Marshall Boatworks, Tomales Bay by Marcy Lenhardt. 11" x 14" water based oils on panel. (click on painting for link)
This story is about a man caught between two worlds. On the one hand, he is very much a product of Modern and Postmodern culture. On the other hand, he is oddly out-of-place and seemingly suited for a different age and more comfortable in a seaside town that I would estimate must have been around the mid 1930s, say 1935.
I say estimate, because it was a dream that I just had, and so this is a story my subconscious made up, not myself consciously. Don’t drop it for that reason. The story is not about me (you know my rules…and if not, then read them above in “What is SPOKE”).
I drove my old truck up to a weathered house along the main road on the East side of Tomales Bay. It must have been lunchtime. I surmised it was the 1930s not just because of their dress ( a few men had on suits of the time, and the women were rather frocky) but the telephones were the type that had to be cranked up in order to work. They had a room to “let”
The men at lunch were concerned. They had two servants, but of the practical, almost family variety. The matriarch of the family made her money by growing, and then selling her most beautiful hair. She herself then wore a wig of much lesser quality but did not seem to mind. Though in her late 50s, her beautiful hair was still recognized as a major gift to the household economy and to others who would enjoy her hair elsewhere.
The meal was sparse, but I was of course, invited. I listened as they discussed their situation not in anxious terms, but practical. I was a part of those plans, no doubt, though others had visited and inquired about the room. Still, from the very beginning, nothing was withheld or “show”. There was no “reality” behind the outward actions and talk. I was watching life as they lived it each day.
When the meal was over, the men were off after giving their wives a peck on the cheek and a smile. The business of the household was purely their realm and whatever these two women decided to do was utterly trusted and up to their wisdom.
I offered to help with the dishes, which I realized, half the way through, I did not really know much about given their system of using and conserving fresh water. I was washing them just as badly as I would today. They offered no instruction or comment.
Afterwords, we sat and I told them that I was thinking of leaving my high-tech job and pursuing my writing full-time. This did not phase them at all (not even that it was from Internet work). I mentioned that one of my sites had garnered a Webby nomination and explained it was a lot like being nominated for an Oscar, or an Emmy. They looked pleased the way people do when you say you had a nice round of golf. Strangely, this pleased me and I decided at that moment that nothing I had done of any “recognition” in my life thus far really meant anything. Not here. And I did not care at all.
I asked to use the phone, cranked it up and called a man who lived a few miles down the road to talk with him about purchasing an old camera. I was supposed to meet with him at 3 p.m. and it was already twenty to four. I apologized, but he said “come whenever you are ready”.
It was perhaps at that moment, or maybe later, when I went outside and down the steep steps to the truck and I heard one of the women say “well, his little girl is going to have a time with those stairs” that I realized I wanted to live there.
I was alone and in this dream my only ideas were writing, being a neighbor, walking along the bay, and visiting with other families. That and the thought of future visits, enjoying my two youngest children in the cool sea air and the simplicity that can really, for me, only be found near an ocean.
I told the two women, before I left, that I wanted the room. I asked if it was okay that I watched 49er football on the television on Sundays and they said it was fine so long as I did so in my room. Later, outside again and getting into my old truck I heard one say “Oh, I am glad it was him who decided to take the room.” I would be very welcome.
The rest of the house was full of peace, quiet, and a dignified (but relaxed) industry – a sort of quiet “music” that I cannot describe with words. I wouldn’t have wanted to watch football and yell anywhere but in my room.
Outside, all of the best aspects of life by a bay or the ocean were present. Sand-blasted railings, clear blue skies, light wind, the patterned ripples on the bay water, which was across the street and down the green hills.
I did not miss anything of my old life. In fact it was irrelevant. I just wanted to live in quiet community, work with my hands or write my stories and essays and then play or walk with Adam and Camille down in to town. Adam would, no doubt, be hit on by some of the young girls working in town shops with his friendly charm and disarming smile. Camille, like myself, would be looking at crafts, art and exploring things.
End of Story/dream.
What has any of this to do with Jesus the Center? He is not pre- or post-figured or metaphorically injected anywhere. Only an idiot would start looking for symbols like crank-phones, selling of hair, or the washing of dishes. The time period is also irrelevant for the most part. In a few years the war would come. The young men, perhaps even Adam, would feel the urge to fight a known evil having no idea how costly that would be.
But this was before that time and after the Great Depression. To be sure, its mark was still present, but it no longer ruled all of life like a dark specter.
