Other Side of Grace

You can learn a lot about a person from a picture. The social networking site, Facebook has proven that to us if nothing else has. One of my favorite uses for Facebook is to connect with friends from yester-year and catch up with what they’re doing, who they’re spending their time with and getting a real answer to a question that is all too often brushed over, “How are you doing?” You can get all kinds of information about people on Facebook, but I think to answer the question, “How are you?” you have to go to the pictures. That’s where I find a friend who I last saw cooped up in a study carol at the library, stressed to the hilt, weary and tired from graduate school, now posting a picture of himself out with friends. He’s laughing surrounded with good food and new people. He’s rejoined the social scene and overcome the stress of grad school. He’s happy. It’s where I find another friend whose relationship status is married and the name is one I don’t recognize. The photo I found shows him sound asleep on the couch, mouth open awkwardly, tiny little girl sleeping on his chest. He’s a dad now! He’s proud. He’s happy. A few more minutes and a few more clicks would reveal more acquaintances, some happy, some sad, some in places they shouldn’t be, some growing too fast. I have to be careful though; I have to remember that a snap-shot is not the whole of who a person is. It is only a moment in time, a sampling of their life, only a part. I may very well see that person again someday from a different angle, at another time and things will be different, they’ll be different in small and large ways.

I wonder what it would be like to take a picture of God. If God is the same yesterday, today and forever; would we get the same picture with every shot? I wouldn’t think so. While God is unchanging; our experience of Him is always new. I think we do have a few photos of God to look at and learn from. It’s been said that a picture is worth a thousand words, but I would say that on this day, these words are worth a thousand pictures. Let’s take a look at one of those photos of God now. I have to warn you though, this picture isn’t easy to look at.

The book of Job brings us many startling images, things we don’t want to look at or even think about. It’s a story of a man who God allowed to lose everything. His considerable wealth was taken from him, his standing in society was questioned, his whole life turned upside-down. His faith, his spirit was bruised, but not broken and the heat was turned up, his health was taken. We get graphic depictions of Job having to scrape the infectious, pussing sores from his own skin with broken pieces of pottery while wondering what was going on. Job was in every way like a victim of hurricane Katrina except that he didn’t see the winds or the floods or the fires. He only knew that something had blown through his life destroying his entire world and he was left suffering and wondering what had happened. Haven’t we all felt that way at times? Aren’t we all in our own ways displaced, confused, left out, beaten down and sick and tired of being sick and tired. Job said his own anguish, if weighed, would be heavier than the sands of the oceans. His own wife recommended suicide, talk about rock bottom.

To add insult, Job’s friends decided to inform him that bad things don’t happen to good people. All this turmoil, all this calamity must be your own fault. “Dude, what did you do to T-off the Big Guy?” Theirs was a theology of divine retribution. God, in their eyes, was a divine punisher. Job didn’t necessarily disagree, but he thoroughly, earnestly believed he had done nothing wrong. His friends didn’t believe him. He didn’t know if he could believe himself. Job had to wonder if God was something other than what he had believed in for his whole life. He wondered if perhaps he had done something to offend God without knowing. He wondered if it was even possible to offend God without knowing it. He wondered. It was in this state that Job asked a question. His world was in shambles, his family gone, wealth dwindled, health failing, his theology –no- his faith was shaken, he was confused. He wanted to know why. Why me, why now, why God? As we turn the pages of the story we lean in to hear what God will say. We realize that the answer has as much to do with our own suffering as it does Job’s. Why us God?

It was the moment of God’s answer that someone popped up their camera and took the snap-shot provided by today’s text. Those of us on this side of the first Easter will expect to see a depiction of a God of grace. Perhaps it will be a photo of a caring father stooping down, placing one hand on each of his crying child’s shoulders, lovingly squeezing and saying, “It’s alright my child, it’s all over. I’m here to protect you. Rest child.” This is a God of peace, comfort. This is Emmanuel, God with us. But as we look at the picture in Job 38 we’re shocked!

