Church! Yes, the Incorrect Theological Use Church. That One!

To Tale or Not: Mulaff Bakes

Mulaff was too thin to bale hay, and everyone in Dliev baled hay.  His peers called him Twiggers, because his arms were kindling in a city of logs.  His nose was too large for his face; his teeth more resembled projection screens than instruments of mastication.  So what does a large-nosed, big-toothed twig do in a city of burly hay balers?  It took Mulaff 20 years to figure it out, but when he did it changed his life and then changed his life again.

To find the answer, take Center Street to Bulong Road.  Turn left.  Drive past The Ancient Barber and on the left, across form the cozy park and crystal clear pond, is a small eatery with "Guten Brotes" hand-painted on the giant windows, windows that let you peer into a wonderland of flour, sugar, yeast, milk, and eggs.  Only a few tables hold "Guten Brotes" to the ground, two lining the inside of the bakery and three keeping the outdoor sidewalk company.  Although this tiny pastry palace seats no more than 20, the line of customers adorns the neighborhood like tinsel on a Christmas tree.  And there behind the counter, his face still powdered in flour from the early morning, stands Mulaff greeting every customer, taking every order, and wrapping each pastry as a newborn in swaddling clothes.

Mulaff contributed his baking success to his handcrafted rolling pin.  It took him three years to make it.  He poured himself into its creation.  Some nights he couldn't sleep, not because exhaustion hadn't set in, but because he couldn't turn it off: the planning, the sculpting and the completion of the rolling pin. When adored Mulaff never referenced the ingredients or his knack for the culinary arts but the rolling pin.  Everything he baked he rolled and if it could be baked without being rolled, that item would not be found in his bakery.  Mulaff became so enamored with his rolling pin that he forgot that The Guardian had taught him how to make it. As a young boy The Guardian would stand him on a little stool in his kitchen and teach him, not only how to roll the dough, but how to craft the roller!  Mulaff forgot, but he never forgot his rolling pin.  He would often stare at it and smile.  At night he had a reserved spot on the shelf where he tucked his rolling pin away for the night.  If it weren't too bizarre, he might have whispered, "Good night, friend!" But his attachment to this rolling pin was already off-center.

Outside of "Guten Brotes," there was one other dream camped in the back of Mulaff's mind: racing - not on foot, not in cars, nor on horseback, but boats.  He longed to race remote control boats in the big city of Kudrov only 25 km away.  Remote control boat racing drew crazed fans and big dollars.  In the moments when Mulaff wasn't in the kitchen he was at the crystal pond practicing for the broad ponds of Kudrov.  He would never get a chance.  Even if he possessed the talent it was too hard to get in and too hard to catch a break until that morning when the man in the long coat ordered a cheese danish.  As the man with the long coat fell in love with the danish he began to inquire of Mulaff's ability, "How do you do it?  This danish...this danish..." The rest of the conversation is a waste of your time.  Here's what you need to know.  The man in the long coat had power within the boating world and Mulaff told him, as with all his baked goods, "The secret is the rolling pin." By the end of a 30 minute conversation Mulaff sold his rolling pin to the man in the long coat for a chance to race in the big waters of Kudrov.

Race he did, but he could never shake that in his soul he was a baker.  And so an ache grew in his heart, at first dull, but then crippling...so crippling that he returned to "Guten Brotes!"  Nothing had been put on the shelf for months and nothing would still.  Because no matter his longing to bake, he had no rolling pin.  Worst still, he had forgotten how to craft one.  He was at a loss, heartbroken, afraid.  He was too weak to bale hay, disenchanted with remote boat racing, and he could no longer do what his heart was made to do.

The moment came when Mulaff prepared to ask hope to exit the doors of his life, and then Griegor the lumberjack walked in:

"I'm famished!"
Mulaff, "I'm sorry.  I have no baked goods.  I am without my rolling pin."
"Well, buy another!"
"I can't; it is handcrafted!"
"Craft another!"
"I have forgotten how!"
"I don't know either, but I'm gonna guess you need wood!"
Mulaff nodded.
"I can at least do that," the lumberjack offered. "In fact, I know where the greatest of trees stands in all of this land.  I will bring her wood to you."

Mulaff felt indebted, and he was.

Griegor's offer became the refrain in "Guten Brotes" over the next several weeks.  After Griegor, Camelia, the finest carpenter in Dliev, showed up.  She offered to help him shape the rolling pin.  Then Elena, the artist, helped craft the design, Victor the finish, Tulag the assembly.  Another dozen or so hands merged to make Mulaff a new rolling pin.

