Writing

This is an exercise I wrote a while back about a visit to a familiar place.  It got deep.  It’s actually hard for me to share this with others, but I know that humility involves openness.  I changed the names of people just to avoid hurt feelings, in case anyone that used to know me back then read this.  I’m sure they could guess who is who, but for now, this is the best I can do.  I regret the person I once was, and constantly wish to be remade in the image of Christ that I may love those who I have hurt.  Anyway, here is a little piece about a trip back to Norway.

I push open the heavy metal doors, hand resting on the odd red plastic handle.  I step into the doorway and instantaneously, the smell overwhelms me.  It’s a good smell, a comforting scent.  It is hard to describe, like the smell of a new car or the taste of Dr. Pepper.  It’s cleaning solutions and brick and stone and must and age and wood and the years of students coming in and out of these doors.  It is sweet to the soul.  I step through the second doorway.  I am here.  The mahogany colored tile floor spreads out under my feet like an ocean, across the long wide lobby.  The orange red toned bricks line the walls, looking like the walls of a traditional schoolhouse.  To my left, up some steps on a platform the kiosk, selling shirts and fruit, water and school supplies.  Further up more steps, the Lovelace Theatre, its entryway shrouded in shadow.  In front of me is the entrance to the middle school, to my right the high school, to my far left, the primary school.  It is here that all the worlds converge.  Flags hung from a nearby wall, a flag for every nationality represented with pride.  Five clocks dress the wall, showing the time in Stavanger, Houston, London and elsewhere.  The office is busy with staff stepping in and out, the phone ringing intermittently.  Suddenly, little third graders parade in front of me, on the way to PE.  I smile.  I am home.  Separation does make the heart grow fonder.  My ISS—International School of Stavanger.  My home for four years, four great years, four developmental years.  It’s been three years since I had come to you last, nine since I attended you as a fifth grade boy.  My sister and I look around and mouth falls open in wonder and relaxation.

The echoing din of horns interrupt my dazed state of happiness.  I crane my neck around and notice the band has appeared outside the doors of the school, practicing for the Constitution Day Parade.  They start to play “Ja Vi Elske” and I am home.  I sing along, inserting nonsense words here and there where time has stolen the real words from my mind.  And so, with the Norwegian national anthem serving as my soundtrack, we march towards the office.  The old receptionist is still there: Hedda.  She smiles and responds “Ya, Yes, I remember you two!” once we tell her our names.  We get two cute visitor badges and are told we ought to wait for one of the Edwards to show up.  We thank her and sidestep over to the couches.  We sit down in a fluffy, puffy cloud of leather and stuffing.  I pick up a yearbook, one of the many that line the coffee table before my knees.

2001.

This was the first year I was gone.  At the time I was dealing with loneliness, culture shock, Christian school ugliness, and being lost in a world (Texas) that I thought was my true home.  Meanwhile, my friends—Kara, Jon, Charlie, Phil, even Josh—they were here. I flip through the pages and look for their young faces.  They are all in college or university now, hardened by the years.  But in their sixth grade photo, they shine with promise, potential, innocence.  I flip forward and look at other friends, teachers, younger students, activities, sports.  I comment on the lack of Elementary Student Council, which I had served as President for in my fifth grade year.  The play looked more interesting, though, I note to my sister.  The muscles in my cheek pull back and I can’t fight the smile.  Yes I had missed all these years— 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006 (though I visited that spring), 2007, 2008, 2009—but I was here.  Now.

I flipped to another yearbook, then another, then another, exploring the myriad of experiences I had missed.  Friendships I had lost, opportunities that had died and were buried here in Norway. These pictures told me what I had missed, and the smile faded.  It felt like the back of my heart suddenly felt a draft coming from my neck.  Not chills, but it was chilling.  Nine years.  What had happened in those nine years?  So much.  So much.  My sister points out certain details in other yearbooks and we chit chat about small things.  But we both feel it: regret.  My, most of all, for I had championed the move back to Texas, the adventure-land I explored every summer and loved to death. So we moved, but instead of flying to Never Never Land with Peter Pan, it seemed more like I had slipped into the gray Doldrums of the Phantom Tollbooth.

There it was, snuggled in between a 2005 and 1994.

2000.

