FIRST CUP—POETRY FRIDAY

Sunday morning
Inn at Arch Rock

The boats slip out to sea,
under and through a low hanging fog.
The sea is gray, still. Quiet.
No wind. The noise: the soft snore of my wife
in another room and the soft scratch of pencil on paper.
Cat feet quiet.

The sea, on course, in constant motion.
My soul, off course, in constant uncertainty—
rhythms of yes and no. I’m tired this morning.
Of body and soul weary. I wish: Away. How good
It would be to stay. Simply stay. Here. Simply. Away.
From the clamor that besets and agitates the soul.

I would stare at the sea.

Yesterday, all day, whales.
Off Pirate Cove, slightly north of Depoe Bay. Four,
perhaps, five. I spent hours staring at spout
and back and fluke. The mystery returned;
my thoughts, often in the case of whales, traveled
to God. Whales are convincing arguments for God.
(As is all.) Yet these big, air-breathing,
delicate, impossibilities seem
to me especially so. Intelligence
in their eyes, these big-brained
deep-diving, far-swimming deep singers.

—amk

First Cup—Some of my best friends are books....

My Story
I love stories and I love Story.

I think of my life as a story informed by story, stories, and Story. Maybe my life is “nothing more than” storying. When asked about something that happened in my life, I often respond, as a warning: “I have no short stories in my life—only novels.” There’s little I’d rather do than read novels and think about novels and talk about novels. (Of course, there’s also poetry. One formative story of my life revolves around that, but that’s another story….) But what I value even more than novels is hearing personal stories, talking about them, and helping people both write and understand their own stories.

I believe that my faith is an extended narrative and my life is an extended conversation about that narrative in the context of story, stories, and Story—and within a community of extended conversation about how all of these stories “work together for the good.”

All persons are writing their own stories. I am writing my story—sometimes fairly elegantly and often times clumsily; sometimes it reads like that tale written by the proverbial monkeys in a room with typewriter. Sometimes, it reads like Macbeth’s: “…a tale told by an idiot, / full of sound and fury/ signifying nothing.” But I’m not the only idiot writing it. As these reflections on 70 years show, my tale is a collaboratively written story and my fellow writers are students, friends, the church, novels, and, ah yes, not to forget, the Author.

My formation with story began at 920 S. Van Ness, Santa Ana, California in the late 40s-early 50s, sitting next to my Grandma Cochran, listening to her tell story after story—some real and some imagined and some, I learned later, down right, fiction (aka lies) in which she starred. (She was so good that a few years ago at a Cousin’s reunion, we all discovered that the stories told only to us were, in fact, told to all.) Many of the stories were told over and over again because I couldn’t get enough of them. My favorite piece of fiction was the story of “Willy and the Hole.”

Willy was playing in the open fields outside of his hometown, which I took to be Elk City, Oklahoma, where they lived for so many years. In this field were many failed wells into one of which Willy and his dog fell. They tried heartily to get out but it was just out of Willy’s reach. However, it was not out of Willy’s ability to get his loyal dog just over the edge. Meanwhile, of course, it is getting dark and Willy’s parents, mindful of these failed wells, had roused their neighbors, formed a line, and were walking across the Bad Lands. Here, they met the dog that led them back to Willy. I can’t do justice to the terror of this story and the relief I experienced. I LOVED this story.

Grandma told it well but Grandma got tired of telling it. So, one day, as soon as I could get her to the couch so that I could sit next to her for a story time: Tell me the story of Willy and the Hole. To which Grandma said, Well, you know what, Willy’s mom and dad got so tired of Willy falling in that hole that they filled it up; Willy can’t fall in it anymore. End of story. And I learned what Aristotle would later teach me: every story has a beginning, a middle—and an end. It needs all three to be satisfying. I never asked for the story again; but Willy and his dog live on in my memory, precious and famous among the stories I embody. In some ways, a meta-story.