Finally, the morning came when Mulaff rose in the darkness and rolled and baked, rolled and baked.  Six AM hit and Mulaff flipped the sign, "Open."  Day one, no one came.  No one.  "I hear Mulaff reopened but is using a new rolling pin. It can't be the same"  Dlievians were skpetical and rumor was the pin was scarred, ugly to the eye."  And they were right.  The pastries and breads weren't the same and the rolling pin was scarred.  Mulaff had designed it that way, depicting his scars on the pin so that it might never take center stage again.  But day two came and Mulaff rolled and baked, rolled and baked.

Day two.  No one, but Mulaff rolled and baked, rolled and baked.
Day three. No one, but Mulaff... and so it went.
Day 17. A family of 5 stopped for breakfast on their way to Kudrov for the Saturday boat races.  They ordered.  They ate.  They noticed the rolling pin, winced at it's scars but left saying, "That was better than the last time we ate here!" They spread the experience and the lines returned to "Gutten Brotes" and it was always the same response: shock at the rolling pin's scars but a surprise, "This bread is better."

And the bread was better and it was better because of the rolling pin, but now when Mulaff looked at the scarred pin, he didn't admire it for its sake.  His heart was filled with gratitude for all the hands that built it, all the hands that were not his hands, all that hands that made baking possible again.  Every time he rolled the dough he thought of Griegor, Camilia, Elena, Victor, Tulag and the rest.  And unlike before, when people asked, "Wow, what is your secret?"  he no longer pointed them to the rolling pin, but rather said, "The hands that make these breads are far more than two, and my two are the least important."

Blue Cheese: A Parable (Practical Redemption 1)

It was in the old part of town where local merchants sold organic produce under the open sky, where corner bakeries served gourmet coffees in anything but a Starbucks cup, and where the street was still paved in red brick.  The couple loved to take each other to this quiet and chic part of town for walks, talks, and of course the Bread Pallet.  The Bread Pallet was a small eatery with ancient wine, fresh yeast rolls you could taste by their aroma, and a heart-stopping Tiramisu.

The hour hand had just reached eleven and the the couple had already settled into their  favorite corner table tucked away by the front window under a painting of Puck from a Midsummer's Nights Dream.  He had ordered the Raspberry Tea with fresh raspberries layered among the ice; she drank espresso on ice.  Each time they dined at this favorite spot they'd read the menu as if they were exploring the entrees for the first time, but like the sun breaking over the eastern horizon they always ended up ordering "The Regular."  The menu reading was more of a game.  Often they'd pick a dish, appetizer, dessert or drink and discuss it's strengths, weakness, origin, etc.  Today? - The Wedge Salad.  The menu read:

Geyser's Wedge Salad

A refreshing quarter of iceberg lettuce adorned with

organic tomatoes, green onions, freshly cooked bacon,

blue cheese crumbles, and topped with our homemade

blue cheese dressing.

She speaks first, "Mmmm!  That looks good, except for the blue cheese crumbles.  I'd substitute with cheddar!"

"What?" he responds with disbelief, "You can't eat a Wedge Salad without blue cheese!"

"Sure you can.  You just say, 'I'd like the Geyser Wedge with cheddar instead of blue cheese.'" 

"No, no you can't.  If you cut out blue cheese it is no longer a Wedge!"

"Of course it is!"

"No, it is not!"

"You order your burgers without onions.  It is the same thing!"

"Shut up!  Not even close.  Ordering a wedge without the blue cheese is like ordering the burger without the meat."

"I'd argue that cheddar goes better with bacon than blue cheese anyway.  Think, 'Bacon cheddar burger.'"

"That doesn't matter.  Pull out Betty Crocker; flip to salads and guess what?  There will be blue cheese."

"Seriously?  You are going to Betty Crocker me?"

"Hon, you are wrong; it doesn't matter what you think because when it comes to the wedge...."

And their banter carried on through the appetizer, through the entree, and even through his after-dinner coffee.  Unbeknownst to them, two blocks over in the ally out back of Danielle's Paninis, an middle-aged man rummaged through the trash looking for provolone that happened to cling to the side of the dumpster, or a half chewed piece of french bread, or some chicken scraps.  His stomach cramped with hunger, his head a little light, legs shaky and all the while they argued over blue cheese.

This is a story, too often, about the church.

