Melodies

There's this local hookah bar that my friends and I like to go to sometimes. As we were sitting there this past Sunday night, we decided to bring out the instruments.

He plays the guitar. I play the harmonica. And, I have a couple drums that I got over Christmas.

So, we started off with a song called Your Love is Strong by Jon Foreman.

We felt it. There were about fifteen people sitting around us, all minding their own business, having their own conversations, enjoying their company.

As we sang and played, I looked around and noticed people start glancing at us. Their interest was piqued. So, one guy pulled his chair over. And then a girl. And then some more people. And then, it was on.

I had my drums in the car, so I asked a couple people if they'd like to play them. They said yes.

Before long, we were jamming in unison. Drums, harmonicas, harmonies, guitar, vocals. Mumford and Sons, Adele, Jack Johnson, Ben Harper. It was awesome.

When I was telling my friend about this the next night, he said something that really made sense to me.

He said music is tribal. There's something about it that connects us with the divine. There's a melody that draws us close to each other and to the divine.

And, I noticed another thing while we were sitting at the hookah bar. None of us were that good.

The guitar didn't sound that great without the rhthym of the drum. The harmonicas didn't sound great without the rhythm of the guitar. The vocals didn't sound great without the lead of the guitar.

But, when we put it all together, the unison of the sound overwhelmed our individual musical shortcomings.

It was because of this phenomenon that my friend and I looked at each other afterwards and said, "We just had church."

Every tribe has a melody. Every tribe has a way to connect to the divine through that melody. And on that night, we were a tribe who didn't know each others names or backgrounds, but something drew us together, and that something was a deep and very human and very divine rhythm that beat in the core of our beings. It was tribal. It was church. It was unison.

I left there feeling like I had just had a deep and effective spiritual experience because I did have a deep and effective spiritual experience. We all started out as performers and ended up as audience members, receiving what we couldn't put into words - receiving an outpouring of the divine in unison.

We all need to be part of a tribe. We all need melody. We all need to experience unison, and we all need to experience what God does when we bring our melodies together. It's breathtaking.

What is the Bible (Part 1 of the new Rob Bell Series)

Part 1. Someone Wrote Something

 

I’ve had a number of conversations recently that somehow led to the Bible. I say somehow because these weren’t conversations with particularly religious friends, and yet what they talked about was their interest in the Bible. 

For some, they readily acknowledge that this particular library of books (Yes, it’s a library. More on that later…) has deeply shaped western civilization in countless ways and yet they haven’t the foggiest notion what it’s actually about other than vague references to David killing Goliath (Although in the book of 2 Samuel it’s written that a man named Elhanan killed Goliath) or ominous warnings about the end of the world (Like in the recent movie This Is The End where Jay Baruchel keeps reading passages from the book of Revelation to Seth Rogen and Jonah Hill and James Franco-as if that’s the book to help you understand why the sinkhole in your front yard just swallowed up Rihanna…) or stories about Jesus doing things like turning water into wine (Really? That’s his first miracle? He makes it possible for people to keep drinking for days on end? Is this why Jesus was accused of being a drunk?)

For others, they’ve heard someone quote the Bible and something about what the person said made them think there’s no way that it actually says that. And yet they don’t have some better or more informed way to counter the explanation they heard other than you can’t be serious, that’s crazy.

And then for others, the Bible caught them off guard. They had an experience, they tasted something, they felt something, they endured something-and they discovered in the Bible language for what they’d experienced. They were wronged by someone and in moments of honesty realized that they wanted that person to die in a violent and gruesome fashion-only to discover these exact impulses described in vivid detail in the Psalms. How is it that someone writing thousands of years ago in a different place in a different language in a different culture could describe with such startling detail exactly what I’m feeling here and now in the modern world? How could something so many have discarded as irrelevant be at times so shockingly relevant?

Good questions.

Questions I’ll get to.

I’ll start with how the bible came to be The Bible,then I’ll write about floodsandfishand towersandchild sacrifice-all in order to explore what’s going on just below the surface of the stories in the Bible.

