THE EMPTY PULPIT

Exit One Mile Ahead

2011-09-24T12:09:00.003-05:00

Dear Blog, It's been a month since my last confession. For the second time, I am stepping away from you for a while. You served me well, and evidently you served some others well as... well. (Sorry. That last line sounded cheesier than I had hoped.)

A number of years ago, "The Empty Pulpit," was put on the backburner. I had just returned from one of those life-changing trips that shifted my view of just about everything. At the time I bought into ministry as maintenance, and found myself going through a system-maintaining set of motions that had very little to do with ministering in the name of Jesus. I had to rethink why I was in ministry, thought about getting out, but stayed in. I'm glad I did.

Then, over the past few months, our life in Houston has settled into a wonderful new set of motions that includes a healthy mixture of work and play. In fact, it is so good at this moment that work and play blur in such a way that it never has before now. Unfortunately, "The Empty Pulpit" has been a place for me to sort through the tension that arises when the blur is not so blurry. Likewise, many of the readers have felt that same tension, and have found a waypoint here.

But now, some other things are taking up my attention. Family. Teen/Tween kids. Bering. Gypsys. So for now, "The Empty Pulpit" is going dormant so that I can focus on some other writing projects, as well as life in general.

To you, O faithful bloggerland reader, thanks for coming along for the ride. Perhaps there will be an entry ramp farther on down the road. Until then...

I'm the Train they Call "The City of New Orleans"

2011-08-24T09:26:00.001-05:00

I crammed myself into the storage space behind the two seats of a Nissan 280ZX back when people still called them Datsuns. It was the summer of 1984. We were on our way from Grand Prairie, Texas to the World's Fair in New Orleans. The city was alive. I know it is not wise to say "Those were better times," but as far as The Big Easy goes, those were better times.

For what felt like forever, I sat on a pillow with my feet propped up on a cooler. I had no idea where we were going, or why we would take this particular roadtrip in this uncomfortable hunk of metal. But there I was, making my way to a city I would visit over and over for years to come.

The World's Fair to a 12 year old was a deluge of sights and sounds. Who knew at the time that it would be the last one in the United States? The collection of machines, inventions, displays was like walking into a giant grown-up science fair. The only thing missing was a live volcano.

I remember the glorious shrimp sandwich covered in lettuce and Louisiana hot sauce. I remember strolling along the boardwalk eyeballing the enormous river boat my mom and stepdad kept telling me we would ride tomorrow, which by the way, we did. I remember seeing a boy my age in a wheelchair at which point I started crying, because it seemed wrong and unjust. What I do not remember is the ride home. Maybe it's better that way.

I returned to New Orleans eight or nine years later with my wife and our best couple friends, Toby and Missy. Missy grew up there, so being with her was like having your own private expert tour guide. On the trip from Abilene, Toby's main goal was to find other cars with fuzzbusters and then tail them for miles at a hundred.

We arrived at Missy's parents' house after the obligatory flat tire stop only to get back in the car and make our way to a family run grocery store on the river. Missy greeted what must have been an old friend and said, "We want ten." The girl went in the back and soon returned with what looked like a steaming garbage bag. I did not find out what was in the bag until we got back home. What did we just retrieve on this strange trip? She threw the bag in the trunk with the confidence of a gangster, said, "Let's go," and off we went.

I started getting nervous as Missy's Nawlins accent was becoming more and more exaggerated. Although I had been to this city before, I felt I had somehow missed out on this particular, more local, more mysterious feeling that tourists never see.

We made it back to the house, grabbed the bag out of the trunk, and went inside. Missy strutted into the house and asked her dad, "Where's the newspaper?" He said something that slipped past me because all I heard was, "Did you get ten?" Aha! He's in on it too. He's complicit. And then he said, "Let's suck heads."

Creeping Jehosophat! What is going on?

And then it happened. They spread the newspapers out on the dining room table, opened the bag, and proceeded to pour out ten pounds of hot crawfish. Missy's mom came in with a pot of potatoes and corn on the cob. I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing I was no longer in danger. Then, with everything back in its right place, the meal began. We ate and ate and ate. I had never broken open a crawfish before, and I had certainly never sucked the cayenne water out of a crawfish's head. And while we did many other things on that trip, including hours of playing spades while listening to Neil Young Unplugged on MTV, that was the most memorable.

Jen and I returned to New Orleans in 1997, months after Thompson's funeral. We were numb. Nothing exists in the heart of 25 year olds that prepares you for the death of your firstborn son. We boarded the cruise ship, smoked cigars, and stared at the water for a week in silence. And that's all I have to say about that.

My dad and I went to the city together in 2000 for the opening of the National D-Day Museum. Since my grandfather landed on Omaha Beach in June of 1944, this was going to be something special.

We spent our days taking in all the displays, the short films, and memories. I was fascinated by the homefront section, remembering the stories my grandmother told me about Hershey bar rations and collecting bacon grease in coffee cans to hand in for making ammunition. Seriously. Everyone was a part of the war effort. It is no wonder that the museum continued to expand into the official World War II museum, especially considering that Eisenhower said we would not have won the war without New Orleans. That's where the Higgins Boat was made, right there on the Mississippi. And when I stood in that Higgins Boat in the front of the museum, I could almost hear the racing heartbeats of teenaged soldiers standing next to me just off the Normandy coast. It was like connecting with another world. That's New Orleans for you. Another world.

Especially after Katrina.

The last time I was there was in 2006, once again with Jen. It was two months and a year after the hurricane slammed into a city that would never be the same. We went there for the Voodoo Music Festival to see the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Joseph Arthur, and the Flaming Lips. But we rode home from that trip talking about the broken streets, and the houses each with a large spray-painted X on the front door, a grim sign of an abandoned dwelling. We actually walked down Esplanade Avenue from the French Quarter to the City Park for both days of the festival. Three or four miles of destroyed homes burned into our minds. Juxtaposed against the celebration of music, something felt slightly out of place.

But then it didn't. It suddenly made sense. This was the right time, the right place. Rock and roll has always been, and always will be, about a party. To remember the joy of being alive. To physically feel the drumbeat deep in your chest. To dance.

A wise king once said that there is a time to mourn, and a time to dance. After fourteen months of mourning in the city, it was a time to dance. After nine years of mourning for Jen and I, it was a time to dance.

It was also a time for another bag of crawfish.

Today I can still smell the smells associated with both the good and bad memories of New Orleans. Jen and I are talking about getting on Sunshine and riding down for a few days sometime in the near future. No definite plans just yet. But when we go, once again, it will be a time to dance.

Fear and Loathing amongst the People

2011-08-17T10:21:00.001-05:00

"Every century a few individuals are born who are destined to lead the weak, to hold unpopular beliefs and, most important, who are willing to die for their cause. My father's whole life was given to the fight for 'the people,' as he used to say." - Marco Acosta writing about his father, Oscar Zeta Acosta

What beliefs, when circulated among enough people, are not "unpopular"? Is there any such thing as a "popular" belief? Depends upon the crowd, the people, the area of the world in which one finds himself or herself.

Yet, we keep going. We fight for the people, even though everyone has a different opinion of who "the people" really are. It is a tough life for a bleeding heart. The more people you care about, the more people you find who don't care about "the people" because they look, think, and/or believe different(ly) than their own particular brand of "people."

Well, I happen not to buy that brand any more.

I used to. I thought at one time that the right "people" were those who looked like me, thought like me, ate like me. At one point in my pre-school childhood I thought everyone drove pickup trucks, listened to country music, and ate baloney sandwiches.

But when I went to elementary school in South Texas and heard the other kids speaking Spanish, it was like falling out of the sky and landing in Oz. I had no categories for this new world with a different language.

In that strange new world, my best friend, Manuel Garcia, lived in a house with no running water. My house had water, even though we did not have heating or air conditioning. Those were the days of box fans. But in the innocence of childhood, neither one of us knew we were poor. I just thought Manuel was cool. He was the only kid in fifth grade with a mustache. Manuel was the one who taught me that friendship has no racial barriers. We had a football and endless summer days. Nothing else in the world mattered.

Today, I am landing in Oz all over again.

The neighborhood in which I live in Houston is a mixture of Latino, Indian, and Chinese, along with some Anglos. Last night I went into a local take-out Mexican place that makes incredible tamales. The lady behind the counter recognizes me now, probably because not many white guys over six feet tall come in regularly to buy grande containers of Spanish Rice. Still, in spite of my racial handicap, we have evolved to friendly terms, especially when I noticed last year that on a chalkboard above the refrigerator she has Acts 2:38 written in yellow chalk. To some of you out there in bloggerland that may not mean much. But my CoC peeps understand. (Speaking of a world with its own language.)

And then there is my other new Oz.

I now ride with the Gypsy Motorcycle Club. Not officially, mind you. Not yet. In MC speak I am simply a "hangaround." But they have already helped me open my eyes to a notion of "brotherhood" I have thought of previously in far too insular a way. My favorite thing about these guys is that they just plain do not care about differences of opinion. Do you ride? Yes. Okay.

My new Gypsy friend Eran and I could not come from any more different backgrounds if we tried. But when he and I rode to Aardvark a couple of months ago, nothing else in the world mattered for those few hours. He was on his Street Bob, I was on my Fat Boy. We burned up the road cage free, watching out for each other, simply glad to be on the road.

All of us, for that matter, go down the road meeting people along the way. Sometimes we are "the people," sometimes others are "the people." If you stay on the road long enough, someone is going to consider your ways "unpopular." But if those beliefs have at their core the tenets of friendship and brotherhood, let them be unpopular. If those beliefs take care of one another, let there be no fear.

A Tale of Two Cities

2011-08-09T10:15:00.001-05:00

An Opening Word

Good times, bad times. Whether religion, politics, economics, you take the good, you take the bad, you take them both...

Last week I wrote two articles I have compiled and edited here in order to be read the way they were intended: Together. Neither is complete without the other. Likewise, neither is more correct than the other. Some religious people are kooks; some religious people are wonderful. Anyone who focuses on one end of the continuum without acknowledging the other is missing the full picture. But as for me and my house, we are trying to represent following Jesus that looks more like... well... Jesus, and less like a rehash of organized religion that unfortunately does a lot of harm.

