I recently walked the length of our main street. As long as I did not look too closely, it felt like a vibrant urban center, but down the side streets and further down the way another city was visible. Pinstriped suits gave way to blue jeans, aftershave to nine in the morning shadow, and highrises to boarded up store fronts. Although I did not feel as safe as when I set off, I tried not to judge the transitions. Instead, I used them to more fully understand the lesson I was being taught . . . about me specifically, and about communities in general.

Like downtown, I have a shiny main street. Much expense and effort has been put into that street through education, clothing, and life experiences. To travel beyond the main street, however, is to find another neighborhood. It’s not as impressive or groomed, nor visited as frequently, but it’s part of the whole. Beyond the main street is a more dangerous part of town, and, if I dare, there’s much to be experienced there, too. I could choose to focus only on Main Street, but that limits the breadth and depth of the city. Just as the people in blue jeans have just as valid a story to tell as the pinstripes, the boarded up store fronts as the high rises, there is much to be learned from going beyond the revitalized. Rather than pick and choose, both neighborhoods belong to the whole.

The same is true of churches and other communities of faith. They, too, have all sorts of streets, but too often members linger only on the main street. Historic buildings and notable members can impress, but there’s much to be gained by looking down the side streets and walking in the tattered neighborhoods as well. Maybe it's an AA meeting in the basement, a grief support group, or a lost visitor wandering the hall, but interesting people can be found, authentic stories heard on the side streets of our communities.

The great surprise for me is that on these side streets, in the un-groomed part of town, God seems to have a more recognizable presence. I do not know why that is. Perhaps there’s just more room, or a greater need. Either way, I am thankful for the lesson and, more importantly, the recognizable presence.

I have thought of nothing else since I saw them exit. While I understand the desire to avoid the end of the story, to spare one’s daughter (and one’s self) from the pain and suffering, it is essential to the story. Without the cross, there is no tomb. Without the tomb, there is no Gospel.

The woman who left the show is not unique. Jefferson cut out pieces of the Bible to create one that was more to his liking. Churches selectively edit what they discuss for fear of causing unrest or losing members or decreasing pledges. In the end, the story is incomplete. It may be easier to understand or “swallow,” but it isn’t the Gospel.

I am afraid the woman at tonight’s show reminded me not only how we edit the Christian story but our own also. How many times have I told people some of my story, but not all? How many times have I elaborated on the good parts and skipped the bad? How many times have I danced through the happy songs only to leave when the music changed keys?

Looking back, I can see how incomplete my story is if it doesn’t include everything. While it may be difficult and cause people to leave, it’s only when the good and the bad, the happy and sad, the life and death are included that the Gospel is found.

I can’t explain it. I cannot change it. I just know it’s true, and I hope one day the lady and her daughter know it too.

Owens was a teller of tales, the town muse, and keeper of sometimes useful gossip. He couldn’t remember exactly when he became such, but now it was his role and he played it as best as he could. People came long distances to sit on his porch, and whether regular or first-time visitor, Owens saw too it everyone left fed.

“Once upon a time . . .” was all it took to quiet the crowd, and then with castles and knights, farmers and weather, friends and family members, he wove his fabric of lightly-veiled commentary on life. He was never without a story, and his wisdom left people hungry for more.

One day, a family from the next county over came to sit on the porch. The children had heard about Owens and nagged their parents until they agreed to make the considerable journey. After the third story, their youngest began to fidget and asked if he could go into the cabin for some water.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” one of the adults whispered. “He doesn’t allow anyone off the porch.”

Just then, as Owens began another tale, he was interrupted by the now-curious little boy.

“Excuse me, Mr. Owens, Sir, but would you tell us one of your stories.”

“That’s what I am doing,” replied Owens.

“No, I mean one of YOUR stories. You know, one about you as a boy, or something that happened to you.”

People still talk about the long pause that followed the exchanged. It’s the only time anyone remembers Caldwell Owens being at a loss for words. With face changing shape and color, and looking out into the neighboring field, he searched for such a story. After a few failed attempts, Owens sighed and looked at the boy and said: “I’m afraid I don’t know such a story.”

