To Be Part of the Ocean

I'm sitting at the soundboard at the Front Porch, a concert is underway, and I just finished the last pages of Mitch Albom's 1997 book, Tuesdays with Morrie.

It's gotten a lot of acclaim, this book has. Everybody who reads it speaks highly of it, as a heart-wrenching account of an author's renewed relationship with a favorite professor in the midst of his ALS death throes. It's a true story, and it wants us to know that you're not ready to live until you're ready to die.

Personally, until the very end I wasn't that touched. No doubt it's well-written, sensitive, and thoughtful. But I considered putting it away several times before I reached the end, because all its platitudes about life and love and relationships and facing the end seemed a little cliche to me. A little overplayed... lacking poetry, poignancy, or both.

I think there may be a reason. Having spent my whole life in the Church, the subject of death is not entirely uncommon. Even if it's not a pleasant topic, it's nevertheless quite prescient to the church's theology. And for all its failings, somehow the Church did manage to instill in me a strong impression of the importance of love, relationships and living selflessly.

I was forced to consider the perspective of those raised without those insights. Those who may bristle at the raw consideration of death, and who have few opportunities to realign their thoughts to what is eternal. For them, I suppose I'm not surprised that Tuesdays with Morrie would be such an impactful book, and a truly beneficial one at that.

These were my thoughts at the half-point. But like I said, as it reached the end I started to feel differently. One passage that forced me to stop for a moment was a story told by the old professor himself. It was about a wave riding along the surface of the water, enjoying life. Until he notices what's happening to the waves ahead of him, as they crash violently on the shore. When the wave begins to panic, the next wave over comforts him by the notion that he is not a wave at all, he is part of the ocean.

As I said, this made me stop. Does it seem as silly to God for a human to fear the death that lies ahead, as it seems to a human for a wave to fear the shore? I've read a little about Buddhism lately, and their concept of "no-self". It is the process of getting rid of self-thoughts, to understand that "self" is an illusion, and that it is our membership in the universe, in humanity, in family, that really matter.

Don't think I'm buying into all this wholesale, but it is certainly stretching me.

And the whole topic brings me back over and over again to my nearest experience with death. About a year and half ago, just after our third wedding anniversary.

My wife Christina had an uncle who was essentially her father. Andrew Myers was brilliant, and proportionately eccentric for being brilliant. Few people have ever possessed greater potential. He was a doctor, and in his younger years gained a quick reputation in the ER for instant diagnosis. It was almost a shining. He could look at you, and tell what was wrong right away.

Although I never experienced this firsthand. My only hospital experience with Andrew Myers had him on the other end of the stethoscope.

As I said, it was about a year and a half ago. Andy's wife had just passed away six months prior, and he took a long downhill slide as a result. We all worried quite a bit about him... One might expect a bout of depression in his situation, but something else was bringing his health down drastically.

It didn't take long for his doctors to discover the cancer. Lung cancer. Our guess is that he knew he'd had it all along, but wanted nothing less than to be a cancer patient, subjected to wave after wave of destructive radiation. So he did what he could to alleviate the pain, and live his life while he could.

Fast-forward to the hospice room. When he was diagnosed, there was no doubt things would progress quickly, so there were few surprises that led us to this place... Christina and I together at Andy's side, or a fraction of Andy, anyway. The man we knew as a tall, robust individual was now a wisp of a man, with pure white hair and cheeks sunken severely beneath the oxygen tubes.

By many standards, I live a pretty colorful life. But it's also been fairly sheltered. In other words, until this point I'd never really witnessed death. Never really been there in the moment. And honestly, I could not have asked for a more precious introduction to humanity's greatest fear.

Andy had been mostly comatose during his short visit to the hospice, punctuated with short periods of looking around, or eking out a word or two. But in his final day, there was little to speak of. Christina and I stayed nearby, talking to him, holding his hands, and sharing warm conversations with friends and family who stopped in to visit.

The hospice nurse was nothing short of astounding. She was one of the most compassionate, encouraging and informative people I've ever encountered in the health care field. She told us how it would end. And we watched as it all unfolded.

His breathing became slower and slower, degenerating into intermittent gasps. And several other symptoms of passing matched the predictions perfectly.

But one blessing came to us that we didn't expect. Despite Andy's steady and unresponsive descent into darkness, his soul found the strength right before the end to open his eyes, and his mouth, as if he were witnessing something truly amazing. We held his hands a little tighter and smiled sadly to be part of such a breath-taking moment.

Then he closed his eyes again, to finish his breathing. The gasps got more and more sparse, and began to lift his chest as the effort became more and more intense. Then his chest would collapse, his chin would rise, the air would rush in sharply, and his body would rest for five seconds before it happened again. Then it was ten seconds. Despite their intensity, the breaths were thinning, and finally one gasp stopped midway, before Andrew Myers' body descended heavily into his bed. Christina and I squeezed his hands and looked at each other with emotions that don't fit into categories.

The nurse had asked us to inform her the moment he passed away, so I gave my wife a kiss and walked out into the hallway. I didn't have to walk far, because she was right nearby. Like I said, she was a wonderful nurse. She told me that we could take as long as we wanted with him before they began preparing his body for the funeral home. I questioned her about it, and she said some people take hours.

I returned to the room, and Christina and I sat and talked gently about Andy... trying to recall some of our happier moments with him. It seemed strange, mentally, to have casual conversation while a corpse is within arm's reach, but it also felt right in a way. I think we felt his presence more now, than we did when he was alive but comatose.

We prayed, and remarked to each other how relieved we were to know that Andy was with his Savior, whom he'd trusted in life. For although we mourn, we don't mourn like those who have no hope.

As I watched, and absorbed this new experience, and as I sit here to write out the story behind it, I am still a wave on the sea. I am moving, always darting in and out, never losing sight of the rocks ahead of me. But I am also part of the ocean, part of the larger picture that now holds Andrew Myers in the depths of its peace. Sometimes my heart can accept this, and sometimes it feels overwhelmed.

But despite the chaotic, the foreboding, the unknown, I can rest assured that in Christ, no fear is necessary. The sting of death is gone.

Not Alone

Despite the apparent uniqueness of the Front Porch, it is great to see that there are others out there dreaming and doing the Way of Jesus in ways we can relate to.

Back in December I wrote about one example of this located in Hamilton, Ontario, called The Freeway.

And just now I read a post on Kingdom Grace called "My Secret Fantasy" that reminded me again that we are not alone in this vision. There really is a movement afoot, and one that seems to have the stamp of Jesus on it.

It's hard not to become giddy when I read the way this vision takes on myriad variations in every cultural context, and in every impassioned heart to create a space of radical hospitality, and authentic community.