My year.  Student Council.  President over the primary school.  Part of the first ever primary school play.  Writer extraordinaire.  I pull out the book, flip to a happier time, and stared into the soul of the 5^th grade me.  Oh dear.  There she is.  Elsa Bertram.  And there I am,  leaning away from her like the jerk I was.  Oh dear.  It was picture day, and I had chosen to wear my lime green polo and my pear of jean overalls.  Mix of Texan and sophistication, I can say now.  We all were waiting for our turn, and it finally came.  Mrs. Ford led us over by the flags in the lobby.  There were risers there and the photographer arranged us each one by one into perfectly aligned positions.  Jan Reed went up, and then me.  It was cool.  She was a good buddy of mine.  But then, horror of horrors, Elsa was placed next to me.  She was the butt of all our jokes, because of her generally large size, goofy smile, her awkwardness, her tendency to only speak in German, her crushes on certain boys, her pals Sonia and Ruth, and much more.  If I was going to stand next to her, people would think we were a couple, or at least somewhat liked each other.  Things like that happened over nothing like that, like that British girl from third grade that every said I was going to marry someday.  Plus, I had just recovered from the whole Kara situation last year—showering a fourth grade girl with gifts and attention can be nice, but when five other guys are doing it too, it can be very awkward.  Eventually, I pedaled it back and we were friends.  Cool.  But Elsa?  I smelled her in her lumpy sweater and saw her fair frizzing out, almost as if it were reaching out to touch me.  I shuddered, as if one touch of her hair would plummett me down to the bottom of the school hierarchy, down next to the feminine boy Ian and, well, Elsa and her friends.  So I learned to the right.  The picture was taken, processed, sent home.  I got a little flak about it from my parents.  Some people kidded with me because it looked like I was trying to get real close to Jan—which wouldn’t have been cool, as she was kind of too much of a tomboy for most people.  But eventually we got over it.

But the photograph is still here.  It’s in my hands, in the yearbook that all visitors can see.  And it’s in the yearbooks of all the students who were there that year, Kindergarten to Seniors.  You can see it in my eyes—disgust, hate, ridicule directed toward the young girl standing next to me. My eyes are once again filled with disgust, hate, embarrassment—but it was for that fifth grade boy in his polo shirt and overalls.  I start to think back to all the different stupid things I did that year, each one brought to mind by faces I see on pages 176 and 177 of the yearbook.

Josh, my best friend, smiles a crooked smile. I stopped hanging out with him that last year so I could join the cool kids, Kara, Charlie, Phil.  He was too annoying, I had decided.

There’s Tim, who I remember intimidating and bullying with a group of guys on the slide.  I don’t know why we did it, or how we did it, but he cried, we got called to the principal’s office.  I lied my way out of it and got off scot-free.

There was Sonia, who fancied me and was my almost-girlfriend in second grade until embarrassment got the better of me and I shrugged her off.

There was Ruth, who was slow, but sweet, yet we never recognized the latter.

Aaron, with his different habits certainly did little to deserve the troubles we gave him.

Lucy R—ugly nerd.

Christie—used to be cute and cool, but not anymore.

Joseph, Sonia’s brother—a little dweebish with clothes that were small for him.

Each face told story.  Each story told of a boy who hated, judged, teased, hurt, mocked, and disrupted the lives of other simple fifth grade boys and girls.  I looked back into the eyes of the boy. He smiled back at me, living in the glory of fifth grade.

I closed the yearbook.

Mr. Edwards walked up and we began to tour that school I used to attend.

The Morning Blest

VERSE 1

There were diamonds budding from the glass blades

Reveling in the beauty of the morning

There were operas sung by crows and ravens

Reveling in the beauty of the morn

I felt sunshine, warming like anointing

And I reveled in the beauty of the morning

I heard trees sing, going clack-clack with their branches

And I reveled in the beauty of the morn

CHORUS

And the morning comes like a grace renewed

After night of loss and loneliness

When sun arises on my lowly state

It radiates with holiness

And hallows me with loveliness

And lifts me from the night of hopelessness

And helps me sing the song

Of the morning blest

VERSE 2

Golden chorus, fields of dandelions

Roaring in the beauty of the morning

Sweet blue sky, covered me and cooled me

Wrapped me in the beauty of the morn

I saw people, walking to a cadence

To the heartbeat of the beauty of the morning

I smelled fragrance, as I passed a God-breathed beauty

And I reveled in the beauty of the morning

BRIDGE

Oh [   ] Morning Blest

Morning Blest  [   ]

Bless the morning

[   ] Blessed morning

Oh Blessed morning

[   ] Bless the morning

Here is a place story that I wrote about one of my favorite places in the world: Forest Glen Christian Camp.  If you need a place for a retreat, a place to host a summer camp, want to send your child to day camp (and live in the Woodlands, Conroe or Huntsville area), or want a life-enriching place to work this summer, check it out!  www.forestglen.org.

And in the meantime, take some time to read…

Forest Glen: Coming Home

It all starts with a drive down bumpy camp roads, with copper dust clouds billowing in my wake.  It’s about 40 minutes either way from New Waverly or Huntsville, buried deep within the Sam Houston National Forest.  After a long drive with a number of veers and turns, I crawl over the crest of a hill.  I feel like the ancient Israelites, ascending the mountains of Zion towards Jerusalem.  Finally, I catch sight of the bright blue sign: Forest Glen.  I’m home.

I drive through the tall black gates and continue down a winding road, passing landmarks on my left and right.  Forest Glen fills its spreading 286 acres with the 23 acre Lake Grace, a ropes course, three ziplines, walking trails, four lodges, twenty cabins, as well as dining halls, meeting rooms, swimming pools, sports fields, ball courts, activity stations, and playgrounds for both sides of the lake, North Shore and Lakeside.   Through retreats, outdoor learning centers, and summer camps, they serve over 20,000 campers in a year.  Once I was one of those campers.

