Evocations: Random Thoughts From Daryl's Robinson's Senior Recital

DO YOU LIKE WINE?  


I do, even though I know very little about wines:  the varieties and origins of grapes, which ones are right for which foods (other than the basic white for chicken and fish and red for beef -- after that I'm lost), which ones come in contact with the grape skins longer (other than this seems to be a trait of the really dark reds), and other bits of minutiae of which genuine wine aficionados make subjects of serious conversations, blogs, newsletters, magazine articles, and perhaps even a livelihood or two -- or more.  I drink red wine occasionally because my doctor suggested it is beneficial for my health; however, I really don't care for red wine, at least not the ones I have purchased so far.  Still, I drink it for the purpose heretofore stated.  What I do like are Riesling and Gewurtztraminer.  They are light and sweet, and feel heavenly going down.  Unfortunately, I rarely enjoy either, since I save most of my imbibing moments for the medicinal crap of the red once or twice a week -- and turning into a wino or a lush is not on my to-do list.  The bottom line is if I like the taste, nothing else matters -- whether the wine is a Burgundy or Beaujolais, Grenache or Gewurtztraminer, 1927 or 2007.  When it comes to wine, two things matter to this writer:  1) The taste; and  2) Its effect when  trickling over her taste buds and down her esophagus.  What else matters -- or should matter?  To her, nothing; it's just wine. 


DO YOU LIKE VISUAL ART?


I suppose I do.  Well – yes.  Asking about styles would be a waste.  Whether the small, thin brush strokes of Monet’s impressionism, the molten-like movement of Dali’s surrealistic clocks, the over-analyzed smile of da Vinci’s  Renaissance icon – Mona Lisa, the outlandish non-art pop art of Andy Warhol, or the three-dimensional wonders and wackiness of the Cullen Sculpture Garden at the Museum of Fine Arts Houston, visual art for this writer is simple: 1) she examines it; 2) messages, filtered as they go, are sent to her brain; 3) a verdict is rendered.  As to the verdict, there are three possibilities: 1) Like it; 2) Hate it; 3) No comment.  Visual art.   Simple.


Digressing for just a moment:  Even as this is written, however, the writer has a special fondness for John Palmer’s art that transcends her usual mundane, pedestrian attitude toward this type of creativity.  Mr. Palmer’s works are charged with a special energy that incites and excites the writer in a peculiar way.  Not until John Palmer has this writer ever aspired to own an original work of visual art.  And the John Palmer effect is a great lead into a favorite of favorites – 


DO YOU LIKE MUSIC?


I do.  I more than like music.  I love music.  After Jesus, music is God’s all-time greatest gift.  It is a medium that breaks down barriers, soothes the soul in so many states of dis-ease, disarray and despair, and brings people together even when languages may keep them apart.  Music has texture, meaning, eroticism, message, expression, connotation, denotation, mood, structure, fluidity, sanctity and more.   


While my fondness of the grape and the visual arts are limited, my love for music is beyond – what?  Well, beyond.  And my affinity for various music styles touches many points on the spectrum.  Favorites can be found among most except rap and heavy metal, which, to this writer, are neither musical nor artistic, but rather bastardizing throwbacks to some dark hole of uncivilization.  


There are forms of music, and genres of music within forms.  The music world is kind of like God's creation subjected to taxonomic ranks – class, order, family, genus and species.  In the music realm folks toss around labels like gospel, sacred, classical, jazz and pop, which are very broad categories – families – within which are genera, and species.


Recently a young man was heard saying, in effect, that everything that could be done in music had already been accomplished.  Heresy!  Sacrilege!  What the young man failed to realize is that the dead end he envisions as music is indicative of his limited imagination.  The saving grace is that since our thoughts differ, as do our inhibitions (or lack thereof), our self-imposed limits are the only obstacles that keep music, and most other things, from expanding in scope and creativity.


The good thing is that even if our abilities to compose, arrange and perform music are limited to certain instruments and styles, our listening ears and minds allow us to appreciate stuff far beyond our abilities.   As a classically trained pianist who learned to compose within certain parameters, I often debate myself when a creative stroke takes me outside the box of those “rules for writing music with proper structure.”  Boo – hiss.  The galling thing is when I hear beyond-the-barriers music fraught with exquisite dissonance and think “hmpf – that’s really great,” I also wonder, "now -- why can't I do that?"  And since the breadth of my pianistic abilities was restricted by inadequate rehabilitation of broken bones and mangled muscles after a near-fatal car crash, this writer has learned to be content with her performance limitations, and yet find much joy in experiencing the gifts of others, like Daryl Robinson at his senior recital.


Daryl has been a subject of more than one blog on this site.  This old woman is simply taken with this talented young man who is a personable as he is polished and professional.  The music Daryl played was the stuff of professionals, not a student trying to fulfill requirements for an undergraduate degree.  Daryl’s program was a mix of styles, influencing evocations of such broad extremes as to send one on an emotional overload.  Aside from the mesmerizing conglomeration of sounds that made one think either 1) there is really an orchestra up there; or 2) Daryl evidently has four hands and four feet, this is how Daryl’s music touched my soul (not necessarily in this order):


Image: The betrayal, humiliation, trial, suffering, mockery, crucifixion, death, burial and resurrection of Jesus, the Christ.  Since this imagery has been treated in great detail in a previous, but recent writing, nothing more will be said here, other than it was so powerful that this writer’s body actually shuddered with sorrow -- then joy.