He’s angry with Job, He seems cold a bit hostile, distant. He looks at Job and says, “Who are you, do you even know anything!?” Something’s not right, where’s the comfort? He continues, “Get ready buddy, I’ve got some questions for you now?” If I didn’t know better I would say God is in a bad mood. The questions begin, “Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth, do you know anything about that? Who designed it, you? Do you even know who did? Better yet, what holds the world up? Have you got that one figured out yet?” In a pre-scientific age, those questions were unanswerable to anyone but God himself! So here’s Job crying out to God in anguish and need and God responds with, “Oh what are you whining about, you don’t know anything, but I do.” Job is put in his place, not comforted. God lets Job know how small he is and how Big God is. This is not God With Us, not Emmanuel. I don’t like that picture.

Shall we look at it from a slightly different perspective?

It wasn’t supposed to be a violent affair, but the best laid plans were shattering in front of my eyes and I was the guy in charge of regaining the peace. While I was a student at Baylor, I was a member of the Baylor University Chamber of Commerce. One of our responsibilities was the planning and implementation of the university’s homecoming celebration every year. The festivities begin every year with freshman mass meeting. The entire freshman class gathers in the main auditorium, Waco Hall to hear a heart wrenching tale that forms the basis of the homecoming tradition at Baylor. In January of 1927 the Baylor basketball team, or Cage team as they called it then, loaded onto a bus and headed toward Austin to take on the Longhorns of the University of Texas. The weather was anything but delightful that day and somewhere in Round Rock, the bus found itself onto a railroad track, but never made it across. Before the event was over ten men had lost their lives. Some of them were killed, legend tells us, pushing friends through windows to safety. At Freshman Mass Meeting, the stories of each of the ten are told and then as a small, oil lantern is walked onto the platform and a charge is given to this new class. Their job from this Wednesday evening until Friday evening is to protect this “eternal flame” which symbolizes those immortal ten, while building the bonfire which would be ignited Friday night from this very flame. The symbolism is that the Baylor family unites around the principles exuded by those ten men, sacrifice, Christian love for one another. Immediately following the meeting the freshmen are given the flame, which is carried to the center of campus where a human hedge of protection will be formed around the flame and bonfire construction will begin. In the 48 hours to follow all upper classmen symbolize the trials that test Baylor unity. The symbol is profound, but the activity is playful. Sophomores, Juniors and Seniors at all hours of the night and day barrage the flame guardians with water balloons and super soakers putting the newest members of the Baylor family to the test. The idea is to mount the best attack possible and then step away in admiration and gratitude for those who protect the Baylor tradition. At least, that’s the way it’s supposed to go.

I found myself, a sophomore and first year member of the Baylor Chamber of Commerce holding the graveyard shift watching over the flame protectors and taking care of their needs should any arise. I knew it would be an eventful night as this crew of freshmen appeared to be fiercely competitive. Sometime in the wee hours of the morning a rather large, unruly and most likely intoxicated group of upper classmen who apparently did not understand the tradition came storming from behind a nearby fountain and then more from behind the science building behind us. We were surrounded in all directions. I felt like I was in an old war movie, Flaming arrows were replaced with water balloons as the initial volley came in. War cries were replaced with “Sic “Em Bears!” and other Baylor rally cries. The stillness of the night had been shattered and I couldn’t see how the flame was going to survive this attack. I wondered if the freshmen could hold. As the infantry soldiers approached I could smell alcohol in the air. Super Soaker streams rained down from on high like tears from the angels. In a moment the playful intensity changed like a weather vane flipping from North to South with the first gale of a coming storm. I heard someone scream in pain. He had been knocked to the pavement by a bull rushing upperclassman who had it in mind to simply snuff out the flame with his gloved hands. The freshman jumped up striking back grabbing a fistful of the assailant’s T-shirt and ripping him to the ground. Before I could think, upper classmen were reacting all around me, battle lines had been drawn in earnest violence now. Most of the women, the smarter of the genders, were running away. The more competitive gender stayed for the fight. In that moment I would rather have been anywhere else than in the middle of that crowd. Regardless, it was happening on my watch. The peacefulness and meaningfulness of an age old tradition hung in the balance and I had to fix it.