The four points of the compass of my childhood: 920 S. Van Ness, Glenn L. Martin Elementary School, the Santa Ana First Church of God, and Lathrop Library. Which is more important would be hard to say, but my home away from home was the Julia C. Lathrop Junior High School Branch Library, where Miss Leona Calkins, head librarian, held absolute sway.

Access to books, four rooms, full of books—well, it was a church of sorts. My first job and the first and only time I was fired was working in that library (for spending too much time talking and reading on the job). Working in the library was also my only consistent job from high school all the way through college and into graduate school.

I grew up in a home with books—not much of a library, but there they were: Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo, The Good Earth, What the Bible Teaches, and The Bible. Douglas, my oldest brother, already had his own library and sometimes I sneaked in there and borrowed a few (some I still have), especially collections of poetry. But it was the library where the whole world opened up for me—a world of books, stewarded by persons who loved books and lived to help others discover their same passion. I read indiscriminately and was, I think, allowed to read what today would have been considered off limits. I read books from the “youth” room. There I discovered the Enid Blyton series about English school kids adventuring on holidays. I read the Freddie the Pig series of barnyard mysteries. I read The Leatherstocking Tales and The Count of Monte Cristo (both unabridged because Miss Calkins would not have it otherwise).

I also discovered early the pleasures of the Caldecott and Newberry award books. The Voyages of Doctor Dolittle by Hugh Lofting; Johnny Tremain by Esther Forbes; Adam of the Road by Elizabeth Janet Gray; ...And Now Miguel by Joseph Krumgold; A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle; The Matchlock Gun by Walter Edmonds; Call It Courage by Armstrong Sperry; Daniel Boone by James Daugherty; The Story of Mankind (with those strangely wonderful illustrations) by Hendrik Willem van Loon; The White Stag by Kate Seredy. I also read from the children’s room where I discovered Dr. Seuss— The 500 Hats Of Bartholomew Cubbins and To Think That I Saw It On Mulberry Street are still two of my all time favorite books. There was also a wonderful book about a snake named Amanda (by WOLO, Wolf Von Trutzschler)—it is a lovely story and the art is amazing!

I read from the California collection where I fell in love with Ramona—and that whole California mission romance genre consumed many hours. But I was also allowed into the adult reading room where I discovered the best sellers and made a commitment through high school to read all the number ones. That kept me busy for a long time. But I also discovered Mary Renault (The Charioteer and The King Must Die) and Anya Seton (Avalon, Dragonwyck, and, much later, Green Darkness) and William Saroyan (The Human Comedy) and then W. Somerset Maugham (The Razor’s Edge and Of Human Bondage). Then, I discovered Hemingway (The Old Man and the Sea, For Whom the Bell Tolls, and The Big Two-Hearted River) and Steinbeck (Cannery Row and Tortilla Flat). I will never forget the experience of reading these powerful stories told well. I was even allowed to check books out of the “behind the desk” collection of adult books, where The Grapes of Wrath was kept because of its “communist/socialist” worldview. I should add Salinger and Golding and Kerouac, Ellison, Pasternak, White, Asimov, Shute, Baldwin, and Richard Wright.

Later, in college, there were many more: Graham Greene and Alan Paton and Heller and Vonnegut and Heinlein (Stranger in a Strange Land), Bradbury, Stoppard, Solzhenitsyn, Fowles (The Magus and The French Lieutenant’s Woman), Malcolm X and Eldridge Cleaver—this list goes on right up to today when I am reading Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami.