With the light just beginning to break through the darkness, they could not imagine the day ahead. It was their job to prepare the body for burial, to lift the heavy limbs, wash they dried blood, and coat the body with oil.

As they made their way around the bend, they saw the stone rolled off to the side. The dark entrance filled them with fear. What awaited them in the tomb? Hesitating at the threshold, wanting to turn around, they entered only to find two cloths draped over the slab of rock. It was where the body was supposed to be, where they were to prepare it for burial, but now there were only blood-stained cloths.

“Who took the body?” one said to the other.

“Who could be so cruel?”

Suddenly a gust of wind blew into the tomb and they felt the air around them change, the stench of death ushered into the morning.

“He’s not here,” it’s as if the wind said. “He is risen!”

Alleluia.

I cannot imagine what the two did with that news, that belief. They were the first to know what would be shared throughout the world for thousands of years. For each, the moment would be life-changing, life-giving, but, like the breeze itself, it caused their hearts to swirl and heads spin.

How can it be that such a thing could happen? What does it mean? How can life take the place of death? Are we really to believe such a thing after all these years?

Each Easter, I am faced with the reality of an empty tomb. The joy and hope are offered anew, but the distance of time invites my doubts and confusion to come along for the ride.

Outside my office, I hear the men talking. The newest resident at this long-term rehab community is lost and bewildered. All he can see is the pain and death of his past. Advised by an older resident to just put one foot in front of the other, they walk together down the dusty path of recovery. There’s so much loss to talk about, but he takes the advice and continues to meander forward.

“I didn’t know where to turn,” the new resident explained. “But something lead me here. I’d never heard of the place, and, to be honest, I hesitated when the cab pulled in the driveway. I wanted to tell him to turn around, but I had no other address to give him, so I entered.”

“And we’re glad you did,” the other brothers replied. With that, the new resident was handed two bright new T shirts. “These are yours. You wear these whenever you are out on a job. Think of them as part of your new life.”

“My new life?”

“Yes, all that has happened is past. Today is a new day, a new dawn. Think of it as a gift, a gift of new life.”

A gust of wind blew the blossoms of a nearby tree as if to say: “He’s not here. He is risen!”

Alleluia.

I didn’t think the event of the hallway had any connection to the service I was about to attend, but I was wrong. It was Palm Sunday, the beginning of what is referred to as “Holy Week” in many Christian circles. It is the day that begins a week of drama leading to a cross and empty tomb. The pews were filled, and choir in full voice. The minister completed his series entitled “Amazing Grace” by exploring the nature of true dis-grace.

He described the Palm Sunday moment of celebration, as Christ entered Jerusalem to the shouts of “Hosanna,” only to be arrested later in the week and abandoned by those same voices shouting: “crucify.”  The turn, or fall from grace, is dramatic enough, but the preacher then spoke of all the people who have similarly fallen from grace. While the list of public figures was long and dramatic, he reminded us that such falls happen locally as well. Fortunately, he did not use names, just vivid descriptions.  Unlike Christ, many of us deserved such a fall, but the jeers and abandonment hurt nevertheless.

But the story does not end with the fall or dis-grace, he reminded us. Holy Week ends not with a cross but an empty tomb, and it is in that truth, that amazing grace, we are given the ultimate word of hope. Our lives may involve mistakes, grand and small, public and private, but the chorus from two thousand years ago calls us to see beyond mistakes to the outstretched arms and words of encouragement:

“Come on!”

“You can do it.”

Leaning against the wall, we watch and listen . . . Maybe we even take a first step or two.

Even at 53, it seems I'm still learning to walk. I’m just glad I am doing it in the Church.

It was a fitting tribute to such an essential member of the band, but was also a vivid reminder of how a presence can remain long after a person leaves. It made me think of the people I've lost along the way, the empty microphones of my life. I am sad to say, over time I’ve stopped asking if anyone's missing, ceased to turn the spot light on, no longer remember those who've played essential roles in my life.