Image: A glade, a clearing in a wooded area with a quiet running stream of water.  A “no worries” place of calm, peace and rest.  A safe place.  A place near the heart of God.  Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. . . . Blessed assurance.   It is well with my soul.  I am content.


Image:   I have wings.  And I can fly.  I am standing on that new-fangled skywalk at the Grand Canyon -- you know the one  -- with the transparent floor.   I levitate upward, and take off, soaring through the canyon.  Wow!


Image: A quite moment between a wife who entreats her husband.  The two, despite a rift between them, are destined to be together – forever:  


What I want to do with you
Is picnic in the park
I'll pack a basket of your favorite treats
Lots for you to eat
The finest, freshest, sweetest
Most luscious fruit you could ever have
A pair of firm, ripe, sweet melons
With the tartest, tastiest stems
Waiting for your lips
The biggest, blackest sweetest cherry
(It's juices ooze unceasingly at first bite)
Nestled in a pair large warm buns
Waiting for your hands
To test their freshness, 
Served on a bed of fresh cut grass
In the deepest recesses of my garden
A more fitting place to feast than a park
A place where you can go
Cast away all care
A place where the two of us
Our thirsts can quench, desires fulfill
Our love share
A place where no one else can
Come between our souls,
Nor invade our minds
Or untangle our beings
A place where I'll belong to you always.
So open the gate of my garden
And take a stroll once more
No thought of unpleasant happenings
Of times gone on before
Since you left my garden
I've kept it just for you
So come back to take what's yours
None else can have it -- just you




HAVE YOU GONE MAD?


I think not.  This writing is merely a picture of the gift one received in the presence of a brilliant organist while at his best, doing what he loves. 


Mr. Robinson offered in 60 minutes, works that, despite spanning scores and scores and scores of years, many would lump into one class of music: classical.   Forget the family, genera and species – just classical.  Few would go beyond that, just as this writer does not distinguish the grapes for Beaujolais from the grapes for Bordeaux.  Again, few would go beyond classical, just as this writer, while being able to distinguish between Monet and da Vinci, has an appreciation for both but is not thrilled by either.  That is why wine does it for some and visual art does it for others.  John Palmer excepting -- his stuff is electric.  


And that is why music does it for me.  It is the absolutely finest drug and has no harmful side effects.  It is a great therapist and is not limited to a 50-minute hour (“50" is not a typo -- 50 minutes equals one hour of therapy).  It is an ever-extending bridge between the gap of strained relationships.  It is a fine way to connect with the Almighty.  And Daryl Robinson is a masterful deliverer of the drug, the bridge and a way to Him who sits on the throne.  Sometimes, when a word of prayer cannot be uttered, a melody can be hummed.  Sometimes when thoughts are so muddled, one cannot be concisely framed, but a passage of music will serve to re-center and refocus.  And sometimes, when the mind is gone, music can bring it back, if just for a while, and with it, much joy.  


God bless Daryl, a magical, masterful, music maker.  Be in his hands, his feet and his heart.  Always.  Amen.

Recovering From Worship???

Today is Good Friday.  For Believers we’re talking about something super special – the day we commemorate the passion and crucifixion of our Lord and Savior.  But, first, let’s back up to yesterday – Maundy Thursday – the day Believers commemorate the last supper.  


This writer cares not for the technobabble about how the dates for Holy Week and Resurrection Day change from one year to the next, just as this writer gives no thought to December 25 not being the Savior’s birthday.  None of these issues negate the beliefs of those of my ilk:  that He was born of an immaculate conception, He walked the earth, He suffered and died, and He was resurrected.  What is of significance that we remember.  In fact whenever we worship, we should be reminded.  So, how does that work?  Well, let’s talk about it.


Back to yesterday, Maundy Thursday.  It was a typical April day in Houston, Texas, in a word, hot.   It is the time of year when my beloved sun because one of my worst enemies, causing the manifestation of Sarcoidosis-related issues – like not being able to breathe, reddening and blistering facial skin (not easy for this Chocolate Bunny, but it actually turns red), and a total draining of every bit of energy in my body. Yet, it is Holy Week.  And despite the climate, Holy Week calls for daily treks to the Westmoreland Chapel on the campus South Main Baptist Church for worship at noon, and, if one is so inclined thereafter, a nice lunch served in the shade of our Chafin Educational Building (we have an absolutely awesome kitchen staff – okay – that’s a plug, but true).


The noon worship on Maundy Thursday focused on the text found in verses 53 through 65 of the 14th chapter of Mark, and Pastor Steve’s question:  Who killed Jesus?   (If one recalls Mel Gibson’s movie The Passion, one might also recall the clamor at that time about just that question: Who killed Jesus?   One might also recall the close-up of various hands nailing Jesus to the cross, among them being the hands of Mr. Gibson.)  And toward the end of the message, Pastor Steve began answering the question by calling the roll: Jews killed Jesus – not all Jews but Caiaphas and the chief priests, the teachers of the law, the Sanhedrin that were assembled that night – a kangaroo court in Caiaphas’s home; and the Romans – not all Romans but those who handed Him over to Pontius Pilot; and, theologically, God the Father, who sent His Son into the world for just this purpose; and Jesus, who allowed Himself to be killed.  And, of course, there are more – many, many more: our sins killed Jesus.  I killed Jesus.  You killed Jesus.  And so it goes, folks: we all had a hand in nailing Him to the tree.  Wow.  Folks who only want “feel-good” church would have left unfulfilled and very much disappointed rather than convicted – and convinced that the only way we will stop killing Jesus is to become more like Him.


