Information Update

Some of you have wondered why it's been so long since the last post. First, the summer was busy. Since then I've been sick. I'll be out of commission for a while but will be back once I'm well again.

Thanks for your continued support.

Balcony

I would have raised an eyebrow, too, if my children came home from school telling me that their classes had been to a local house of worship for activities, especially if that place's faith tradition had a reputation of doing things like burning the holy book of my faith. So I was glad when the women, clad in headscarves as a way of showing respect to God, came in with their daughters' classes.

They stayed with their daughters' groups throughout the event as we taught peacemaking skills and better ways to get along with one another as we share this planet.

As it happened, that day's staff also included many nursing students from a nearby university who were earning hours in community engagement. By their dress, it was clear to all that they were of the Jewish tradition.

So there, in a the balcony of a little church in an overlooked inner-city neighborhood, practicing Christians, Muslims, and Jews came together for a couple of hours to teach their kids how to live more at peace with one another.

I don't think what happened in the balcony of the church that day happened too many other places on the planet that year. For a few minutes at least, long histories of swords, guns, bombs, and bloodshed were replaced with crayons, jigsaw puzzles, puppets, and laughter as our mutual faith-filled hope for a better world was shared together by teaching kids the ways of peace.

So I have to wonder what other seemingly obscure places peace might be being birthed for a new generation. I shouldn't be surprised, really, that hope for the world might start in such an odd place. After all, I worship a God whose incarnation began in a stable in a small town in Judea.

Thank you, Lord, for letting us witness You in ways we could not have imagined.

Outlet

All our work seemed in vain once the lights went out.

Yes, it was Easter Sunday. The thousands of invitations had gone door-to-door and church members had been inviting friends and family to join in the celebration.

But overnight the power went out. Some people overslept because their alarm clocks were off. Others didn't have hot water to clean up with so they would feel presentable in public. Some got distracted by the outage and forgot that it was Sunday or lost track of time. Others figured we'd cancel the services. All these folks missed church that day.

And those were the people who attend faithfully.

Since the area of the outage roughly coincided with the area we'd done all our marketing, who knows how many others who were considering attending didn't?

So, on what is historically the busiest days for churches across the globe, we had but a handful of worshippers gathered in a cold, dark church.

But strangely enough, one of our electric outlets worked just fine that morning. The only place with any power for several city blocks was the socket right next to the cross. We were able to plug in our sound system and have music to sing together in our celebration of resurrection.

Despite the cold, dark, confused world around us, we found the one source of power to help us lift our voices and hearts.

I have to think of those women who, after a very confusing week, went to a cold, dark tomb. Well beyond their imagination they found the one outlet of Power in their world. In our world.

And though there were just a few of them, the disciples soon followed and within a couple of months there were thousands drawing from that Source.

So when my world is cold, dark, and confusing, I hope I can remember to go back to the cross seeking the power of Resurrection that will turn my voice to praise. That work is never in vain and I'll find Easter all over again.

To you, Lord, be all glory, honor, and power.

Always

It had gotten dangerous.

I'd known him since he was a little kid and we'd always gotten along. I'd baptized him when he was a teen and though he'd since dropped out of church life, we visited regularly and kept up with each other's lives.

Though he ran his operation's territory on the streets with cruel, brute force, my family and I were always safe around him. He also made sure that his associates didn't mess with us, either.

But over about a six month time period, he went from friendly to cordial. Then to ambivalent. After that he started making subtle aggressive gestures toward me and toward the church.

Those gestures became less and less subtle. The family and I weren't afraid of him, but we knew not to engage him and to always give him his space.

I don't know what brought about these changes. I was not happy about them and was concerned about what might be next.

So I was a little apprehensive when he stepped out of a doorway onto the sidewalk in front of me that evening. I tried to move out of his way but he blocked my path then cornered me with my back to a car.

"I got the Birthday card from the church," he said. "You all are the ones who always remember. Thanks." He left.

We've been fine ever since. And I wasn't even the one who sent the card.

Finding ways of being consistent in ministry, from always having the church doors open at the scheduled times to always sending a birthday card, is an important way to show God's love. Because His love isn't dependant on the weather or the season and He's not too busy to remember to be present with us.

Clearly, I'm not God and I forget a lot of things. Plus the weather impacts what I want to do and my mood gets the best of me sometimes. But when His followers come together as the Church and prioritize what we will always make sure is done, mood and weather not withstanding, we live the love of the One who loves us, even when we're in a season when we've become become simply cordial or ambivalent or worse toward Him.

