In all of the books that followed
Dorothy always came back to Oz
For somehow she knew that Kansas
Was not really home, because
A new world had opened unto her
Where dreams and fantasies come true
And never again would the shallow and mundane
Satisfy her – for now she knew –
That in spite of small men behind curtains
She had heard in her heart a call
Quietly beckoning her to the True Wizard
The greatest wizard of all.
Somewhere this side of the rainbow we seem to have lost or misplaced our sense of mystery. We take no risks, upset no apple carts, ask no embarrassing questions, and express no doubts that we have all the answers. We play it safe, stuff our brains with clichés, and don’t dare go into unfamiliar territory. Everything must have an explanation. Every movie must have a satisfactory ending. Every song must resolve into a major chord. Every book must have an epilogue that ties up all loose ends. We want it neat and tidy with nothing left out of place.
I have come to believe that the neatly packaged life is no life at all, and neatly packaged faith is no faith at all, and certainly I know that the neatly packaged god is no god at all. Speaking to some preachers I once said that if you can answer all the questions, and explain all the difficulties about God, you had better get you a bigger one because the one you have is not God.
My favorite author Brennan Manning says in “Ruthless Trust” that truth cannot be left in the hands of theologians and purely logical people, but that we must “bring in the artists, the mystics, and the clowns.” They are here to remind you and me that life is to be enjoyed; that chances are worth taking, that we will never get it all figured out, and that it is okay that we are not controlling things. The artists teach us that He is the author of beauty because He likes it too. The mystics show us that truth is found not in proposition but in experience. The clowns illustrate to us that God is not an uptight and angry bookkeeper, but is adventurous, passionate, creative, fascinating, and (dare I say it?) fun! If this is true, it is quite an accomplishment that we have managed to make church so boring!
I came from a background where I was taught to be “consistent”, meaning I was supposed to be predictable and traditional, to always try to “fit in”. No more! Now I am learning, growing, changing, and don’t plan to stop. In the process I will sometimes be wrong about things, but it is a risk I am willing to take, because the alternative is to stagnate and die. Sometimes I tell people that if they only want to hear what they already know and believe, we could have all stayed home. Usually they listen and consider what is said, and then if it isn’t good they can set me straight. I have no desire to be a heretic.
Frederick Buechner writes that “the killjoys, the phonies, the nit-pickers, the holier-than-thous, the loveless and cheerless and irrelevant” are the ones who are quick to claim that they know the truth. Then he adds this remarkable sentence: “ When Jesus is asked who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven, He reaches into the crowd and pulls out a CHILD…. and says unless you can become like that, don’t bother to ask!”
Somewhere deep within our soul there is a child like Dorothy who listens for a different voice and faintly feels a longing to go beyond what we can see and understand and explain. We intuitively know that there is more meaning to our lives than to just survive and succeed on the surface. We are scarecrows desiring a brain, tin men in need of a heart, and lions who desperately want to become brave. We’re looking for the yellow brick road, and we need something or somebody to help us find it and stay on it. We know that it’s a scary trip. Many times I have glimpsed past the rainbow and turned back because I was afraid to go. But the call would not go away.
Once you leave Kansas there are no experts. But if you will read again the lines of my little poem, you’ll notice that after all it really is not a call to go away.
It is a call to come home.
When I was a teenager, I thought that it would make me “cool” if I hung out with the troublemakers in my high school. They got a lot of attention, even if it was negative. With them, I could be an underachiever and curse and gripe about everything, and I would fit right in. And if you remember being a teenager, you know that “fitting right in” with some kind of group was extremely important! So my friends were always in trouble and often I was, too.
Then sometime in October most of my friends started stealing the hubcaps off of cars. Somehow I missed out on all of that “fun” and never got involved in it. I will never forget laughing about it when two of my best friends, who were brothers, had the police come to their home looking for the culprits. Their father answered the door and said that his boys would never do anything like that and showed them through the house. When he opened their closet door, hubcaps came falling out of the closet and rolling across the floor!
The city of Fairfield Alabama made an arrangement that these two, along with three other “friends” of mine, would continue in school during the week but had to spend every weekend in jail. They even talked about what a great time they had in jail, and I was lonely when they were gone, and even a little jealous of them, until one of them told me the truth, that it was absolutely miserable, that being in jail was not fun and certainly not “cool”. Still, my weekends were empty and boring with all of my buddies incarcerated.
One weekend something very unusual happened. It was one of the most bizarre events of my life, and I am not making this up! Three of these guys called me on Sunday afternoon after their release from their weekend in jail, saying they needed my help. Another inmate had told them that his car had been confiscated and was in the city parking lot, and it had forty gallons of moonshine whiskey in it that the police hadn’t found! He told them that they could have the moonshine if they would just get it out of his car before the police discovered it. So they had taken the illegal whiskey from his car, hidden it in the alley behind the police station, and they needed for ME to come with my old 1951 Dodge and load it up and take them around so they could sell it to somebody and “make lots of money” with it. I was thrilled at the opportunity to be involved in something so exciting, and so happy to this time be a part of what they were doing. I didn’t even hesitate.
After going several places trying to sell the “moonshine” without success, we decided to divide it up and keep it. Each of us kept ten gallons. Of course we all talked big about how we were going to drink it, but I was afraid to even taste it and I buried it in my back yard. A neighbor saw me digging the hole and called my father, who asked me about what I had buried and made me dig it up. He was very upset with me, but together we quietly poured it down the bathtub drain. In one of the stupidest moments of my young life, I actually asked him if I could just have a little of it to see what it tasted like. That’s when Dad lost his control and “hit the ceiling” as he shouted, “hell, no!”
It wasn’t long before the police somehow found out about all of this, and the newspapers got the word, too. The police were humiliated and embarassed that the stuff had been stolen from their own parking lot. It was all to come up at a specially-called town council meeting that very next night. It was the first time I ever heard the expression that “heads were going to roll!”
I will never forget what my father did the night of that town meeting. Very sternly he told me to sit in the house and to not go anywhere or talk to anybody. He said, “I’m going to the meeting. You stay here!” Later I learned that the place was full of people, and many of them were shouting questions at the mayor and the chief of police. Some were ridiculing the situation. The city decided to lock up (full time) the other boys who were involved in this incident. Then someone shouted my name, and asked what they were going to do with me. Some others then started shouting my name and asking where I was. And that’s when my father came through - big time!
He had a tenth grade education and a mild gentle manner. He certainly was no public speaker. But that night my dad was a ferocious lion as he stood up to these people and told them that if they knew what was good for them they had better leave me alone! And, amazingly, they listened, and my hide was spared.
Some people, because of some pain or disappointment in their family background, always have difficulty referring to God as “Father.” But not me. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was seeing God in my dad that night! Yes, he was disappointed in me, and hurt, and probably even angry. But the bottom line was that he loved me so much that it scared those people! No matter what I had done, he was ready and willing to protect me and defend me, not because I deserved it ( I didn’t), but because I was his child.
I don’t remember his ever teaching me about grace, and mercy, and unconditional love. But he did even better. He showed it to me in his life.
If you can’t see God in that, you must not be looking.