Gulp
I stumbled across this old bit from Soren Kierkegaard this week. I’d read it before (in Provocations), but preferred to forget it–especially when dealing with a text like Luke 18.
The matter is quite simple. The Bible is very easy to understand. But we Christians are a bunch of scheming swindlers. We pretend to be unable to understand it because we know very well that the minute we understand, we are obligated to act accordingly. Take any words in the New Testament and forget everything except pledging yourself accordingly. My God, you will say, if I do that my whole life will be ruined. How would I ever get on in the world? Herein lies the real place of Christian scholarship. Christian scholarship is the Church’s prodigious invention to defend itself against the Bible, to ensure that we can continue to be good Christians without the Bible coming too close. Oh, priceless scholarship, what would we do without you? Dreadful is it to fall into the hands of the living God. Yes, it is even dreadful to be alone with the New Testament.
The Brilliance of Bicycles
Two years ago this August, Jill and I found ourselves standing in the rain along side a nearly abandoned country road in Ontario, Canada. Our tandem bicycle–along with the bags of camping gear we were depending on to keep us sheltered, fed, and clothed for our two week bicycle tour–was laying in the ditch along side of the road.
The bike had already taken us over a hundred miles that day (108, if I recall correctly), but we knew that it wasn’t going to take us any further–at least not without a little help. Due to on unfortunate set of circumstances (involving the previously mentioned rain, a metal grate on bridge, and some bad advice) our rear tire was damaged beyond our ability to repair it. And so we stood on the side of the road, looking at our wounded bicycle wondering what to do–and where to go–next.
We didn’t have to wonder for long. It was only ten–maybe twenty minutes–before a man (whose name I’ve sadly forgotten) in a Chevy Silverado pickup pulled unto the shoulder next to us. “Where you folks from?” Before we could answer, he went on, “You look like you could use a little help.” We seized the opening and explained our precarious situation. And before we could ask him what we really wanted (Did he know of any towns nearby that had a bike shop? Could he help us get there? Or at least a campground nearby), he tugged at his beard and said: “Well, I happen to own a marina in the next town up. I’d be happy to have you stay with me for the night. Then tomorrow morning we’ll see about that tire.”
So that’s what we did. We loaded our gear into the back of his truck and a half hour later we had not only met his wife, we’d also met another woman (also a complete stranger) who offered us the exclusive use of her camper–warm shower, stove, clean sheets and all. For a couple of dirty, worn out bikers, she was a Godsend!
The thing that always strikes me about that story–and the others we have like it–is the way people treat you when you’re on a bicycle. There’s something about people on bikes–especially people on bikes who have clearly traveled a long way using nothing but their own horsepower–that breaks down the barriers that are usually erected between strangers. Maybe it’s the funny outfits. But for some reason, when people see a couple of strangers roll in on their bicycles, they seem much more prone to let their guard down and strike up a conversation. And therein lies the brilliance of bicycles. And the brilliance of the Sea to Sea Bike Tour.
I’ll admit, I wouldn’t always have characterized Sea to Sea as “brilliant.” In fact, I’ll confess to being rather cynical about it all. That’s not to say I don’t like the idea of a cross country ride. I do. In fact, it’s something I’ve personally wanted to do for a long time. So as a cyclist, I always thought it was a great idea. I was not convinced, however, that the tour was really going to be all that effective in pricking any one’s conscience about issues of poverty, or that it would do much (besides raise a fair chunk of money from people who might give it any way) to “stop the cycle of poverty.”
But that changed yesterday. Yesterday, I had the privilege of riding along with the tour for a day . I pedaled the tandem (this time with a biking buddy from my youth, Barb) from Denver to Fort Morgan. And a long the way, I was reminded of what I had learned on the tours Jill and I have done–when you’re on a bike, people want to talk to you. In coffee shops and campgrounds, I got to see my riding companions speak with complete strangers. And not just about the route, or the weather, or the other mundane details of their days. But about things that matter. They got to talk about why they were doing this crazy ride from Seattle to Jersey city. They got to talk about poverty. Cold Water, Hot Coffee
We talked a lot last Sunday about Christ’s call to embrace a broken world; the command to go into the world with his other-worldly kindness, love, grace, and service. But talking about it is one thing. Knowing how to do it is another. Someone shared this poem with me that I think gives a good suggestion. It’s called “Cold Water, Hot Coffee” and is written by Ann Weems.
Sometimes that cup of cold water,
turns out to be a cup of hot cofeee,
and what we’re asked to do is
to pour it…and to listen.
Sometimes we Christians
in our enthusaism
think we were asked
to save the world,
when what we were asked to do
is to go into it
and tell God’s story
to people in need of
some good news.
Aanxious activists forget
that just listening is an act
of compassion.
Driven disciples forget
that just listening is an act
of faithfulness.
Guilty givers forget
that just listening is an act
of stewardship.
Since we church people
have a tendancy to be
driven and anxious and guilt-ridden,
perhaps we shoul
read the directs again
and pour a cup of hot coffee
and listen
in his name.
For me, there’s sweet relief in knowing that I don’t have to “fix” everything. Listening can be enough.