And through His consistent love we can bring surrender to the cruel, brute forces of the world.

Lord, thank you for promising to be with me always.

Supplied

Like so many women that day, she took the little girl's hand and help her pick out the school supplies she'd need for the coming year. They carefully selected folders and notebooks, discussed whether skinny or fat markers would be best, and made thoughtful decisions at each of the different tables where we had set out supplies for free distribution to all kids who came.

Though scenes like this were repeated hundreds of times that afternoon, this one stood out. That's because of what had happened during the six weeks prior.

Each Sunday since the first of the "Back to School" fliers arrived, she came to church carrying a bag with a few school supplies to donate to the cause. And in the end she both gave and received about the same amount of materials.

But she didn't know how much she would receive when she stated to give. And though she really didn't have the money to both buy supplies for her own girl and to give supplies to the drive at the church, she had enough faith to be a part of the giving and humility to accept that which she received.

Her courage showed me how to take a solid Kingdom stance amid a "me first" world. And her simple acts of giving as blessed and receiving as blessing reminded me of the power and the possibility that comes when generosity is a two-way street.

May I live likewise.

Thy Kingdom come on earth as it is in heaven.

Chalk

The first warm and sunny Sunday after a cold bleak winter called us to have our kids activities outdoors. With hope in their hearts and chalk in their hands they tumbled out into the fresh air to decorate the sidewalk with the bright colors of spring.

The kids were already at work when I stepped out the front door. They took turns striking poses and tracing each other as they lay on the concrete.

Within minutes, the kids proclaimed that they were finished. I looked on horrified to see the unadorned chalk outlines of a dozen children lining the sidewalk of the church. Some police tape would have made the scene complete.

They were puzzled as to why my face was contorted and why I didn't think they were finished. Not wanting to point out that it looked like the remnants of a massacre, I made a declaration.

"LOOK at these children on the sidewalk. NONE of them are wearing any CLOTHES! I don't allow naked children in front of this church so put some clothes on them right now!"

For a moment they were shocked. Then embarrassment kicked in as they took the many colors of chalk and created the latest fashions within the outlines. They added some jewelry and other essential bling before going inside to wash their hands. The faces, both on the sidewalk and on the kids themselves, carried smiles.

When I've come out of the bleak winter seasons in my soul there's often little more than what feels like a chalk outline of myself left. And the start of a period of new growth can look more like a crime scene than a glorious new season.

But as I find my robes of righteousness, don my helmet of salvation, buckle my belt of truth, walk around in my shoes of peace, and add the essential bling of a polished shield of faith, I move from a remnant of the past season to joy-filled life in Him.

Because when Spring arrives in the soul again, it's time to get out and revel in the fresh Air.

Lord, you are the restorer of my soul.

Toxins

Our eyes filled with tears.

I'd like to say that it was because we'd gotten emotional over a movement in the Spirit, but that would not be accurate.

It was the fumes.

I don't remember the exact cause, but somehow the church was filled with gas from the sewer. It wasn't just a bad smell; the stinging toxins caused us all to react physically. We were quite certain that if someone had caused a spark the whole thing would have exploded.

Turning on the exhaust fans didn't help. Opening all the doors and windows didn't help. Stepping out of the building and breathing deeply ---- that helped.

Of course, this problem didn't exist at all on Saturday evening. I guess that's OK as we wouldn't have been able to pay the emergency fees to get someone out on the weekend to fix it anyway.

So we scoped out our options, gathered some old folding chairs, took them to the nearby park, and set them up under the shade of a tree. We found some batteries for a boom box and pulled out some CDs to play. We posted a kid a the front door and had him point the gathering parishioners to our new location.

Someone had thrown one of those big orange traffic barrels (the kind with the flashing light on it that road crews use in construction zones) into the park. It's flasher was not longer working so I set my Bible on it and used it as the day's pulpit.

Since we were just rolling with the punches, those who came planning to be indoors just rolled with things, too. Expectations for the day went down as everyone fumbled around a little bit, but in the end things turned out OK. We even had a couple of people who were in the park stop by to see what we were doing.

We called in the pros the first of the week and got the problem solved.

Since that time I've become a little more sensitive to toxic fumes inside the church.