The day of worship continued Maundy Thursday evening, with the most somber worship time of any at South Main – the Service of Shadows – the time when we reflect on the betrayal, arrest, desertion, trial, scourging, crucifixion and death of the Only Faultless One to ever walk the earth.  Amidst voices pouring out words in haunting melodies and lush harmonies, words that salve and soothe one’s soul, our Ragan C. read from The Word, the scriptures that so vividly paint the picture that tells the story of how we all participated in nailing Him to the tree.  By the end of worship, there is silence and darkness – how the world was left then after they/we had killed Him – and words fittingly descriptive, even today, of lives that are without His light.  Wow.


And Holy Week continued today.  Yet, another trek to the Westmoreland Chapel for noon worship, a Silent Service – an intentional, deliberate means of focusing the worshiper, once more, on the sacrifice of our Savior.  


This service is comprised of a series of scriptures, each followed by a song played by our resident prodigy, organist Daryl Robinson.  Daryl is a favorite of this writer.  His musicianship is beyond comparison, going far beyond the mastery of his performance abilities, but technical knowledge as well.  What had not been realized until today, was Daryl’s tremendous gift of marrying scripture to music.   Thoughtfully choosing* familiar texts and melodies, as well as works that may not be known to many of us at all, Mr. Robinson took worshipers on a journey, from Christ’s condemnation, to the Via Dolorosa, to Golgotha, to the tomb.   Complementing the words of the chosen music, were the music arrangements themselves, employing harmonies, progressions and nuances that added more texture and brilliance to the pictures the Scriptures and lyrics painted.


Feel the moment of condemnation, knowing that what lay ahead was even worse than what had already transpired: 

Christ, who saves us by His cross,

And no sin committed

(J.S. Bach).   

Feel the weight of the cross beneath a battered and emaciated body.  

Must Jesus bear the cross alone

and all the world go free?  

(George N. Allen/Thomas Shepherd).  

See Simon of Cyrene carry the cross for Him.  

Shun not suffering, shame, or loss; 

learn of Christ to bear the cross.  

(Richard Redhead/James Montgomery). 

Feel the agony of the women who wailed for Jesus.  
There is a balm in Gilead 
to heal the sin sick soul 
(Negro Spiritual).  


Feel the nakedness of His body as the soldiers divided His clothing:   

A purple robe, a crown of thorn, 

a reed in His right hand, 

Before the soldiers’ spite and scorn 

I see my Savior stand.  

(David Wilson/Timothy Dudley-Smith).  

See the nails being driven into His hands and feet, but if like this writer, just try to avoid imagining the added pain they caused:  

God, give us each our own death, 

the dying that proeeds from each of our lives.  

(Camil van Huise/Rilke) 

Feel the darkness creeping into the world as He breathed His last breath:

Grim death, with cruel rigor, 

hath robbed Thee of Thy life; 

Thus Thou hast lost Thy vigor, 

Thy strength in this sad strife 

(Brahms/Bernard of Clairvaux).  

See them take His body from the cross:

When I survey the wondrous cross

on which the Prince of glory died.  

(Edward Miller/Isaac Watts).  

See Joseph wrap Him in a linen cloth and lay Him in a tomb hewn out of rock:

Were you there when they laid Him in the tomb?  

Oh!  Sometimes it causes me to tremble.  

(Negro Spiritual).

As worshipers left the chapel in silence, words and music remained alive.  Just off the sidewalk, leaning against the accessible parking pillar under a tree (that must be older than any building on the campus), providing protective shade while God wrapped his arms around me in a light breeze that tempered the afternoon heat preventing pulmonary discomfort, the words and the music washed over me again, leaving images of the 24-hour period that began at noon on Maundy Thursday, and a thought: how awesome it is to live on this side of the resurrection, to be able to look back and see that whole picture.  Kevin Sinclair, our minister to youth, spoke as he passed by, asking if he could be of assistance.  Oh, I’m just recovering from worship.  Sometimes it takes me a while.  He gave me an understanding nod, and left me to continue me reverie.


Finally collecting myself, I drove away with another thought – a question: how does one recover from worship?   In retrospect, that just seems odd.  To recover – meaning to bring back or get back to normal – totally negates the purpose of worship.   Quite often, a prayer in worship at South Main includes the plea that we be transformed so that we will be less of what we used to be and more of what we ought to be through Christ Jesus.  And so, folks, recovering from worship is just not the desired thing to do.  To leave worship the same as one came is to spend an hour (or two, or however many) going through some ritual, reading words, singing songs, joining in prayers, and listening to sermons, that are no more than water off a duck’s back.  So why bother?


And so, rather than recover from worship, perhaps I should have told Kevin, I’m still renewing through worship:


Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is – his good, pleasing and perfect will. (Romans 12:2, NIV).  Perhaps with a little more renewing and transforming, we would kill Jesus less often.


