Walking through the woods the other day, a friend and I beheld three deer. Two full grown buck and a smaller doe stood beautiful and majestic as they ate the grass in the field before us. The sunset illuminated their white tails with an amber outline, and I could see the fuzz on their antlers. With out a spoken word, my friend and I agreed that this moment was worth the 5 minute lapse in conversation, and the sudden ceasing of our steps down the path. This was a moment worth beholding.

What struck me most about this moment, however, was not the deer and their beauty, but how unnoticed they went by everyone else on the path. This was not a secluded corner of some distant prairie, you see. Rather, this was an admittedly tiny sliver of forest preserve wedged between streets in the city of Chicago, and the foot path we were one was frequented by many a jogger and walker. Despite the high traffic, and the fact that my friend and I stood in the middle of the path staring into the woods, not a single person paused or even turned their gaze to the deer. No one lifted their eyes, and we were the only two people to take in this beautiful sight; a mere ten feet off the path.

I remember, as the last few people passed by, I tried to look at the deer even more intently, waiting for someone to ask what we were looking at, or at the very least look at what we were looking at. It was to no avail. No one else saw them.

Eventually, the deer moved on and left us standing alone in the path. As we started to move along ourselves, I had the urge to catch up to the others and tell them what we had just seen -what they had missed out on- but it wouldn’t have mattered. It mattered in the moment, and now the moment had passed, and it mattered no more. To them, it would just be the tale of a fleeting moment, but to us it was a beholdence; a moment in which our partaking caused time to swell.

So now, as I share this tale with you, I tell you not of the deer we saw, but of the people that didn’t see. Learn from them, please, and find your own beholdence. Watch for deer as you walk or run along, and you will find the beauty I speak of.

One Halloween, when I was a lil tike, I pulled the “little brother card” and guilted my older brother into taking me out with him and his friends.  He was not happy, but of course, mom and dad got my back and made him take me out. 

The night was cold and rainy.

It did not take long for me to start to get uncomfortable.  My brother and his buddies kept darting back and forth from the different houses to the sidewalk, and I quickly lost interest; I was getting really cold.  This went on for a while, my bro and his clan leaving me on the sidewalk, and then coming back briefly only to run off again.  I began to get scared, and I got even more worried because, being Halloween and all, I couldn’t really tell which one my brother was.  They were all dressed in costumes, some of them similar, and I’d lost track of which ghost or goblin was my older brother. 

I felt alone.

Despite the confusion, however, I could not help but feel a certain sense of calm and comfort by the way one of these costumed ghouls seemed to get right beside me during their brief stints on the sidewalk.  I couldn’t be sure, but I remember looking up at his horrifying rubber mask and thinking, “Are…are you my brother?”   He would look down at me slowly, without saying a thing.  I recognize now that it was probably that delicate balance of coolness among his buddies that kept him from picking me up and consoling me at that moment, but I did feel something in his presence.  Though I couldn’t recognize a thing about him, my heart warmed and my breathing slowed- just before he ran off again. 

That was my brother, and I suddenly wasn’t as cold. 

Part II.

Christine, a high school girl, teenage in all its glory, does not care about the stars, nor what makes them shine.  That is, until the power went out at the Planetarium.

While on a field trip learning about the cosmos, she was less than intrigued.  After having grown up in the city her whole life, she really knew and cared little about the night sky.  She did have to admit to herself, however, that after only having seen a few hazy stars in her whole life, she was somewhat impressed with what she saw on the dome above her head.  The disconnect, however, was almost too much to handle.  She gazed at the projected specs of light on the ceiling much like we would a movie in the theater; it was too far-fetched, too surreal to be real.  So, her brief blip of attention and interest faded once again.

