless mercy
I fall before you–
No request, just to rejoice.

Standing small before Your greatness;
Humbled by inexhaustible grace.
Resting ‘neath shadows of glory;
Content with Love’s perfect embrace.

God’s goodness leaves me breathless;
Drawn to Love like moth to flame.
Held by arms both strong and tender;
Life and heart belong to Your sweet name.

Standing small before Your greatness;
Humbled by inexhaustible grace.
Resting ‘neath shadows of glory;
Content with Love’s perfect embrace.

Grand Avenue is the portion of Highway 80 that runs west and east through Marshall, Texas, but the name is somewhat misleading. Its west end is lined with sagging houses, and by the old Texas and Pacific Hospital that’s been boarded up longer than I’ve been alive, a taqueria next door to a fresh fish vendor, and the ever present dollar store. I pulled into town yesterday morning, immune to the threadbare surroundings, but couldn’t help but notice the barefoot man walking east on the right side of Grand. It may have been the absence of shoes in February that caught my eye, but it was his hoodie that held my gaze. In bold letters on his back I read, ‘No Rules No Master.’ He appeared homeless, so my knee-jerk thought was, “How’s that working out for you?” It was likely nothing more than warm clothing for the man, but who knows? If the bold declaration reflected intense self awareness, credit him at least with more than a little moxie.

Do I know myself? Note that I did not ask, “What do I think about myself?” A world of difference languishes between the two, awaiting the intrepid individual with courage enough for serious self-inventory. Some refuse introspection because they fear a result something like the opening lines to Dostoyevsky’s “Notes from Underground”: “I am a sick man….I am an angry man. I am an unattractive man….I’m sensitive and quick to take offense, like a hunchback or dwarf.” To the contrary, lives that matter most are the ones who dare to say “I am a sick man,” then quickly turn to the Physician.

Many of us whittle away our days stumbling over ourselves. Lacking clarity, we fail to see trees for the forests that loom nearby. Forests are unique to the individual, but each holds potential for revealing trees if we know where to look and are willing to search long and hard enough. We are all tempted to busy ourselves with forests of good things, but lose ourselves in the mix. How long has it been since you reflected on important questions like: “Who am I?” “What is wrong with me?” “What is right in me?” The only real difference between those who courageously navigate the narrow way and others who meander aimlessly down side roads is that the former are able to contain their fear long enough to filter from the chaos what is true about themselves and what God can do to make it right. Communing with God is a regular necessity, but there is also a great need for people to take communion with themselves.

I knew a man who decided enough was enough and abandoned the Church. He never turned his back on Christ, but although an ordained deacon and amateur biblical scholar, he was unable to justify discrepancies in church leadership and allowed the perceived hypocrisy to drive him away. His retreat became increasingly pronounced and eventually translated into clinical depression that ultimately led him to exit life altogether. Sometime after his passing, his widow gave me a set of his commentaries, complete with his handwritten notes in the margins. I’ve never been able to erase the memory of that devout believer’s turmoil evidenced by his rejection of church.

Church has taken a black eye over the years, but she’s given out more than a few of her own. Since no human being is perfect, no group of them will be either; but as the song says, “We were made for so much more.” We take a hit on our intended identity when we pay more attention to how many attend our services than to how well we love before and after them. I feel sorry for those believers who’ve never known anything other than the anonymous church. It’s hard to experience and express God’s love to strangers sitting next to you. Sunday after Sunday in what amounts to the ecclesiastical equivalent of a concert hall, many tread spiritual waters midst a sea of strangers–unknown quantities, mutual anonymity.

The reason, I think, that so many find it hard to go to church is that we’ve largely lost the notion of what it means to be church. We confuse participles for the noun. Singing, praying, dancing, preaching, teaching– these are all but modifiers of the real thing. I enjoy a measure of pageantry and am a person of habit, so I like ritual in worship. I thrill to soul stirring music. Good preaching always moves me and bad preaching perturbs me (not to say I haven’t done my fair share of it). But all these may be experienced alone and in private. What makes church “church” is that I am present with other pilgrims, connected physically as well as spiritually, and it is relationship that morphs worship into transformation. Absence does not make the heart grow fonder; it cools and dulls the spirit. Me loving you, and you loving me, liberate both of us to love and worship God.

I endured a more than difficult week that reached a painful climax. My position and responsibility caused me to make an excruciating choice that was, to say the least, gut wrenching. The thing about wounds is that they leave scar tissue behind whether or not the original cut remains visible, and generally the knife cuts both ways. We may take great care to appear unscathed, but in reality most of us are both the walking wounded and source of someone else’s hurt.