No, Jesus was nowhere to be seen and yet everywhere. The civility, warmth (without agendas), honesty, simplicity and harmony with nature was everywhere evident. Unlike sophomoric ideas of heaven (if it was supposed to be that) there was much to do. Creating, gifts of craft, walking and discussions, art, meals together without any hints of duplicity, but instead seasoned with humility, generosity and good humor.
And always the hint of this light music, almost Classical, but not. Almost like Jazz, but not. Light and present… more like a scent than something solely audible. A kind of music or scent that was devoid of anxiety of any kind, yet also free. More free than the decisions we now make because in this freedom everything was “unmixed”.
Tomales Bay at Midnight, by Christopher Carl MacDonald. 24" x 36" oil on canvas (this is a cropped image. Click on image to see author's other paintings)
I could drive 1000 yards past town and visit the man selling the camera, stay for a talk out on his deck for a time; or I could return more quickly, pay my deposit and ask to stay the night (I would not be refused…not possible) and sit most of the night typing on an old keyboard with fresh paper with the two triangular windows of my loft/ bedroom wide open in front of my desk, the smell off the water and the moon gleaming off those very same indentations in the bay I had seen in daylight.
I could choose to write my daughter a story, or a simple letter to put in the post the next day in town. Or I could paint a picture of Adam sitting on a sand dune with his girlfriend (or one of them) to give him when he visited. They would like it here too.
I suppose the point was my (or our) freedom was not a “freedom from…”, which is all we humans seem to struggle with individually, nationally and in all other ways now. Instead it was a “freedom to…”
And that is why I knew the dream and this story was not, is not, really about me at all. Only the One “in Whom, through Whom, and for Whom” we are created can bring such a peace that its music is more like a scent or aroma pleasing to God and humanity. And only such a One can take us from a “freedom from…” to a true “freedom to…”
I was free to do any of the above or so many other things and feel God’s pleasure in that freedom. Not freedom from, but freedom to.
____________________
Author’s note:
Of course the Gospels are essentially narratives. True, they are narratives with a purpose and design (not just straight history or reporting) for various audiences, but they are views of The Story, of which we are all a living part.
Much of our perpetual confusion, or mine, is in not first understanding the larger story as fully as we might; then the stories that the Master storyteller Himself told; then how this Living One now wishes to continue the Grand Story that He, the Spirit and the Father have had in mind, love and grace all along. Oh, and don’t forget the word “intent” for it is clearly their good intentions to bring this long first narrative to a close only to begin another one in which we will, do doubt, be less confused, and feel more directly a part of.
The difference between the story I just told you, and the one I speak of above, is that it is fiction. Other than stated pieces of fiction like parables, poetry and other types of literature like “apocalyptic” literature and a few others, most of the Bible is narrative and meant to be read as history, or an “accounting” of various acts of God, angels, the “Adversary” (Devil, Shithead, whatever) , people, and occasionally animals (no doubt some of yesterday’s sermons throughout the world would have been better delivered by Balaam’s ass).
People can make long, detailed, and convincing arguments about why Jesus is so important. Those who often do have side agendas attached; those who don’t, just seem to want to use Jesus as a vehicle, a means to their ends.
There are so many ways people go with the following passage.
We are a visual people not given to abstraction so much as simple pictures with meanings. The draw to such is perhaps one of God’s daunting tasks/complaints: idolatry. Given the choice between worshipping a small hot golden calf versus the uncertainty of the invisible God (who just parted the Red Sea and led you out of slavery) we would all seem to prefer the cow (even now..what is the most recognized brands on earth? McDonalds. Cows..always cows.)
About two-thirds of the way through W. Paul Young’s The Shack, Mack and Jesus take a walk across the lake. It fares better for Mack then it did for Peter, but then Peter had an audience (in the boat) and the whole concept was sort of foreign.
The Bible asserts that the central figure of all history is Jesus the “Christ”, the “Messiah”. Jesus is the “Word made flesh”, the Beloved Son of God, the Messiah, the Savior, Redeemer and Lord of the whole world. Not surprisingly, God’s self-revelation in Jesus are the central themes of the Old and New Testaments when seen as a whole.
God could have chosen to be “apparent” to all yet still allow freewill (like how we find it necessary to destroy each other and the planet). The questions about God’s goodness would not seem to alter. In fact, they might intensify (though that is a losing argument because YOU would not give up your freedom for anything…you just want everyone else to have to, or the “bad guys”. Try doing the math on that one).
True, this essay is better fit for 
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