If you're reading this, and you know of any others, please speak up. It's really exciting to see continuity among so many who don't even know each other.

Peace.


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Kansas City on Google Street View - Our Story

I've known about Google Street View since they first made it public, with only 4 cities online: New York, Las Vegas, Miami and, um... Denver?

Anyway, I've watched them gradually add more and more cities to the network, and was thrilled when I saw that Kansas City had been added. Not only that, it has thicker coverage than almost any other city on Google Maps!

So that means I can easily show you the places in Kansas City that are important to me. Later I plan to create a post with neat, touristy pictures of my high school hometown, but for now I'll keep it more personal.

Here is the house I lived in with my parents and younger brother from 8th - 12th grade, and that they continued to live in while I was in college:


My wife Christina and I both went to the same high school, but only for a year, since I was class of '97, and she was '98, and she transferred in for her junior year. Sorry there's not a closer view, but you can see the stadium on the left, and part of the building on the right. Shawnee Mission South, everybody:


Although we'd glimpsed each other in the halls at school, both of the times we actually met were at this place, a Messianic Jewish congregation called Or Ha Olam. The reason we met twice is because the first time was when we were 15 or 16, and nothing clicked. But the second time we were 20 and 21, on Friday evening, June 16, 2000, to be precise, and I knew I had to ask her out:


My initial way of asking her out was to invite her to join me and the other college students at Or HaOlam at Steak 'n Shake after the service. This is where we first really hit it off. And the others that were with us said it was obvious:


While we were hitting it off, I asked her what kind of music she listens to, hoping against hope that she didn't say Country. What she said was, "Well, my first love is Jazz." That's it! I was sunk. So I asked her if she wanted to go with me after Steak 'n Shake to an after-hours jazz club I knew about near downtown. She said yes, and hopped in the car (parents' minivan... not exactly a chick magnet) with me, and off we went to the Mutual Musicians' Foundation:


There you can see the front stoop, where we hung out most of the time we were there, talking to some of the younger jazz musicians that stopped by. It was a gorgeous night to be sitting out discussing the deeper things in life at 3 am. And I know that's how late it was, because it was 4 am by the time I dropped her off at her house:




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Ticketshyster

At the risk of gloating, I would like to make all of you aware that I am going to the Radiohead concert in St. Louis on May 14.

Tickets went on sale on a Saturday morning in the middle of February, and my wife and I were sitting at the computer, poised to obtain tickets for us and six of our friends so we could all go as a group. I'll spare you the details, but since Ticketmaster's website made it clear that there was a four-ticket-per-person limit, we decided that I would by four, and my wife would buy four.

To be honest, I'm not the only one who was disappointed in the idea of buying Radiohead tickets through Ticketmaster. Radiohead's immense popularity did not come as a result of heavy radio airplay (despite their name) or aggressive marketing. With the exception of providing some music for Baz Luhrmann's immensely popular film rendition of Romeo & Juliet in the mid-90's, Radiohead's rise to prominence has been overwhelmingly grassroots. So it seems antithetical that they would rely on a corporation that so completely exemplifies "the man" to distribute their concert tickets.

Nevertheless, I didn't make a big deal about it, because I figured it was probably a requirement of the venue (a corporately named, and corporately minded, humongous amphitheater) rather than a decision made by Radiohead themselves. Of course, the ideal concert in the minds of most RH fans would be in some dingy gothic theatre, or underground rave. But let's be realistic... a venue that cool would most certainly exclude me (and probably you) from going, if only for its smallness.

So I didn't complain about having to go through Ticketmaster. Until now. Remember I told you about that four-ticket-per-person limit? Well, like I said, I bought four tickets, and then my wife bought four tickets. So we had our two, and although we knew it would take a few weeks for them all to arrive in the mail, we started promising the other six to our friends.

Until we opened our credit card bill today. Because lo and behold, there was a charge for four tickets, another charge for four tickets, and then, three days further down the statement, a credit for the price of four tickets.

It turns out that their policy is not four-per-person, it is four-per-household. Whether it was a typo on their website, or an oversight on our part, they still let the transaction go through, making us think we had eight tickets, and forcing me to call several people today to tell them that we didn't have tickets for them after all. (Try spilling those beans to a h-a-r-d-c-o-r-e Radiohead fan living in the Midwest.)

I argued with customer service about it, to no avail. The usual shpiel... "A website can't be perfect, it let the transactions go through, and then when we discover later that two transactions have the same billing address, we canceled one of them." B.S.

A website can most certainly tell when two transactions come from the same household, when they share a billing address, and especially when they share a credit card number, and a last name.

What bothers me most is not what happened. It's that we had to find out by opening our credit card statement. Imagine going to a store and buying 8 shirts, and taking them home to give to your friends as Christmas presents, then having the clerk from the store sneak into your house that night, take 4 of them back, and credit your card for that amount.

Nonsense, right? Exactly.

Epilogue: After this debacle, I quickly called a friend who had tickets to the show, but only bought two, to see if he could get two more. Contrary to my assumption, the lawn tickets hadn't sold out at all, and he was able to get two more, which was the exact overage of friends to whom we had promised tickets. Whew! God does care about Radiohead concerts. ;-)

Ah...

choo!

The Count

It's not about the numbers. It never has been.

Of course, if you follow this blog at all, you know that already. But saying it is a whole lot easier than meaning it.

I made a commitment last year to never count people unless there was an important practical reason. Estimations are less dangerous, but still suspect.

But it turns out that so much of the survival of The Core has come to hinge on that dreadful phrase: "Sunday Morning Attendance." The more people come, the more viable and successful it will seem to those who are there. This was proven to me over the past two weeks.

Last Sunday we had our first Second Sunday Artist Spotlight, and we featured artist Jon Stanton. Prior to that our highest attendance had been roughly 25. But this time it was closer to 40 (although, in keeping with our philosophy, nobody actually counted.)

I thought to myself, "OK... that was fun. Very encouraging. Some friends and family of the artist showed up to boost the showing a bit. Now let's see what happens next week." And what happened (this morning) was... the same thing. Without the boost.

They say success begets success. That when people see something work, or they see it well attended, that their perception of it improves automatically. I've experienced this firsthand. One young lady came several months ago on a Sunday morning, and seemed to really appreciate what she experienced, although there were not many more than a dozen in attendance. She came again last Sunday, and expressed her surprise at the number of people. "I really liked it the first time I came," she said, "but I was a little worried because there were, like, only eight people there or so." But when she came the second time and saw the place mostly full, it made a different impression entirely. I guess it's mob psychology in a way... "If this many people like it, it must be good."

