faith

First Week of Lent: Praying Naked

Steve · February 20, 2010 · 3 Comments

IMG_3177_3 — Detail of Stradivarius cello, photo by Steve Givens

I went to a concert at Maryville University last Monday, two days before Ash Wednesday, for a cello recital by Daniel Lee, the principal cellist with the St. Louis Symphony Orchestra. He played four pieces, the first three accompanied by a faculty member, pianist Peter Henderson. Those three sonatas, by Schubert, Debussy and Brahms, were beautiful and moving. The cello and piano intertwined in movements that were, in turn, playful, dark, moody, dramatic, contemplative and searching. I was drawn to the (perhaps obvious) metaphor of the movement of God in our lives, how he “accompanies” and supports and brings to life our own actions and efforts.

And then something even more remarkable happened. Lee came out after the intermission for the final piece, “Sonata for Violoncello Solo, op. 8” by Hungarian composer Zoltán Kodály. It was not a work with which I was familiar. The essential word in the title, of course, is “solo.” He came out without an accompanist and without music and played for what must have been 30-40 minutes, the music pouring forth from him and his 300-year-old instrument like a flowing, erratic, mesmerizing fountain of original creativity and, at least for me, prayer.

Responding to the Call: Olympic Lessons (still) from Eric Liddell

Steve · February 13, 2010 · 1 Comment

I’ve been thinking a lot the last few days about the idea of vocation and calling. I think maybe it’s the Olympics and all those great stories that come out of it. Sometimes I think I like the personal stories of the athletes more than I do the actual competition. Sometimes. I love competition, too. Head-to head competition is some of the greatest real-life stories we ever get to experience, even if it’s from the sidelines or from the comfort (and warmth) of our easy chairs. And here’s why: We are all called to something. We are all called to the equivalent of Olympic excellence and a life of purpose and meaning. Our job is to hear that call and find a way to respond.

In one way or another, these gifted, committed athletes are responding to a call that they have heard for a long, long time. No one becomes an Olympic athlete overnight, and none do it because they have nothing better to do. They do it because they can’t imagine doing anything else. They do it because they know they must respond to a call they sense, even if they cannot always identify where it comes from.

In the Beginning

Steve · January 22, 2010 · 1 Comment

Sunrise in Mexico, 2009. Photo by Steve Givens

We all have our ideas of how the world came into being. I like to think God was having a good time when that first light was cast…

The idea was at once captivating and ludicrous.

And as he grew more excited
his enthusiasm made him smile.
A huge sheepish grin spread across his aged face
and somewhere deep in his gut
there began a gentle rumble.

The laughter welled up inside him
and he hissed and sputtered
like a child at church
who doesn’t want to laugh but can think of nothing else.

Finally
knowing he could postpone the moment no longer
he stood
placed his hands on his hips
took a deep breath of his good air
and then the laughter and words poured forth
like a river bursting its banks
spreading quickly over the darkness:

Let there be light.

The play of Mexican light. Photo by Steve Givens, 2009

Finding the Sacred in the Ordinary

Steve · December 6, 2009 · 2 Comments

[an excerpt from a work in progress: “Embraced by God: Facing Chemotherapy with Faith.]

Holy is the dish and drain, the soap and sink, and the cup and plate,
and the warm wool socks, and the cold white tile, showerheads and good dry towels, and frying eggs sound like psalms, with bits of salt measured in my palm. It’s all a part of a sacrament as holy as a day is spent.
– Carrie Newcomer

I was driving to work one day last week and, when I was almost to my office, I realized that I didn’t remember a thing about the drive. I remembered backing out of my driveway and turning onto the main road that would lead me toward the university, but that’s all I remembered. I had been so lost in thought and in the business and busy-ness of my day that I failed to notice anything along the way. No stoplights, no trees, no people, no cars around me. How I arrived safely I’ll never know. It was like I was on autopilot. And that experience of mindless driving, I thought, is exactly how I so often find myself plunging ahead through life, unaware that all around are signs and moments of God’s presence and grace.

