Scanners Are Reading No Life Signs

Blessed are those who trust in the Lord … they shall be like a tree planted by water. Psalm 1

I went into one of our local mega-marts the other day to buy an item that was not otherwise available nearby. I’ll confess I have an aversion to using this particular store for historical (and sometimes hysterical) reasons. But I needed one item and didn’t want to have to order it online and wait days or weeks for it to be delivered. So, I put on my big boy pants, headed to the store, and wandered around for what seemed to be forty days and nights (as there was no staff to point me in the right direction). I really could have used a burning bush, but the only thing burning were my cheeks.

I finally found what I was looking for and headed to the Red Sea, er, uh, check-out lanes. The bank of two dozen registers were closed, except for two, and they were clogged by shoppers I assumed were survivalists considering the tonnage they had packed into their baskets. If there was a register for people with fifteen or fewer items, I either didn’t see it or it was also closed.

Now I had a choice. I could stand in line and wait my turn, or I could use the self-checkout registers (which I detest). I dropped my head in disgust and chose the self-serve option. I went to an open machine, scanned the item: Beep – “Item not recognized. Call for help.”

I turned and saw a clerk straightening up a nearby shelf and asked her for assistance. She arose from her kneeling; you could almost hear arthritic joints snapping and crackling as she struggled to stand upright, all the while muttering, “Yeah … I’ll … be …” (deep sigh) “… right … there.”

She shuffled over. Long stringy graying hair hung down over her face. I wondered if she might be a shirt-tail relative of Cousin It. She came and stood next to me and I had the sense she wanted me to scan the item again –  probably needing me to prove that I hadn’t pulled her away from her other duties for no reason. So I ran the item over the scanner again, and again: Beep. “Item not recognized. Call for help.”

Miss Helpful took the item from my hand, looked at the barcode on the back of it, blew some gray hair-strands out of her face and said, “You scanned the Canadian barcode.”

I looked, and sure enough, there were two barcodes. One was American and the other was Canadian. But they were right next to each other. I hadn’t scanned the wrong barcode; the machine had read the wrong barcode. That wasn’t my fault, and frankly, I resented her tone. I already didn’t like doing a job someone in the store should be doing. However, I also knew the poor woman, whose only goal each day is probably to get through a shift without being yelled at for things over which she has no control (like opening or closing registers or replacing staff with machines), wasn’t at fault, either. 

Once she realized where the problem lay, she manually punched in the code; I completed the purchase and thanked her for her help. I don’t know if she heard me, for by then she was gone. Once again her shoulders succumbed to the pull of gravity as she shuffled back to the shelves from which she had sallied forth to help. I could almost feel her eyes glaze over as she returned to shifting products around, filling gaps, and turning labels out in an effort to entice shoppers into making impulsive purchases.

Miss Helpful struck me as a woman who’d been planted far too far from water. Whether my observation was correct or not is immaterial. Sometimes we are the only streams flowing through the deserts of a person’s life. There’s no reason to make things difficult for others.

“Blessed are those who thirst,” says Jesus. If a tree can’t get to the river, we can bring the river to the tree. 

To those who thirst, we must always remember to be kind – to be living water gushing forth in this, our valley.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

Is Dancing a Competitive Sport?

The Promised Land always lies on the other side of a wilderness. Havelock Ellis’ The Dance of Life (1923)

I was at church a week or so ago taking care of business which, for me, is running the audio and video equipment for our church services. I miss being in the pulpit and behind the altar, but I’m glad I can be a part of extending the church’s reach during this seemingly never-ending pandemic. 

If it hadn’t been for the virus, we would never have learned how to get the excellent preaching of our pastor, the wonderful music of our musician, and the devout worship of those gathered beyond the four walls and roof that keep the work of God’s people otherwise constrained. Those for whom travel, weather, or health prevents their getting out and mingling are able to join us for worship, adding their prayers and voices to those who ARE able to gather in person.

I have been feeling restless, however; two years of captivity has gotten me down. I am ready to break those chains that have kept me toiling (with nary a break) in the cotton field they call the Organ Loft. Two years. Can you believe it?

I found myself grumpily groaning about laboring through two years of (mostly self-imposed) isolation and confinement. But then our deacon, Dennis Taylor, got up to speak. He was the preacher, and he referenced our two years struggling with the pandemic, and compared it to the forty-seven years the Children of Israel were held captive in Babylon. Oof. That put things into perspective, didn’t it?

The trouble with my brain, though, is it doesn’t stop when it gets a thought (although it often cramps up). I looked at those decades of captivity and compared them to 246 years of American slavery (and another seventy-five years of Jim Crow). Hmmm.