Then I’ll address some of the ways many people were taught to think and talk about the Bible-

as God’s word, The Good Book, the living word, principles for living, The Word, the absolute standard, THE INERRANT TRUTH ABOUT WHICH THERE CAN BE NO COMPROMISE, God’s view on things, the ultimate owners manual, and so on

-and why those ways of thinking and talking about the Bible aren’t working like they used to for lots and lots and lots of people.

All of which will lead me to articulate a way of understanding the Bible in which your mind and your heart are both fully engaged as you see it and read it for what it is-a funky, ancient, poetic, revolting, provocative, mysterious, revelatory, scandalous and inspired collection of books called The Bible that tell a story, a story I want you to hear.   

First, then, a bit about how we got the Bible.

Someone wrote something down. 

Obvious, but true. And an important starting point. 

The Bible did not drop out of the sky, it was written by people.

Again, obvious, but it helps ground us in how to begin thinking about what the Bible is. Many of the stories in the Bible began as oral traditions, handed down from generation to generation until someone collected them, edited them, and actually wrote them down, sometimes hundreds of years later. That’s years and years of people sitting around fires and walking along hot dusty roads and gathering together to hear and discuss and debate and wrestle with these stories.

The people who wrote these books had lots of material to choose from. There were lots of stories floating around, lots of accounts being handed down, lots of material to include. Or not include. 

(There’s a line in the Old Testament book of 1 Kings 11 where the author writes 

As for the other events of Solomon’s reign-all he did and the wisdom he displayed-are they not written in the book of the annals of Solomon?

Well, yes, I guess they are…it’s just that we have no idea what the author is referring to. Interesting the assumption on the author’s part that not only do we know this, but that we have access to these annals. Which we don’t. 

We see something similar in the gospel of John where it’s written 

Jesus performed many other signs in the presence of disciples, which are not recorded in this book

and then the book ends with this line:

Jesus did many other things as well. If every one of them were written down, I suppose that even the whole world would not have room for the books that would be written.

It’s as if the writer, just to wrap things up, adds Oh yeah, I left a ton of stuff out.)

The authors of the books of the Bible, then, weren’t just writing, they were selecting and editing and making a multitude of decisions about what material and content furthered their purposes in writing and what didn’t.

These writers had agendas.

Luke: I too decided to write an orderly account for you…The Book of Esther: This is what happened…John: These are written that you may believe…

There were points they wanted to make, things they wanted their readers to see, insights they wanted to share. These writers, it’s important to point out, were real people living in real places at real times. And their purposes and intents and agendas were shaped by their times and places and contexts and economies and politics and religion and technology and countless other factors.

What does it tell us about the world Abraham lived in that when he’s told to offer his son as a sacrifice he sets out to do it as if it’s a natural thing for a god to ask…?

The David and Goliath story starts with technology-the Philistines had a new kind of metal, the Israelites didn’t. The story is undergirded by the primal fear that comes when your neighbor has weapons that you don’t have-like spears. Or guns. Or bombs.

Why does the Apostle Peter use the phrase there is no other name under heaven…? Where did he get this phrase and what images from military propaganda would it have brought to mind for his listeners?

Real people,writing in real places, at real times,with agendas,choosing to include some material,choosing to leave out other material,all because they had stories to tell.

That said, two thoughts to wrap this introduction section up:

First, for some the Bible is just a collection of old books. Books written by people, and nothing more. For others, the Bible is a collection of books, but it’s also more than just a collection of books. They’re books, but they’re more than just books.

We’ll get to words like inspiration and revelation and God-breathed later (which I’m a believer in-but I’m getting ahead of myself), but for now it’s important to begin by stating the obvious: The Bible is first, before anything else, a library of books written by humans.

I say this because there is a stilted literalism that many have encountered in regards to the Bible that makes great claims about its divinity and inspiration and perfection but then doesn’t know what to do with its humanity.

Why do the four resurrection accounts in the gospels differ on basic details?

Why aren’t there any clear denunciations of polygamy? Or slavery? 

Why does Paul say in the New Testament that it’s him speaking, not the Lord…?

When people charge in with great insistence that this is God’s word all the while neglecting the very real humanity of these books, they can inadvertently rob these writings of their sacred power. 

