The Road to Life

After a few straight weeks of taking the car to church I thought it was time this Sunday to get back on the bike and decided I would take a trip up the infamous Blue Ridge Parkway. No riding companion this week, so it was just me, a granola bar, and my thoughts (and about a thousand other autumn enthusiasts). Started by Franklin D. Roosevelt and originally named the Appalachian Scenic Highway, the 469-mile project took over 52 years to complete and runs from Cherokee, North Carolina to Rockfish Gap, Virginia where it eventually becomes Shenandoah National Park's Skyline Drive. I filled up my 3.5-gallon tank before I left Tryon, so by the time I'd made it 40 miles through Hendersonville and 20 miles North on the Parkway, it was time to turn around and head back down the mountain to avoid running out of gas. I have experience running out of gas in remote areas, and it's not a good time. The weather was perfect and the autumn leaves were exceptionally beautiful, reminding me that I live in a pretty amazing part of the country. I wrote a song while I was riding, a favorite pastime of mine, that spoke to the endless possibility that exists in this wealthy nation of ours. When you're living down among the houses, freeways, and concrete buildings, it's easy to get lost in the desire for material objects, man-made comforts, and societal success, but when you're at the top of a mountain the sky's the limit and you want nothing more than the ability to fly! Sitting here reflecting, I am reminded of Jesus' Sermon on the Mount, quite literally the bedrock of Christian teachings. The Beatitudes, the Lord's Prayer, and the Golden Rule are all part of this famous sermon, as well as Jesus' interpretation of the Ten Commandments. Different denominations have chosen to interpret this sermon in a variety of different ways, some believing that these tenets should be taken quite literally, and others choosing to divide them as either attainable or unattainable, believing that certain precepts were intended to be ways of approaching life, rather than specific instructions for how to achieve salvation. The lines that jumped out at me come just after the Golden Rule: "The gate is wide and the road is easy that leads to destruction, and there are many who take it...The gate is narrow and the road is hard that leads to life, and there are few who find it." Jesus must have ridden a motorcycle, because this passage speaks to me more than any I have read. Quite literally, you can ride on the interstate for thousands of miles and the beauty is always off in the distance, obstructed by concrete walls and smog and fear and speed limits. Or you can ride 20 miles on the Blue Ridge Parkway, where beauty is all around you and the curves ahead keep you from going fast enough to miss the miracle that is each Golden-colored leaf.

Get Me to the Church on Time

Installment #2 of my attempt to attend a service at Duke Chapel in Durham, North Carolina: If you remember, Lori and I were unsuccessful in our first attempt, due to a wrong turn and a broken foot peg, so this time we drove a reliable automobile to ensure that we would not be late. Inevitably, there was limited parking and even with our borrowed handicap-parking stickers, the service had already begun by the time we arrived. Not to worry, we found an empty pew (sp?) and did not miss much. The Chapel, much like the rest of the buildings on Duke's campus, was built from local stone and is impressive both in size and interior design. The English Gothic architecture, as explained to me by Lori's Dad, Bob, gives it a stoic, European feel both inside and out. Dane and I came up for the weekend to see Lori, now living in Durham, and her family. We also planned to attend a women's arm wrestling tournament on Saturday night and go to the North Carolina State Fair on Sunday after church. Duke was originally a Methodist school and the service followed suit, though it did its best to incorporate a variety of different Christian traditions. The Minister who gave the sermon was fun to listen to as he did a fantastic job of making the parable of the stubborn widow and the unjust judge colorful and culturally up-to-date. He recounted the story as if it had happened yesterday, complete with modern-day reporters covering each day's events and an anecdote involving T-shirts with printed slogans saying "Grant me Justice!" What a great way to engage the listener. The message: Never give up, never lose faith in what you know is right, and God will grant you justice. This is a hard pill to swallow with so much tragedy in our world. A man beats cancer and is told he will eventually die of AIDS. A woman in an abusive relationship decides to leave her husband and she and her two children are killed in a car crash on the way to her sister's house. Where is the justice in that? It is so easy to give up, to give in to cynicism and hopelessness. To believe that you do not deserve a healthy, happy existence in this life or the next. And yet we wake up each morning and continue on, jumping the hurdles that stand in our way and giving thanks for the blessings that have been bestowed upon us. "What blessings?" you ask. Life, love, purpose, understanding, family, friends, beauty, laughter, food, good health, and the ability to keep on fighting, one day at a time. And music! As the voices of the choir filled the chapel, urged on by the majestic organ drone, the only thing that seemed amiss was that we were being asked to dig into our pockets to fill the church coffers instead of truly reveling in the beauty of the moment. Luckily, the choir redeemed itself by singing an a cappella hymn to close out the service, a truly beautiful moment that reminded me what we humans are capable of when we come together to give thanks for the things that we can never understand.

Let the Spirit Move You...Or Not

I decided this Sunday to attend a non-demoninational service in Landrum, South Carolina, of the New Testament Christian Fellowship with my brother Dane, and Lori. We were informally invited by a member of the congregation who worked with us on the farm, and the promise of seeing her got Dane out of bed abnormally early for a Sunday morning. I drove the used Toyota 4-Runner, recently purchased for zero dollars from our employers (deal of the century!), ten minutes down the road across the North/South Carolina border and we entered into a world of Christianity that I had not previously experienced. I want to say, first off, that my goal each week is to go in with an open mind and an open heart and celebrate spirituality in whatever way I am asked to. Unfortunately, in addition to a no-show from our work friend, the waving of flags and the very demonstrative nature of their worship--lots of crying as well as walking up to the altar to pray and tithe--made it hard for me to find true beauty in their communion with God. It was as if prayer must be done in front of the congregation in order for it to be heard. Though I could tell both Dane and Lori were also having a hard time getting into the spirit, we remained in our seats as one of the deacons (I think) did a spiritual improvisation during the Holy communion. It took me a while to realize he was improvising because the lyrics rolled off his tongue as if he had said them a thousand times before, but there's no way anyone would have written a song that lasts ten minutes and doesn't rhyme. So it had to be a spur-of-the-moment conversation with God, which begs the question, "Does he do this every week?" And if so, "Wow!" It was then time for a female minister (I think) to call upon those in the congregation who needed the Holy Spirit to come up to the front and stand in a semi-circle. She started at one end and placed her hand upon the forehead of each individual while she prayed for the Spirit to come into their bodies and wash away their sin. There were burly ushers who stood behind each person just in case they were so moved by the Spirit that they could no longer hold their own weight. I considered, for a moment, the possibility of heading up to the front to join the circle, but fear got in my way. I am barely comfortable taking communion, because it feels false to me to imagine that I am ingesting the blood and body of Christ. The thought of letting some woman touch my head to purge my sins, quite honestly, gives me the heebie-jeebies. So we left. The service was not quite over, but I had told myself before heading in that if I started thinking about the Ryder Cup, which was being aired at the same time as the church service, it was time to leave. I took a gulp of fresh air as we walked out of the Church, stretched, and breathed a huge sigh of relief, realizing that I had made the right decision. Ultimately, I don't believe I need my sins to be purged by some woman who holds the almighty power of God in her (left) hand. Rather, it is my task as a human being to recognize the error of my ways and accept them as part of who I am as a flawed member of a flawed society that is constantly working to improve the life of the people around him. That's enough for me.