It would be easy to feel guilty or regret (and those would not be inappropriate or uncalled for). It is important to look at our lives (individually, and as Americans) and ask what, if anything, we can do better, make amends when and where it is warranted, and find ways to move forward without trampling on those around us. It is important to ask those who have been oppressed what THEY think they need for reparation. Otherwise it is too easy for us to try to get off the hook with a simple, “Sorry” (and expect them to be satisfied with that).

In some ways, it’s awkward, of course. Have you ever gone down an aisle at the store and you and a person coming the other way try to find a way past? Sometimes it works smoothly, and other times the two of you will engage in a dance you haven’t rehearsed until you’re able to magically switch places and continue with your shopping.

Life is like that. I am sure that most of us mean to do the best we can to be honest, open, and flexible, and yet we get to a spot where it seems everybody is trying to move in differing directions, and instead of dancing our way out of trouble, we turn it into a competition. We’d rather fight over who has the right of way than yielding to the Spirit of peace and cooperation.

I have no desire to be a slave, except a slave to the One who said, “Blessed are the poor … blessed are the peacemakers … blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness … blessed are they who mourn …” 

I’ll admit I struggle with what Jesus said. I have an echo chamber where my ego’s line “Don’t let people walk all over you” competes with his, “turn the other cheek” and “go the extra mile.” There are people who cheerfully take advantage of God’s multi-cheeked children. It’s a struggle, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.

Lama Surya Das says, “If it looks like wisdom but is unkind, it’s not wisdom.” My job isn’t to get my way, nor is it to be a doormat (and thereby growing a fine crop of resentments), but to change my trudging into a dance where more of us can reach the promised land over time. 

May God break our chains so that we all may dance more freely here in this, our valley.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

When is a Window Not a Window? When It's a Pane.

Not one [sparrow] falls to the ground without the Father knowing it. Matthew 10:29

I was sitting at my computer the other day, happily minding my own business when I heard a heavy thunk out front. I recognized the sound, for I’ve heard it a number of times before. It was the sound of a bird smacking up against the living room window. The last bird that did that had died instantly. I have a set of outside blinds I use to cover the window to help prevent bird-strikes. Birds don’t realize the reflection of sky and trees off the glass isn’t real, so I generally roll down the blinds to eliminate confusing reflections. Sadly, we have had so much wind blowing lately that I can’t leave them down, lest they be ripped away by our wintry gales.

I stepped outside and, just as I had feared, found a red-headed sapsucker crumpled up on the walk below the front window. I hurried over to check it out and noticed faint eye flickering. I covered her with my hands, gently folding her splayed wings closer to her body. The oblivion of her stunned state was suddenly becoming a living nightmare from which she desperately wanted to wake. Her movements provided me with some relief, as well as concern. As much as I approach all living creatures as if I am St. Francis of Assisi, it is my experience that most critters perceive me as Frankenstein's Monster (or a near relative).

Be that as it may, I’d made the bird a little more comfortable, so I backed off a smidge and assured my feathered friend in soothing tones that she would be fine. She continued to blink and shake away the cartoon stars circling her head and, after a few more heartbeats, decided there were better places to recover from her adventure than there at Ogre-Central, so she hopped up and took flight.

In truth, so did I. Well, I didn’t actually take flight, but my heart was glad to see her up and about. Sapsuckers are related to woodpeckers and spend a lot of time banging their heads against trees, so perhaps they are more resistant to concussions than sparrows, Steller jays, and thrushes that flit about hither, thither, and yon.

It is perhaps coincidental that January 19 is Tenderness Towards Existence Day, so while this incident made me somewhat (ironically) an early-bird, it also served as a not-so-incidental reminder that we are connected with nature. People sometimes talk about getting “back to nature,” as if cities and villages, highways and byways, and all the varied things we do are somehow unnatural, but they aren’t. 

Ants build underground dwellings; bats hang out in caves; beavers build dams and homes, and birds their nests. What we do is just as natural.

I have to admit I don’t think of sitting under a tree out in the middle of nowhere as getting “back” to nature, but it is a great way to find a quiet space away from the insane side of our more destructive natures.

Being Tender Towards Existence is an opportunity to pause and reflect on our lives. Empathy and compassion are hallmarks of humanity – our human nature. As much as we may point out our propensity to wage war and exploit our environment, the fact that we know we do so is a sign we know we don’t have to. Beasts have no choice but to follow their nature. 