Soon enough, their evening session wrapped up, and as they were filing out into the aisles, the power went out unexpectedly.  After the initial screams and starts, the teacher led them all outside with a calm, guiding voice.  Nervous and chilly chatter accompanied the students’ exit, and as their eyes began to adjust, they all stepped safely into the parking lot and walked toward the bus.  As the rest of the class continued on toward the bus, giggling and whispering, Christine stood in her place just outside the Planetarium door.  She was silent and looking up.  By the time the Teacher noticed her sudden stop, he had lost the rest of the class to the same upward gaze.  Looking around quickly and noticing he was the only one now with his gaze fixed earth-ward, the teacher glanced skyward and beheld what had captured his students’ attention.

At the lifting of the city’s shroud of light, the real cosmos had made an appearance.

Class was in session again.

Then, the teacher heard what he would later recognize as his favorite moment in 13 years of teaching; it was Christine.  “Wooooow,” she whispered slowly between gum chews, her visible breath carrying her word of admiration upward toward the heavens.  Everyone stood silent as her solitary word floated up, and their little puffs of breath slowed with the moment.  The teacher, now landing his gaze earth-ward again, looked around at his class with pride.  They were oblivious to his admiration, of course, for the stars had stolen their gaze.  He smiled to himself, and thought, “The real thing always speaks for itself.”

He wished the power would never return.

Part III to come…

Part I.

A little boy sees a Giraffe in the city Zoo.  Fascinated at his height, his design and his majesty, the boy asks Dad where Giraffe’s family is, and where do they sleep, and what do they do in the winter, and how, and why, and, and, and…  Smiling, Dad paints with his words a picture of Giraffe’s natural habitat.  It is a distant world, vast and mysterious, incomprehensible to a little boy in the city.  “The Zoo is not his real home,” says Dad, “This is just where he lives so we can learn about him, and where he comes from.  His real home is far bigger than this, far bigger than we can imagine.  It’s filled with Lions, monkeys, birds, hippo, and enormous trees.  This is just a glimpse of where he really comes from.”

The little boy didn’t really understand the vastness of what his father was talking about, but his expression spoke to the mystery that just unfurled before his tall new friend.  His eyes widened a bit wider, his jaw dropped a bit farther, and his words and questions ceased.  Still fascinated in the first place by the mere sight of the Giraffe, the boy was now filled with an even deeper sense of awe and wonder at all that he couldn’t see.  He was captivated.

On the way to the parking lot, walking past the gift shop (which was perfectly placed, as usual), something caught the boy’s eye.  It was a t-shirt.  Salmon in color, it featured a royal African sunset, complete with fiery reds and dusty oranges, Acacia tree silhouettes, and one majestically poised Giraffe standing in the midst of the whole colorful expanse.  After the father and the cashier shared a smile that said suggested they both knew the dad had no choice but to by the shirt, Dad removed the shirt from the rack and handed it to his son.  The boy donned the shirt immediately, and wore it with pride.

This is where his new friend comes from, and he wore the mystery on his chest.

There is a prairie by my home in Illinois, and recently it’s been under construction.  Its rivers were too straight.

Centuries ago, before this land was a preserve, it was farmland for those who originally settled here.  Irrigation was needed for their crops so they dug, channeled, and rerouted the land’s natural waterways into straight canal-like lines.  That way, the water ran the course they determined.  It remained that way for hundreds of years, time enough for the  trees and other plants to grow along the banks they created.  The prairie adapted.

One year ago, ground was broken to bend and twist these rivers and streams back into their natural serpentine state.  It was called the Meandering Project, and it was implemented because rivers aren’t meant to be straight.

Straight rivers run.  They gain momentum, and course through their unobstructed beds, eroding their way through a narrow strip of watered land.  The rest of the prairie, untouched by its lazy efficiency, remains dry.

A meandering river, however, bends and tangents it’s way through the earth.  In seeming chaos, it darts its way from plant to plant, tree to tree, ensuring that nothing misses out on its sustenance before moving on.  Meandering rivers are more generous, if you will, because they touch more.  They flow as nature intended.

This is not too dissimilar from the layout of our veins and arteries.  To the smallest extremity and the most vital organs, oxygen and life are pumped to every millimeter of our bodies through the bends, twists and branches of our circulatory system.  Fortunately for us, our bodies share the same logic as the rivers of the Earth.

