“I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage. You shall have no other gods before Me."
Exodus 20:2
I am an Idolater.
Used to be that I would go to a place where'd we'd come together, dim the lights, allow our minds and our moods to converge and music would be our guide. I'd sing, I'd raise my hands, I'd kneel. I'd embrace the people I was there with to remind them, physically that I was here with them, and they with me. We'd call it worship, we'd call it church. We'd sing songs of praises, also called Psalms. I'd be there singing with my friends, feeling God among us, coveting a life that went on endlessly from the moment we created.
"Me and my friends are like the drums on 'Lust for Life', we pound it out on floor toms, our Psalms are sing a long songs."
-Craig Finn of The Hold Steady
I went to two back-to-back Hold Steady shows last weekend. Friday night me and my friends drove three plus hours to Oklahoma City, pilgrims on a journey, to a tiny venue in the middle of nowhere. The lights went down. We put our hands in the air. We put our arms around each other's necks. We sang along. We pounded the air. We worshipped.
The Christians will tell me that the Hold Steady are a secular band. That if I committed my body and spirit to worship last weekend, then I am a Heretic, an Idolater.
I will tell you a secret about secular music. There is no such thing. It's all praise. It's all sacred. The difference between the sacred and the secular is the intended target. I can think of no greater target of my praise than the spirit of something larger than me, moving through a crowd, unified in song.
I don't throw my hands in the air at work. I don't close my eyes and feel grateful for my small life when I'm shopping. But when I can no longer distinguish my voice from that of those around me and I feel bigger for their presence and smaller by contrast, yeah, I'm worshipping.
"As you go, preach this message: 'The kingdom of heaven is near.'"
-Matthew 10:7
"Heaven is whenever we can get together."
-Craig Finn
The shows I go to are frequently crowded. It gets pretty hot. By the end of the show, we have sacrificed our voices to join in the choir, we've been baptized in sweat. The impact of the live show is undeniable. You sing along and realize that everyone else is singing too. We've converged. We've unified.
Maybe not everyone. Maybe it's just entertainment. But if you think that there are folks in the pews on Sunday who are there for anything but the show, you should try opening your eyes when you pray. Music as entertainment doesn't dimish its capacity to be so much more. In fact, it only serves to prove that we live without dogma, that rock shows are the only unitarian churches with a bar.
It's okay to go to a show and just be entertained. Have a beer and a laugh. What's not okay - what I protest - is the notion that a crossless room where the Bibles and sacrements have been left in the closets is no place to find a savior. That the spirit of God can't move in the chorus of "Do You Realize?" by the Flaming Lips is the worst heresy. The Psalm writers don't own God and I'm pretty sure he'll move wherever he damn well pleases.
Our sacrements are what we say they are. It ain't incense, but it's smoke. Are beer and bottled water so different from wine and cheap grape juice?
I know the script of church and I'm not so naive that I don't see the manipulations of a good rock show. The lights, the use of dynamics, creating dissonance and resolving it give the crowd relief and joy. But I won't begrudge the artist their art when the goal is simply to attain joy.
My confession: I weep, I raise my hands, I embrace my friends at live shows because I am moved to do so. I don't force it and it isn't scripted. I am moved by something other than someone saying the name of the lord and asking me to praise Him. I praise the moment and the undeniable, anonymous spirit that doesn't exist with the house lights on and cold amps.
My celebration? Same thing.
The difference between sacred and secular is the target. The difference between a confession and a celebration is the measure of sin. What is the heresy of joy?
God gave us Hallelujah. Leonard Cohen heard it and Jeff Buckley passed it on.
When Crain Finn sings "We'd like to pray for you," I believe him and I pray too.
When Adam Duritz invites me to "Come Down, Leave your damage behind and gone
So come now, Let's go down to the dance floor," I hear a call to worship.
When Chris Robinson sings, "If your rhythm ever falls out of time, you can bring it to me and I will make it all right," I hear a healer looking to bless the body.
I'm not building false idols. I'm placing no gods before the God of Egypt and Abraham. I'm listening to the joyful voices of the people, raised in unison. I'm looking at the yuppies and the hood rats, the hippies and wallflowers and me and my friends. We're together body and spirit.
I am an Idolater.
I confess to feeling the spirit move among us in houses not built for any Lord.
I celebrate the same.
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Pull Push
This is how I learned to swim:
My dad stood in the shallow end of the pool and I clung to the side. He said to swim towards him. He held his arms out. He was only a few feet away. I pushed off and flailed towards him, using more energy than the distance covered required. When I finally reached him I looked back at where I'd started. The distance was greater.
