The crunch of footsteps following Jesus suddenly stopped. An eerie stillness surrounded the confused crowd as a gentle afternoon breeze ruffled the leaves of one single fig tree standing above them unprotected. The subtle noise of something unusual in the tree drew the spectators' eyes upward. In amazement, one by one they spotted him. The small stubby frame of a man latched awkwardly around the smooth bark of a low hanging branch. Instantaneously, a piercing anger shot through the crowd as they realized it was him—the greedy, selfish, annoying tax collector. As they recognized his wide eyes and burning cheeks, their anger hastily changed into a loud clap of laughter that ripped through the silent vacuum that stood between them.
Insecurity encompassed him like a fierce, suffocating wave of emotion. The overwhelming feeling made him forget why he had climbed the tree in the first place. Then, clearly, distinctly he heard a calm voice break through the orange noise of laughter: “Zacchaeus, come down, I must stay at your house today.” Startled, he looked down to observe Jesus addressing him unfazed by the jarring crowd. Zacchaeus would never be the same. Jesus makes this plain in His assertion: “Today, salvation has come to this house.”
Friday, February 29, 2008
Sunday, February 17, 2008
The Truth of Love: Better felt than defined
“Where love is lacking, there can be no truth . . .” Hans Urs Von Balthasar
Certainty is a feeling. That strange sensation we get in those rare moments of clarity. That moment that caresses us like a light stroke of yellow sun brushing through the gray clouds converging on our skin. That crisp feeling of stepping out of a rumbling, confused, crowded cabin into a pristine morning of fresh snow.
It is in that glimmer, if we are to view it spatially, that we realize the disturbing bankruptcy of our predicament—an impoverished soul. It is in that instant, if we are to view it temporally, that we realize all that we know is absurd and most certainly wrong. Sure, we had some form of knowledge: an experience maybe, possibly a piece of information, or even a fact from a book. Sure, we had tasted a tinge of ecstasy: perhaps a warm glance of acceptance or perchance the firm strength of control. We had become quite accomplished. We found respect and admiration. We discovered security and meaning. We had it—truth!
Nothing was wanting but love.
Certainty is a feeling. That strange sensation we get in those rare moments of clarity. That moment that caresses us like a light stroke of yellow sun brushing through the gray clouds converging on our skin. That crisp feeling of stepping out of a rumbling, confused, crowded cabin into a pristine morning of fresh snow.
It is in that glimmer, if we are to view it spatially, that we realize the disturbing bankruptcy of our predicament—an impoverished soul. It is in that instant, if we are to view it temporally, that we realize all that we know is absurd and most certainly wrong. Sure, we had some form of knowledge: an experience maybe, possibly a piece of information, or even a fact from a book. Sure, we had tasted a tinge of ecstasy: perhaps a warm glance of acceptance or perchance the firm strength of control. We had become quite accomplished. We found respect and admiration. We discovered security and meaning. We had it—truth!
Nothing was wanting but love.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Jr. High Sucks: A Reflection on my adolescent years
Do you remember that one kid in Jr. High that was three years ahead in math and had no social skills?
I was that kid.
In my middle school the halls were segregated by grade. To journey into another grades territory was to invite torment into ones already shaky adolescent existence. This transverse of agony was part of my regular schedule. The long gray trip down a long line of gray lockers bringing me to the 8th grade math room—the place of my affliction. My small sixth grade frame traveled generating the silent reverberation of footsteps in the empty hall muffled by the hectic orange noise of students in the distance; a noise, along with my dread, that increased with each step. Shuffling with my head drooped, I studied the checkered floor hoping to distract myself from the looming crowd and what I knew was about to take place. No one ever noticed me at first and I always hoped that, somehow miraculously, I had become invisible. But, without fail: “Hey guys! Look who decided to show up, Doogie Howser!” a struggling misfit, who spotted me as easy prey, would ecstatically squeak. Then their daily ritual began as they circled me as goliaths around David bouncing me back and forth like a human pinball. The memories still haunt me: girls laughing, the warmth of red on my blushing face, my backpack jarring from side to side as the older boys pushed me with increasing force until I crashed onto the floor.
I hated myself.
Insecurity encompassed me like a fierce, suffocating wave of emotion. Insecurity will do strange things to a boy who is trying to find his place in the mess of this world. It did strange things to me as it manifested its ugly head in different ways as I discovered various false refuges (and religions) of security. More to come on this . . .
I was that kid.
In my middle school the halls were segregated by grade. To journey into another grades territory was to invite torment into ones already shaky adolescent existence. This transverse of agony was part of my regular schedule. The long gray trip down a long line of gray lockers bringing me to the 8th grade math room—the place of my affliction. My small sixth grade frame traveled generating the silent reverberation of footsteps in the empty hall muffled by the hectic orange noise of students in the distance; a noise, along with my dread, that increased with each step. Shuffling with my head drooped, I studied the checkered floor hoping to distract myself from the looming crowd and what I knew was about to take place. No one ever noticed me at first and I always hoped that, somehow miraculously, I had become invisible. But, without fail: “Hey guys! Look who decided to show up, Doogie Howser!” a struggling misfit, who spotted me as easy prey, would ecstatically squeak. Then their daily ritual began as they circled me as goliaths around David bouncing me back and forth like a human pinball. The memories still haunt me: girls laughing, the warmth of red on my blushing face, my backpack jarring from side to side as the older boys pushed me with increasing force until I crashed onto the floor.
I hated myself.
Insecurity encompassed me like a fierce, suffocating wave of emotion. Insecurity will do strange things to a boy who is trying to find his place in the mess of this world. It did strange things to me as it manifested its ugly head in different ways as I discovered various false refuges (and religions) of security. More to come on this . . .
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