It may sound overly simplistic, but religion that does harm is not what the true God intends. That impulse originates with some other god. But such impulses do not have to win out. Ideas like "Love your neighbor as yourself" and "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you" are rooted in ancient wisdom that teach us they ways we were supposed to live from the very beginning.

So on that note, here is a look at both sides of the same coin, a coin that always seems to be in motion.

Losing My Religion

A lot of religious people are kooks. Across the board. Christians, Hindus, Jews, Buddhists, Muslims, Jedis, pick your favorite flavor. That probably sounds funny coming from an increasingly optimistic preacher. But when you have been in this business as long as I have, you tend to have so much insider information that you start wishing you could just simplify it all down. You start craving the religious equivalent of a nutritious meal.

Recently, in the Sunday morning class I teach, I made the observation that one of the things that (hopefully) makes our church stand out is that we are not a bunch of kooks. Know what I mean?

We don't kill people in the name of our God. We don't protest soldiers' funerals. We don't play with snakes, or do somersaults during worship, or put up billboards around town as monuments of grandstanding self-congratulations.

Let me try to make an observation that I hope can be heard as more analytical than judgmental. Ready? Here goes. I think the thing that makes non-religious people suspicious of all religion is the lack of voice they hear coming from the religious community against violence done in the name of God. "Killing in the name of..." We hear it occasionally, but probably not enough.

Now, here is another tough observation: We Christians need to do better on that front. We are not speaking out enough when the crazy Christians flip their lids. Perhaps one of the messages we need to be saying more is, "That's not us."

The media is responsible for some of the blame. They prefer kooks over level heads most days of the week. Twenty-four hour news networks thrive on people who yell at each other. Reasoned discourse? Not so much. They give voice to religious types who do crazy things while the rest of us who try to practice simple faith are just not that... (What's the word?)... newsworthy. Simple and normal just doesn't sell.

Sigh. That's me in the corner. That's me in the spotlight losing my religion.

I tried editing and rewriting this side of the coin so that it would not sound so negative. I really tried. But the cold fact is that the contemporary global religious landscape gives us plenty of fodder for negative observations. Sad but true.

I posted on facebook recently, "Practicing simplicity is complicated." It is. Not too easy to survey one's life and figure out what needs deleting. I still carry around some attitudes and postures that need mellowing. Even as I write (and reread) this I know deep down that I have a long way to go. Every whisper, every waking hour I'm choosing my confession. But I know this much: We need to figure out what it means to be a Christian without being religious. Moreover, I wonder if we simple followers of Jesus can get the word out that not all of us are crazy. Because some of us are staying plenty busy when a religious kook gets media happy and tries to represent the whole of the devoted masses. We are staying busy saying, "That's not us."

The hard part is finding a way to say it louder. I've said too much. I haven't said enough.

Choosing My Confession

A lot of religious people are wonderful. Pick a card. Any card. Each religion has its good guys and bad guys. That probably sounds funny coming from a recovering cynic. But when you have been in ministry as long as I have, you tend to have seen so many beautiful expressions of faith that you start wishing you could get the word out more. You start craving the spiritual equivalent of an all-you-can-eat buffet.

In a recent sermon I made the observation that one of the things that (hopefully) makes our church stand out is that we are simply loving our neighbors as ourselves. Know what I mean?

We accept everyone in the name of our God. We go to funerals to offer comfort and support. We shake each others' hands, sing edifying songs in worship, and put invitations on our sign out front that we hope are welcoming. Signs like "Mercy triumphs over judgment."

Let me try to make an observation that I hope can be heard as more loving than analytical. Ready? Here goes. I think the thing that makes non-religious people rethink their attitudes about religious people is when kind and merciful actions overtake the judgmental postures they assume all religious people have. We see that occasionally, and it is always good.

Now, here's another good observation: In spite of a few undeniably crazy Christians, lights of hope flicker all over the world. Churches all over are speaking out for those the world dismisses as second-class. Perhaps one of the messages we need to be saying more is, "We are really trying to reflect Jesus."

I am grateful that some of these messages are getting out in the media. Every once in a while you will hear a level-headed Christian in the news. Stories like NBC's "Making a Difference" tell about organizations that feed the poor and equip people for action. They give voice to groups who practice simple faith that actually put their ideas into... (What's the word?)... practice. Simple and normal looks good.

I tried editing and rewriting this particular side of the coin so that it would not sound so cheesy. I really tried. But the wonderful truth is that the contemporary global religious landscape gives us plenty of reason to be optimistic about those faithful few who daily put their faith into action.

I posted on facebook recently, "Practicing simplicity is complicated." But it does not have to be. Just look over your life and survey what you are doing right. I have learned (and am still learning) to put into practice the delicate art of being present. Even as I rewrite and compile these ideas I know deep down that this just might build you up, O faithful bloggerland friend, at this very moment. I also put my hope in this: We are figuring out what it means to be Christian while being accessible to the world. Moreover, a few of us simple Christians are getting the word out that you can talk to us about anything. Because some of us are staying plenty busy attempting to represent the real Jesus to those who seek genuine truth.

The fun part is finding a way to say it every day. There's still so much more to say... and do.

A Final Word

For my vote, I want to be one of the spiritual-religious-church people who non-devotees can look and see a combination of value and purpose. But the tension is there. Always. The coin keeps flipping, the wheel in the sky keeps on turning.

Nowhere has this dialectical tension been articulated more timelessly than the first line of Charles Dickens' masterpiece, A Tale of Two Cities. And not just the first two clauses, but the whole first sentence:

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way--in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only."

A Parallel Universe - from "Losing My Religion" to "Gaining my Faith"

2011-08-05T09:11:00.001-05:00

A lot of religious people are wonderful. Across the board. Christians, Muslims, Hindus, pick your favorite flavor. That probably sounds funny coming from a preacher. But when you have been in this ministry as long as I have, you tend to have seen so many beautiful expressions of faith that you start wishing you could get the word out more. You start craving the spiritual equivalent of an all-you-can-eat buffet.

This past Sunday, in the sermon I preached, I made the observation that one of the things that (hopefully) makes our church stand out is that we are simply loving our neighbors as ourselves. Know what I mean?

We accept everyone in the name of our God. We ride with the Patriot Guard to soldiers' funerals. We shake each others' hands, sing edifying songs in worship, and put invitations on our sign out front that we hope are welcoming.

I am grateful that some of these messages are getting out in the media. Every once in a while you will hear a level-headed Christian in the news. Stories like NBC's "Making a Difference" tell about organizations that feed the poor and equip people for action. They give voice to groups who practice simple faith that actually puts their ideas into... (What's the word I'm looking for?)... practice. Simple and normal looks good.

I tried editing and rewriting this particular piece so that it would not sound so cheesy. I really tried. But the wonderful truth is that the contemporary global religious landscape gives us plenty of reason to be optimistic about those who put their faith into action.

I posted on facebook this week, "Practicing simplicity is complicated." But it doesn't have to be. Just look over your life and survey what you are doing right. I have learned (and am still learning) to put into practice the delicate art of being present. Even as I write this I know deep down that this might build you up at this very moment. I also put my hope in this: We are figuring out what it means to be Christian while being accessible to the world. Moreover, a few of us simple Christians are getting the word out that you can talk to us about anything. Because some of us are staying plenty busy attempting to represent the real Jesus to those who seek genuine truth.

The fun part is finding a way to say it every day. There's still so much more to say... and do.

Losing My Religion

2011-08-04T11:12:00.001-05:00

A lot of religious people are kooks. Across the board. Christians, Muslims, Hindus, pick your favorite flavor. That probably sounds funny coming from a preacher. But when you have been in this business as long as I have, you tend to have so much insider information that you start wishing you could just simplify it all down. You start craving the religious equivalent of a chopper.

This past Sunday, in the class I teach, I made the observation that one of the things that (hopefully) makes our church stand out is that we are not a bunch of kooks. Know what I mean?

We don't kill people in the name of our God. We don't protest soldiers' funerals. We don't play with snakes, or do jumping jacks during worship, or put up billboards around town as monuments of self-importance.

Let me try to make an observation that I hope can be heard as more analytical than judgmental. Ready? Here goes. I think the thing that makes non-Muslims suspicious of Muslims is the lack of voice we hear coming from the Muslim community against the violence perpetrated by extremists. We hear it occasionally, but probably not enough.

Now, here is another tough observation: We Christians are not doing much better on that front. We are not speaking out enough when the crazy Christians flip their lids. Perhaps one of the messages we need to be saying more is, "That's not us."

The media is responsible for some of the blame. They prefer kooks over level heads most days of the week. Twenty-four hour news networks like people who yell at each other. Reasoned discourse? Not so much. They give voice to religious types who do crazy things while the rest of us who try to practice simple faith are just not that... (What's the word I'm looking for?)... newsworthy. Simple and normal just doesn't sell.

Sigh. That's me in the corner. That's me in the spotlight losing my religion.

I tried editing and rewriting this particular piece so that it would not sound so negative. I really tried. But the cold fact is that the contemporary global religious landscape gives us plenty of fodder for negative observations. Sad but true.

I posted on facebook this week, "Practicing simplicity is complicated." It is. Not too easy to survey one's life and figure out what needs deleting. I still carry around some attitudes and postures that need mellowing. Even as I write this I know deep down that I have a long way to go. Every whisper, every waking hour I'm choosing my confession. But I know this much: We need to figure out what it means to be a Christian without being religious. Moreover, I wonder if we simple followers of Jesus can get the word out that not all of us are crazy. Because some of us are staying plenty busy when a religious kook gets media happy and tries to represent the whole of the devoted masses. We are staying busy saying, "That's not us."

The hard part is finding a way to say it louder.

Gargoyle Prayers

2011-07-26T10:30:00.001-05:00

When a gargoyle taps your thumb at 70 miles an hour, it's hard to ignore. For my birthday last week, my 11 year old daughter gave me a guardian bell in the shape of a gargoyle. An unusual birthday present, to say the least.

For those of you wondering just what in the world it is that I have written so far, you are probably in good company. Allow me to explain.

A guardian bell is a little bell that people hang on their motorcycles to keep road gremlins away. (Even as I wrote that last sentence I pictured you sitting at your computer reading with your nose crinkled and your brow furrowed. But stay with me. It's worth the ride. I promise.)