When it comes to less tangible matters of life and sustenance, however, we are less apt to embrace the need for meandering.  In our constant pursuit of reason, explanation, and logic to our liking, we continue to straighten the paths of spirit and soul that nature would otherwise leave winding.  We simplify the naturally complex, and seek to explain the unexplainable.  In doing so, we deprive our inner-reaches of life.  Moreover, we have grown so adept at this intellectual dredging, and we’ve been doing it for so long, that new growth has taken root along the banks of our own reason.  Our minds have adapted, and in turn, much of our perception of the world has gone dry.

We are in need of a Meandering Project.  And, much like for the prairie, this will be quite the undertaking.  Though, instead of a bulldozer, and in place of steam shovels, this task will require discipline and humility; an overall disposition toward that which we cannot control.

Allow yourself to draw nutrients and life from the realms of life that lie outside the paths you’ve declared logical, acceptable, or straight.

Imagine.  Imagine what a feeling it would be for joy to course through your veins like blood, or for the spirit to run through your body with the chaotic efficiency of nature’s rivers.

To live as such is not only as nature intended, but it is also exhilarating and life giving.

“God, Like Music”

Sounds Like Love 2010

Addressing the 400 youth from around the Midwest,
in the Great Hall of St. Andrews Lutheran Church…

My name is Dan, and I am from here.

In case you couldn’t already tell by my missing Minnes-ou-tan accent, I do not mean that I’m from Minnesota.  Nor am I from this Church.  What I mean is I am from this…this right here (signaling in a circular gesture to all of them sitting before me).  I am from all of you.  I am from right here.

In order to explain to you what I mean by that, I am going to share with you as short of a version as I can, the Story of how it is that I came from here, and ended up standing before you again today.

Let me tell you what God has done.

I hated singing, I was extremely uninterested in Church, and Mom and Dad made me do it.  That pretty much sums up my attitude when I was your age (High School).

Around the time that I first came to Sounds Like Love, I was going through a really tough time with my friends in High School, my school buddies.  They had started to get involved with drinking and drugs.  Now, I know that, sadly, this is not a very uncommon thing to encounter in school, but this was particularly difficult for me.   There were some struggles in my family with these issues around that same time.  So, it was not only annoying to see my buddies act the way they did, but it was scary for me.  I started to see the same things in them that I my family had struggled with.  I ended up losing that group of friends entirely.  Sophomore in High School, and I lost my friends.  How many of you have gone through something like that?  I’m sorry to see that.  We know how it feels to lose a friend.

Once I lost my group of friends, however, my parents thought, “Hmm… what a perfect time to up Dan’s Church attendance!”  So they started to “encourage” me to go to Church even more.  I was not having it.  They eventually crossed the line and made my brother and I go on the annual Choir Tour.  (There were hoots and brief cheers from our church’s choir when I mentioned their tour).  Yeah, I did not feel that way about it.

Though I resisted it, I promise you that within the first half an hour of being there, I was having the time of my life.  And that is the case for 2 reasons.

1) I found the friends that I needed; people who really welcomed me in and accepted me as who I was.
And,
2)  There was a girl.  And I had a biiig crush on her.  (more cheers…)
So, I started to get more involved in Church, and I started to enjoy it.  But, I still hated singing.  You can ask Mrs. P, our choir director over there, but I resisted singing as much as I could.  I sat in the back row as dully and un-singingly as possible.

That didn’t last long, though.  Just like my involvement in the community, I slowly and surely started getting pulled in, and ended up singing more in the choir.

Now, this story was the beginning of an enormous change in my life, and it really kind of symbolizes the rest of the changes in my life throughout the next 7 years.  During the time that followed I learned one big lesson… and this is really the crux of what I want to share with you guys today… If you remember one thing, remember this..

God, like music, moves you.  No matter how much you resist, no matter what you’ve got going on, God, like music, will get into your soul, and move you.

I selected a Christian college to attend, Valparaiso University in Indiana.  It is a wonderful school, I might add, if you are interested we can talk afterward…  I studied Theology and Youth, Family and Education Ministry, and Spanish, because I wanted to be a Youth Director to help kids in their rough adolescent years the way that I was helped.