In the aftermath of the ordeal, one of my supervisors remarked, “It would be a perfect job if it wasn’t for having to deal with people.” I instantly felt a pang of guilt because I’ve heard myself say the same thing in the past about churches, as if any number of people haven’t thought or said the same thing about me: “Church would be a great place if it wasn’t for the preacher.” What is it that turns church into a cruel joke or worse, a harmless cliche? I love the Church, it’s certain churches I have a problem with; yet, I’ve spent my life serving these imperfect organisms. I’ll admit that she is frequently her own worst enemy, and refuse to blame anyone for rejecting her dark side. I’ve fantasized about walking away myself, never again to darken her gothic doors, or sit another Sunday in light diffused by stained glass, or homilize another Lord’s Day from behind a well oiled oaken pulpit; however, I always return because I need her. More to the point, I need you. You are able to see God at work in me when I can’t feel or hear or see him hanging around, and grace means that I return the favor. Like it or not, we need one another.

Granted, there are issues. The proliferation of both government services and parachurch organizations are an indictment against the Church; they flourish because she has failed. Many high profile churches have become big business in the effort to lure large crowds, as if attendance is the reason for her existence. Concert Christianity trumps discipleship at every turn and we aren’t even aware that we’re skating on thin ice; spiritual DNA is forfeited for cheap imitations. From my own experience, I grieve for those who survive a lifetime of Sunday services and Wednesday night ‘prayer meetings’ with nothing more to show for it than being stirred sporadically but never altered on account of another’s narrative. Having admitted we have a dark side, I hasten to remind myself that the disciple’s life is always intended as dialogue, never monologue. In many ways, some I’m proud of and others that I’m not, I am the product of churches I’ve known and been a part of, and I am different in a good way because of the church I now consider home. We’re imperfect because human beings never are, but I will bite my tongue the next time I’m tempted to say it would be a perfect place if it wasn’t for the people.

One of the things I like most about our country bungalow is the fireplace. What I like least is that it doesn’t work. We moved into this house eight years ago, and I remember how I could hardly wait for the warmth and ambiance of a crackling fire in the den, easing morning chill and creating snuggle space for my wife and I. The morning after move-in I was sipping my first cup of morning coffee when misplaced light caught my eye. If I stood just right I could detect shafts of daylight finding their way between tired bricks from the outside. Enthusiasm over anticipated moments near a warming hearth quickly cooled as we learned that the fireplace was structurally questionable. The decision was made to cap the chimney and seal the fireplace opening with a sheet of heavy plastic purchased from Home Depot for the purpose, a conclusion and corresponding action guided by both safety and economy. The bottom line is that this saved us money, but money in the bank does not create warm memories. Still longing for the mood and tone of a fire’s warming glow if not from embers themselves, I stumbled upon a fake fire in an antique store. The logs are authentic, but behind them is a light bulb and an electric spinning wheel that yields the illusion of flames from in front. The wood is real, but the flames are not; it gives the impression of fire.

I plugged in my “fire” last week and sat on the couch nearby and watched the electric display, trying to imagine crackling cedar and aroma of a memory I would never know. And then a thought came to me, more challenge than it was a question. Am I like fake fire? Do I craft a clever ruse, but when examined closely expose electrical cord and spinning wheel? Does the substance of me radiate authentic glow for others to warm themselves by, or do they walk away cold and empty wondering what real fire feels like? Saint Paul draws a similar conclusion when he says that without love he is nothing more than an impressive show with a disappointing punchline. It will cost me something, perhaps a great deal, but the time may be right to remove the plastic, dismantle the chimney cap, chink the bricks, repair the flue, and allow the fireplace to yield what it was created for — heat from real flames. And surely the moment is right for refusing to hide behind subterfuge and masquerade. As Charles Wesley wrote: “O Thou who camest from above, the pure celestial fire to impart, kindle a flame of sacred love upon the mean altar of my heart.”

“This world is a great sculptor’s shop. We are the statues and there’s a rumor going around that some of us are someday going to come to life.”
~C. S. Lewis

A wooden cabinet of sorts occupies one wall of the entryway in our house. Situated more for appearance than function, it does, however, sport a full length mirror that comes in handy for checking wardrobe and hair before heading out for whatever comes next. It is a particularly great aid for getting a necktie to hang at the preferred length with its knot bunched just right. I stood in front of the looking glass this morning for its feedback on my appearance, and was relieved that I did because a cursory glance revealed I had missed a belt loop and also that my hair needed more work in the back. Inching closer to the mirror, I found an aging man staring back at me, someone I hardly recognized. Just yesterday I told a senior friend that fifty four doesn’t feel as old as it once sounded. His thoughtful response: “Give it time.” The man I remembered had darker hair and more of it, tighter skin around the eyes, and less of a tire around the middle; diet and exercise are definitely in order–perhaps cryogenics. Regardless, it helps to see things as they are.