I regret that. A friend in highschool . . . father . . . mentors of all kinds. My list is long; Perhaps your's is too. Time makes the losses more distant and less painful, but remembering is more important than the avoidance of pain. Better to take the time and name the absence. Or as Springsteen taught, better to acknowledge the presence.

I do not know how this whole life and death thing works. I have wondered for years about the connection between those of us still living and those who have died and hope that those I've loved and lost are somehow near. Bruce’s tribute last night rekindled those hopes.

The early disciples struggled with the same issue and were told that when two or more are gathered together in Christ's name he would be in the midst of them. I think that’s the same truth Bruce spoke and my heart felt: If you’re here, and I’m here . . then they’re here.

May it be so.

“Let’s get the best teams together and have them compete against each other.”

“We could invite only the good teams to play,” someone added. “We could watch the teams squirm as we make our selection. We could watch teams jump up and down when they’re picked. We could also watch the sad faces when they’re not.”

“We could create a series of brackets” another added. “We could put the names of each team on a line. The teams next to each other would play, and if they win, they go forward. If they lose, they go home.”

When the people thought of their team getting invited, being put on a line, and moving forward, they were very excited. (Deep down, as they thought about their team NOT being invited, or, if invited, losing and having to go home, they weren’t so sure it was such a good idea.)

The conversation suddenly changed in tone. Soon there was talk of about winning and losing, keeping score, and “my team” and “your team.” The talk got louder as the tournament began. In the end, one team was left standing. All the other teams were gone. For awhile it felt wonderful to be the best, but the echo in the stadium made them miss the other teams.

 * * * * * * 

After many years of the tournament, someone came along who loved basketball more than almost anything in the world. He wanted everyone in the world to love it as much as he. He was always eager to discuss anything about basketball with anyone and knew more about the game than  . .  god himself! His love was contagious, and he wanted to give everyone the chance to play the game. Someone explained the tournament to the man, and, at first, he was excited.

“We have a tournament of basketball”

“Great!”

“And we invite teams to come to play”

“OK”

“But we only ask the best teams to play in the tournament.”

“You do?”

“Yes, then we divide them up let them play. The winner stays and loser goes home.”

“But that means there are less and less players.”

“Exactly, and in the end there is only one team standing.”

“But doesn’t that end the tournament?”

“Yes, that’s how it ends. One team wins. All the others lose.”

After a long pause, the man looked up with a sad look on his face. “I don’t like it.” Then he came up with another idea: “What if we had a tournament where everyone is invited?”

“Everyone?” they asked

“Yes, everyone. And we make it so every team that wants to play plays and every person who wants to play plays.”

“Everyone?!” they replied. “What’s special about a tournament where everyone gets in? What about the brackets?”

“No brackets!”

“No brackets?”

“No brackets. Just playing. After one match the two teams go and play two other teams. Everyone stays. No one goes home. It’d be perfect.”

“Perfect? . . .  You mean perfectly awful.”

“Why would it be awful?” the man asked

“Because the point is to know which team is the best.”

“I thought the point was to play basketball.”

Everyone laughed at the silly stranger. That is, until people began to listen to him. It was only a small group at first, the losers who felt left out by the tournament, but soon the size of the crowd increased. People began gathering around the man, listening to what he said, and then they’d have pick up games of basketball.

It was the strangest thing, everyone played and no one watched.

“What good is a game if there are no spectators?” one person asked. “What’s the point if no one wins?”

“We don’t even keep score!” someone explained.

They all laughed at the man and his followers, and their laughs got louder when the teams included girls and others who'd never picked up a basketball before. Soon there were more people playing in the pick up games than in the tournament. When people stopped buying tickets, that’s when they began to get angry.

“This needs to stop!” . . . “He needs to go away.”

So one night they planned to arrest the man and put him on trial. The charge?. . . Opening the game to everyone . . .  Changing the way we do things . . . Letting everyone win.

