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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.