Since my little bell has a gargoyle sitting on top of it, I guess that makes mine even more powerful. After all, gargoyles are put in place in order to ward off evil. So I have been told. But that's not the reason I like it. I like it because of the love that delivered it to me.

Speaking of love, I did not like the Harry Potter finale. There. I said it. Not that the movie was bad. On the contrary. The movie by it's own right was one of the best. The problem is that I have read the book a few times, and know the story too well. And since I know the book, I expected the movie to at least pick up the most important element of the story. It didn't. And I was disappointed.

You see, the reason Harry was able to do what he did at the end of the long-awaited good vs. evil story was because of his mother's love. Plain and simple. She died for him as an ultimate act of love. His wand was able to do its magic because of love. The movie missed making that point. (Although to be fair, some of the other movies did.) Moreover, in the book, "The Boy Who Lived" and "He Who Must Not Be Named" have a long conversation during the final battle. Potter invites Riddle to consider remorse as salvation. In the movie? Not even a hint. Invitation to love? Not there. And it should have been.

So yesterday I was thinking about all of this as I was cruising down the highway. Elder wands, gargoyles, crows. The wind was pounding against my chest as my bike raced down the road, as my mind raced even faster. My little guardian bell that hangs near my right handgrip was gently tapping against my thumb. Hard to ignore, and why would I want to? As I glanced at the little gargoyle it made me smile. I'm not superstitious. I don't believe the piece of metal has any life to it. But that little bell was given to me by someone who loves me very much, who prays for me, and who I would give my life for without hesitation.

And that love makes life worth living.

The Smell of Water

2011-07-13T11:51:00.001-05:00

My dad turned 14 a few days before the Beatles crossed the pond to play Ed Sullivan. I was at dad's house a few days ago as my vacation started coming to an end, thinking about the Beatles, the Atlantic Ocean, and the smell of water.

They say you don't realize how badly you need a vacation until you get on the road. Over a week ago I was brushing my teeth at a hotel in Santa Fe, New Mexico when I noticed an acrid smell coming from the tap on the plain looking sink in our room. Perhaps all tap water smells that bad.

When we lived in Munday, Texas, our water supply came from Miller Creek. One morning I took a drink of water from the faucet and detected the unmistakable taste of dirt. Real dirt. It was only a few days later that I heard locals say a sentence we came to know all-too-well: "The lake's turning over."

Up the road a thousand miles from Miller Creek Reservoir in West Texas sits a mountain lake on the back of the Colorado state quarter. They call it "Dream Lake." If you have ever been there, you know why they gave it that name. It looks like something out of a painting you would by at the mall, an almost too perfect lake surrounded by snow year round. When we were there last week, we hiked through a foot of packed white powder to reach a body of water that smells like cold would smell if cold had a smell. Pure. Crisp. Clean.

Likewise, the rain there in Estes Park, Colorado smells like rain should smell. Imagine a mountain covered in giant pine trees isolated from pollution. Now take a deep breath. Smell it? On our vacation, after a brief summer storm, we saw a double rainbow. It was perfect. It smelled like rest.

A day later my family and I went to Great Wolf Lodge near the DFW airport. Nothing like a crowded waterpark to ease one's senses after a thirteen-and-a-half hour drive. It took me a while to find the hot tub, but alas, there it was. I eased into its comforting 101 degrees, exhaled, inhaled, and then started choking. I know, that's not what I expected either. The chlorine was so thick that it made my eyes burn. It smelled like it came straight out of Dante.

Thing is, we live most of our lives somewhere between Dream Lake and Dante's Hot Tub. The majority of the time is not pristine mountain lake, nor is it stifling chlorinated hell. It's more like the Atlantic Ocean, or in my case, the Gulf of Mexico.

It all depends on where you find yourself on a given day.

Some days the ocean can be clean, pleasant, and inviting; other days the shore is covered in mossy seaweed that smells of too much sun. You never know. But I am starting to learn that life does not have to be lived at extremes. Instead, you take each day as it comes, take in the good smells and thank God, while forgetting about the bad ones that too often demand our attention.

Vacations are a good time to reflect on seeing the world as it truly is, especially the routine world we inhabit most often. My world today, on this warm Wednesday afternoon, is not at one of the extremes. Instead, it is right here, somewhere in the middle, populated by a list of tasks to be completed, and more importantly, a number of people to greet, see, and walk alongside. And that's it. That's the way it is supposed to be.

I can smell the hot breeze coming off the bay making its way into the city. And it smells just like the day should.

The Boys of Summer

2011-06-24T08:38:00.001-05:00

If some seasons of the year cook the food at convection oven speed, early summer is like a crock pot. People you usually see suddenly fall off the map like mobsters who've taken the offer to go into witness protection. Tasks take longer to complete. Emails and phone calls go unanswered. Everything... slows... down.

The patience of we "Type A" personalities gets tested most during June and December. These two months of the year represent "Type B" heaven. Getting anything accomplished during these two activity-less double fortnights is about as easy as getting someone to articulate a complete sentence at the conclusion of a Grateful Dead concert.

But mind you, O faithful bloggerland reader, this is not always a bad thing. While life gets put on the proverbial hold from time-to-time, the lesson behind it is valuable if we have eyes to see, especially for control freaks like your loyal scribe.

Even this little online journal has slowed down a bit, much without my notice. I simply realized the other day that it had been a couple of weeks since my last entry. But sometimes, this is good.

The whole world does not have to be fixed today. Every relationship does not have to be solidified by tomorrow night. The completion of today's tasks only serves to foreshadow tomorrow's to-do list.

John Lennon wrote in his song about his firstborn son, Sean, the wonderful line: "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans."

God has a gift for each one of us, and that gift is called "Today." I will confess to you, dear reader, that I have spent much of this week thinking about the events of this weekend that is now upon us. I am afraid that I missed some things on Tuesday and Wednesday because my heart was already comfortably reclined in the future. (This too is a danger of summer with its promises of vacations and poolside leisure.)

So here's to "Today." To the granola bar I just ate. To the last cup of coffee this morning now getting lukewarm on my little office desk. To the conversation I just had with my friend Melanie. To the wonderfully cozy sandals on my feet. To the lilting sound of David Gilmour's Strat emanating from the old stereo behind me. And to the feel of the home keys on my keyboard even as I sit here writing this self-reminder to not be so daft as to miss what is right before me.

Here's to this moment, a gift from God, the best one ever.

Amen.

"Learning to Fly" (a travelogue)

2011-06-09T08:15:00.001-05:00

I shifted down into fifth and pushed the handlebars slightly to the right, leaning into the turn as we exited off I-10 in Winnie, TX. Someone once said that being on an interstate is like being everywhere and nowhere all at once. In Winnie, we left nowhere and found ourselves on a road where we could once again be ourselves.

An hour earlier, my lady and I threw our legs over the hawg, shut the garage, and made our way to the Houston highway system. Far from the romantic open road most bikers think of as somewhere between Arizona and Utah, the stretch from Southwest Freeway to I-10 is crowded and hazy, a congested mixture of anxious people. It got better as we left the city. But nothing compared to that feeling after leaving the interstate, stopping at the gas station where an old timer kept staring at my bike, and then getting on a backroad where the only thing in the world was the synergy formed between Jen, me, and the bike.

These "quiet" times allow for long periods of reflection. (Only bikers, by the way, can understand how the rumble of a 96 cubic inch motor can be "quiet.") Lots of reflection.

Slight bends in the road. The satisfying sight of pelicans soaring along the coastline as waves hit the sand. An open-air pub on the peninsula for lunch. The ferry ride over to Galveston Island. A last-minute emergency purchase of flip-flops at Walgreens for later in the day. Stopping to pay the toll as we made our way down to Freeport. A beach hotel that served for almost 24 hours as a true sabbath rest.

It is on such quiet journeys that the heart recalls its' true loves. For me personally, the open road reminds me of what is most important. Whether the love of my life sitting behind me with whom I have shared the last twenty years, my kids (who are at camp this week, by the way), the people at Bering, and even new friends who also share the love of this life, everything comes together under the auspices of a God who gives us gifts, most of which we are only beginning to see.

As I get older, much of my former knowledge-based confidence about God and church and people is being replaced by mystery and acceptance. I spent far too many years of my life waiting to talk when I should have been listening. Granted, my life has been a series of transitions between learning and teaching. Just the way it is. But because of this truly wonderful last year and a half, it feels like I am entering a season of learning once again, ready to experience a broader world that takes advantage of the gift of abundant life.

Tuesday, as I inhaled the fresh gulf air pounding against my face, I remembered what it means to be alive. Be with people you love. Do things that bring you joy. Move through life with unencumbered eyes ready to learn. And brush your teeth.

Yesterday, as we left the hotel, we spent a couple of hours weaving our way back into the city, surrounded at one point by suburbanites in their Suburbans entering and exiting parking lots on their way from Target to Hobby Lobby to Chili's. But after our couple of days together, hundreds of miles, ocean air, great food, and even better conversation, we returned home, sustained by a new memory of what it really means to be alive.

A Little Zen

2011-06-02T12:56:00.001-05:00

“The ancient masters slept without dreams and woke up without worries. Their food was plain. Their breath came from deep inside them. They didn't cling to life, weren't anxious about death… They accepted life as a gift, and they handed it back gratefully.” - Chuang-tzu

Where the Wild Things Are

2011-06-01T10:25:00.001-05:00

Unless we church-types take seriously the call to engage all people unconditionally, no matter what they look like or how they dress, then we should not be surprised when we look around and see nothing but reflections of ourselves. I am proud to be a part of a church who does not expect me to be at the church building all the time. And I think that's the key to authenticity: Go to church, and then leave. Don't take everything so seriously. Thank God for love, share that with other believers, but then go enjoy life. Share that.

Remember what Paul Tsongas said years ago: "No one ever said on his deathbed, 'I wish I spent more time in the office.'"

People tell me quite a bit that I do not behave like a preacher. Some say that with a smirk, other say it as an insult. I take it as a comment. That's it. But quite frankly, most preachers I know are so institutionalized that they have nary a clue about how to talk to anyone but church people.

We ask the question, "What would Jesus do?" through puritanical western filters. But if we dared to answer that question in context we might be surprised to see Jesus spending time predominantly away from the religious establishment. That argument is supported repeatedly in... well... the Bible.