I started barking orders telling one to call security, another to go back to the dorm. As I reached for my own cell phone I glanced up just in time to see him coming. He had at least 60 pounds on me and from the look of him he knew where the weight room that I could never find was located. There was no question, he was fifteen feet away walking with a wide gate and a scowl on his face that would frighten most NFL linebackers. I didn’t know what he had against me, but he was about to do something about it. In an instant I decided to use the two sharpest weapons in my limited arsenal, my words and my pointer finger. Leveling the finger right in his face I said, “Stop where yhou are, go back to your dorm and sleep it off!” My dad once told me that shooting someone with a .22 caliber pistol wouldn’t stop them from coming at you, it would just make them angrier. I was pretty sure my finger and my words were going to have the same effect. To my amazement he stopped in his tracks and he looked at me as if he had just realized that I meant business and that he was about to enter a world of hurt. I’m not a violent person, but for the moment I was okay with the impression that I might be. As he turned and ran back to wherever he had come from I felt proud of myself. I patted myself on the back for being able to maintain an attractive but also threatening physique, I gloated over the fact that my “official event staff” shirt and walkie talkie earpiece commanded more respect than I thought.

The moment was short lived as I wheeled around to head for my next super hero appointment. Standing behind me was a calm, cool friend also wearing an event staff shirt. He stood about 6’2” weighing in around 280. Chris was a fellow member of the Baylor Chamber of Commerce. Relief mixed with disappointment hit my mind as I realized it had been he who scared away my attacker. Chris’s towering presence calmed the crowd and sent the rowdy crew on their way, but I will never forget that strange mixture of emotion. Fear for what was happening, pride for handling it, shame for being unable to do it alone, gratefulness that I didn’t have to. On that day I saw the picture of God from Job in the microcosm of my friend Chris.

I was in way over my head, world crashing down around me. I needed comforting, but I needed more than that. I needed Chris with me, but I also needed his abilities, his girth. In the same way we can find value in today’s photo. God is with us, that is, imminent, but He is also transcendent, that is beyond us. We need that too don’t we?

A God that is only imminent is no God at all. A God who is only comforter is little more than a divine therapist. He’s a cosmic dose of morphine who makes things feel better, but doesn’t actually make things better. Don’t we need that at times? But don’t we need more? A God who can actually make things better. Our Dr. Phil picture of God needs a backbone. We need to know that he set the foundation of the world and that He alone keeps the world moving. He isn’t controlling, but He is in control. When I turned around and saw Chris standing behind me in that chaotic situation it became very clear that I was not as powerful as I thought. It was humbling, which is precisely what kept me from trying to exert my own power further and getting us all into real trouble. Job gives us a picture of God that humbles us. It isn’t the picture of the softly speaking, lovable father that we all want. It is a picture of a Father raising his voice and demonstrating his power not to make us cower, but so we would remember that He is the source of all good things. The poetic list of things that God can do, but Job can’t is only a small part of the poetry. The lists continue with mighty acts of power that only God can accomplish and these are all things that He does in benevolence toward his creation, toward you and me.

So which will it be? Will you take your God from the photo of the comforting daddy or will you choose the boisterous cosmic power from Job? Fortunately we don’t have to choose. We have to be careful, we have to remember that a snap-shot is not the whole of who God is. It is only a moment in time, a sampling of his revelation, only a part. The God we see putting Job in his place is the same God who says, “Bring the little children to me.” He is at once humbling and uplifting. He is at once loving and powerful. He is imminent and transcendent. He is Emmanuel, God with us. He is also El Shaddai, Sufficient God; God All Powerful.

We satisfy our emotion to know that God will not always seem far away. Soon we will see a picture of Emmanuel, God with us. We will be comforted, consoled, encouraged. We’ll be able to feel good again. Until then we, like Job, ask why? We listen for an answer, but none seems to be coming. We think that if we could just understand the reason for our suffering, how it fits into God’s overall redemptive plan that we might at least feel good about that. That out of our pain comes some good. And so we listen, but we hear nothing. God seems so far away. This is not Emmanuel. We don’t feel good about this. Nevertheless we are thankful because the picture we see at the moment is El-Shaddai; a God who is doing something in and with and through our suffering. A God who can scoop us up and say, “It’s alright my child,” must also be able to stand in the face of all that wants to harm us and make everything alright. And yet a God who is strong enough to save us cannot do so without also comforting us. Today we express faith in a big God and we give thanks for the other side of grace.