Let grace get a good look at you. The more honest you are with yourself about yourself, the more profoundly God is able to knead forgiveness into the essence of your life. Why is it that we tend toward playing Russian Roulette with authenticity? Only one moment in six am I entirely present as myself; the rest of the time conjuring up a hologram of what I want others to think of me. What would happen if, instead, I allowed others to peak beneath the veneer? What would change if the curtain fell and I stood exposed, naked as to thoughts and feelings and hopes and hurts and insecurities and needs? I imagine that many of my relationships would reboot with substance and depth of transformation. Perhaps I’m only as good as my next honest question and as real as my succeeding sincere confession.

Why contradict grace? Why reopen beleaguered wounds and delay the metamorphosis grace promises? What summons us to find sordid pleasure in self-inflicted lesions — slumbering dragons awakened by self-pity? Enough is enough! The enemy has gained a purchase in too many lives. For every individual who foists pain on herself or himself over and over for a hurt done to them or done by them in the past, let the healing begin. Stand tall; look in the mirror and find an unfinished masterpiece of grace.

Our community is quaint, in much the same way an outdated custom is remembered with a smile and promptly disregarded for more fashionable ways. By and large, we like it that way. I headed home last night from two taxing days on the road, and started to relax once I turned onto Steinbeck Bend, embracing the warmth of familiarity as I dipped down and through the low water crossing on Rock Creek Road en route to my own micro-universe on Private Road. The outside world intrudes now and then with stark reminders of mortality and grey morality — the importunate cancer that shadows the steps of a good neighbor, older couple in our church arranging to adopt a prematurely birthed grandchild because their daughter is behind in battles with substances beyond her control, our own daughter Foster parenting with a powerful sense of divine directive to rescue children from appalling environs and hopeless futures. We are not immune to the world’s distress or moral desolation, but we endure each together.

Our mailing address reads ‘Waco,’ but those of us who live here or travel to church nearby from outside of the area refer properly to our home as Bosqueville, an ironic order of things in light of the little known fact that Bosqueville predates Waco and, prior to the Civil War, dominated the region with its cotton farms, gin, and three colleges. Landmarks in our community are sparse these days — an elementary, middle, and high school; modest football field and bleachers; three little league fields; two Baptist churches and one Methodist church; a historic cemetery; and a now defunct feed mill situated around the ‘S’ curve and up Rock Creek from my house. Life happens in some and is remembered in others, but each stands as a monument to the weight of glory in honest sweat and divinely infused human effort. The most enduring markers are the families in which we nurture one another, grieve together, and see God’s grace in each other’s eyes. We are not stumbling along some predetermined path or making it up as we go, but learning that life is intended to be endured and embraced in the company of others.

My wife and I are careful with what we watch on television, but we do have our favorites: Downton Abbey, Blue Bloods, Turner Classic Movies, and pretty much anything on HGTV. One very popular show that we’ve never watched and never will is “The Walking Dead.” I’m told that it is an American post-apocalyptic horror drama television series based on the comic book series of the same name. It stars a sheriff’s deputy who awakens from a coma to find a post-apocalyptic world dominated by flesh-eating zombies. He sets out to find his family and encounters many other survivors along the way. Hollywood has given us a name for corpses that walk about as though they are living, but they are really dead. The word is “zombie.”

Though it may shock some to hear it, there are zombies among us; it’s as old as Revelation chapter three: “you have a reputation of being alive, but you are dead.” The danger is real and it can destroy if we’re not alert and courageous enough to do something about it. The church in the city of Sardis is the least attractive of the seven churches to whom letters are written by the risen Christ near the end of the first century. Our Lord finds nothing to commend about it; the tragic fact was that spiritual life had been crowded out of the church by pointless activity. The church was contaminated with the world — inward decay, spiritual dry rot. In the same way, any of us are in jeopardy when the context supersedes the content of our lives. We are in constant danger of settling for the outward appearance of religion in place of the inward substance of relationship. The Church in Sardis was officially open for business, giving every evidence of vitality and energy, but they were walking corpses — reputation intact, but no reality. Spiritual schizophrenia is keeping up appearances while avoiding the absence of spiritual depth and substance in our lives. As Buechner states it: “The danger is we’ll say yes too easily, that we’ll say it because all these centuries the church has been saying it and because for years we have been saying it ourselves, too easily, too much out of old habit.” Busy-ness fills our time and keeps us from thinking, so we never have to face ourselves in light of who Christ is and what He wants for us.