Interpersonal conflicts, programming debates, inflated egos, people not meeting each others' expectations, theological disagreements ---- the list goes on. These fumes can build up overnight in a church and have us all on the verge of tears.

And it seems like one spark will cause the whole thing to explode.

When this happens it's critical that we get some fresh Air. Open the windows and doors. Turn on the fans. And when that's not enough, we need to get someplace --- physically, spiritually, emotionally --- where our expectations of each other can be relaxed and where we can let the Spirit breathe.

For it's in those places where we can let our flashpoints dim and replace them with steady light from the Word.

Once we're breathing again we need to be humble enough to ask for help from others. Hoping the fumes will just dissipate on their own will just keep us in the same crisis.

And though not all the sources of toxins in a church can be repaired with one service call, we know through the cross that the price has been paid and that restoration is already on its way.

Breathe on me breath of God.

Picked

High school football was the topic of discussion. Many schools in the inner city don't field teams. Some of the ones that do have limited resources, both in finance and skill, to do things as well as their suburban counterparts.

The school many of our kids attend does have a team. So with several of our boys quite eager to play pick-up games each weekend in the park, I asked why they didn't join their school's team.

They all laughed.

"Pastor, the kids on our school's team are, you know, it's like in gym when you're making teams and they look like the ones that don't ever get picked."

I must confess that when I look over our little inner-city congregation it sometimes seems like I could accurately describe us that way, too.

Many of our folks have spent their whole lives not getting picked for the team.

Any team.

So it's easy when I see the abundant skill and financial resources of the Willow Creeks and Saddlebacks of the world, much less the glitz and allure of the secular world's ways, to get depressed over how we can hardly suit up and therefore should plan for defeat.

But then I remember Gideon. And David. And Moses, Peter, James and John. Rahab. Ruth. The list goes on.

Who would have picked them, at least at the beginning of the story?

And I see the strength and courage and passion of our folks who dare to dream of the Kingdom. They're painfully aware of their resource restrictions but are just crazy enough to think they will impact this world for His glory.

It's true that the world might never pick us. On my better days I'm OK with that. I'll just keep on trying to keep us all in training and ready to run onto the field each time He calls our names.

Here am I, send me.

Bill

The gas & electric bill came late in the day on Thursday. It was the first power bill we received since the expansion of our building so we were anticipating a big jump in how much we would owe. We had, in fact, budgeted for a ten-fold increase.

Even with that preparation I was still more than a little surprised. The bill was 40X (yes, forty times) the previous month's bill. In fact, this power bill was higher than our typical monthly offering receipts.

Dilemma.

This bill was too big for any specific prayer I knew. "Well, what are You going to do about THIS?" was about all I could offer.

I then started looking for His answer in all the typical places.

I called folks who had supervisory capacity over the ministry. They agreed it was a problem and told me to solve it.

The next day I called the power company to find out payment options. Their option was to pay it or have the gas and electric turned off.

I then did the math to see how much I could make at a part time job. That's when I realized that even if I worked full time as a cashier at Target I would not make half as much as the power company wanted each month.

What to do?

You can call it denial. You can call it faith. You can call it shock. You can call it whatever you want, but the fact of the matter was that the problem was just way too big for me to do anything about that day. Since I didn't see Him doing anything in particular, I decided to get a good night's sleep and continue with the things I had scheduled for Saturday and Sunday.

When I got home from Saturday afternoon's meetings I found an envelope in the mail from an acquaintance in another city. We hadn't corresponded in a very long time and I found it odd that, since they'd never been to the church, the envelope bore its address.

Inside was a note saying they'd been thinking of our congregation this week and felt led to help in some way. The check was twice the amount of the power bill.

Wow.

The money and the hope that came with it carried us for a couple of months, at which point we discovered that the power company hadn't read our gas and electric meters; they had simply estimated what they thought we would use.

When they came out and actually read the meters they adjusted our balance accordingly.

Our bill read $0000.00 for the next four months.

I liked His solution just fine.

Show yourself strong, Lord, in my life and in the world around me.

Even

He'd listened to the message attentively enough to have a question for me afterward. That always does my heart some good.

His question?

"Do you mean that even I can get baptized?"

Yes. That was the heart of the message. God loves all of us, offers forgiveness to all of us, and invites us all to the waters of baptism in sacramental relationship with Him. Through it he could fully become a member of the church.

That was a question that my middle-class self had never really pondered.