All because of starting in the wrong place.

You start with the human. You ask those questions, you enter there, you direct your energies to understanding why these people wrote these books.

Because whatever divine you find in it, you find that divine through the human, not around it.

(I should play my hand here just a bit on where I want to take you: If you let go of the divine nature of the Bible on the front end and immerse yourself in the humanity of it, you find the divine in unexpected ways, ways that can actually transform your heart. Which is the point, right?)

Second, a bit about questions.

Often, especially when people come to a particular strange or gruesome or inexplicable passage, they’ll ask 

Why did God say this?

The problem with this question is that it can leave you tied up in all kinds of knots. (Really? God told them to kill all the women and children? God did? And we’re supposed to accept that, well, that’s just how God is?) 

That sort of thing.

The better question is: Why did people find it important to tell this story?

Followed byWhat was it that moved them to record these words?

Followed byWhat was happening in the world at that time?

And thenWhat does this passage/story/poem/verse/book tell us about how people understood who they were and who God is at that time?

And thenWhat’s the story that’s unfolding here and why did these people think it was the story worth telling?

Let’s take one of those stories-the one about a flood-and ask these sorts of questions.

Next - What is the Bible? Part 2: Flood.

R Bell. (2013, November 5). What is the Bible? Part 1. Someone Wrote Something. Retrieved from http://robbellcom.tumblr.com/post/66107373947/what-is-the-bible

Why I Can't Hold On To Power

As we sat on the bench, I could tell by the look in his eyes that something was happening. His mind was being awakened.

His eyes were opening.

His heart was receiving something.

He took the paper that held the list of all his current misconceptions of God, I handed him the lighter, and we watched the paper burn.

They were misconceptions not because they were wrong, but because they weren't his. Someone in his past had shared with him their idea of forgiveness, and he carried it with him for all these years.

It was time to let it go. Time to watch the ashes blow away in the breeze. Time to believe in a God who forgave already, and wasn't waiting for a magic word or request.

We got on our knees right there in the gravel, and I read the prayer that so many alcoholics before us had read. He repeated after me: "God, I humbly offer myself to you . . . "

Something happened. Something moved, a power unexplainable but real.

As I was taking him home, he told me, "Something happened tonight that I can't explain. I don't what you did to me, but I feel like I surrendered my terms. For real. I don't even know how to describe it."

I listened to him try to describe the indescribable. Smiling like a child eager to see what's going to happen next, I told him, "You better hang on to what you've got. Anything's better than the way you were."

All of this happened on a day when he was supposed to isolate in his hotel room and torture himself over the death of his son - one year ago exactly on the count of suicide. Yet, he went to bed last night with a new thought process, a new outlook on life, a new something to hope for, a new consciousness.

Just a few hours before I sat on the bench with him last night, I was trying to run the show at work. I was so off balance and irritated that I couldn't help but walk around in silent scorn, cursing the ground I walked on. My little plans were getting threatened. Unexpected problems kept coming. People weren't doing what I wanted them to do. It was one of those days where I was happy just to get out of there without having to make any amends.

From that, to getting on my knees with another human being, and offering ourselves to God. 

Is it really willpower that gets us anywhere in this life? Is it really the hard work, determination, and self strength that gets us out of binds and into the sacred spaces of life?

Was it really what I said to my friend that made him feel like "something came over me, like a ten ton pile of bricks was lifted off my chest?"

I don't think so. I'm just a conduit, a vessel of spiritual electricity. If I choose to let it run through me, it leaves me fast enough to not get mixed in with the pitiful self-will that runs through my veins and looks for every chance it can get to get its own way.

But, what a beautiful thing it can be to let the power of God run right on through, like a surge of energy that can be transferred to anyone who will have it - anyone willing to receive it.

The only power I have is the power given to me, and if I give it away it's being used correctly. If I hold onto it, it becomes distorted, disillusioned, and deceiving. It gets tainted and shaped and mutated into this monster that wants to rule the people around me.

Feeder Road

I woke up to the sound of tapping. But the surface to which the hand was knocking didn't sound like a door.

The tapping got louder. I started coming to my senses.