So now I feel like it's a whole new ballgame. It definitely feels different with 3 or 4 dozen than with only 1 dozen. We need more brunch food. The sound system becomes more important. Some people are forced to sit towards the front. Plus there's just an energy to it that doesn't exist otherwise.

Believe me... I'm as much a fan of smallness as I ever was. But when it became apparent that The Core was going to have to survive (financially) primarily by its own devices, I started to realize how important it would be to build a self-sustaining fellowship, and that that body would have to be a certain size to be viable.

From where I sit, it looks like that's exactly what God is doing, although you never can tell for sure. Each week belongs to him... it's his call whether we're supposed to have 9 or 90 next week.

Although if you want to know my preference... I hope it's somewhere in between.

Ryan the Rookie

Today was my sixth day working a new job.

It's a pretty big deal to me, since I worked at Second Baptist for 2 1/2 years, and now I am employed by Trader's Printing in downtown Springfield. This is also the first time when I've actually transitioned directly from one job into another, without spending some time being unemployed and a bit desperate. So that's nice. And a little surreal.

That's not all that's surreal. Here's a blow-by-blow comparison of the new job and the old job that makes me feel a little out of sorts at times, for good or for ill.

Second Baptist ------ Trader's Printing
private office ------ no rooms with doors
windowless office --- windows everywhere
lots of solitude ---- lots of company
niceness to a fault - name-calling
flexible work ------- structured work
not enough pay ------ just enough pay
boss is older ------- boss is my age
30 co-workers ------- 4 co-workers
20-minute commute --- 5-minute commute

There's more, but you get the idea. Not only is Trader's close to home, it's only a block from the Front Porch, which is great. In fact, they don't have a working refrigerator at the moment, so if I take my lunch with me, I keep it at the FroPo. I'm even thinking about taking the bus because the central terminal is straight across the street.

A few things that are the same: both are quite old. Second was founded in 1885, and Trader's in 1925. So they both have sort of a storied history and an established reputation. Also, I'm actually able to carry over a lot of the skills I've learned into the new job, such as design, typography, bindery, etc.

Overall, I must say that I'm enjoying it quite a bit, though it is certainly overwhelming to all of a sudden be the resident rookie. They try to teach me 30 new things every day, and I'm just hoping to retain half of it. And despite the name-calling, it's actually a very friendly environment.

The biggest difference of all? On Friday, my boss did a small print job for his buddy at Hickok's restaurant next door, and they paid him with a half-gallon of their in-house microbrew. So he set it out on the table in the back room at 4:30 for us all to drink together. On the clock.

Cheers!

Mid-December Miscellany

Here we are... 12 days to Christmas and my mind is filled with miscellany. So why even try to focus? Here's a hodge-podge, a menagerie, a winding journey through a wandering mind.

Advent Conspiracy

One occupant of my mind that only seems to grow stronger is the sense that I should be a part of helping everyone get it right when it comes to Christmas. No, I'm not talking about the culture wars of who has the almighty guts to actually say "Merry Christmas". It scares me to oblivion to think of three Christian fathers showing up at Best Buy for the only remaining Nintendo Wii, pounding each other to a pulp for it, and then all being careful to wish the "Happy Holidays" clerk a "Merry Christmas" on their way out.

Imago Dei is a church in Portland that has made a real effort to instigate a change in the rabid commercialization of the birth of Christ. It's called Advent Conspiracy, and it urges everyone to spend less, and give more... specifically to provide clean water for those in the world who have none. I encourage everyone to check it out, and I could definitely see The Core jumping on board with this in 2008. There's a great video on Tim Keel's blog about the joy of giving clean water.

Downtown Conversation

There's a lot of new stuff coming in downtown. Artist Susan Sommer-Luarca renovated, and now opened, a gorgeous new gallery just across the intersection from the Front Porch, a new coffeehouse on the square, called The Coffee Ethic, has now come online, and at the same time a quaint little shop called Global Fayre has hit the Campbell Avenue scene just a block away. The best part is, In the last 24 hours I have had great conversations with the proprietors of all three of these new establishments, and they have all been actually quite deep. I pray that there will be many more opportunities to connect meaningfully with our downtown neighbors.

Vocationality

And speaking of great conversations, I am having some of the best conversations so far with my co-workers now that I have decided, after 2 1/2 years working at Second Baptist Church, to move on. In case you weren't aware, I took a position at Second in May 2005, primarily to handle their graphic design and layout. But now I have accepted the role of Office Manager/Graphic Designer at a downtown print shop called Trader's Printing Company. It's a small, family owned business that has had a strong presence downtown for over 80 years, so that's pretty exciting. Not to mention the fact that my round-trip commute will be reduced from 18 miles to 3 miles, and that I'll be working full-time only a block from the Front Porch!

It's Getting Easier to be Green

I'll have to post some pictures on this topic soon, but I did want to let everyone know that the Front Porch's green room (the room behind the stage) is getting a make-over. We were donated a couch and easy-chair set from a furniture store across the street the went out of business. And check this out... it's a very hip set: two-tone leather worth $5500! In addition to that we've been donated a 32" flat-panel TV. So now we can deck out the Green Room and make it a comfy spot for Discussion Groups, Counseling, Prayer, Study Groups, and the older kiddos (pre-schoolers) who come on Sunday mornings. Just throw in an end table and a floor lamp and we're in business.

Merging and Changing

I'm keeping the details a little bit quiet at the moment, but we're looking forward to our new year of Sunday morning Worship Gatherings. Stay tuned as new ideas unfold...

What a Sell-Out!

This is just a short post to let everybody know that the Hit the Lights Fashion Show on Saturday evening was a complete success! We sold every last ticket, filled up every seat, and even let a few people in for the ticket price who knew they would have nowhere to sit. Here are the (approximate) numbers:

110 tickets sold
35 garments exhibited
25 models exhibiting them
10 designers
18 auction items sold
15 volunteers & coordinators
1 fantastic evening

I'll post some pictures within the next week. Praise God, and thanks to all of you who came, or helped!

Sunday

Let me just say that I had a beautiful day on Sunday. So good, in fact, that it made me wonder what suffering I might have to endure this week to pay for it.

I'm joking. But if the Chiefs hadn't lost, and provided a necessary smudge on an otherwise perfect day, I would be serious.

This was the second week that we held our Merge worship gathering on Sunday morning. The first week was fine. Some people came, I had some wonderful help with the music side of things, and I was ok with it.

But this time was better. Even though I didn't have any help with the music (next week Skyler Smith and Joe Terry will join me) I just really enjoyed everything. Some people showed up in time for brunch... some people brought food who didn't have to... and we had a great time eating and shooting the breeze. Jason ran sound and powerpoint, and has committed to helping out with that every week. Matt & Andrea brought their whole freakin' extended family.