What is the point of such lists? On one level, it is a list of accomplishments—see what I’ve done? I’ll show you mine, if you’ll show me yours. On another level, it is some kind of ego statement—ain’t I grand? Top that! There is also a kind of autobiography in such lists. There is a reminder as well, I think, that such lists matter because the books matter—at least, these particular books matter to me—and tell you something about me. But, this morning, what matters most is that these books and their stories connect all the way back to Grandma Cochran and me sitting on the coach at 920 S. Van Ness, Santa Ana, California, telling and hearing the story of Willy and the Hole. That story and all the others took me where I would likely never go provided a sense of experience that I would likely never have, and added to my own story. These books and the stories that they contain were the Doors that opened me to a whole new world, a whole new spirituality, and a whole new worldview. In many significant ways, whoever I am today is, greatly, the result of the rich vicarious experiences these stories provided and the internal and communal conversations about these stories, the story tellers, and the story telling. I don’t know how to say this fully in Latin, but to a fairly great extent: Books ergo sum.

First Cup—Sunday Poetry

I know: it isn't Friday. It's Sunday. Poetry is for Fridays. Yet here it is....

A fraudulent life

I have invented myself. A Frankenstein,
full of envy and dark fantasy.

Readily hurt—dismayed when people don’t see me—
and so I build more subterfuge. More make up.
Clothes that hide the lack of symmetry underneath.
Careful tailor.

Yet the music still reaches my soul, even when I
look into the mirror and see who I am with
Dread-full clarity: fearful lack of symmetry.

Yet
still I hear the music. Sometimes loud, clear, and
other times faint, mere Echo.
The music of the real me, still alive beneath
the awkward limbs and odd scars of self-construction.

Hamlet like, I scurry among
the voices uncertain of the
truth though it be plain as the nose…

And I, like Hamlet, will also be dead at the end of my play.
And will all be set right (symmetrical) though bloodily
reached?

—amk (9/10/13)

First Cup—Poetry Friday

Similar yet …

Jeremiah believes that God is able to do an utterly new thing
which violates our reason, our control, and our despair.×

God is rarely redundant.
Infinite variety:
Not one tree but trees
Not one wing but wings
Not one blue but blues

Oak. Birch. Aspen. Magnolia. Pines of startling array.
Plum and peach; Sequoia.
All wings but not the same: butterfly wing, sparrow wing,
Eagle wing, bumblebee wing, dragonfly wing;

Not only the color blue, also Miles Davis blue;
Birdland. Bessie and Billie and Lead Belly.
Mahalia. Ella. “I got a right to sing the blues.”
And cobalt and robin egg and sky and royal and cerulean.

Not only Adam but also Eve and then all the rest of us,
down to you and me and Steve. The same yet utterly different.
Unique and utterly the same. An infinitesimal difference
in our genetic code—all the same except this little barely
noteworthy exception.

Even God’s Self—Trinity. No capturing this God; no
boxing this God up with bow and ribbon. This God breaks
out. Definitions fail. Finally. Awe.

—amk

× Walter Brueggemann, Hopeful Imagination

First Cup—And so it begins again…

Fall 1966 to Fall 2013—47 years minus a few during my Anderson years. So, perhaps, altogether I’ve been teaching 40 years. What else has lasted so long—my marriage is two years older; our children follow closely behind. If I add attending school into that, I’m talking about my entire life “in service” to the cause of learning. Not bad. From sophomore English classes at Red Bluff Union High School to senior adjunct at Warner Pacific College—a long and often fruitful journey. A journey of running from self to self-discovery. A journey away from God and of God-discovery. A journey of failure and regret and a journey of success and joy. A journey by myself, lonely, sometimes lost and fearful and a journey with others, significant others, pilgrims who helped each other along the way. A journey with students who become friends and friends who become my teachers.

Today, I begin three classes: EN 101, which I teach as part of the Freshman Year Learning Communities program. I’ve already met with these men and women and am already impressed. Smart. Thoughtful. Interested and interesting. I am eager to join them more explicitly on their journey—who knows what friendships may emerge? Who knows what truth will be revealed?

My prayer for this class: May they discover the wonderful gift they are; may they discover the beauty of learning and growing; may they discover the power of expression and thoughtful discourse; may they relax into the journey and learn to pay attention to the world around them and the God who loves them. May I be a good and thoughtful and caring guide for them—a guide who sheds enough light for them to find their way and stewards the darkness that they may understand the power of light and live in the mystery of life.