Even I?

I come from a world where opportunity abounds. I come from a world where inclusion is expected to the point of it being my right to belong. In my world I expect to have a variety of choices of groups who all would (or should) want me to be a member.

And in my world sin seems to have limitations. We describe our sinful state with terms like "issues" or "things I struggle with" or "personal weaknesses." Our past behaviors are referred to "youthful indiscretions" or "lapses in judgment." If many people like me are enmeshed in a particular sin, ranging from racism to "fudging" on our taxes, we say something like "that's just how things are" or "that's what everyone does."

My middle class world also has the resources to cover up or deal with our oft unnamed sin. We have financial resources that pay for rehab or cut a child support check each month. We have educational and emotional and family resources that help us navigate through sin-induced crises. We have social resources with polite company that help keep skeletons safely in our closets.

But he didn't have any of these things. His sin, both by nature and actions, had been lived out publicly. They had cost him dearly. There was no glossing over them and no one to pick up the pieces. He bore the scars and carried the stigma of his sin.

Plus, his was not a world full of opportunity. It was a world where exclusion was the norm and any hopes of inclusion had been dead so long that he didn't really remember that that even existed. He never felt that any group had ever wanted him to be a member.

So to be invited, to be welcome, to be included was radical. The hope of forgiveness was true liberation.

This makes me wonder how even I could have been baptized. With my privileged birthright and social safety net, with help in the waiting for my next crisis and my (if I were willing to admit them) skeletons in my closet, could I have even begun to grasp the magnitude of this sacrament?

Even I?

If I were attentive to my own and my social class's sinfulness, might I be more able to fully engage in the radical liberation of the Christ?

That would really do my heart some good.

Lord, free me from the things that keep me captive.

Open

I kept the front door open while I was doing some work at the church. I let in some fresh air and hoped people would stop by and visit. So he felt quite comfortable when he came in to just pull up a chair and chat.

Him, "Let me ask you a question."

Me, "Sure."

H - You and your wife (Pause) you're (Pause) married?

M - Yes

H - And you have a child together, right?

M - Yep.

(Pause)

H - and he was born (Pause) AFTER you were married?

M - That's right.

(Pause)

H - Well, who else do you have a child by?

M - No one else. Just her.

(Pause)

H - Well who else does she have a child by?

M - No one.

After another long pause and a perplexed look on his face, he continued this line of questioning.

This went on for about 45 minutes with more pauses for him to think and more perplexed facial expressions with each answer given.

In the middle of one line of questions he stood up, looked at me, shook his head, and without saying anything else wandered out into the night. The way I thought was too much for him to handle and he just had to leave.

Sometimes I have to put the Bible down and walk away into my own night, too. There are things in thee text that I've reviewed and studied and wrestled with. I've had long talks with God about them but mostly I just shake my head. After a while, though, I have to recognize that God's way of thinking is just so very different from mine and, from where I sit, it's just too much for me to handle.

It wasn't long after that evening's open door conversation that he and his mom moved across town and we lost track of each other.

So it was a real surprise when I parked my van in front of my house one Saturday afternoon about eight years later that I saw him riding his bike up my street.

"Remember me?" he asked as he pulled up beside me. I knew his face immediately and his name just a minute later. I asked what was going on in his life.

"I have a kid," he said. He grinned and held up his left hand as he said, "The mom and me, we're married." A gold band on his finger shown in the sunlight.

I don't know if those two conversations, eight years apart, had that much to do with each other. But the two together give me hope: not only hope for that kid and his family but hope for me, too.

Because it makes me wonder about my desire to better know the mind of God and the conversations and studies I've had to walk away from. I hope that they might be silently working in me and showing up in my life years later in ways I might not even remember or recognize.

And maybe when I run across those passages of scripture again they won't be quite as far out of my thought stream as when they first perplexed me. Maybe stepping away let them quietly work into the fibers of my being without me even really noticing.

Maybe not.

But there is hope.

Thank you, Lord, for not ever giving up on me.

Celebrate

"Well, Happy Birthday!" I said to him and his mom. I was standing by their crowded front steps gathering information and filling in the "Date of Birth" blank on his camp form when I realized that it was his holiday.

After wishing him well I tried to move on to the next question. I was not successful.

The man who was also sitting on their steps dealing drugs called into the house to his associates. He announced that it was the boy's birthday and they all got excited. They came to the steps, greeted him boisterously, gave him big hugs, and each handed him cash.

