I'm the Project

I have met many new acquaintances, and some very good new friends, here in Moscow.  One of them is an English teacher who has assigned me to several of her students.  They are to take me places in Moscow and speak only English with me.

To me, this is an amazing opportunity to see this marvelous city through the eyes and experiences of the young people who will be leaders of the next generation.

Yesterday was the first event in the project.  A young man, Sergey, was in charge of me for the day.  He said we would go to a conservatory for a free concert performance involving graduates and students.  He didn't know exactly what to expect, only that there would be music and it was free.  

Although my words below do not begin to scratch the surface of the experience, I wanted to get the words out of my hands before they are lost.  Some of these phrases were formed while I sat beneath the music's spell, others while I slept last night.  

We met on one of the platforms of one of the stations that lay deep within the earth beneath the center of Moscow.  I can't tell you exactly where we were from the outside of the Metro, but from within it was the Red Line station - I call it Lenin's Library because that is my scratchy translation.  I scurried behind my guide glad for his height making it easier to keep track of him through the maze.  Once upon ground we sloshed between the slush and the snow and the freezing rain, dodging people and traffic and flying puddles, we made our way to an impossibly old building.  

If you have ever been to a piano recital you could describe the audience we joined.  Parents, grandparents, instructors, siblings, roommates and assorted other supporters politely lined the small hall where the first performances would be held.  Sergey read through the program and tried to explain it to me.  

It's funny, really, as much as I enjoy classical music I don't have any knowledge or training in it.  I don't know Bach from Chopin, but I know what I like and I know when something is properly executed.  I just do.  I've not had a lot of exposure to it and it's not something I would turn the radio dial to.  Yet, here I was infinitely excited to be seated in this lovely place anticipating lovely music.

The hall was a room really with high ceilings framed with careful molding and painted a soft yellow.  In the center was a stunning crystal chandelier.  I wished instantly for my good camera when I saw it.  

"Oh my!"  I said aloud.

Sergey looked around puzzled.  "What?"

"Look at that!  It's so beautiful!"

He sort of laughed and shook his head doubtless wondering about his addled American project.  

As the music began I watched as light and music danced together along the crystal beads playing with centuries of sound and life.  These chords so new to the young rang richly with history to the old.  Crossing generations, politics and lifestyles the music breathes.  

I watched one particular pianist who diligently worked to maintain decorum.  It was good for her to be a part of a duet as it allowed her some freedom while helping her follow the straight lines of the piece.  Her hands and face danced jubilantly with each note played.  Floating along the keyboard, she had forgotten her audience and played only for the joy of sound.  I couldn't help but wonder where her imagination took her as the music sang to her soul. 

I looked around the room more closely at the audience.  It occurred to me that many of them had been raised during Soviet times, some even during Stalin's reign of terror.  I watched the music behind their eyes and wished I could ask them where the memories of the music took them.  Did they see days when music was taken from them and given to another?  Or was music given the people in a general sense as a replacement for God?  The need for beauty and purpose did not cease when the government decided that God was for fools.  Rather, it found a new avenue and I wondered how that affected these lives around me. 

Leaving the small hall behind, we joined the larger performance venue to see who might perform there.  We were pleasantly surprised to find children showcasing their talents.  Even more spellbound I sat watching them participate in centuries of timeless expression.  

I considered how I was surrounded by a rich heritage of beauty and art in these rooms and yet I seemed the only one entranced by its significance.  Perhaps the others had been there so many times, had heard the beautiful notes so frequently, had listened to the crescendo and fall until it had all become common place. These audience members have been here before.  To them this is lovely, but not stunning.  

It occurred to me that the participants in this act playing out before me were much like their American counterparts.  I have watched my friends in Russia stand amazed when they encounter a divine touch from God.  When His quiet amazing presence fills a room, the awe on their faces is easy to see.  Often in America it is not so.  Many of my American friends are so awash in His grace and presence, it has become common place to them.  Bored, they look around, chat idly, play on their cell phones - and don't even notice He is there.

Afterwards I walked with my young friend down Arbat Street.  Fresh new architecture lines the sky above centuries old, solid buildings.  At the end of the avenue one of Stalin's Seven Sister buildings holds court.  The contrasts are stark here.  Western capitalism is making its mark, but not without allowance made for Russian tradition.

At the close of the day, the music warmed my heart and caused me to smile long into the wintry walk home.  I find I am rather excited to be a part of this project.  My next tour guide is expected to take me to an art gallery and then another will take me to the Kremlin.  God is good.  That's a fact!