REL 320, Spirituality, Character and Service, which is a key course in the college core that invites us (students and teacher) on a journey of self-discovery: Who am I? Who am I in relationship to God and who am I in relationship to the other? Questions to love and live into.

My prayer for this class: Self-discovery is never easy; self-discovery and God-discovery, at the same time, is exciting and dangerous. May these students find the way challenging but not daunting; fearful and hopeful; thoughtful and reflective—may they see themselves more clearly and follow God more nearly. May they see this class as opportunity to discover and reflect on a greater and more compassionate and loving role in their world. May I be a wise guide. May I be a good companion—one who has traveled a road like theirs and can help them find their way.

HUM 410, Humanities Seminar, the capstone humanities course. These are students nearing the end of this stage of their academic journey. They are a bit weary; the end is near yet still so far off. In some ways, this is the last thing they want to be about, but what an opportunity—to take a deep breath and ask where am I? What have I learned? Does any of this make enough sense to put down on paper? What difference has these last years of study make in my life and what difference may they make in the world in which I move?

My prayer for this class: It is both a time of attraction and avoidance—happy to be coming to a place of stopping and rest and fearfulness of arriving at an end. It is an end and my prayer is that, together, we’ll make a good end of it. I pray that they will see the opportunity this presents and embrace it as a way to engage fully this time in their lives. I pray that this will be a time to stop and breath deeply, relax, and enjoy the opportunity, find their voice, and speak out into their world the wisdom of their journey. My prayer for me is simply that I will be a good, compassionate companion at this closure, helping them to value their years and speak their word.

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on us all.

Second Cup—Coming out of the closet....

This blog has been brewing for a long time. It grew out of my journey through Holy Week this year and a continuing reflection on Easter. Specifically, it is an outcome of time spent in contemplation of the Cross and the oppression of our Lord—and the profound injustice that characterizes his last days on earth. The ever-demanding crucifix refocused my soul's eyes both inwardly to the darkness that is too often there and outwardly toward the darkness that is too often a reflection of the darkness within. Here hangs the one who came to bring light and life abundant and who, too often, my fellow Christians and I seem intent on making into someone else.

I don’t want to live like that anymore. I don’t want to hide anymore. I don’t want to scurry behind the easy screen of careful, political correctness. I believe this is one clear message of the Gospel of our Lord Jesus: We are not called to hide; we are called to the ministry of reconciliation; we are called to be with people on a journey and to journey with all others in the direction of love as God is love.

So, it appears that I need to come out of the closet.

I am often disturbed by—and so often experience—a kind of oppression in the level of “conversation” on Facebook; so much so that I have come close several times to opting out of it. Yet, I am in meaningful FB contact with so many people I love around the world; I have resisted that decision. Yet, I am still disturbed; people seem more interested in making statements than seeking understanding, as if they have everything all worked out and the rest of us just need to listen.

Most recently and more specifically the disturbance in my soul of late has been about the level of discussion among Christians, many my friends, about the “sin” of homosexuality. It is the casualness of their conviction that bothers me—and its certainty. The stridency of the conversation and the clear tendency to stake out territory in non-negotiable ways and defend the territory through the use of biblical (and highly limited) proof texts is what disturbs me the most—except for the lack of compassion. Here we go again, beating each other and the rest of the world up with our Bibles. (I know; I know: The Bible defines the word of God as a sharp, two-edged and dangerous sword and I think that’s true. It has more than a few times cut deeply into my soul and painfully brought about healing. But what passes for a conversation about a fundamental reality—our sexuality—is really more often than not the Bible as a blunt weapon and I doubt—really doubt—that is our work.)

