The more I learn about the bible the more I realize isn’t actually in it and so the less I have to get upset about.
Someone I respect a great deal told me how much she wished her pastor gave an invitation every Sunday. She’s older and wiser than I am. She’s someone who’s given me answers when I’ve needed them. We know each other well, I’m very comfortable with her, so when I’m with her I just speak without thinking. I told her I didn’t have a beef with invitations really but that they’re not in the bible so they’re not essential I guess. Praying a prayer to become a Christian isn’t in the bible either. There’s not a formula for salvation either other than “repent and believe” or “sell your possessions and give to the poor” or “you must be born again.” Also absent are the four spiritual laws, grouped together in four easy steps. No “first admit this, then believe that, now say this, now you’re going to heaven.” Jesus doesn’t even talk much about going to heaven, though it certainly exists. So, Jesus never gave an invitation, not like the one I grew up seeing every Sunday, not like the one my friend wants to see more of. Not ever.
And when the conversation was over I felt two things. I felt like, in all the excitement over what I’ve learned gradually over the last decade, I’d said too much all at once. And I also felt like I’d peed on the cross, like I’d done something very heretical and wrong.
Becky and my dad have been reading The Shack and it’s got us talking a lot about how we and those we know have reacted to some of the more unorthodox ideas in it - about how we’re to react in general to ideas that differ in big and small ways from our preconceived notions about God (or politics or parenting or health). Some people won’t start the book. They’ve heard it’s heretical, that God is a woman, a black woman who cooks greens and, well, that’s just nonsense. Others have started it but quit when the ideas got “weird” or they started to doubt their own and got scared. And some people, like my dad, finish it and fearlessly ponder.
Seth Godin, a marketing leader and accidental theologian, writes in his newest book Tribes that fundamentalism is the opposite of curiosity. He says “A fundamentalist is a person who considers whether a fact is acceptable to his religion before he explores it.” He says a curious person “explores first and then considers whether or not he wants to accept the ramifications.”
The more curious I become the more unorthodox I discover my previously orthodox beliefs to be, the more unbiblical my so-called biblical traditions are. And the more I learn about why they persist anyway, despite not being truly biblical or orthodox. Last night, Gabriella (age 8) started asking me some tough questions about heaven and hell and what it means to be a Christian. I was so tempted to do to her what was was done to me. It would have been easy to ask her if she wanted to go to hell or heaven and then lead her in a prayer when she said - as any sane person would - that she prefers the perfection of heaven to burning for eternity. It’s harder to put eight-year-old words to ideas I’ve only begun to understand as an adult.
These are the uncomfortable ramifications of thinking heretically, of being curious.
A couple of updates for you guys. I know you’re trembling with anticipation, on the edge of your proverbial seat and whatnot: “When’s Shaun going to update us on stuff,” I know you’ve been saying. Daily. I know. So here you go.
1. The next trip I’ll be taking with Compassion International is April 26-May 2 with Compassion Bloggers. We’re heading to India - Calcutta. I’m told it’s the worst poverty I will have seen. And we’re needing some resilient bloggers with the gifts of empathy and story-telling to join us. Interested? Go here and sign up and I’ll check out your blog and choose our bloggers soon. Thanks, in advance for all your prayers for this trip.
2. Thank you for spreading the word about Kingdom Coming, the new free song of mine available at shaungroves.com/freemusic since November 4th. Lots of you have blogged about it, e-mailed it to friends, Twittered it, Facebooked it (is that a valid verb?). Because of YOU the song continues to be downloaded 200 times a day on average. That’s incredible! Thank you! More free music is on its way in 2009.
3. The Christmas tour (Gloria!) was a success. Over 500 kids were sponsored at our few shows in December, thanks largely to the drawing power of the Barry Manilow of Christian music (He really likes being called this about as much as I like being called skinny so do it often, m’kay?) and Cindy Morgan...and many of you who came to those shows and sponsored children. Thank you. I’m booking solo shows for 2009 as I type - well, Ben is booking them as I type. So, if you’re interested in having me come out to your neck of the woods to sing and/or speak, just drop Ben a line. It’s free if I can talk about Compassion...and I’m not coming at all if I can’t. Also, Travis and I are teaming up - sort of - for a special event this month. I’ll let you know about that when it gets closer.