Two girls I knew from the South Haven youth group came and brought a college friend. Two girls that sang for Open Mic the night before came, and are interested in helping with music in the future. A guy we met at the Drury Activities Fair a few months back showed up. One college girl that was there the first week came back, and brought a friend. The wife and son of one of our former exhibiting artists came. Christina was there, Angela was there, Amanda was there, our neighbor three doors down came and brought his 5-year-old son. One family peered in the window and started to move on, until I came out and asked them if they were looking for the worship gathering. Once they were convinced that it wasn't all young people, they came in, and really enjoyed it.

Like I've said before, we don't count people. But I will probably look back on Sundays like this, and miss being able to list off all the people who came.

Since I didn't have any help with music, I just played four songs on the piano. I apologized several times for making it look like it was the Ryan Show, but nevertheless, I felt like God was doing it his way, and the environment seemed very worshipful. After that, we all grouped up with those around us to share our needs and concerns, etc, for prayer. Every group seemed to be chatting happily when it was time to move on.

So I put a stool down on the floor, near the front of the group, and shared what I knew about the first mention of Jesus in the Bible, what some call the "proto-evangelion". This is where Adam and Eve sin, and God curses the serpent, saying that Eve's offspring will crush his head. That "offspring" is Jesus.

When I asked for a volunteer to read Genesis 2:25, I gave everyone a warning. "You need to be comfortable with the "n" word if you want to read it," I said. Everyone kind of squirmed, and after a few tense moments someone read out loud, "The man and his wife were both naked, and they felt no shame." The tension dissipated a bit, and I realized why. "There's the "n" word there... "naked". The other "n" word is not in the Bible, by the way. I've read the whole thing, and it's just not there, so you don't have to worry about that." That got a chuckle.

The rest of the talk was a combination of sharing and questioning, and several people were happy to put in their two cents. The main thing we discovered is that this is not our story, it's God's story. Jesus is the star of the New Testament AND the Old Testament. But in addition to that, he needs to be the star of our own stories. Most of us make ourselves the star, and think too highly of ourselves. Some make ourselves an extra, and think too lowly of ourselves. God has made us to be important supporting actors in this story. We are each vital, but we are not what it's all about. Jesus is.

Another thing I loved was the set-up. Some people sat in the rows at the front, others at cafe tables just behind that, and still others in couches along the side, or towards the back. I think it was quite comfy.

So that was the AM. But there's more! Later in the evening, Christina and I took a walk down Pickwick Street, an annual fall tradition for us, since Pickwick is a beautiful place to enjoy the fall foliage. When we were almost back to our car, we passed a little store called Incense and Peppermints, which is a cute hippie store that sells hippie stuff. It looked like it had been broken into, and the owner was inside looking very distraught. So we came over and asked her if we could do anything to help. She said no, but she proceeded to vent about everything that had been going wrong in her life... her dog had died, her friend had committed suicide, and now this.

We just listened, and eventually she invited us in for a beer. So we joined her inside as she scrounged up a few chairs to sit and talk. And she talked a lot... and we listened a lot, sipping on our Bud Lights.

This post is getting way to long to go on about our conversation with her, except to say that it was beautiful, for us, and apparently for her.

That's it. That was our day.

God is good.

Sometimes I Wish I Were a Smoker

If cigarettes, cigars or pipes were a) free, b) pleasant-tasting, and c) completely harmless, I think I would be a smoker.

Naturally, these three things are ridiculously untrue. I've never smoked for even a moment (a friend tried to teach me how to puff a cigar one time, but I failed miserably) and I suppose I never will. It's never looked or smelled appealing to me, and I've outgrown any vulnerability to that sort of peer pressure.

But there is one allure that grabs me every so often. This morning I saw a guy standing out at the edge of a parking lot, enjoying the cool morning haze, making a little haze of his own. I tried to imagine him without a cigarette, just standing there, staring into space. Then I realized that people don't do that.

When I lived in an apartment building with balconies, I looked with a trace of envy at my neighbors, who could sit out on their lawn chairs late in the evening, just smoking. I didn't smoke, so I tried sitting out on my balcony with a book. Not enough light. I tried sitting out there with nothing, and I could tell that people walking by thought I was watching them. I tried bringing a soda with me... that worked a little better, but it was gone in 5 minutes, and then I was a spy again.

I could sit out with a buddy. Now I'm not so weird. But then we have to talk. We can't just sit there and BE. Because that's just two people leering at passersby. And if there's a nip in the air, or a few more bugs than we care for, it's too easy to just go inside.

My wife and I will sit out on our porch now and then, when the weather's good and we have a dessert to eat, or a beverage to drink. We generally don't just sit there... we talk. And that's nice. But I still say there's something about smoking a cigarette that helps people to understand the value of just BEING.

Do I want more people to smoke? Hell no. I would cast the accursed sticks into the nearest volcano if I could (now there's a smell.) What I really wish is that we, as a culture, would figure out how to just stop for a moment... stop talking, stop doing, stop worrying... to take a break from life and learn how to be.

Now that's smoooooth refreshment!

Perelandra and the Front Porch

I am halfway through reading C.S. Lewis' book entitled "Perelandra", the second in his renowned science fiction trilogy. My copy of the book is pretty dang old--my dad read it when he was young--which is cool. But as a consequence, I have to hold it gingerly to keep half the pages from falling out, which is annoying.

I don't feel the need here to go into a synopsis of the book, but it takes place on Venus, and one of the characters is a type of Eve. She is one of only two humans native to the planet, and the other (her husband) is missing. Just as the Lady is a type of Eve, Venus is a type of Eden, and at the beginning of the story is in an unfallen state. The Lady knows nothing about evil, but in talking to the protagonist of the story, Professor Ransom (who has been sent from earth), she begins to learn some new things. The central message of the book is stated well in the following passage:

"What you have made me see," answered the Lady, "is as plain as the sky, but I never saw it before. Yet it has happened every day. One goes into the forest to pick food and already the thought of one fruit rather than another has grown up in one's mind. Then, it may be, one finds a different fruit and not the fruit one thought of. One joy was expected and another is given. But this I had never noticed before -- that at the very moment of the finding there is in the mind a kind of thrusting back, or setting aside. The picture of the fruit you have not found is still, for a moment, before you. And if you wished -- if it were possible to wish -- you could keep it there. You could send your soul after the good you had expected, instead of turning it to the good you had got. You could refuse the real good; you could make the real fruit taste insipid by thinking of the other."

It blows me away to think about how often this happens... millions of times a day. Do you sit in a relatively good job and spoil it by fantasizing about the job you really want? Maybe the job you have is actually better. Do you have a loving spouse, and wish you could have married your high school sweetheart instead? Are you so sure you would have been happier if you had?

