"You need to talk to him NOW and make his stop yelling cat calls and whistling at women out the front door of the church."
Such was the greeting that began my Sunday morning.
I set aside the sermon notes and put the prayers on hold so I could have a talk with him. The talk included the requested directives.
From there we had a talk about why this behavior was bad. The top two reasons were 1.) it had the opposite effect of the women he was interested in; and 2.) it made the church look bad in a scary way.
Since I had a captive audience and knew I wouldn't get to that last review of my sermon notes anyway, he and I spent some time coming up with better plans. We thought of ways he might be able to make himself more attractive to women. These included being kind and respectful to all women, whether he was particularly interested in them or not, and to work on being friends with people rather than simply seeking out physical relationships.
It was a good talk, at least for me. I needed to hear it because of the way I sometimes approach evangelism.
Sometimes the people I'm most interested in as potential members of the church are people who come with lots of skills, lots of energy, and who already have their lives put together pretty well. Leadership potential is especially attractive.
I've come to learn, though, that many of the popular methods used by churches today aren't very effective in reaching them. Even ones that seem kind and loving "on paper" seem manipulative to the person on the receiving end. These methods and strategies often have the opposite of the intended effect and make the church look bad in a scary kind of way.
Jesus showed kindness and respect to all people no matter who they were. He became known as a friend of "sinners" while still being invited to dinner at the home of "respectable" people. He built friendships with and provided ministry to people who would become disciples as well as those who would betray Him.
Some people came to see Jesus just for the show or the healing or the free bread & fish. But some received much more than they expected and then used what they had been given as raw materials for building God's Kingdom.
Evangelism, like human love, has its ups and downs and and twists and turns. It has no guarantees. Perhaps if I became more motivated by Jesus' love than my personal desires for people to join the church, some might respond out of dignity and curiosity rather than being repelled by my bad behavior.
Be they Zealots or tax collectors or fishermen, lifelong disciples or here just for the show or healing or free bread, all are loved by a God who is calling their names. May I help them hear that calling rather than drown it out with my own whistle.
Jesus, help me see as You see, serve as You serve, love as You love.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Friday, November 19, 2010
Coats
"Just take these," she said as she hoisted four men's coats into my hands. She had turned her head, seeming both to not want to watch as she let go of the garments and not wanting me to notice the puffiness of her eyes that were holding back the remaining tears.
I knew the coats had come at a great cost. I had seen them before. They were hanging in her house right where her husband had left them. In the years since his passing they had been reminders of his presence, reminders of the blessing she'd lost.
But cold came early that fall. And when she saw the cardboard sign being held by the shivering hands of a homeless man she knew was my friend she had to do something.
The moment when grief for what was lost is overtaken by grief for those who never had something to begin with puts us in a position of challenge. And when we boldly, painfully choose to respond by taking the blessings from our past and using them to heal the present the Spirit can't seem to help but move.
I took those coats to four very different men: tall, short, stout, lean. I said to each, "I don't know if this will fit; it might be a too _____________ (short, long, small, bulky) but try it on and we'll see."
And though these men would need to shop in different sections of stores to find well-fitting clothing, each coat appeared as if custom tailored for that individual. Warm memories of blessings past, baptized by tears, transformed into blessings of warmth against today's cold winds.
Lord, help me know Your presence in all attempts to serve You.
I knew the coats had come at a great cost. I had seen them before. They were hanging in her house right where her husband had left them. In the years since his passing they had been reminders of his presence, reminders of the blessing she'd lost.
But cold came early that fall. And when she saw the cardboard sign being held by the shivering hands of a homeless man she knew was my friend she had to do something.
The moment when grief for what was lost is overtaken by grief for those who never had something to begin with puts us in a position of challenge. And when we boldly, painfully choose to respond by taking the blessings from our past and using them to heal the present the Spirit can't seem to help but move.
I took those coats to four very different men: tall, short, stout, lean. I said to each, "I don't know if this will fit; it might be a too _____________ (short, long, small, bulky) but try it on and we'll see."
And though these men would need to shop in different sections of stores to find well-fitting clothing, each coat appeared as if custom tailored for that individual. Warm memories of blessings past, baptized by tears, transformed into blessings of warmth against today's cold winds.
Lord, help me know Your presence in all attempts to serve You.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Journey
His South Carolina accent told me he wasn't from around here even before he informed me of such. He had missed his south-bound bus home and was looking for a way to get back on the road. He hadn't eaten for a couple of days, either.
After he devoured the warmed-up can of ravioli I'd microwaved, he asked if I could give him the small amount of money needed to change his bus ticket to the one leaving later that night. Cash is something I know enough not to do, so I came up with some other viable options for him.
I offered to go to the bus station to change the ticket and pay small amount with my credit card to get him home.
That was not acceptable to him because he said it was asking too much of me.
I offered to connect him with some emergency services that would help him get home.
That was not acceptable to him because he said those services were for people with much bigger problems than his.
I offered to help him contact relatives in South Carolina so they could get him a ticket.
That was not acceptable to him because he said it would create too much work and bother for them.
I returned to my first offer and directed him to my van so he and I could drive the few blocks back to the bus station where he could catch his bus.
That was not acceptable to him. He had a solution in mind, that being him receiving a few dollars so he could change the ticket himself. Nothing else would be acceptable.
I asked him if he wanted to go back to South Carolina.
"Yes!" he said, exasperated and a bit angry that I couldn't seem to grasp this basic concept. I reviewed his options.
He came back with a plan for me to go to an ATM to get money to give him so he could change his ticket.
I said no. He started crying.
"I just want to get home. I just need to get home!"
He then got up, walked out of the church, and disappeared into the night.
Over the next couple of days I saw him walking the streets, despondent, angry, frustrated, and clutching an expired bus ticket in his left hand.
I wish I knew how to not be like this guy. I don't always know how to take help from people or from God, especially if I've been traveling alone for a while. I can spend so much time and energy designing plans and solutions that I limit the range of what help is acceptable. I can only see one possible way home.
And when my plans were generated in a state of hunger, especially in emotional or spiritual hunger, warmed-up canned responses from those around me don't offer enough strength and clarity for me to see any differently.
I know that being open to plans beyond what I can conceive is where I can experience miraculous grace. I mean, if Moses had spend his whole day demanding that God build a bridge he would not have heard the call to raise his staff and have an unexpected path home open up for him and his people.
But knowing and acting on that knowledge are two different things. Trust is a key element in moving to action. When I'm feeling out of place in a world that's unresponsive to my solutions, my ability to trust falls. My blinders make me blind.
What if I had spent a few more minutes with the South Carolinian man, empathizing with his emotions and state of mind rather that jumping straight to alternative solutions? Maybe we both could have realized that his unstated goal was to find some dignity and worth. He might have been more open to plans different than his own that would have taken him home had we spent some time developing basic trust.
Perhaps if I can recognize when I'm fixated on a single solution that I need to listen and trust God and those He has placed in my path. I have to remember that He wants me to get me back to the journey He's sent me on and that He has a way beyond what I can see.
Lord, remind me that my thoughts are not Your thoughts and my ways are not Your ways. Let me journey in trust.
After he devoured the warmed-up can of ravioli I'd microwaved, he asked if I could give him the small amount of money needed to change his bus ticket to the one leaving later that night. Cash is something I know enough not to do, so I came up with some other viable options for him.
I offered to go to the bus station to change the ticket and pay small amount with my credit card to get him home.
That was not acceptable to him because he said it was asking too much of me.
I offered to connect him with some emergency services that would help him get home.
That was not acceptable to him because he said those services were for people with much bigger problems than his.
I offered to help him contact relatives in South Carolina so they could get him a ticket.
That was not acceptable to him because he said it would create too much work and bother for them.
I returned to my first offer and directed him to my van so he and I could drive the few blocks back to the bus station where he could catch his bus.
That was not acceptable to him. He had a solution in mind, that being him receiving a few dollars so he could change the ticket himself. Nothing else would be acceptable.
I asked him if he wanted to go back to South Carolina.
"Yes!" he said, exasperated and a bit angry that I couldn't seem to grasp this basic concept. I reviewed his options.
He came back with a plan for me to go to an ATM to get money to give him so he could change his ticket.
I said no. He started crying.
"I just want to get home. I just need to get home!"
He then got up, walked out of the church, and disappeared into the night.
Over the next couple of days I saw him walking the streets, despondent, angry, frustrated, and clutching an expired bus ticket in his left hand.
I wish I knew how to not be like this guy. I don't always know how to take help from people or from God, especially if I've been traveling alone for a while. I can spend so much time and energy designing plans and solutions that I limit the range of what help is acceptable. I can only see one possible way home.
And when my plans were generated in a state of hunger, especially in emotional or spiritual hunger, warmed-up canned responses from those around me don't offer enough strength and clarity for me to see any differently.
I know that being open to plans beyond what I can conceive is where I can experience miraculous grace. I mean, if Moses had spend his whole day demanding that God build a bridge he would not have heard the call to raise his staff and have an unexpected path home open up for him and his people.
But knowing and acting on that knowledge are two different things. Trust is a key element in moving to action. When I'm feeling out of place in a world that's unresponsive to my solutions, my ability to trust falls. My blinders make me blind.
What if I had spent a few more minutes with the South Carolinian man, empathizing with his emotions and state of mind rather that jumping straight to alternative solutions? Maybe we both could have realized that his unstated goal was to find some dignity and worth. He might have been more open to plans different than his own that would have taken him home had we spent some time developing basic trust.
Perhaps if I can recognize when I'm fixated on a single solution that I need to listen and trust God and those He has placed in my path. I have to remember that He wants me to get me back to the journey He's sent me on and that He has a way beyond what I can see.
Lord, remind me that my thoughts are not Your thoughts and my ways are not Your ways. Let me journey in trust.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Red
I was relieved when he came into church that night wearing a new red shirt. I'd never seen him wear red before nor have I seen him in red since. I hadn't asked him to do so but it was exactly what he needed to wear.
Turn the clock back about two and a half hours when a kid sitting on the floor of the church yelled, "Ouch!"
I went over to the kid to see what was wrong.
"It's hot!" he said, pointing to the font.
It was the first time I'd used the heater on the font and was unsure of exactly how well it worked. Now the metal sides of the font were painfully hot to the touch.
This was not good.
So, we unplugged the heater and removed the table we'd used as a lid in hopes that the water would cool before the service.
Only then did we learn that the tabletop has once been painted red. The steamy water had leached all the pigments out of it.
Yes, that's right. We had bright red scalding hot water in the font with no way to drain and refill it in time for the service.
So during the time between the services I did all I could think to do. I opened the front door to let the January air into the building in hopes of cooling things down. I set my sermon aside and frantically flipped through the Bible seeing if I could somehow have a message that involved either the Red Sea or being "baptized in the blood" or both.
But with his coming to church in a red shirt and the water cooling off to that of bathwater I was able to switch back to the sermon I had prepared in advance.
During that message each person was given a hard, crumbling piece of clay. They then got to quickly dip their clay into a bowl of water and continue working with it. The newly pliable clay was now able to be shaped and molded into something it couldn't have been before.
I remembered my own baptism and my commitment to letting the Potter mold this clay into something He wants. And I thought of my unnecessarily frantic state that afternoon as I had tried to make up for my own ignorance and error.
I realized (for the millionth time) that He still had a lot of molding to do and that I needed to step back and let Him reshape me to serve peacefully in the circumstances I find myself.
Even my panic had been used by Him to let me be shaped in His hands. For He granted me knowledge in how to better use the font's heater and faith in trusting that as I continue to get things wrong He'll surprise us all in bringing about His work.
Be it the parting of the Red Sea or a baptism candidate in a red tee God continues to use the strangest of circumstances in forming his people into a growing vessel for faith and trust. May the waters of my baptism continue to soak in deeply that I might be easily shaped in His hands.
Melt me. Mold me. Fill me. Use me. Spirit of the Living God, fall afresh on me.
Turn the clock back about two and a half hours when a kid sitting on the floor of the church yelled, "Ouch!"
I went over to the kid to see what was wrong.
"It's hot!" he said, pointing to the font.
It was the first time I'd used the heater on the font and was unsure of exactly how well it worked. Now the metal sides of the font were painfully hot to the touch.
This was not good.
So, we unplugged the heater and removed the table we'd used as a lid in hopes that the water would cool before the service.
Only then did we learn that the tabletop has once been painted red. The steamy water had leached all the pigments out of it.
Yes, that's right. We had bright red scalding hot water in the font with no way to drain and refill it in time for the service.
So during the time between the services I did all I could think to do. I opened the front door to let the January air into the building in hopes of cooling things down. I set my sermon aside and frantically flipped through the Bible seeing if I could somehow have a message that involved either the Red Sea or being "baptized in the blood" or both.
But with his coming to church in a red shirt and the water cooling off to that of bathwater I was able to switch back to the sermon I had prepared in advance.
During that message each person was given a hard, crumbling piece of clay. They then got to quickly dip their clay into a bowl of water and continue working with it. The newly pliable clay was now able to be shaped and molded into something it couldn't have been before.
I remembered my own baptism and my commitment to letting the Potter mold this clay into something He wants. And I thought of my unnecessarily frantic state that afternoon as I had tried to make up for my own ignorance and error.
I realized (for the millionth time) that He still had a lot of molding to do and that I needed to step back and let Him reshape me to serve peacefully in the circumstances I find myself.
Even my panic had been used by Him to let me be shaped in His hands. For He granted me knowledge in how to better use the font's heater and faith in trusting that as I continue to get things wrong He'll surprise us all in bringing about His work.
Be it the parting of the Red Sea or a baptism candidate in a red tee God continues to use the strangest of circumstances in forming his people into a growing vessel for faith and trust. May the waters of my baptism continue to soak in deeply that I might be easily shaped in His hands.
Melt me. Mold me. Fill me. Use me. Spirit of the Living God, fall afresh on me.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Cause
The gold, low-riding, tricked out Cadillac pulled up in front of the school. Both front doors opened and two massive young men got out of the front seat simultaneously. Each was adorned in high-end gang apparel and a variety of gold jewelry. The tough anger on their faces caused everyone to pause.
One opened the back door of the car while the other reached his hand inside to assist the lady in exiting the vehicle.
She had a fresh hairdo and was dressed to the nines. As she emerged it was clear that both men were rendered helpless by the mesmerizing power she held over them.
The sheer delight on her face captivated the rest of us as she slowly walked into the school with one man on each arm. The man on her left let go only long enough to open the school door. He then took her frail hand as she laboriously navigated the step up and in.
As they waited with her in line to vote, she started a conversation with a couple of her friends who had gotten to the polls a few minutes before her. The two friends said they would wait for her afterward. With great dignity, they hobbled along with their canes toward a few chairs along the wall.
The three women sat together and visited quietly while keeping an eye out as for who had made it to the polls. Just a glance into their eyes told quite a story.
For those eyes had seen lynchings. And those feet that now needed a cane had marched. The arms that had been supported to reach the polls had been linked together in solidarity in standing for justice. They'd sat at the lunch counters and in the front of the bus. They knew what fire hoses and police dogs and night sticks could do. That day they remembered what they had been through and marked some of the fruits of their sufferings.
The men who had driven her hadn't voted. They loitered in a corner. If they even hinted at being impatient or wanting get back to their other dealings, one brief look shot across the room from her put an immediate end to it.
When I look at my role in building His kingdom of righteousness, peace, and joy, I'd like to say that I'm like one of those elderly women. Truthfully, though, I must confess my solidarity is more often with the men who were with her.
I don't clearly see or understand or begin to appreciate the sacrifices and suffering that have made it possible to fulfill my calling in His work. Be it the saints of old or people who currently give beyond their means to make sure that I have a salary, it's often lost on me.
Plus I know that there are material and emotional benefits if I deal only in the portions of the Gospel that are the opiate of the masses rather than getting fully engaged in the cause of Peaceable Kingdom. It's easier to surround myself with material possessions that show my status to others (though mostly to convince myself of my own worth) rather than to go through the hardships it takes to bring worth and dignity and justice to others.
And if I can't get my head and heart lined up around these things, how can I possibly even begin to pretend to understand the cross?
But once in a while I hear the Story again. And as I do I'm reminded that His work is not just something from the past or for the future but is for the here and now.
So I have a choice each day. I can treat Him with respect and honor. It may be a bit inconvenient and I might get impatient but for it I'll be blessed. Or, I can pay the price of joining with Him in the task of building His kingdom in the here and now. The cause is His. The choice is mine.
Your cause be mine, great Lord divine.
Your aim be my ambition:
For wasted is my greatest strength
Unless it find expression
In love the gives itself away,
In life responsive to obey
The terms of Your commission. (Bryan Jeffery Leach)
One opened the back door of the car while the other reached his hand inside to assist the lady in exiting the vehicle.
She had a fresh hairdo and was dressed to the nines. As she emerged it was clear that both men were rendered helpless by the mesmerizing power she held over them.
The sheer delight on her face captivated the rest of us as she slowly walked into the school with one man on each arm. The man on her left let go only long enough to open the school door. He then took her frail hand as she laboriously navigated the step up and in.
As they waited with her in line to vote, she started a conversation with a couple of her friends who had gotten to the polls a few minutes before her. The two friends said they would wait for her afterward. With great dignity, they hobbled along with their canes toward a few chairs along the wall.
The three women sat together and visited quietly while keeping an eye out as for who had made it to the polls. Just a glance into their eyes told quite a story.
For those eyes had seen lynchings. And those feet that now needed a cane had marched. The arms that had been supported to reach the polls had been linked together in solidarity in standing for justice. They'd sat at the lunch counters and in the front of the bus. They knew what fire hoses and police dogs and night sticks could do. That day they remembered what they had been through and marked some of the fruits of their sufferings.