Forest Glen has been a part of me for over half of my life.  My cousin went as a camper, then my older sister.  Each visit planted within me the desire to go, and finally, at the age of eight, that desire was met.  An adventurous week of camp flew by, and so, eager for more, I returned the following summer— and have done so for thirteen years.  In fact, I am always returning to camp.  Occasionally in person, but more often in mind and heart, recalling fond memories and transforming moments of faith.  Though I have left camp time and time again, camp has never left my heart.  Though we have moved from country to country, camp has stood its ground.  Though I have grown from an eight year old boy to a college senior, camp has stayed faithful and grown with me all the same.  Forest Glen is where I have met God and walked away forever changed.

Such experiences are not unnatural around Forest Glen.  John Davidhizar, Forest Glen Executive Director, said that in the days before he decided to begin working at Forest Glen full time, it wouldn’t leave his mind.  Though not a crying man, he couldn’t stop the tears coming to his eyes any time he prayed for Forest Glen.

I sat down with John beside Lake Grace, as wind blew across the surface and ducks quacking and honking at each other.  John is dressed in jeans and a tucked in flannel shirt, typical casual camp wear.  As he narrated the history of Forest Glen, images and names rise to the surface like turtles floating in the lake.  The names came in pairs, Earl and Cathy, Larry and Kay, Lou and Jerri.  Camp has always been a family affair.  John’s family has lived across the road from camp for close to a decade, and other camp directors have both lived on property for a few years.  Their kids have grown up jumping in mud puddles and swimming at the lake and working in the kitchen.

In 1965, the organization Child Evangelism Fellowship looked at the possibility of doing a Christian camp for kids in the Houston area.  They paired up with the Houston Salesmanship Club to use the group’s property in Spring, and the camp, Camp Good News, started with a few sessions that year.   Soon, CEF needed its own property.  They found land out in the Huntsville area and garnered many donations, including a $90,000 loan from a local bank.  They bought the land in 1971 and spent the next few years developing the property, filling the lake, forming islands, and constructing facilities.  The location was to be called Forest Glen.

The colors there are blue and brown and green.  Blue signs and sapphire skies and robin’s egg rooftops.  Ground littered with brown leaves, sticks, and pine needles, thin trees all around, wooden structures scattered about.  Emerald fields and deep green canopy and a muddy teal lake, where all the colors intermingle and flow.  Dogwood and redbud and sweet gum trees stand out when their time comes, stunning purple flowers in spring or deep red leaves in fall. 

Over the past forty years, Forest Glen has grown steadily, like a tree slowly shooting from the ground.  Over the first fifteen years they developed North Shore, forming cabin circles and more permanent structures.  After another fifteen, they expanded and created the Lakeside facilities.  Just five years after that they bought another property in Rosebud, now called Forest Glen Springs.  Just recently they parted ways with CEF and the Camp Good News name in order to let the Forest Glen name grow in standing and welcome more campers.  Still, though the summer camp program is no longer called Camp Good News, the good news has not left the building, but is still on their minds, on their lips, and in their hearts.

All staff members can share their own experiences of the good news, the grace they have experienced at Forest Glen. These are times when, in the words of Marketing Director Kevin Edney, “God came near.”  The secretary Phyllis received a call from a woman seeking a place for her troubled son.  Immediately after hanging up, Phyllis received another call, this time from a home for boys.  The weekend of my visit, the staff had some campers from downtown Houston, and despite being stressed from various complications, the staff said they saw God show up at fireside and reveal himself in the tearful stories shared by that week’s group.

People from all walks of life have found their way to Forest Glen and experienced the grace they share.  Prisoners from Hunstville, ladies groups from Dallas, churches from the Woodlands, sororities from Waco, middle school students from Austin, and more.  Retreats Director Andy Stem told me that their primary focus is service, welcoming any and all to Forest Glen and providing them an excellent camping experience.  Hospitality is vital.

Day Camp Director Chris Gomez spoke about moving from Camp Balcones Springs in Marble Falls, to Forest Glen.  Though the transition was hard, Forest Glen has become a “safe haven” for him, a place where he can balance the physical and spiritual and where family comes first.  Not just family, but all relationships.  One camper has commented, “The best thing is the relationships you develop with your counselors and cabin mates.”   Another said, “It has helped me grow spiritually in my walk with God.  And after going there for 11 years of my life, it’s my second home.”

Hospitality.  Relationships.  Home.  The stories told of Forest Glen are like the tales told at family reunions—emotional, joyful, comical, and impactful.  It is the place where so many people have found their place in the world and friends for life.

As I drive out of camp, back onto the bumpy roads, I catch sight of a bright blue sign hanging above us like a word from God.  It is, but it is also a blessing, a benediction from Forest Glen to me and all who find themselves at camp.