Pentecostal Flavored Church

Had a conversation about religion and church and all that jazz and thought maybe I'd share here a piece from the latest book. 

Some of you will be sure I'm crazy when you read this.  Some of you will nod your heads and smile understandingly.  Some of you will remember your own church experiences. 

Whatever your view, whatever your traditions, whatever you believe - I hope this helps you understand how I see Pentecostal flavored church.

Taste and see the Lord is good!  Psalm 34:8

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February 7, 2010

Pentecostal Flavored Church

I wonder…

How do they see all of this activity?

You know, outsiders.

Frayed edges flying freely

Called prayer,

Called worship,

Called church.

Pentecostal-flavored-church to be exact.

Do they see them

Neatly flowing together

Like prayer shawl fringes?

In harmony, Billowing, Following, Patterned?

Or fragmented, scattered, disjointed

Without plan or purpose.

Mostly I wonder

How do You see it?

All those waving hands

All those mixing voices

All those flowing tears

All that peace consuming

Fears falling, anger melting, sickness healing.

It seems to me

Casually, involvedly observing

From the inside out of this cacophony

That You hear every request and answer.

And the people who let down their guard

Put away their inhibitions

Shed their religiosity

They know, young and old, it is good

To be where You are.

But what of those who have lived long enough to

Reason You away?

Reason faith away?

Reason peace away?

Those who are not accustomed to feeling

Blatant emotion

Deep conviction

Pure joy.

What do they see here?

Who can explain such a mystery?  Which words would one use?

How can it be qualified, justified, simplified

This deep calling to deep?

This thing called

Pentecostal-flavored church.

Love is tangible in a place like this.

It’s a safe covering that starts in

The hands and eyes and arms.

From God to us.

From us to God.

Between each.

Friendly hands compassionately holding friends’ hands

Like babies -protectively and gently.

Trust beaming from every pore.

We sing earthly things don’t matter

And we mean it.

For a space of time

Moments, hours

All else falls away and the strength and grace of the

Community called church family

Envelops us.

That’s Pentecostal-flavored church.

To order a copy of A Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges or a Friend Named Jesus, please visit my website:  Writer's Pages

Facebook:  Author Kris A. Newman

A Writer at Camp

My heart is absolutely overflowing with words today.  Some good, some sad, some sappy.

I spent time at Wisconsin District Family Camp last week.  Love those camp grounds.  One of my favorite places on the planet.  I really hope my boys find a way to scatter my ashes there.  So many good memories of good, good days floating around that atmosphere. 

Laughter and tears and quiet, calm, refreshing moments.  I wrote Summer Morning Song there.  I can still see the morning I wrote it.  I had gone to morning prayer and coming back to the room I was silenced by the feel of the sun on my skin, the song of the birds and trees and the surrounding presence of God.  I sat on the steps of the double-deckers and let the words fall onto the page.

I see myself again, there, another time, another summer morning.  Sitting by the fire pit.  Emotions swirling around me.  Difficulties waiting for me at home.  My soul in turmoil.  But for that moment, for that dot of time on the line, absolute peace and quiet blanketed me. 

I watched my children grow up there.  It was as though some strange vitamin was in the water.  They would start a week of Family Camp or Junior Camp at one age, and leave another.  The responsibilities they were allowed, the expectations placed on them, the pride bestowed upon them expanded their thinking and they grew exponentially. 

The year of the tornado is a good example.  Violence filled the air, but calm undergirded the Tabernacle.  Most mothers’ children were huddling under pews praying for their lives.  My children were not.  They worked beside the adults in charge.  They brought water and comfort.  I watched them both, boys only on the outside, but men's character on the inside, as they quietly did whatever was asked of them.  

I’m not sure which honor pulled them taller – platform ministry or security.  Being allowed to sing and play is a big deal at Camp.  It starts at Junior Camp or Children’s Church when a Director approaches and asks, “can you help us today?”  Those Director types they aren’t only looking for talent, but desire and compassion.  I’m pretty sure the Children’s Church platform is the first to have hosted Johnathon and Mathias, but surely not the last.

Thi was six the first year he helped with Security.  Not officially, of course, but because the Security Director was on crutches, Thi became the tray-carrier, drink-getter, runner-arounder.  The golf cart made him taller, I’m sure.  Johnathon worked Security, too, on and off, but I couldn’t tell you when it started.  The years fold together in a flip-book of blurred images. 

Funny, looking back I don’t remember the sleepless nights, but only the stars and the quiet.  There were hot years, but I don’t remember when.  Storms, we had a few.  Cold nights, yes, I’m sure.  Their stories are blotted out by the other memories. 