The men who had driven her hadn't voted. They loitered in a corner. If they even hinted at being impatient or wanting get back to their other dealings, one brief look shot across the room from her put an immediate end to it.
When I look at my role in building His kingdom of righteousness, peace, and joy, I'd like to say that I'm like one of those elderly women. Truthfully, though, I must confess my solidarity is more often with the men who were with her.
I don't clearly see or understand or begin to appreciate the sacrifices and suffering that have made it possible to fulfill my calling in His work. Be it the saints of old or people who currently give beyond their means to make sure that I have a salary, it's often lost on me.
Plus I know that there are material and emotional benefits if I deal only in the portions of the Gospel that are the opiate of the masses rather than getting fully engaged in the cause of Peaceable Kingdom. It's easier to surround myself with material possessions that show my status to others (though mostly to convince myself of my own worth) rather than to go through the hardships it takes to bring worth and dignity and justice to others.
And if I can't get my head and heart lined up around these things, how can I possibly even begin to pretend to understand the cross?
But once in a while I hear the Story again. And as I do I'm reminded that His work is not just something from the past or for the future but is for the here and now.
So I have a choice each day. I can treat Him with respect and honor. It may be a bit inconvenient and I might get impatient but for it I'll be blessed. Or, I can pay the price of joining with Him in the task of building His kingdom in the here and now. The cause is His. The choice is mine.
Your cause be mine, great Lord divine.
Your aim be my ambition:
For wasted is my greatest strength
Unless it find expression
In love the gives itself away,
In life responsive to obey
The terms of Your commission. (Bryan Jeffery Leach)
Friday, October 8, 2010
Tables
Even before kids arrived we knew there wouldn't be room for them. The young adults on a mission trip who were in charge of Bible School that August took up most of the space in the tiny storefront. We would need to move most of our activities at the end of the block in the park.
The day before our festivities were to begin, we all walked down the street to scope out how to get the kids safely across the street and to determine where we would need to haul tables and chairs each day.
When we arrived we were pleasantly surprised to find several brand new heavy duty wooden picnic tables with attached benches. They were right under the trees where we were thinking of setting up our tables. They hadn't been there the day before. None of the neighbors noticed anyone delivering them and they were just as surprised to see them as we were.
Bible School flew by. We had bunches of kids. Many of those kids were new to the congregation. The young adults on their mission trip lead great lessons and activities. We even had one person find a grocer who provided lunch for all the kids each day. Those new tables got a good workout. They couldn't have been more perfect.
Though Bible School ended on Friday, the young adults still had one day left in town. We decided to spend Saturday cleaning up an empty lot.
So it was early on Saturday morning when we noticed it. The tables were gone. No one, including the neighbors whose houses face the park, saw them removed. They somehow appeared in time for Bible School and vanished as soon as it was over.
We never saw signs of those tables again.
Lord, surprise me today with Your mercy and care and blessing. May I revel in Your mysterious ways while I witness of and delight in You.
The day before our festivities were to begin, we all walked down the street to scope out how to get the kids safely across the street and to determine where we would need to haul tables and chairs each day.
When we arrived we were pleasantly surprised to find several brand new heavy duty wooden picnic tables with attached benches. They were right under the trees where we were thinking of setting up our tables. They hadn't been there the day before. None of the neighbors noticed anyone delivering them and they were just as surprised to see them as we were.
Bible School flew by. We had bunches of kids. Many of those kids were new to the congregation. The young adults on their mission trip lead great lessons and activities. We even had one person find a grocer who provided lunch for all the kids each day. Those new tables got a good workout. They couldn't have been more perfect.
Though Bible School ended on Friday, the young adults still had one day left in town. We decided to spend Saturday cleaning up an empty lot.
So it was early on Saturday morning when we noticed it. The tables were gone. No one, including the neighbors whose houses face the park, saw them removed. They somehow appeared in time for Bible School and vanished as soon as it was over.
We never saw signs of those tables again.
Lord, surprise me today with Your mercy and care and blessing. May I revel in Your mysterious ways while I witness of and delight in You.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Boards
Fresh new boards covered the windows and doors of the house. The old boards had been there a long time.
I remember when we were looking for a place to live in the neighborhood seeing this house. It was boarded up then but still appeared in good condition. It's on the quietest street in our neighborhood. The houses on either side of it are in excellent condition. It's the only house on that block that I've ever seen boarded up. The owner was not interested in selling it back then and must not be wanting to now, either.
So there are fresh boards on the house. Though they're better than the old boards which had begun to rot, the house is still a board-up.
It's hard for me to understand why someone would keep a house boarded up for so long. They could live in it or rent it or sell it. Certainly there's something useful they could do with it rather than just reboard the windows and doors every couple of decades.
Then again, I do understand a bit about keeping things boarded up.
I have places inside me that I don't want to deal with that I've kept boarded up for years. There are dark corners full of grime and pain and resentment and things I've completely forgotten about that I don't want to see. Even when I get a chance to go in and try to clean things out I prefer to instead put new boards up and move along to more pleasant areas.
And I want God to respect the boards, too. Yes, I know that the Spirit will bring new life to all areas I let Him in. But I've had Him work on so much of me that I know His remodeling projects can take a long time and are often painful. Though I am absolutely sure the results of His presence will bring life, I just don't want to deal with the process.
So guarding the boarded up doors becomes as important as the boards themselves.
There are no signs from the city on the house. Yet, for all practical purposes, even with the new boards this house is condemned. John 3:18 reminds us that I don't need to have someone spray paint the word "condemned" on the parts of my life where I lack trust in the Savior; that message is self-inflicted.
I fantasize that God would work like they do on the television show "Extreme Makeover - Home Edition." I could invite Him in, He'd send me to Disney World for a week, and then I could come back with all my old junk removed and a new life in front of me.
But He want me to pick up a hammer, too, and take ownership of the process.
When I've done so in the past -- when I've taken down the boards and let Him remodel other areas of my life -- I've received nothing less than an abundance of joy and peace as a result.
So somewhere deep inside me there's a hope that I'll work up the courage and strength to remove the boards on those portions of my life that I haven't yet given completely to Him. Then, by His grace, we'll enter into the next episode of "Extreme Makeover" in my life.
Let your mercy and grace flow, Lord. Let your light shine in my darkness and let me live in the fullness of Your presence.
I remember when we were looking for a place to live in the neighborhood seeing this house. It was boarded up then but still appeared in good condition. It's on the quietest street in our neighborhood. The houses on either side of it are in excellent condition. It's the only house on that block that I've ever seen boarded up. The owner was not interested in selling it back then and must not be wanting to now, either.
So there are fresh boards on the house. Though they're better than the old boards which had begun to rot, the house is still a board-up.
It's hard for me to understand why someone would keep a house boarded up for so long. They could live in it or rent it or sell it. Certainly there's something useful they could do with it rather than just reboard the windows and doors every couple of decades.
Then again, I do understand a bit about keeping things boarded up.
I have places inside me that I don't want to deal with that I've kept boarded up for years. There are dark corners full of grime and pain and resentment and things I've completely forgotten about that I don't want to see. Even when I get a chance to go in and try to clean things out I prefer to instead put new boards up and move along to more pleasant areas.
And I want God to respect the boards, too. Yes, I know that the Spirit will bring new life to all areas I let Him in. But I've had Him work on so much of me that I know His remodeling projects can take a long time and are often painful. Though I am absolutely sure the results of His presence will bring life, I just don't want to deal with the process.
So guarding the boarded up doors becomes as important as the boards themselves.
There are no signs from the city on the house. Yet, for all practical purposes, even with the new boards this house is condemned. John 3:18 reminds us that I don't need to have someone spray paint the word "condemned" on the parts of my life where I lack trust in the Savior; that message is self-inflicted.
I fantasize that God would work like they do on the television show "Extreme Makeover - Home Edition." I could invite Him in, He'd send me to Disney World for a week, and then I could come back with all my old junk removed and a new life in front of me.
But He want me to pick up a hammer, too, and take ownership of the process.
When I've done so in the past -- when I've taken down the boards and let Him remodel other areas of my life -- I've received nothing less than an abundance of joy and peace as a result.
So somewhere deep inside me there's a hope that I'll work up the courage and strength to remove the boards on those portions of my life that I haven't yet given completely to Him. Then, by His grace, we'll enter into the next episode of "Extreme Makeover" in my life.
Let your mercy and grace flow, Lord. Let your light shine in my darkness and let me live in the fullness of Your presence.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Sight
No one was surprised, really, when it happened. This kid had been one of our most faithful participants in church so we'd noticed that his old pair of glasses had been repaired time and time again. So when I picked him up at camp, finding them in pieces in his hand was almost to be expected.
A couple of the camp staffers pulled me aside. They felt bad about his glasses situation and had taken up a collection from the other staff so we could restore his sight.
That really helped when I dropped him off at home. I was able to tell Mom that we were ready to replace what was left of his specs so she made the appointment and we all went to the optometrist together. He got his prescription updated and we found some amazingly durable yet sufficiently cool frames. We'd received enough in the collection from camp to cover all the costs.
I took him a couple days later to pick them up. He was so happy to be able to see clearly again and bounced up the steps back into his house when I dropped him off.
I didn't see him at church that weekend. That was unusual but not unheard of.
But then he wasn't there the next weekend, or the weekend after that, or the weekend after that. This was the new pattern. I'd bump into him on the streets once in a while but church was clearly something he wasn't interested in.
It was somewhere in that time when I let those six dangerous words creep into my head:
"After all I've done for you."
I don't know that I actually said them, but they were festering inside me. WE took him to camp. WE collected the money to get the new glasses. WE took him to the optometrist. WE paid the bill. WE gave him a ride.
Yet he wasn't hanging out with us any more.
After all we'd done for him.
And when I find those thoughts and feelings inside me know I'm ready for a time out. Because when those words are in me I know I can be saying a lot of unsightly things.
Those words say that I have ulterior motives in ministry.
Those words say my love is conditional.
Those words say that I'm not serving, I'm exchanging.
Those words say that doing the right thing is only necessary when payback in imminent.
Those words shift my actions from "Thy will be done" to "My will be done."
Those words say that the most important thing is what I get out of serving, not what those who I serve get out of what I do.
I don't like what those words say about me. I don't like the kind of god those word's actions in me reflect to the world.
Because Jesus had done more for me that I could ever recognize much less pay back. And I trust that since He loves me unconditionally that He's not up there brooding over the thought, "After all I've done for him."
So I when those words start creeping into my head it's time for a motivation check and an attitude adjustment. Why am I here? Why do I do what I do? What kind of invisible expectations have I placed on people? What must people do in order for me to love and serve them?
When I can get the right answers to those questions deep enough in my heart, my mind, body, and spirit, it starts showing in my attitude. It's then that I can really get back to serving others.
And months later once my vision had been corrected in this case, the kid didn't owe me anything and I was free to love and serve him again. Only then did he find his way back to the church.
Create in me a clean heart, Lord.
A couple of the camp staffers pulled me aside. They felt bad about his glasses situation and had taken up a collection from the other staff so we could restore his sight.
That really helped when I dropped him off at home. I was able to tell Mom that we were ready to replace what was left of his specs so she made the appointment and we all went to the optometrist together. He got his prescription updated and we found some amazingly durable yet sufficiently cool frames. We'd received enough in the collection from camp to cover all the costs.
I took him a couple days later to pick them up. He was so happy to be able to see clearly again and bounced up the steps back into his house when I dropped him off.
I didn't see him at church that weekend. That was unusual but not unheard of.
But then he wasn't there the next weekend, or the weekend after that, or the weekend after that. This was the new pattern. I'd bump into him on the streets once in a while but church was clearly something he wasn't interested in.
It was somewhere in that time when I let those six dangerous words creep into my head:
"After all I've done for you."
I don't know that I actually said them, but they were festering inside me. WE took him to camp. WE collected the money to get the new glasses. WE took him to the optometrist. WE paid the bill. WE gave him a ride.
Yet he wasn't hanging out with us any more.
After all we'd done for him.
And when I find those thoughts and feelings inside me know I'm ready for a time out. Because when those words are in me I know I can be saying a lot of unsightly things.
Those words say that I have ulterior motives in ministry.
Those words say my love is conditional.
Those words say that I'm not serving, I'm exchanging.
Those words say that doing the right thing is only necessary when payback in imminent.
Those words shift my actions from "Thy will be done" to "My will be done."
Those words say that the most important thing is what I get out of serving, not what those who I serve get out of what I do.
I don't like what those words say about me. I don't like the kind of god those word's actions in me reflect to the world.
Because Jesus had done more for me that I could ever recognize much less pay back. And I trust that since He loves me unconditionally that He's not up there brooding over the thought, "After all I've done for him."
So I when those words start creeping into my head it's time for a motivation check and an attitude adjustment. Why am I here? Why do I do what I do? What kind of invisible expectations have I placed on people? What must people do in order for me to love and serve them?
When I can get the right answers to those questions deep enough in my heart, my mind, body, and spirit, it starts showing in my attitude. It's then that I can really get back to serving others.
And months later once my vision had been corrected in this case, the kid didn't owe me anything and I was free to love and serve him again. Only then did he find his way back to the church.
Create in me a clean heart, Lord.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Gooder
His friend came with him to church for the first time. My heart always gives a teen-aged boy a little extra credit when he brings an unchurched friend with him from off the street corners where they've been hangin'. Their coming in and sitting in the back together brought me delight.
Now, why they chose to come in with the old folks like me at a prayer meeting instead of one of the youth services baffled me. I wasn't sure if they would engage well with what was going on.
So we were all a bit surprised when, as one of the older ladies expressed a prayer concern, this new kid's hand shot up in the air. Though at church for the first time, he wanted to pray for her.
Granted, I'd given my standard spiel to the group earlier in the service reminding them that prayer was simply talking with God and that we need not be worried or scared about doing so publicly. People usually pay about as much attention to that as they do safety instructions on an airplane. I guess someone was listening that night.
And the kid believed me.
His direct, heartfelt, and insightful few sentences drew to a close and he looked up at me with a "What do I do now?" expression on his face.
I said to him, "Amen?"
He grinned and said, "Amen."
And as he did, the boy who brought him opened his eyes and with a surprised look on his face pleasantly exclaimed, "He prays gooder than me!"
Like that kid, it's easy for me to be surprised when someone who is less experienced, less qualified, does something gooder than me.
I've been in church all my life. I've been to seminary and have a MA in Theology. I've been a pastor for a long time and have read and studied and prayed and served in many capacities. I have lots of experience and am qualified for the task --- just like the Pharisees and Sadducees and Scribes.
Though all these experiences and training are good and important, I can sometimes forget that these credentials are not qualifications in the Kingdom. An open and honest relationship with God, even if it's just begun after coming in off the street corner with your friend, is key.
And if I want to get gooder at what I do, then I need to remember to believe as that new kid did. Through his prayer we all knew the he believed that God is interested in hearing from him and was concerned about this stranger he was praying for. He believed that the exact words weren't as important as the fact that they were being said. He believed that he was as "qualified" as anyone else in the room to talk with God.
So on the days I get a little Pharisitic I hope God brings someone by who, when they do something surprising to me, will cause me to delightfully exclaim, "They did that gooder than me!"
Amen?
Amen.
Lord, teach me to walk humbly before you.
Now, why they chose to come in with the old folks like me at a prayer meeting instead of one of the youth services baffled me. I wasn't sure if they would engage well with what was going on.
So we were all a bit surprised when, as one of the older ladies expressed a prayer concern, this new kid's hand shot up in the air. Though at church for the first time, he wanted to pray for her.
Granted, I'd given my standard spiel to the group earlier in the service reminding them that prayer was simply talking with God and that we need not be worried or scared about doing so publicly. People usually pay about as much attention to that as they do safety instructions on an airplane. I guess someone was listening that night.
And the kid believed me.
His direct, heartfelt, and insightful few sentences drew to a close and he looked up at me with a "What do I do now?" expression on his face.
I said to him, "Amen?"
He grinned and said, "Amen."
And as he did, the boy who brought him opened his eyes and with a surprised look on his face pleasantly exclaimed, "He prays gooder than me!"
Like that kid, it's easy for me to be surprised when someone who is less experienced, less qualified, does something gooder than me.
I've been in church all my life. I've been to seminary and have a MA in Theology. I've been a pastor for a long time and have read and studied and prayed and served in many capacities. I have lots of experience and am qualified for the task --- just like the Pharisees and Sadducees and Scribes.
Though all these experiences and training are good and important, I can sometimes forget that these credentials are not qualifications in the Kingdom. An open and honest relationship with God, even if it's just begun after coming in off the street corner with your friend, is key.
And if I want to get gooder at what I do, then I need to remember to believe as that new kid did. Through his prayer we all knew the he believed that God is interested in hearing from him and was concerned about this stranger he was praying for. He believed that the exact words weren't as important as the fact that they were being said. He believed that he was as "qualified" as anyone else in the room to talk with God.
So on the days I get a little Pharisitic I hope God brings someone by who, when they do something surprising to me, will cause me to delightfully exclaim, "They did that gooder than me!"
Amen?
Amen.
Lord, teach me to walk humbly before you.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Turkey
It's been our congregation's tradition to have a "dessert only" potluck the Sunday evening before Thanksgiving. Everyone brings sweets to share under the mantra "Protein on Thursday, Carbs Tonight!"