“The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you all.”

Amen.

VERSE 1

You formed the universe

And you filled it with light

You formed the fruitful earth

And you filled it with life

You formed Adam from dust

And you filled him with a breath

You formed Eve from Adam’s rib

And filled the love within their chests

CHORUS

And you formed — me

And you filled — me       (2x)

VERSE 2

You formed the people of Israel

And filled them with glory and love

You formed the people of your covenant

And saved them by blood

You formed salvation for all

In the full life of your Son

God in Flesh, Emmanuel

Jesus Christ, Incarnate One

CHORUS 2

And you formed me in the depths

And you filled me with a breath

And you formed me in the womb

And you filled me right and true

VERSE 3

You formed a path all could take

Trampling over gates of hell

You filled the people of the Way

With Your Spirit Indwelled

You formed a body of faith

To fill the world with Your Name

You formed the day of glory

Filled us with hope as we wait

CHORUS 3

And You form me even still

And you fill me and fulfill me (2x)

CHORUS/CHORUS 2/CHORUS 3

CHORUS 4

And you form — me

And you fill — me

I have had an inkling within my mind over the past couple years, and simply haven’t had the gusto to try and write it out—and I still don’t.  But I felt like sharing it with all of you.  It would work best as a short film, possibly a movie, and (if it could be done well) maybe just a thriller novel.

A typical action story.  Joe Hero works for a secret government agency, and he has been working hard to take down a crime syndicate and its malicious warlord.  As he and the [insert acronym here] fight against the evildoers, his wife is kidnapped.  He goes undercover and off the grid and takes on the syndicate himself.  In a thrilling invasion, he and a few comrades make their way into an abandoned warehouse where the boss has been conducting his business and where Joe’s wife is being held.  They go in, guns ablazing, and after a scary fire fight, in which one of Joe’s fellow agents die, they make it out of there alive.  As they head to the getaway SUV, a few more goons pop out of nowhere.  A few shots, bullet to the leg, bullet to the shoulder, and—one guy dies.  The heroes head out with the wife safe and sound, while the camera (I can’t help but picture it as a film) zooms in on Dead Goon.

The bad guys are cleaning up, and someone places a call to Goon’s family.  They receive the news with terrible outbursts of pain and sadness.  Father, Mother, brothers, sisters, relatives—each one hears the news of Goon’s death.  They talk, they cry, they drink, they cry, they fight, they comfort each other.  Someone visits the syndicate.  The family visits the body at the morgue.  They plan a funeral, make calls, order flowers.  The funeral rolls round and it’s a sad affair.  The story picks up with the family a few months later, as they are still dealing with the loss of a loved one.  The pain is still strong and raw.  A brother falls to drugs.  A sister ignores her family.  The mother and father lose their relationship, one falls to depression.  One day, while watching TV, Joe Hero receives a medal from the President.  Fin.

My inkling has always wrapped around the question: What happens to the families of all those goons the hero kills?  Yes, the goon is working with evil men doing evil work, but how often does a guard know the deep secrets of their employer?  And how often does a family know?  Death is often such a little thing in action movies, and some critics have argued that it is worse than pornography or horror films, as it involves a heartless consideration of human life.  Bullets fly, people die, and no one cares, as long as the hero saves the day.  It would be interesting to see the story behind the goon.  Just a thought.

It first hit me when I was at a good friend’s house, lounging on a waterbed, finally watching How to Train Your Dragon.  Though I could not (and still cannot) stand the abundance of Scottish accents in a group of Scandinavian Vikings, I thoroughly enjoyed the story and the beautiful artistry of the film.  And it sparked a series of thoughts.

You see, I struggle with dragons.  Dragons of all shapes and colors and sizes.  Small, serpentine dragons that fly close to the ground.  Ginormous mountainous dragons with eyes the size of elephants.  Dragons that look like Barney and dragons that resemble Mushu.

OK, now that I have you absolutely confused, let me explain.

***

Having grown up overseas (4 years in England, 4 years in Norway), I experienced the hardships of moving.  Not only my moving, but my friends and classmates, neighbors and family.  I was fortunate not to be an Army brat and have to move every 6 months, although I think that might have helped me get more used to the process.  As it was, I would spend a year or two getting settled in a new place, a year making friends, and a year finally to consider the place home.  And then we would move.

England is one of my dragons.  Norway is one of my dragons.

I had the pleasure of dwelling near these beautiful beasts for a few years, but when the time came, they alighted to sky and left me longing for just one more minute to be in their company.

*

In 8^th grade, I started to build a list of things I wanted to do—from the easy task of reading a particular book to the near-impossible goal of hosting a party at my house.  That was a tough year.  And that list represented the Evan I hoped to be, the Evan who didn’t care what people thought, who was active and enthusiastic and successful.  Every once and a while I merged with this Evan, but only for a passing second.  He was a shadow of the 5^th grade Evan (comfortable and accomplished in Norway), the 7^th grade Evan (free and fun and surrounded by friends), and the future Evan (the high schooler, college student, adult, who was happy with his life).  Each little item on that list that I didn’t check off shouted at me with the words “You’ll never catch me!”