Now, to dispel any speculation about where I stand: I am going on record as being gay-friendly and, yes, some of my best and oldest friends are gay. I know what that statement makes me in some eyes; for others it makes me an ally. I understand that such a statement may even be in some way offensive to my gay friends, but the truth is that I’m much more interested in friendship and deep relationships than with labels. I do not run from, shun, or avoid the topic or the person if there is hope of thoughtful engagement, but I will run from anyone who is interested only in the defense of a position, especially if that position demeans and dehumanizes any other human.

I know: we all live in fear. There is much to fear; the world hardly ever feels safe. There is so much change around us and so much uncertainty nearly everywhere we turn that we desire someplace to stand that doesn’t feel like shifting sand. So we look for rocks to stand on so that our house won’t be washed away in the flood. Then, we build careful ramparts to keep any stranger off of our safe rock. I suggest, however, that the rock on which we are called to stand is Jesus, the cornerstone of our faith, and that, more often than not, paradoxically, we are called to walk faithfully where the sand seems most shifting, and walking faithfully is defined by Jesus as following him where he leads, a direction that is always defined by the Great Commandment: loving God and loving others. So, while I understand in very personal ways the fearsome fragility of life, I think we are called to walk on those shifting sands—especially if we desire to walk in the footsteps of the One who sacrificed all to go where no one wanted him; and we find ourselves back again at the Cross. (It seems impossible to live fully through Holy Week—unless we quickly jump ahead to the Resurrection—without realizing how dangerous it is to live faithful to the One who hung and in some sense still hangs on the cross.)

For me it has become painfully simple. We are called to live in the freedom made possible through the absolutely free, loving act of Jesus. We are called to be with others in honest and vulnerable relationship. So, I am simply unwilling to place any one in a box defined by any one particular part or aspect, particularly their sexuality, of all that contributes to who a person is as a whole. I want to live as one who is open to any other who wants to live honestly, transparently, openly, relationally, and faithfully. I want to stand with any oppressed people; I think that is what the God of scripture asks me.

But I also want to make this clear: I am not actually writing in defense of homosexuality. I am writing about those friends and acquaintances of mine who seem intent on living closed off to the other, especially to those who see it as their duty to keep others from living honestly, transparently, openly, relationally, lovingly, and faithfully. I know I’m not sharing anything new when I share that the picture of the church that the Barna Report presents is not the picture that God had in mind when he called people to become God’s people—as the Church:

Among young non-Christians, nine out of the top 12 perceptions were negative. Common negative perceptions include that present-day Christianity is judgmental (87%), hypocritical (85%), old-fashioned (78%), and too involved in politics (75%)—representing large proportions of young outsiders who attach these negative labels to Christians.

Interestingly, the study discovered a new image that has steadily grown in prominence over the last decade. Today, the most common perception is that present-day Christianity is "anti-homosexual." Overall, 91% of young non-Christians and 80% of young churchgoers say this phrase describes Christianity. As the research probed this perception, non-Christians and Christians explained that beyond their recognition that Christians oppose homosexuality, they believe that Christians show excessive contempt and unloving attitudes towards gays and lesbians. One of the most frequent criticisms of young Christians was that they believe the church has made homosexuality a "bigger sin" than anything else. Moreover, they claim that the church has not helped them apply the biblical teaching on homosexuality to their friendships with gays and lesbians.*

Now, I know, that many will immediately defend themselves (and, probably, attack or dismiss me) by declaring that they hate only the sin, not the sinner. But there is such deep confusion in that statement; does anyone else see that? I get what people are trying to mean by that, but I honestly don’t know how to do that. I certainly don’t understand the psychology or the anthropology in such a statement. Maybe I’m just not as spiritually mature as others (no one would be surprised by hearing a loud chorus of, “You got that right”).

Whatever else anyone may have to say or believe, I know this: In nearly every part of the Gospel, we are called to do two things: Love God and love others. (I think we are also called to love ourselves, but that is another matter for another time.) There is no box built around those words, especially on the word others. To make sure that we get that, we have only to turn to Jesus and his discussion about nearly anything, but especially about neighbors. Here’s an old familiar story that in the last couple of years has spoken to me in startling new ways.