As my eyes opened, I realized this wasn't the sound of a gentle knock on a bedroom door - but the sound of a frantic tap on a window

Of my car.

A little girl - probably nine or ten - stood peering through the window as I lay like a baby curled up in the backseat of the car. As I looked past her, I saw the freeway and cars passing by at seventy miles an hour. I was on the feeder road and the car was parked.

I only thought I was waking up in my bed at home, until this little angel tapped on the window to wake me up and I realized I must have blacked out the night before in my car in the middle of the feeder road.

Beside the little girl was an older girl, her sister I think. Stepping out of the car, reeking of alcohol and filth, I looked at them through my blurry eyes, not knowing immediately where I was or what was happening. I said thanks as I tried to gather my thoughts and get my bearings straight. They walked back to their car and I to mine, trying to trace back how I got to my current situation.

The car must have been parked all night right there on the feeder road. Lights off. Sitting there in the dark. It must have been an unwelcome surprise for any drivers taking the feeder, for they wouldn't have had much warning.

I could've been hit. I could've hurt someone. I could've gone to jail. I could've had my car towed.

But, none of this stuff happened. I was spared by a little girl tapping on the window to wake me up.

I wish I could remember all the instances in my life where people have stepped in - some I've known and some I haven't - and woke me up.

Although I woke up and drove away that day, it would take years before I would start waking up for real. That was but an instant in which the God I believe in stepped in, noticed me, and spared me from more danger than I was already creating.

This God steps into the margins of life - the cracked and broken places of despair, exile, and oppression. It's not a sprint either. The God I believe in doesn't do magic shows, where in one instant something's there and in the next it's not. This God hangs around, calling, tugging, wooing, pulling, and loving harder and more faithful than any human can.

This God doesn't expect anything in return except that we humans know love and grace - the kind that wakes us up from blackouts on a cold, dead, feeder road. This God is moving along the alleyways, the dark corners, the hopeless areas, looking for someone else to wake up from their slumber.

Revolution? Yes, Revolution

When you sang the words "King of Kings, and Lord of Lords" this year, did it feel like you were declaring your allegiance to an ongoing Revolution?  Have we lost sight of what Christmas is about? A story of a God who tells an oppressed minority ethnic group "I'm with you, and I'm on your side. Things will not be like this forever. Caesar will not reign forever. Herod will not last as king." Where do you pledge your allegiance? Who is your king? Who is your lord?

Why I Couldn't Click the Checkout Button

As I sat down in my recliner last night, I began browsing the internet for gifts that I would buy last second for my family members.

I started by asking each person what their favorite thing to do was, or where their favorite place to go was.

Then, I started thinking more about that question, and thought it wasn't enough. So, I asked them to tell me which of those awakened them most to the presence of God.

Then, I made a list for each person.

Then, I Googled.

And lists and lists and lists of products filled the screen. My brain swirled with indecisiveness as I wondered what the perfect item would be for that specific person. Then, I realized that shipping was so expensive, so I decided to go the emailed gift card route.

Then, I realized I didn't have the emails for all of my recipients, and that threw a wrench into my gift-giving. And then I regretted not starting on this about three months ago when I wasn't so damn busy.

Then, I started thinking about money, and how so many of my friends don't even have a few bucks for gas. How can I even be thinking about clicking this checkout button while my friends sit here with nothing to live off of?

Then I started feeling guilty . . . the exact opposite of what I'm supposed to be feeling this time of year.

And so I sit here, in a quiet living room, clock ticking, heater running, wondering how I let the whisper of the empire get into my ears long enough to convince me this is okay.

Previous years I'd created the time to create gifts, and now I'm aimlessly pulling up lists of items that'll fill the void I have of not creating the time to create things that will last. I feel like a Christmas failure, like it was the best chance of the year to put my mind to something creative and inspiring, only to find that the time ran out. What are they gonna think of me? What if they give me something, but I don't give them anything? What if they realize I wasn't really thinking of them, but thinking rather of trying to ease the guilt of not . . . giving . . . something?