We got a little mixed up one fall, though, when a local merchant asked if he could donate a turkey to the church. He and his family are first generation immigrants so our verbal communication is not always completely clear. In visiting with him about his gift, I was not sure if he was giving us a frozen turkey to give to a family in need or if he was giving us a prepared turkey to eat at church. Repeated attempts at clarification only made things murkier.
So, on Sunday morning I explained the situation to the congregation. They all chuckled and nodded their heads in recognition of occasional communication issues in the corner stores. I left them with the statement, "So, for church tonight, come hungry, but not too hungry."
Actually, coming to church hungry, but not too hungry, is a good guide for me every week.
Sometimes I come to church a little too full. On the weeks I've over-studied or under exercised I find myself not wanting to feast on the Word. I'm not really that open or receptive to other people's understandings, testimonies, or needs. A little hunger changes that completely.
Of course, if the week has been all about exercise and my Bible study time has been limited to the verses printed on bumper stickers affixed to the cars speeding past me on the freeway, then I come to church so hungry that the Word offered is more than I can handle, the same way that a person who is truly starving won't be healed by being dropped off at the all-you-can-eat buffet. I need to already have some food in the system if the available nutrients are going to give me strength, wholeness, and satisfaction.
If my spirit is to be healthy, I need to spend time digesting the meat of the Gospel throughout the week. That's not to say that Sundays should be without substance. Rather, there are things that I need to spend some lengthy, personal time on. I can't fit the deep mystery of God into a 40 minute sermon so I need time to chew on it and digest small bites at a time.
By the same token, I need to be in a group of the faithful to both speak and hear the testimonies of God in our world today. They give energy and invigorate for the tasks ahead. This kind of celebration (the icing on the cake?) can only really happen in a collective group. That's not to say my personal time with God should be without praise and celebration. Rather, the Spirit's promised presence when two or more are gathered in His name is something that can't be found in the same way when I'm alone.
If I don't get some good protein mid-week by chewing on the meat of the Gospel, I won't be ready for the carbs on Sunday when we celebrate God's goodness in our lives. And if I only get the carbs on Sunday then I'll crash mid-week when they're burned up in the work of the tasks God calls me to.
Protein on Thursday. Carbs Tonight.
Of course, that particular Sunday night before Thanksgiving we were delighted when, shortly before the service, the owner of the corner store pulled up to the church. His wife and and another woman carried in a roaster with a giant steaming hot falling-off-the-bone delicious turkey for the congregation to eat.
Hungry, but not too hungry, we were able to share in the blessings of the Banquet together.
Lord, let me worship You in spirit and in truth. Help me to honor Your name.
We got a little mixed up one fall, though, when a local merchant asked if he could donate a turkey to the church. He and his family are first generation immigrants so our verbal communication is not always completely clear. In visiting with him about his gift, I was not sure if he was giving us a frozen turkey to give to a family in need or if he was giving us a prepared turkey to eat at church. Repeated attempts at clarification only made things murkier.
So, on Sunday morning I explained the situation to the congregation. They all chuckled and nodded their heads in recognition of occasional communication issues in the corner stores. I left them with the statement, "So, for church tonight, come hungry, but not too hungry."
Actually, coming to church hungry, but not too hungry, is a good guide for me every week.
Sometimes I come to church a little too full. On the weeks I've over-studied or under exercised I find myself not wanting to feast on the Word. I'm not really that open or receptive to other people's understandings, testimonies, or needs. A little hunger changes that completely.
Of course, if the week has been all about exercise and my Bible study time has been limited to the verses printed on bumper stickers affixed to the cars speeding past me on the freeway, then I come to church so hungry that the Word offered is more than I can handle, the same way that a person who is truly starving won't be healed by being dropped off at the all-you-can-eat buffet. I need to already have some food in the system if the available nutrients are going to give me strength, wholeness, and satisfaction.
If my spirit is to be healthy, I need to spend time digesting the meat of the Gospel throughout the week. That's not to say that Sundays should be without substance. Rather, there are things that I need to spend some lengthy, personal time on. I can't fit the deep mystery of God into a 40 minute sermon so I need time to chew on it and digest small bites at a time.
By the same token, I need to be in a group of the faithful to both speak and hear the testimonies of God in our world today. They give energy and invigorate for the tasks ahead. This kind of celebration (the icing on the cake?) can only really happen in a collective group. That's not to say my personal time with God should be without praise and celebration. Rather, the Spirit's promised presence when two or more are gathered in His name is something that can't be found in the same way when I'm alone.
If I don't get some good protein mid-week by chewing on the meat of the Gospel, I won't be ready for the carbs on Sunday when we celebrate God's goodness in our lives. And if I only get the carbs on Sunday then I'll crash mid-week when they're burned up in the work of the tasks God calls me to.
Protein on Thursday. Carbs Tonight.
Of course, that particular Sunday night before Thanksgiving we were delighted when, shortly before the service, the owner of the corner store pulled up to the church. His wife and and another woman carried in a roaster with a giant steaming hot falling-off-the-bone delicious turkey for the congregation to eat.
Hungry, but not too hungry, we were able to share in the blessings of the Banquet together.
Lord, let me worship You in spirit and in truth. Help me to honor Your name.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Happy
I was a little nervous about meeting her husband. She and I had been exchanging emails and making plans for several weeks. I wasn't sure what her husband thought of his wife's and my new relationship and I was now scheduled to meet with him in the parking lot of a shopping center just off the main highway.
He greeted me with by saying, "Thank you so much for what you've done for my wife." He went on to say that the things that make her especially happy include finding bargains and shopping for school supplies. Based on that information, she must have been a VERY happy person for much of the summer.
By scouring the sales fliers and engaging in strategic shopping for several weeks, she'd been buying up all the best deals on school supplies and sharing that information with me. Her husband's pickup bed was now full of crayons and notebooks and erasers and glue sticks and all kinds of things kids need to start the school year right. Through this she'd become that year's biggest contributor to our school supply drive at the church.
And the happiness just kept flowing. She was happy to shop. Her husband was happy to deliver her treasures. I was happy to distribute them to kids in the neighborhood. The kids and their parents were happy to receive them. The teachers were happy to have kids show up with what they needed to learn.
Who knows where (or if) that chain of happiness ends. I do know that some of the kids who received supplies that year are now the first in their families to attend college.
I often get overwhelmed and grumpy with the magnitude of the tasks at helping bring transformation to the place where I occupy. It's good for me to remember, though, that sometimes all it takes is someone to simply get happily excited about finding a box of crayons for a dime. It starts a chain reaction bringing enough joy and hope for one more day, or week, or marking period, or semester, or school year which, in time, transforms the world for generations to come.
Lord, let Your joy be my strength.
He greeted me with by saying, "Thank you so much for what you've done for my wife." He went on to say that the things that make her especially happy include finding bargains and shopping for school supplies. Based on that information, she must have been a VERY happy person for much of the summer.
By scouring the sales fliers and engaging in strategic shopping for several weeks, she'd been buying up all the best deals on school supplies and sharing that information with me. Her husband's pickup bed was now full of crayons and notebooks and erasers and glue sticks and all kinds of things kids need to start the school year right. Through this she'd become that year's biggest contributor to our school supply drive at the church.
And the happiness just kept flowing. She was happy to shop. Her husband was happy to deliver her treasures. I was happy to distribute them to kids in the neighborhood. The kids and their parents were happy to receive them. The teachers were happy to have kids show up with what they needed to learn.
Who knows where (or if) that chain of happiness ends. I do know that some of the kids who received supplies that year are now the first in their families to attend college.
I often get overwhelmed and grumpy with the magnitude of the tasks at helping bring transformation to the place where I occupy. It's good for me to remember, though, that sometimes all it takes is someone to simply get happily excited about finding a box of crayons for a dime. It starts a chain reaction bringing enough joy and hope for one more day, or week, or marking period, or semester, or school year which, in time, transforms the world for generations to come.
Lord, let Your joy be my strength.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
SCarey
Six shots rang out as I was shutting down the computer for the night. I pulled on my shoes and followed the flow of people to the corner of S. Carey and James Streets, arriving before the police. There his lifeless, bloodied body lay crumpled in the street.
S. Carey and James.
It's the same corner where the police shot an unarmed man a couple years back. That happened right after the girl got hit and killed by a car at that same corner.
It's where several prostitutes would gather with their toddlers in the evening, rotating who was with the johns and who was on the street watching the kids as they wait for Mom's return.
Sometimes on those same steps during daylight hours I see junkies nodding off after their heroin fix.
From S. Carey and James I can see two different houses in which people died and no one knew it for over a week until the smell alerted the neighbors.
It's also where Michael's leg got crushed by a car.
The house three in from the corner has been fixed up since it was fire bombed shortly after I moved to this neighborhood.
That building across the street from that house is where the boys used to wait for the pedophiles to come by and offer them money for favors.
Of course, at the next intersection north I can point out the house where the father threw his infant down the stairs in order to kill her (which he did successfully) and at the next intersection south I can point our open air drug deals and blatant prostitution both day and night.
Meanwhile, we'll be gathering in churches around the globe to debate the color of carpeting in the foyer, who is qualified to receive communion, and what songs are appropriate to sing in a particular service. Denominations are spending countless dollars and hours gathering people to decide appropriate sexual ethics and will spend even more money and time when churches split over these and other issues. People will be in an uproar about the location of a mosque and riot over football games.
Yet corners like S. Carey and James keep happening in places all over the globe. Unnoticed. Undebated. Unfunded.
The people trapped around the S. Carey and James Streets of the world wonder who will lead the riot, the uproar, the debate on their behalf. Who will bring healing and wholeness and restoration to their land? Who will bring hope and peace and sweat and tears and presence to not let another shot ring out, not let another john pick up, or bomb crash through the glass?
Yes, it's easier to talk about carpet because there's hope we might just be able to solve the problem. But if the church doesn't look at S. Carey and James with hope, who will? Who even could?
Do we have a Creator who is unsatisfied with the conditions at S. Carey and James? Do we have a Savior who wants both spiritual and temporal salvation at S. Carey and James? Do we have a Sustainer who will give strength and wisdom and courage to those who will follow His lead to S. Carey and James?
S. Carey and James. The locals say SCarey Street, and scary it can be.
Good thing God's Spirit doesn't make cowards of us (2 Timothy 1:7).
Lord, let my life shine Your light in the darkness.
S. Carey and James.
It's the same corner where the police shot an unarmed man a couple years back. That happened right after the girl got hit and killed by a car at that same corner.
It's where several prostitutes would gather with their toddlers in the evening, rotating who was with the johns and who was on the street watching the kids as they wait for Mom's return.
Sometimes on those same steps during daylight hours I see junkies nodding off after their heroin fix.
From S. Carey and James I can see two different houses in which people died and no one knew it for over a week until the smell alerted the neighbors.
It's also where Michael's leg got crushed by a car.
The house three in from the corner has been fixed up since it was fire bombed shortly after I moved to this neighborhood.
That building across the street from that house is where the boys used to wait for the pedophiles to come by and offer them money for favors.
Of course, at the next intersection north I can point out the house where the father threw his infant down the stairs in order to kill her (which he did successfully) and at the next intersection south I can point our open air drug deals and blatant prostitution both day and night.
Meanwhile, we'll be gathering in churches around the globe to debate the color of carpeting in the foyer, who is qualified to receive communion, and what songs are appropriate to sing in a particular service. Denominations are spending countless dollars and hours gathering people to decide appropriate sexual ethics and will spend even more money and time when churches split over these and other issues. People will be in an uproar about the location of a mosque and riot over football games.
Yet corners like S. Carey and James keep happening in places all over the globe. Unnoticed. Undebated. Unfunded.
The people trapped around the S. Carey and James Streets of the world wonder who will lead the riot, the uproar, the debate on their behalf. Who will bring healing and wholeness and restoration to their land? Who will bring hope and peace and sweat and tears and presence to not let another shot ring out, not let another john pick up, or bomb crash through the glass?
Yes, it's easier to talk about carpet because there's hope we might just be able to solve the problem. But if the church doesn't look at S. Carey and James with hope, who will? Who even could?
Do we have a Creator who is unsatisfied with the conditions at S. Carey and James? Do we have a Savior who wants both spiritual and temporal salvation at S. Carey and James? Do we have a Sustainer who will give strength and wisdom and courage to those who will follow His lead to S. Carey and James?
S. Carey and James. The locals say SCarey Street, and scary it can be.
Good thing God's Spirit doesn't make cowards of us (2 Timothy 1:7).
Lord, let my life shine Your light in the darkness.
Monday, July 12, 2010
'votions
Swimming!
That's the nearly unanimous answer I get when I ask kids the question, "What was your favorite part of youth camp?" After 51 weeks full of prayer, fundraising and organizing, coordinating with camp directors, hunting down parents for signatures on forms, renting vans or a bus, driving back and forth through Washington DC traffic, and the myriad of other things we do all year to get kids out of the neighborhood and into a potentially life-changing week out of the city with unique activities and powerful encounters with God, their favorite part of the week was the swimming.
So, when stopped on the freeway for hour number three on the 78 mile drive home, I start to think that next year my life would be happier and theirs would be just as good if, instead of camp, I rented the YMCA for a couple of hours and let them all just swim.
But then there was that one kid one year who didn't say "swimming." He said, "'votions."
At first I didn't know what he was talking about. "You know, them 'votions we do in the cabin each night. Them was my favorite thing at camp," he clarified.
"What made them your favorite?"
"Well, we's all still and quiet and stuff and we gets to talk a little and think a lot about God and life and, you know, stuff like that. It's like God is so real there and we know we're all gonna be OK."
The other boys in the van piped in, "Yeah, I liked that, too. We don't get to do stuff like that when we're at home."
When I've been blessed with the opportunity to get far away from my world for a few days, I must confess that my first response when asked about the trip usually has something to do with a bargain price or free upgrade (or both!) on a rental car. No matter how many amazing places He lets me go or activities He lets me experience, my first words of praise are usually about a rental car.
Does He sometimes think, "Next year I'll just help him find a bargain on a convertible at BWI and he can drive to Scranton and back"?
I'm pretty sure He doesn't think that way. But early in my conversations it wouldn't hurt to acknowledge the blessing of time to think about God and life and, you know, stuff like that which help me know that God is so real and that I'm gonna be OK.
Of course, if I do, then I'll be in some deeper conversation than I might want to have at that moment. Plus, after some true encounters with the Holy I need time to process my experiences before I can put words to them. And besides, the whole thing wouldn't have been near as fun without the great deal on the rental car.
Just like camp wouldn't be near as fun without time at the pool. Plus it takes time for kids to put words to their camp experiences. And they're tired and dirty and hungry and sad to be leaving which isn't exactly a time when any of us want to delve into deeper conversation.
Swimming.
It's a good answer. Plus I know that once laundry is done and there's been a couple of good night's rest and we're sitting around the table with a bowls of ice cream or slices of pizza (or both!), the conversations might just give some hints that the 51 weeks full of prayer, fundraising and organizing, coordinating with camp directors, hunting down parents for signatures on forms, renting vans or a bus, driving back and forth through Washington DC traffic, and the myriad of other things we did actually provided some life-changing opportunities to swim out into the deep with God.
Besides, we got kicked out of the YMCA last time we rented it.
Lord, let praise of You that is in my heart be on my lips and in my deeds that all might see and know Your goodness.
That's the nearly unanimous answer I get when I ask kids the question, "What was your favorite part of youth camp?" After 51 weeks full of prayer, fundraising and organizing, coordinating with camp directors, hunting down parents for signatures on forms, renting vans or a bus, driving back and forth through Washington DC traffic, and the myriad of other things we do all year to get kids out of the neighborhood and into a potentially life-changing week out of the city with unique activities and powerful encounters with God, their favorite part of the week was the swimming.
So, when stopped on the freeway for hour number three on the 78 mile drive home, I start to think that next year my life would be happier and theirs would be just as good if, instead of camp, I rented the YMCA for a couple of hours and let them all just swim.
But then there was that one kid one year who didn't say "swimming." He said, "'votions."
At first I didn't know what he was talking about. "You know, them 'votions we do in the cabin each night. Them was my favorite thing at camp," he clarified.
"What made them your favorite?"
"Well, we's all still and quiet and stuff and we gets to talk a little and think a lot about God and life and, you know, stuff like that. It's like God is so real there and we know we're all gonna be OK."
The other boys in the van piped in, "Yeah, I liked that, too. We don't get to do stuff like that when we're at home."
When I've been blessed with the opportunity to get far away from my world for a few days, I must confess that my first response when asked about the trip usually has something to do with a bargain price or free upgrade (or both!) on a rental car. No matter how many amazing places He lets me go or activities He lets me experience, my first words of praise are usually about a rental car.
Does He sometimes think, "Next year I'll just help him find a bargain on a convertible at BWI and he can drive to Scranton and back"?
I'm pretty sure He doesn't think that way. But early in my conversations it wouldn't hurt to acknowledge the blessing of time to think about God and life and, you know, stuff like that which help me know that God is so real and that I'm gonna be OK.
Of course, if I do, then I'll be in some deeper conversation than I might want to have at that moment. Plus, after some true encounters with the Holy I need time to process my experiences before I can put words to them. And besides, the whole thing wouldn't have been near as fun without the great deal on the rental car.
Just like camp wouldn't be near as fun without time at the pool. Plus it takes time for kids to put words to their camp experiences. And they're tired and dirty and hungry and sad to be leaving which isn't exactly a time when any of us want to delve into deeper conversation.
Swimming.
It's a good answer. Plus I know that once laundry is done and there's been a couple of good night's rest and we're sitting around the table with a bowls of ice cream or slices of pizza (or both!), the conversations might just give some hints that the 51 weeks full of prayer, fundraising and organizing, coordinating with camp directors, hunting down parents for signatures on forms, renting vans or a bus, driving back and forth through Washington DC traffic, and the myriad of other things we did actually provided some life-changing opportunities to swim out into the deep with God.