Layers

It was my lunch break. I was eating steak... in a city park.  The steak was served in a zip lock baggie, cold leftovers from the night before and I was sticking to a sap-stained park bench.  I hadn't purchased this prime cut of beef because I don't dine on sirloin right now.  One steak and a Coke?  I don't measure that in dollars; I measure it in hours.  That's a half of a day's work.  Dear friends bought Mary Beth and I the grilled cuisine, and they didn't just offer dinner. They talked about paying rent... Layers.

As I set up lunch, an older gentleman strolled into the park carrying two suitcases out of a 60's movie.  A blue ball cap, the mesh kind that were dominate in the 80's and that are now making a comeback, protected his sun-scarred face.  He was thin, not a healthy, fit-and-in-shape kind of thin, but the kind that comes from lacking a surplus of food.  He wore Wranglers, although he likely never road a horse or shot a pistol from his hip. He rolled his Wranglers just like a parent does when buying their kid's pants a couple sizes too big in order to save a trip back to the store in a month.  He covered his chest with one of those shirts Middle Aged West Texas Tourists wear, one that would blend into any decade while at the same time be clearly out of fashion.  It's probably one your grandpa wore.  As he set up at his bench, a man dashed out of the office building across the street as if posing for a GQ ad - shimmery suit tapered at the ankle, a single button holding the coat over his well-fed belly, a nicely groomed beard.  He jumped in a car and moved out of the GQ ad into a Lexus commercial.  Only one hundred feet apart...Layers.

Gnawing on my cow remains, I pulled out a Gatorade to lubricate my meat's decent into my stomach.  That's when I noticed, my blue-hatted friend also had a Gatorade.  His flavor was "Fountain Water" and it wasn't a beverage.  It was a washing machine.  He pulled a shirt out of his suitcase and arranged it on the brick sidewalk.  After filling his bottle with water from the fountain he started the pre-soak cycle.  He doused his clothes and then started scrubbing with a barely visible soap fragment.  Then he rinsed.  His dryer was the only park bench managing to sunbathe in the noonday rays.  "Ding! Ding!" An iPhone text interrupted my observations... Layers.

After glancing at the text I moved from the steak remains to a Trix yogurt ("Silly rabbit!  Tricks are for kids).  I pealed back the lid and started to drink my yogurt just as my blue-hatted friend began enjoying a tasty mid-day meal himself.  Fortunately we were shaded by mature pecan trees that had rained down their Fall gifts across the park.  The blue hatted man would gather a few, line them on his bench like a Sushi Chef lines his rolls, and then crack one at a time.  Park pecans for lunch!  After my yogurt I opened my pita chips and scooped up some garlic hummus... Layers.

Lunch was nearly over.  It had been less than one hour and there were layers everywhere.  Layers sitting on park benches.  Layers walking down the street.  Layers smoking in the ally.  Layers dinning on pecans at the water fountain laundry mat, layers in suits, layers in an old pair of Asics and a stained church t-shirt, layers in my head, layers in your head.  Layers everywhere... except in God.

Three Days 'til Twindom

I'm not sure who stalked who first.  We first encountered at Subway during Anytober.  I was reloading my water and he was carbonating up.  I would describe him as pudgy and I, on the other hand, kick my own butt to avoid pudginess.  As if kin to the Komodo Dragon, his tongue flicked faithfully like a spatula scraping impaled peanut butter off the inside of his upper lip.  He was unaware. And only yesterday, I stepped into Sports Cuts for a hair-tidying appointment in order to compensate for the new patch of zits I had apparently been fertilizing on my face.  When he spoke, after each phrase or sentence I would usually utter a "Huh," Excuse me," or "I'm sorry?"  And, up until recently, I had supported my family via theological gab.  I was paid to communicate clearly.  After a short interaction we separated, and little had I known, I had found my brother.

Next day I'm going for a jog, 10 miles, decked in polyester and other wicking fabric.  I pass him.  He is walking the same direction as I'm going.  Again, who was there first... him or me?  Was I following him or was he tracking me?  Never mind that; he sported the same clothes as the day before and perhaps the day before that, and before that, and... yes, maybe before that.  Did I mention he was Black?  I'm more like bread that has been left in the toaster too long... brown on the edges but white in the middle.  No communication, no talking, no interaction that day.  We did not need to any longer; the connection was made, although I was unaware.

Day three... I'm filling out applications online in an appendage restaurant to the local grocery store.  It's one of those dives that stays in business because college kids can get 2500 calories wrapped in a tomato basil tortilla, log on to Facebook, and sip on a Frappufrufru at one stainless steel table.  Guess who strolls in?   I'm no genius, not even that smart, and when it comes to chess I'm not worthy to untie the laces of Bobby Fisher's shoes.  But, if my new friend and I sat down for a game of chess, I would bet on myself.  SAT scores?  I win that one too (and mine were just average).  Sudoku?  Never played it, but going to wager against my new friend.  Did I mention I'm taller than him?