I have been giving. I've been giving constantly. Yet, there's this subliminal message around Christmas time that says, "If you don't give presents, then you're not giving. This is where the rubber meets the road. Forget all the stuff and time and money you've given throughout the year because this is where it truly matters. If you don't give now, you haven't given ever."

I know what I need to give, but I've been trying to fight it off. It's a gift that exposes the real me, the authentic me, the raw me. And, I'm afraid of giving it. I'm afraid of people knowing who I really am, what I've really done, what I really think. I've been trying to escape the inner voice that keeps telling me to give myself away while everyone sits around the Christmas tree. That's a scary thing, and it makes Amazon and Google look really, really, appetizing. 

So, this whole gift-giving, shopping, Googling, buy-as-much-as-you-can season isn't really about not having enough time to buy presents. It's about giving that one thing that I try to avoid giving every year to the people closest to me - the real me that no one knows about. And, in order to get the real me, you have to get my real story.

I was powerless, full of shame, full of the unquenchable desire to escape a miserable life, and the bottom came. A dark, dismal, depressing life that was hopeless. Then, when I had no strength left to keep fighting, I was rescued by a God who demanded nothing but wanted more than anything to know me, to love me, and to be with me. And, it's that story I'll put under the tree this year.

Why A Parent's Love for Their Children May Not Capture the Essence of God's Love For Us

When I was a kid, I would sometimes retreat to the shed in the backyard to hide from my parents. Really, it was a ploy to get them to feel sorry for me. I wanted their attention, and it was usually because I had done something wrong and had to have some way of having the last word.

It was my way of righting my wrong. There may have been a spanking or discipline, but that didn't satisfy me. What I really wanted was my parents to realize they were wrong (for doing the right thing) and come out to the shed to baby me and tell me that I was a good boy.

Hiding and running away and shame. 

Then there's my friend. As a kid, his dad would force him to watch as he shot heroin into his bloodstream. As a teenager, his dad would steal money from him to buy cocaine. As quickly as he could, he distanced himself from his father but learned the hard way that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

Hiding and running away and shame.

Then there's my other friend - who never met his biological parents. He grew up in the foster system, only to find out that at age 18 he would be on his own with no parents to watch him graduate high school or get married or get his first job or buy his own car. To this day, he's afraid to get close to anyone because they might abandon him. Just like his parents did.

Hiding and running away and shame.

And then we have a man and a woman in a garden. They do something that's against the rules. And what do they do? They hide and run away and are full of shame. 

For thousands of years, stories have been written about a God who disciplines like a father and scorns his children for doing the wrong thing. Could that whole concept be a looking glass into the writers' views of their own fathers?

Many times I hear people say how God loves us like a mother or a father loves their children. But, what about the friends of ours whose parents were never there, whose fathers forced them to watch as they got high on heroin, whose mothers drove them to their death in a lake?

What about Abraham trying to kill his own son? What about Lot sleeping with his daughters? What about Noah cursing his son?

Projecting our views of loving parents onto God works really well . . . if our parents loved us really well. I wouldn't have enough time in the world, enough money to pay, enough love to give, to pay back the debt I owe my parents for the love they've showed me. And, I don't believe they'd ever want me to even feel I have to pay them back for anything.

But even with my parents doing an amazing job at raising me well, loving me well, and showing me grace without borders, there were some pretty tense moments. Yelling. Spanking. Discipline. Times when patience just . . . ran . . . out. It was in those moments that they became human and flawed and just like me. 

Throughout the scriptures we find time and time again a God who's different from all the other gods. This God's love just doesn't run out. This God isn't done. This God is dead set on redeeming everyone and everything, for all time. This God is restoring everyone and everything back to how they were created to live.

So, when we read the scriptures, we're reading into real authors who had real lives and real parents.  

And then, on the other hand, we see a picture painted of a God who is not a parent. This God doesn't make the mistakes of a parent, doesn't run out of patience like a parent, and doesn't give up like some parents.

This God's love is infinitely greater than any love we've ever known, and in order to tap into this love, we must be willing to lay aside our preconceived notions of what God's love looks like. Empty ourselves of our experiences, our biases, and our culture, and dare to dive into a divine love that just doesn't run out.