"Dad you moved."
"Yep. I knew you could do it and I was right in front of you the whole time."
This is how I learned to ride a bike:
My dad said to keep pedaling. He said that speed helped you stay up. I told him not to let go of my seat. I pedaled and he ran along side, encouraging me forward.
There was a moment, I felt it in my stomach, when the balance took over. He'd let go and I was on my own. Then I crashed.
"Dad you let go."
"Yep. I knew you had it and I was back here the whole time."
The lessons my dad has taught me since fall into those two categories. Pulling me towards him and pushing me on have been his methods for as long I as I've needed teaching.
When he yelled at me at 18 to get up and go to work when I wanted to blow it off, that was a swim lesson.
When my parents let me run off to Honduras for a couple of weeks to help others, they were supporting the bike until I could pedal. They stood back and watched me go, confident in my balance, sure of my return.
Both of my parents stayed up late several nights helping me learn the devil's algebra so I could finish school. Swim lessons.
Always being willing to help out with college costs when they could was no different than their hand on the seat, helping me gain my own momentum.
I've made some bad choices with women and my mom was always so willing to treat them well and make them feel welcome. Those were bike lessons. She was supportive without needing to steer.
In the pool, my dad moved away as I approached. He knew what I didn't. That the distance from where I was to where I needed to be was shorter than I thought. He knew that in my blind, head down, flailing I needed direction. I had the strength, but not the confidence.
On the street in front of my house, my parents encouraged me to take flight. To find my balance, to learn how to navigate, turn and even stop on my own.
The first lesson is motion towards becoming more like them. The second is to launch and hopefully do better.
My parents' voices guide me daily toward making good decisions and swimming toward the deep end of adulthood.
Their strength has allowed me to push myself in my own direction, crash and get back up again. Returning to them for repair and rest.
Every wise choice I've made, I've done so while trying to swim out to where they were. My successes have been largely because they steadied me while I figured out the gears.
The healthiest departure from my childhood was somewhere between my dad letting go of the seat and the realization that I was in control.
So far, adulthood has not been a fixed point. There is no other side of the pool. It's your dad moving backwards, calling out to you until you can stand, head above water, and breathe.
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
My dad stood in the shallow end of the pool and I clung to the side. He said to swim towards him. He held his arms out. He was only a few feet away. I pushed off and flailed towards him, using more energy than the distance covered required. When I finally reached him I looked back at where I'd started. The distance was greater.
"Dad you moved."
"Yep. I knew you could do it and I was right in front of you the whole time."
This is how I learned to ride a bike:
My dad said to keep pedaling. He said that speed helped you stay up. I told him not to let go of my seat. I pedaled and he ran along side, encouraging me forward.
There was a moment, I felt it in my stomach, when the balance took over. He'd let go and I was on my own. Then I crashed.
"Dad you let go."
"Yep. I knew you had it and I was back here the whole time."
The lessons my dad has taught me since fall into those two categories. Pulling me towards him and pushing me on have been his methods for as long I as I've needed teaching.
When he yelled at me at 18 to get up and go to work when I wanted to blow it off, that was a swim lesson.
When my parents let me run off to Honduras for a couple of weeks to help others, they were supporting the bike until I could pedal. They stood back and watched me go, confident in my balance, sure of my return.
Both of my parents stayed up late several nights helping me learn the devil's algebra so I could finish school. Swim lessons.
Always being willing to help out with college costs when they could was no different than their hand on the seat, helping me gain my own momentum.
I've made some bad choices with women and my mom was always so willing to treat them well and make them feel welcome. Those were bike lessons. She was supportive without needing to steer.
In the pool, my dad moved away as I approached. He knew what I didn't. That the distance from where I was to where I needed to be was shorter than I thought. He knew that in my blind, head down, flailing I needed direction. I had the strength, but not the confidence.
On the street in front of my house, my parents encouraged me to take flight. To find my balance, to learn how to navigate, turn and even stop on my own.
The first lesson is motion towards becoming more like them. The second is to launch and hopefully do better.
My parents' voices guide me daily toward making good decisions and swimming toward the deep end of adulthood.
Their strength has allowed me to push myself in my own direction, crash and get back up again. Returning to them for repair and rest.
Every wise choice I've made, I've done so while trying to swim out to where they were. My successes have been largely because they steadied me while I figured out the gears.
The healthiest departure from my childhood was somewhere between my dad letting go of the seat and the realization that I was in control.
So far, adulthood has not been a fixed point. There is no other side of the pool. It's your dad moving backwards, calling out to you until you can stand, head above water, and breathe.
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
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