And then I studied abroad in Namibia, southwest Africa, and that all changed.  While I was there, I fell absolutely in love with the Namibian culture, the music, the food, the people, the landscape.  I loved it so much.  I was taken in by it.  But, at the same time, I was taking a Christian history class.  I learned about what the people of my Religion did in the past to this culture I had just come to love.  They declared their ways as backwards, heathenness, and even heretical or evil.  Christians sought to change their ways, to convert them, and much of this beautiful culture was unappreciated and wiped out.

I learned there that you can’t force people to sing… if you do, they’ll just sit in the back row and zone out.  You’ve got to sing with them.  That is what I feel those first Missionaries had wrong; they ignored the music that was already playing and imposed their own.

I was confused, disgusted, and mad.  I was mad at Christianity and wanted little to do with it.

And, then, I returned home to my conservative Christian University, with my Theology major and my youth ministry classes.  I had I hard time with what I was coming home to, and I really struggled.

With the guidance of some great friends and mentors, I started to explore international ministry, and cross-cultural service work.  I was really intrigued by this type of work, and loved the idea of being immersed in a culture, and working with the people therein.

Eventually, I began to approach the end of my Senior year at Valpo, and like most seniors do, I needed to start looking for a job.  I was a bit torn, so I turned to this high-tech vocational discernment internet tool called Google, and started researching.

I typed in all that I was interested in… international…cultures…children…youth…music…God (I wasn’t made at God, I was mad at Christianity)…service…etc.

And, guess what popped up?  MISSIONARY MISSIONARY MISSIONARY.

It turns out you can’t google a combination of words like that and not consider mission work.

So, I sat in the back row as dully and un-missionarily as possible.

But, like Church, and like the Choir… it eventually got the best of me.  After some research, I stumbled upon the ELCA’s mission model, a model of accompaniment, that I really appreciated.  It was all about listening in stead of preaching, being with in stead of doing for, and accompanying instead of converting.  I loved it, and I applied to go to southern Africa again for one year.

Then, they wrote me back a few days later and said, “Hey Dan, we got your application, Thanks!  How would you like to go to El Salvador for 2 years?”

(Pause)

I was confused.  I wanted to say, “Hey, my name is Dan Beirne.  I applied to go to AFRICA for ONE year… not El Salvador for two.  Where is El Salvador even?  Isn’t that ridiculously far away from Africa?!  And, two years?!  That is twice the amount of time as one year!”  (The crowd had a laugh at how genius that conclusion was).

I sat in the back row as dully and as un-El Salvadorilly as possible.

You know its interesting, does anyone here know what El Salvador means in Spanish?
“The Savior.”

Yes, it means Savior.  Interesting.  I sat in the back row as un-Saviourly as possible.  That kind of puts a different spin on it when you translate it.  I was just thinking of myself.

Like church, like choir, and like Mission work, I was won over again.  I went to El Salvador.

Now, I’m not going to lie, my first few months there were extremely challenging.  I was angry, bitter, and very scared.  It was not until I made my first friend there and the language barrier started to fade that I realized how absolutely wonderful the people there are.

I cannot even begin to do justice to my time in El Salvador with the time I have left with you guys today, but I can assure you that that experience absolutely absolutely changed my life.  And, the music I heard there was the most beautiful and the most captivating music I have ever heard.

I am not speaking about the songs they sang.  I am speaking of the movement of God through us.

And, you know, the funny thing is, when I was in the midst of all of this, I thought of all of you.  I thought of where I’m from.  I thought of this (gesturing to all of them again), because it was here that I first heard this music.  And it was here that I was first pulled in to this Music.   Again, I am not just speaking about the songs we sing here.  I am talking about the movement of God through us.

(pick up my guitar)

You know, when they asked me if I’d speak this weekend, I when I heard the theme of the weekend it made me smile.  Who can tell me what our theme is this weekend?

“Hope!”