4. My busted rib was feeling a little better until a couple nights ago when I was attacked by terrorists of some sort. I was running from some bad people in a dream who were using a new weapon. It was a black ball. It was shiny so it reflected stuff around it, making it harder to see when thrown at you. If it touched you, it stuck, and then sent out a signal giving your coordinates to the bad guys who then came to get you. And you couldn’t run. The ball would detonate if you moved more than 2 inches. So, I’m running and I think I’ve made it to safety, a long alley with no bad guys in sight and then, out of a doorway steps a guy in all black throwing one of these ball things at me. It was smaller than I thought it would be so I didn’t recognize what it was until the last second. To avoid the thing I became a human “c.” I threw my arms up and out at an angle, curved my abdomen in and the ball whizzed by. Thing is, when I did this in my dream, I did it in my bed, slamming my hands into the wall and doing what pretty much amounted to the mother of all stomach crunches - with a broken rib. Terrorists, in case you weren’t convinced before, are evil, even in dreams. Especially in dreams.
5. We bought a new couch and we have an old one and three chairs to get rid of. Our church doesn’t want them. Goodwill won’t pick them up. Becky wants to leave them at the curb in hopes that someone will just pick them up and use them. MY fear is that, well, this is Tennessee, and I’m not so sure that in these parts a couch and chairs in the front yard really says “Take me, I’m free” as much as it says, “Cousins marry here.” Any advice from the Nashvillians in the crowd about how exactly to give away much large furniture?
I woke up to the sound of my two oldest kids singing - no, screaming - in the kitchen. In harmony.
I’m alive! And the world shines for me today
I’m alive! Suddenly I am here today
Why did my children start their day by belting out these words from the Xanadu Soundtrack?
First of all, their mother is home. This, apparently, makes them happy. There have been no tears. Only lots and lots of singing.
Second, their mother does not like radio and instead uses time in the mini van to expose our children to music she wishes stations would play. And stuff from her childhood. This batch of tunes includes, but is definitely not limited to, music from the Brady Kids, Dolly Parton, Katrina and the Waves, Michael Jackson, and the soundtrack to Xanadu. THese songs are their only palette for self expression. It’s sad really. Pray for their emotional and creative development daily.
Third, they are grateful that, despite three days of eating dad’s cooking, they are in fact alive.
I play and/or speak 100 times a year nowadays. That’s a lot of goodbyes. And every one of them is the same. A hug. A kiss. A brief explanation of where I’m going and how long I’ll be there.
“I love you.”
“I love you too, Daddy.”
And I’m out the door. And my kids are on the couch eating breakfast - seemingly unaffected.
Becky left this morning to visit her sister in New York City and her goodbye last night was a little different. There was some whining, some sniffling, a little worry on three small faces as if to say: Don’t leave us alone with this man, Mommy. What will we eat? What will we wear? What will we do without you? He can’t match clothes and forgets to eat sometimes - are you aware of this?
I recognize the fear. I remember my mom leaving me alone with my dad one weekend when I was smallish. I remember eating shiny plasticky dry pancakes and drinking the wrong kind of milk. I remember a bedtime that felt earlier than usual, bath water that didn’t run deep enough, a wake up that involved a bugle call and no back rubbing.
[Note to self: Leave saxophone in the attic for the next few days and do not attempt pancakes.]
But I can do things Mom can’t or won’t do. I’ll show them.
I can wrestle. I can put a tent in the living room. I can smack talk during board games and wrestling and, for no good reason, while putting up a tent in the living room. I can fry pork chops and thinly sliced potatoes and onions. I can tolerate the mall. The. Mall.
I can play in the creek at the park and throw large stones into the middle of it and convincingly pretend they’re cannon balls fired by pirates. I can fill a head with pony tails in about a minute.
I can burp. Very loudly. And fart. Also very loudly.
I lack the compassion for caged animals that keeps my wife out of pet stores and zoos. I can touch bugs and feed them to our Venus Flytrap.
I can play any song on the piano that little people want to dance to - including, but not limited to Hey Ya!, Canon in D and Viva La Vida. I can eat Chick-fil-A for every meal and I’m willing to go down the slide on their playground.
I can and will do these things for the next couple days. And the kids will cry when mom comes home. Not that I want anyone to cry or that I need the validation; I’m just saying it’s a possibility. That’s all. A very strong possibility.