-Brent

10/18/09

Statement of Faith

I've never liked writing a statement of faith because I feel like it limits my ability to change my mind. However, my first assignment this semester was to write out a one page statement of faith. So, here it is......

I believe in the loving, outstretched arms of God. Like a mother bending down to catch the children bolting into her arms after a long day of school, I believe God’s arms are always open and ready for an embrace. However, children do not always notice their parent’s presence. Thus some parents are left standing with their arms reaching out, merely waiting for their children to notice them. God’s arms are always open to his children; whether they know it or not, his children are always within his outstretched arms.

I believe all are beloved children of God. I believe God stretches out his hands to all people. All people are children of God. All people are loved by God. All people receive God’s grace. Looking back upon Christian history and looking at stances some Christians take today, I think this statement is a particularly important part of my faith. God’s love is not dependent on our actions. God’s love is. God’s love is not dependent on the color of our skin. God’s love is not dependent on a political stand. God’s love is not dependent on sexual orientation. God’s love is because we are all children of God.

I believe the stories, parables, poems, songs, etc. of the Christian Scriptures are an important way in which God reveals His grace to us. Beginning with the coming together of the Torah, God has had his hand in scripture. Despite the fact that many other religious texts circulate in our world, from the beginning it has always been clear that there is something “extra” about the God found in the Christian Scriptures. There is something about the God of the Christian Scriptures that stands above and beyond the gods of other religious documents – his grace. Through the original telling/writing of the stories, through the assembling of the Christian canon, and through the faithful readers of the text, God has had his hand in helping people understand his gracious, outstretched arms.

I believe that God joins us in the dances of life through the presence of the Holy Spirit – guiding us, teaching us, and dancing with us, as we seek to understand what it means to live in this kingdom. Once again, the outstretched arms of God never fail us. This time, they come in the form of a dance partner – someone to help us dance through the triumphs and trials of life. Through the Holy Spirit, God’s grace meets us where we are and joins us in our dance through life, helping us along the way to find, receive, and in return, share the grace of God. However, the presence of the Holy Spirit also helps us to understand the importance of community. Just as the Holy Spirit comes to partner with us in the dance of life, so should we join together with our brothers and sisters, arm in arm dancing through the wonders of life.

-Anna

A Day at the Lake House

The 55 minutes that it took to get there from our house seemed like an eternity. On any given summer weekend my sister Celeste and I would have been looking forward to the trip since the same, the weekend prior. We’d head out as early on Friday evening as we could after dad got home from work. We’d play “I spy” or yell at each other for crossing the line in the middle of the back seat all the way. After a while we would take the exit off of old highway 175 and head in toward the “bumpy road.” It was a black-top street in such a state of disrepair that dangerous speeds were impossible to reach. For that reason, this marked the point in the trip that we got to take our seatbelts off. Nothing is more liberating for an 8 year old than to be set free from the bonds of safety restraints. It also meant we were only a few minutes away. In our teenage years this was the point in the journey where Celeste and I would tell our guests how much they were going to love our family’s glorious lake house and promptly pull up to the most wretched looking water-front double wide we could find along the road and announce, “here we are!” After a quick snap shot of the attempted cordial gestures from our friends we would head on down the road to my personal childhood paradise. Down Box road and then Welch lane, there it was at the water’s edge. It was a humble place, but always immaculately groomed and beautifully landscaped. This was Grandad’s lakehouse. In fact, he was always the first person through the front door to greet us in the driveway. According to Grandad’s unspoken rules you had exactly 3.8 seconds to unload luggage, change clothes, dash to the dock and take a jet ski for a spin. We finally got smart and starting wearing our suits in the car on the way and packing light. This was the place that Grandad seemed most to be Grandad, I probably wouldn’t find much dissent among the family. A day at the lake characterizes Grandad about as well as anything can.