Hope.  You may remember at the beginning of my story I said the words, “Let me tell you what God has done.”  Well, a few short weeks ago, I had the opportunity to return to El Salvador for a week’s visit.  It filled me with the same joy, the same love, and the same energy.  It felt wonderful.  As I boarded the plane to fly back home to the States, I decided to read a bit of the Bible.  The first page I opened to had a verse that caught my eye.  Jesus’ words in red said to me, “Return to your home, and declare how much God has done for you.”  It felt amazing to read those words at that moment.  It gave me an deep sense of trust that God was moving.  It gave me hope.

And, now, a few short weeks later, I stand before you all, sharing this story.  I am honored to be here because, my friends, I am proof of the fact that no matter how much you resist, and no matter what you are going through…when you hope in God, you’ll end up singing.

That is what this song is about.  Its about me asking for help to stop resisting, and to start opening myself up to what God has in store.  This song is called Levies.

Sitting atop the prairie hill, I see the effects of the wind on the grass.  Running and rushing, bowing down and rising up, the land pulses with the energy of the atmosphere.  Every gust, and even every calm, throw the grass and branches into a waving unison, rippling out and in from the mini epicenters the wind creates.   It is a beautiful sight to see.

Sitting in the back of an auditorium full of hundreds of people worshiping, I see a familiar sight.
I see the effects of the Wind on the people.

Not just in the swaying and bowing, for Music played her role too, but rather in the epicenters, I see  something that intrigues me.  Webs form.  Hands first, then arms link.  Shoulder to shoulder, I notice people beginning to huddle in little circles, in little clusters rippling out, defying the stadium seating and other existing structures that would otherwise separate.  Like grass in a gale, arms lift and rise, and people are brought in.  The room was alive with the energy of the atmosphere.
And I felt the wind on my face.

Standing on that impressively significant, shifting line between Land and Sea, I love the feeling that overcomes me.

I have always found so interesting the exchange of resistance and momentum that takes place when I run into the sea.  Running fluidly through the light air, I move quickly and smoothly toward the land’s end, and the water begins to splash with each stride.  Deeper as I run, the water claims more and more of my lower limbs, and so my momentum is gradually submerged.  I am caught up, and begin to fall forward.  New movements are required of me in order to keep moving, so my body changes composure.  Using the forward momentum of my now mid-fall, I straighten out and throw my arms in front of me, leaping.  My legs leave the water, and I dive in to the wave’s crashing.  Just missing the under-workings of the wave’s swirling mechanics, I skim above and below sand and surge, plunging through bubbles into calmer waters.  I surface with the fresh sting of salt in my eyes and breathe in the scenery around me, smiling. I am in the Ocean.

Like a puppy that doesn’t know it’s own strength, the Ocean nudges me with her waves, coaxing me to play some more.

I surf, and try my luck at harvesting her brute strength for a few thrills, and have the time of my life.  Hours later, floating as I wait for the perfect wave, Nature and all her elements begin to present what seems to be a finely choreographed grand-finally for the day’s end.  The Sun sets, and illuminates the wave’s windy mist with an ember glow, providing backdrop to the pelicans as they trace the contours of the ocean’s ebb and flow.  Sea turtles breach the surface, almost mirroring the pelicans above, as each skim the limits of their own expanse.  I am in awe.  I love the Ocean.

The hour had come to return to the land where running works, so I decided to try one more wave.  But I was not to have the last word.  As quick as she lifted me up in her arms, The Ocean threw me back down again.  I was thrown and tumbled, I gasped and paddled.  Perhaps she did know her own strength after all.  She was stronger than me, and before I emerged from her grasp, she had to remind me of that.  Stumbling to my feet, my return to Land was much less graceful than my departure.  Drained, and with a renewed appreciation of the air’s generous give to my muscles’ feeble movements, I looked back at the water with a sense of admiration and fatigue similar to what I would feel after my older brothers defeated me in a wrestling match.  I shook my head, and walking inland, I smiled again.

I respect the Ocean.