I think a lot about how the Pharisees were guilty of this. Their approach to the concept of Messiah was to expect a conquering king, a Pharisee of Pharisees, someone who validates them, and rewards them for their sacrifice of righteousness.

As an aside, I often wonder how many of those who actually did follow Jesus were really any better. The disciples were validated by Jesus because he picked them and not others. The sick were validated because he healed them. The children because he honored them. The women and Gentiles because he included them. I can't believe I'm saying this, but... perhaps we have been a bit hard on the Pharisees. Not because they were good, but because they were no worse than the others around them (or us, for that matter.) Everyone in Jesus' company was simply following him, or not following him, based on what was, or wasn't, in it for them. It was not until he was crucified and resurrected, and really not until Pentecost, that his followers began to be identified by what they were giving, and not what they were getting.

We have to make the same choice. Jesus may be validating you... but he won't be for long, I promise you that. He will lift you up and set your feet on a rock. He will breathe his strength and peace into you and anoint your head with oil. But there will come a point where you have been rehabilitated enough to stop taking, and start giving. And that is the point where Jesus will seem to disappear.

Then you will have the choice of the Pharisee (or perhaps Peter at his moment of denial, if you will.) "Do I take Jesus as he is? Or do I keep waiting for somebody to validate me... to be the fruit that I expected to find?"

But the choice has a different twist for you then it did for them. You don't have Jesus literally standing right in front of you, calling you a viper, or a hypocrite. You have the opportunity to craft him into your likeness with your imagination, then with your words, and then with your lifestyle. You can convince people that Jesus is something else... a wish-granting pushover, or pot-smoking hippie, or a gun-toting Republican, to name a few.

You come to that point where he seems to disappear, and then you have to clear it all away--your needs, your blessings, your expectations--remove all the clutter from your vision and ask yourself the only question that has ever mattered...

"Do I trust God?"

And when you have answered it, look again at the fruit in your hand, and the fruit in your mind.

I am not the only one who ventured into the idea of the Front Porch, and The Core, with certain expectations. Many of you who are reading this have had your own. Some of you have taken actual steps to realize those visions. Some have done nothing. And a few have asked me to do it for them.

It's easy to dream when there is no tangible reality in front of you, defying you openly. But now the Front Porch is real... and it keeps tantalizing me with the promise of other-worldly delights. You know, revolutionary ministry, authentic community, dynamic relationships, transformed lives, and night after night of packed-out events. In a word... adventure. But it also taunts me with the threat of misdirection... that it might very well become something bad, or something old and tired... or perhaps nothing at all.

Don't push away from me on this... it's your battle, too. Ask yourself if you are more in the habit of finding a Jesus who will continue to validate you, or of pouring your heart out to serve the one who really exists.

I'm just trying day in and and day out to remember that it all belongs to him... that success is his responsibility, not mine.

Thank goodness.

Omniscient

You say you're omniscient.

You say there's nothing that escapes your notice... nothing you cannot understand.

At one point maybe you decided there were a few things outside your experience, so you came down and did that, too. Now we're supposed to find complete comfort in the totality of your purview... that no matter what we find to complain about, you've got it whipped.

You say you've suffered far beyond the trials of any mortal human. I'll grant you that. Your capabilities are infinitely higher than mine... your pain is infinitely more painful, and your joy infinitely more joyful. How can I argue? Why should I compare myself to you at all?

Because you started it.

You made me in your image. You said that you could relate to all my temptations, because you've been there. You, sir, have invited the comparison, and now I feel like it's falling apart.

Because you don't know what it's like to screw up.

Sure, maybe you do, in some impossible realm that will forever escape the grasp of my consciousness... some alternate universe where something is beyond you. But how can that be anything but nonsense to me?

You say you are the "Friend of Sinners", but I imagine a homeless man being befriended by the president of a seminary, or a leper by Mother Teresa. I'm thankful for the kindness, but sometimes the gift feels like cold comfort. Yay... I have a pity friend.

Because ultimately, I am pitiful. Even in your most pitiful moment you were heroic, earth-shattering, compassionate, praiseworthy. Your most pitiful moment was, indeed, your most beautiful moment.

But when I am a loser... I am just a loser. When I make a fool of myself, I am just a fool.

So what do I want? To pull God down to me? To shrink his head? To yank my rescuer out of the boat so I can drown in good company?

If I wasn't pitiful when I started writing this, surely I am now.

Serendipity

When you don't believe in luck, chance or coincidence you're typically left with a lot of churchy words to describe the unexpected neat stuff that happens in your life. And those words never really seem to capture it. "Blessing", "Divine Appointment", "A God Thing" etc. All a little clunky.

The fact is that I do believe in chance and coincidence (not so much in luck) but there is really no better word for this stuff than "Serendipity." That way you can ascribe your good fortune to whoever you want... you don't have to be presumptuous to be poetic.

I have encountered a few instances of serendipity this week. On Monday, I finally got to meet Ibiyinka Alao, a wonderful guy who had been friends with Phillip & Amy Scoggins for awhile, but had yet to bump into me. Ibiyinka is the art ambassador from Nigeria, and travels all over the world making presentations about his art and his faith. Just 5 months ago he got married to a former art student of Amy's, and they have settled down in Springfield.

Turns out Ibiyinka and his wife, Jessica, are looking for a church to call home. When he saw the Front Porch he was very intrigued. And when I asked him, he agreed to give his presentation at this Sunday evening's Merge gathering. That's serendipity of a divine order.

So that night I was able to make up a flyer for Merge to take with us to Drury for their Student Activities Fair on Tuesday. For this opportunity I have to give props to Matt & Andrea Battaglia, a recent addition to The Core family, who both work at Drury. Anyway, Christina and I set up our display for their Fair, and immediately tons of Drury students were asking us about The Core and the Front Porch. Welcome to the 60 Drury students who are new to The Core! We're looking forward to seeing you around. Serendipity again.

Finally, Mik told me yesterday about how he was putzing around the Front Porch, trying to finish up a few things, and this guy named Zach walked in asking about becoming a bartender. Apparently there's a sign on Ernie Biggs' door saying "Bartenders Wanted, please use next door". What they meant was to please use the back door. But due to the miscommunication, Zach walked into the FroPo looking for a job. Although Mik didn't have one to offer him, the two of them did sit down and talk for about an hour and a half. Then Zack offered to help him move all the appliances into the now-finished coffee bar. I don't know if he ended up getting an interview at Ernie's, but we definitely expect to see him around from now on.

Don't get me wrong... I'm not crediting Serendipity for these things. I'm just saying that it's one of the ways God does things. There's comfort, there's testing, there's commanding, there's Serendipity.

