The Collar

I lean my hands on the bathroom counter and stare at my face reflected there. It bears the marks of nearly 50 years on this planet, most of which have been spent in ministry to the corners, the shadows, of this or that country. My face is that of an old soldier, one who has fought hundreds of battles with demons, one who fights his own battles with a less-than-perfect body, pain, cynicism and weariness.

I pack yet another bag for yet another trip. It might be to speak to a hyper-conservative church or a mushy liberal one. The church might be one of "our tribe" or it might lie outside the usual reach of our arms of fellowship. It might be to a school, college, or university. I might be speaking to the staff of a hospital, hospice, or group home. The people who wait for me might love me, or might be lying in ambush. Whatever, it means that I have to leave my home, kiss my wife -- the joy of my heart -- goodbye. I'll have to fight Detroit traffic for an hour and a half to get to the airport where I'll be treated like a suspect, made to take off my jacket, shoes, and belt, remove my laptop computer, be searched for gels and liquids, made to present my ID twice and my boarding pass four times so that I will be allowed the privilege of being crammed into an uncomfortable plane for a jolting ride that ends with me hoisting my gear on and around my body like a pack mule as I search for a rental car.

Each talk saps me, but not as much as the strain of being in such close contact with so many people. Ever the loner, I'd rather take a beating than "hang out" with people, but it is part of the kingdom work I've been called to do. Smile during the meal as your migraine sets off another IED behind your eyes. Keep up the conversation with your lungs scarred by sarcoidosis. Another hotel, another unfamiliar bed, another meal out of the snack machine down the hall. The people I meet are almost uniformly good, nice, open, and friendly but that only throws my own brokenness into starker relief.

After a whirlwind speaking tour that took me to six States and two countries in five weeks I arrived back to yet another stack of requests for speaking engagements. I packed again and rode the shuttle bus from the parking area to the airport and found myself stopping just outside the doors that led up to check-in. "Quit," I told myself, almost saying it aloud. "Stop. Just tell them you aren't doing this anymore. Tell them it costs too much wear and tear on your body. Tell them you want to be home with your son during his last few months in your house. Tell them you shake at night, that the weight of this obligation gnaws at you and turns your bones to water. Tell them you aren't able to speak for God, that you aren't qualified, that they need someone stronger, better, smarter... more righteous. Someone that doesn't mind this... this ordeal."

And then a poem came back to me as clear as the day I learned it as a teenager. George Herbert, an Anglican priest, seemed to me, even back then, as a kindred spirit. In 1633 he wrote this and named it "THE COLLAR." Read it all, especially the last verse.

I struck the board and cried NO MORE!
I will abroad.
What? Shall I ever sigh and pine?
My lines and life are free; free as the road,
Loose as the wind, as large as store.
Shall I be still in suit?

Have I no harvest but a thorn
To let me blood, and not restore
What I have lost with cordial fruit?
Sure, there was wine
Before my sighs did dry it. There was corn
Before my tears did drown it.
Is the year only lost to me?
Have I no bays to crown it?
No flowers, no garlands gay? All blasted?
All wasted?

Not so, my heart, but there is fruit,
And thou hast hands.
Recover all thy sigh-blown age
On double pleasures. Leave thy cold dispute
Of what is fit, and not forsake thy cage,
Thy rope of sands,
Which petty thoughts have made, and made to thee
Good cable, to enforce and draw,
And be thy law
While thou didst wink and wouldst not see.

Away! Take heed, I will abroad.
Call in thy deaths head there: tie up thy fears.
He that forbears
To suit and serve his need,
Deserves his load.

But as I raved and grew more fierce and wilde,
At every word,
Methought I heard one calling "Child"
And I replied.... "My Lord."

So I proceeded, carrying my three bags and up the escalator, over to the counter, and began another day. I will say "yes" as long as I can, Father, but, please, come Lord Jesus.