Mornings at the lake consisted of everyone sleeping as late as possible. Everybody that is, except for one. When we finally did drag ourselves out of one of the numerous beds in the house we were greeted with sweetest smell I can remember. Sitting on the table (I’m getting some nods from those who know) were quite possibly the greatest sweet rolls ever to grace the planet. One by one everyone found their way to the dining table for a bite. Some drug themselves sleepily in and others came running, swimsuit already dripping, but we all got there. Grandad was always the first up, the first to the lake. He had to make sure that things were ready. I don’t know how many hours of solitary work for him went into those weekends and parties. There was always a boat that wasn’t running quite right or a jet ski to get fueled up. It wasn’t just lake guests who knew the lengths that Grandad would go to improve the lives of others. I’m always hearing from his former patients that they never have since and likely never will find a doctor so involved, so caring. A day at the lake couldn’t even begin without Grandad’s special brand of love.

After hardly even having had time to let the sweet rolls settle, Grandad would whisk past with a boat key in his hand saying, “Whose ready to ski.” For all of his virtues we’ll not pretend that Grandad was a particularly patient man, no the daytime was not for sitting. Mid-morning and afternoon at the lake house were for Grandad’s guests to work themselves into a very keen sort of exhaustion. The hammock hanging just beyond the back porch was there merely to symbolize rest, not to actually facilitate it. We used to have a line to tie the jet skis to near the boat dock as a way of keeping them rotating from one rider to the next all day. At times we would use the Williams’s water toys from next door as well. I remember times when there were 6 or 8 jet skis in play simultaneously as well as two ski boats. If even one motor were silenced Grandad couldn’t stand the waste. An idle motor at the lake meant an idol guest, which in turn meant that somebody wasn’t having as much fun as they could be having. This was an intolerable injustice. It wasn’t uncommon for people decades younger than Grandad to be completely outdone, even undone by his energy and vitality. If there was anyone who thought they could be his equal, they threw in the towel seeing him ski past the house on the occasion of his 70^th birthday.

I do vaguely remember going to see Grandad at his office near Doctor’s hospital, but he retired before my first really clear memories were developed. Even without memory of that stage of his life, it doesn’t take a lot to see that he met everything he ever did with the same energy and enthusiasm he showed at the lake. Earlier this week in Munday, Texas a man whose name I remember as Jack Knuckles related a story about just that. He remembered being on a trip with Grandad where they were dancing in a ballroom downstairs in the same hotel where they were staying. It seems that when many of the dancers were done with the fun for the evening, Grandad would often just keep going with munner and anyone else that would join in. The story involved stealing keys from maids and other scandalous shenanigans that don’t bear mentioning here, but one night in just such an instance it seems those who had already turned in for the night took Munner and Grandad’s mattress and hid it in a different room. They took the bed dressings and made up the box spring to look like a mattress. To their surprise Grandad never did call them out on their prank, but when they saw him in the morning he was holding his neck and said, “That’s the hardest damn bed I’ve ever slept on.” Yes, even to his own detriment Grandad lived with an inspiring vitality.

Back at the lakehouse when we were all run so ragged we could barely stand, it was time to hit the rocking chairs on the porch and watch the sun set. Some of the sweetest moments with family and friends have taken place in those rockers. We’d look back over the events of the day, snack on Orange Crush ice cream, congratulate whoever had learned to water ski on that particular day and just BE together. It was then as the sun dropped low and cast its many colors across the choppy waters that the essence of time spent at the lake was found. In many ways we’ve experienced the setting of the sun for a couple of years now as our Grandad, dad, husband and friend has slipped gradually away. In these times we’ve seen the essence of a man come through brighter than they might have been able to at other times. My wife, Anna will tell you that my Grandad fell in love with her more times than even I have. I fell for her nearly six years ago now and I’ve loved her ever since. Shortly after we were married Grandad’s memory started to fail him. About a year after the wedding he advised me that I’d better hurry up and marry her before she got away. After that every time he met her he asked, “My God, who is that gorgeous young lady?”

“Well, Grandad that’s my wife.” I would tell him.

“Well what are you doing with him?” He would inevitably say. On and on. It’s true Grandad fell in love with my wife more times than I ever did. Indeed some of the sweetest moments in this long day at the lake that started on July 7, 1925 have come while watching the sun set over these last months.