So, there I am working on this application.  It is about 12:30 PM and he walks in.  Twelve-thirty is no coincidence.  It is the busiest time of the day.  My friend came for people, lots of people, people laughing, eating, talking.  He shuffled in, proceeded to a table with a dining family, and started hugging them.  They didn't know him anymore than they knew me, and I couldn't tell you their names or even what they ordered.  He ended up getting a picture with them (Thank you, iPhone).  He was there because he did not want to be ALONE!! And that's when it hit me, "We are twins!!"  Granted, I didn't pull up to a stainless steel table to hug on random families but only to mooch the free WiFi, but we were twins because we crave the same thing.

Genesis 2 spouts it this way, "The LORD God said, 'It is not good for the man to be alone. I will make a helper suitable for him.'"  Loneliness is one of those few things that is worse than death.  If Laurence Fishburne manifested and said, "Take the red pill and be alone but live, or take the blue pill and die,"  I'm swallowing blue.  This summer, for the first time in my life, I came to place where I thought and screamed out loud, "I'd rather be dead!"  Loneliness was pulling the trigger.  It was a self-induced loneliness but loneliness the same.

No wonder my new friend showed up at the hopping joint during the busiest time of the day.  Why wouldn't he?  He needed to feel a part of a community; he needed to feel love; he needed to NOT BE ALONE even if just for the lunch hour.  He and I have nothing in common except that which makes us twins, soul brothers: the longing to not be alone, to be loved.  God said it, "It is not good for man to be alone!"  That is why God raised a nation, a community called Israel, rather than a single person with whom to make a covenant.  That is why the Church is not a building, a sermon, or Gungor jamming our socks off, but rather a community of diverse people sharing life together.

The Church has so much to offer! As I experienced true loneliness for the first time in my life, my eyes were opened to see how many, millions, of people are lonely.  Maybe you are one of the lonely!  The Church has been set up, when it moves with the Spirit, to meet that need in a practical and tangible way.  To the lonely in the world, the Church says, "Hey!  You are not alone.  You are one of us.  You belong here.  We are twins!!"

Long Walks on the Beach and a Long John

She's fat... the kind of fat that makes her think twice before bending down to pick up dropped change.  Clinking change won't cut it. We are not supposed to talk about people being fat.  That's right!  We just say it behind their back.

Her face parallels that of a bulldog where the saggy lip gets hung up on the canine. Dentures would help provide some facial structure.  We would never say it, but if she were prettier we would deduct the social strikes of her obesity.  It's true.

She starts off most days with a couple of cream-filled Long Johns and a DP.  Why wouldn't she?  Food is one of the few consistent things in a world where, for some, life is a dull ache at best.  A Long John is sweet and creamy no matter who hit you last night or what jackpot you happened to land.  The Long John loves you unconditionally, so let her have her Long John.

I wonder if it these Long John moments and others like it that empower her to set her alarm each night.  I mean four kids, one with diabetes (she almost died) and a set of twins with a speech impediment so bad that you would think they were imported from Ukraine.  She is a single mom, a good one.  There is no husband.

But there is a man, one she calls the "Love of Her Life."  Although in reality, he's a bum.  He lets her work hard, back-breaking hard and he reaps all the benefits.  She kicked him out, but she'll call him back because they make each other laugh and his body warms an otherwise cold bed.  There's also the fathers of her kids.  Yes, I said fatherS.   One, the ex-husband turned ex-convict and the other... that's a good question.

When she talks, she would make you embarrassed for the South, the kind of person Good Morning America puts on TV for their random on location disaster site street interviews.  But any other circumstance, any other deck of cards, my life and she would be CEO of a Fortune 500.  She works harder for $12/hour than most millionaires do for their empires.  And The Company will keep her at $12/hour because they can.  They know they can.  And she'll keep working hard because the "Dat-a-girls" she gets for her efforts go down just as easily with a DP as do the cream-filled Long Johns.

Someone needs to grab her by the shoulders, look her straight in the eyes, and say, "You are valuable; you are precious; you are adored by the Maker; you are beautiful; you are strong; you are equal to all others; you are amazing!" Not because they should, not out of pity, not out of guilt, not out of a legalistic pull to be good, BUT because IT IS TRUE.