Molto Bene Music

There is something deeply fascinating about music. Permit me to be Captain Obvious for a moment, but not everyone on this earth likes the same kind of music - but it is hard to find people that don't like any kind of music. The older a person gets, the more that person dislikes the current popular form of rhythm and melody. In the '50s, parents were upset with the 'devil' music called rock-and-roll. When you hear the oldies from that time period now, how in the wide world of sports did my grandparents think that was music from the devil. It all sounds the same - kind of happy and bouncy. Then, along with the accouterments of Vietnam war time rabble rousing, the Hippie years of music occurred. Sex, drugs and rock-and-roll. Music took on an edgy, overtly rebellious tone. Parents of Baby-boomers hated that. My parents, if I read them correctly, had no real love for '80s music, or even worse, the mosh-pit filled grunge of the '90s. Today, as my children grow up, I find myself closing my ears to hip-hop and country music, not because I find them offensive, but I am a lyric driven listener. Country music, in my very limited knowledge, offers limited themes of abandonment by women, dogs and pick-up trucks, and I can only listen to short bursts of how many times I will be "sexed up, baby." I'm beginning to become the same older man I only dreamed about.

I don't know what it is about music that moves people. I can define what I don't like but it is similarly hard to describe what I do like. The genre of music is less important than what the melody and lyrical rhythm is. Music done well is much better than music well done. Just like steak done well tickles my taste buds, music well done - overcooked or smothered with too much sauce or marinade, makes my mouth revolt. Music done well is simple but sounds complicated. Music well done is overbearing, overpowering to my ears. I can't separate the instruments; I am unable to detect the lilts of the voice.

Another thing about music that fascinates me is that there is an infinite number of songs that can be written using exactly the same 12 notes. Because rhythm, melody and lyric can be changed and interchanged, songs are never the same twice - No two people can play the same song the same way. You can always tell when there is an impostor.

In high school (well, not really limited to high school) my brother and I enjoyed the opportunity to switch places at times. As identical twins, we often confused teachers and administrators. Friends and classmates had no problems telling us apart; my brother had a mole on one of his ears for years and, of course, I was the better looking one. Frequently we would fool those who didn't know us all that well including: people at church who ceased to attempt to tell us apart just calling us Reidryan and double dates. I won't get into the full description of that story at this point but the the ending of that missive ends with Ryan staring at me in disbelief and Ryan's girlfriend slapping me across the face. I digress.

One beautiful spring, April 1, if I remember, of 1991 - our senior year of high school, my brother and I thought it prudent to switch seats in all classes to see if the administration could tell the difference. Actually we switched in all classes except one class, my dad's business class. I'm pretty sure that he could tell us apart. But, our mischief included band class. This one time, in band class... My brother played trombone and I, saxophone. Because we each had our instruments at home to practice once per year, we often picked up the other's instrument and tried them out. Gradually we learned the notes, but I was truly not much of a trombonists. But, on this fated April Fool's day, we entered the band room full of spit and vinegar hoping to add Ms. Tuecke to our list of "fools". I went to the cupboard and grabbed my brother's trombone; he found my saxophone. Adding to the pressure of the day, my brother was first trombone and I first saxophone meaning we each played the hardest parts respective to our instruments. Warming up was no problem. There were a few giggles in the trombone section. They of course could tell us apart. Ms. Tuecke shushed us wanting to practice - so far so good. We began to play but I was only playing half the notes and they weren't really sounding that good. I was faking it really well, so I thought. After the first song was finished, Ms. Tuecke announced that we would be doing a new song that we hadn't practiced yet. It was a song that had a trombone solo and, you already know where this is going, the solo was promised to the first trombonist. Grabbing the bull by the horns, we plodded forward and when the solo arrived I did my best but the band, knowing something was up, laughed uproariously and I noticed that my brother's neck had turned a nice shade of tomato red.

This analogy can go multiple different ways but I choose this way. Even though my brother and I looked alike - even though we act in similarly ways - even though by first inspection we can pass for the other, we cannot fool people by the music that we produce. I could no more fool Ms. Tuecke than I could myself. The master of music knows.