Out of the most agonizing time of the first century A.D. was born the grace we experience today. Because of that, even in silent worship, there are conviction and comfort; veil-lifting and vindication; peace and promise; enlightenment and edification, and hopefully, a desire for renewal and transformation.




_______________________
*All right, thoughtfully choosing is conjecture on my part; still, this writer is sure it took more than a few minutes while nursing his favorite Starbuck’s beverage, for Mr. Robinson to well devise a worship service that so wonderfully reflects the gravity and majesty of the moment.

Defining Sin for a Contemporary Culture

First, I freely admit that this is not an original title.  I ran across this phrase earlier this evening as I perused my Facebook home page, trying to catch up on what is happening with my FB friends.  There was the usual stuff:  a new picture of my grand-nephew, P.H., a happy child of a fantastic mom; a rehashed obituary of the Pillsbury Dough Boy which still makes me laugh aloud [I refuse to use LOL -- oops -- I just did :( ]; an update from a musician acquaintance who writes often of sports (much better than getting it via television news) and church-related issues (sometimes funny, sometimes serious, generally thought-provoking); a couple of Friend Requests; more messages to which to respond than I really want to; you get the gist.  Amidst those common tidbits was a post that dealt with one of the most controversial issues of the day with LIKES and COMMENTS that followed.  Among those comments was a phrase regarding how we should define sin for a contemporary culture.   That phrase has so haunted me that I have revisited that blurb several times now.  It conjures up thoughts of recent discussions in my Sunday School class and Wednesday Bible studies at South Main Baptist Church (plug for SMBC).


Second, I also admit that this writing may offend others, including folks who may, loosely or sincerely, use the term friend in relation to me.  My hope, however, is that as I respect their rights to believe as they wish, they will respect mine, and perhaps this is a point on which we may have to just agree to disagree.


Third, I freely admit that I am a sinner.  I know guilt.  And shame.  Therefore, I judge no one; I condemn no one.  Judgment and condemnation of others are simply not in my purview.  It is enough for me that each morning and evening I can look in a mirror while brushing teeth and be grateful that God has  given me another day for work on my own human failings.  With that said, I freely admit, however, that some behaviors I simply hate:  lying, stealing, killing -- you know -- the stuff of the Ten Commandments (which is also foundational stuff for our laws).  Then there are also infractions like smoking, wearing fragrances ad nauseam, driving with a phone plastered to the side of one's face, and other behaviors that are a lot more than mere annoyances.  


Okay, on their faces, the also infractions are not normally construed as sins; yet, they have the potential to cause irreparable harm to the body, and not just the body of the smoker, fragrance wearer, or telephone-talking driver, but others around them as well, and even death.   For those who suffer with medical conditions caused through no fault of their own, to be subjected to the exacerbating effects of tobaccos and perfumes by people who put their rights to so engage themselves above all else is, to those who so suffer, a threat to their well-being.  They think of terms like assault and attempted murder.   Trust me; I know this to be true, and often have to work at stifling deep-seated anger and frustration, and the urge to kill them before they kill me.  And statistics show that folks who drive while engaging in telephone conversations are more likely to be involved in vehicular crashes resulting in debilitating, life-change injuries, or death.


So much for the prefatory.  The rest is pretty short, though not simple, and starts with a question.  How does one define sin for a contemporary culture?
Short answer:  I don't have a clue.  I never gave a thought to sin evolving as mankind devolved.  


Next question:  Well, why not?
Well, how about this question in lieu of an answer:  What makes one think that because the world has changed in technology, temperament and tolerance, that what was sin 4,000 or 3,000 or 2,000 years ago is different today?  


Well, there are schools of thought that condone killing under certain circumstances.  
Well, that may be true, and even while God gave the Word to the Israelites Thou shalt not kill, He also instructed them to kill all the people in the lands they were to occupy.  It seems then, that there is killing, and then there is Killing.


And what about the scripture that says God "hardened" Pharaoh's heart?  
Well, the Book does say that (Exodus 9:12).  Does how the Creator uses His creation give the created license to act contrary to His instructions?  I think not.  This passage has often troubled me.  Why would God harden Pharaoh's heart in such a way that ultimately led to Pharaoh's death?  And on several occasions I have had to remind myself that God can use anyone or anything He wants to, in any way He wants to.  In that regard I sometimes envision this scenario -- and while I cannot prove it was the way it happened, you cannot prove it did not:  


After losing his son to the plague that befell all of the first-born in Egypt who were not protected, Pharaoh  allowed the Israelites to leave, and in anger (and probably a lot of other negative emotions), pursued them until he, along with his followers, were consumed by the Red Sea.  The aftermath:  Pharaoh ascends to heaven and is welcomed by the Almighty for a job well done.*     


As I said, I cannot prove it, but neither can you disprove it.  Just admit it is something to consider (or not) and let's move along.*


And what is this DEVOLVING business?  
Well, I'm glad you asked.  A simple definition of devolve is to pass on or delegate to another.  In the context of this little blog, mankind is ever devolving.  The more knowledgeable and advanced we become, the more we shirk our responsibilities and commitments, passing them on into the ether where they become the responsibilities and commitments of some unknown force or entity as we continue to live in a foggy La-La Land, making excuses for our actions or lack thereof, buying into every frenzied trend of entertainment, including every gadget imaginable, 99.99999999% of which are made in other countries, providing jobs to others while 99.9999999% of corporate America embraces downsizing, rightsizing, cutbacks, layoffs and outsourcing, and any other gimmick one can envision, in the end making our country a slave to the rest of the world.  (Sorry about the outburst; I'll have to save that for another time.)