Nobody ever wanted a day at the lake to end, but that kind of activity was tiring. At some point we all had to say goodnight. So here we are, today we say, “Thanks for a great day Granddad. Thanks and goodnight!”

That was the great thing about the lake though. After every beautiful sunset and night of rest, the morning always came and there was more fun to be had. Today we say our goodbyes, but when the sun comes up we’ll find that Grandad isn’t gone. His sharp wit lives on in a daughter whose sense of humor is the delight of any gathering. He is here in a son who carries on a caring profession in a way that only a Bowden can. He is with us in a son who sees things as they really are and isn’t afraid to say so. He lives on in a son whose work ethic is the envy of his whole family and his co-workers. We’ll see him in a son who carries his fun-loving spirit, he’s the guy who taught me to juggle. I’ll still have him in 27 years at Anna and my 30^th wedding anniversary when I say, “Here’s to 30 more just like Munner and Granddad.” You’ve got something there too don’t you. Everyone here, friend, former patient, grandkid, everyone. We’ve all got Ben Bowden stories. So for now we say goodnight Granddad. But when the dawn breaks, we’ll all pull up to the table each in his or her own time and say, “Pass the sweet rolls.”

Granddad's Graveside

Indeed this day, we are glad. Shall we count the reasons why? No, I’m afraid it’s too hot and we would be here too long. Would you simply indulge me in a few short memories I’ve heard over the last few days as we’ve reflected on the life of Ben Bowden.

When we begin to make that characterization we have to reflect a number of outstanding qualities, a few quirky traits, perhaps a turn of the phrase or two, and one icy refreshing beverage. No, it is no secret that Grandad made the best margaritas found this side of…some landmark where they make really really good margaritas. That’s a silly thing to remember about someone at a time such as this, or maybe it isn’t. Is it any surprise that his margaritas where the best around? Isn’t this the man who worked tirelessly, I’m told often manicuring the yard during his lunch break home from the office wearing his slacks, neck tie and physician’s coat? Weekends and days off were spent caring for a farm or for his lake house with equal determination. He knew what he wanted and how he wanted it and by the sweat of his own brow, he made it happen. Is there any wonder his margaritas were the best?

You know there’s something more though. We don’t sit and have drinks in solitude. Margaritas are about friendship, fun, togetherness. We might think of gathering around a piano late at night overlooking the boat dock at Cedar Creek or on the landing at Christmas time all requesting song titles. Show tunes, hymns, he knew them all as long they were older than me and then some. Even more likely we might think about those encounters that most of us with the Bowden name have had. People hear the name and say, “Are you related to Dr. Bowden in Dallas. He was a wonderful doctor, they don’t care for you anymore the way he used to.” My wife and I have heard reports from as far away as Waco, that for one of our friends in her childhood days, somehow my grandfather made the prospect of getting a shot in the backside somehow tolerable. If it wasn’t his bedside manner, it was his ability to teach someone to water ski. Is there anyone here who didn’t learn to water ski from my granddad? There may be a few, but that’s only because he didn’t have the chance to get you in the water. I can be certain of that fact because, if he had gotten you in the water and you hadn’t gotten up on those skis you would still be floating around out there in the lake. Those were the rules, you will ski – period! If I’m not being asked about Dr. Bowden the physician I’m being asked about Dr. Bowden the water ski coach who has now gotten over half of the population of the continental US up on those little skis tied together at the front. If you do or ever have carried the name Bowden, you’ve had more of these experiences than you can remember. Reflecting on show tunes, bedside manner and waterskiing makes me wonder about that quality in Grandad’s margaritas, do you suppose that while Ben loved them, he must have loved the friendships; the commradery that came along even more?

Take a lot of hard work, an inspiring amount of dedication and a heartful of love for time spent with family and friends, blend them all up and pour them in a glass with a little salt around the rim and you’ve got my grandfather, Ben Bowden. Today we commit him back with these words:

“Forasmuch as it has pleased Almighty God in great mercy

to receive the life of our beloved Ben Wanslee Bowden,

we hereby commit his body to the grave,

earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,

in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life

through Jesus Christ Our Lord.

‘Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord,

says the Spirit,

That they may rest from their labors

And their works follow them.’”

May we pray?

-Brent Bowden