The lion with a belly full of wildebeest doesn’t stop chasing another wildebeest because it has suddenly discovered compassion, but because it is full. We may want to do something that is harmful to self, others, or the planet, but we can choose not to. Maybe not forever, but at the moment. Yes, I can kill the messenger (we may say to ourselves in a heated moment), but I won’t – today. That’s a choice. That’s a choice we can make. 

Taking a day to be tender toward existence is a good place to start. If we do it several days in a row, it could become a habit, and that would be ever so sweet here in this, our (tender) valley.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

I Love the Smell of Chalk Dust in the Morning

May all that has been reduced to noise in you, become music again. Author Unk.

I walked into the classroom at the start of winter session following the school’s holiday break. It must have been about 1961 or 2. I don’t recall precisely. At that time of life, one doesn’t make notes for future reference; said notes are safely tucked away somewhere in the folds and recesses of the brain. Who knows why or when a stray memory will break the surface of the seas that pound the rocky shores of the mind’s gray harbor, but they will. 

I stepped into my classroom at Whittier Elementary School in Seattle’s Ballard neighborhood, and having taken my seat I looked up, and lo, there behind the teacher was a blackboard. But it wasn’t black; it was green. While we kids were out making merry during the ten or twelve day holiday recess, contractors were busy removing all the old, dusty, cracked, and worn blackboards, replacing them with boards of pure, clean, and unsullied slate. There before us was a green slate, a clean slate.

New things are exciting. New things are amazing. Whether it is meeting new people who may delight us in eventually becoming best friends, or new tools that help us accomplish our goals faster and easier than before, or new ideas that expand our minds in ways we’d never thought possible, new things bring with them new hopes, new dreams, and new realities. The green boards (which we continued calling “blackboards”) were an outward and visible sign that it was no longer 1908 within the rooms of Whittier Elementary; we’d become a part of the Space Age!

I have no idea what 2022 will bring. I do know that each of us alone, and all of us together will face a wide variety of challenges. We may turn the page on the calendar, but there are still issues that have hitched themselves to our giddy-ups. We continue to slog our way through a never-ending pandemic, societal unrest, political shenanigans, and a string of catastrophic weather events. Those could easily lead us to wallow in the pond of despond or sink into the swamp of sadness. On the other hand …

Yes, the world turns, and there is really no getting away from it – in some ways. But there are things we can do to improve life as we know and experience it. The first thing we can do is identify the noise we’re hearing and deal with it. Married couples who take off on their honeymoon with clattering cans tied to their bumpers (is that still a thing?) may either continue to drive away, hoping those galloping tins will eventually fall off, or they can pull over and take a few moments to cut the cords and leave the Symphony of the Cacophony behind. 

We can do the same with our lives. The key, for me, has always been to slow down, take a breath, and settle. My monkey brain doesn’t want to settle, but even when the monkey is off my back, I find the circus is still in town, so I need to find ways to unplug the calliope (and that ain’t easy).

I’ve mentioned before that a sigh is a body’s reset button. It is just enough of a pause that the body and brain stop what they’re doing for just a moment to try to figure out what’s happening. It’s like the maestra beating on the podium with her baton whilst giving the orchestra a cease and desist order, waving her hands and yelling, “No, no, no. That’s not right!” during rehearsal. Everyone stops what they’re doing; they look up from their music sheets and their instruments and focus on the One who invites them to stop playing the notes and start playing the music, to find the beat and become one with the rhythm.

There is nothing magical about turning a page on the calendar. The magic begins when we stop making noise, when we listen for the beat, and when we focus on our heavenly Maestra, whose only goal is for us to get it together. May God grant us a clean slate, fresh chalk, and a harmonious life here in this, our (monkey-filled) valley. 

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

When God Comes Knocking

 He who has not Christmas in his heart will never find it under a tree. Roy L. Smith

There is a tale of a man who found himself standing outside a massive wall and a single door. Beyond them was the kingdom of heaven. The man knocked on the door, but there was no answer. As he walked along the wall looking for a way in or through, he noticed other people entering through the door, but it was always closed by the time he’d get back to it. He sat beside the door for days, and eventually for years. Each day he would rise and knock, but nobody would answer. Whether he stood by the door or sat by it, others would come and go, and yet the door was always closed before he could reach it, and no one would answer, no matter how long, hard, or persistently he knocked. And yet, never did a day go by where he did not rise and knock, despite the seeming futility of the act.

Have you ever seen one of those drawings that seem to be one thing, and yet if you look carefully, you see something else? The first example that comes to mind is the drawing of a vase, and upon second view what you thought was a vase is actually the outline of two faces staring at one another. Or the drawing of a young lady in a hat facing away that, upon closer examination, becomes a wrinkled old woman facing forward.