So, to my fellow churchers out in bloggerland: Don't be afraid to get out and play in the sun. Here's some inspiration from Wendell Berry:

"The Peace of Wild Things"

When despair for the world grows in me

and I wake in the night at the least sound

in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in beauty on the water,

and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought

of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting with their light. For a time

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

I Know Why the Caged Bird Wants Out

2011-05-27T10:17:00.001-05:00

I thought Sammy was the coolest guy I knew. He lived next door to me from the time I was three until I was eight. He and his wife Candy greeted us every morning from kitchen window to kitchen window. We could literally see into their kitchen from ours. It wasn't a bad neighborhood, but certainly a working class smattering of houses that looked like something out of Five Easy Pieces.

Sammy spent a lot of time in his driveway wrenching his motorcycle, a homegrown Shovelhead common in the mid-1970s. I would sit in the driveway and talk to him, which he did not seem to mind. I remember staring for hours at his forearm as he worked on his bike, mainly because his forearm had a big anchor on it. Above the anchor was "USN." I did not know at the time what it meant. But I thought it was cool. I also thought it was cool that Sammy seemed to march to the beat of his own drum.

When many of us think about our lives, we survey the landscape of people and see all kinds. When people construct the cliché dichotomy--(You know, the one that starts, "There are two kinds of people in this world...")--I am not usually a fan of such poles. That said, I think I have one that might hit a nerve.

Two kinds of people: Those who encourage you to fly, and those who try to keep you in a cage.

Sammy was one of those people who flew, and liked being around other birds who saw nothing but potential and open skies. For many of us, however, those Sammy-type neighbors are fewer than the cagers.

But it does not have to be this way.

Who do you like being around more: People who try to stifle your spirit, or those who encourage you to see a world without fences?

When I moved to Houston a year ago, I found a church of people who like to fly. Many of them march to a beat somewhere deep inside their souls. At times, it has caused them to be misunderstood, even vilified. So be it. I don't know about you, O faithful bloggerland reader, but I prefer a heartfelt drumbeat any day, especially when the drumbeat out-performs the all-too-familiar prescribed rhythm everyone is expected to follow.

Sammy showed up over the years in the hearts of other people in my life in every place I have lived. But maybe for me personally, it took sitting on the edge of forty in order to see the value of being comfortable in your own skin, and appreciating others who love to fly.

Even when Jesus walked the earth, he came to set people free. In my not-so-humble opinion, it is the fault of the western church through the centuries that religion has a caged reputation. That has nothing to do with God. Does God have expectations for our lives? Of course. But those expectations do not have to include leftover Victorian sensibilities in the disguise of piety. Moreover, the primary "rule" Jesus taught us was to treat others the way we want to be treated. And I bet, especially if you are reading this essay, that you love to fly.

What would Jesus do? I am beginning to think this is the wrong question.

What wouldn't Jesus do? That's more like it. I am pretty sure he wouldn't (and didn't) judge books by their covers, and that he wouldn't mind seeing more people find their way to him in spite of the sterilized religious establishment.

I know, I know. Irony of ironies. Me, a member of the religious establishment, is criticizing the religious establishment. But until we tell people that God is in the setting free business, we should not be surprised when "non-religious" folks look at Christians and see nothing but caged birds.

It's funny when you look back on your childhood and see archetypes that color your worldview. For me, Sammy was one. My grandfather was one. A few other along the way, including my sixth grade teacher Miss Harrison who I thought was totally hot. But as I look back, I cannot for the life of me remember the conformists.

So goes the opening of Romans 12--"Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind." Today's church would do well to read that one out loud. The church was never supposed to be about constructing yet another establishment. And you know what? I think we are on the cusp of a time that is beginning to see that once again.

With apologies to Maya Angelou, the caged bird sings because he wants out. Take a look around. Some want to clip your wings; some want to watch you fly. Whether we talk about bringing up our children, our faith, our friends, or our extended families, it is important to remember that when Jesus preached the Sermon on the Mount, one of his dominant metaphors for helping us understand the care of God emerged as "the birds of the air." Consider them. They do not store away in barns, nor do they force the other birds to be something they are not.

I love being around people who hunger and thirst for abundant life. This entry is dedicated to you. To Sammy. To Papaw. To friends and family in the past who reminded me to cultivate genuineness. And especially to some of my new Houston friends who learned this lesson long before me. You know who you are.

And by the way, I think I know what song the caged bird sings: "We Gotta Get Out of This Place" by the Animals.

Besides Sammy, this is the poem that inspired today's particular open road:

"I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings"

by Maya Angelou

The free bird leaps

on the back of the wind

and floats downstream

till the current ends

and dips his wings

in the orange sun rays

and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks

down his narrow cage

can seldom see through

his bars of rage

his wings are clipped and

his feet are tied

so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings

with fearful trill

of the things unknown

but longed for still

and his tune is heard

on the distant hill

for the caged bird

sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze

and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees

and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn

and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams

his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream

his wings are clipped and his feet are tied

so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings

with a fearful trill

of things unknown

but longed for still

and his tune is heard

on the distant hill

for the caged bird

sings of freedom.

Shepherd(s) and Sheep

2011-05-22T17:44:00.001-05:00

"A wiser fella than myself once said, 'Sometimes you eat the bar... sometimes the bar... why... he eats you.'" - The Stranger

Or to put it another way: Some days I shepherd, but most days I'm a sheep.

On the days I shepherd, I do it with fear and trembling. Seriously. Despite appearances, and what is often perceived as a rather direct exterior on my part, I continue to try to learn how to follow the example of the chief shepherd (to paraphrase Peter).

On the days I shepherd, I stand up in front of people and have the audacity to tell them about God, God's will, God's character, God's hopes for us. (Karl Barth called it "the audacity of preaching.") It really is audacious. Who would dare?

Lately I have been preaching about shepherds, specifically those in the church who volunteer to help lead a flock. Some churches call them pastors or elders or bishops or the guys who go to the "business meetin'." But whatever these men and women are called, they have an equally audacious task: Follow the example of God, and lead God's people.

Who would dare?

Well, I know some. Personally. The ones I work with now at Bering are amazing people. Those with whom I have worked with in the past have been (mostly) equally amazing. But what makes them amazing, out of all the shepherding I have seen these men and women do, is that they have first names.

You heard me right... first names.

The chief shepherd has a first name: Jesus; my earthly shepherds have first names, too: Paul, Ann, Kathy, Amos, Terry, Judy, Lynn, Ed. Those are my current eight shepherds, men and women I know that any of us at Bering could call for guidance. And then there are the other first names at my church who shepherd in other ways. They, too, have first names: Samira, Edward, Jim, Dwayne, Carol, Rolfe, Rod, and on and on I could go. (And I probably should.) In fact, what makes Bering such a great place is that I could form a list here that would border on ridiculously long. That list would not be confined to gender or age. I can think of some of our teen girls and guys who model great examples for our older adults, as well as younger kids. The teen girls in class with Cale and I this morning set good examples for my own young daughter. In their own way, even if they do not realize it, they are shepherding. Likewise, they have first names my daughter knows: Abbie, Anna, Ashlyn, Claire, and Missy to name the ones this morning. I can say their names to my daughter, and she knows who they are.

I say "Samira," and my kids' eyes light up. When they asked me to help them fill out their form to suggest new pastors of our church, they asked me about people by name.

So there I was this morning, preaching a long and detailed sermon about shepherds who protect the flock from the dogs. And what I could see, from the sea of eyes making contact with mine, were familiar faces of people with first names.

As I sat with our leadership in a lunch meeting today, I sat among those who care for God's people, all of us shepherds, all of us sheep, all of us on a first-name basis.

As my family and I sat at Abbie's musical this afternoon, I was proud of her, not only for her performance, but because I know her by name, and so does my daughter who looks up to her.

On our way home this afternoon, a man was on the side of the road having trouble with his motorcycle. We bikers have a code that we never leave anyone who needs help. (Sounds downright Jesus-like, don't it?) So I stopped, helped him, drove him home, and shook his hand. You know what we exchanged?

First names.

So now, it is early Sunday evening. The air conditioning feels good. The grilled cheese sandwiches are on the stovetop. The kids are playing. And all is right with the world.

Bob asked a group of us Friday night at our boys' night out if our lives would look any different without God. My son, one of my own little shepherds, said it best: "We wouldn't have each other."

But we do.

Thanks be to God, a God who knows us by name.

Wild Hogs

2011-05-10T11:24:00.001-05:00

I like yelling at cars. Something cathartic happens when I talk to vehicles and say things out loud like, "Sometime today" or "Would it have killed you to use a blinker?" Having a HOG in Houston hones these expression skills, not to mention honking my horn. The same is true when I drive four-wheeled vehicles. I like talking to other cars just as much on those occasions. But I need to calm down.

These things were on my mind yesterday as I pulled out of the Sonic parking lot on my way to pick up the kids from school. From the driver's seat of our little blue SUV, I glanced in my review mirror to see another vehicle pulling out at the same time. I paused since the other guy clearly had no intentions of yielding. As I made sure he was out of the way, the two of us made eye contact at which point he gave me a look like, "I get to go first!" I replied out loud, "Congratulations, pal, you won the parking lot race. One day you will have a story to tell your grandkids."

I need to calm down.

This morning, I think it may be a good idea to start Lent early, even though we still have 288 days until Ash Wednesday. What I want to give up, as well as what I want to take on, both have to do with trips to Sonic and daily encounters with bad drivers.

If you are wondering what I was doing at Sonic, it was something unusual. I was being thoughtful. That's what I want to take on for Lent: Thoughtfulness. It is not that I lack consideration for others. It just does not come naturally. When you grow up an only child with a survival instinct, you do not spend a great deal of time thinking about doing for others. That is something I have had to cultivate with great intent through my adult life.

So yesterday, it was not quite time to pick up the kids. I was close to the Sonic near their school. We all love cherry limeades with the little pebbles of Sonic ice. Mmm-mmm-good. Plus, their happy hour is from 2-4, half-priced drinks. I thought, "They would really like one for after school." Easy enough. Pull in, park, order, pay, get the drinks, avoid a fender-bender with earlier-mentioned nimrod, and go get the kids.

Easy-as-you-pleezee.

I pulled into the school driveway, drinks in tow. My girl got in first. She was about to be a party to my attempt at thoughtfulness.

"Hey, sweetheart," I said as I greeted her.