So what does all that have to do with devolving -- and sin?
Such great questions you ask!  Devolving and sin really go hand in glove.  While in a state of devolution, one succumbs to any compulsion to say and do anything one chooses without regard to the rights of others or the Way of the Almighty.  As Pastor Steve (www.smbc.org) might say, We live in God's world but not in God's Way.  And when one chooses to live his own way, justifying whatever one says and does according to one's situation or circumstances, or the thorn in one's flesh,** one shuts the door on the Father's grace which is sufficient for those who believe.  


Well, you really didn't answer the question and you definitely did not define sin for a contemporary culture.
True, and frankly, who can?  Still, without judging or condemning any, loving all through Christ Jesus while hating the thoughts, words and deeds that are not of the Father's Way, I do commend all to Him, whose grace is sufficient for all, for His power is made perfect in weakness, even so-called contemporary ones.  


The bottom line is this:  
The advent of situational ethics did not rewrite the Bible; rather it just gave us something through which to ride our chariots when looking for a loophole.  What the loophole does not account for, however, is the love that will make a parent suffer through disciplining, and even confinement in prison, of a child for the child's sake; or one not taking a life because one is not the giver of life.


Lying is still lying.  Killing is still killing.  Adultery is still adultery.  Stealing is stealing, even though in our contemporary ilk stealing has all kinds of labels -- misappropriation and embezzlement, for instance.  Covetousness -- well it's still that too, so if it's not yours, forget about it.  


For this writer, who often drafts documents for others with revisions so numerous that they end with the year, month, day and time (for example, 2011 0325 2219 means the 25th day of March 2011, 10:19 p.m.), there are no revisions to sin.  The 2000 AD version is  the 2000 BC version.  


So, dear ones, give yourself a break.  All of that energy devoted to establishing some new benchmark for sin by today's standards might best be expended with the Father, Who is strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow.  I dare you to try Him, even in your contemporary situation.  His faithfulness was great whenever the book of Lamentations (3:23) was written, and, trust me on this, it's pretty great today, 2011 0327 2252.


To him who is able to keep you from stumbling and to present you before His glorious presence without fault and with great joy -- to the only God our Savior be glory, majesty, power and authority, through Jesus Christ our Lord, before all ages, now and forevermore!  Amen. (Jude 24-25).


Praying that you lean and not stumble . . .










__________________
*A note to Bible scholars:  This is my blog; these are my thoughts.  Let's leave it at that.
**⁶ Even if I should choose to boast, I would not be a fool, because I would be speaking the truth. But I refrain, so no one will think more of me than is warranted by what I do or say, ⁷ or because of these surpassingly great revelations. Therefore, in order to keep me from becoming conceited, I was given a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan, to torment me. ⁸ Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. ⁹ But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. (2 Corinthians 12:6-9 NIV)

It is Well With My Soul: Looking on the Bright Side

A preemptive apology:  Writing in first person is something from which I normally shy away.  For this little piece, it simply cannot be helped.  Another apology:  Sorry about the large font; at this time of the day my eyes need a little more help than normal.


Have you ever had one of those days during which nothing seemed to go the way you planned it go?  Wanted it go?  Felt as if it should go?  Well, I'm having one of those weeks -- months -- years . . . pick one.  I would add decades, but 2011 is a newbie.  


Too much time has passed since I posted a blog; e'en while I have felt several "coming on" I have resisted the urge to write.    Do you ever get those urges?  Your juices start to flow, and whether you write prose or music or poetry, do knitting, needlepoint or embroidery (I suppose folks still do that), work in your garden or paint or do puzzles or whatever, you feel the urge to do whatever serves as your outlet.  For me, writing and music are my outlets -- my drugs of choice.  While I'm middle-of-the-road mediocre at both, each serve as relief valves, de-stressers, natural highs, spiritual flights to the heavens, media of expressing all wonderful kinds of emotions, and a host of other wholly positive purposes.   I've done a lot of music lately, singing with the Houston Ebony Opera Guild, preparing to sing with a group at Houston's Rothko chapel later this week, singing in worship with South Main Baptist Church, my family of God here on this earth, and preparing to sing at our noon Ash Wednesday service tomorrow.  Considering recent events, I've decided to resort to writing, purely for therapeutic purposes, since I will do music for preparatory purposes later this evening.  


So what's this all about?  Gee, I like it when you ask the right question.  Let me just tell you a little --  just a little -- about my day.


As a freelancer/contractor -- however the heck you want to label me, I have found it helpful to plan my days, whether with billable work or other work (you know, all that stuff that has to be done).   In planning my days I have found certain patterns.  Normally if I have an appointment away from my home office, eventually there is at least one other appointment scheduled that day or other things to do while I'm out.  Many times I can see that I will be out all day and will plan accordingly, making sure there is an ample supply of bottled water, Melaleuca cinnamon gum, my own concocted trail mix, contingency clothing (you just never know what'll happen), and my laptop and tablet PC (again, you just never know . . .).  