Deep, rich, touched prayer times.  Sharing lives, making impressions -the kind of personal connections that build walls of faith for times of trouble.  These are the people who held me up in prayer and supported me through the dark days.  Their opinions of me matter.  

It seemed to all culminate last night.  I thought I was ready to leave.  It was getting late and the drive loomed.  I wasn’t ready to go, though.  Something – or Someone – held me back a few more minutes.  I had prayed with some very special friends, I had sung until my voice was gone, I had taken notes of some excellent teaching and preaching.  I had chatted with this one and that one confirming our mutual admiration.  I even smiled inside at the appearance of my books – MY BOOKS – at the PPH tent.  How absolutely sublime!

Ready to flit out, I saw one more friend, whose story I don’t really know, with her head bowed still praying. 

I know from having walked through a crisis that oftentimes what’s noised abroad resembles little of real life.  Thanks to Facebook, assumptions are made based on two or three lines of text.  I also know from walking through crisis that those two or three lines of text sometimes contain years of information.  Sensitivity is the key to dividing rumor from reality.

All I needed to know about my friend I knew.  Someone knocked on my heart and reminded me of the similarities.  That one last alter call gave me the door to reassure my friend that someone on the planet understood.  Some tears, some grace, some strength sharing.  

Then I knew I was okay to leave.

Me and Jesus have some talking to do about some other things from Camp this year.  Some words don’t ought to be written, but only prayed.  Some changes need to be made, some promises need to be kept, some hopes are to be seen.

If you have never been to church camp, you probably have read this post and think I have lost my mind.  You might think I’m simple or addled or out of touch.  Like the words that ought be prayed and not written, some things must be lived not explained.  

That’s how a writer sees Camp time.

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 To order a copy of A Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges or a Friend Named Jesus, please visit my website:  Writer's Pages or stop by the PPH booth at your UPCI camp and request it.

Only Just Begun

Music and other sounds play behind the 48 hours I spent in St. Louis last week-end. Jets’ chatter, voices clattering and laughter tinkling like sunshine.

And music.

A worker hums along one hallway while another sings softly as they push their brooms and dust rags. Their harmony hastening the timeclock, smoothing the drudgery.

A smiling voice greets me at the end of the journey’s first leg, “I’m here! In the white car. I see you!”

Accommodating a tired traveler, refreshing with genuineness. Whisked to the wedding where pictures were prominently promenading causing guests to stroll down memory lane. Snatches of time full of love and promise, white lace and kisses for luck. A reminder that dancing in the mine fields can end in strength. Faith, it appears, is a major foundational component to win this dance.

The ceremony begins with a tradition continued. Family memories caried on the straings of a song. A reminder that though some have gone before, some yet remain. True, pure voices touch my soul.

I pondered the men standing before me – the groom and groomsmen – I know them all, well.

I watched most of them grow from small to tall, learning to stretch their wings, choosing paths. “I’m going to college. “ “I want to learn this language, to use it to affect the world.” “I plan to let God use my music.”

The great debut moments: Junior Camp Band, First Time Song Leaders, bow ties.

And laughter.

So very, very much laughter. All the tears feel less lonely shared with those whose laughter keeps us all from falling apart.

Well, laughter and prayer. How many hours have these men joined in prayer as a bastion protecting one another, building up walls of faith to support, surround, cover one another?  The unleared mayhap cannot discern it, but I know some of the difficult days these men have seen. I remember the day Saul’s anger turned. The day Absalom’s jealousy overtook his loyalty. Events that cut to the quick and lay bare foundations. Comfort and peace replaced by deep sadness. I saw the wind blow fiercely pushing the chaff away from the stalk.

Yet, together, these men stand, strong.

I am so proud to know them.

As this day continued to tell its story, I learned I was not in St. Louis for only a wedding, as incredible as that was to me. I found myself immersed in conversations, particular, with two of the women of these men. The first wives, the examples. Those allowed into the circle, those who stand behind and with them. As one of the mothers, it is fitting I would share time with the wives on this day when another was added to their ranks. It’s what women do.

The whirlwind stopped as we chatted. We talked first of these men. Sharing experiences, stories, common bonds and then crossed the chasm to ourselves. Our dreams. Our ideas. Our plans. Our hearts opening before the other over a piece of cake and snacks of strawberries and homemade whip cream. Like hummus on chips, we dipped into one another’s lives.

The songs of the workers, the music traditions at the ceremony, and the musical conversation wasn’t all the music of this week-end, however. After all was said and done and everyone was where they should be next, a gathering spontaneously grew in the hotel lobby. Tables and chairs moved and arranged for a haphazard stage.

