Dachau

I step off our little Mercedes bus along with the rest of the 11 of us. In heavy silence I walk towards the low modern visitor center. We enter and stand about in restless silence while Alex, our tour guide, arranges for our entrance. We each receive a audio guide and are given about 2 hours to explore on our own.

The gate is another short walk from the center and again none of us are really saying much, we know this is important given the closeness we all feel to this event, we are all one short generation from those dark days that began here in 1933. Dachau was the first camp built within months of Hitler's ascendancy in Germany and is located less than a half hour north of Munich.

I walk the short walk, to my left is the remains of the railroad that brought the living cargo and to my right is the gate so many were forced to walk through.  I stand in stunned silence, wanting to and not wanting to drink in the echo of memory and feeling those gates still hold.  I don't know what to expect when I walk through the gates but there is no longer the threat of violence, torture, starvation and death that the original inhabitants faced.

With a tightness in my gut and a hint of fear invading my heart, I walk through the horrible, ominous gates. I take a moment and look around asking for a taste of what it might have been to walk through those gates 80 years ago. I am overcome with dread. I can only imagine what it felt to know those gates would close behind me shutting out all life as was once known.

Immediately to my right is one of the few remaining buildings from those days. It is a long, low masonite block building. This is where new inductees were forced to go.  I walk in and am overwhelmed by the echoes of even the very quiet voices of those visiting that day. I imagine this to be a very noisy, confusing place for anyone entering for the first time.  I discover my audio guide is not working. Either it is malfunctioning or I am doing something wrong. At first I am irritated but then I think of what it must have been to walk these doors with shouts demanding I give up the last shreds of my dignity, my humanity or face dire results.  The echoes of those voices still reverberate if one listens carefully.

Since my audio guide is not working I decide to simply read along at the many, many displays telling the story of this place and some of the stories of those sent here. At one point there is a very large map of Europe showing the locations of every camp and sub-camp built for this industry of death.  It is shocking to see hundreds of various colored squares representing millions who walked this journey.  It is also shocking to imagine the thousands of people needed for this industry to make it work as efficiently as it did, thousands of workers in this government funded industry.

About two thirds of the way through the building I can read no more and I step out into the very large graveled courtyard or plaza..... neither word works to convey this place. We've all seen depictions of this place, the very large open area where inmates are forced to stand in cold or heat no matter what condition they are in for as long as their captors deem necessary.  There is a crunch under my feet, the gravel feels fresh, uncomfortable and I imagine them bones, the bones of millions offered up to the Third Reich.

There are only two barracks standing, rebuilt at one time so that visitors can see what it might have been like.  They do little justice to what row upon row of these buildings must have looked like. The foundations are still there, so very neat, so very orderly for this industry.  Neatness must have served them well, these captors of humanity, but the neatness feels oppressive to me as I slowly walk down the main street separating the rows of skeletal foundations. There are stumps of trees that once lined this main thoroughfare and I wonder if the trees offered a taste of life and hope or mocked the conditions one now found themselves living in.  Perhaps both.

It all felt so heavy to me, a deep, deep sadness infuses my thoughts, my prayers as I slowly wander the grounds. "What do you think of this, God?" I ask.  My sadness deepens.  I am not writing as one who understands the sovereignty of God nor do I feel the need to try to defend Him in this place.  I simply can't fathom this place from His perspective.  I know many demand He answer for this inhuman place and His seeming disinterest or impotence to have done anything to alter the course of the 12 years this camp operated. I ask my question and I am engulfed in sadness.  Perhaps it is the slightest hint of His sadness at what we humans are capable of doing. That is part of my take away from this day.

I am also haunted by another thought, perhaps a scandalous thought. Thousands of men and women were conscripted into the inhumane work of running the thousands of camps.  What of them?  What of the indescribable weight of guilt they must have lived with for the remaining days they lived?  I am sure some willingly joined the effort to eradicate unacceptable humanity but could there not have been many returning to their homes and family weighed down by what they did?