"Hey, daddy," she replied, at which point she pulled out a story she wrote about a panda.

After a little talking, I said, "Here is a cherry limeade." Her face dropped, not in disappointment, but in shock.

"Really? What for?"

"Just thought you'd like one."

"I would!"

Not a few minutes later, the boy hobbled up to the car on his crutches still fresh from last week's soccer injury.

"Hey, boy."

"Hey, dad. How's it going?"

"Great," I answered. "Want a cherry limeade?"

Same response as a few minutes ago. Initial shock, followed by elation. And all was right with the world.

Yesterday I realized that Lent may be too far away to start practicing these dispositions, to cultivate thoughtfulness, and to give up talking to cars. In fact, the kinds of things I do and do not do during Lent are probably things I need to focus on year-round.

This morning, a dumptruck just ahead of me floated back and forth between two lanes, one of which I was in. We bikers tend to notice such bad driving habits. The downside, however, of being so keenly aware is that it makes you more critical. At least it does for me.

While I was growing up, I had to take care of myself on multiple occasions. I cooked scrambled eggs for myself at night when I was ten, earned my own spending money at thirteen, and supported myself through college. The downside, however, of every-man-for-himself-survival-of-the-fittest existence is that it makes you less thoughtful of others. At least it did for me.

I share this with you today, O faithful bloggerland listener, as part inspirational story, part accountability confessional. Perhaps this is my warm up for Lent nine months early. Replace critical with thoughtful.

Some people, by the way, don't like it when I talk this way. They think the preacher is supposed to be as pure as the non-peed-upon snow. But I am convinced that all of us in the church need to tell more stories about the ways God works on our hearts and habits, including those times when we realize what we need to throw away, and what we need to keep.

And quite frankly, these attempts of your's and mine have everything to do with gratitude for what God is making all of us who long to take on the image and likeness of Christ, a gospel that looks and sounds like Anne Lamott's clever saying, "God accepts us just the way we are, and loves us too much to let us stay that way." Hopefully, by much prayer and patience, those of us who live lives in Jesus can be living proof that you can teach an old hog new tricks.

Beyond Halo Polishing

2011-05-03T11:16:00.001-05:00

I can see the big four-oh peeking at me from around the corner, giggling, smirking, ready to tease me. Little does it know that I am happier now than I have ever been in my life. Great family, check. Great church and ministry, check. Great friends, check. Coolest bike in Texas, check.

But I can tell I am getting set in my ways. For instance, Saturdays and Sundays have developed these beautiful morning rituals over the past few months.

Saturday morning: Wake up, coffee, followed by some more coffee. Talk to Jen for a bit while the early sunlight creeps its way through the blinds of our bedroom. The drone of traffic is noticeably absent that particular day of the week. The only sound is the TV downstairs, followed by the pre-teen "Hey" as Jen and I enter the room. (Evidently "Hey" in their strangely coded edge-of-pubescence language can be translated, "Good morning, mom and dad, we love you and are happy to see you on this fine day.")

After an exchanged look between Jen and I that includes a slight roll of the eyes, I refill my coffee cup and head out to the garage. First things first: Hit the "POWER" button on the little stereo against the wall and play Stevie Ray Vaughn's "Soul to Soul" or "Texas Flood," or occasionally Jeff Healey's "Cover-to-Cover." Once that step is set in motion, get the cleaning supplies, and spend the next hour polishing the Hog. That's it. Saturday morning. And in my own private paradise, as the routine continues to solidify, it's all good.

To give you a peek into that world, Harley riders have a saying: "If I have to explain, you wouldn't understand." Sure, there is a hint of in-your-face-rebellious-arrogant bravado behind the statement. But if you look past that thin veneer, you see a truth: Some things are beyond explanation. You get it, or you don't. I did not "get" the royal wedding. Not the one this year. Not the one when I was a kid. Sorry. The only part I watched last week was the preacher reciting the liturgy. My son asked me why I was watching that part. I told him it was like a mechanic watching a car-building show. I wanted to see the technical side of it. But that was it. The rest of it was painfully uninteresting.

Likewise, how a garage filled with the smell of chrome polish equals a paradise is one of those things you get, or you don't. No need trying to explain that one either.

And church? Kind of the same, which brings us to the beautiful routine of recent Sunday mornings.

Each Sunday usually begins with a 6:00 alarm. Slip on some shorts, t-shirt, running shoes, get in the car, and drive to Memorial Park. Three miles of walking with sermon notes in hand. Drive home. Shower. Shave. Coffee. Pray. Round up the fam. Drive to church.

Church. Two or so hours of community, fellowship, and experiencing God. Or that's what I want to see. That's how I think it should be. Experiencing God. Unfortunately, it does not always turn out as such. Sometimes it is community, fellowship, and explaining God. See the difference? What is it? What's the difference between experiencing God and explaining God? Good question. Very good question. You're a right smart one to ask, O bloggerland friend.

I have tried to explain the importance of church to people for years. But one good thing about approaching the big four-oh is that it has given me time to see that there is less value in explaining God to people, and more value in communing with others in the name of God. Set up opportunities for others to experience the grace of God, the forgiveness of God, whether during a worship service, or perhaps more likely, over dinner, at the hospital, or dare we say even at non-upper-class-white-people-hangouts.

Just between you and me, I currently have a Saturday friend who I want to be a Sunday friend as well. But I have a feeling that experiencing life together is going to join those two worlds more than my feeble attempts to explain church to him.

Some people call me an "evangelist" because I have led a number of people to Christ. (I am smart enough, by the way, not to be stupid enough to think it was me alone who did the leading.)

"Evangelist." Did you know that word literally means, "One who performs good news." Seems to me, to deliver good news is to do more than explain. To deliver good news is to speak of something that one is about to experience.

Søren Kierkegaard said that one of the ways we avoid God is by talking about God. So if you come to church on Sunday morning and hear people explain grace without allowing yourself to experience actual redeeming forgiveness of sins through Jesus, then we once again might find ourselves doing church things that leave us just shy of sharing with one another as a living body of Christ.

I would like to talk to you about redemption. Seriously. I would. But the reason I want to talk to you about redemption is so that we can experience it together, not so that you will have a deeper understanding.

I am starting to see that my Saturday and Sunday mornings are not that far apart. If I spend my time polishing the Harley to show-quality luster without riding it... well... that would be like going to church and talking about God without actually experiencing the redemptive grace of God afforded to all of us.

That's strong. Let's just let that one soak in for a bit.

It's Time To Get Up

2011-04-28T08:40:00.001-05:00

Easter Sunday morning, just days ago. Then Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. Each of the four mornings was filled with sleep until the sound of the Timex watch alarm on my bedside table gently chirping. Until this morning. Once again, 5:15 in the dark a.m., and the not-so-tired eyes popped open.

During those weeks of Lent, sleep was evidently not high on God's priority list for me. It was as though God roused me each morning to pray with a tender bullhorn. Get up. Time to pray. Time to read. Time to be quiet. Listen.

But I have to admit, these past few days have been days of lazy prayer. Other than the occasional "Thank you God for my sandwich"--(and trust me, I am thankful)--the prayers have been less. It has been an anticlimactic past few days.

Until this morning.

In a most simple way, I am reminded today that just because a special season has past, we are not dismissed from our daily cravings for God. Perhaps this is just a wake-up call for me, but I know how easy it is to get routine in my faith, even when I read the Bible every day, even when I pray.

I guess that's it. That's all for today. Don't forget to pray. Brush your teeth. Eat your vegetables. Remember our Creator, the one true and living God.

Stations of the Cross, 10-14: "East of the Garden"

2011-04-22T06:07:00.001-05:00

I have been with Jesus in this garden before. Early on Friday morning. I have prayed on Friday morning in years past that God will remove a cup. Take away grief.

Today is not one of those days.

The little clock in the corner of the computer screen reads 5:39 AM, which is ridiculous. This is a vacation day for me. No office work. No duties other than praying and looking forward to Sunday. Perhaps a Good Friday service this evening with the family at the Lutheran church down the street. Maybe polish some chrome. Hang out with friends this afternoon. I should still be asleep. But truth be told, I could not be happier to be awake on this Good Friday.

Last night I cooked Buffalo Shrimp for supper. Delicious. It was a "Good Thursday." One of the reasons they were so delicious is because Jesus died on the cross.

This morning I offer up this journalistic prayer on Friday morning. One of the reasons I enjoy writing so much is because Jesus died on the cross.

The coffee tastes better this morning. The quiet of the house is more peaceful. My shirt is more comfortable. Your face is more beautiful. All of the little things in life that we take for granted are all better for one main reason: Jesus died on the cross.

Pick a topic. Any topic. The Bible teaches us to look at it through the cross. In fact, in Galatians 6:14, after Paul makes one of his "May I never..." statements, he turns the tables and writes, "May I never boast EXCEPT in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, through which the world has been crucified to me, and I to the world." That last little statement says it all. The whole world now looks crucified. Or to put it another way, everything I encounter I see through the cross. Friends, quiet mornings, and even Buffalo Shrimp. It's like the old Tootsie Roll commercial, only with eternal significance. Whatever it is I think I see, becomes the cross of Christ.

But there's a catch.

For many of us, we come to the garden alone while the dew is still on the roses. But we stay here. We stay in the garden. We have heard Jesus tell us to deny ourselves, take up our cross, and follow him. But it is hard. Real hard. And if I told the truth about myself, I prefer the garden to the cross. I prefer praying with Jesus fervently. I prefer seeing the crowds still in the distance with their torches and soldiers. But to leave the garden with Jesus and go to the city square, well, that is going to demand more of me than prayer.

Good Friday is a reminder that Jesus did more than pray. He emptied himself and became obedient to death, even death on a cross. Sometimes I feel like I still have a ways to go on that one. Oh, I talk big. After all, I'm a preacher. We preachers are big talkers. But am I really willing to be stripped of my garments, nailed to a cross, and die?

The good news: Jesus died on the cross for the forgiveness of our sins.

The hard news: Jesus invites us to deny ourselves, take up our cross, and follow him.

That is true on Thursday nights at supper. And on this Good Friday morning, the memory remains of why all the other days as a disciple of Christ are so good, but so demanding.

