The Ghosts Among Us

There are ghosts among us. They haunt the sanctuaries and halls of our churches. They cross our paths often unseen. When they are noticed, it is a glimpse, a shadow, a movement without a form. 

These ghosts were people once. They had dreams and hopes, they had form, they were solid. They had faces that smiled with warmth and eyes that glimmered with life. And that life gave them strength and form to embrace and and be embraced. But the fire that once burned inside of them has gone cold. Their body has become weak and broken and immaterial. Their eyes see life all around them, but their minds cannot conceive that the life is for them any longer. They have passed from living life, to merely existing among the living. 

Something happened to them along their way. Maybe they buried a loved one, and are drowning in their sorrow. Maybe the betrayal of a friend or a lover caused them to cast their dreams aside. Maybe they were struck down on the battlefield, and were left behind when they could not rise. Maybe the crushing weight of regret and guilt overcame them, and they lost all hope. 

Their voices have become as a whisper from a dry throat, unheard among the tumult of the living. Their vision is dimmed by the darkness slowly closing in. Eyes that once beheld the beauty and grandure of the sunset in the west, now can only see just beyond the next footstep. Tears that flowed in joy have been consumed by sorrow. Feet are broken and bruised, hands shake with fear, legs are unsteady, and the back is bent. Soon they will be gone, fading into nothing, overcome by their pain and sorrow and hopelessness. 

For now they haunt our churches. They sit beside us and pass among us. We give them bulletins and shake their hands. We will smile and ask “How are you?” for the thousandth time in our meaningless way. They continue to glide in and out unnoticed, uncared for, slowly vanishing with each passing Sunday. 

We will remember that they once existed, maybe even wondering what happened to them. We will say it is sad, but we will not mourn. We will say we wish we would have known, but will remain safe in our ignorance. We will say they should have asked for help, but not stop to listen. We will say it is a shame, but not feel ashamed. 

We will go on, because life goes on, for those who are living.

  

Until someone intentions to see them, catch them, find them and not let them slip away, they will haunt us. Unless someone determines to pick them up and carry them, bind their wounds, cover their shame, and dry their tears, they will continue to fade away. Without someone to restore their hope, to show them how to dream again, to lean in close, to listen to their whispers, to mourn with them, they will soon be gone, and it will be too late. For it is only the living who can help the dying.

Somedays I forget she has a past...

Some days I forget she has a past. She is always so happy, so excited, so full of energy, overflowing, unbounded.  Then she reminds me that she wasn't always like this.

"Daddy, if I get lost in the woods, I can blow this whistle and you will find me, right?"
"Daddy, if I was lost, how long would it take for you to find me?"
"Daddy, I need a compass and a pocket knife, in case I get lost."
"Daddy, if I was lost, you would come find me, right?"

She has been there before, lost in a land of strangers, hurt, alone, cold. She knows the feeling and it still haunts her. It is part of her past, lying deep in her memories.

I don't think she is afraid of being lost, but rather the idea that someone could be lost, and then found, is what lies behind her toughts and questions. The thought is that if she is lost, she will be OK, she will be found. The thought that someone will come and find her. It makes me want to draw her close, to pull her in, to let her know I will always find her, no matter what.

I can't keep her from getting lost without taking away the things that make her who she is, her energy, her inquisitiveness, her joy. However, I can make sure she knows that no matter how lost she thinks she is - she can be found.

We all get lost from time to time, and we also need someone to come find us, to draw us close, to pull us in, to let us know we will always be found, no matter what.

Songs I can't sing....

So, I have this thing with worship music. I have noticed that there are some songs I can’t sing without lying a little bit. I have no problem with songs about God, those are pretty truthful. Songs like Sing Hallelujah by Jennifer Knapp is great, hard to complain about those lyrics. David Crowder Band’s “…Never-ending…”, also great. Gungor’s “Beautiful Things” and "The Earth is Yours" are others. These are songs about God, not about me, and that is how I like it.  

I run into trouble when the song has those pesky first person personal pronouns in it. You know “I, me, we,”… those words. There are a couple, but one in particular has been haunting me recently:

“So I'll stand

With arms high and heart abandoned

In awe of the One who gave it all”

“So I’ll Stand”  - I am usually already standing at this point. If not, the Front Row Standers (those people who sit in the front row and stand up no matter what, forcing everyone else to stand up so we don’t have sit there looking at someone’s butt) will force me into standing. So that line is OK.

“In awe of the One who gave it all” – I am also OK with this line. It is hard not to be in awe of the Gospel and the God who put it together.  

It is that middle line that gets me. I can’t sing this line without lying just a little bit. If I sang it honestly it would be more like “I’ll stand with hands jammed hard into my pockets and heart carefully held to prevent damage and breaking…”.

Maybe I should just mumble under my breath the true version of the song and then move my lips like I am really singing out loud. I can imagine it would look like a Chinese kung-fu movie dubbed into English.

I realize that it is pride that keeps me from making the words I am singing match the life I am living. I couldn’t sing out loud what I am really thinking without feeling really awkward, and getting a few dirty looks. Imagine what it would sound like if I were singing "I'll stand with my hands in my pockets and heart locked away, la, la, la, la" while everyone else was singing the right lyrics. 

It’s not so much the hand raising, God gave us pockets in our pants for a reason and in my mind that reason is so you have somewhere to put your hands when you are singing at church. It is not the physical act of raising my hands at issue, it is the thought that I don’t want to be noticed, I don’t want to be embarrassed, I don’t want to be embarrassing.

It absolutely about the heart. There is pride in my heart that keeps me from making the life I am living match the words I am singing. So instead of changing my life to match the words, I sing a little lie, I keep my heart firmly and safely tucked away, my hands stuck in my pockets.

I also realize this: The source of my pride is fear: fear of the unknown, fear of pain and suffering, fear of change, fear of challenge, fear of looking silly, fear of risk, fear of being uncomfortable, fear of being asked to do more than I think I can, fear of being known, fear of transparency. Pride comes from fear. Pride is the cowardice of the man who refuses to be honest with himself …and his Maker.

To be continued....