It's important to recognize this, because whenever you try to do something really big, it's like discouragement is always hovering over your head. Consequently, when God intervenes with Serendipity, you pretty much have to get a tattoo so you don't forget about it by the time you're drowning again.

Follow Me, and I Will Make You Fishers of... Snakes?

Turns out my brain is too scattered right now for a unified field theory of... anything, so here's a hodge podge consisting of unfinished past posts (time to clean up the "drafts" box,) and what happened last night.

Fishers of Snakes

Last night at the Front Porch my new buddy Richard the Sound Guy and I were trying like heck to get a 16-channel snake through a 50-foot long sub-floor PVC pipe that surfaces at one end on stage, and at the other end where our soundboard will be. For those even more uninitiated than myself, a snake is a long, thick cable that connects the soundboard to the stage, and ours has to be threaded through this pipe. Richard is quite a guy... very knowledgeable, but nevertheless he and I were having some trouble. We started by running a long aluminum wire through, but it kept getting stuck in the middle. So I had the idea to get out the Shop Vac and suck it through from the opposite end. So Richard put a ball of duct tape on the end of the wire and stuck it in his end of the pipe, and I pressed the hose down onto my end, and slowly but surely it started to move. Then... twhop! I snagged it. Unfortunately this story does not end quite so happily, because we ended up snapping the wire in our attempt to pull the snake through. Not to worry, though, Plan B looks promising, if a tad bit more expensive.

Pastor Po-Mo and the SpringMo Lib-Cons

I just liked this title. Couldn't think of how to write a post for it, though. Add a comment if you think you can figure out what it means.

Multi-Site Church and the Emerging Televangelists

I decided not to write a full-out post on this because most Springfieldians have never heard of a Multi-Site Church. It is, however, all the rage among large "emerging" churches such as Mars Hill in Seattle, Journey in St. Louis, or Life Church in Oklahoma City. It's like a church that has multiple services, except those services are often happening in different places at the same time, instead of in the same place at different times. It is common for there to be a "mother" site, and "daughter" sites, each featuring a different worship team and an entirely different group of people, but all featuring the same sermon by the same Senior Pastor, only he's on a screen at the daughter sites, and not in preaching in person.

It baffles me a little how the people who go to these types of churches are often the last in the world to watch a preacher on television, and yet that's essentially what they're doing at the daughter sites. Can you call a guy your "pastor" if you're never even in the same room with him?

I know I'm in no position to say what a pastor ought or ought not to be, but I'm going to do it anyway. If you're pastoring a church, and it grows, and decides to become a multi-site church, and has to spend tens of thousands of dollars on technology to make sure that YOU and your thoughts are the centerpiece of every worship experience, no matter how far away, then I think you've lost some of what it means to be a pastor. Hopefully, throughout all that you still manage to actually shepherd a few people, but haven't you just become a televangelist to the rest?

The Nooma Sessions

I'm terrible with serieses. I guess I'm just not the type. I did a post about the first Nooma video, "Rain" thinking I would blog about all of them. Except that 1/4 of the time I'm not even in on the discussion, since I'm watching the kids. Also the fact that I'm terrible with serieses.

Church Marketing

Months ago, I typed the title "marketing" into blogger, and saved it in order to remind me to write a post about marketing. But it turns out all I have is feelings about marketing, and no actual thoughts. My gut says it's sick... that marketing is just an extension of sales, and salesmanship has no place in the Kingdom of God. I know that church marketing and its goons have turned a lot of people off to the Church entirely, but I'm not sure where to draw the line. Should a church list their phone number in the yellow pages? Sure. Should they pay for a little extra space for added visibility? I don't know. Should they have a full-page color ad? Personally, I don't think so. But there's a lot of leeway in there. Obviously, I think websites are great. Billboards, not so much. But what is the essential difference? How do we know when we've gone too far in trying to get the word out? How do we know when we've developed a competitive nature, or a success syndrome? Anyone?

So Here I Am

I remember lying in bed at the age of 11, on the top bunk of the room my brother and I shared, in my family's little two-bedroom apartment. My dad was in his second year of seminary at the age of 39, having moved our family the year before from my birth-town of Bartlesville, Oklahoma, to nearby Tulsa.

I was lying there thinking about how my dad was about to become a pastor. Then I thought about how his dad was a pastor and evangelist, moving the family around Iowa and preaching in many churches before getting a divorce and taking up a career with the Corps of Engineers. Then I thought about how his dad was a pastor, immigrating from Sweden at the age of 16, and preaching in Swedish-language churches in the midwest.

Suddenly I felt a sense of destiny... no small thing for an 11 year-old. Preaching seemed to be a family business of sorts, and I was next in line. My dad didn't hear the call until middle age, but I'll be darned if I was going to wait that long. If I was going to be a pastor, I wanted in on the ground floor.

The thing of it is... I didn't want to be a pastor. Pastors, to me, were a certain special type of individual. They carried an air about them... a self-conscious-model-of-righteousness air... a sense that every word they said and everything they did was of monumental importance... as if failure was not an option. They seemed so... dignified. They loved making jokes, but didn't know how to be funny. They smiled a lot when they were around people, but never seemed to be truly enjoying themselves. There was just something wrong about pastors to me, and something wrong about the way people behaved in their presence.

Consequently, I did not embrace my "calling" wholeheartedly. I got embarrased at the way people would respond when I told them about it. I lived a life that was agreeable enough, but fell far short in terms of discipline and spiritual growth. Eventually I got so uncomfortable with the idea that I became convinced I had not heard from God at all. I decided I had simply looked at my family tree and jumped to conclusions.

This was the beginning of my foray into architecture. I found that I loved designing buildings and floorplans... so it seemed natural to play that field a bit. I put away thoughts of vocational ministry, and by the time I was 17 I was accepted into the School of Architecture at Kansas State University, and had secured a scholarship and a place to live.

The next part of my story could easily fill ten pages, so I'll abridge it for you. During my senior year in high school, I was learning how to play the guitar, and leading worship for my itty-bitty youth group that met in the leader's basement. Humble beginnings, to be sure. But as I grew in worship, and developed friendships with people who taught me how to forget myself before God, I felt my heart begin to turn. After graduating from high school, I found myself at a Promise Keeper's rally at Arrowhead Stadium in Kansas City, among 65,000 men singing their hearts out to "A Mighty Fortress is our God." It was unbelievable.

I always say that God can speak to us anywhere. There is nothing magical about a church building, or a worship song, that God has designated to serve as a vehicle for his interactions with us. But for some reason my rare moments of absolute clarity from God tend to occur in those very settings. And yet, in those moments I also feel disconnected from them... as if I wasn't really there at all.