Good Friday. A day to remember what it is to die to ourselves. Maybe an earlier line from Galatians 2 would help:

"I have been crucified with Christ, and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. The life I live in the body I live by faith in the Son of God who loved me, and gave himself for me."

That's good.

We are about to have to leave the garden with Jesus and the crowds and the soldiers. It is time to make our way into the city. Five more stations to go. Are you ready? Let's go. Let's walk.

It's noisy. Crowded. Hot. The people smell of sweat and revolution. We know what is to come. Five more stations.

X - Jesus is stripped of his garments.

XI - Jesus is nailed to the cross.

XII - Jesus dies on the cross.

XIII - Jesus' body is removed from the cross.

XIV - Jesus is laid in the tomb.

Stations of the Cross, 6-9: "Make Me A Servant"

2011-04-21T05:25:00.001-05:00

I have longed for the presence of God as long as I can remember. Even as a child, I knew God was there. I just did not know where to look. But when I started taking the journey seriously, especially around my late high school years, a song we sang at church pretty much summed up what I had come to know in Jesus. Not just the song, but a single line in an oft-unsung second verse:

"Service to others, is service to you."

The middle portion of the ancient practice of the Stations of the Cross involves four moments that have become the stuff of legend. Only one of them is actually in Scripture, but more importantly, is what they represent.

VI - Veronica wipes the face of Jesus

VII - Jesus falls a second time

VIII - Jesus meets the daughters of Jerusalem

XI - Jesus falls a third time

Many things stand out about this line of events. What should probably stand out most is that Jesus is exhausted making his way to the cross. His human body is failing under the weight of grief and physical burnout. But it is stations six and eight that have my attention.

Non-Catholics dismiss Veronica as myth, which is fine, I guess. After all, she comes from a fourth century apocryphal work that gave a name to the woman who touched Jesus' garment and was healed. But for prayer's sake, Veronica might be my favorite station. She represents everything a Christian is called to be and do. How does Jesus describe service? Simple. When you do for the least of these, you do it for me. When Veronica wipes the face of Jesus in this particular story, she could not have known she was wiping the face of the Messiah. When we serve others, we do not do it because of who they are, but because of what the Lord has already done in us.

What also strikes me is station eight. Jesus is "falling-down tired" as we say in the south. But along the way, he stops to comfort these crying women we only meet for a moment in the gospels.

That's it.

Someone serves Jesus; Jesus serves others.

And right there you have the sum of the Christian life.

As Christians, we learn to be gracious recipients of the gifts others give us, whether visiting us in the hospital, helping us with expenses when we are down, or giving us a meal when we are hungry.

As Christians, we learn to be givers when we see others in need. We go pray with people in the hospital; we give bottles of water to guys on the street; we share our food.

"Service to others is service to you."

My friend Ginny shared this quote from Albert Pike with me yesterday: "What we have done for ourselves alone dies with us; what we have done for others and the world remains and is immortal."

Stations of the Cross, 4-5: "So Close, So Far"

2011-04-20T07:49:00.001-05:00

I was four or five years old when my Papaw put me on the back of his motorcycle and spun me around the ranch where he was foreman. Papaw was a war hero, a deacon in his church, and in my generous memory, one of the best men who ever lived. He died when I was in seventh grade, so my Papaw is as much a creation of my memory as he was a real man. I realize that. But I also remember that when we went to visit, he spent every waking minute with me. And to a four year old holding on for dear life on the back of Papaw's motorcycle, that was the thrill of a lifetime.

Just a few years ago, I was in the garage on a typical Saturday in the middle of Spring. The air was dry, 70 degrees, and filled with the smell of blossoming flowers. As I polished the chrome on my first Harley, a stranger walked up to my garage and said, "Nice bike." I replied with a kind smirk, "Yeah, I know."

Come to find out he was a neighbor just down the street. He asked if I had a set of jumper cables he could borrow. I said, "Of course." Then I handed them over, he left for a few minutes, I heard the rumble of a coughing engine a few doors down, and then saw him again as he returned the cables.

We talked for a while, exchanged "get-to-know-you" greetings like "What do you do for a living?" and so forth. When he found out I was a preacher, he had the typical face-drop "Oh?" expression we preachers have come to grow accustomed to over the years. But the more we talked, the more we connected, first around engines, and then around Christ. I didn't baptize him that day, nor did he leave that weekend for seminary. Nothing that dramatic. No, instead, we shook hands, and without telling him directly, he knew that the time we shared had deeper significance than neighborly small-talk.

As Jesus made his way to the cross, he met two people along the way. According to the tradition called "The Stations of the Cross," numbers four and five involve two people.

IV - Jesus meets his mother

V - Simon of Cyrene carries Jesus' cross

Two people.

One was perhaps the most intimate person in his life, the one who knew him the longest during his time on earth. The mother was the one who changed Jesus' diapers, wiped his nose, and held him when he cried. The loving parent was the one who fed him meal after meal, and maybe even played dress-up with him on a rainy afternoon.

The other was a complete stranger. Simon. A foreigner. (But then again, aren't we all foreigners?) Simon. A man commissioned involuntarily to participate in the most significant day in all of history. Simon. Father of two boys who made their way from North Africa having no idea what role they would play in the story of all stories. A stranger to Jesus. But not for long.

Today, we continue to make our way to the cross. Along the way, we will encounter those we love with all of our hearts. And along the way, we will encounter complete strangers who may become important people in our lives.

Today, we continue to make our way to the cross. All kinds of individuals will be on the road. Whether loved ones or strangers, we press on to the cross. Papaw will ride his motorcycle there. The stranger will start up his broken down pickup and make his way. Then as we get a little closer throughout the day, no telling who we might encounter on the path.

Stations of the Cross, 1-3: "I'm Not Worthy to Paint Jesus' Toenails."

2011-04-19T12:55:00.001-05:00

It is not every day that you take a picture of your daughter with her arm around a former First Lady of the United States. But for me, that day was yesterday. Those who are around me regularly have already heard me tell this story at least five times... in the last hour.

Yesterday, Barbara Bush presented my daughter with an award from the Barbara Bush Literacy Foundation for the top essay of the year. When given the prompt to write about a time when you lied and then had to regain trust, Reese decided to write about when she was six. She went through a season when she lied about brushing her teeth. Let's just say that her mom and I did not take long to catch on to that one. You quickly forget about the adorable little blond in her nightgown when she breathes "Good morning" into your face.

Oooh, girl.

The essay wound up being called "Clean Teeth, Clean Conscious." We had more fun with the working titles:

"Truthpaste"

"The Tooth Will Set You Free"

"You Can't Handle the Tooth"

"Tooth or Consequences"

She called me Friday while I was at work to tell me she won. At first I thought, "That's wonderful." Then we realized what a big deal it was. Wow.

One thing I like to do for my little girl is to buy her earrings on special occasions. She loves them. And at her age, it is becoming more about fashion than cute little zippers or ponies or dolphins. She still likes that sort of thing, but she is at that tween age where a gift for an occasion of this magnitude demanded something special.

I rode over to West U this past Sunday afternoon to get her a present from a cool little store called "Ten Thousand Villages." Her dark blue sparkling earrings are handmade from Peru by people whose lives are supported by such craftsmanship. It's a win-win. But most of all, I get to look into the eyes of a smiling child. And that's priceless.

Speaking of smiling children...

Last week, the clothing store J. Crew sent out an e-blast advertisement to their subscribers showing a mom holding her sons' feet, both of them laughing at his painted toenails. The talking-news-heads called the mom into question for psychologically harming the boy's masculinity, which further proves that there is no shortage of stupidity when it comes to armchair analysts.

Mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, the most important thing we can do is to simply spend time together. Period. When Reese was three and four, she used to hold my hand, walk me into her room, get out her play clothes and salon replicas, and pretend to do my hair and paint my nails. Considering that I have no hair and often smell like a motorcycle, it was quite a sight. But for her, it was everything. The point was, we were together.

And then there was that time when the teen girls at Deer Run actually painted my toenails on a dare. Honestly, I didn't care. I told them that I would let them paint my toenails, but that we had to talk about whatever I wanted to talk about. So there we were, in the wooden structure where we gathered for worship every night. The five of us sitting on benches. And as they did my nails, we talked about the death and resurrection of Jesus.

Two thousand years ago, the incarnation of the living God named Jesus walked among us and showed us how to live. Before that Friday when he took up his cross, he spent years modeling the importance of being with others, listening, caring, showing compassion, and looking for opportunities to share God's mercy.

In the ancient tradition of the Stations of the Cross, stations one through three all have to do with Jesus receiving his cross, and even falling to the ground along the way.

I - Jesus is condemned to death

II - Jesus receives his cross

III - Jesus falls for the first time

Along the way, as I walk with Jesus, I can see children in the crowds. They are not laughing the way children should laugh. They are scared. Confused. Unsure of what they see.

So we take the kids home, sit in the floor of their bedrooms, listen to their fears and questions, and look for other opportunities when we can laugh with them and pretend to be airplanes or unicorns or trees.

Before that Friday when Jesus died, he gave specific instructions about the kinds of dispositions we are to cultivate as people of God. One such disposition reminds us to have the attitude of little children. Innocent. Not rushing to judgment. Asking questions that look for meaning.

And while she asks her questions, if she pretends to curl my non-existant hair with a plastic curling iron... well... that will be yet another opportunity to give thanks to God for her precious life.

The Day Before

2011-04-16T15:40:00.001-05:00

It is a perfect Saturday afternoon. Coffee with my love this morning. Spent time at the Y with the family around lunchtime. Polishing, buffing, and spit-shining the HOG out in the garage this afternoon whilst the late-great Stevie Ray wailed on his guitar for me from a cheap, old garage-worthy jambox.

As I write this unusual Saturday-afternoon entry, I can see Highway 59 from my bedroom window. A veritable parking lot. Construction all weekend that we locals know to avoid at all costs. It is certainly not a down time for them. But for me, with the sun shining in my window as I type with grease under my fingernails and brake dust on the backs of my hands, I find myself overwhelmed with gratitude to God. For this day? Yes. For more? Absolutely. And most of that "more" has to do with the way God has been working on me for the past couple of months.

This year has turned out to be the most meaningful experience I have ever had with Lent, or the "Pre-Easter Season" as my non-Catholic inclinations tell me to call it. Whatever.