Have you ever been to a symphony? If you’re early enough, you hear them tuning their instruments. It sounds disjointed, a cacophony of sound confusedly babbling without purpose. Then, suddenly, a tap-tap-tap as the conductor draws their attention and smoothes the rough edges and united music fills the air.

I saw that in the lobby that night.

Youngest cousin first on the violin. Proudly smiling, deeply bowing, sharing his beginning talent with the world. A showman through and through looking for audience approval.

He gave the stage to his older brother, then. Shyly, uncertain his voice and guitar awkward at first until he forgot we were there and began to play for an audience of One. Clean sound from a beautiful soul resonated with innocence. Amazing grace! How sweet the sound. Sensitivity revealing an artist at the beginning of his life’s canvas.

Older cousins took the floor next. Sharing their more polished, perfected talents. Humble confidence mixed with anointing. The artist traded the stage, but his eyes held raptly to the older player’s hands. Watching every chord, every nuance, recording them with his moving fingers.

I looked around me and considered the richness of this family. Generations of music flowed through their veins. Open faces sharing His grace, the wonder of His blessings.

The day came to a close, but the time wasn’t full. Sunday began with praise music in the cab, friendly laughter exchanged through the airport, a friendship sparked and grateful reflections.

When at last I lay my weary self down I can hear the songs still. The score of this 48 hours will long play in my heart.

Music Sings the Colors of Life

Music plays a big part in my world.

I was listening to music practice one afternoon and feeling the keyboard notes run along my arms and it occurred to me that music, like writing, is intrinsic to my identity.

I could describe people to you by the kinds of music they like. John is a little edgy, a little country. Melissa is sometimes romantic, but with a strong streak. Tina is rock ‘n roll laced with a healthy respect for blues. Bob? Full of mystery and depth behind blue eyes. Thi might come across as traditional, but once he opens the door you find a wide assortment of sound and intellect.

I’m an eclectic mix that begins with a colorful clash of poetry and sound and ends with fun mixes.

I’ll let you guess which bands apply.

I like Christian music, mostly, but I get bored with the repetitious redundancy of much of it. I find it interesting that people criticize my wide taste in music. Really? You think my musical taste is questionable, don’t even ask me about what I read.

I also find it interesting that they don’t want to take up the discussion about why I like what I like and how I think God sees it. They only want to tell me how they think God sees it. Hmm. In the words of my oh-so-wise Grandma, “who died and made you boss?” I wonder if they would object to a classical composer if they knew of his personal choices and misadventures. I don’t meant to be critical, but it sure sticks in my craw sometimes.

Back to music.

Music speaks to me. Not only the lyrics, the very sound of certain melodies will stick with me for days. I can hear their strains calling me to move for days, sometimes years. There seems to be a song for every event. I am forever singing something random because music is forever filling my mind.

I find myself drawn to music, like all art forms, which has a deeper meaning, something that goes well beyond the surface. I have to like the surface, too, though. A wild cacophony of sound has no purpose. Distorted, unintelligible lyrics are foolishness to me. Shallow, common rhythms bore me. Loud, I like. Soft, I enjoy.

I’m not a musician, but I sure do dig music.

Grandma’s PianoOrgan

I had a memory grab me as I walked through the living room today past Grandma’s PianoOrgan. It’s not much to look at anymore. It doesn’t work. Some of the keys are popped up, the finish is cracked and scratched. It has moved with me hither and yon, much to my sons’ chagrin. Countless children have plunked the keys imaging themselves in Carnegie Hall. Beyond being a toy, its only real usefulness is the flat top that holds pictures and books. Well, that and the memories tucked around it.

Today I could hear again the sweet strains of a song never written. It floats above the keys and on the winds of summer. I see myself in my room upstairs awakened by the song’s playful rhythm. I smell fresh cut grass, hear the laughter of the boys next door playing catch and drink of the notion that I am loved. Lovely childhood memory.

“Play some more, Grandma, please.”

“Oh, honey, Grandma’s got work to do. I can’t just sit here all day. You play something.”

But my awkward hands didn’t know a song or the keys or the melody and they plunked along at nothing. In frustration, I turned to a familiar book instead.

Redbird is what Grandma called the song she played. Sort of ragtime, sort of big band, sort of jazz. I don’t think it had words, only the jaunty tune. Its harmony is buried beneath a stone in a Veteran’s cemetery. And in my heart.

Cracked and broken, spilling pictures of yesterday; that’s what I see through my writer’s eyes.