The party spread to the stoop next door and those gather all came over for the celebration. More gave money. Another flagged down the ice cream truck and got him a treat.

After a few minutes I could see that the spontaneous party was just getting started and that there was no use in trying to finish the camp forms that night. I headed to the next campers house knowing I would have to get the other mundane information later.

I was frustrated to not have the forms done. The deadline for their submission was looming and it was hard to find his mom at home, much less lucent. Who knew if I would even be able to get this taken care of.

These are the kinds of moments that I'm reminded just how much of a Pharisee I can be. Of all the people on the steps that night, I'm the one who preaches about Joy, Hope, Love, and Peace yet was totally unprepared to celebrate his birthday. Gifts, food, and accolades seemed to pour out of nowhere from among all the others. The only thing I could focus on was the line that said, "Emergency Contact Information."

Don't get me wrong. What I was doing was important and necessary. But I thought it trumped the moment of celebrating the importance of this kid.

When I read the Gospels again, I see how Jesus got in trouble (with the Pharisees and Martha and the disciples and others) because he was ready and able to celebrate the goodness he found, even with those pesky tax collectors.

And if I were that kid, I would have seen both a group of people who were ready to drop everything to celebrate me and a person who only seemed interested in information about me. With whom would I have aligned my allegiance?

So it's not surprising, really, that 12 years later he's taken over for the men who once sat on his front steps. Oh, we still visit and he has good memories of activities at church and his week at camp. They are simply distant memories that he was able to share with the ones who he felt loved him the most.

Lord, let love be my only debt.

Drum

He gave the church his drum at the end of the service as a way of thanking us for the ministry he received that day.

He and his drum had staggered in to the church about 15 minutes before it was time to start. After visiting with me, he stumbled to the chairs and sat his drunken self down right in the middle of the room.

He played the drum during every song we sang. His rhythms were his own and had absolutely nothing to do with the songs the rest of the people were trying to sing.

During the quiet times and while I was preaching, he occasionally moaned, cried a little, and slurred a few words. These were usually accompanied by some random drumbeats.

All of this was to the complete dissatisfaction of those who had gathered that morning.

Once he presented the gift and left, a few people came to express their frustrations about what had just happened. Their concerns were legitimate and well-justified; it was a challenging hour for us all.

Then I relayed the conversation he and I had before the service.

Earlier that week he had been walking up the block by the church. A car had come around the corner. It missed him but hit and killed a girl who was on her way home from school. That day was fresh in all our minds, too.

In trying to deal with what he'd experienced he had come back to the scene that morning. He'd found the discarded toy drum along the way and had used it to keep his hands busy and accent his emotions.

As he left that corner he found himself standing in front of the church and he believed that God had put it there just for him that day.

We didn't have much we could do for him in the way of skills and resources. We couldn't fix his problems. But having a place to sit, to cry, to express himself, and to think about life itself was the ministry most needed that day.

And it's the kind of ministry I need sometimes, too.

I'm not always ready to have all my problems fixed and if people try to do so they just make things worse. I don't always need skills and resources used on me. Sometimes I just need to sit with a group of people who will let me think and make random expressions to try to process where I am.

Because life gets intense --- intensely troubling and intensely joyful. And intense times call a decompression that can only come in the presence of others and the Other.

So when you see me getting ready to beat my drum again and you know it's not in sync with what's happening around me, I beg a bit more grace than usual for a few minutes.

And I'll work at not trying to fix you when you need to bang things out now and again, too.

Then when we're done we can give those drums back to Him as we go back into the intensity life can bring.

Let the Comforter be among us, Lord.

Whatever

Brown construction paper.

That, plus some well-worn crayons and dull scissors, composed our entire allotment of our craft supplies.

And for I-don't-know-how-many weeks in a row, whenever the kids came to church, craft time meant making things out of brown construction paper.

We'd scoured the Bible looking for stories we could share with the kids in which a corresponding craft could be based on brown construction paper:

-Crosses
-Loaves and Fishes
-10 Commandments tablets
-Boats for Peter to step out of
-Bricks for the Tower of Babel
-Balaam's Donkey
-Rocks (as in "He who is without sin may cast the first stone")

As the list grew so did the desperation.

Walking to the church that chilly, gray Sunday afternoon, brown construction paper was all I had. I had no lesson. I had no activity. I had no idea what to do with the paper or the kids and no energy left to even try to figure anything out.