What I'm saying is, God spoke to me at Arrowhead Stadium. He said he wanted me to turn a corner in my life, and become a worship leader.

So I obeyed... I studied music and Bible, and took every opportunity to increase my experience and skill both musically and worshipfully.

By 2004, I had a bachelor's degree, and a wife who was ready to go with me wherever God pointed us, to lead people into his presence. But instead, in another church service, he told us to stay put and start The Core (read that story.)

So we struck out on the path God gave us, and soon made friends with Matt & Melissa Stephens, who had a similar vision. We decided that Matt would be the pastor of The Core. I, then, could lead the worship (among other things,) thus fulfilling the call I'd heard in Kansas City.

But now Matt and Melissa are gone. They moved to Chicago so Matt could attend seminary. I like to say that, when I backed out of my calling to be a pastor, God very gradually "backed" me back in. It's almost as if he tricked me.

So here I am. Pastor of The Core. I want you to know that I'm still not sure what to do with that. I'm not a preacher. I'm not remarkably funny or popular. I have trouble with names. I talk too much, and I stick my foot in my mouth with startling regularity. I'm a mediocre listener at best. I have very few Bible verses formally memorized, and my daily devotionals are a bit spotty. I'm a people-pleaser, and have difficulty speaking up with the hard truths. But that doesn't stop me from being controversial or argumentative. I'm prideful. I tend to think I'm the smartest man in the room. I'm also absent-minded. I am simultaneously a reckless optimist and a worry-wart. I have NO experience. I fashion myself a worship leader, but my voice is unremarkable and my guitar and piano skills are painfully basic.

There you have it, the Pastor of The Core.... let me know if I left anything out.

______________________

So we've established now that I'm not on anybody's short list to plant a church. And yet, it seems that God doesn't care about our short lists. He consistently taps the rejects. It's as if he were the captain of a pick-up basketball team, and he picks all the short heavy kids, just to prove that he can beat the other team all by himself. But then he manages to win the game as a team, just to prove he's not a ball-hog.

Having accepted the fact that God has indeed chosen me to do this thing, I have had to struggle to understand my identity in all this. When I was 11, I knew I didn't want to be a shiny-veneer-type pastor, and I don't think God wanted me to, either. That's why I'm pastor of The Core, and not Third Methodist, or something. And yet, I find myself always observing all these other pastors to see where I'm falling short.

Lately the guy I've had my eye on is named Mark Driscoll, the founding pastor of Mars Hill Church in Seattle. This guy is hard-core. His sermons are sarcastic, funny, hard-hitting oratories that last upwards of 60 minutes. And people listen, dad-blast it. In Seattle!

Just so you know, I have no interest in modeling myself after Driscoll. He is a borderline chauvinist. He has a dirty mouth. He has to be so damn certain about everything he says. He's a virtual monolith. Mars Hill has multiple locations, but each one of them has to hear him preach every Sunday. Consequently, he runs himself into the ground, endangering his health over and over.

Nevertheless, I wondered if I was falling short by not "proclaiming" the way he does. By not stomping my foot, and saying "This is sick, and it's got to stop!" The fact is, I just don't do that. So who's wrong? Him or me?

Maybe neither of us. Driscoll has a death wish to transform the city of Seattle. Where the darkness falls like a heavy curtain, drastic measures are all we have. The fact is that almost nobody in Seattle is standing up and spewing light with passion and conviction. So when somebody finally does, it's like that first gasp of air for the man who nearly drowned. Some people will smear you all over the media, but others will flock to you for healing. And that's exactly what's happened in Mark Driscoll's case.

I have come to the conclusion that Springfield, in for the most part, is just as lost as Seattle... but in the exact opposite way. We have light here, but it's not natural light. It's not the real stuff that streams through your eastern window at the crack of dawn. It's been replaced with those flourescent bulbs that buzz constantly, and make everybody look 15 years older.... the ones that sap your energy by 11 am and turn yellow after a few months.

Will somebody please stand up and say that the Bible is the Word of God??? Sure... in Springfield there's thousands of them. Will somebody put their foot down regarding moral relativism? We've got that. Will someone please tell these young boys to quit moving in with their girlfriends? Those preachers are everywhere.

So what does Springfield lack? What kind of pastor does God want me to be? Honestly, I don't know for sure. But so far I have concluded that this city does not need another monolith, another gospel broadcaster, another... preacher. I am thankful that we have the ones we do have, make no mistake. I want to work with them, to receive their encouragement and accountability. I want to spur them on to a ministry that emits natural light, and tosses the flourescent bulbs in the dumpster (with that cool gun-shot bang.) And I will speak the truth right alongside them, albeit in a less proclamatory fashion.

But I believe God is calling me to fill the gaps they leave behind... to reach the people that have fallen through the cracks... to live out among them, relationally, what they have so far only heard from a distance, and to avoid the kind of communication that has convinced them that there is no real love amongst the followers of Christ.

I suppose I have had my fair share of detractors so far. Some are only interested in knocking me down. Others have criticized me out of a genuine desire to lift me up. Both groups have been partly right, and partly wrong, and I am honestly thankful for everything they've said. If you have been among them, please know that I love you, and I am as eager to see me become God's man as you are. Don't lose your cool, but don't lose your edge, either. I need it. I cannot do this by myself.

Did you mean brian wiksell?

I try not to Google myself too often, but I did just a minute ago, and I have to say that I believe I have finally come into my own in this vast and mysterious place we call the internet. Because this is the first time that Google showed me the results for "ryan wiksell" without first asking me "Did you mean brian wiksell?" (my cousin.) Take that, Brian.

UPDATE: As of September 10, 2007, this very blog post actually shows up THIRD when Googling "Brian Wiksell". My cuz better get busy if he doesn't want Google to start asking people searching for him if they really mean ryan wiksell.

Card Tricks

My brother is in town today from Portland. A rare treat, indeed.

Last night we were hanging out at my house with two of our cousins, and my brother, Brendon, was engaging my cousin, Matt, in a card trick. He didn't remember it very well, so he flubbed through a little. But ultimately he got it right, and it was actually pretty cool and a little mysterious.

Then I decided I'd do something ridiculous. I took the deck, fanned the cards out for Brendon to pick one. He did... then he showed it to Matt, and put it back, all while I was completely turned around. Then I gave him the deck, and told him to shuffle it. Then I told him to set it down and have Matt cut the deck. Then I picked the deck back up.

I don't know any card tricks at all. I was just being stupid, thinking there's a 1 in 52 chance that I'll guess the card. If I'm wrong, I'll tell them it was a total guess, and maybe I'll get a chuckle. But if I'm right... they'll be absolutely baffled at my magical prowess. So why not, right?