You've already guessed where I'm going but I push forward as Captain Obvious. We can fake being Christ-like for only so long. We can look like other Christians, we can watch and imitate, but what song comes forth is telling. Romans 7:20 Now if I do what I do not want, it is no longer I that do it, but sin that dwells within me. So I find it to be a law that when I want to do what is good, evil lies close at hand. For I delight in the law of God in my inmost self, but I see in my members another law at war with the law of my mind, making me captive to the law of sin that dwells in my members. I know what it is that I want to do, but my actions - the very music of my life speaks otherwise and the master of music can see right through me. I can only fake my Christian life for so long. I can only look like a Christian because my sinful self dwells within my flesh.

It is at this point when I turn again to my Savior Jesus Christ the rescuer and perfecter of my faith. Galatians 2 19,20: For through the law I died to the law, so that I might live to God. I have been crucified with Christ; and it is no longer I who lives, but it is Christ who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God. Even though my sinful self comes out time and time again and unleashes great unfaithfulness, I am chained in death to Christ Jesus. The law that condemns gives birth to the grace that forgives and as I move about in my own song of life, it is Christ who moves me.

Grace and peace this week. Next week a move toward college years.

The Blunder Years

I was an awkward middle-schooler. My parents bought for me my first pair of glasses when I was in fourth grade. They were big for my face, brown, plastic - perhaps you remember the '80's spectacles that extended not only over your eyes but covered eyebrows and cheekbones also. I had brown wavy hair that never really stayed in the middle part. I wanted to have hair like Sam Malone from Cheers; my favorite actor was Burt Reynolds a.k.a. Bandit from Smokey and the Bandit. It wasn't until my early twenties when I realized that both Sam and Bandit wore hairpieces. I was well acquainted with acne pads. My face broke out when I just looked at girls. Hormones are a strange thing and awkward young lads all look forward to the day when their voices stop cracking and they stopped worrying about hair in the armpits.



In the midst of trying to understand what my body was doing to me, I tried to comprehend what God had in store for me. It was at this point in my life when I attended Bible Camp for the first time. There was an excitement traveling that hour and fifteen minutes to Okoboji Lutheran Bible Camp. This first time (of course my brother and sister went with me), I was nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. What would the kids be like? Would they be nerds like me? Would we sit around praying the whole time? Would there be all sorts of bugs flying around the cabins?



As it turned out, all of those were true to a certain extent. I think in some aspects, Jr. high kids are supposed to be nerds - in the very lovable sense of the word. Jr. high kids are all struggling to find their place in life. They are looking for acceptance. They are looking for stability in a shifting world. They are looking simply for someone to love them as they are rather than who they are about to become. The kids that attended Okoboji with me were all in the same boat. Most of them had parents who wanted to get away from their kids off for a week. Most of them were struggling with self-image. Most of them were nervous about the Bible - something read to them every week on Sundays, but still somewhat of a mystery as to why it made any difference in a world full of stampeding hormones. We did pray, but what was absolutely fascinating to me was that the counselors believed that prayer was important; we prayed, it seemed, fifty times a day and it wasn't the ordinary prayer "God's neat, let's eat." No, no. They were five minute prayers that called on the "Lord" fifteen times and asked God to "just" do it. We called them "Lord just" prayers. But the prayers never seemed forced; they "just" leaked out from counselors, former nerds themselves who had turned into devout college students. They were cool even to the point where emulating them seemed more important than Ted Danson or Burt Reynolds.



There were bugs, not the cockroachy kind that made my skin crawl, or the hand sized centipedes from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom that gave me nightmares until I was 31. Now I have a whole new set of nightmares that include eight legged pseudo-insects and onions. My friends, in high school, dared me to attend the movie "Arachnophobia" and I have been scarred since. I digress. No, mostly the bugs were the kind that made high pitched screaming noises at night and bit my arms and legs. As I look back now, mosquitoes really didn't bother me that much. I was too fascinated with Amy.



Amy was my first kiss. And that, my friends, is really what Bible camp is all about. Of course I'm joking, but when the parents are away, the children will play. I'm not even sure I should even share my first kiss story, perhaps she might even read this someday and not even remember. But first kisses are something I hope everyone remembers. I remember the first kiss I had with Christine but I'm not going to write about that here. This blog is full if digressions.