The sacred in an ordinary lollypop. Chinendega, Nicaragua, 2009. Photo by Steve Givens.

It’s relatively easy to recognize the things in our lives that we have come to know as holy or sacred. If asked to list these elements of life, many of us would quickly rattle off words like church, scripture, God, mass and sacraments. We might even branch out further from these distinctly religious ideas and objects and include words like family, children, grandchildren and friends. We might even recall those special moments in our lives when God seemed especially close – perhaps standing on the rim of the Grand Canyon, listening to a favorite piece of music or observing a work of art. We might think of holy days and holidays. We might recall weddings and births and even deaths. Certainly all these experiences can be seen as sacred to us.
But there is also sacredness in the seemingly ordinary moments of my life that, like my drive to work, all too often passes by in a noisy blur without much notice. These moments can be fleeting and seemingly meaningless, but when we take the time to reflect and allow ourselves to live a more examined inner life, we can begin to see that the sacred is all around us.

Departure: The sacred in a moment of sadness. Chinendega, Nicaragua, 2009. Photo by Steve Givens

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t live in a constant state of spiritual bliss, always aware that God is in the room with me and that everything I do is part of a grand sacrament of ordinary life. Indeed, a week or a month can go by when I don’t feel this (or remember to sense it) at all. But I do believe we are all called to this way of living, and we are perhaps especially called to it if we find ourselves facing serious disease and health issues. For when we allow ourselves and our lives to be drawn into the realm of the sacred and the divine, then even our pain can take on a semblance of the sacred and our days of chemotherapy can transform into sacramental moments of sacrifice, prayer, worship and even grace.

Later Thanksgiving day, November 25, 2009

Steve · December 1, 2009 · 3 Comments

Autumn leaf... — One last leaf of autumn, Missouri Ozarks, 2009. Photo by Steve Givens

As I head toward turning 50 just after the first of the year, I sometimes sense what feels like creative energy and a multitude of ideas mixed with a touch of fear bubbling up inside me. The creative energy is good, of course. The fear might be good, too, but it can be crippling. The fear, I guess, is that I won’t be able to act on all the energy and ideas. That’s a stupid fear. Just push forward. Forget the fear.

As a writer and songwriter, I can tell my stories and hope and trust that someone will see a grain of truth in them–a semblance of something real that maybe they have felt themselves. If they believe in God they may recognize their own divine experiences in my stories. If they do not or do not yet know if they believe or not, perhaps they will still glean something from me that points them to their own discovery of God and faith. I don’t preach, but I can’t help but reflect what I hold most true.

So back to the lake. All around me the sights and sounds of late autumn remind me that nature takes these last few moments before the onslaught of winter to prepare and gather. Puffy-cheeked chipmunks scamper about me gathering food for the winter. Squirrels glide from tree to tree, building nests and hording sustenance. A noisy murder of crows continually breaks the silence of the fall air. I don’t know whether that has anything to do with the coming winter or not but they seem content to caw and scare away the occasional gull. Whoever said this time of year is dead has never taken the time to look and listen. For I hear and see things now that I never notice during the peak of the lake season. I actually heard the flutter of a sparrow’s wing high above me in the tree as it perched preening itself. I can hear a pair of ducks cutting through the water. I hear a far-off fishing boat long before I see it. The world is intense and intimate and alive during these moments and I am blessed to be here.

As a Christian and a Christian writer, I believe that I am called to two things. First, like all Christians I believe that the world should be able to see Christ in me. That’s a tall order and I certainly do not always succeed. In what I say and what I do (and what I write) they should be able to see that this “Christian stuff” makes a difference–that it’s real and alive and moving, just like the movement of God in my life. As a Christian who is a writer, I believe I’m called to try and make some sense of all of this “God stuff” and “faith stuff” on the page. I don’t want to grab the readers by the scruff of their necks and pull them screaming into the kingdom, but I do want to help them find evidence of the sacred in everyday life. I want them to see what I see, holy moments that may lead them gently into the light and the waiting arms of God. If they see something they like, I hope they will join me in the walk. It’s a good road.