Today was supposed to be an out all day day, and I prepared accordingly, making sure that I had everything I needed, even stuff for a 5:30 p.m. meeting.  I left home at 8:15 for a 9:00 appointment with a lawyer.  After fighting my way to I10 West, jockeying for position to stay on I10 and take an inside-the-loop exit, just as I drove up the exit ramp, my phone rang.  It was someone at the lawyer's office telling me he had an emergency and has left.  Wow.  My next appointment is 2 hours later!  First adjustment to the schedule -- not too much of a big deal, just extra miles in the wrong direction (I promise not to discuss rising gas prices), then on to my 11:00 appointment.


Okay, this one is different for me.  A headhunter had actually called me (this is simply not done; I am at the top of every headhunter's DO NOT CALL list, and have been since November 1990), raved about my background and credentials, said that she had the perfect position for me, and asked me to visit with her.   After a good hour of discussion she announced that I am really an entrepreneur and I should just get my business going again, that I would not be happy with a job.  Based on our conversation it was appropriate for me to respond with that passage from Philippians 4:11-12, and from one of my favorite hymns, the line Whatever my lot Thou hast taught me to say it is well with my soul.  Our visit ended with my host saying, Can we talk again?  I really need to pray about this.  And can we pray right now?  And pray, she did.  My head was reeling; I felt the urge to go home and so put myself on auto-pilot.  There went the afternoon. 


I have no explanation for the loss of time, but at some point I found myself in the kitchen, preparing a staging area for a smoothie-making session.  First slap-stick moment:  tipping over a full bottle of apple juice on the kitchen counter -- not good -- followed by six batches of fruit & veggie smoothies yielding 2.25 gallons of nutrition.  Good.  And just in time to clean up the kitchen and myself and get ready for a 5:30 appointment.  


Returning home, I made a salad for dinner and poured a little red wine.  My doctor has instructed me to drink red wine.  I don't like red wine.  I'm a Riesling, Gewurztraminer or White Zinfadel kind of woman, and I rarely imbibe.  But, I'm following instructions.  And now, here is slap-stick moment number two, with a multiple-choice question:  


Q.  When you topple over the glass of wine on your desk (and, of course, that is not the place for the glass in the first place), is it better for the spill to land:


a.  on top of the desk
b.  on the bottom shelf of the desk just a few inches from the floor
c.  on the chair mat which the desk sits and on the rug on which the chair mat that sits
d.  on the nearly-white Pergo flooring on which the rug lays
e.  on the little table that holds four filled pencil/pen cups, inside the cups and on the try on which the cups sit
f.  on the number pad section of the ergonomic keyboard which is no longer popular and doggoned hard to find
g.  none of the above
h.  all of the above.


While the desired answer is g, the factual answer is h.


As I blotted and mopped up the foul-tasting stuff that will definitely leave its mark on several surfaces, there was lots of time to plow through the maybes and what-ifs of the day, the week, last week, last month, this year, last year, or whatever.  And this, I told myself, is what's important:  


Giving up is not an option.  A little spilled juice, wine, or whatever is not a big deal when you look at the big picture.  Where did you spill the juice?  In your kitchen.  In your home.  Where did you spill the wine?  On your desk.  In your pencil cups.  On your rug.  On your floor.  In your office.  In your home.  Did you have enough juice to make your smoothies?  Yes, and there's plenty left.  Did you refill your glass with wine?  Yes, and there's plenty left, even if I don't like it.  Your first appointment didn't happen.  The guy did not call you back to reschedule and you're seeking his services.  What does that tell you?  Find another lawyer.  Your 11 o'clock was most unusual.  Did she tell you the usual "you're overqualified" animal dung?  No.  Did she ask to see you again?  Yes.  So you've cleaned up your mess, finished your dinner -- now what?  I'm gonna vent via my blog, go upstairs, and thank my God for the good, bad, ugly and indifference of this day, sing one of my favorite songs -- It is Well With My Soul, practice for worship tomorrow, and ask Him to give me peace and rest tonight, and a new day to try again tomorrow.


I have had days far worse than today -- days filled with abandonment, betrayal, grief, deception, physical impairment and more.  Even now I look back over the last few years in wonder and amazement and lots and lots of thanksgiving, realizing that there is no way I could have made it to this day, the 8th of March 2011, without Him.  This day was a cakewalk.  And there is a bright side.  There is an old song that says "There's a bright side somewhere, don't you stop until you find it."  I don't agree with that, and I've got news for the brothers who sang that song:  The bright side is right here, right now.  Even if you don't have your best life now, your bright side is right here, right now.  Let the day take care of itself; just seize the moment.  Whether the moment is one in which you are at rest, are still and at peace, or are poised, ready to spring into action, make the most of the moment.  I lost a couple of hours today.  Had they been intentionally devoted to rest, they would not have been lost.  I literally cannot account for them.   


A moment is a pivotal point in time.  THERE IS NO ADJUSTMENT BUREAU!  You are your adjustment bureau.  It's how you handle this moment that will shape the next.  In the legal world in one moment -- suddenly and without warning as they say -- lives are often changed forever.  The Bible says the Lord Jesus will come in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye (1 Corinthians 15:52).   