I'd like to say that I prayed for wisdom or inspiration or for a miracle or a combination thereof but I was too drained for that. It was a more of a half-hearted "Whatever" kind of prayer instead.

I arrived at the church just as one of our volunteers was pulling up in her car. She beeped the horn and flagged me over.

As I crossed the street she hopped out of her car and said, "My mom was in town and we were at Sam's Club yesterday. She asked if she could buy some things for the church."

As she said this the trunk popped open revealing its contents. In it were stacks of construction paper of every possible color. There were buckets of magic markers and containers of scissors. Yarn. Tape. Clay. Glue (both bottles and sticks!). The smell of the fresh boxes of crayons was the sweetest perfume.

This was Noah's rainbow and Joseph's coat of many colors and the lilies of the field and Lydia's purple goods all stuffed in a Nissan Sentra. We emptied the trunk and set the supplies on the table for all the kids to see.

And they reveled in the color. Busy hands drew and colored and folded and cut. Boisterous voices and laughter joined the celebration. Today there was no hunting and hording and fighting over the best crayons. Instead, the bounty shared with us begot a sharing of this bounty with one another.

Today's craft:

Thank You Cards.

Whatever, Lord. Whatever.

Important

The kids were getting squirrely. Through their participation in church they had earned a trip to a local restaurant for ice cream sundaes.

Vanilla
Chocolate
Whipped Cream
Sprinkles
Hot Fudge
Cherries

Though these items were all clearly on the menu, all we'd been given so far was glasses of water. We'd been seated for nearly an hour.

The wait staff had been running around the restaurant and seeming to work. Yet, when we looked around, we noticed no one else in the restaurant had ice cream, either. Meanwhile, the line at the entrance grew longer and longer, winding out the door and into the night.

Our ability to entertain our kids had maxed out quite a bit earlier so I flagged down the manager to get an update on our order. He let us know that their computer system had gone down and they were all working on it. "Once it's fixed we'll be able to fill your order," he said.

Getting desperate, I looked at him and said, "I know that the computer system is really important to you, but as a customer, I don't care. It doesn't take a computer to put ice cream in a bowl."

He looked shocked. He then went over to the computer station and had all the wait staff start scooping ice cream and distributing desserts to the customers. As we were fed, the computer healed.

As a pastor it's easy for me to be like the manager of that restaurant. The things needed to make the church run smoothly don't always like me too much. It seems that if the video projector is working then the sound system refuses to do so. The box of scissors goes rogue at craft time and there aren't enough green crayons to go around. The Popsicles leak all over the freezer and turn everything in it blue. And the package I thought was toilet paper was actually paper towels and we're now Charmin-free with a line of little kids at the bathroom.

And that's before we even begin to talk about the all-consuming denominational issues, interpersonal conflicts, theological hot spots, spiritual authority questions, and meetings upon meetings upon meetings.

But none of these things are on the list of why people come through the door of the church.

Healing
Hope
Repentance
Strength
Encouragement
Wisdom
Prayer
Community
Praise
Fellowship

These are the things people seek. Though the background organizing is important to make sure the doors stay open and the big issues of the day will eventually impact how we deliver the Message, I need to make sure I focus my energy, and everyone else's, too, on helping people get what they so desperately needed that they found their way to the church's doors.

Because Jesus didn't say that he came so we could be organized and have all the answered nailed down. The Pharisees and Sadducees already had a corner on that market. He said that He came that we could have life, full and abundant (John 10:10).

And the world is getting more than squirrely; it groans for the liberating truth of the Gospel. May I not focus so much on the church's internal workings and, instead, serve those who have come so that they might find what they seek and not be left standing out in the dark.

Lord, be my vision.

Thwap

Thwap!

We all heard it and knew what it meant.

A couple people glanced around to see who would respond but she and I already had sufficient adrenaline in us. We had jumped up from our chairs and were now heading toward the thwap.

Prayer meeting would have to wait.

As we turned on the lights in the storage room we could see the rat in the trap.

"It's still alive!" she yelled as the rat and trap dragged themselves across the carpet. "Give me a pipe."

A little scared (of her, not the rat) I handed over an old piece of pipe that was by the door. She took it and immediately began bludgeoning the creature.

It tried to escape but it was no match to her passion. The blood-stained wall and the new markings on the carpet now warned future predators of her victory.