I asked Alex, our guide, what did Germany do for those who worked in these camps after the war?  He simply said nothing, it was swept under the carpet and hoped to be forgotten.  I have guilt.  I have made poor decisions at times that have wounded people I love. I have hurt others.  Some days those black places resurface and the pain arises.  I pray, I take this to Jesus and ask for Him to walk with me through those memories. I have experienced some healing, some relief. But what if I had no such companion? What if I was left to my own devices to deal with guilt?

I am left with a deep sadness for not only the millions who died and those that lived through incarceration.  I am somewhat scandalized by my own sadness for those who lived with unrequited guilt for what they did. I know some will say they deserved the guilt. Perhaps that is true but here I am, finishing this up on the Saturday before Easter and I can't help but think this sin too was paid for by Jesus, the weight of this guilt borne on the cross. It seems almost scandalous to think that this too, this inhumanity would be paid for that day but can we really decide what was to be paid for that day?  We Christ-followers believe all sin is sin without degree, but do we really?

Surrender

Its Thanksgiving, one of my favorite holidays, for various reasons.  I love that it falls on a Thursday.  Having a holiday on Thursday makes Wednesday feel like Friday so that when Thursday rolls around my internal clock is delightfully messed up and I feel like its Saturday, but of course it isn't. Then when Friday rolls around it feels like a bonus Friday, even if I have to work.  I am working tomorrow but it doesn't bother me at all. Actually it makes today feel even more special, not part of a four day weekend but a special day.

We are having 10 today around our table ranging in age from 3 to 89.  The turkey is in the oven, pies (pumpkin, apple and mincemeat) are waiting for a knife, stuffing, sweet potato casserole, a vegetable casserole and cranberries.  I am very, very fond of cranberries. My mother tells the story of my first Thanksgiving (I would have been 4 months) where I only ate rolls and cranberries. I can forgo the rolls now but don't get in between me and cranberries!

I love the time with family and I am so looking forward to our house filling up with more bodies more voices the stories of our lives.  I love the moments of prayer, the time to simply thank Abba for all He has given us, not only materially but spiritually as well.  There is a peace to taking the time to reflect and thank from our hearts and with our voices.

I have been thinking about gratitude, thinking about what is entailed in the exercise of gratitude.  I keep coming up with the word surrender, a giving over of myself, my family, my home and all my possessions, holding to all of Abba's blessings with an open hand.  Nothing is permanent in our lives including the breath we take on a regular basis.  There is a peace to knowing, acknowledging a power much greater and higher than we are.  It actually is a peaceful place to be, to rest in Him who loves us with, as Brennan Manning says, a furious longing for us.  I love those two words put together to create a mental picture. We are loved furiously, with abandon to the point His son came and died for us that we can simply be with Abba.

We don't know what the next moment of our lives will bring, tragedy or joy but we can know our Father who will stop at nothing to go after us wherever our decisions take us.  So today I am in a state of surrender, surrender to the love that will not let me go, surrender to a Father whose heart is good, beats for me and every member of my family no matter where they are. Today my thankfulness, gratitude, is couched in surrender.  I am His, He is mine.

Have a happy, blessed Thanksgiving surrendered to His deep, deep love.

He's Got It

This might ramble a bit, just a warning.

I've watched this past political season fairly closely. I am sure many of us have. We almost all have some opinion one way or another. There have been a couple of issues of vital importance to me, so I have a bit of "skin" in the game. To some extent, most of us do, so we are likely to come out on the other side of this day either elated or dissapointed.

I've watched a lot of mud slinging as well. I am not speaking of the candidates, both nationally and locally, but rather the words of anger and frustration, the assumption of rightness at the expense of relationships.  We just think we have so much at stake believing we are correct in our conclusions. The question then becomes, "How could anyone think differently"?

I think I've seen a lot of fear on both sides of our very divided house. Dismissal of others has been rampant. Fear that "we" will lose and what will happen if "they" win. Fear fuels the anger, the anger fuels the words; harsh, hurtful words.

So, I was driving home tonight after a very long day where I hit the ground running at 6:30 and didn't stop until I climbed in my truck for the ride home at almost 6 pm.  I was mulling over this day and realized I really am at a very strange place of peace.  I don't know how this night will end.  It does matter, yet strangely, it doesn't. Let me say it again, I am at peace.