Besides, we got kicked out of the YMCA last time we rented it.
Lord, let praise of You that is in my heart be on my lips and in my deeds that all might see and know Your goodness.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Failure
I wanted him to die.
That was a new feeling for me. It wasn't because he had done anything particularly bad to me. It wasn't that I even disliked him. As he lay in his bed gasping for air I wanted him to stop fighting and just let it all end.
I could hardly stand to be in the room much less look at him. The reason was that in that bed I saw our world's failures.
The failure of the medical system was in that bed. The multiple diseases that ravaged his body had been left to progress or had received minimal care as he had no insurance and no way to pay.
The failure of social services was in that bed. He easily qualified for a variety of community services but was unable to negotiate the system. By the time I had met him several years earlier, he had given up trying for some services and had become paranoid of the rest.
The failure of the free market was in that bed. He'd never been quite good enough for the jobs that were out there. His limited intellectual capacity and an occasional fight at work were more than supervisors were willing to put up with. He was too smart to get into service programs but not smart enough to make it through job training.
The failure of mental health care was in that bed. Living the repeatedly traumatic life he did any of us would need counseling and meds. He received neither. His DNA didn't help the situation, either. He was smart enough to know that the system could inflict more anguish than what he was experiencing outside it.
The failure of our schools was in that bed. He had been shuffled through and passed along and given a custodial education until he was old enough to drop out. He never had any reason to look back after his 16th birthday.
The failure of his family was in that bed. They were especially gifted in reinforcing bad behaviors and inflicting guilt to manipulate others. They were all able to survive but none were able to thrive.
The failure of the church was in that bed. He had come to us many times for help. We had tried to welcome him into the fellowship. We were never able to help enough to make much of a difference other than an occasional meal and his temper challenged the group's need for safety.
As he looked up at me, gasping for one of his last breaths, I -- we -- society, were all failing him once again. And in the darkness of my mind I somehow convinced myself that once he died that all the problems would die with him and we could all continue on with our little comfortable lives. If the problems were to go away, then he needed to go away.
But the volunteer hospice nurse kept coming through the room. She didn't know all the problems that lead up to this point or, if she did, she didn't seem to be too worried about them. She simply provided dignity and honor and care and actually stayed on after her shift ended for the day. For once in his life someone was making sure that he would not be failed again.
And she didn't seem too worried about the time of death. That would be handled by the One who had the next shift. For on her shift, like mine, she needed to be present and create a place of dignity for a stranger in need.
When I was hungry, you gave me something to eat, and when I was thirsty, you gave me something to drink. When I was a stranger, you welcomed me, and when I was naked, you gave me clothes to wear. When I was sick, you took care of me, and when I was in jail, you visited me. Whenever you did it for any of my people, no matter how unimportant they seemed, you did it for me. (Matthew 25:35-36, 40 CEV)
For a few hours at the end of his life he began to experience the healing and restoring welcome of the Christ that he would soon receive in its fullness.
And he didn't take the failings with him. Instead he left them here so that I -- we -- society might be blessed with repentance and grace and dependence on an undying Love that never fails.
Lord, let me recognize Your grace and mercy upon me as I go through this day. Help me live it out by fully welcoming others as I would You.
That was a new feeling for me. It wasn't because he had done anything particularly bad to me. It wasn't that I even disliked him. As he lay in his bed gasping for air I wanted him to stop fighting and just let it all end.
I could hardly stand to be in the room much less look at him. The reason was that in that bed I saw our world's failures.
The failure of the medical system was in that bed. The multiple diseases that ravaged his body had been left to progress or had received minimal care as he had no insurance and no way to pay.
The failure of social services was in that bed. He easily qualified for a variety of community services but was unable to negotiate the system. By the time I had met him several years earlier, he had given up trying for some services and had become paranoid of the rest.
The failure of the free market was in that bed. He'd never been quite good enough for the jobs that were out there. His limited intellectual capacity and an occasional fight at work were more than supervisors were willing to put up with. He was too smart to get into service programs but not smart enough to make it through job training.
The failure of mental health care was in that bed. Living the repeatedly traumatic life he did any of us would need counseling and meds. He received neither. His DNA didn't help the situation, either. He was smart enough to know that the system could inflict more anguish than what he was experiencing outside it.
The failure of our schools was in that bed. He had been shuffled through and passed along and given a custodial education until he was old enough to drop out. He never had any reason to look back after his 16th birthday.
The failure of his family was in that bed. They were especially gifted in reinforcing bad behaviors and inflicting guilt to manipulate others. They were all able to survive but none were able to thrive.
The failure of the church was in that bed. He had come to us many times for help. We had tried to welcome him into the fellowship. We were never able to help enough to make much of a difference other than an occasional meal and his temper challenged the group's need for safety.
As he looked up at me, gasping for one of his last breaths, I -- we -- society, were all failing him once again. And in the darkness of my mind I somehow convinced myself that once he died that all the problems would die with him and we could all continue on with our little comfortable lives. If the problems were to go away, then he needed to go away.
But the volunteer hospice nurse kept coming through the room. She didn't know all the problems that lead up to this point or, if she did, she didn't seem to be too worried about them. She simply provided dignity and honor and care and actually stayed on after her shift ended for the day. For once in his life someone was making sure that he would not be failed again.
And she didn't seem too worried about the time of death. That would be handled by the One who had the next shift. For on her shift, like mine, she needed to be present and create a place of dignity for a stranger in need.
When I was hungry, you gave me something to eat, and when I was thirsty, you gave me something to drink. When I was a stranger, you welcomed me, and when I was naked, you gave me clothes to wear. When I was sick, you took care of me, and when I was in jail, you visited me. Whenever you did it for any of my people, no matter how unimportant they seemed, you did it for me. (Matthew 25:35-36, 40 CEV)
For a few hours at the end of his life he began to experience the healing and restoring welcome of the Christ that he would soon receive in its fullness.
And he didn't take the failings with him. Instead he left them here so that I -- we -- society might be blessed with repentance and grace and dependence on an undying Love that never fails.
Lord, let me recognize Your grace and mercy upon me as I go through this day. Help me live it out by fully welcoming others as I would You.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Chirp
12 inches. That's how far we live from our neighbors. The common walls that separate our houses are 12 inches thick in our 'hood.
Most of the time it's not so bad. 12 inches of brick muffles a decent percent of the noise and I only know what the neighbors are having for dinner if it's especially spicy.
Of course, things are different in the summertime. Many of us don't have air conditioning so our windows are wide open all the time. The noise of the streets and nearby houses echo through each others homes.
So it was a pleasant surprise when everything was quiet as I got in bed that night. The fresh air of the open windows brought delight to my soul. The thought of a few moments of peace and calm before drifting off to sleep was quite a treat.
Just as I got comfortable in bed I heard it. You know the sound. It's that little electronic chirp that smoke detectors put out when they're low on battery power.
chirp.
40 seconds of silence.
chirp.
Trying to wish it away.
chirp.
Get up and check all the smoke alarms in the house.
silence.
Go back to bed.
chirp.
Yes, one of my neighbors' smoke detectors needed a new battery. I don't know if they weren't home or if they were really sound sleepers or if they just didn't care. But the one night that the street wasn't filled with noise from cars and radios and people . . .
chirp.
Jesus didn't answer my prayers the way I had hoped that night. By 3:00 a.m. I was requesting the hammer of God to come smash that thing and send it to its glory.
chirp.
Yes, sometimes 12 inches is a little too close, especially when the windows are open. In the darkness with both my and my neighbors' windows open it was clear that something needed to be done.
Sometimes there are annoying little chirps in my soul at night, too. Maybe I'm not paying attention or am sound asleep or am so disconnected with my own inner self that I don't notice or don't care about the chirping. Maybe I do notice but feel helpless in trying to make it stop.
Thankfully, God calls us to both times of gathering in close proximity and times of rest. When I get together with people of faith for a time of rest from regular responsibilities, like at a retreat or camp, I have the chance to be physically closer than normal. If things go well, I'm likely to open up the windows of my soul to let a fresh Wind in.
And it's then that I find it easier to hear the low battery chirp in me. It's in the quiet time together that I can most know where I need to let go of old problems and let new Power come in. But if I'm still unable to hear it, hopefully a nearby friend with his soul's window open will hear the chirp from my low batteries and will administer a recharge.
Of course, sometimes in those settings I learn that my batteries are holding sufficient voltage. That's when I can sometimes hear the low-battery chirp in a neighbor's inner life. Then it's time for me to help them to gain a new charge.
For as we care for ourselves and for one another this way, we quiet the chirps and let a Peace that passes understanding come in. Then we can truly rest in Him and disperse to our daily lives renewed.
Revive me, O Lord, and use me to bring restoration to others.
Most of the time it's not so bad. 12 inches of brick muffles a decent percent of the noise and I only know what the neighbors are having for dinner if it's especially spicy.
Of course, things are different in the summertime. Many of us don't have air conditioning so our windows are wide open all the time. The noise of the streets and nearby houses echo through each others homes.
So it was a pleasant surprise when everything was quiet as I got in bed that night. The fresh air of the open windows brought delight to my soul. The thought of a few moments of peace and calm before drifting off to sleep was quite a treat.
Just as I got comfortable in bed I heard it. You know the sound. It's that little electronic chirp that smoke detectors put out when they're low on battery power.
chirp.
40 seconds of silence.
chirp.
Trying to wish it away.
chirp.
Get up and check all the smoke alarms in the house.
silence.
Go back to bed.
chirp.
Yes, one of my neighbors' smoke detectors needed a new battery. I don't know if they weren't home or if they were really sound sleepers or if they just didn't care. But the one night that the street wasn't filled with noise from cars and radios and people . . .
chirp.
Jesus didn't answer my prayers the way I had hoped that night. By 3:00 a.m. I was requesting the hammer of God to come smash that thing and send it to its glory.
chirp.
Yes, sometimes 12 inches is a little too close, especially when the windows are open. In the darkness with both my and my neighbors' windows open it was clear that something needed to be done.
Sometimes there are annoying little chirps in my soul at night, too. Maybe I'm not paying attention or am sound asleep or am so disconnected with my own inner self that I don't notice or don't care about the chirping. Maybe I do notice but feel helpless in trying to make it stop.
Thankfully, God calls us to both times of gathering in close proximity and times of rest. When I get together with people of faith for a time of rest from regular responsibilities, like at a retreat or camp, I have the chance to be physically closer than normal. If things go well, I'm likely to open up the windows of my soul to let a fresh Wind in.
And it's then that I find it easier to hear the low battery chirp in me. It's in the quiet time together that I can most know where I need to let go of old problems and let new Power come in. But if I'm still unable to hear it, hopefully a nearby friend with his soul's window open will hear the chirp from my low batteries and will administer a recharge.
Of course, sometimes in those settings I learn that my batteries are holding sufficient voltage. That's when I can sometimes hear the low-battery chirp in a neighbor's inner life. Then it's time for me to help them to gain a new charge.
For as we care for ourselves and for one another this way, we quiet the chirps and let a Peace that passes understanding come in. Then we can truly rest in Him and disperse to our daily lives renewed.
Revive me, O Lord, and use me to bring restoration to others.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Crazy
It's not that she was completely crazy. Actually, she was quite functional in her life. But it was clear to everyone (except for her, of course) that she needed her meds just a little more than the rest of us need ours.
So I wasn't surprised one afternoon as I was walking by her house when she flagged me down to share something that didn't seem completely right to me.
"Pastor! The street lights! They're really really bright now! I mean, I sit out on my steps every night but last night I could hardly stand it when the traffic light changed from green to yellow and red and back to green. And the crosswalk signs, too. I mean, they're all just so bright!"
She was a bit panicked and needed some assurance that the world wasn't coming to an end. After our chat she seemed to feel better but wasn't completely satisfied. I moved along in my day and soon forgot about the conversation.
But when I was out walking in the dark I remembered it. I noticed that the lights WERE brighter. A LOT brighter! And not just the ones by her house but on every street corner in the neighborhood. And no one else out that night seemed to notice, much less be bothered by it.
The 11:00 newscast rescued both of us from our distress. We learned that the city had started at our end of town in converting all the stoplights from incandescent to LED in hopes of saving energy. Our peace was restored.
Just like what happened with that morning's conversation, it's easy for me to not really remember what people say when they think a little differently than I do. I can consciously or subconsciously dismiss what someone says based on gender, education, race, culture, IQ, theology, socioeconomic standing, and a myriad of other "qualifiers" that are wired into my brain.
When I can recognize this, I need to have a bright yellow or flashing red light come on at the intersection of my synapses. I'm not saying that all expressed thoughts and ideas are equally valid; I just need to make sure I don't dismiss them because the speaker seems a little crazy to me. There may be some truth in there that I have yet to see.
Because that's what the folks did to people like Isaiah and Jeremiah. Both of these men came across to others as basically functional but in need of some meds. Yet, they were the ones who saw the bright new Light before the rest did. But instead of listening, the people had to take a walk in the darkness before they remembered what these men had tried to tell them.
I wonder what God is trying to reveal to me today and if I am unwilling to hear it just because of who He is using to convey it. I hope I can see His brightness before I need an 11th hour rescue to have my peace restored.
Lord, help me to be open to your Truth. Remove my blinders that I might see You.
So I wasn't surprised one afternoon as I was walking by her house when she flagged me down to share something that didn't seem completely right to me.
"Pastor! The street lights! They're really really bright now! I mean, I sit out on my steps every night but last night I could hardly stand it when the traffic light changed from green to yellow and red and back to green. And the crosswalk signs, too. I mean, they're all just so bright!"
She was a bit panicked and needed some assurance that the world wasn't coming to an end. After our chat she seemed to feel better but wasn't completely satisfied. I moved along in my day and soon forgot about the conversation.
But when I was out walking in the dark I remembered it. I noticed that the lights WERE brighter. A LOT brighter! And not just the ones by her house but on every street corner in the neighborhood. And no one else out that night seemed to notice, much less be bothered by it.
The 11:00 newscast rescued both of us from our distress. We learned that the city had started at our end of town in converting all the stoplights from incandescent to LED in hopes of saving energy. Our peace was restored.
Just like what happened with that morning's conversation, it's easy for me to not really remember what people say when they think a little differently than I do. I can consciously or subconsciously dismiss what someone says based on gender, education, race, culture, IQ, theology, socioeconomic standing, and a myriad of other "qualifiers" that are wired into my brain.
When I can recognize this, I need to have a bright yellow or flashing red light come on at the intersection of my synapses. I'm not saying that all expressed thoughts and ideas are equally valid; I just need to make sure I don't dismiss them because the speaker seems a little crazy to me. There may be some truth in there that I have yet to see.
Because that's what the folks did to people like Isaiah and Jeremiah. Both of these men came across to others as basically functional but in need of some meds. Yet, they were the ones who saw the bright new Light before the rest did. But instead of listening, the people had to take a walk in the darkness before they remembered what these men had tried to tell them.
I wonder what God is trying to reveal to me today and if I am unwilling to hear it just because of who He is using to convey it. I hope I can see His brightness before I need an 11th hour rescue to have my peace restored.
Lord, help me to be open to your Truth. Remove my blinders that I might see You.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Quit
"Get out of this church and NEVER come back!" I yelled at the kids as I shoved them out the door. I closed the blinds, set the alarm, locked the door, and marched home. As I came through the door to my house carrying several boxes of untouched pizza with me, my wife remarked that I was home earlier than usual. I replied, "I quit --- and I'm GLAD!"
Not my finest ministry moment.
The kids had come into the second session of Pizza Church loudly bossing me around and complaining about how much pizza they think they deserved. Between the first and second sessions the kids gathered outside were fighting, yelling, and causing a scene that made all the neighbors nervous and regretful that the church was on their block. The first session was full of kids who were snarky with me and each other.
And just before all this started the other person who was to be on staff that night canceled so I was the only grown-up in the room.
The kids were sure surprised the next week when they showed up and I didn't. I had already been scheduled to be out of town and those who were filling in had been advised of the previous week's events. They leveraged them for all it was worth.
It was then that the kids started to take the situation seriously. They started to figure out that I would be back when I was ready to come back, not when they demanded. They started to figure out that there are lines that cannot be intentionally and repeatedly crossed without consequences. They started to figure out that if we were to continue together it would be based on an appropriate and healthy relationship with me and with each other.
And when I got back in town I was back at the youth group again. Things didn't change instantly. I said that they started to figure out things. But there was just enough movement in the right direction to give us some space to work things out.
So I have to wonder how often Jesus is talking to me when I read from Matthew 17:17 in which He said, "How much longer must I be with you? Why do I have to put up with you?"
I sometimes get a bossy attitude with Him about the things I think I deserve. If I'm not careful my behavior and interactions can draw negative attention from those around me and have them questioning if they want Him around. My cynicism leads to snarkiness with Him and those who are trying to serve Him.
So once in a while I need a time out. It's then that I start to take things seriously again. I start to figure out that I don't have "God on Demand" but that I'm on His agenda. I start to figure out that there are negative consequences to my behaviors and attitudes if I repeatedly and intentionally go to those dark places. And I start to figure out that life in God's Kingdom is about living in an appropriate and healthy relationship with Him and with those around me.
I'm glad He doesn't kick me out telling me to never come back the way I did with the kids. And I'm glad that he's patient with me so I can be in "start to" mode over and over again.
By the way, in being true to character, all of those kids who I told to leave and never come back utterly refused to do what I said. Every last one of them kept coming back. They refused to give up. I think that might be an indicator as to who the grown-ups were in the room.