When I entered this season on what feels like a forever-Wednesday ago, I decided not to eat bread. Strangely enough, going without this staple of my life has brought clarity and peace like I have never felt before. Other than a couple of special occasions that I will tell you more about some other time, the season has been bread-free.

But tonight, the family and I will dine at the home of new friends we have made through our kids' school and the Y. The menu: Pizza. Oh, glorious, loveable, kissable pizza. I feel about pizza the way I feel about beaches. When it's good, it's really good; and when it's bad, it's still pretty good. If I can adapt an old-American saying for my own purposes: "Pizza is proof that God wants us to be happy."

But what about Lent? Pizza is made on bread. Wonderful, whey-protein infused bread. So what gives?

Tomorrow is Palm Sunday, the beginning in many traditions of a seven-to-eight day period called "Holy Week."

When I lived in Tyler, my church that I went to in order to be an anonymous congregant was Christ Episcopal downtown. It was where I could just go "be." Not in charge. No responsibility. Go be grateful. Go be a recipient. Go be a soaker in the hot tub of grace. It was there that I became enamored with Holy Week, and the daily worship that went with it. We did "Eight Days of Worship" at Glenwood a couple of times, but without a history of such rhythms, it is hard to pull off year-after-year.

But for me personally, tomorrow marks the beginning of my favorite week of the year. In some ways, it is a ramped-up version of the past couple of months. So tonight, as I prepare for this week, tonight is a time for celebration. For friends. And for pizza. Thanks be to God.

Tomorrow begins a week of fasting. Not going a week without food, mind you. But some other, more specific, deeply personal things that in the tradition of Jesus' teaching on fasting in the Sermon on the Mount will remain six feet under the surface of my own heart.

The one public part of this week is what I will begin this coming Tuesday, a four-day-in-a-row series of reflections on the ancient tradition of the Stations of the Cross.

I realize these kinds of traditions are not for everyone, particularly if you grew up in a setting where the very things I am describing here were used against you in oppressive and manipulative ways. I get that. Different things fire the hearts of people in different ways. In all fairness, the one thing I have neither understood nor appreciated about Lent is the idea that the pre-Lenten days are a time for indulgence and willful sin. That does not make sense to me. Never has. It strikes me as counter to a gospel of new creation. I hope that does not come across as holier-than-thou. I do not claim to better than anyone. (Well... except people who ride scooters.) But as one who is being saved by grace, I do not understand Mardi Gras. Sorry. It just doesn't make sense.

But some things do make sense:

Practicing trust in God.

Seasons of prayer.

Recommitment to faith.

Recommitment to calling.

Reconciling bitterness that manifests present wounds.

Joining Christians around the world in celebrating the death, burial, and resurrection of the Lord.

Gathering with others who confess Jesus week-after-week-after-week.

And pizza. Pizza that in some ways will be a shared meal that from my personal perspective on this particular Saturday will include gratitude to God, gratitude for new friends, gratitude for reflective impulses, and gratitude that when it comes to devotion, God desires mercy far more than sacrifice.

Please mark in your songbooks for the song after the lesson...

2011-04-13T09:41:00.001-05:00

Yesterday was "National Grilled Cheese" day. I know this, because I read it on facebook, which means it must be right. I did not have a grilled cheese sandwich yesterday. I wanted one. But the whole giving up bread thing for Lent is cramping my style, not the least of which includes having to give up grilled cheese sandwiches.

I also saw on facebook where we are supposed to post songs and/or song lyrics for 30 days. Again, I am not sure who is coming up with these things. But hey, why not?

The song lyrics thing got me to thinking about one song in particular. In fact, if I happened to be a member of one of the young community churches that uses U2 songs as worship hymns, I would ask them to broaden their horizons to include Tom Petty. I am all for singing "Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" during worship, as long as it comes before communion.

Ever since my friend Arlene took the 30 day song challenge, I have thought about this song Tom Petty and Jeff Lynne wrote together years ago. To me, it sounds like a song of faith, a song that looks at the world and longs for something else, something bigger, something eternal.

So let's get to the point.

The song is called "I Won't Back Down." Like most songs, each one of us interprets the lyrics within an individual frame of reference. We apply meaning in ways the songwriter may have never intended. That is not a matter of right or wrong. Just the way it is. No getting around it. For example, I cannot hear the song "Won't Get Fooled Again" by The Who without thinking of previous bad bosses. Maybe Pete meant it that way. Whatever the case, that is the image in my head during the song. No avoiding it. Come to think of it, that one might be a good worship song, too. Especially when Roger screams "YEAAAHHH!" at the end.

And maybe, just maybe, Tom Petty would come lead worship if we asked him. If he did, we could begin worship with 2 Thessalonians 2:14-17:

"God called you to this through our gospel, that you might share in the glory of our Lord Jesus Christ. So then, brothers and sisters, stand firm and hold fast to the teachings we passed on to you, whether by word of mouth or by letter. May our Lord Jesus Christ himself and God our Father, who loved us and by his grace gave us eternal encouragement and good hope, encourage your hearts and strengthen you in every good deed and word."

Then, right after that reading from Scripture, we would ask everyone to remain standing, and sing along with Tom:

Well I won't back down

No I won't back down

You could stand me up at the gates of hell

But I won't back down

Gonna stand my ground

Won't be turned around

And I'll keep this world from draggin' me down

Gonna stand my ground

And I won't back down.

I cannot possibly know where you are today in your faith-walk, O dear bloggerland friend. But this much I know: We are in this life to build up one another, to draw strength from each other, and to share in moments like this one in order to keep pressing on toward the goal, keeping our eyes fixed on Jesus.

God, by grace, gives us eternal encouragement and good hope. That single line from Scripture is enough to get us through the day where we might all sing with confidence as the body of Christ with one voice, "And I won't back down."

Let's stand and sing.

Sometimes Rolling Your Eyes Is The Most Christian Response

2011-04-08T09:59:00.001-05:00

So I got an invitation in the mail this week to attend a Houston-area preachers' luncheon. The guest speaker--(And by the way, why would I want to listen to a speech at lunchtime?)--is a writer for The Spiritual Sword, one of the most judgmental and mean-spirited church rags ever published. (The only bad thing about me saying that, however, is that I am being judgmental and mean-spirited. Sorry. I guess I shouldn't have said that.)

I thought about going. Picture it. I ride up on my HOG decked out in black leather and a flame-covered bandana. I wonder if I can get ahold of one of those temporary tattoos we used to put on with washrags when we were kids. You know the kind that started cracking an hour later. Maybe I can find a Death-Eater one for my forearm.

"How's it going, y'all?" I might announce as I stroll into the obligatory Western Sizzlin' back room with the accordion-folding wall separator.

Someone might nervously shake hands. "Who are you?" I imagine them asking.

"I'm the new preacher at Bering. I used to be with the Village People, but thought preaching would be a stabler gig. Plus, I wanted to be at a church where my daughter could read Scripture, and where people with shady pasts (and presents) would be welcome just like they did back in the day. You know, like in Jesus' day. And since this is a preachers' luncheon, where are the tax-collectors and hookers? Shouldn't we postpone the meal for an hour, go out into the streets and invite them so they can be here too?"

Yeah, that would go over well. Probably about as well as the time I went to a Gospel Meetin' in Hugo, Oklahoma wearing an ACU t-shirt.

I think sometimes I enjoy the eighth-century prophets like Hosea and Amos a little too much. I identify with the preaching of Jesus that looks at the religious establishment and calls them out on the rug in order to jerk it out from beneath their feet. I keep thinking age will temper my militancy. The only problem is that the religious establishment is me, and I am not Amos, Hosea, or Jesus. I fancy myself that way sometimes. But if I dare to really tell the truth, I need to hold up the picket sign like the one Donald Miller held up in Blue Like Jazz at the political protest. It read, "I AM THE PROBLEM."

(Sigh.)

And while I may always have a rebellious streak, I also know deep down that I have received far more grace than I deserve. In turn, that has to affect the way I treat others. Believe it or not, I am really trying to tone it down and be more gracious. No, really.

Still, I think it says somewhere in Scripture that there is a time to speak, especially when so many American churches are trying to answer questions no one is asking. Let's face it: Non-Church-Types today do not care about cool worship and fancy lighting if they are not able to see transparent hearts.

That observation has me in the mood to tell some truth. Here we go again. Preacher 'bout to tell the truth. Only this time, it's a former preacher.

Over at one of my favorite blogs called "Confessions of a Former Preacher," my friend Dan has been throwing down some gauntlets that most of us only know about from deep inside the belly of the beast. He has been giving away trade secrets like a magician who no longer follows the code. And you know what? I am so glad he has written what he has written, not only for fellow preachers on the verge of burnout, but for church-types who need to lift the hood and look at the motor.

I found myself on the edge of "Burnout Cliff" a few years ago ready to jump off into something else. If not for a trip to Israel that I credit to this day for perhaps saving my soul, I probably would be working at a car wash. At that time, I connected way too intimately with Peter Gibbons in Office Space.

So why am I telling you all of this? Simple: Because of my friend Dan Bouchelle.

Recently, he has given a voice to preachers too afraid to tell our congregations the truth. At one point, Dan even wrote about the oft-overlooked, soul-crushing lot of being a preacher's wife. He reminded me of something William Willimon wrote a while back, that pastors are conditioned by churches to lie. We are afraid to tell the truth about our own lives, and the lives of others, oftentimes because of the golden handcuffs that come with local church work.

The other reason I am showing you, O faithful bloggerland friend, all of this dirty laundry is simple as well: Because every morning when I look at myself in the mirror, I give thanks to the Living God that I did not burn out. That has nothing to do with Glenwood or Bering or any other church for that matter. Instead, that particular thanksgiving has to do with a reorientation for ministry at an exact moment in time when I found myself standing on the shoreline of the Sea of Galilee, a eureka moment when I saw that I was not so much lying to my church as I was lying to myself. As I have stated before in this forum: I woke up one morning and realized that I was a Christian because I was a preacher, instead of being a preacher because I am a Christian.

So today, I am thankful. I am thankful for being with a congregation where it is okay to tell the truth, where it is more important for me to be a disciple of Jesus than a manager, where I don't get ambushed at breakfast by people who "need to have a talk," and where most importantly, ministry does not get in the way of ministry.