I was teaching a class recently in which we were discussing the Parable of the Good Samaritan. We were reading it as closely as it is possible to read without the language that would make it even more accessible and as closely as it is possible in a class of 20 plus students from diverse backgrounds. We were trying to read it inductively, seeking to understand the story before we tried to figure out what Jesus meant by the story he chose to tell in answer to the lawyer’s ego and status and power-protecting question.

Suddenly, a student (bless their little hearts) said, I think it is more important what the story does NOT say. What? Huh? What do you mean—oh, right, of course (to self: why didn’t I think of that?!) OK, I said, what doesn’t it say? Well, for starters, it doesn’t say anything about who this one lying nearly dead on the road and, to the best of our ability, there is no way to tell. Check it out. He is a man. He has been robbed, beaten, left for dead, on the road from Jericho to Jerusalem. That’s it. We don’t know his name. We don’t know the state of his soul. We don’t know whether he is a good man or bad. We don’t even know which way he was going and we don’t know why he was on the road. And we certainly don’t know his sexuality. Yet, clearly, Jesus is responding to the lawyer’s request for a definition. We call it the parable of the Good Samaritan and so our focus is on him; perhaps, he is the definition. But Jesus doesn’t call him good. He just tells us he’s a Samaritan; he’s a definition, I guess, of neighborliness or humanness. The other guy, the one in the gutter, naked and dying, he’s the neighbor. Well, we know who is not good, right? The religious guys passing by—seeming to go out of their way to avoid the neighbor in the road.

Well, we could add to this the story of the prodigal. There’s another defining narrative. What are we to do with our unidentified by anything but needy neighbor? Take care of him. Take care of her. Take care of them. Celebrate. Welcome home. Welcome in. Spend money on care. Not judge. Not distance our selves. Not build boxes and exclude. Not make pronouncements about ritual cleanliness. NO. Mostly just take care of him/her. Pick him up. Put her on our donkey. Take him where he will be cared for. Get dirty. Set our own agendas aside. Take her in our arms. Love on him.

When the lawyer reluctantly answered Jesus’ question—“Which one was the neighbor?”—with “The one who showed mercy,” well, what are we to make of that? Mercy: Compassion, easing of distress, gratefulness, kindness, sympathy, humanity, understanding, generosity, leniency, benevolence, grace. Well, I want to take my stand with the outsider and the Samaritan (another maligned people) and opt for mercy. And, I believe, that even if I were to think that homosexuality is the greatest sin in the Bible, I do not have a choice about whether or how to show mercy.

Followers of Jesus were first called Christian in Antioch. If that was the judgment of the citizens of Antioch then, based on how they followed Jesus, I wonder what label do we earn today? I remember years ago standing around the campfire, singing (along with “Kumbaya”), “They’ll know we are Christians by our love.” Well, guess what? They know who we are and it is neither Christian nor loving. Now what are we going to do about it?

“Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.” Can we find a better place to stand? Can we find a less inflammatory rhetoric—regardless of our convictions? How can we ever hope to be the church in this world if we do not get out of our familiar ways and learn to stand alongside all the peoples of the world and learn a new language? To be relationally connected, that is, vulnerable, available, compassionate, intimate, faithful, loving, is in nearly every way I can think of essential if we are indeed going to be the people of God in the world for the world.

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy.

