Coveting Another's...

In the last few months I have discovered what covet truly means. As a good and faithful Sunday School attendee all my childhood and youth I knew it was one of the top ten. I found it a bit silly; no one could want what someone else has so badly the want will send them to Hell.

I grew up.

I have worked in a profession that is also my passion for 23 years.

Then my friend Dave quit his job and retreated to a cabin in the Rocky Mountains to edit the novel he had written on a previous sabbatical.

I covet his experience.

The introvert me covets the isolation.

The exhausted me covets the time.

The stressed-out me covets the escape.

Every time I encounter an unexpected situation; every time the stress begins to build, my mind asks, “where’s my cabin?” Coyotes, bears, and hailstorms be damned - they’re easier to deal with than people. I ponder the question, “what would happen if I loaded the car and left?”

The answer is immediate: the student loan people will still track me down.

The fantasy ends that quickly, but the coveting does not. I have been working in my house lately to build my own cabin. The garage (too small for a car, I don’t know what the builders were thinking) is becoming a workshop for handiwork crafts. My office finally has enough shelving that I do not have piles of books covering most of the floor, and as soon as I refinish the old wooden desk I have, I will have my personal reading and writing space. I do what I can with what I have.

None of this is far removed from society - I still hear the planes arriving and departing. There are no wild creatures - there are roommates. It is not the high altitudes of Colorado, but when my mind asks for a cabin, I’ll have an answer and maybe the coveting will move to wanting. I’ll plan a vacation accordingly.

Holy Places

I recently wrote:

“The location for the event set the mood for contemplation nicely. Spending a day in a building 199 years old and worshipping in a building 238 years old (for a congregation celebrating 375 years years together) forces you to consider a broader span than we normally contemplate. Holy places draw us in, safely, opening us to more than we could get elsewhere.”

Upon rereading that passage later, I wondered, “did I leave the reader thinking holy places had to be old?”

For me, at the particular event, at my point in life, the historic nature of the buildings greatly enhanced the spiritual renewal I experienced through the events of the weekend. The history, role, and impact the buildings possess in relation to the spiritual history of the nation shaped my thinking as we contemplated ideas concerning the future of the broader Church - capital C. The age of the buildings helped, me at least, put the ideas into historical context. Similar discussions occurred in these buildings over their years of service.

Holy places that shape many do gain more recognition through time. Holiness is a characteristic separate from the construction and comes from the spiritual power felt in the location. The place does not require sanctification or dedication. It does not even require construction. Throughout the Bible, we find holy places wherever people encounter God. Moses had the burning bush and how many other natural locations. Jonah had the belly of a big fish. Prophets and apostles had mountain tops.

I have a small clearing in the wooded area at the back of my parents’ property.

The holiness of a place is always personal. I have been to many grand cathedrals in Europe and been dazzled by the art and architecture but felt nothing spiritual despite centuries of worship in the building. I have been in unordained sheet-rock halls and been silenced by the spiritual power in the place.

My experience in Providence motivated me to consider the holy places I have encountered. I cannot imagine what my life would be like without these various holy places. My holy places shaped my life. That natural clearing in the wooded area at the back of my parents’ property has possibly never had another human in it, yet it was a place where I had a deeply heartfelt conversation with God. When and where I will find the next holy place that shifts my life’s direction is up to God. My job is to be ready when it happens.

Slice

         This afternoon as I finished preparations for the work week, I spend significant time at the paper cutter. Reading the warnings about the danger of the sharp blade reminded me of the years through elementary school when we were expressly forbidden to use the paper cutter unless we had direct permission from the teacher. The ban and the warning seared the image of generations of school children missing fingers.

         That image continues to dominate my mind each time I go to the paper cutter. Using the paper cutter now, I realize they were very careless generations of school children missing fingers! Nevertheless, I focus the entire time I have that blade under my control.

         Just as I can remember the lyrics to almost every top-forty song in my high school and college years, the memory of the warnings of the dangers of paper cutters stuck with me across the years. Those memories bring both mirth and wonder: did I actually believe the teachers when they said I could chop my fingers off? Judging by where I place my hand in relation to the blade, yes, yes I do.

         Regardless of the quality of those 80’s lyrics (the best music EVER) or the honesty in my teacher’s warnings, those memories touch a deep part of my personal identity. Just as my footwear helps define me, the experiences of my childhood and youth also shape my identity. We are blessed to be more encyclopedia than periodical. No matter how we seek to shape the perceptions about us, our core being absorbs every aspect of our experience.

         We cannot control all the events around us, but we can control our response to them. Controlling the response does not mean we are not affected by the event, just that we adapt to it or we let it define us. As an adult, I know there are not generations of schoolchildren missing fingers from paper cutters, but I still keep my hand well-back from the blade while slicing through the stack of paper I have fed into the mechanism. Those years of warnings have built a healthy respect for things with sharp blades; they shaped me. I vigorously dice, chop, and shred while cooking; they did not define me. Experiences cannot be undone, but the can be managed.