Those Evan conceptions are dragons as well, ghostlike and formless.  Those items on my list are little dragons that swelled to frightening sizes whenever they wanted to remind me of my insecurity.

I have tried to grasp at those Evans, but they have been gone for a long time, and they aren’t coming back.  They don’t belong here—they have their own home. 

I was crafty and constructed nets to catch those little dragon pests, finding loopholes and simplifying expectations just to place a check on a piece of paper, a check that brought me so much empty satisfaction.

*

Throughout high school, and college as well, I tried to find younger people that I could influence, lead them further in their faith, help them find their strengths.  At school, at church, at camp, I found plenty of little brothers and sisters.  Younger siblings I never had I found elsewhere.  I taught, I mentored, I served, and I saw God at work all around me.  But just as the God I serve is always on the move, I found my siblings coming and going.  I was able to grow with and bond with a certain few, but the multitudes moved along.

These dragons were small and young at one point, and many allowed me to help them, teach them to fly, show them the land.  But because of my effort, or the efforts of others, they grew remarkably fast and left without a word, traveling across the heavens with the grace of God.  Some stayed longer, and I enjoyed their fellowship, but eventually all dragons must fly away.

*

In my last year at college, I fell into depression.  I holed myself away in a dark apartment filled with distractions like the glow of the TV and the comfort of junk food.  I would go a full day without saying a single word to someone else.  I would sleep for hours at a time, seeking the joys of my dreams, relaxing in the safety of my bed.  Eventually, I emerged from my death, thanks to the love of certain family and friends.  But once I stepped back out into the daylight, I discovered that many of my friends had disappeared.  Well, they were still there—but after a few months of separation, our friendships had fizzled away.

I crept back out of my cave, eager to see if any dragons were still around to welcome me back to the real world.  I searched high and low, far and near, and discovered that in my unnatural hibernation, most had migrated to find a better place to live.  I had a few dear dragons to keep me sane, but I mourned the loss of some of unique dragons— one who soared through the air searching for the weak, stepping in to save the day; another who burrowed deep into the earth, recovering gorgeous gems and minerals and bringing them out into the light of day; one who had dwelt with me for years, but now had disappeared without a trace. 

 ***

This is not supposed to be a lamentation, a pity party, a sad song—but too often it is.  Dreams and friends, brothers and sisters, ideas and goals, hopes and plans—too often they fly away like the dragons they are, too often too soon.  That’s just the way it is.  You can’t stop it—you can only enjoy your dragons while you have them.  In the movie How to Train Your Dragon, the story ends with the Vikings and the Dragons living together in peace and harmony, enjoying each other’s company for the years to come.  That happy ending is not our reality, however.  Things get lost; friends die; dreams do not come to light; thoughts disappear; ideas are stolen; treasures break; dragons fly away.  But before they fly, there is a sweet time of fellowship— it may be a second, it may be a century.  All we can do in this ever-changing life is enjoy our joys while we can, live life while we live, be with each other while we have each other.   Dragons fly away- so enjoy them while you can.

(This illustration is by Justin Gerard, and he has a host of beautiful works at http://justingerard.com/– Check it out!)

Here are some selections from a book I’d like to publish called The Odd Liturgy, a book of prayers for the in-between times of life.

 PRAYER FOR BRUSHING TEETH 

May the words of my mouth

and the meditations of my heart

be pleasing to You

Oh Lord,

my Rock and my Redeemer

(From Psalm 19:14)

PRAYER FOR BATHING

 Cleanse me with hyssop and I shall be clean

Wash me whiter than snow

(From Psalm 51:7)

PRAYER FOR WASHING HANDS 

Give us clean hands, give us pure hearts

Let us not lift our souls to Another

(From Charlie Hall)

PRAYERS FOR THE KITCHEN 

O Lord of pots and pans and things,

Since I have no time to be a great saint

by doing lovely things,

or watching late with Thee,

or dreaming in the dawnlight,

or storming Heaven’s gates,

Make me a saint by getting meals,

and washing up the plates.

Warm all the kitchen with Thy Love,

and light it with Thy peace;

Forgive me all my worrying,

and make my grumbling cease.

Thou who didst love to give men food

in room, or by the sea,

Accept the service that I do-

I do it unto Thee.

(By Brother Lawrence)

Present

GATHERING in PEACE & QUIET.

It is 3:30 Vespers on a sunny Thursday afternoon at Baylor University.  Miller Chapel is filled with sixty warm bodies within her walls and stained glass windows—this is the most students she will see this day, perhaps this week.  The 55 year old structure is found within Tidwell Bible Building, but sits behind tall heavy doors at the back of Tidwell’s foyer.  She is a place of silence, except for the rattling air conditioner, buzzing like a bee above.  She is a place set apart, waiting for them to come.  And slowly but surely, they stumble inside.