So, I leave you first, with this question:  How will you spend your next moment?   And, secondly, with more words from one of my favorite hymns, It Is Well With My Soul:

When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,

When sorrows like sea billows roll;

Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,

It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,

Let this blest assurance control,

That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,

And hath shed His own blood for my soul.

My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!

My sin, not in part but the whole,

Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,

Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!

And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,

The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;

The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,

Even so, it is well with my soul.

Refrain.

It is well, with my soul,

It is well, with my soul,

It is well, it is well, with my soul

-- Horatio G. Spafford*

*Mr. Spafford wrote this shortly after losing his family in a shipwreck.  

There is "The" God

Early this afternoon Daryl Robinson stirred hearts with an eclectic and thoughtful mix of music as only he can deliver via his primary instrument -- pipe organ.  His recital was the first in a series called "First Fridays" co-sponsored by the Sacred Heart Co-Cathedral and the University of Houston's school of music.  

The Co-Cathedral’s structure at 1111 St. Joseph Parkway is relatively new.  During its construction it was frequently highlighted by various media as the building took shape and trappings and furnishings of every secularly-dubbed sacred kind and character were brought in to adorn the place with just the right marble, just the right statuary, just the right stained glass, blah, blah, blah.  It is indeed a magnificent structure, and a haven on the south end of downtown Houston – a place that I dread frequenting because of the traffic, noise, unfriendly parking (especially if one needs an accessible [politically correct word for handicapped space]), and especially the all-too-often unfriendly, self-possessed, self-absorbed people.  I had never visited the Co-Cathedral.  I am not Catholic and have never thought of worshiping there, and I do not see it as an attraction to tour – like going to the Museum of Fine Arts (no offense to the folks who have done this).  

As the sanctuary emptied of folks who attended the 12:10 mass, those of us who came for the recital joined those who chose to stay after the mass.  I took a seat about midway -- just a few feet from what appeared to be a small, very still pool of water in a raised marble platform (which I assumed to be part of the trappings of some Catholic ritual).  The organ, it turns out, is not in a place of prominence in the front, but in the choir loft above the main entrance in the back of the sanctuary. 

Without a word, Daryl began playing at the appointed time.  Some folks turned around to see Daryl – as much as could be seen of a man of medium height sitting at the instrument ensconced in the southeast corner of the loft.  Actually, it is hard to blame them for wanting to see.  The stuff that  Daryl executes with precision, excellence and grace, is sometimes difficult for one to actually believe comes from only 10 fingers and two feet.  As the sound of the organ filled the room I sat still and closed my eyes.  My first and continuing thought was only God could make something like this happen.  

Some will ask what’s God got to do with it?  Well, ask away!  And I am happy to answer:

• God made the dirt from which He created humankind.
• God gave humankind the thoughts, dreams, will, desire and ability to design great houses of worship – even knowing that our worship will not always be in spirit and truth (and that subject will be put aside for another time).
• God gave some the technology to make what others conceived in their minds, possible to construct.
• God gave others the skills and physical stamina to do the work to make the concept as outlined on paper and electronics, tangible.
• God stirred the hearts of others to make the financial commitments that brought all of the other elements together for the finished project -- even if they did it for the tax deduction or publicity.
• God created music.  Those 12 half-tones and the infinite ways in which they have been combined for millennia have done more to soothe the hearts, minds and souls of people all over the world, and even draw people of diverse nations, ethnicities, cultures and beliefs together on common ground, even in war, than anything else and anyone else other than Jesus, the Christ Himself, the Son of the Living, Almighty God.  
• And God brought Mr. & Mrs. Robinson together; they had a son and named him Daryl.   And for most of his young life, Daryl has embraced the art and honed his skills of making beautiful music.

Daryl’s Bach piece so moved one man that at its end he emitted an involuntary, audible cry, shaking me from my solitude (yes, it was as if I was alone in that huge room, enveloped in the music of the Almighty via Daryl’s hands).  I didn't recognize the man who could barely contain himself – or so I observed  – through my own tears.  

Daryl's mastery of the pipe organ is absolutely phenomenal.  Most folks with a degree of talent even approaching that which Daryl possesses would be so stuck on themselves they wouldn't even be approachable.  I am proud and pleased to call him son -- sweetie  -- dear or whatever comes to mind -- and that regardless of how I tag him for the moment, he responds with understanding that my labels are just an expression of my affection for him, and by extension, our God who made everything possible, creating us out of love.

A suggestion to any who is in doubt about God being behind all of this:  get your own dirt and do your own thing.

May the peace of God be with you always; may His goodness and mercy ever follow you. 

Where are All the Mahatmas?

The Merriam Webster word of the day is "mahatma."  http://www.merriam-webster.com/word-of-the-day/2010/12/30/ --  a person to be revered for high-mindedness, wisdom and selflessness.    The moment I saw the word "revered" I thought about all the "reverends" I know.  And I thought of how that word is generally self-attributed and very much overused to the point of abuse.   


It really galls me when people say my name is 'reverend doe.  Sometimes my follow-up question is what did your mother name you?"  (Of course, this is no different from people who say my name is Doctor Doe or Attorney Doe or -- or Evangelist Doe -- or my all-time grating-on-my-nerves one -- Lady Minister Doe.   News flash folks:  Your name is not your title or what you do for a living.     