Talk about awkward. I'd known Amy all of three days but the end of the camp week was drawing near. We knew that we liked each other. I mean, we had talked for at least two hours a day and had sat across the table and meal time. I'm pretty sure my counselor and her counselor knew what was going on but for some reason they didn't say anything. They just kind of smirked at each other once in a while. Now that I think about it, I wonder if there was something going on between them? It was all so innocent. After day two, we had held hands - in the dark of course - we did not want everyone to see us and certainly we did not want the typical childish chant "Reid and Amy sittin' in a tree" hanging around us all the time. It was a natural progression and everyone needs a first kiss, although I'm perfectly willing for my own daughters to wait until college. At the campfire on the third night, around 9:14, on the back bench, I leaned over simply to whisper in Amy's ear something to make her giggle, when she suddenly turned to me and our noses knocked together and our lips accidentally brushed. She had braces, I did not. But I think I hit her lips hard enough that the braces cut in. She was embarrassed, I think. I forgot what I was supposed to whisper and she turned her face back to the fire. I sat backed and looked at the canopy of leaves over the fire in new wonder. Now I was a man. Even though she was a 7th grader, I had kissed my first woman .



Amy didn't talk to me the rest of the week.



But it was a new world for me. My eyes were opened like Adam and Eve - not in a 'let's be like God' kind of way - but new knowledge meant that I could not go back to the way I was before. My brain and heart were being stretched in all directions at Bible camp. Not only did I experience my first kiss but I experienced my first brush with God also. There was something completely exciting about encountering God on a daily basis. During the chapel sessions I could feel his breath. During mealtimes I could hear his laughter everywhere. During my Bible reading I could almost see his finger underlining the words as I began to read. It was completely the opposite of my Confirmation experience (which I'll explain in detail next week). God was becoming real to me. God was putting on a semblance of flesh - Jesus was someone I could relate to - he was someone that seemed prepared to interact with an awkward young boy like me. Jesus was someone who was prepared to stand up for me and all the other nerds in 7th grade. I felt a camaraderie with counselors who were showing us a living God.



And I couldn't turn back to the ignorance of my youth. No longer could I just pretend that God was an irrelevance. No longer could I ignore the movement of the Spirit in the world. No longer could I turn my back on a Savior who wanted to speak with me. The world was "just" different. And so I stood at a crossroads of life. Boyhood and Adulthood - not physically or mentally but spiritually. I had encountered God and there was no going back.

The Big Mystery

I was nervous.

For weeks my 1st communion class had been studying the Lutheran understanding of the sacrament of communion. As a fifth grader, I had little knowledge of big words in general, but throw in 'communion', 'Eucharist', 'sacrament', and 'Lutheran', and it's a wonder my head didn't start to spontaneously bleed. My parents were fulfilling their baptismal duties (another word that stymied me) by bringing the three of us to learn how the Lord's Supper offered something special to all who ate it. Any time the Pastor said the words "The Lord's Supper," I kept imaging that Charlton Heston would come out from behind the altar with a couple of tablets - it was that serious.

I think the rest of the class - the twelve others, a nice holy number - was feeling the same way. To me, it looked like we were just eating a small white piece of cardboard and a sip of (gasp!) wine, the same stuff we were supposed to avoid like the plague at home. The Pastor (I capitalize the name because we never would call the Pastor by his first name. For years I thought the church could only hire men with the same first name - Pastor.) would speak some words over the bread and the wine and voila! bread and wine turns into body and blood. Magic.

For some reason, when kids are brought up in church, it's easier to explain Jesus in a way that is more magical than miraculous. The stories that are told most often are the miracles but they are told in a way that leaves kids scratching their heads. "Was this guy like David Copperfield? I've seen David Copperfield make the Eiffel Tower disappear, surely Jesus could do that, right?" So, Jesus can walk on water - it must be magic. So, Jesus can turn five loaves of bread and two fish into a valid meal for thousands of people - it must be magic. So, Jesus can curse a tree right in front of the disciples eyes - it must be magic. There is no other possible explanation.