This is a God thing.  I am not manufacturing a sense of unconcern, a very poor imitation of peace.  I really do have "skin" in the game and do have an opinion about what "I" think is the right direction. But I am holding it all very gently, with an open hand.  It really is a place given by Abba to my heart.  Here is the thing, we often go to Him in concern, anger, anxiety, fear in a manner a bit like hitting the aspirin bottle with a bad headache.  Its almost like we say to ourselves, "Let's add a bit of God to this mixture of angst and maybe I will feel better", or "Lets add a veneer of scripture over these tough places and we can overlook them".  Frankly, I no longer believe this does justice to what He really offers us.

The offer is LIFE, not an aspirin bottle, not a spiritual panacea for what we think ails us, not a bit of "something" to add with a near-blind hope all will be better in the morning.  Its LIFE offered to His followers in a time historically when those that were in charge could hang you on a cross for thievery.  He didn't offer life with the caveat that Rome would be defeated, in fact, it got worse, much worse.  So the offer of LIFE really must transcend the issues that have driven many of us to fear.

The offer is love, His love in the context of His sovereignty. He's in charge.  Do I trust Him enough to let His peace come in, not as an aspirin but as something to totally replace the anxiety about who will win this night?  Do I trust Him?  For me, that is the only good question here. And if I say I do, then I really need to let Him have this, no matter how this comes out. There just isn't any room for all the harsh words that have flown back and forth for months now.  There isn't really any room for anger or fear either. No room for gloating dismissively if you "won".  What has been won or lost, anyway?

Yes, I am anxious a bit, but there still is this very wonderful strange peace that is overruling all as I ponder Him, His hand in the future days ahead of us. He's got it.

Fence

We sit on the fence
Where our fatal games
Have been played
Games that still call
With their lies of
Completion,
Inclusion,
Satisfaction;
One word arises above
Authority

There are no tricks
No slight of hand
No magical words;
Acceptance,
Trust,
Faith
Are the postures needed
To wield the sword
Authority.

Falling we do well
Practiced and precise.
Abiding in the squalor of
Guilt
We
Trust the lie of
Self deprecation
More than the truth of
Grace.

His seeking of us when
We are at our worst,
The lifting of our heads
When we believe we deserve
A blow from
His righteous hand,
His gentle yet insistent voice
Calling us to a deeper truth;
Deeper than the mire of
Ourselves,
Alone,
On the fence.

Wine

Again, I am confessing I am not a very good Baptist boy.  I'm just saying.

One of the outcomes of helping my friend Syd with this year's grape/wine harvest is an appreciation for the care and work it takes for grape juice to be transformed into drinkable wine. As I mentioned in a previous post, my wife and I helped with the harvest and crush a couple weeks ago.  A week ago last Friday we helped with squeezing out the skins, seed and occasional stem from the crush. It was remarkable to taste the very new wine at various stages of the press, there is a difference from that which flows easily and that which comes from pressing hard the solids of the crush. When we were finished that evening there was about 50 gallons of Barbera and 35 gallons of Zinfandel.  Unfortunately Syd's Sirah was not ready and he told me Sunday at church he'd had to toss it as it had gone bad before he had the time to press it. As before, it was interesting to reflect on the work, the process little changed from wine making in the days Jesus physically walked the earth.

Syd mentioned his awe at how much was produced, how his five rows of each variety gave such abundance. The God-spoken soil is so full of life.

Of course this past Sunday was the first Sunday of the month and like most Baptist churches we celebrated Communion. I'm not writing out of criticism of our process - the tiny bit of unleavened cracker or the miniscule plastic cup of grape juice - it is what it is and we are reminded adequately of the tremendous price paid by our Elder Brother for us to have access to Abba's heart.

What did strike me was the contents of the tiny plastic cup. As we partook of the elements our choir sang a song inviting us to come taste the bread, come taste the wine. My thought was, especially after my recent work with my friend Syd, "This is not wine. Are we missing something here?"

I know well the symbolism we're taught with the bread representing Jesus' body and the "wine" representing His shed blood, but I wonder if we've missed something else as well. Wine is grape juiced transformed from something innocuous into something different, stronger. Perhaps in our false sense of religious propriety we've  missed the symbolism of transformation that real wine might represent.