Two latex gloves and one plastic bag later, I disposed of the corpse while she reset the trap.

Prayer meeting resumed.

When I'm trying to exterminate things that make my life miserable, like my issues and ego and habits and insecurities (read: sin) I want someone like this woman on the journey with me.

I need people to pray with me. But once in a while when the time is right, I need them to also courageously march into the dark rooms inside me where I store my old stuff, turn on some light, and take a blunt object to the problem.

Though it's messy and uncomfortable, it's important.

Because I remember years ago the letter from my pastor that contained the direct correction I needed. And I remember the annoyingly persistent accountability from a fellow disciple during a time of rapid personal growth. And I remember the counselor finally saying, "Just get over it." Those things helped free me and helped me grow more than closing our eyes and praying harder would have.

Each of those people had a choice. They could have let fear of damaging our relationships get in the way of what needed to be done and glanced around hoping for someone else to do the job. But they knew that out of relationships based on solid faith, prayer, and mutual respect come opportunities to engage in passionate, scary, dangerous, painful conflict that can ultimately lead to a more whole self.

And though our relationship may get a little stained and bloodied at first, I have to trust that His grace will sustain us and open the possibility for even deeper friendship as a result.

It's then that we are truly free to resume our prayers before our Maker together.

Lord, help me hear, know, and respond well to Truth.

Great

Some places call it "Prayer and Testimony" and no one comes. We call it "Open Mike" and people get excited about the opportunity.

And he was excited as he came up the front of the church that Sunday morning after Christmas.

"This was the best Christmas EVER!" he exclaimed. He then told of not even wanting gifts and instead taking the money he was given and buying candy for the neighbor kids. He talked about how great it was to be looking for ways to help people instead of just wanting more things.

He ended with,"And up until a couple of weeks ago I'd never even been in a church before. This stuff is GREAT!"

He laughed out loud all the way back to his seat and we celebrated by joining him in laughter and applause.

For me it's easy to forget that this stuff is GREAT. The daily grind of preparing for and cleaning up after church activities, the constant pressing needs of the community, the seeming hopelessness of the conditions in the neighborhood, all on top of my own unresolved issues clutters the manger so much that it's sometimes hard to see the Baby.

But when someone comes in and sees Jesus for the first time, the clutter gets pushed out of the way and I, too, can stand in awe of Him and the greatness of His ways.

And when I can, my life again becomes its own "Open Mike" in the world as the Joy, Hope, Love, and Peace of the Gospel are lived out loud.

Lord, let me delight in You always.

Not

When I first heard the call to step out on the streets in ministry God and I had a lot of conversations about it.

One of us was calm. The other one was me.

I remember one of the conversations quite distinctly. In it, I panic-strickenly listed all the things I was afraid of. I had come up with an exhaustive list that I found quite impressive.

It wasn't so much what He said in His typically brief reply but the way He said it.

Fear NOT.

It was the same reply given so many times in the scriptures. But this time it was different.

In my mind I've always translated that statement into "Do not be afraid." That may be accurate from the Hebrew and Greek, but getting me to dismiss my fears didn't seem to be His goal.

Wrapped up in those two words was a new translation which sounded more like this:

Fear NOT stepping out.
Fear NOT heeding the call.
Fear NOT going places that scare you.
Fear NOT doing this.

And it wasn't about eternal salvation or worldly punishment or somehow losing out on God's love; that is way outside the nature of God and would have just reflected even more of my personal insecurities.

Instead it was more a call to recognizing that the safe, clean, predictable, stable life I'd built was, in reality, a much scarier place than the full, deep, rich, abundant land that He's promised.

He never discounted my impressive list of fears. In fact, as the conversation wound down I felt like if had I not recognized the very real fears it would have been a bigger problem than my listing them for Him.

The earth-sized fears I could see were real. The heaven-sized Fear NOT provided a counterbalance.

And strangely, in that tension between fear and Fear NOT there is peace. It seems to me counterintuitive, but there it is ---- that peace that passes understanding.

Yes, in our conversations One was calm. By the end, the other was moving that way.

Grant us wisdom, grant us courage, lest we miss Thy kingdom's goal.

Fumes

With the unbridled energy of an 8-year-old, he burst through the door of the church and happily exclaimed, "Dad! Dad! There are firemen in our HOUSE!"

