I can’t be the only one who does it.  Then again, perhaps I am.  I’ve always been a little strange.

Still.  I spend at least a few moments every day thinking about where I came from.  And, where I’m headed.  And sometimes even, where I’ve been along the way.

Sometimes, I get my words mixed up while I think about all these confusing things.

One of my brothers was fond of reminding me (when I was still a youngster, mind you) that we start dying the day we’re born.  Just something extra for the weird sibling to chew on, you know?

For some reason, my mind wanders (as it often does), and I hear the words of the Skin Horse as he explains to the Velveteen Rabbit how to become real.

“‘It doesn’t happen all at once,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept.'”
(from The Velveteen Rabbit, by Margery Williams Bianco)

It’s just a child’s story, but I remember the thought from many years ago when I first read it.  I especially remember those powerful two words, “You become.” It seemed to that much younger (but already strange) me that those two words encapsulated what happens to us along the road of life.

For most of my life, I’ve been becoming.

A long obedience in the same direction is the way Eugene Peterson described it.  Well, he borrowed the words from Nietzsche, but the thought was that one should continue as one had begun, headed for the goal.

Step by step, day by day.  Becoming.

It doesn’t mean there haven’t been missteps.  Nor does it mean that there haven’t been falls along the way.  But, again and again, we stand up, shake ourselves off, and head again for the goal.

Becoming.

The disciple who was loved by our Savior, and who later taught so powerfully about love, muddies the waters a bit for us:

“My dear friends, we are now God’s children, but it is not yet clear what we shall become.” (1 John 3:2a, Good News Translation)

I laugh to myself as I read the words of John again.  The uncertainty is not what I want.  I’m not even sure I need it.

And, in a way, the uncertainty about what I am becoming is what got me tangled up in this subject in the first place.

As I consider the past (while looking to the future), it seems there is a disconnect of sorts, an interruption in the long obedience in the same direction.

For many years, the becoming was easy, the path ahead clear.  A profession that allowed me to minister—to share, to care—was mine for many years.  I had grown into it, seeing more clearly than ever as the opportunities and the years unfolded.

Then, a few years ago, my world became smaller.  Or so it seemed to me.  My business closed and my daily contact with all those folks ended.  With COVID and changing circumstances at the university where I had played music with the young folks for years, my practical interaction with performing musicians came to a screeching halt.

And as I contemplated, a surprising thought came to mind:

I’m not becoming.  I’m unbecoming!

It is, of course, untrue.  That doesn’t stop the wheels from turning. 

Did I say my mind wanders?  It does. 

I’m seeing a white-haired old gentleman, one hand on the scarred-up black steering wheel of the old blue 1967 Dodge van, the other waving in the general direction of a 30-ish young man sitting in the passenger seat as they careen down a dirt road in rural Arkansas.  The dust flies behind them.

As they always did when delivering pianos, travel time is spent in discussion. The old man wasn’t happy this day.

“There’s no place for me at our church anymore.  I’m thinking about finding a little country church where I can be of some use again.”

The young man, paying more attention to the unattached seat he’s attempting to stay upright in than to the old man, grabs tightly to the door handle and chokes out what he thinks is a wise answer.

“I thought you’d be happy to let younger folks take over and just enjoy the ride.  You’ve earned some rest.”

Did I call him an old man?  My father-in-law was younger than I am now when he said the words. 

And, I answered him back with foolishness.  The foolishness of youth.

Unbecoming, did I say it was?  It would be easy to sit back and get comfortable with the thought of throwing in the towel.  The old man never did, but I might.

But, unbecoming is not fitting or appropriate—unseemly. 

No, really.  That’s the definition the Oxford Dictionary gives for the word.

I don’t want to be any of those things.

The mind wanders even further back, and I see an old man standing in an ancient Jewish temple.  The young couple has brought their tiny baby to be consecrated to God as the Law of Moses decreed.

They brought the child; God brought the old man.  He wasn’t a priest—was not a religious official at all.  But God had given him something to do before he died.

And, he was doing what God had told him to do.  He wasn’t unbecoming at all.

He was becoming.  What a moment!

Luke 2 says the Holy Spirit directed him to the temple at the exact time Jesus was brought in. Simeon’s words have always been one of my favorite passages from what we call the Christmas story.

“Now let your servant depart in peace,  for I have seen the salvation of the Lord.”

My hair’s not white yet.  I can still walk a few miles without faltering and push a lawnmower around the yard with no sign of fainting. I forget names, but I remember faces. 

And, God doesn’t throw His servants into the trash heap when He’s done with them.

He just keeps changing us.  From glory to glory, we’re told in 2 Corinthians 3:18.

Becoming.

I’m going on.

You’re coming with, aren’t you?

 

“My dear friends, we are now God’s children, but it is not yet clear what we shall become. But we know that when Christ appears, we shall be like him, because we shall see him as he really is.”
(1 John 3:2, GNT)

“Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
(Dylan Thomas – Welsh Poet – 1914-1953)

“Simeon took him in his arms and blessed God, saying,
‘Now, according to your word, Sovereign Lord, permit your servant to depart in peace.
For my eyes have seen your salvation
that you have prepared in the presence of all peoples:
a light,
for revelation to the Gentiles,
and for glory to your people Israel.'”
(Luke 2:25-32, NET)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2023. All Rights Reserved.