RECOGNIZING GOD’S PRESENCE.

Associate Chaplain Ryan Richardson, known affectionately by students as Chapel Ryan, stands at the front, in a spot between the stage and the students.  He stands beside a waist-high table and holds a sheet of paper, one of many that are spread about the chapel in the hands of the students, holding the flow of the service, each piece of liturgical worship.  It’s time for “Recognizing God’s Presence.”  He asks students to silence their phones, not to listen to music, not to be distracted. “Do me the favor of engaging,” Ryan asks.  It is time to begin.

His voice echoes from the center of the chapel.  “Spend a few moments in silence.  Slow your mind down to be truly present.” A hush descends on the students. A full minute goes by. 

The students are silent and still.  Somewhat.  There are the fidgeting few.  A girl in a sweatshirt leans over to her friend, mouthing something that obviously can’t wait.  The crackly sound of papers being shuffled comes from the back.  Some people can’t slow down, it seems.

OPENING our HEARTS.

The Vespers service has traditionally been the evening prayer service of the Christian Church for more than 1400 years.  This service at Baylor, while not in the evening, encapsulates the tradition of liturgical worship and prayer in a thirty minute piece.  It was created by Ryan Richardson, University Chaplain Burt Burleson, and Jared Slack, Pastoral Resident for Worship.  “Created” isn’t the best term, of course, because they’ve pulled from both personal experiences and ancient sources—Burt’s years at the liturgical Dayspring Baptist Church in Waco, Jared’s childhood memories of Catholic Mass, Ryan’s selections from recent books and classics as well.  Each service, though they differ in the details, incorporates the same main elements- Silence, Song, Confession, Scripture, Prayer, Benediction.  It is a way of bringing order and peace into lives dripping of rush and busyness.

“This is the place and this is the time; here and now, God waits to break into our experience.” Rows of students read words, mumbling, “To change our minds, to change our lives to change our ways.”    

LIFTING our VOICES.

Vespers finally entered into Baylor’s spiritual life after decades of attempts to bring it to fruition.  Monday/Wednesday chapel in Waco Hall is still the central worship time for all students to gather in worship.  Back in his office at the Bobo Spiritual Life Center, Ryan Richardson shares his thoughts. “The common experience is really important for me because I think that for every Baylor student since 1845, they’ve all had this one thing in common.”  But the weaknesses are apparent.  A visit to chapel reveals people slouched back, whispering, ear buds hidden under hoodies, a dark auditorium where people can hide in shadows.  The students robotically stand and sit upon command, working for a checkmark on that day’s attendance.  Vespers is one of the Chapel Alternatives that arose in 2009.   Students can choose to attend Vespers, a missions class, or a spiritual disciples class for their entire second semester in order to receive chapel credit.  Vespers is also a means of grace.  Students who have missed a chapel can attend Vespers for chapel credit, only a few times though.  That is the majority of students in the room, waiting for the moment to sign the clipboard that forgives their absence in chapel.  Still, students participate, pray, and sing with much more connectivity than they do in Chapel.

It is Jared’s turn to invite the ones gathered to sing.  Jared asks the students to stand.  “Let us sing, “Amazing Grace.”  Students sing in husky tones and recite the words.

CONFESSING our SIN.

In his office, Jared talks about today’s culture.  We’ve grown to believe busyness is a “good” quality, he says, and are pulled in so many directions.  With technology, we’ve been trained to be “immediately connected to everyone and everything.”   Vespers is about slowing down and connecting to God.  “It’s about relearning to be human again.”   In contrast to modern rock band worship, the simplicity of Vespers appeals to people.  He speaks of an agnostic girl that is taking Vespers as a chapel alternative.  Recently she told them, “I don’t buy into the thing that happens in Chapel, what happens on Sundays, but I’m comfortable with Vespers.”  She knows no one is going to preach at her.  It’s a chance to rest, a time to simply be.

Ryan reads the prayer.  “Lord, we have got it wrong.  We thought you just wanted our worship: songs of praise and prayers of passion.  But you want the whole of our lives.”  Students read with Ryan.  “Forgive our sins, we pray.”  Jared starts the singing, once more.  “Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me.”  

HEARING from SCRIPTURE.

Some students read Bible verses from scraps of paper.  It’s the story of the Prodigal Son, a story of repentance, of returning to God.  Ryan instructs everyone to look at the tiny picture that accompanied the day’s liturgy.  It is a beautiful painting by Rembrandt, poorly reproduced via photocopier, showing the Prodigal Son at his father’s feet.  “Look at the father.”  Ryan beckons all to look deeper, see the love of the father.  “I am a work in progress,” Ryan shares.  God the Father offers forgiveness, “a mercy that actually restores us.”

Miller Chapel is one of the “Sacred Spaces” around Baylor campus.  “What is a sacred place?” Ryan asks.  It has nothing to do with God’s presence.  God is present everywhere. It simply makes us realize, “I should make myself available to God.”  The light streaming in through stained glass and the feel of old hymns simply help create the mood of contemplation.