*http://www.barna.org/barna-update/article/16-teensnext-gen/94-a-new-generation-expresses-its-skepticism-and-frustration-with-christianity

First Cup—Sacred Space: Warner Pacific College

There are many events, persons, and places in my life that fit in a category named “sacred.” The word has many different meanings but key associations for me are words like holy (adjective—set aside); liminal (adjective—an opening, doorway, in between); pilgrim (both verb and adjective—a person on life journey); journey (both noun and verb—the way on which one pilgrims); and godly (adjective and adverb—of God, i.e., holy). In a sense, every entry in this ongoing blog reflection on my life is a reflection on sacredness. Sacramentalism is essentially a perspective that says that all of life is created—everything and everyone in life is created. And connected. By virtue of this understanding, all of life reflect its Creator. To live life sacramentally is to see all things and all persons as holy and connected—reflections of the One who created it all: trees, seas, whales, persons, ants, flowers, indeed, all.

sacred space—tangible or otherwise—a space/location/place that makes it more possible for those who acknowledge and accept it to feel reverence and connection with the spiritual

Some persons and places take on an even greater sense—an aura—because of the intentionality involved and the personal connection.

The persons I’ve written about (and those about whom I will write) in this on going reflection are persons who do not take their own godly worth for granted and seek in all they do and think—in all of their relationships—to live a holy life. This holiness is defined in various way, but at the heart of the definitions are some key biblical teachings: the mind of Christ and love God and love others. You see, there is a “set aside ness” (holy) that is characteristic of a sacramental perspective—set aside for a purpose (a purpose defined by these understandings).

For me, Warner Pacific College has been/still is such a holy place.

Set aside for a purpose—from its beginnings, designed for the wholeness of humans. Designed for intentional learning that recognizes no off bounds: faith, life, and learning. Not as separate, distinct silos—but as related, connected parts of integrated, mutual, interdisciplinary, relational, paradoxical conversation about what matters most: How then do I live?

Just as persons are holy, I believe that places can also be holy, that is, also set-aside for such purposes. Nearly anyone who has walked into one of the ancient cathedrals of Europe senses this sacred geography, sacred architecture; set aside to serve the purposes of God. A walk in a church cemetery. The Grotto in Portland. A labyrinth at St. Luke’s. For a while, the grounds of the Franciscan Renewal Center, Portland. The ruins at Cluny, France. The Pacific Ocean—the “end of the world” at Depoe Bay, Oregon. The choir at Mt. Angel Abbey. Around dinner tables with good friends around the world. The chapter house at Wells, England. The tomb of the Venerable Bede at Durham, England. Baalbek in Lebanon. Wittenberg in Germany. And, yes, Warner Pacific College, “nestled on Mt. Tabor’s bosom / Glorious Hood in view.”

As a student, I attended WPC from 1962–1965. I returned to join the faculty in 1972 and stayed until 1995. I returned after 15 years and now hang out in classrooms—always sacred spaces for me. This is a holy place and on these sacred grounds,

• I lost and then found Jesus all over again for the first time (with apologies to Marcus Borg’s one-of-the-best-book-titles of all time).
• I was called beyond myself to discover my self. Broken. Then started on a journey
to healing and wholeness.
• I discovered the joy and joys of learning and the life-changing powers of friendship.
• I discovered my gifts and my gifts were used and honored.
• I found the freedom of aligning my self with a person/idea/vision greater than my own needs or wants or dreams or self.
• I found my wants refined, my needs fulfilled, and my dreams enlarged.
• I found the love of a lifetime who shattered in all the best ways the sorry ego of my life.

On those grounds. Walking between those buildings, sitting in those classrooms, coffee here and there, classrooms, those faculty offices, even the meetings, hallways, gardens, with my teachers, my peers, my students (all of whom carry these roles interchangeably and mutually)—I found a faith that lives and grows and changes, is challenged, questioned, and mangled, is hopeful and fearful and stretching. I began a journey that I’d been on all my life without knowing and a journey I’m still walking—I hope, now, with greater intention.

I am grateful for this space—this holy space made sacred by the prayers and thoughts and conversations and ideas and lives of holy people—teachers, administrators, presidents and deans, and students—the latter most likely the most influential through their own struggles, demands, fears, and friendships. And their willingness to invite me into their lives at significant times as if I had something to offer and, together, we learned so much. So many former students—now friends. This place and these people, God and me—we made a life I might not even dream of possible….

Thanks be to God!