Thinking about all of this resurrects a childhood memory very similar to one described by author Max Lucado. My mother sang in the choir and Dad usually did, but for reasons I can’t recall he was sitting next to me that Sunday morning. I can remember my father’s hand on my leg, strategically placed there to keep me from squirming. I also recall turning my attention to his hands. If you didn’t know he was an oil refinery boilermaker, one look at his hands would tell you as much. They were thick and strong, still bearing traces of the previous week’s labor. I remember being curious about the calluses, his hand’s defense against hours of gripping welding torches and squeezing wrenches. On the back of the blonde plywood theatre style seat in front of me were attendance cards, the kind that had a red ribbon attached for visitors to Trinity Baptist Church to wear. The ribbon was attached by a straight pen. Running my small fingers over the ridges of calluses, I decided to experiment. With the skill of a junior surgeon I stuck the pin in one of the ridges and looked up at Dad. No response. I pushed deeper but he didn’t flinch, so I decided to shove harder. That time he jerked his hand away while grunting out loud. I was amused, but only until we got to the restroom. That’s why I still remember like it was yesterday.

Spiritual calluses develop over hours of rubbing against the form of religion apart from the transforming presence of Christ Jesus. Some of us are in real danger and we don’t even know it. We can’t see it, we can’t hear it, we can’t feel it, but we’re in danger whenever we become so comfortable with Christianity that we are numb to the penetrating Christ. There’s no shame in being numbered among the walking wounded, but God forbid that any of us would be walking dead.

Life changed for me when two others ended; I started writing to remind myself of what I’d lost. For the first time longevity had a reference point, and I was compelled to place my own marker nearby. My father’s death inserted a defining line between what went before and all that would follow; Mom’s departure two years ago provided a gentle shove over that line. Dad died twenty years earlier, but that experience remains unreal to me. His brief bout with cancer, subsequent stroke, coma, final words and unblinking expression in return, the funeral with gospel music and my own reading in his honor; such memories are mental snapshots that still come unsolicited at the most unexpected moments. Mom’s death is a daily nudge that life is brief at best, but that the best lived story never really ends.

This fragile moment is a current, not an eddy, moving toward an emptying like the Mississippi into the Delta and Gulf beyond. You and I are part of a living stream. It is an earthy thing to look back at the origins of streams, but is also human nature to anticipate. Every backward glance should urge ahead. The instant we stop straining forward is the moment we stop living; the grand challenge is to detect something or someone for which to hope. To embrace this moment and anticipate the next with fascination breathes life and hope. The aging know this instinctively, even if we struggle to act on it. The young aren’t aware of it, but it is just as true for them. What I do with this moment matters because it forms a marker for those who follow; I am forging someone’s future memory of me. I’m not sure there’ll be anything left when I’m gone save the moral of my story, but that’s just the way I want it.

“One life on this earth is all that we get, whether it is enough or not enough, and the obvious conclusion would seem to be that at the very least we are fools if we do not live it as fully and bravely and beautifully as we can.”
~Frederick Buechner

Last month I accomplished something I’ve been delaying for three years, or at least thought I had. I admit that I can procrastinate with the best of them, especially when the object of delay has anything to do with eyes. For reasons I cannot explain, I have always been squeamish about eyes, to the point of averting my gaze from Visine commercials. When someone suggested during my teens that I try contacts I nearly gagged; spreading apart eyelids and introducing a foreign object to my eyeball would rank somewhere up there with being buried alive. As a result, I stay with the less stylish and more traditional choice of wearing spectacles, which leads to the point of this story.

Vision occasionally shifts and prescriptions change, necessitating a visit to the optometrist and fitting for a new set of frames and lenses. Pragmatism sometimes trumps procrastination; in this case, I needed to order new glasses before December 31st so as not to waste a year’s worth of insurance benefits. I endured the puffs of air to each eye, piercing lights, clicking through different magnifications, and even drops to dilate pupils and the resulting cloudiness of sight for the afternoon. My eyes were healthy apart from a freckle on my left eye, but my prescription had changed and needed to be strengthened. That meant going next door, selecting frames, and being fitted for no-line bifocals. The ordeal should have been over and done in a week’s time, but when they returned and I took them for a test drive, I could not see anything clearly. The lenses left the sensation of being on a cruise ship churning through choppy seas; each eye attempting to act independently of the other, and the rest of me trying to remain upright. This necessitated a return to Walmart and being refitted with a different type of lens. I had gone cheap with plastic and evidently needed the more expensive poly carbonate version. Of course. Unfortunately, that did not do the trick and I landed back in the optometrist’s chair for re-examination. After repeating the routine of the previous month, she determined that her machine showed astigmatism, but that my brain evidently would not recognize and allow the corrective measures. The only option left was to order new lenses without allowance for astigmatism and hope that my vision would be the better for it. It is the end of January, and I’m still waiting to see–literally.

What are you waiting for? Who are you delaying to see? When are you going to say what’s been on your mind and in your heart? Where will you go when sufficient courage arises? Why prolong anxiety? How will life improve if it remains the same? Procrastination is a petty thief that pilfers one moment at a time; you’ll not notice what was lost until you go looking for something that you need or want and wonder why it isn’t there. One simple word can change everything–“now.”