When I first heard the story above, I found it alternatingly frustrating and delightful. It is frustrating in that the protagonist wants to get into heaven, but can’t. It seems like God’s not listening. That’s terrible! On the other hand, there is the delightful persistence of the person who is seemingly content to rise each day and knock on heaven’s door. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do? It’s not our door; it belongs to God. We don’t have the key; God IS the key. So we knock.

As a problem solver, I’ll confess that when I first heard the story I just shrugged my shoulders and said, “Well, if it were me, I’d just go around the corner and use the Servant’s Entrance.”

I thought more about the story; it wouldn’t let go of me. Something in the tale nagged and nibbled on the back of my mind until a different picture emerged. What if that story isn’t about a man – about us – but about God? What if it is a story about God standing beside the door to the kingdom of heaven – but not one “high in the sky in the great by and by,” but one that resides in you, me, and every other creature here-abouts? What if it is God seeking entry into the kingdom we call “our heart,” but which is really God’s heart – a heart that belongs to God?

There is a famous painting from the Gerffert Collection of Jesus standing beside a door. Jesus holds a lantern and knocks on a door that has no handle or knob. It is latched on the inside, and it is up to those who reside within to open the door and let him in. 

I confess I often struggle to hear God knocking at the door to my heart day by day. I don’t believe God ever comes in once and stays. God has work to do, errands to run, life to manage, and I think part of that thing we call the love of God requires our listening for God’s daily knocking at the door so we can open up and share with one another our thoughts and dreams, adventures, misadventures, frustrations and delights fresh each day, just as we do with all those whom we love.

God knocks. That’s a miracle. This week, God knocks as a migrant family with an overly pregnant woman whose water has just broken. Will we hear the knock at the door? Will we open the door? Will we make room for God to be born under our roof, and under the shelter of our wing? That’s the question we face at Christmas, and each and every day here in this, our valley. Merry Christmas!

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

When God went Plumb Loco!

Behold this day. It is yours to make. Native American Proverb

I was a young lad of about twelve or thirteen and was trying to come up with a gift idea for my grandfather. I was a child, so I wasn’t expected to get anything for anyone, but there was no way I could let Christmas come and go without finding something for those I loved. Grandma was easy. I got her some really sweet smelling spritzer juice at the local drugstore. It looked a bit like windshield washing fluid, but smelled a lot nicer, so I just knew she would love it.

But Grandpa was a tougher nut to crack. When us grandkids came to the house he primarily sat in his chair reading the paper, drinking coffee, and smoking his camel cigarettes like there was no tomorrow. If we got too boisterous, he would head down to the basement where he would busy himself with some project or other. His hobby was building lighthouses out of concrete and seashells. They were highly sought after in the neighborhood, in fact.

I knew he was a craftsman, so I found myself down at the local hardware store seeking inspiration for a gift, and suddenly I found it. There amongst the bric-a-brac (the large majority of which I had no idea what they were, what they did, or how one used them) I saw a shiny hunk of steel in a bin marked “plumb bobs.” A passage of scripture leapt immediately to mind  from a recent Sunday lesson from the prophet Amos: “Thus He showed me, and behold, the Lord was standing by a vertical wall with a plumb line in His hand.”

For the life of me, I couldn’t imagine my grandfather would have anything as rare or precious as a plummet in his collection of tools. On those rare occasions I had spent with him in his workshop, I’d never seen anything like it. It was expensive when compared with the cost of Grandma’s eau de toilette, but I couldn’t imagine a better gift for a builder – a craftsman.

Christmas Eve came for the traditional gathering of the extended family dinner and gift exchange. The aluminum tree was up; the lighted color wheel turned ever-so-slowly. All was as Merry as it had ever been. The meal was served; a baker’s dozen of us crowded together around a table barely big enough for six, but Grandma made it work. My cousin, Gayle, and I were smushed in our usual corner of the room with aluminum tv trays that fairly well buckled under the weight of all the food we piled on our plates. It was loud, noisy, crowded, and chaotic – perfect in every way.

Afterwards, of course, it was time to gather in the living room  for the giving and receiving of gifts. Hidden in the tree were small envelopes into which Grandpa had placed Silver Dollars for the grandkids. He complained that silver dollars were getting harder and harder to find. Other gifts were handed out and opened one by one to the oohs and ahs of the clan. Grandma thanked me for the spritzer; I blushed and smiled at the compliment.