Thank you, Jesus, for your abundant grace. Help me grow in relationship with you and with those around me.
Not my finest ministry moment.
The kids had come into the second session of Pizza Church loudly bossing me around and complaining about how much pizza they think they deserved. Between the first and second sessions the kids gathered outside were fighting, yelling, and causing a scene that made all the neighbors nervous and regretful that the church was on their block. The first session was full of kids who were snarky with me and each other.
And just before all this started the other person who was to be on staff that night canceled so I was the only grown-up in the room.
The kids were sure surprised the next week when they showed up and I didn't. I had already been scheduled to be out of town and those who were filling in had been advised of the previous week's events. They leveraged them for all it was worth.
It was then that the kids started to take the situation seriously. They started to figure out that I would be back when I was ready to come back, not when they demanded. They started to figure out that there are lines that cannot be intentionally and repeatedly crossed without consequences. They started to figure out that if we were to continue together it would be based on an appropriate and healthy relationship with me and with each other.
And when I got back in town I was back at the youth group again. Things didn't change instantly. I said that they started to figure out things. But there was just enough movement in the right direction to give us some space to work things out.
So I have to wonder how often Jesus is talking to me when I read from Matthew 17:17 in which He said, "How much longer must I be with you? Why do I have to put up with you?"
I sometimes get a bossy attitude with Him about the things I think I deserve. If I'm not careful my behavior and interactions can draw negative attention from those around me and have them questioning if they want Him around. My cynicism leads to snarkiness with Him and those who are trying to serve Him.
So once in a while I need a time out. It's then that I start to take things seriously again. I start to figure out that I don't have "God on Demand" but that I'm on His agenda. I start to figure out that there are negative consequences to my behaviors and attitudes if I repeatedly and intentionally go to those dark places. And I start to figure out that life in God's Kingdom is about living in an appropriate and healthy relationship with Him and with those around me.
I'm glad He doesn't kick me out telling me to never come back the way I did with the kids. And I'm glad that he's patient with me so I can be in "start to" mode over and over again.
By the way, in being true to character, all of those kids who I told to leave and never come back utterly refused to do what I said. Every last one of them kept coming back. They refused to give up. I think that might be an indicator as to who the grown-ups were in the room.
Thank you, Jesus, for your abundant grace. Help me grow in relationship with you and with those around me.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Memorable
A friend joined me in the little space by the bathrooms for prayer. I was getting ready to both preside and preach at the evening's worship session after having already presided and preached a different sermon at the morning service then taught and led the crafts at Kids' Church that afternoon. I was tired and needed all the prayer I could get.
And it was one of those prayer sessions when I KNEW that God was moving in response to my friend's prayer. "Oh Lord, we ask that this be a memorable service . . ." That was all I heard.
All I wanted was a smooth plain vanilla lots of smiles no real problems short prayers service where nothing too earth-shattering happened so I could go home, eat dinner, and get to bed.
But he prayed for a memorable service. I resisted the urge to scream, "TAKE IT BACK TAKE IT BACK TAKE IT BACK!" That would have been rude and useless because I knew God and would be answering soon.
And, yes, of all the services I've been a part of, this one was definitely rises to the top of the list of memorable.
During the opening song and only seconds after the "Amen" to my friend's prayer, I had to physically remove three teenage boys who began verbally harassing and physically threatening a senior citizen who was sitting in the back row.
Because of trouble on the steps in front of the church we had to lock the doors and post a bouncer to control who could come in during the rest of the service.
After a song about peace, one woman who had recently started attending services stood up, turned around, and loudly cussed out some kids who were sitting several rows behind her.
And as the service drew to a close, a woman raised her hand and said, "Tonight I've decided to get baptized. How soon can we do it?"
We set the date.
Yes, it was a memorable service. And it wasn't so much because of the utter bedlam inside and out. The fact that He moved in a life-transforming way in someone even in the midst of that chaos -- now THAT is memorable.
I spend a lot of time praying for all the craziness in my life to just stop. And when I've maxed out on it, all I can seem to pray is for God to let me go home, eat dinner, an go to bed. It's then that I also need to look around and see a raised hand trying to get my attention to let me know that God is doing something memorable in the very center of it.
Because people have been praying in churches and in temples and at home and on the streets and even by the bathroom doors asking God to do something memorable. And though the chaos seems bent on distracting us, God is bringing transformation to people right in the center of the madness.
And on those days that I can realize that I KNOW I walk in the midst of prayers that are being answered, it's the glimpses of those answers rather than the chaos that make the day memorable.
Father, help me see you working in the world around me. Let me witness of You and share in Your vision.
And it was one of those prayer sessions when I KNEW that God was moving in response to my friend's prayer. "Oh Lord, we ask that this be a memorable service . . ." That was all I heard.
All I wanted was a smooth plain vanilla lots of smiles no real problems short prayers service where nothing too earth-shattering happened so I could go home, eat dinner, and get to bed.
But he prayed for a memorable service. I resisted the urge to scream, "TAKE IT BACK TAKE IT BACK TAKE IT BACK!" That would have been rude and useless because I knew God and would be answering soon.
And, yes, of all the services I've been a part of, this one was definitely rises to the top of the list of memorable.
During the opening song and only seconds after the "Amen" to my friend's prayer, I had to physically remove three teenage boys who began verbally harassing and physically threatening a senior citizen who was sitting in the back row.
Because of trouble on the steps in front of the church we had to lock the doors and post a bouncer to control who could come in during the rest of the service.
After a song about peace, one woman who had recently started attending services stood up, turned around, and loudly cussed out some kids who were sitting several rows behind her.
And as the service drew to a close, a woman raised her hand and said, "Tonight I've decided to get baptized. How soon can we do it?"
We set the date.
Yes, it was a memorable service. And it wasn't so much because of the utter bedlam inside and out. The fact that He moved in a life-transforming way in someone even in the midst of that chaos -- now THAT is memorable.
I spend a lot of time praying for all the craziness in my life to just stop. And when I've maxed out on it, all I can seem to pray is for God to let me go home, eat dinner, an go to bed. It's then that I also need to look around and see a raised hand trying to get my attention to let me know that God is doing something memorable in the very center of it.
Because people have been praying in churches and in temples and at home and on the streets and even by the bathroom doors asking God to do something memorable. And though the chaos seems bent on distracting us, God is bringing transformation to people right in the center of the madness.
And on those days that I can realize that I KNOW I walk in the midst of prayers that are being answered, it's the glimpses of those answers rather than the chaos that make the day memorable.
Father, help me see you working in the world around me. Let me witness of You and share in Your vision.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Remembered
I ran into her on the streets several months later. The last time I had seen her she was strung out sitting and on her front steps while I was talking with her about sending her son to camp with the church. She's had a lucid moment remembering her own church camp experience as a child and wanted her son to go, too.
This meeting was quite different from the last. She looked healthy and had cleaned herself up. When she saw me she quickened her step toward me.
"Pastor, I'm so glad to see you. I want to let you know that I've been off the heroin for six months now!" We celebrated that good news together.
She went on to say, "I was planning on coming to your church but before I did I went back to that church that sent me to camp when I was a kid just to thank them. And when I got there, they all REMEMBERED me! I hope you don't mind but I've been going there ever since."
I'm venturing to guess that the memories they shared of each other were selective. I doubt they spent time dwelling on the memory of how long she'd been gone. I would guess that the memories they shared weren't of the disappointment the congregation went through when she left them for drugs. I even think that most of the strolls down memory lane didn't include the times that I'm sure she, as a teen, gave them a run for the money.
Instead, the memories were focused on who she really was inside. The memories were about the good times and the mutual blessing they had been to one another. They remembered HER.
I don't get much choice in how people remember me. The impressions that they have of me are out of my control. Yes, I can behave in ways that help provide the materials that people use to form images and memories, but those impressions are in their minds, not mine.
But when I accept this lack of control over my own image, I realize that I do have control over every other person's image inside me. I get to choose how I remember others.
I can easily choose to look at each person as a series of crystal clear bad decisions played out over and over again in some form of tragic drama. I can hold close to me the times they've hurt me and wallow as I remember my own superiority.
Or, I can choose a tougher lens to help focus my vision. No, it's not the Pollyanna way of looking only for the good. It's that foggy glass view that seeks to squint through what's going on in someone's life and see who is really there. It's trying to see what the Creator had in mind when the idea of this person was first imagined by Him. It's choosing to start from the place of knowing that whoever I see is somehow created in the image and likeness of the One who breaths life into each of us.
And it's remembering the words of scripture which say, "and their sins and their iniquities will I remember no more." (Hebrews 8:12 KJV) God chooses to remember who He created in me despite what I've done. This is the heavenly experience of His love, mercy, and grace poured out upon me.
I don't have control over how other people remember me. Gladly, I do know my Redeemer chooses to remember the ME that few others, including myself, ever get a good look at.
And when I get to meet Him face to face, I think the experience might be a bit like what happened to my neighbor when she went back to the church of her youth. That little group of faithful church-goers provided a glimpse of heaven here on earth. May I do likewise with all I meet.
Jesus remember me when You come into Your kingdom. Help me bring about Your kingdom in this time and place by seeing myself and others as You see us.
This meeting was quite different from the last. She looked healthy and had cleaned herself up. When she saw me she quickened her step toward me.
"Pastor, I'm so glad to see you. I want to let you know that I've been off the heroin for six months now!" We celebrated that good news together.
She went on to say, "I was planning on coming to your church but before I did I went back to that church that sent me to camp when I was a kid just to thank them. And when I got there, they all REMEMBERED me! I hope you don't mind but I've been going there ever since."
I'm venturing to guess that the memories they shared of each other were selective. I doubt they spent time dwelling on the memory of how long she'd been gone. I would guess that the memories they shared weren't of the disappointment the congregation went through when she left them for drugs. I even think that most of the strolls down memory lane didn't include the times that I'm sure she, as a teen, gave them a run for the money.
Instead, the memories were focused on who she really was inside. The memories were about the good times and the mutual blessing they had been to one another. They remembered HER.
I don't get much choice in how people remember me. The impressions that they have of me are out of my control. Yes, I can behave in ways that help provide the materials that people use to form images and memories, but those impressions are in their minds, not mine.
But when I accept this lack of control over my own image, I realize that I do have control over every other person's image inside me. I get to choose how I remember others.
I can easily choose to look at each person as a series of crystal clear bad decisions played out over and over again in some form of tragic drama. I can hold close to me the times they've hurt me and wallow as I remember my own superiority.
Or, I can choose a tougher lens to help focus my vision. No, it's not the Pollyanna way of looking only for the good. It's that foggy glass view that seeks to squint through what's going on in someone's life and see who is really there. It's trying to see what the Creator had in mind when the idea of this person was first imagined by Him. It's choosing to start from the place of knowing that whoever I see is somehow created in the image and likeness of the One who breaths life into each of us.
And it's remembering the words of scripture which say, "and their sins and their iniquities will I remember no more." (Hebrews 8:12 KJV) God chooses to remember who He created in me despite what I've done. This is the heavenly experience of His love, mercy, and grace poured out upon me.
I don't have control over how other people remember me. Gladly, I do know my Redeemer chooses to remember the ME that few others, including myself, ever get a good look at.
And when I get to meet Him face to face, I think the experience might be a bit like what happened to my neighbor when she went back to the church of her youth. That little group of faithful church-goers provided a glimpse of heaven here on earth. May I do likewise with all I meet.
Jesus remember me when You come into Your kingdom. Help me bring about Your kingdom in this time and place by seeing myself and others as You see us.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Generations
After being cussed out by a dad who didn't appreciate the fact that his daughter had been in a church, much less that she participated often enough to earn a trip to the church's summer camp, I headed to the next house to try to get permission for another kid to spend a week at camp. On the short walk from one house to the next, I stopped on the corner to visit with some kids who had been to camp in the past. They were all dealing drugs and my visit slowed their commerce for a few minutes.
The futility of the situation didn't improve when the mom answered the door at the next kid's house. She was clearly strung out on heroin and nodded off as I talked with her.
Until she heard the word "camp," that is. Once that little word came out of my mouth she connected. Not with me, but I could see she was off in a different space than where heroin usually takes someone.
She turned to me and said, "When I was a kid I went to a camp with a church one summer. I want my kid to do that, too." She signed the forms.
It's so easy for me to get caught up in today. So much of life seems to be an exercise in banging my head against a wall followed by people complaining that I didn't bang it hard enough to do any good. And when I look only at today (and maybe the last couple of years) then I can only agree.
But that mom's lucid moment forced me to refocus through the eternal lens that disciples of Jesus are privileged to have. The woman's life was clearly a mess, but the faithfulness of the church of her childhood was opening doors for her son's future that might not have been otherwise open to him.
And when I can look through that lens I have just a bit of hope. That hope is not for today but for her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I think of what could happen if Jesus' disciples will continue to surround and bless this family for generations to come. Is it possible that each generation could grow just a bit closer to Christ than the last? Could a family's testimony of growing in Christ from generation to generation empower disciples for generations to come?
When I look through that eternal lens, I can have some hope that the former campers who were dealing drugs that afternoon will not only let their kids come to church and go to camp but will encourage them to do so.
And I can hope that the girl whose dad cussed me out because she was in church got enough good seed planted in her so that she won't cuss out the pastor who comes by ten summers from now inviting her yet-to-be-born kids to a week of Vacation Bible School.
Because my God has plans for this world that are bigger than the span of my life. I get the privilege and responsibility of remaining faithful and being a blessing in this generation, trusting that other people of faith will build on those blessings in the generations to come.
Lord, let me see with Your eyes that I may see the worth You've put in each person and the hope You have for them and their descendants.
The futility of the situation didn't improve when the mom answered the door at the next kid's house. She was clearly strung out on heroin and nodded off as I talked with her.
Until she heard the word "camp," that is. Once that little word came out of my mouth she connected. Not with me, but I could see she was off in a different space than where heroin usually takes someone.
She turned to me and said, "When I was a kid I went to a camp with a church one summer. I want my kid to do that, too." She signed the forms.
It's so easy for me to get caught up in today. So much of life seems to be an exercise in banging my head against a wall followed by people complaining that I didn't bang it hard enough to do any good. And when I look only at today (and maybe the last couple of years) then I can only agree.
But that mom's lucid moment forced me to refocus through the eternal lens that disciples of Jesus are privileged to have. The woman's life was clearly a mess, but the faithfulness of the church of her childhood was opening doors for her son's future that might not have been otherwise open to him.
And when I can look through that lens I have just a bit of hope. That hope is not for today but for her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I think of what could happen if Jesus' disciples will continue to surround and bless this family for generations to come. Is it possible that each generation could grow just a bit closer to Christ than the last? Could a family's testimony of growing in Christ from generation to generation empower disciples for generations to come?
When I look through that eternal lens, I can have some hope that the former campers who were dealing drugs that afternoon will not only let their kids come to church and go to camp but will encourage them to do so.
And I can hope that the girl whose dad cussed me out because she was in church got enough good seed planted in her so that she won't cuss out the pastor who comes by ten summers from now inviting her yet-to-be-born kids to a week of Vacation Bible School.
Because my God has plans for this world that are bigger than the span of my life. I get the privilege and responsibility of remaining faithful and being a blessing in this generation, trusting that other people of faith will build on those blessings in the generations to come.
Lord, let me see with Your eyes that I may see the worth You've put in each person and the hope You have for them and their descendants.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Keys
The keys were just hanging there. Apparently, someone had unlocked the door and left the keys in the lock when they went inside. All their treasures -- the house, the car, and who-knows-what else -- were now available to strangers just for the taking.
I happened upon this scene when I was delivering fliers one morning. I'm sure the keys hadn't been in the lock very long because some people, casually loitering across the street, seemed to be looking for a clearing in foot traffic so they could take advantage of the opportunities for treasure those keys provided.
So I knocked on the door. No one replied. I knocked again. Still nothing. I knocked harder. Cussing came out but the owner didn't. I knocked again.
The door flew open and I was in the shadow of a very large, angry, burly man. He was not happy and proceeded to loudly tell me so. (The collar I was wearing, I believe, saved me from some even more colorful language than what I was already getting.)
Without a chance to get a word in I just pointed at the keys. He glanced at his door. Then he LOOKED at his door and quit talking.
He took the keys out of the lock and looked across the street at the loiterers who were now casually dispersing.
He started talking again, only these were words of thanks and relief from fear and panic from what might have happened had I not been persistent or had he not come to the door.
I wish I could say that I didn't know how this guy felt. I do stupid things all the time. Yes, I've left my keys in the door, though it was when I lived in Iowa so it was a much less risky error than if it happened here in da 'hood. But I'm oblivious to many of the mistakes I make and would be horrified if I recognized the consequences.
And so I need to be open to having someone knock on my door and offer correction. Honest, thoughtful correction isn't the enemy; it's just a friend I might want to yell at.
Now, just because someone knocks on my door doesn't mean they have my best interest in mind. People knock on my door all the time looking to sell me meat out of the back of their truck. Or it might be someone at the wrong house looking for my neighbor. Or it might be someone asking for money. Maybe you don't have this problem, but I have an abundance of people who have wonderful plans for my life if only I would do things their way.
But when honest correction with my interest at heart comes knocking, I best look at where it's pointing. It will show me the keys that I didn't know I was missing that unlock the treasures God has in store for me.
Thank you, Lord, for loving me enough to not leave me as I am. Correct me and help me to accept and implement Your wisdom and truth in my life.