Ryan moves forward to talk about praying.  We are rushing, all so busy at each moment of our schedules.  He says prayer is a method to slow oneself.  “I am not good at it,” says Ryan.  Still, it allows us to become presence to God’s presence.  “Let us pray.”

PRAYING for our COMMUNITY.

In the midst of ancient liturgy, the worshippers recognize the present pain and sorrows of the Baylor community, and Ryan reads name after name of person suffering from illness or grief or hurt.  He asks God to come down and bring healing and redemption.  People, with bowed heads, rustle in their seats.   Prayers are made for people around the world, in Libya, in Egypt, in Afghanistan, in Iraq.  Each prayer is followed by a responsorial phrase, the Kyrie Eleison.

“Lord have mercy.  Christ have mercy.”

SENDING OUT.

Jared leads the students to sing “Amazing Grace” once more.  Four o’clock is drawing near.  But the students do not shuffle.  In chapel, backpacks zippers are zipped and students begin to stand a good two minutes before it ends.  But students present in Vespers are, for the most part, present.   Ryan returns to his spot and speaks once more, speaks on being God’s presence to a hurting world.  “There are people in the community dealing with tragedy.  Do not be depressed by that news, but see the work of God as yours.”

Ryan reads a prayer for the students. Once done, Ryan takes a moment and smiles.  “Thank you for coming to Vespers.  Know you are welcome anytime.”

It’s not intended for everyone, Ryan shares later on. The goal is to instill a spiritual practice, not simply attend an event.  It is to teach students to be still and commune with God.  “A successful Vespers service is something that does something for someone.”  Even just one.

Students return to a zombie-like state, rising from their seats and massing together in a large horde, waiting to sign their name and get away.  Heads are bowed, faces illuminated by glowing iPhones.  Conversation grows and fills the room.  Students discuss Vespers.  Words like “calm” and “peaceful” are shared.  But, if it wasn’t for chapel credit, they wouldn’t be there.  Too slow.  Too boring.  Except for one student, a tall guy with a gold necklace bearing Arabic letters.  He says it is his first time—but he’d like to come back.

Miller is once again silent and still and emptied of students.  And still, she is filled with light pouring in from colorful windows— and something more.  Though there is no one present, there is a presence within, one that will remain with her until next Tuesday’s 3:30 Vespers service.

So I find this law at work: When I want to do good, evil is right there with me.  For in my inner being I delight in God’s law; but I see another law at work in the members of my body, waging war against the law of my mind and making me a prisoner of the law of sin at work within my members.

What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death?

Satan has triumphed again. I return from the battle, bloodied, beaten, defeated, running to my King in guilt, embarassment, shame.

I gave him the victory. Can you believe it? I was trained to be a warrior, to fight against the enemy, to never give in, to never give him a foothold…

yet around my neck, on a cord of rusty wire, I kept a medallion close to my heart. On it is two words, written in a devilish script,

scratched with an evil claw

two words

“TRUST ME”

I remember the day he gave it to me…

I was out in the marketplace, looking for beautiful treasures, wisdom-filled literature, and enjoyment. And there he was, with the most beautiful of all the stalls, shining with gold, shimmering with diamonds, robed in lucious silks and beautiful images. I strolled up to the stall and listened to his sales-pitches to nearby customers…

“… which is why you must take this bracelet! If you wear it, it will guide you in the way you are to go! Don’t trust your life to that man, that rebel… he doesn’t know what he’s talking about… little goody two shoes- what has he seen in the real world? huh? and you’re following him? trust me maam, I’ve traveled this world, and I’ve partaken of every joy, pleasure, and beautiful experience- and trust me when I tell you this- The world is better. It is better than any “gift” or “life” that he promises you. It will make you wanted, make you rich, make you whatever you want to be… which is why you need this bracelet…”

He reached up and touched the woman’s hand, but she shuddered and turned away, running and calling back to me one word

“leave”

I ignored that voice, and I browsed the seller’s wares. I watched him out of the corner of my eye watch me out of the corner of his eye. I scanned his appearance. He was dressed in the uniform of a soldier, yet… his clothes seemed to be more radiant, more lovely than any other officer I had ever seen. His face looked old, but I knew he must have been young, for he had a vibe unlike any other I have known. I looked through the stall, and, heeding the woman’s words, turned away…

but he grabbed my hand— an image flashed in my mind— I smiled and turned back—

“I can offer you better than that” he whispered

“What?” I queried.

“That picture, that memory, that feeling, that experience. I can offer you better stuff than that.”

“Well, I really don’t need anything more. I’m fine- goodbye.”  I began to turn when he pulled out a box– faster than a hummingbird this man was– and shoved it in my face. I looked- and I looked. After half a minute, I turned away and glared at him. However, as my anger boiled, I heard a slight cry in the back of my mind—

“You want it…” it said.

“Hey!” I said, ignoring the voice, and looking at the seller. “I told you, I am content with what I have. I don’t need that! I certainly don’t want that!”