One lesson I learned early on in El Salvador, was that it is actually more kind to accept the hospitality of a hosting family, rather than turn it down as my instinct prompted me to do.  Though I felt at first like I was inconveniencing them by taking them up on their offer for coffee or cake, I actually came to find that it was more acceptable, and more appreciated, to simply allow the family to serve me what they offered.

Now, given the general harmlessness of a cup of coffee, this practice did not seem to have any negative side effects; the more cups of coffee the longer the conversation.  It was quite simple, really.  That is, until I tried to transfer this practice back to my own culture.

Some American friends of mine that I had worked with in El Salvador invited me to their town to talk about my life in El Salvador.  I arrived to their home late in the evening.  It was too late for dinner, and too close to bed time for coffee, so they offered to open a bottle of wine.

Thinking back to my newly developed bank of “Salvadoran life lessons,” I told myself that it was OK to accept their offer, and have some wine.  After the first glass, they offered me another.  So, after once again consulting my “Salvadoran life lessons,” and failing to recall any hang-ups or problems with this delightfully hospitable practice, I accepted their offer.  After the second glass, they offered to open another bottle.  They were being really hospitable, and I surely couldn’t bring myself to stop the flow now.  I repeated the above mentioned thought process, and accepted.  It was, after all, becoming quite an enjoyable conversation.

It wasn’t until I offered to help bring the now empty glasses and bottles back into the kitchen that I realized that something was a bit off.  Somewhere in the process of standing up, and swinging my head around toward the kitchen, it occurred to me that I had miscalculated their hospitality by a glass or two, and gotten my self into a situation.  Here I am, a good friend, and a missionary just back from two years of service… and I was a bit more than tipsy in their living room.  I summoned up all the equilibrium I could, and helped with the dishes, and head to bed.

The next morning, amidst snickering and smiles, I realized that I didn’t summon quite enough equilibrium the night before to hide my over-hospitablized condition.  They offered me an aspirin.  I smiled back, and thought to myself that now would be a good time to start a new chapter of life lessons, called “American life lessons: Welcome home Dan,” The first installation will read: 1) Hospitality is great here too, but beware of the difference between coffee and wine.

I’m with the band.

I have a friend who is part of a drum circle that plays at parties and gatherings to get the crowd riled up.  They are loud, and their rhythm is possessing.  They were going to play a show at a big Halloween party at a rather fancy location, and I was invited to join them.  I was wearing my jacket and jeans; not very formal.  When we showed up, I noticed that I was sorely underdressed and worse yet, I didn’t have membership in a band to use as an excuse for being at the event.  That did not last for long, however.

In order to enter the party, I needed to appear to be part of the band.  So, upon preparing to enter the main party room, with the dance floor already ablaze with flailing limbs and sweaty bodies, I was handed a shaker.  It was small, but its sharp rhythm was enough to grant me the status of band membership.  That, and they told if I let down my dread locks I’d appear even more authentic. So, shaking with all my might, and bobbing my dreads, we entered with a captivating cadence, and the people screamed out our welcome.  I was with the band.

As fun as it was, however, my shaker-shaking enthusiasm quickly dwindled as it was drowned out by the five or six other huge percussion instruments.  But just as my motivation began to loose its spark, I was promoted; the cow bell.  Ah, the cow bell.  With such a delightful balance of simplicity and potent audibility, I was certainly more part of the band now than I was before.  What is more, at this point, I had gotten down the little dance sway that the band did as they pounded away their bold beats.  I was one in the music with them.

I even enjoyed a free drink.  I did hesitate before I took the drink off the tray as the waiter walked by, but I thought to my self, “Its ok, I’m with the band.”[1]

All of this just to hang out with a friend for the night.  I should hang out with bands more often.  As the night ended, the majority of them all hopped into a pick up truck with a frame around the bed for holding on to; needless to say, they all took off looking very cool, and well, like a band.  Unfortunately, I could not take part in this final band-being aspect, but I did get to enjoy those few glorious moments of cow belling, and I can say that I was once able to say that I was with the band.  That’s almost actually cool.  More cow bell!