I happened upon this scene when I was delivering fliers one morning. I'm sure the keys hadn't been in the lock very long because some people, casually loitering across the street, seemed to be looking for a clearing in foot traffic so they could take advantage of the opportunities for treasure those keys provided.
So I knocked on the door. No one replied. I knocked again. Still nothing. I knocked harder. Cussing came out but the owner didn't. I knocked again.
The door flew open and I was in the shadow of a very large, angry, burly man. He was not happy and proceeded to loudly tell me so. (The collar I was wearing, I believe, saved me from some even more colorful language than what I was already getting.)
Without a chance to get a word in I just pointed at the keys. He glanced at his door. Then he LOOKED at his door and quit talking.
He took the keys out of the lock and looked across the street at the loiterers who were now casually dispersing.
He started talking again, only these were words of thanks and relief from fear and panic from what might have happened had I not been persistent or had he not come to the door.
I wish I could say that I didn't know how this guy felt. I do stupid things all the time. Yes, I've left my keys in the door, though it was when I lived in Iowa so it was a much less risky error than if it happened here in da 'hood. But I'm oblivious to many of the mistakes I make and would be horrified if I recognized the consequences.
And so I need to be open to having someone knock on my door and offer correction. Honest, thoughtful correction isn't the enemy; it's just a friend I might want to yell at.
Now, just because someone knocks on my door doesn't mean they have my best interest in mind. People knock on my door all the time looking to sell me meat out of the back of their truck. Or it might be someone at the wrong house looking for my neighbor. Or it might be someone asking for money. Maybe you don't have this problem, but I have an abundance of people who have wonderful plans for my life if only I would do things their way.
But when honest correction with my interest at heart comes knocking, I best look at where it's pointing. It will show me the keys that I didn't know I was missing that unlock the treasures God has in store for me.
Thank you, Lord, for loving me enough to not leave me as I am. Correct me and help me to accept and implement Your wisdom and truth in my life.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Answer
She had been coming to church for only a few months and everything was new and exciting. She was five years old and had never heard any of the Bible stories we were sharing each Sunday afternoon.
She came all four weeks of the Advent season and was shocked, amazed, and delighted to learn that Christmas was Jesus' Birthday. For four weeks in a row our themes, lessons, and crafts all shouted the message, "Christmas is Jesus' Birthday!"
So on the first Sunday after Christmas her hand was the first one in the air when I asked about why we celebrate Christmas. With a giant smile and total delight from knowing the right answer, she called out,
"PRESENTS!"
Everyone on staff sank just a little bit as I redirected the conversation to get the name "Jesus" to somehow be affiliated with the celebration of Christmas. Maybe next year she'll get it right.
Though I was truly disappointed that she didn't get the right answer, her honesty was refreshing. So often I'm smart enough to give the right answers to questions at church. They aren't, though, always quite as honest.
Some of the right answers I know include:
-Easter is all about Jesus' resurrection.
-I need to be patient and wait upon the Lord.
-With God all things are possible.
-All things work together for good for those who love the Lord and are called according to His purposes.
I give these and other "right" answers for several reasons. First, the bright side of me knows they are correct and I answer in hopes of building my faith a bit. The darker side of me, though, knows that most other people at church already know the "right" answer and I don't want to look even more foolish or shallow than I normally do. In addition, I don't need yet another person to talk down to me to teach me the "right" answer that I already know anyway.
Maybe it would be good if I sometimes said out loud that some years Easter is more about a couple days off with the family than an empty tomb, that I get tired of waiting on the Lord and occasionally plan a hostile takeover, and that I believe the problems in front of me are both completely impossible and cannot in any way be used for good.
If I were more like an eager five-year-old child I would raise my hand and confess these wrong-but-honest answers, inside myself (and maybe even in front of the other kids in my class). Who knows? It might open up an opportunity for God to redirect the conversation to help the right answer be the honest answer. Maybe next year I'll really get it right.
God, help me be more honest with myself and with You. Use this to help me live more fully in your Truth.
She came all four weeks of the Advent season and was shocked, amazed, and delighted to learn that Christmas was Jesus' Birthday. For four weeks in a row our themes, lessons, and crafts all shouted the message, "Christmas is Jesus' Birthday!"
So on the first Sunday after Christmas her hand was the first one in the air when I asked about why we celebrate Christmas. With a giant smile and total delight from knowing the right answer, she called out,
"PRESENTS!"
Everyone on staff sank just a little bit as I redirected the conversation to get the name "Jesus" to somehow be affiliated with the celebration of Christmas. Maybe next year she'll get it right.
Though I was truly disappointed that she didn't get the right answer, her honesty was refreshing. So often I'm smart enough to give the right answers to questions at church. They aren't, though, always quite as honest.
Some of the right answers I know include:
-Easter is all about Jesus' resurrection.
-I need to be patient and wait upon the Lord.
-With God all things are possible.
-All things work together for good for those who love the Lord and are called according to His purposes.
I give these and other "right" answers for several reasons. First, the bright side of me knows they are correct and I answer in hopes of building my faith a bit. The darker side of me, though, knows that most other people at church already know the "right" answer and I don't want to look even more foolish or shallow than I normally do. In addition, I don't need yet another person to talk down to me to teach me the "right" answer that I already know anyway.
Maybe it would be good if I sometimes said out loud that some years Easter is more about a couple days off with the family than an empty tomb, that I get tired of waiting on the Lord and occasionally plan a hostile takeover, and that I believe the problems in front of me are both completely impossible and cannot in any way be used for good.
If I were more like an eager five-year-old child I would raise my hand and confess these wrong-but-honest answers, inside myself (and maybe even in front of the other kids in my class). Who knows? It might open up an opportunity for God to redirect the conversation to help the right answer be the honest answer. Maybe next year I'll really get it right.
God, help me be more honest with myself and with You. Use this to help me live more fully in your Truth.
Monday, March 22, 2010
News
It was a dark and stormy night. Actually, it was just dark outside. I've just always wanted to start a story that way.
Through much of the day we'd been installing a new laminate floor in the church. We had worked together and had ample opportunities to practice the fruit of the Spirit with one another, especially patients, kindness, and self-control.
And long suffering.
The directions were more complicated than we originally thought. Some of my tools had been stolen when we turned our backs for just a few seconds. The materials were backbreakingly heavy. Dirt and scraps were everywhere. Sawdust stuck to our skin.
The project was about 80% complete that Saturday night with three services scheduled for Sunday. We would not be able to finish. We came to a reasonable stopping point and called it quits. That night I went back to the church alone to try to set up a few things for morning and to finish the sermon, now only 14 hours away.
It was then that he just opened the door and walked in like he owned the place. I knew who he was as he had lived up the street from the church for many years. But I don't recall having said anything more personal to him than things like, "beautiful evening tonight" when we'd passed on the street. I think a couple of his grandkids might have been to a festival the church hosted once. I wasn't sure of his name.
He said, "I saw the lights on so I came in because I knew you'd want to hear my good news." This was followed by an overly detailed and graphic description of the hunting trip he'd been on that day. He got a deer.
After congratulating him I said, "And you have perfect timing, too. You got here just as I was going to try to get this refrigerator back in place. Can you help me for a minute?" He gladly did. We got the refrigerator out of the middle of the room then he headed out into the night to go home and share both his news and, in the near future, some cuts of meat with his neighbors.
Though sore and tired, bespeckled with sawdust, and still a little disgusted about the tools, hope was refreshed in me. Because for just a few minutes, the temporal reflected my hope in the things less easy to quantify.
My hope is that the church is a place where Light shines out into the surrounding darkness beckoning people to come in.
My hope is that the church is known as a place where people can come with Good News to share.
My hope is that the church will follow the Good News with opportunities to serve.
My hope is that the church will release people back into the world to continue sharing the Good News and to bless others from their bounty.
And sometimes just a glimpse of hope in the temporal gives me just enough Breath to buy new tools, set up the chairs, and blow away the personal thunderclouds on what what could have been a very dark and stormy night.
Lord, thank you for the hope you've placed in us. Help me to hand onto it amid each day's challenges.
Through much of the day we'd been installing a new laminate floor in the church. We had worked together and had ample opportunities to practice the fruit of the Spirit with one another, especially patients, kindness, and self-control.
And long suffering.
The directions were more complicated than we originally thought. Some of my tools had been stolen when we turned our backs for just a few seconds. The materials were backbreakingly heavy. Dirt and scraps were everywhere. Sawdust stuck to our skin.
The project was about 80% complete that Saturday night with three services scheduled for Sunday. We would not be able to finish. We came to a reasonable stopping point and called it quits. That night I went back to the church alone to try to set up a few things for morning and to finish the sermon, now only 14 hours away.
It was then that he just opened the door and walked in like he owned the place. I knew who he was as he had lived up the street from the church for many years. But I don't recall having said anything more personal to him than things like, "beautiful evening tonight" when we'd passed on the street. I think a couple of his grandkids might have been to a festival the church hosted once. I wasn't sure of his name.
He said, "I saw the lights on so I came in because I knew you'd want to hear my good news." This was followed by an overly detailed and graphic description of the hunting trip he'd been on that day. He got a deer.
After congratulating him I said, "And you have perfect timing, too. You got here just as I was going to try to get this refrigerator back in place. Can you help me for a minute?" He gladly did. We got the refrigerator out of the middle of the room then he headed out into the night to go home and share both his news and, in the near future, some cuts of meat with his neighbors.
Though sore and tired, bespeckled with sawdust, and still a little disgusted about the tools, hope was refreshed in me. Because for just a few minutes, the temporal reflected my hope in the things less easy to quantify.
My hope is that the church is a place where Light shines out into the surrounding darkness beckoning people to come in.
My hope is that the church is known as a place where people can come with Good News to share.
My hope is that the church will follow the Good News with opportunities to serve.
My hope is that the church will release people back into the world to continue sharing the Good News and to bless others from their bounty.
And sometimes just a glimpse of hope in the temporal gives me just enough Breath to buy new tools, set up the chairs, and blow away the personal thunderclouds on what what could have been a very dark and stormy night.
Lord, thank you for the hope you've placed in us. Help me to hand onto it amid each day's challenges.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Glow
She wanted her baby to receive its sacramental blessing right away. Though they hadn't been home from the hospital very long she was eager to have it done.
The next event on the calendar was our Christmas Eve service so we decided to have the blessing then. That evening we filled the small storefront church with candles which created a peaceful light while at the same time dimming the scary and dangerous effects of the room in which we gathered.
There amid the warm glow of both the candles and the season she brought her baby for its blessing. Those gathered shared in the Spirit during that time together and congratulated the mother on the good choice she made to have the baby blessed that night.
It was a moving Christmas Eve for us all, especially since we were well aware that in a matter of days Child Protective Services would be permanently removing the baby from her mother.
Mom had already endangered the child for nine months prior to the birth due to her use of heroin. The home that she had for the baby was not a safe or healthy place even when mom was lucent.
But that night she made the right choice. She thoroughly loved her baby and did not willingly give her to the state. The choice to bring this child before God and submit to His love took great courage. Our compassion both for mother and child underscored the need put the whole situation into hands bigger and more capable than our own.
The Prince of Peace was with mom that night. He was with all of us who were both entangled and torn in the midst of this very difficult situation.
And we live in faith that His blessing continues to be upon that child, providing both a peaceful Light while at the same time dimming the scary and dangerous effects of the room in which she spent the days before her birth.
Be near me Lord Jesus I ask Thee to stay close by me forever and love me I pray. Bless all the dear children in Thy tender care. And fit us for heaven to live with Thee there.
The next event on the calendar was our Christmas Eve service so we decided to have the blessing then. That evening we filled the small storefront church with candles which created a peaceful light while at the same time dimming the scary and dangerous effects of the room in which we gathered.
There amid the warm glow of both the candles and the season she brought her baby for its blessing. Those gathered shared in the Spirit during that time together and congratulated the mother on the good choice she made to have the baby blessed that night.
It was a moving Christmas Eve for us all, especially since we were well aware that in a matter of days Child Protective Services would be permanently removing the baby from her mother.
Mom had already endangered the child for nine months prior to the birth due to her use of heroin. The home that she had for the baby was not a safe or healthy place even when mom was lucent.
But that night she made the right choice. She thoroughly loved her baby and did not willingly give her to the state. The choice to bring this child before God and submit to His love took great courage. Our compassion both for mother and child underscored the need put the whole situation into hands bigger and more capable than our own.
The Prince of Peace was with mom that night. He was with all of us who were both entangled and torn in the midst of this very difficult situation.
And we live in faith that His blessing continues to be upon that child, providing both a peaceful Light while at the same time dimming the scary and dangerous effects of the room in which she spent the days before her birth.
Be near me Lord Jesus I ask Thee to stay close by me forever and love me I pray. Bless all the dear children in Thy tender care. And fit us for heaven to live with Thee there.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Temptation
I don't remember exactly which chapter and verse we were reading with the teens at church that night. But the word "temptation" was in it. So I asked, "What's a temptation."
Only one kid raised his hand so I called on him. He stood up, shuffled his feet, swayed, snapped his fingers, and said, "It's a guy who dances like this while he's singing."
The others all agreed.
I'm not sure which surprised me more:
1. That he gave that answer.
2. That he and the others honestly agreed that it was the right answer.
3. That all the kids were so familiar with the singing group The Temptations.
Needless to say, we explored another meaning of the word temptation that night. Once we did, the passage seemed to make a little more sense to the kids.
That was good because understanding different kinds of temptations can help make sense of the root of our own motivations.
As a church we've pontificated on the classic sex/drugs/rock 'n roll types of temptations to the point that sometimes the church is viewed by the world as simply the group who is against those things. And yes, they can be quiet tempting.
We also talk about the temptations that impact our behavior when we're angry or mad or hungry. They're not as scandalous as the other temptations but are very real and are sometimes addressed.
But for me the real temptations that get me in trouble are the ones more subtle. See, it's tempting for me to only do the kinds of ministry that I know people will express gratitude for instead of all the things that need to be done that no one seems to appreciate. It's tempting for me to use the business of doing good works as an excuse to not take the time to delve deeper into my relationship with God. It's tempting for me to quickly make doable plans and try to get heaven's endorsement rather than go the through the discernment process and take faith risks to reveal and implement God's plans. It's tempting for me to say, "God answered my prayer" when He did what I wanted rather than looking for how He answered amid my not getting my way.
Though these types of temptations don't grab as high of ratings as the ones featured on daytime television talk shows, they are just as destructive because they have the same root. That root is a self-centeredness that warps the words of Jesus when it cries out, "My kingdom come, my will be done on earth as it is in my heaven."
When I get to facing those temptations that are complicated, personal, and not likely to end up getting me arrested or fired, I usually prefer to shuffle my feet, sway, and snap my fingers in hopes that they will all just go away. And the culture around me seems to agree that this is the right answer.
But I have a God who loves me. I've asked Him to take over my life, and not just the parts that grab the headlines but the fine print, too. Knowing that, then, my prayer this day can be,
Suffer us not to be lead into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For Thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever and ever. Amen.
Only one kid raised his hand so I called on him. He stood up, shuffled his feet, swayed, snapped his fingers, and said, "It's a guy who dances like this while he's singing."
The others all agreed.
I'm not sure which surprised me more:
1. That he gave that answer.
2. That he and the others honestly agreed that it was the right answer.
3. That all the kids were so familiar with the singing group The Temptations.
Needless to say, we explored another meaning of the word temptation that night. Once we did, the passage seemed to make a little more sense to the kids.
That was good because understanding different kinds of temptations can help make sense of the root of our own motivations.
As a church we've pontificated on the classic sex/drugs/rock 'n roll types of temptations to the point that sometimes the church is viewed by the world as simply the group who is against those things. And yes, they can be quiet tempting.
We also talk about the temptations that impact our behavior when we're angry or mad or hungry. They're not as scandalous as the other temptations but are very real and are sometimes addressed.
But for me the real temptations that get me in trouble are the ones more subtle. See, it's tempting for me to only do the kinds of ministry that I know people will express gratitude for instead of all the things that need to be done that no one seems to appreciate. It's tempting for me to use the business of doing good works as an excuse to not take the time to delve deeper into my relationship with God. It's tempting for me to quickly make doable plans and try to get heaven's endorsement rather than go the through the discernment process and take faith risks to reveal and implement God's plans. It's tempting for me to say, "God answered my prayer" when He did what I wanted rather than looking for how He answered amid my not getting my way.
Though these types of temptations don't grab as high of ratings as the ones featured on daytime television talk shows, they are just as destructive because they have the same root. That root is a self-centeredness that warps the words of Jesus when it cries out, "My kingdom come, my will be done on earth as it is in my heaven."
When I get to facing those temptations that are complicated, personal, and not likely to end up getting me arrested or fired, I usually prefer to shuffle my feet, sway, and snap my fingers in hopes that they will all just go away. And the culture around me seems to agree that this is the right answer.
But I have a God who loves me. I've asked Him to take over my life, and not just the parts that grab the headlines but the fine print, too. Knowing that, then, my prayer this day can be,
Suffer us not to be lead into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For Thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever and ever. Amen.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Terminal
He lamented the same topic each time we visited. His girlfriend had a terminal illness.
I never met his girlfriend; I never knew her name. I don't know where she lived, though he was basically homeless so I'm not sure how that all worked anyway. Occasionally he would ask that I remember her in prayer.
The thing with her illness was that, though there was no cure, her death from it was not expected any time soon. In fact, the disease didn't have a direct obvious impact on her physical well being. She was in the very early stages of this slowly progressing illness and the doctors had predicted it would have minimal impact on her for the next 10 years. The prognosis was for gradual decline after that. Since she was already in her late 50s, with mindful monitoring she would most likely live for what most people would consider a full life.