“Yes you do.”

“No I don’t!” I shouted.

“I can hear you crying inside for that box. You want it. Don’t ignore that voice… listen to it…”

I tried to block the voice, but it grew louder. “GET THE BOX! YOU WANT IT! YOU WANT IT!” And as it grew in volume, the music that filled my mind every second of every day, the music suddenly grew sharp and disjointed.

“You see” the man continued. “You have been brainwashed. That man you follow, he has told you that all you need to do is do what he does and trust in him. But think back… have you ever felt let down?”

“No! He has never let me down!” I uttered, but as I did, the sound-battle in my head grew raucous. The music grew… ugly, the voice continued to scream, and I thought inside—  “Yes, he has let me down”

“All his promises are nothing. They leave you empty, tired, and poor. He hoards all the riches that his followers give him. He simply wants to be number one, but I can tell you something— he’s not great. I have been with him, and he doesn’t share his riches. He keeps it to himself, denying the existence of his selfishness and making high, jealous command… He’s crazy I tell you. He’s crazy. You don’t need him.”

With that last statement, I was ready to run, but as I turned, there he was in front of me. The man looked into my eyes, and nodded slowly.

“I understand… it will take some time- but you will see him as I see him now. Trust me. You will see that the world is better. Trust me. You will see that my wares are better than his promises… trust me.”  With that last statement, he placed a medallion around my neck, patted me on the back and stepped away. He acted as if I was gone and pulled some passerby into his stall, yelling about “my great new crowns!”…

I looked down at the medallion and saw the two words. I flinched and felt like throwing up. On the back of it was an image of a snake wrapped round a tree…

I wanted to throw it away! I REALLY DID! I rushed into an empty alley and fell to the ground, crying, weeping, tearing at my flesh, pulling my hair- I screamed and moaned- I touched the little piece of clay, rubbed my fingers over the little etchings, and as I did, images flashed in my mind.

These were from the box. I knew they were. They were like my first flashback, but manipulated, distorted, perverted. In each image, I could see the seller, hiding in the back, mouthing the words now engraved on the back of my brain-

“TRUST ME,” he said

“TRUST ME,” the little voice in my head said.

“TRUST ME,” my medallion read.

I sighed, and tucked the medallion under my shirt. It stuck out, so I went to the market headwoman (a cousin of the devilish seller, I later found out) and bought a beautiful shirt, like my uniform, but a little more brilliant and bright, like the other man’s clothes…

I trudged back to the camp. As I approached the gate, I saw him-

My commander, my king.

“Where were you?” he asked. I looked into his eyes. They were filled with hope.

“I was in the marketplace,” I replied.

“What did you buy?”

“I bought a medallion and a shirt,” I muttered, averting his gaze. Seconds ticked by, and I looked back up at him. A tear welled in the corner of his left eye. I turned away, but then rushed back to him, grabbing his side and holding on.

“The music stopped while I was there…” I looked in his eyes again. He looked back at me and nodded.

“I know.”

He placed his hand on my head and instantly I heard the symphony playing sweet songs of redemption and beauty. Unfortunately, it was accompanied by a sour soloist— that voice. It sang heresies and lies (or were they? I wondered…)

I looked up at him again. He was looking down at my uniform.  I glanced down and saw the bump that medallion made in my shirt. I pulled at my clothes to make them puff out and stretched and sighed.

“Well, it’s hot out here… I better get back into my tent and rest.”

“You won’t be able to…” he whispered.

“What?” I replied…

“Not for a while…”

“What?”

He appeared to snap out a daydream, and he looked at me, and he smiled.

“Rest, young one, for tomorrow we fight. And we will win- Trust me.”

He patted me on the back, and I trudged into the camp. The medallion burned like a hot coal against my chest, but its pain paled in comparison to the pain of betrayal I felt in my soul. I reached my tent, climbed in, and cried.

That was ten years ago. I have battled Satan and his minions many times since then, and I have won occasionally, but lost more often. It seems like he has a hold on me somewhere, and can pull me down when he wants to. I don’t know… I really don’t know… I must go- my medallion needs to be polished.

Evan Weppler- Originally posted at blog geniusandlunacy.blogspot.com April 8, 2007 – With some changes

Enraptured

VERSE 1

Enraptured and captured

By the light of light

And the love of love

Sweet laughter flies after

Our tongues have sung the Love of love

BRIDGE

And our lives like vapor burn like paper in the fire consumed

As we lose our pride and we are tried may our trust be found true

CHORUS

In this burning, we are yearning

In your refining, we are finding

Worship freeing us, we are seeing a

Heavenly Vision

VERSE 2

Warm essence, sweet presence

Grows in the light of light and our love of love

We ascend, Glory descends

Midst these lights, the Light, in our love, the Love

REFRAIN

We see light, we see love

Incarnate, Present, Immanent

We feel fire, we feel love

Transcendent, Fragrant, Radiant

Copyright Evan Weppler 2011