“Is any of that a crime,” one of his followers asked.

“You bet!” was the response. And the man was found guilty and put to death. As the last of the accusers walked away from the dead man’s body, he whispered to his friend: “Let the game continue.” 

They both laughed, knowing how often the important things are not in our outlines. Whether in the pulpit, at a kitchen table, or on a walk, some of the most important things we need to say are not in our outlines. No matter how carefully we plan what we want to say, we leave out what we need to say. With outlines all neat and tidy, sometimes the most important things are scribbled in the margins.

The same is true not only of the things said, but also the lives we live. No matter how hard we plan our lives, how much we anticipate, some of the most important things happen in between our scheduled lives. Whether a call from a doctor, a “you have a second?” from a boss, or “we need to talk” from a spouse, our scripted plans are often interrupted, forcing us to leave our outlines.

In all my insecurities and fears, I long for outlines. What will this week be like? Who are my children becoming? What will I make of my life? Answers would be so comforting, but life would lose much of it’s magic. Like the wise member of AA who said that had he written down all his dreams when he first got sober he would have sold himself woefully short, my plans could be far short of what God intends.

As much as I want to create and stick to an outline, such a life would become a military march. Better to live in the in-between spaces and dance in the margins.

I was reminded of this childhood memory when I was speaking with a group of recovering addicts. We share a program that describes us as people “with a hole in our soul through which the wind blows.” The first time I heard that description, I felt like someone had finally described the way I have felt all my life. For whatever reason or reasons, I have always felt incomplete. To use Shel Silverstein’s image, I felt like I had a missing piece. Like the Coke bottle, each time the wind blew I could hear a familiar refrain: “You are not good enough.”

It’s no surprise I looked for ways to fill the hole. Whether with work, achievements of one kind or another, friends, relationships, possessions, drugs or alcohol, the goal was to fill the hole and stop the song. The fix was temporary, and soon the hole returned seeming bigger than before, the refrain louder.

            Fortunately, I entered a program that helped me understand my condition, a condition the Church has tried to describe for years. I have come to see that I have not only one hole, but many, and rather than strive to fill them all, I can live with them and let the winds of life blow as they will. Although mine is a journey of progress, not perfection, the miracle of my emerging acceptance is the song is changing. Instead of a refrain of shame, it’s becoming a melody of authenticity, and the music is inviting others to come along.

Looking back over my life, I can find many times when I have fallen spiritually asleep or lost in a trance. Even in the busy routine of life, in the making of lunches, dropping kids off at school, going to work, working out, visiting friends, going on vacations, I fall sleep. As crazy and hectic as I often feel my life is, I seem capable of staring off to some distant place. If you read the Biblical story, it is a constant back and forth between being in a trance and then awakening, forgetting then remembering. My life has the same rhythm. Perhaps yours does, too.

Eventually, we are awakened, but what awakens us? If only it took a hand waving in front of our faces, or a gentle whisper from a mother saying “It’s time to get up.” For most of us, it takes more than a hand or whisper. It takes a visit to the doctor, a call from the bank, a “could I see you for a minute” request from a boss, or a “we need to talk” declaration from a spouse. These moments awaken, they bring us out of our slumber and fully into the present.

On a recent hike, I found my mind wandering. After an hour on the trail, I began to think about far away places and became unaware of the scenery around me and the people with whom I was hiking. I stepped on a loose rock and nearly fell off the trail. Awakened, I was back in the present. With my heart beating quickly, I was aware of my surroundings and companions.

The loose rocks on which we slip, or the low-hanging branches on which we hit our heads, are, at first glance, obstacles or annoyances, but they can be seen as important awakening moments as well. Just as our lives are filled with things that stand in our way or happen to us unexpectedly, we can see them as obstacles to get around or difficulties to endure. We can live trying to avoid obstacles, or we can learn to embrace them as the hands waving in front of our sleepy eyes, beckoning: “Helloooo.”