I did not greet the news with the same enthusiasm. I stuck my head outside and saw that there were red flashing lights on my block. We postponed the church service for a few minutes so I could run home to find out what exactly was happening.

The firemen had come into our house after a neighbor two doors down had been taken to the hospital with carbon monoxide poisoning. The source of the problem was a broken water heater in her basement.

Because all of our houses on the block are connected, the firemen wanted to check our CO levels just to be safe. Some of the invisible, odorless, toxic gas had silently seeped through their walls, through another neighbor's house, then through our walls.

The firemen had gone into our basement. With all my junk piled up down there I was relieved that they didn't cite us for a fire hazard. Instead, they found the CO levels elevated to slightly higher than normal. Their prescription was to open the basement windows for an hour or so to let some fresh air in.

Some days I find myself especially lethargic --- physically, emotionally, spiritually, mentally, or any combination of the above. It's really easy for me to succumb to it and let myself drift off.

But I've learned that I often get this way because of something broken in the basement of someone else's life. Addiction, emergency assistance, disease in our broken health care system, hunger, mental health, safe housing, school safety, and the litany of other daily activities here in da 'hood lead to dark places in peoples' lives.

Through both geography and ministry, our lives become interconnected. And though we keep healthy boundaries, the toxins in their lives silently seep into mine.

Without noticing, I can get completely overcome, especially if I let those toxins build up in the part of my life where I keep all my own junk. All my issues combined with their proverbial CO can make my own life quite hazardous.

That's why it's so important for me to keep a window open. If I'm all sealed up inside, the fresh Air cannot come in and restore me.

Sometimes He sends his refreshing breezes through Scripture or prayer or song or some of the expected ways. Other times it's through less spiritual things like a good nap or a funny television show. In any case, keeping open to Him in all of His ways is the prescription to restoring health.

Because the Spirit is like the wind that blows wherever it wants to (John 3:8) it's my job to keep the window open and let His freshness restore my soul.

Lord, restore my soul and lead me on paths of righteousness for Your name's sake.

Swarm

The four fly strips were completely full.

Completely.

That is truly disgusting but amplified by the fact that we had hung them just twenty minutes earlier.

Some mysterious thing had caused an infestation of flies that filled the entire church building that Saturday. It was how I pictured Egypt at the time of the plagues and I was hoping that the frogs would be arriving soon to help us with these flies.

We'd tried swatting them. We'd tried spray. We'd tried fly strips. We'd tried everything they'd recommended at the corner store. We'd had prayer and binding and loosing and casting out. The flies still seemed to have the upper hand.

Having run out of ideas, we set off enough insecticide bombs to kill the house plants and went home for the night.

The next morning we quite literally swept the layer of flies off the floor of the church and wiped the insecticide off the chairs as we set up for the first service.

Things seemed to go reasonably well, but by the third service we were in trouble. A cloud of flies had assembled and taken over the back room. They were loud enough that we could hear them over the speaker. They were starting to spill out into the main room and were hovering a few feet over those seated for the sermon.

We cut to the closing song.

And on the last verse the flies had their final say as one flew into my mouth. Naturally, it got stuck on my soft palate so it would neither come out or go in. The song ended with me trapped in front of the congregation trying to scoop a still living fly out of the back of my mouth.

Yes, it was quite a Sunday.

Did I mention that it was Easter?

The invitations. The decorations. The new families. The guest ministers. The special crafts. The really great experiences we had (at least in the first 2 1/2 services). The willingness of people to endure swarms of flies.

I didn't mention those things either, did I?

It seems often the case that I spend most of my days battling swarms ---- physical, psychological, emotional, spiritual ---- that seem to take over. I pray at them, spray at them, or try to get them to stick to something (or someone) else. Sometimes when I take my eyes off them and try instead lift my voice in praise they choke me off.

And though I might want to just call it in early, it's Easter. I have a living Savior. And if I can close my mouth and look hard through the haze the swarm creates there are signs of resurrection happening amid the frantic buzz.

Because the swarms are real and so is the One who calls me through them. Getting too distracted by the flies leads to the despairing life of a losing battle of trying to swat them. Denying them as a means of focusing on the Christ eventually chokes the sharing the Good News with others.

The flies died off a few days later; we never found out why or how they got there. But because of Easter, He is still with us and will be, through swarms or clear skies, even unto the ends of the earth.

Lord, You are the Eternal One. Thank you.