None of this seemed to matter to him, though. The fact that she had a terminal illness obsessed his mind and depleted his well-being.
One day as he again lamented about the situation, I turned to him and was surprised to hear the following statement come out of my mouth:
"You know, we're all terminal. She just knows what from."
He gave me an odd look and changed the topic of conversation.
I saw him again about a week later. He looked about 2 inches taller and 10 years younger. His demeanor, actions, and conversation were filled with a new vitality. In our visits from that time forward he no longer obsessed about the terminal nature of his girlfriend's illness. He would occasionally mention that her illness was terminal but always followed it with a grin and the words, " . . . but, we all are."
That little statement changed his life for the better. When I remember it my life is better, too.
There are only a few material things like pyramids and Great Walls and Colosseums that have survived the ages and they're mostly in some state of ruin. Virtually all of the music ever composed or words ever written will never be heard again. The churches that Paul helped establish are not mega-churches or beacons of Christianity today.
Some might find that depressing. For me it's a relief. It takes the pressure off of me and reorders priorities. Sermons and public prayers change from speaking words today for all eternity to speaking eternal words for today. Building a church that will endure changes from setting things up now that will be right forever to forever setting things up that will be right for now.
Ministry comes not in monuments but in moments, and moments are fleeting. We're all terminal; our works, our ideas, our selves.
And just once in a while I have a day when I'm not obsessively lamenting that fact. It's then that I can let the One who was and is and is to come fully invade and embrace His terminal creation known as me, bringing with Him into this fleeting moment the vitality of His everlasting life.
Thank you, God, for each moment. Free me from my focus on the temporary to live fully in Your presence.
I never met his girlfriend; I never knew her name. I don't know where she lived, though he was basically homeless so I'm not sure how that all worked anyway. Occasionally he would ask that I remember her in prayer.
The thing with her illness was that, though there was no cure, her death from it was not expected any time soon. In fact, the disease didn't have a direct obvious impact on her physical well being. She was in the very early stages of this slowly progressing illness and the doctors had predicted it would have minimal impact on her for the next 10 years. The prognosis was for gradual decline after that. Since she was already in her late 50s, with mindful monitoring she would most likely live for what most people would consider a full life.
None of this seemed to matter to him, though. The fact that she had a terminal illness obsessed his mind and depleted his well-being.
One day as he again lamented about the situation, I turned to him and was surprised to hear the following statement come out of my mouth:
"You know, we're all terminal. She just knows what from."
He gave me an odd look and changed the topic of conversation.
I saw him again about a week later. He looked about 2 inches taller and 10 years younger. His demeanor, actions, and conversation were filled with a new vitality. In our visits from that time forward he no longer obsessed about the terminal nature of his girlfriend's illness. He would occasionally mention that her illness was terminal but always followed it with a grin and the words, " . . . but, we all are."
That little statement changed his life for the better. When I remember it my life is better, too.
There are only a few material things like pyramids and Great Walls and Colosseums that have survived the ages and they're mostly in some state of ruin. Virtually all of the music ever composed or words ever written will never be heard again. The churches that Paul helped establish are not mega-churches or beacons of Christianity today.
Some might find that depressing. For me it's a relief. It takes the pressure off of me and reorders priorities. Sermons and public prayers change from speaking words today for all eternity to speaking eternal words for today. Building a church that will endure changes from setting things up now that will be right forever to forever setting things up that will be right for now.
Ministry comes not in monuments but in moments, and moments are fleeting. We're all terminal; our works, our ideas, our selves.
And just once in a while I have a day when I'm not obsessively lamenting that fact. It's then that I can let the One who was and is and is to come fully invade and embrace His terminal creation known as me, bringing with Him into this fleeting moment the vitality of His everlasting life.
Thank you, God, for each moment. Free me from my focus on the temporary to live fully in Your presence.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Invisible
The principal of the neighborhood elementary school and I were visiting in her office. We were chatting about plans for the upcoming semester, coordinating schedules, and broader neighborhood issues.
While we were talking I mentioned that several students from the school had spent a week in the woods at the church's camp the previous summer.
She asked who had gone and I casually rattled off a list of a half-dozen boys. She stopped, gave me an odd look, stood up, walked over to her desk, picked up a file, and opened it.
She said, "Tell me again who went to the camp?"
She seemed to be checking off the names of the kids in her file as I said them.
She closed the file, looked at me, and said, "I knew something had happened to those boys this summer. There's been something different about them this year. I didn't know what and I've been trying to put my finger on it. Now I know."
I had been at camp that summer. In fact, I had been a cabin counselor to those boys. By the end of the week, the collective prayer of the entire staff was, "Thank God it's over!" It had not gone well.
Or so we thought.
Because sometimes fruit is invisible. Yes, we knew we were trying to plant seeds in the kids lives. But those boys were moving targets the entire week and we were pretty certain they had dodged all the seeds we tried to scatter.
But something took root in them. It might have been something we had sewn or it might have been a seed or two that were drifting on the Wind that we knew nothing about. Or most likely it was some combination thereof.
And the seeds took root. And they bore fruit.
Invisible fruit.
Fruit that none of us at church could see. Fruit that we didn't see out on the streets. Fruit they couldn't really see at the school, but they knew something was there; they just couldn't put a finger on it.
It's in these moments that I get a little hint about the depth of faith and trust we need if we're trying to be about the work of the Kingdom. We need to trust that when we try to sew seeds that once in a while some will take root. We need faith to know that sometimes the fruit is invisible. We need to live in the peace that can come from faith and trust, especially when the fruit is invisible.
And in the midst of the moments when someone notices something different that they just can't put their finger on, we can experience a glimpse and echo of what Isaiah was trying to say when he wrote, "Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf shall be unstopped." (Isaiah 35:5)
Lord, forgive me my desire to always see the fruit of the seeds I've tried to plant on Your behalf. Let me sew seeds in faith and trust today.
While we were talking I mentioned that several students from the school had spent a week in the woods at the church's camp the previous summer.
She asked who had gone and I casually rattled off a list of a half-dozen boys. She stopped, gave me an odd look, stood up, walked over to her desk, picked up a file, and opened it.
She said, "Tell me again who went to the camp?"
She seemed to be checking off the names of the kids in her file as I said them.
She closed the file, looked at me, and said, "I knew something had happened to those boys this summer. There's been something different about them this year. I didn't know what and I've been trying to put my finger on it. Now I know."
I had been at camp that summer. In fact, I had been a cabin counselor to those boys. By the end of the week, the collective prayer of the entire staff was, "Thank God it's over!" It had not gone well.
Or so we thought.
Because sometimes fruit is invisible. Yes, we knew we were trying to plant seeds in the kids lives. But those boys were moving targets the entire week and we were pretty certain they had dodged all the seeds we tried to scatter.
But something took root in them. It might have been something we had sewn or it might have been a seed or two that were drifting on the Wind that we knew nothing about. Or most likely it was some combination thereof.
And the seeds took root. And they bore fruit.
Invisible fruit.
Fruit that none of us at church could see. Fruit that we didn't see out on the streets. Fruit they couldn't really see at the school, but they knew something was there; they just couldn't put a finger on it.
It's in these moments that I get a little hint about the depth of faith and trust we need if we're trying to be about the work of the Kingdom. We need to trust that when we try to sew seeds that once in a while some will take root. We need faith to know that sometimes the fruit is invisible. We need to live in the peace that can come from faith and trust, especially when the fruit is invisible.
And in the midst of the moments when someone notices something different that they just can't put their finger on, we can experience a glimpse and echo of what Isaiah was trying to say when he wrote, "Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf shall be unstopped." (Isaiah 35:5)
Lord, forgive me my desire to always see the fruit of the seeds I've tried to plant on Your behalf. Let me sew seeds in faith and trust today.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Birth
Our first child was born while we were living in the suburbs. Our second child was born while we were living in the inner-city. The different settings made for totally different experiences.
For example, when living in the 'burbs, the Andersons were having a baby. While living in da 'hood, my wife was having a baby. That may sound subtle, but it played out in quite a variety of ways.
This was made clear even before the baby was born. On more than one occasion when telling someone of the pregnancy, I was asked, "Who's the father?"
Wow! ---- in sooooo many ways.
That question is normally the first question asked about a pregnancy in the inner-city. For that matter, it's usually a piece of information that people might not know. But you would think that people who know me and/or my wife could have skipped that question and gone on to more productive conversation. For a moment, I guess they forgot who they were talking to.
Sometimes I think about my own prayer time and the questions I ask God. They make sense to me and are the kind that are normally asked in my world. But if I would stop for half a second before I start talking and remember who I'm talking to, I could skip to more productive conversation rather than ask some questions that would cause "Wow! ----- in sooooo many ways" to reverberate across the heavenly realm.
I ask "Where are you, God?" when I know he has already promised to be with me always. I ask "What should I do?" without first considering how his Word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path. I ask "God, why don't you ________?" even though I know that my thoughts are not His thoughts and my ways are not His ways.
Fortunately, I also know that I live in His grace. Being born into this world is a totally different experience from being born into life in Christ. The first happened many years ago in a sterile hospital environment with doctors and nurses and a crib and crocheted baby booties waiting for me. The second continues to take place each moment in a messy world that's not always hospitable or accommodating to this new creation.
And when it's all over, my hope is that no one will have to ask about me, "Who's his Father?"
Thank you, Lord, for your grace. Help me to always remember who You are.
For example, when living in the 'burbs, the Andersons were having a baby. While living in da 'hood, my wife was having a baby. That may sound subtle, but it played out in quite a variety of ways.
This was made clear even before the baby was born. On more than one occasion when telling someone of the pregnancy, I was asked, "Who's the father?"
Wow! ---- in sooooo many ways.
That question is normally the first question asked about a pregnancy in the inner-city. For that matter, it's usually a piece of information that people might not know. But you would think that people who know me and/or my wife could have skipped that question and gone on to more productive conversation. For a moment, I guess they forgot who they were talking to.
Sometimes I think about my own prayer time and the questions I ask God. They make sense to me and are the kind that are normally asked in my world. But if I would stop for half a second before I start talking and remember who I'm talking to, I could skip to more productive conversation rather than ask some questions that would cause "Wow! ----- in sooooo many ways" to reverberate across the heavenly realm.
I ask "Where are you, God?" when I know he has already promised to be with me always. I ask "What should I do?" without first considering how his Word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path. I ask "God, why don't you ________?" even though I know that my thoughts are not His thoughts and my ways are not His ways.
Fortunately, I also know that I live in His grace. Being born into this world is a totally different experience from being born into life in Christ. The first happened many years ago in a sterile hospital environment with doctors and nurses and a crib and crocheted baby booties waiting for me. The second continues to take place each moment in a messy world that's not always hospitable or accommodating to this new creation.
And when it's all over, my hope is that no one will have to ask about me, "Who's his Father?"
Thank you, Lord, for your grace. Help me to always remember who You are.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Trunk
The funeral did not go well.
From beginning to end, one thing after another went wrong in ways I could not have imagined. It wasn't the funeral home's fault. It wasn't the family's fault. It wasn't my fault. It just did not go well.
It wasn't just my opinion, either. While at the cemetery, the funeral director turned to me and in his most compassionate, professional, somber, funeral home voice said to me, "I'm thinking of climbing into the trunk of the limo until this is over. Would you care to join me?"
Yes, it was that bad.
And in that moment, being secluded from everyone and everything carried great appeal, even if it meant being in the limo's dark trunk.
The desire to hide in a dark place is quite familiar to me. It's not unusual to have seasons when multiple things go horribly wrong. It's no one's fault; they just happen. And there's no sense in trying to find the good in its midst at that moment. It is what it is, and my usual desire is to find a dark place to hide from the cascading trauma.
Back at the cemetery, the offer for some time in the trunk of a limo seemed like a great option. The funeral director and I both both decided, though, to stay out in the sunlight with the bereaved. The best help we could give was to be present amid the chaos.
It's in those times of wanting to crawl into a trunk that I need to remember that Jesus is Immanuel ---- God with Us. He chooses to be fully present in all our circumstances. If I follow Him I'll end up being present in all kinds of situations, too.
So I have a choice. I can be present in people's lives or I can hide, be it in the trunk of a car or in a dark place deep inside myself somewhere.
Though the dark places sometimes seem most appealing, being present in and with the Light is where I am called to be.
Lord, help me overcome fears and inadequacies that I may stand firmly in Your presence and be fully present in the lives of others.
From beginning to end, one thing after another went wrong in ways I could not have imagined. It wasn't the funeral home's fault. It wasn't the family's fault. It wasn't my fault. It just did not go well.
It wasn't just my opinion, either. While at the cemetery, the funeral director turned to me and in his most compassionate, professional, somber, funeral home voice said to me, "I'm thinking of climbing into the trunk of the limo until this is over. Would you care to join me?"
Yes, it was that bad.
And in that moment, being secluded from everyone and everything carried great appeal, even if it meant being in the limo's dark trunk.
The desire to hide in a dark place is quite familiar to me. It's not unusual to have seasons when multiple things go horribly wrong. It's no one's fault; they just happen. And there's no sense in trying to find the good in its midst at that moment. It is what it is, and my usual desire is to find a dark place to hide from the cascading trauma.
Back at the cemetery, the offer for some time in the trunk of a limo seemed like a great option. The funeral director and I both both decided, though, to stay out in the sunlight with the bereaved. The best help we could give was to be present amid the chaos.
It's in those times of wanting to crawl into a trunk that I need to remember that Jesus is Immanuel ---- God with Us. He chooses to be fully present in all our circumstances. If I follow Him I'll end up being present in all kinds of situations, too.
So I have a choice. I can be present in people's lives or I can hide, be it in the trunk of a car or in a dark place deep inside myself somewhere.
Though the dark places sometimes seem most appealing, being present in and with the Light is where I am called to be.
Lord, help me overcome fears and inadequacies that I may stand firmly in Your presence and be fully present in the lives of others.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Returned
Every once in a while when I get to the church there will be a couple of old Bibles leaning up next to the door. No note. No name. Just a Bible or two on the ground next to the church that a neighbor has left there.
Invariably, these Bibles are in rough condition. They've been folded in odd ways or pages are missing or they're especially musty. They may have even been rained on since arriving at the church.
No matter their condition, I always take them in.
What I've discovered is that people don't know what to do when a Bible has somehow gotten damaged. Maybe it got musty in a box buried deep in the dark, damp basement full of junk. Maybe the cheap paperback binding didn't hold up. Maybe it got bent and creased when it was used to hold up that old, comfortable couch.
No matter how it happened, once a Bible gets damaged, people aren't sure what to do. It just doesn't seem right to throw it in the recycle bin. The content hasn't changed and it somehow seems wrong to just put it out with the newspapers and junk mail.
So they bring the Bible to the church, leaving it at the foot of the door. Somehow in their minds, returning the book's content to its source provides absolution for their neglect of it and hope that it might do someone else some good in the future.
An old Bible is hard for me to deal with, too.
In it are stories I learned as a child and that I teach the kids in the neighborhood today. Yet, when I go back and read them again the lessons are not so clear and the picture the stories paint of God isn't always the same as the one I've painted of Him in my mind.
In it is a repeated call to abandon the ways of the world and to live fully human in light of the Gospel. Yet, I want to live in the light of the Gospel while only abandoning a few of the world's ways, namely the ones that I already don't like anyway.
In it are are stories and words and guidance that I just don't understand and that I want to either shape to my own liking or to discard. Yet, it's those parts of me that refuse to let go and let the text shape me into His liking that need to be discarded.
What should I do with the old contents of the Bible, written all over my heart and mind? Some of it I've let get musty by boxing it up in the dark damp places inside me where I store my junk. Sometimes, like cheap binding, I haven't held very tight to it. Most often, though, I've misused it to prop up something comfortable for my spirit to rest on like an old couch.
Yes, it's hard for me to deal with my old Bible. And many (most?) days I just want to leave it out of sight and get on with my daily tasks. But when the words inside me get folded in odd ways or are missing some pages or get musty I've learned from my neighbors what to do.
I need to take it back to the Source. I put it on the ground before Him. There I can receive absolution for the past and hope for His word's work in me in the future.
No matter the condition of His word in me, He'll always take me in.
Lord, shape me with your Word. Let your mystery not confound me but draw me closer to You.
Invariably, these Bibles are in rough condition. They've been folded in odd ways or pages are missing or they're especially musty. They may have even been rained on since arriving at the church.
No matter their condition, I always take them in.
What I've discovered is that people don't know what to do when a Bible has somehow gotten damaged. Maybe it got musty in a box buried deep in the dark, damp basement full of junk. Maybe the cheap paperback binding didn't hold up. Maybe it got bent and creased when it was used to hold up that old, comfortable couch.
No matter how it happened, once a Bible gets damaged, people aren't sure what to do. It just doesn't seem right to throw it in the recycle bin. The content hasn't changed and it somehow seems wrong to just put it out with the newspapers and junk mail.
So they bring the Bible to the church, leaving it at the foot of the door. Somehow in their minds, returning the book's content to its source provides absolution for their neglect of it and hope that it might do someone else some good in the future.
An old Bible is hard for me to deal with, too.
In it are stories I learned as a child and that I teach the kids in the neighborhood today. Yet, when I go back and read them again the lessons are not so clear and the picture the stories paint of God isn't always the same as the one I've painted of Him in my mind.
In it is a repeated call to abandon the ways of the world and to live fully human in light of the Gospel. Yet, I want to live in the light of the Gospel while only abandoning a few of the world's ways, namely the ones that I already don't like anyway.