With any hypothesis, which a learned in school (after I learned what that big word meant), it must be tested. The hypothesis was, "Jesus was an excellent magician." So, to test it, I tried to replicate what Jesus did. I soon became drenched by failing to transnavigate the ducks' watering pond made of our old, used plastic swimming pool. I borrowed a loaf of bread and a frozen fish from the freezer in the basement (when my parents were preoccupied with something else, of course) and attempted to have them replicate. I could save my parents a whole lot of grocery money throughout the year if I could just figure out how he did it. Then, of course, I spent an entire afternoon picking out the right tree in the backyard to curse. I didn't use any really nasty words: I didn't think my parents would have approved of that. And, I'm pretty sure the tree didn't die because I was a bit squeamish about actually cursing something so beautiful to death. That one at least I could explain why it didn't work.

But then again, I couldn't explain the mystery of communion either. That is the word the Pastor kept referring to over and over - mystery. It is a mystery how the word added to the elements changes anything. The bread and wine still look the same even after the Pastor raises his hands and says the words. It had to be magic, then. I wasn't prepared to test this hypothesis because it would have been difficult to get my hands on the little wafer things and a nice bottle of burgundy.

I was nervous.

Our first communion Sunday; we were dressed to the nineteens. Slowly our classes was paraded to the front - some excited, some hesitant. The communion servers were very serious. Frowns were plastered on to their faces - very serious - we couldn't mess this up. This wasn't the Olympics - there was no semi-final round. We had already been told that if we didn't take communion seriously, soul-threatening consequences would follow. (I don't really remember that but it sure seemed like it was implied.) The Bread Server came to me and I raised my outstretched hands for the first time to receive the Body of Jesus Christ. I took the small, beige colored wafer in my small fingers and placed it on my tongue. Aghast, I realized that the wafer was stuck to my tongue. With horror, I tried to scrape the wafer off against the roof of my mouth when, lo and behold, the wafer became lodged into the very upper recesses of my mouth. I looked around and noticed that most of my classmates to were experiencing the same problem. Brian Elwood was digging around with his fingers trying to free the wafer. The thought then came to my head, "Jesus is stuck to the roof of my mouth and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it." The Wine Server came next. I looked right and saw that Brian had successfully freed Jesus' body from his upper palate with his finger and was relishing every last drop of wine - in fact, he was slurping the last excesses from the cup as the Cup Catcher was walking by and trying to take the little cup from his hands.

The wine came to me. With shaking hands I received the cup and then, unfortunately, my mind made the assessment, "Jesus' body is stuck to the roof of my mouth and now I'm going to flush it down my throat with his blood." Closing my eyes, I raised the small cup to my mouth, and first tasted the warm wine on my tongue. It's strange tangy sweetness made me shiver but as I swallowed it, I realized that Jesus' body remained steadfastly clinging right behind my teeth. I tried to pry it down with my tongue, but my tongue felt numb from the wine. There was nothing that I could do but return to my seat and hope that the body of Jesus would soon find it's way from the top of my mouth to the bottom of my stomach.

What I learned from my first communion experience was that Jesus was hard to swallow - body and blood - physically in communion. But as I grow older, I realize that Jesus' whole existence is hard to swallow. C. S. Lewis rights in his book 'Mere Christianity,' "We are faced, then, with a frightening alternative. This man we are talking about either was (and is) just what he said or else a lunatic, or something worse." A lunatic or a magician. Jesus is hard to swallow for me, as a ten year old, and me, as a thirty-five year old pastor. How (and why) would God care enough about me, an insignificant cog in the large machinery of life, to preserve me, and everyone else, through one saving act of all time?

I've come to believe that it's a mystery. Faith isn't a sensory input. I am glad that the bread and wine don't actually begin to look like muscles and blood. I am content to physically taste bread and wine but spiritually be uplifted by God's grace-filled sacrifice. I am content to explore the physical mysteries of the universe, how a caterpillar goes in and a winged insect comes out. Science may be able to tell me how all that happens but the mystery is, why it does that happen? And I think that comes from God's love for the entire world and for God's love of mystery. I need some mystery in my life - it keeps things interesting. Mystery inspires people - it sends us out to do extraordinary things. Mystery reminds us that we are not the only thing on God's mind. Mystery allows us to live in expectation of something next. If there was no mystery, there would be no hope or faith. If there was no mystery, life would not be near so interesting.

This week, I am writing down a listen of things that confounds me, causes me to sit up and dream a while. Then, I'm trying to ask the questions "Why?" and "How?" did God do this. By asking these questions, whether I answer them or not, allows me to seek out God's hand in a mysterious world.