The one time I saw "Rev. Andrea Hoxie" in an article written by the late "Bud" Johnson, one of my dearest sparring partners (verbal, of course), I had to give him a call; we had a serious conversation, including a little discussion of Psalm 111:9.


Words are important.  They encourage, convict, condemn, support, dissappoint, exhort, admonish, and deify -- or at least, attempt to do so.  Sometimes they begin with a thought; sometimes not.  These words I write today began with a thought -- primarily the possibility of offending those whom I love and respect, some of whom are oftentimes referred to by that "R" word. And then, I thought of those folks, and remembered why I respect them.  They accept me as I am, including the sometimes radical and unconventional Andrea who goes against the grain.   Even when we agree to disagree, it is without condemnation.  


Some folks are probably thinking right now:  Why would she write something so offensive?  So inflammatory?  What difference does is make that we call our priests, preachers, pastors and ministers "Reverend"?   Well, consider this:  Does it make a difference when someone calls you a receptionist when you're a secretary?  A gal when you're an administrator?  A secretary when you're a paralegal?  A boy when you're a man?  A hooker, prostitute or whore when you have reserved your body exclusively for your spouse?  


Words do matter.   We speak them and they take life, become flesh.  How many children have taken paths uttered by mean-spirited, impatient, ignorant folks who told them they would never amount to anything?  Yes, words matter.  


So, now, a few questions:  

• Does that certificate of ordination, license to preach, divinity degree, or your spouse's call to the ministry justify use of the handle Rev.?   
• Do you preach and teach God's word with authority, and then live as if there is no God, or as if He is blind and deaf?
• Do your beliefs, thoughts, attitude, behavior, and actions reflect reverend?
• Do you try to justify extra privileges to accorded to you because you use the handle?
• Is your general comportment the same whether you are at or away from home?

In other words, are you truly  a mahatma?  Or do you just wear the mask?  Here is a hint if you have difficulty answering the question:  The one man most of us know as Mahatma was Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi.  It is said that he protested against the title Mahatma that was conferred on him by others.   This simple-living man seemingly cared nothing for the transient trappings that are coveted by others.   He was wise, selfless and high-minded.  Mahatma?  And because of his wisdom, selflessness and high-mindedness, he was revered.  Reverend?


Even while we have high regard for the wise, selfless, high-minded folks of this world, there is but One, Who is indeed Reverend.   And He is called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.  And at His name, every knee shall bow and every tongue acknowledge and confess that He is Lord.  Jesus, the Christ.   Reverend.



  To Tell the Truth (V. Michael McKay)

Remembering Glenn and Charles

I have the best of both worlds. While I enjoy formally structured music, and am privileged to know a plethora of talented musicians (SMBC's Daryl Robinson, for one), who can properly execute the most intricate musical works and make such execution appear to be effortless, I also revel in the soul-stirring spontaneity of improvisational music, such as Glenn Burleigh's live rendition of one of my most favorite hymns.  This is a fitting time for me to find this recording, as it was just three years ago, around this time, that Glenn left this earth for a better life.  He is still missed by many, including me.  And even three years later, the gifts our God gave us through Glenn and his musical talent, are still giving; over, continuously we who love Glenn and his music are still reaping the benefits of those blessings.

On a similar note, just a few days ago, we celebrated the birthday of Charles Richards.  He, too, was a talented musician.  Unlike Glenn, he was not known nationwide.  He served same family of God here in Houston for more than 35 years.  He was the consummate gospel organist with a unique sound that I have never heard duplicated.   And he was much more than an organist.  Just as he blended his own sound on the Hammond organ, he trained and blended voices to sing God's praises.    It just so happens he really liked Glenn's music and incorporated it into his music ministry frequently.  Charles left this earth for a better life earlier this year.  He too is missed by many, including me.  

Now, about the link:  There may be one who listens to this recording and cannot understand what Glenn did with this lovely hymn.  Where did all that come from?  That's not the way it's supposed to go!  Why did he do that?  When is he going to resolve that phrase?  How could he do that?    Charles would understand.  It's just a thing that happens when the Spirit is like fire in your bones.   He leads you down paths you would not normally take -- many times well off the printed page; He pulls stuff out of you, the existence of which you are quite ignorant; and even while your heart pounds so hard you know it will soon explode, and you know for sure that you are soaring among the clouds, He keeps you from going off the deep end.  And when it's all over, He sets you down gently and safely.   And, you understand your feet are actually firmly planted -- on the ground.

Even while you're the same, you're not quite -- there's a little something different.  It may be a new perspective of an old issue, or a sense of peace that wasn't there before, or an urge to bridge the chasm of a derailed relationship.  It's kind of like something for which Pastor Steve prays when he asks God to speak to us through His Word, so that we will be less of what we used to be, and more of what we ought to be, through Christ Jesus.  What I'm saying is that the Word of God, even through a hymn, has transformative powers.  To one who cannot understand, I can only refer you to the words to this awesome hymn, which are themselves more than sufficient to make my heart soar.   And if those lyrics are not sufficient, feel free to go to the source:  Lamentations 3:23.  In the meantime, I believe I'll hobble upstairs and visit this hymn for myself -- just for a while.  As for you, the reader, visit Glenn's rendition here:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UR2hoEN2t2M