In it are are stories and words and guidance that I just don't understand and that I want to either shape to my own liking or to discard. Yet, it's those parts of me that refuse to let go and let the text shape me into His liking that need to be discarded.
What should I do with the old contents of the Bible, written all over my heart and mind? Some of it I've let get musty by boxing it up in the dark damp places inside me where I store my junk. Sometimes, like cheap binding, I haven't held very tight to it. Most often, though, I've misused it to prop up something comfortable for my spirit to rest on like an old couch.
Yes, it's hard for me to deal with my old Bible. And many (most?) days I just want to leave it out of sight and get on with my daily tasks. But when the words inside me get folded in odd ways or are missing some pages or get musty I've learned from my neighbors what to do.
I need to take it back to the Source. I put it on the ground before Him. There I can receive absolution for the past and hope for His word's work in me in the future.
No matter the condition of His word in me, He'll always take me in.
Lord, shape me with your Word. Let your mystery not confound me but draw me closer to You.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Donkeys
We were reading the story of Palm Sunday together with some teenage boys. The kids had just read how Jesus had sent some disciples into the village to get a donkey for him to ride. When we read that they had put some clothes on the back of the donkey before Jesus got on, the group leader asked, "Why do you think they did that?"
Without hesitation and in all seriousness, one of the boys honestly answered, "So no one would know that it was the one they had just stolen." The others all agreed.
That was NOT the answer I was expecting.
I would have probably answered that the disciples put some of their clothes on the donkey to make something like a saddle for Jesus or to somehow honor Him. The thought of the disciples trying to disguise that donkey had never crossed my mind.
But the disguise made sense in the context of the kids' world and my ideas made sense in the context of my world. The fact of the matter is, though, that we were both probably wrong.
I will never fully understand the context of the stories of ancient Palestine. I can read about it. I can study it. I can travel to modern Israel (hopefully someday!). I can try really really really hard and I can get better at interpreting scripture because of my efforts. I can become quite knowledgeable of the context and through that I can gain deeper insights into the text.
Still, I will never fully experience (much less understand) the context of the stories of Jesus because I'm a relatively affluent white man in the USA 2000 years after all these events took place. I would guess that my understandings would sound even more off base to the original hearers than the kids' idea of eluding authorities by disguising a donkey sounded to me.
Yet, somewhere in the midst of my lack there is Truth. Truth seeks to reveal Himself through the text. And as His people gather around the text for serious study, when they bring with them enough humility to know that they will never really understand even a syllable without the Spirit's help, Truth is revealed despite our context. It comes humbly as it rides in on a donkey. (Matthew 21:5b)
And I'm not so sure why that donkey has some clothes laid on its back.
Lord, humble me with your Word. Help me welcome the Truth from it that You give into my life.
Without hesitation and in all seriousness, one of the boys honestly answered, "So no one would know that it was the one they had just stolen." The others all agreed.
That was NOT the answer I was expecting.
I would have probably answered that the disciples put some of their clothes on the donkey to make something like a saddle for Jesus or to somehow honor Him. The thought of the disciples trying to disguise that donkey had never crossed my mind.
But the disguise made sense in the context of the kids' world and my ideas made sense in the context of my world. The fact of the matter is, though, that we were both probably wrong.
I will never fully understand the context of the stories of ancient Palestine. I can read about it. I can study it. I can travel to modern Israel (hopefully someday!). I can try really really really hard and I can get better at interpreting scripture because of my efforts. I can become quite knowledgeable of the context and through that I can gain deeper insights into the text.
Still, I will never fully experience (much less understand) the context of the stories of Jesus because I'm a relatively affluent white man in the USA 2000 years after all these events took place. I would guess that my understandings would sound even more off base to the original hearers than the kids' idea of eluding authorities by disguising a donkey sounded to me.
Yet, somewhere in the midst of my lack there is Truth. Truth seeks to reveal Himself through the text. And as His people gather around the text for serious study, when they bring with them enough humility to know that they will never really understand even a syllable without the Spirit's help, Truth is revealed despite our context. It comes humbly as it rides in on a donkey. (Matthew 21:5b)
And I'm not so sure why that donkey has some clothes laid on its back.
Lord, humble me with your Word. Help me welcome the Truth from it that You give into my life.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Senselessness
She got home just before dawn after completing her night shift on the cleaning staff at the university. She stepped into her 14 year old daughter's room to check on her. What she found was her daughter's body stabbed 17 times in her own bed. Forensics indicated that she had been raped twice prior to being stabbed.
Their pictures on the five o'clock news verified that the name of the deceased was indeed the girl I was remembering. She and her mom hadn't been in church for a while so I had to double check which block she lived on before going to the house.
Quite a crowd had gathered out along the curb. Flowers and stuffed animals had already begun to be piled high on the sidewalk in front of the downstairs window. I worked my way through those milling and those loitering in search of a familiar face.
The mom was visiting with everyone until she saw me. At that point, she grabbed hold of me and wept. My legs held both of us upright.
Several minutes later a Cadillac pulled up to the curb. Our city counsel representative emerged to express her condolences. At that point, the mom released her grip and again began visiting with the growing crowd.
The day's heat and humidity hung heavy in the air. The crowd was restless and its agitation was growing. It felt like things were on the verge of going out of control. I didn't know what to do so I went home and kept my other appointments previously scheduled for that evening.
I think this is the point in da 'votion where I'm supposed to connect the story to some more universal principal. I'm supposed to point out the Spirit's action or the role of the Church or something like that.
I'm not that smart. Making sense of what happened is well beyond my understanding of God and the capacity of the English language.
I do, however, need to go back in my mind to that night once in a while. I don't go back to it to try to figure it out any more. The world doesn't fit neatly into the boxes we construct in our mind. Like the writer of Ecclesiastes, I sometimes need to just acknowledge the senselessness of the human condition and choose faith in the midst of it.
God, I don't understand things most of the time. In the midst of senselessness, help me to choose You.
Their pictures on the five o'clock news verified that the name of the deceased was indeed the girl I was remembering. She and her mom hadn't been in church for a while so I had to double check which block she lived on before going to the house.
Quite a crowd had gathered out along the curb. Flowers and stuffed animals had already begun to be piled high on the sidewalk in front of the downstairs window. I worked my way through those milling and those loitering in search of a familiar face.
The mom was visiting with everyone until she saw me. At that point, she grabbed hold of me and wept. My legs held both of us upright.
Several minutes later a Cadillac pulled up to the curb. Our city counsel representative emerged to express her condolences. At that point, the mom released her grip and again began visiting with the growing crowd.
The day's heat and humidity hung heavy in the air. The crowd was restless and its agitation was growing. It felt like things were on the verge of going out of control. I didn't know what to do so I went home and kept my other appointments previously scheduled for that evening.
I think this is the point in da 'votion where I'm supposed to connect the story to some more universal principal. I'm supposed to point out the Spirit's action or the role of the Church or something like that.
I'm not that smart. Making sense of what happened is well beyond my understanding of God and the capacity of the English language.
I do, however, need to go back in my mind to that night once in a while. I don't go back to it to try to figure it out any more. The world doesn't fit neatly into the boxes we construct in our mind. Like the writer of Ecclesiastes, I sometimes need to just acknowledge the senselessness of the human condition and choose faith in the midst of it.
God, I don't understand things most of the time. In the midst of senselessness, help me to choose You.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Sin
The young cousin of the guy who was in charge of all the drug deals in our neighborhood moved in with him for a few months. The church was just down the street from their house and when the doors were open this kid was inside.
Not long after he arrived, he handed me a couple of loose-leaf pages he had decorated. I opened them to see his art work. Along with the drawings of the church building and some illustration of the activities here was the statement "Be a Sin."
On the second page he wrote an acrostic of how to "Be a Sin":
B Behave yourself
E Easy on Bad News
A Act in a Proper Way
S Survive through the Bad Things
I Intelligent --- Show your act
N be Nice to Grown Ups
Needless to say, I was curious as to where he came up with this idea. He said, "Well, sin is a word I've heard at some of the churches I've been to so I figured it must be something people who go to church are supposed to be."
I wonder, how many people have gotten confused about things because people at church are busy "Being a Sin"?
I don't mean this in the way the described in the acrostic. I mean that sometimes as a Christians I display the exact opposite of what I'm trying to teach. It's so easy to do.
It's so easy when I receive insight and wisdom to be a sin and live in arrogance rather than in humility.
It's so easy when I receive material blessings to be a sin and live in greed rather than in generosity and abundance.
It's so easy when I feel supported and loved in a community's fellowship to be a sin and exclude others who are desperately seeking it.
It's so easy when I have been delivered from my destructive habits to be a sin and condemn those who are still ensnared.
It's so easy when I have a place of sanctuary to be a sin and withdraw from the world rather than to engage it.
Isn't the church often portrayed in the media as arrogant, greedy, exclusive, condemning, and withdrawn? Sometimes, my own "Being a Sin" is what has helped that image have a bit of truth in it.
If I'm going to be accused of "Being a Sin," then I want to be the kind of "sin" that our neighbor boy described: behaving myself, easy on the bad news, acting in a proper way, surviving through the bad things, intelligent and showing my act, and nice to grown ups.
Like the kid said, it's how ". . . people who go to church are supposed to be."
Lord, forgive me when I've abandoned Your ways amid Your blessings. Let my actions and attitudes reflect Your light and, in doing so, let your Way live in me.
Not long after he arrived, he handed me a couple of loose-leaf pages he had decorated. I opened them to see his art work. Along with the drawings of the church building and some illustration of the activities here was the statement "Be a Sin."
On the second page he wrote an acrostic of how to "Be a Sin":
B Behave yourself
E Easy on Bad News
A Act in a Proper Way
S Survive through the Bad Things
I Intelligent --- Show your act
N be Nice to Grown Ups
Needless to say, I was curious as to where he came up with this idea. He said, "Well, sin is a word I've heard at some of the churches I've been to so I figured it must be something people who go to church are supposed to be."
I wonder, how many people have gotten confused about things because people at church are busy "Being a Sin"?
I don't mean this in the way the described in the acrostic. I mean that sometimes as a Christians I display the exact opposite of what I'm trying to teach. It's so easy to do.
It's so easy when I receive insight and wisdom to be a sin and live in arrogance rather than in humility.
It's so easy when I receive material blessings to be a sin and live in greed rather than in generosity and abundance.
It's so easy when I feel supported and loved in a community's fellowship to be a sin and exclude others who are desperately seeking it.
It's so easy when I have been delivered from my destructive habits to be a sin and condemn those who are still ensnared.
It's so easy when I have a place of sanctuary to be a sin and withdraw from the world rather than to engage it.
Isn't the church often portrayed in the media as arrogant, greedy, exclusive, condemning, and withdrawn? Sometimes, my own "Being a Sin" is what has helped that image have a bit of truth in it.
If I'm going to be accused of "Being a Sin," then I want to be the kind of "sin" that our neighbor boy described: behaving myself, easy on the bad news, acting in a proper way, surviving through the bad things, intelligent and showing my act, and nice to grown ups.
Like the kid said, it's how ". . . people who go to church are supposed to be."
Lord, forgive me when I've abandoned Your ways amid Your blessings. Let my actions and attitudes reflect Your light and, in doing so, let your Way live in me.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Lights
I was at the "Why do I even bother?!?" point. Recent weeks had shown battle after battle fought with no victory in sight.
The state had recently approved slot machine gambling as its newest form of taxation. The city was working feverishly to establish a gambling hall only a few blocks from the church.
Under the guise of "helping," neighbors had organized and taken a NIMBY (Not In My Back Yard) approach to the issue of homelessness by having the people who lived under the bridge bussed to a shelter. Drivers at the off-ramp would no longer be bothered. (Given my familiarity with living conditions in most shelters, I would probably choose a freeway bridge over a shelter if I found myself needing to make that choice.)
The list of these types of events went on and on. The world's self-focus, exclusive dependence on the senses, and short-sighted time frames [If I don't pay the tax then it must be good. If I don't see homeless people then there must not be a problem with homelessness. All my problems must be solved to my satisfaction NOW.] out voiced Jesus' call to love our neighbors, care for the poor, work for justice, and share generously.
It was in this defeated state of mind that I boarded the airplane that evening. I was headed to some training in California and had a direct flight to LAX with a brief stop in Las Vegas.
Flying into Vegas on a clear, dark, desert night is quite a spectacle, even by Vegas standards. The city's lights glow against the barren darkness from more than 100 miles out. The clear, dry air lets you pick out details of buildings along Las Vegas Boulevard as you descend. The end of the runway seems to almost touch the properties at the south end of the Strip.
It's quite a sight. And as we touched down and the plane slowed I could see the emerald glow of the MGM. Nealy in front of me was the brightest light ever created by man beaming upward from Luxor. The myriad of other bright, sprawling casinos shown proudly against the black sky.
All I could think in this instant was, "How can the Truths of the Gospel, how can the ways of God win? The spectacle and allure of the world seem just too appealing."
As the plane rounded the end of the runway and u-turned to head to the gate, an audible gasp! arose from the folks on my side of the plane. There was a buzzing of voices and a pointing of fingers outside.
As I looked out the window I saw a scene usually reserved for science-fiction fantasy posters. Rising above the shadowed mountains was a giant full moon. In my experience, a giant full moon looks orange and is much dimmer than when it's at its regular size. This night, however, the moon seemed to shine at its full brightness and appeared close enough to require planes to be routed around it.
The glowing lights of the Strip seemed a pathetic amateurish attempt and failure at imitation. The strong, solid, silent presence of real light was there for all who would turn their gaze toward it.
I'm sure more people bought tickets to shows at the famous and infamous stages of the casinos than spent five minutes looking up to see the real show in the desert that evening. The performance was free, available to all, and required that one only look away from the glitz of the world to fully experience it.
The full moon has been rising over the Nevada desert from well before it was called Nevada or even was a desert. It will continue to do so long after the last of the neon has flickered out and the sands reclaim their domain.
So when I find myself in a dark valley with the harsh, glaring ways of the world seeming to be the only guide for the people around me, I need to remember to look up, gasp, point my finger toward what's really happening, and passionately encourage them to look up, too. The true Light is here, close enough to reroute traffic and bright enough to guide those who will stop and stand, even for a few minutes, in awe, allowing His glow to trump our world's pathetic amateurish attempt and failure at imitation.
Lord Jesus, be the Light in my darkness. Give me the wisdom to look to You and to experience You, timelessness amid the temporal imitations of circumstance and place. Let me point to You so that others may see your Light and join in the awe of your Way.
The state had recently approved slot machine gambling as its newest form of taxation. The city was working feverishly to establish a gambling hall only a few blocks from the church.
Under the guise of "helping," neighbors had organized and taken a NIMBY (Not In My Back Yard) approach to the issue of homelessness by having the people who lived under the bridge bussed to a shelter. Drivers at the off-ramp would no longer be bothered. (Given my familiarity with living conditions in most shelters, I would probably choose a freeway bridge over a shelter if I found myself needing to make that choice.)
The list of these types of events went on and on. The world's self-focus, exclusive dependence on the senses, and short-sighted time frames [If I don't pay the tax then it must be good. If I don't see homeless people then there must not be a problem with homelessness. All my problems must be solved to my satisfaction NOW.] out voiced Jesus' call to love our neighbors, care for the poor, work for justice, and share generously.
It was in this defeated state of mind that I boarded the airplane that evening. I was headed to some training in California and had a direct flight to LAX with a brief stop in Las Vegas.
Flying into Vegas on a clear, dark, desert night is quite a spectacle, even by Vegas standards. The city's lights glow against the barren darkness from more than 100 miles out. The clear, dry air lets you pick out details of buildings along Las Vegas Boulevard as you descend. The end of the runway seems to almost touch the properties at the south end of the Strip.
It's quite a sight. And as we touched down and the plane slowed I could see the emerald glow of the MGM. Nealy in front of me was the brightest light ever created by man beaming upward from Luxor. The myriad of other bright, sprawling casinos shown proudly against the black sky.
All I could think in this instant was, "How can the Truths of the Gospel, how can the ways of God win? The spectacle and allure of the world seem just too appealing."
As the plane rounded the end of the runway and u-turned to head to the gate, an audible gasp! arose from the folks on my side of the plane. There was a buzzing of voices and a pointing of fingers outside.
As I looked out the window I saw a scene usually reserved for science-fiction fantasy posters. Rising above the shadowed mountains was a giant full moon. In my experience, a giant full moon looks orange and is much dimmer than when it's at its regular size. This night, however, the moon seemed to shine at its full brightness and appeared close enough to require planes to be routed around it.
The glowing lights of the Strip seemed a pathetic amateurish attempt and failure at imitation. The strong, solid, silent presence of real light was there for all who would turn their gaze toward it.
I'm sure more people bought tickets to shows at the famous and infamous stages of the casinos than spent five minutes looking up to see the real show in the desert that evening. The performance was free, available to all, and required that one only look away from the glitz of the world to fully experience it.
The full moon has been rising over the Nevada desert from well before it was called Nevada or even was a desert. It will continue to do so long after the last of the neon has flickered out and the sands reclaim their domain.
So when I find myself in a dark valley with the harsh, glaring ways of the world seeming to be the only guide for the people around me, I need to remember to look up, gasp, point my finger toward what's really happening, and passionately encourage them to look up, too. The true Light is here, close enough to reroute traffic and bright enough to guide those who will stop and stand, even for a few minutes, in awe, allowing His glow to trump our world's pathetic amateurish attempt and failure at imitation.
Lord Jesus, be the Light in my darkness. Give me the wisdom to look to You and to experience You, timelessness amid the temporal imitations of circumstance and place. Let me point to You so that others may see your Light and join in the awe of your Way.
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