Then Grandpa opened his gift, looked at it with wide-eyed amazement and said, “What the heck is this? What do I need a plumb-bob for?” Then he remembered himself for half a moment and added (with a slightly hidden eye-roll), “Thank you,”  after which he tucked the worthless chunk of steel aside while taking another sip of Old Grand-Dad.

Christmas isn’t always full of warm fuzzies and pleasant memories, and that’s okay. When the Magi told Herod about the birth of a king, Herod no doubt muttered to his counselors, “What the heck do we need with another king?” God just ignored the ignoramus and dropped Jesus – the plumbline – down on Christmas day.

The world rolled its collective eyes and asked, “What the heck is this? What do we need this for?” A wall ready to topple is too dumb to know it isn’t square or true. That requires a carpenter, an experienced eye, and a plumbline.

God does not drop the line to judge the wall, but to repair it – to make it vertical. God drops the line for love. The line drops down with the beating heart of God attached, and that’s what matters. The question now is, will we remember ourselves this season and recognize God’s love here in this, our valley?

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

Staggering into Mercy

I will sing of faithfulness and justice; I will chant a hymn to you, O Lord. Psalm 101 (from the Jewish Publication Society translation of the TANAKH)

When I was in college, I was taking a science class of one sort or another – I forget if it was Biology or Oceanography – but I was taking a class where the professor  was talking about the balance of nature and then, suddenly, stopped. He stumbled forward as if falling, catching himself on the edge of a nearby desk. After a moment, as he beheld the class holding its collective breath, our professor stood up ramrod straight and said, “There is no balance of nature.  Predators eat up the prey, and when the prey disappear,  you get an overabundance of predators, so they starve for lack of prey, which then bounce back for lack of predators, and nature cycles up and down like that. Nature is always in a state of imbalance!”

Me too. I stepped out of the shower the other day and noticed a fairly decent-sized bruise on my forearm. I didn’t remember doing anything to injure myself, but I did recall stumbling through an open doorway, so I’m sure that’s when it happened. I don’t drink or do drugs, so I know I wasn’t lolling about the house like a beached Beluga waiting for the tide to come get me. I am convinced the home’s portals expand and contract with the weather, and I just happened to catch the doorpost while it was on the squeeze.

Speaking of imbalance, I was reading the psalm quoted atop this column and discovered that the word translated “faithfulness” there is rendered “mercy” by some translators, and “loving-kindness” by still others. I’ve learned that when there’s a discrepancy like that, either the Hebrew original is unclear, or it is far too rich to be condensed into one English word. The fascinating point, though, is that the psalmist doesn’t identify whose faithfulness (or mercy) and justice are being sung about. Is it his, or is it God’s? 

A cursory glance reveals a very egocentric song. It is almost an ode to the author’s own goodness and holiness: “I will sing a song … I will study the way of the blameless … I will live without blame … I will not look at anything base … I will know nothing of evil …” and finally, “... I will destroy all the wicked of the land ... etc.” Being a psalm of David, that seems a pretty daring claim coming from one who is both an adulterer and a murderer.

When I was a young lad, I’d get excited at the idea of God smiting bad people. There was Noah and the flood, Moses versus the Egyptians, David and Goliath, not to mention all the smitings in the books of Judges, Samuel, Kings, and Chronicles. I would have revised Luther’s tune: A Smighty [sic] Fortress is our God. I loved the idea of God as Zeus or Thor (only bigger and badder). 

As I matured, though, I began to notice that Jesus never smited* anybody (although he did get a little rough on the money-changers). James and John never smited anyone (although they wanted to, at least once – Jesus told them that wasn’t their call to make). Peter never went on a smiting tour. Neither did Paul and Silas (although Paul was a smiter before his conversion). If God was addicted to smiting, then Jesus was “God, a smite-o-holic in recovery!”

The psalmist comes across as though he’s “tough on crime,” but he’s missing something immensely important. The mercy, loving-kindness, and faithfulness of which he should be singing is God’s! Humans lost Eden because we wanted to be like gods, knowing good and evil, right and wrong. Humans are home-sick for Eden, and it turns out the way home is not through Smite Alley, but Highway One: The Mercy Highway. 

Maybe God’s way was once a tollway, but now it’s a freeway. God doesn’t collect a toll; God’s paid the toll in full – out of God’s Treasury of Mercy! That’s why I choose to chant this hymn, rejoicing in the faithfulness and justice of God here in this, our valley.

* Note: The proper word is “smote” (past tense of smite), but the author is exercising poetic license here and throughout the paragraph.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)