The year is 1953. Eleven-year-old Mike is diligent about his paper route, setting aside money to buy the desire of his heart. His parents tell him that he can spend the money he earns on what ever he wants (as long as it isn't illegal or immoral).
Mike saves twenty dollars. From a working class family in the 1950s, twenty dollars is a lot of money. One ordinary Tuesday, while walking downtown, Mike passes a music store. There, in the window, standing all by itself, is the most beautiful conga drum he has ever seen. It is almost as tall as he, barrel-shaped, smooth, dark and light wood alternated around a laminated exterior. A round, chrome frame stretched the thick animal skin tightly over the top of the drum. Before the day is over, Mike gives the owner $20, and walks home, the proud owner of a conga drum. (He proudly shows it to all his friends, and although none of them knew how to play any kind of a drum, it doesn't stop them from pretending.)
Mike was not prepared for his Father's anger.
What is that?
A drum.
How much did you pay?
Twenty dollars.
That's too much!
Their exchange was followed by silence, and then the words from his father that Mike will never forget: "TAKE IT BACK!"
Mike stood stunned while his new drum slowly slid from his side onto the kitchen floor.
The incident never left Mike.
As if there was a kind of permanent flinch, inside of him; as if his "grace credit card" could be canceled.
Mike became an ordained minister. As a preacher, Mike talked about God's love. But the incident with his Father nagged him. What if he got it wrong?
What if this God would--like his own father--take his love back?
Mike Yaconelli writes in his book, Messy Spirituality, "Parked somewhere in my sub-conscious is the belief that grace and forgiveness are lavish, unconditional and limited. Cross God one too many times, fail too often, sin too much, and God decides to take his love back. It is so bizarre, because I know Christ loves me, but I'm not sure he likes me and I continually worry that God's love will simply wear out."
Years later, Mike shares the story of the drum (at a retreat co-led with his son Mark), and talks about God's love. During his talk, Mark walks to a curtain behind the stage and brings out a gift for his father: a brand new conga drum. Mike stares at the drum and his son, until someone in the crowd shouts, "Just take the drum!" After a 47-year wait he does just that. This time with tears in his eyes, listening to his son say, "You deserve this one Dad, no one is taking it back."
Somehow we are not wired for grace. There is in all of us a need to prove something. Something about our value tied to performance.
Just think of the way we greet one another.
What did you do today?
What have you done for me lately?
And God forbid if our answers fall short.
I'm not a fan of religion. Especially when it means that we need to tidy up, to sit up straight, to keep our nose clean, to earn something, while deep down, assuming that we are fooling everyone, somehow pulling a fast one.
Public opinion is a big deal in this culture. And we easily believe our press releases, and Lord knows we find solace in moral rectitude.
But here's the deal: God wants us to let go of our desire to appear good, so that we can listen to the word within us and move in the mystery of who we are. This preoccupation with protecting the perfect image, of being a model Christian or model spouse / parent / friend leads to self-consciousness, pedestal behavior ("look at me"), and bondage to public opinion. So for God's sake, give up being a saint. It'll be a lot better for everyone in your life.
I was raised in a church that didn't believe in dancing. (Come to think of it, they didn't believe in anything that spawned pleasure of any kind, and though I can't prove it, I think they were opposed to giggling as well.) As a teenager, church camps would have bonfires for the sole purpose of burning anything that came between us and God. (I wish I were making this up.) And one thing was certain: We knew God hated rock 'n roll. The preacher told us so. With a puffy livid crimson face. I can still see it in my mind.
In High School, my favorite
45 (no, we had no ipod), was
The Beatles, The Long and Winding Road (
the A side). (I'm not sure how I acquired it, under my parents radar.) This I know; I used to play it over and over and over, and let the music carry me to some kind of bliss. And now, the preacher told me that my record was
an occasion to sin. (This is an odd turn of phrase, since the music brought me such unconditional delight).
On a summer night, my vinyl-45-record burned, with many others, and we watched the smoke carry our sinful ways into the Michigan sky. I told this story a few times at various retreats.
Fast forward thirty years. I am speaking in the Anaheim Convention Center. Two friends walk up to the stage and present me with a slim cardboard mailing box. On the outside is written, Amazing Grace. On the inside, a 45 vinyl record, circa 1970, The Beatles, The Long and Winding Road.
I am certain of this: there was more grace in that gift than any sermon I have ever heard. Not to rain on anyone's parade, but I can't see God unless there is skin attached.
And now that I'm on the subject of sermons, and it being just after Easter and all... my best memory? After church, as a kid, after we sang "Christ the Lord is Risen Today," and we were told that Jesus is still alive, we would go to my Grandmother's house to hunt Easter eggs and stuff ourselves with chocolate. My favorite part of the day? My grandmother's hug, when she would whisper in my ear, "Do you know how much I love you?" Now that, that is the true power of the resurrection.
When I was young, faith was about believing the right things.
I no longer think that is true.
Now I know. Faith is about love.
And grace.
And inclusion.
And conga drums.
So. How do we tap into, or access this reservoir of love? And how do we hear God whisper, I'll never take back my unconditional love for you?
This has not been an easy week, with the news of the Boston Bombing. Our prayers are with all affected. Because of its capriciousness, and absent any immediate specific or concrete news, it's so easy for our knee-jerk to be fear and insecurity. Whatever we had, we tell ourselves, someone is going to take it away.
Speaking of the resurrection story, here's my favorite sentence from Matthew's Gospel. Jesus says to the women, "You're holding on to me for dear life! Don't be frightened like that. Go tell the others."
It's simple really.
Go and tell.
Spill the light.
Give a hug.
Pay it forward.
Pass on the conga drum.
Or if you can, share a long lost vinyl 45.