As I said, I picked the deck back up, and showed the bottom card to Brendon. It was the Ace of Spades. I asked him if that was his card. He said, "yeah." I winced for a second, but tried to play it cool. I asked Matt if that was really his card. Blankly, he replied, "yeah, that was it." And nobody said anything for a few seconds. "Don't you want to know how I did it?" I asked. I was really waiting for somebody to be amazed... but they just kind of sat there.

"I don't know any card tricks!" I said. "That was total random luck!" I couldn't believe it had actually worked.

And that's when they started to act amazed. People are so weird.

Puppies in Distress!

I don't think the West African spam scammers think much of me.

I heard recently that the now well-known ring of e-mailing hucksters in Greater Nigeria have recently begun appealing to gullible Americans' weakness for cute puppies. Apparently, most of us have stopped falling for the song-and-dance about how a fellow Christian in a foreign nation has a husband who is terminally ill and must (for some reason) give away a large sum of money to an American before the tyrannical guerrilla extremist secret police find it.

When that stopped working, they all sat around brainstorming, when a light bulb appeared over one of their heads, and he shouted, "Puppies!"

But no one has offered me the opportunity to help a puppy. No one has sent me any cute pictures of a 3-month old Schnauzer who could be transported safely out of Freakistan for only $50 shipping (and of course there's always handling, shots, taxes, customs, tariffs, chew toys... you know, the basics.) Maybe I'd like to help... but these scammers don't think much of me.

They said, "OK, we're switching to puppies. But you over there... why don't you stick with the rich Eastern European widow stranded in Senegal bit. I think there's still a few of them out there falling for that."

So I get these fancy-worded e-mails from people who don't even disguise their connection to West African countries, as if I were an oblivious fool. Their e-mails start out "Dearest in the Lord" and try to play on my religiously sentimental nature. (By the way, their abuse of Christian fellowship does make me angry, but I try to save my anger for something worth the effort.)

One time I got an e-mail from a young minister who had stumbled across The Core website. His first name was a little foreign-sounding, and his language was a tad bit flowery. I almost marked the e-mail as spam. Good thing I didn't... I had lunch with him, and he's a great guy. He may even become an important part of The Core team.

So in conclusion... if you know of a puppy in distress, don't hesitate to contact me. But if you happen to live in the Ivory Coast, just lie. Say you're from Freakistan.

Ups and Downs

Whatever it is you've heard about the Front Porch having a Grand Opening on July 13, it's a lie.

It is now, anyway. Construction delays are becoming somewhat routine and comfortable. Now it's at the point where maybe we subconsciously want the place to never open up, because we've just grown accustomed to the remodeling lifestyle.

But no... we have set a new Grand Opening date for August 3. Actually, it will probably be a weekend event, stretching into the Open Mic Night on August 4.

It's a fair amount to stomach, though, because we're supposed to start paying the rent on August 1, and we were really hoping to get some months of usage out of it before we had to start ponying up the dough.

But there's reason to be encouraged, too. A couple just donated a really nice upright piano to put on our platform! Also... I've met a few new people who want to get involved, and secured a generous donation from a new source.

I'm slowly learning what it feels like to be moody. Ups and downs... my life has always been fairly stable, so my emotions were pretty predictable. But I've never done anything this crazy before, so I guess that's what I get. I haven't snapped at anyone yet... I hope it doesn't come to that.

In the words of Winston Churchill,
"Never
ever
ever
ever
ever (etc.)
give up."

Insofar

I only gain my life insofar as I lose it.

I am only exalted insofar as I am humbled.

I am only victorious insofar as I am surrendered.

I am only strong insofar as I grasp my weakness.

I am only healthy insofar as I am broken.

And I can only lose my life... I can only be humbled, surrendered, weak and broken, and therefore exalted, victorious, strong and healthy... insofar as I stop starting all my sentences with "I".

Church of the Open Mic

It was our fourth time doing it, and we were starting to feel comfortable.

But our monthly Open Mic Night is engineered to be unpredictable, not comfortable. And you'd have to a zen master to not wonder each month if anybody would even come... if the food would go bad before you could eat all the left-overs yourself... if the posters you put up all over downtown would mock you until they got replaced by "Battel of the Bands" or "Have you seen this dog??!?" several days later... if you would have to wonder what you did wrong... and if the whole vision is even worth the effort anyway.

Those were the premonitions at about 7:15 that Saturday night, May 5, 2007... when we were 15 minutes into it, and two people had shown up. We did our best to cheer ourselves up. "It's Cinco de Mayo... everybody's pub-crawling and wasted by now. It's ArtsFest weekend... everybody's watching 10 year old cloggers and buying knick-knacks on Walnut Street. It's Springfield Symphony's free-concert-in-the-park night... everybody's groovin' to the oboes."

"We just have too much competition tonight, that's all," we told ourselves. But all that food... and all that work. I noticed a stack of Open Mic Night leaflets on the table, and asked Phillip if he wanted to join me in passing them out around downtown. He said sure... couldn't hurt.

The first people we came to were college preps sitting out in front of a loft building at College & Market. They were, shall we say, not interested. At least not in anything non-alcoholic. Not even dark yet, and they were all plastered. If you need proof, one of them said I look like James Blunt. 'Nuff said.

After that it was a mixed bag. Some sounded excited, some threw our leaflets directly on the ground, some said nothing. On South Ave, right across from the Front Porch, Phillip got to talking with a couple of guys who had a serious interest in The Core. And I met a guy nearby named BroJo who wanted to come to Open Mic right away. So Phillip stayed to chat a bit, and BroJo and I walked on back to the gallery.

We found that not much had changed there... we were now up by one guest, and down by one leader. I started to talk seriously about taking all the food and heading down to the Square, where all the people were. But just a moment later, Vernon showed up... sweet Vernon. Last time he brought his guitar and did some retro music. This time he brought his violin to do some really retro music... meaning, classical. Then Phillip got back, so we went ahead and kicked it off.

First I played an original song... screwed it up a bit. Then a comedian got up and gave us a few yuks. Then a guy named Patrick, who's been showing some interest in the things of The Core lately, shared his "slam" poetry, which, apparently, is a lot like hip hop without the "music". Very ghetto-swagger kinda stuff coming from a very (by his own admission) white guy. But to be honest, he had some pretty quality rhymes... poignant and heartfelt, to boot.

In the middle of that, two guys came in with a guitar. Andy and Tad. Andy said he'd like to have some mic time.

Vernon got up with his violin and played beautifully. Such elegant music in such a humble environment reminded me of a story I read in the Washington Post about world-renowned violinist Joshua Bell, and his experiment to