We are not called to be sweet and innocuous but rather something strong and powerful for the Kingdom; Jesus' words, "You are salt, you are light", come to mind. I am wondering if we have missed a powerful reminder of Jesus' transformational power by substituting grape juice for a taste of powerful wine. His very presence, as He said to His disciples in the upper room that night, "I am in you, you are in Me", is a deeply significant and transformative reality that we desperately need to be reminded of. Yes, that monthly tiny plastic cup does represent His shed blood but it also needs to remind us of His transformative power as well.

I'm just saying.

Water Hose

A couple Saturdays ago I, along with other friends and family, helped my friends Syd and Jennifer with their grape harvest. After harvesting, dumping them into large white bins and weighing them, we loaded our trucks with the grapes and hauled the ten white bins to a crusher.

It took Syd and I over an hour to feed all the grapes into the crusher while his brother and a friend washed and sanitized the empty bins preparing them for the fermentation of the crushed grapes. When we were done we had seven bins full of heavy mashed grapes. Both Syd and I were wet and sticky with the juice of the crush but there was something elemental and satisfying about the process.

Our methods are more modern but the product is an old one, thousands of years of men and women have gone before us doing much the same as we had. It felt good to step, however briefly, into that long line of winemakers.

Cleaning the mechanized crusher required copious amounts of water and by the time we were done with the clean-up all four of us had squishy wet shoes but none of us seemed to mind. In addition, it was a warm day - mid 90's - so throughout the process we four would periodically drink cool water from the gushing hose used for cleaning the bins.

Driving the 40 minutes back to Syd's I reflected on some of this. I noticed a child-like stirring in my heart. Few things will make you feel more like a child on a hot summer's day like a gushing hose of cool water; playing in it and drinking from it. That is what we'd done, four grown men played with a water hose. My soaked shoes become symbols of long-ago childhood recaptured for a brief time.

I was reminded of Jesus' words about not losing the child-like heart we all have. Life, with its cynical twists and turns, will steal it quickly and we will think ourselves wise to let it be stolen; a mistaken notion of maturity. We want to turn His words about childlikeness into metaphor or symbol but we err in doing this. There are times we simply must return to the child in all of us. This is not childishness without the benefit of lessons learned with maturity. Rather it is childlike awe, joy, playfulness, trust.

That gushing hose on that Saturday afternoon returned me to some of those needed qualities. Maybe more of us need to put our Bibles down and go play in the yard with a water hose more often.

Empty Pages

It was November of 2006 when I spent a week with my friends Bryan and Jeff at a ranch in Colorado. Horizonquest was the name of the program, Randy was the facilitator of our week together. We spent each morning in the library talking and the afternoons playing. It was at that ranch I shot my first gun and smoked my first cigar since an awful experience with a cigar in high school. We hiked, rode horses and generally had a great time.

Our talks were centered around the material found in John Eldredge's book, "Fathered By God". He describes various phases of our journey as men from Beloved Son to Cowboy to Warrior to Lover to King and finally Sage. With pointed questions Randy asked us to take time and write what our experiences were for each of the phases. Each and every time, with one exception, I came up with nearly empty pages. In many ways it was a tough week but I was with two other men I felt safe with and they, along with Randy, helped me begin to interpret some of the profound gaps in my life.

This past summer my Pastor has gathered a large group of men on Wednesday mornings to go through two books with one being Eldredge's book. While we've not been going through the material as intently as I did six years ago, I'm still at a loss as to those blank pages.

I recently came across this quote from Calvin: "Nearly all the wisdom we possess, that is to say, true and sound wisdom, consists of two parts; the knowledge of God and of ourselves. But while joined by many bonds, which one precedes and bring forth the other is not easy to discern. In the first place, no one can look upon himself without immediately turning his thoughts to the contemplation of God, in whom he 'lives and moves' (Acts 17:28)." Much of my time in the park, at the picnic table each morning is exactly this kind of contemplation. The pages are not as blank as they once were but I do wonder, a sometimes painful wonder, at where this life is headed. Honestly, its been a rough summer. There are seasons in our lives like this, aren't there?