A Phone Call from Mac

Not long ago, I received an email from a long time friend, mentor and all around Jedi knight. Mac, as he is now known, was once Chris MacDonald in a previous incarnation: whipping-boy for the Session and the Presbytery, which was part of his regular duties as college minister of this particular church. However, with the blessing and the curse of his brilliant (and I DO mean brilliant) mind, coupled with his devilish delight in irrevererence, I am not entirely convinced that he did not, on some occasions, deserve the private floggings of the committees mentioned above. I'm just saying.

This is some 14 years in the past now: Mac has moved beyond the creeping tendrils of ministry, and is probably embroiling himself in some other brilliant but self-destructive enterprise where he seems to have his downfall preplanned already. That's just Mac. And I don't believe he'd disagree. Rather, he'll pick himself up off the ground, dusting his pants and laughing, probably quoting some goofy line from 'Highlander'. If a weather vane is used to attract lightning, Mac is a pillar to attract shit, taking it all in stride and still believing in the grace of God.

There is much to be said about Mac, and no doubt future entries will contain references to his mis-adventures, but what this post is really about is a picture. The one above. He sent me this recently, during a time when life seemed to be reaching a point where I could not possibly voice a single complaint, yet I felt empty and bereft inside.

Then this came. This awful, ugly photo of an ungainly and awkward young man, struggling to make sense of the world after the loss of his brother and the onset of depression. I cringe whenever I look at it, but I have it saved, still, because behind the LensCrafter glasses and the awful mullet, there is this boy who is wistfully looking out at something vast, immeasurable, and beautiful. Yes, I look like a myopic pirate with a lip full of chewing tobacco, and if I dwell on this period of time too long, I feel what I felt then: adrift, sputtering, gasping, splashing and struggling.

And then I realize: that's what calls me to this picture, over and over again. It wasn't the feeling of being lost and useless, it was the struggle: that damn-ed struggle for meaning and position in a world that is never static, never allowing you to set your feet on solid ground BECAUSE THE WORLD ISN'T REALLY WHERE YOU WERE MEANT TO BE.

Yes, this picture is reference back to a time I would rather forget. But that would render the whole experience worthless- and if it were not there, I would not be here, at this moment, at this now, wanting that struggle again. I would not have my beautiful wife, my coming child, my past failures that ring now like handbells of grace.

I think Mac knew this when he sent it. He was there for me- a big, bloody, awful, wonderful, gifted mess- at the time when I needed someone most. Someone who would get down in the dirt and the grit and the grime of faith, and be satisfied with not coming up with answers... because answers soon become platitudes that we substitute for actual experience.

He understood then, just as he understands now, it's all about the struggle.

Wait without words, for you are not ready for words...
- TS Eliot