I am grateful to be with a group of people in an urban setting who look around and see that a small, simple church can make an enormous impact on our neighbors who want little more than an authentic expression of the kingdom of God on earth that is unafraid to use the redemptive language of Jesus in order to heal, but never to harm. If you are a part of Bering, you know what I am talking about. And if you are not, but live in the general Houston area, come give us a try. We have something too good not to share.

Oh, and by the way, I probably will not go to the preacher's luncheon. But if I do, I promise to tone it down. And I promise not to roll my eyes... much.

Communion Bread on a Tuesday

2011-04-06T09:11:00.001-05:00

I have two working titles for two books I have thought about writing now for years. One book is called, Why I Stay In Churches of Christ (... but I understand why you left). The other one is called, Sermons You Might Not Like.

In the ancient tradition of hard-to-like sermons, I have not been able to get Jesus' teaching on the Sabbath out of my head since Saturday. (Fitting, isn't it?) A young lady who plays for the University of Toledo led her basketball team to win the NIT tournament this weekend, was named MVP, and then walked two miles home. She is an Orthodox Jew. The rabbi who counseled her while she was making her decision to play wove a tapestry of interpretation. It is an interpretation that sounds almost like Jesus.

It reminds me of Eric Liddell, the track phenom who won the 400 meters in the 1924 Olympic Games. The movie about his life, Chariots of Fire, goes to great lengths to portray his struggle to compete on a Sunday, which at that time was tantamount to a Jew competing/playing/working on the Sabbath.

When Jesus taught on the Sabbath in Matthew 12 using the man with the shriveled hand, well, let's just say it was a sermon they did not like. It took a command God gave to draw the people nearer to both God and each other that over time became divisive. Let's state for the record right here, right now: God never intended for commands such as this to divide fellow believers. The preaching of Jesus went to great lengths to establish non-divisive welcome among disciples. Sadly, the history of Christian interpretation is filled with examples of believers using Scripture to harm other believers. This should not be. Period.

And that brings me to a personal struggle from yesterday.

Years ago I wrote what is called a "Rule of Life" in keeping with some ancient Christian ascetic traditions. Basically, it is a way of approaching all of life with an eye toward God's presence. One line in my personal rule has to do with eating whatever is set before me as an act of gratitude to God for every meal.

Okay, brace yourself, because this is the part some of you "might not like."

Most people know that I have practiced Lent now for five years or so. Almost all of my lapsed-Catholic friends (and you are legion) ask me, "Why? You're not Catholic!" I know. But there is something about the organized practice of fasting that appeals to me, maybe because so many people around the world fast together, not out of tradition, but out of a sense of prayer.

Well, many of you faithful bloggerland brothers and sisters know from my previous writings that this year I have given up bread until Easter. It has been a wonderful, though challenging, practice to do without something I have had most every day of my life.

Then came yesterday. A crossroads. Which road to take? One road was marked "Lent" and had no bread. The other road was marked "Rule of Life" and had a small basket with two pitas sitting just far enough into the road that it required a choice.

Which was the right one? Was there a "right" one?

These are the kinds of decisions that make Christians weary, that make churches weary. These are the kinds of decisions that divide believers, most of the time couched in the perspective of, "Well, I would have..." This, too, should not be.

The "answer" to these legalistic approaches lies not in the action itself, but in the heart of the prayer. The decisions we make every day that have to do with our walk with God need to be made out of sincerity of devotion, not the guilt of words like "should" and "shouldn't." Most of my church buddies know what it is like to be should on. Can I get a witness?

The young lady who plays for Toledo probably drew more attention to her faith by playing than not playing. Eric Liddell undoubtedly gained a bigger hearing for Jesus simply through his personal decision. While my little dilemma on whether to eat bread does not compare to their actions, the crossroads is the same.

So if you shoot baskets today, thanks be to God. If you run, let the Lord renew your strength. And if you eat bread today, may it be bread of remembrance and gratitude.

Long after Eric Liddell died on the mission field in an internment camp in China, it was not hard to decide what to put on the stone: "They shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run and not be weary." (Isaiah 40:31)

The Lord Is My Shepherd...

2011-04-03T14:33:00.001-05:00

One of my inspirations describes his early preaching years with the phrase, "I bet they've never heard this before." His goal was to mine the backpages of Nahum and Habakkuk and dazzle his listeners with new Scriptures no one had taken the time to scrub clean. When met with blank stares, he said he felt like he was throwing wingless doves from the pulpit that fell dead before they ever made it to the first pew.

One day, discouraged by the lack of response, he asked a couple in his church why no one said "Amen" during his sermons. They replied, "It's because we've never heard any of this stuff before. We don't know when to 'Amen.'"

That covers one side of the Scripture continuum for us Christians. But the other end can be just as problematic, those passages with which we are too familiar, so familiar that we have hard time hearing them.

I just preached from Psalm 23, which is a monumental task. It is the equivalent of a musician trying to cover a Beatles song. You are treading on territory most people know, and certainly territory where most people have opinions. But when we are dealing with lyrics from a song that is so recognizable, a story-telling experience might be just the thing. So let's take the song line-by-line, tell some stories, and do some fancy translation along the way.

The Lord shepherds me. Literally. Another way to put this first line is not only about who God is, but what God does. God shepherds. The opening metaphor of Psalm 23 is active, something "we" recognize right away. Well, not really. "We" do not hang around shepherds. But to the people who sang this Psalm for centuries, the shepherd was a common person people saw every day. When Jesus adopted this metaphor in John 10 and call himself "The Good Shepherd," it may say something about the way we hear something later in Psalm 23, "... for his name's sake." Since Jesus wears the name above all names (cf. Philippians 2:1-11), Psalm 23 can take on fresh meaning as we continue to hear it in our lives. Couple that observation with the ancient tradition of each shepherd using a knife to cut a recognizable mark into each of his sheep's ear, and you have quite a first line.

I want for nothing. Or to put it another way, "I lack not." We move immediately from the one who is--"The Lord is my shepherd..."--into our own experience of what is not. Because of the one who is, we want for not. Since Jesus gave his life for the sheep, what else could we possibly ask for other than the life of Christ. That is one way of looking at it. But then the Psalm goes into basic necessities: A place to eat, rest, and take on new life.

In grassy meadows the Lord will make me lie down. We switch here from present tense to future. We look forward to a time when we get to leave the wilderness of uncertainty into a lush meadow filled with a place to rest. For the people who sang this Psalm during the early years, those who wandered in the desert, an image of green pastures must have seemed like a figment of imagination. And did you know, by the way, that sheep will not lie down unless they are unafraid, not hungry, and with others of their kind? (Check out Phillip Keller's little book, A Shepherd Looks at Psalm 23.) Do you think that might say something about the church today? A place where people can come and not be afraid? No one goes hungry? A place where people can come and be surrounded by, you know, Christians?

Beside waters of rest the Lord will lead me. Speaking of being stuck in the desert. Water. Sounds good. But not just any water. Waters of rest. I remember the chilling statement at the end of Psalm 95 that reflects on the time God told the Meribah generation of Exodus 17 the worst thing ever: "You will never enter my rest." I think I prefer Psalm 23. Waters of rest. Led by God.

The Lord will renew my life. Restore my soul. Refresh my life. However you put it, this is good news. It foreshadows all the "new creation" language of Christian tradition. I cannot help but think of another shepherding parable when Jesus tells the story in Matthew 18 about the 100 sheep. (Especially when that parable is situated in Jesus' preaching material about how to love one another in the church, and how to gather in his name.) So the story is simple. Take 100 sheep. One gets lost. The other 99 will stay together, because that is what sheep do. The shepherd goes looking for the one, not because that sheep is a wild rebel, but because the sheep got lost. Period. He finds it. Hoists it on his shoulders. Carries it back. Puts it with the 99. But there's a problem. From what I have read, when a lost sheep is returned, it is usually traumatized. Sheep are not solitary creatures. No such thing as an introverted sheep. Spend too much time alone, and it cannot function. It takes time for the lost sheep to get her bearings once again. And because of a caring shepherd who saves the sheep from breaking down, we sing a new song: "The Lord will renew my life."

The Lord will lead me in wagon tracks of righteousness. Okay. This is my favorite line. It uses a cool Hebrew idiom about paths cut by years and years of wagons pulled along a familiar road. I remember riding in my papaw's old Ford on his ranch down dusty roads with grass on either side, and a strip of grass right down the middle. Two dirt paths, each one just a little wider than the tires of his pickup, perfectly paralleled and separated all over the ranch. That's the idiom here. Wagon tracks. Familiar paths pioneered by those who have gone before us. Nothing new. Nothing fancy. Just familiar paths already trod by spiritual mothers and fathers who have walked with God before us.

Even though I shall walk in the valley of total darkness I shall fear no evil for you are with me. Here is another Hebrew idiom, but this one is not so cool. It's dark. Literally. Deepest darkness. Dark shadows. Total lack of light. The old way of translating it was "valley of the shadow of death." That about sums it up. But for all the difficulty of hearing such a possibility of walking in that kind of valley, this may be the most faithful statement in the whole song. Did you notice that every line in the Psalm before this one describes the Lord in third person? Each line describes "The Lord." But here, everything switches to second person. Here is where the Psalm becomes a prayer. I may walk through the darkest valley. But... you are with me.

Your weapon and your staff shall comfort me. When I went with my wife to Kenya to see where she grew up, I met a number of shepherds, although they mainly herded cattle. But most of them carried the kind of "rod" described here in Psalm 23, an ancient stick with a large end designed for one thing: To kill predators. The staff was meant to grab wayward sheep and bring them back to the flock so they did not wander off. Come back to the 99. The weapon is a comfort because it keeps you safe from predators; the staff is a comfort because it keeps you from getting lost. I think there is a sermon in there somewhere.

You will spread a table before me in the presence of my enemies. This is not a statement of arrogance. This is not someone taunting their enemies. Instead, it is a statement of reality. The enemies are not going anywhere. In fact, you can see them camped on the side of the hill in the distance. The predators are there. But because of the shepherd with his weapon and his ability to provide, the sheep can eat in peace. Do you think that might have something to say to us today? We live in a culture of fear. It is the goal of advertisers and 24-hour news channels to scare us. But because of the shepherd, we can eat in peace.

You have anointed my head with oil. The opening line of the Psalm, this one, and the next one after this are the only ones that switch to past-present tense. Something happens in the immediate. If you page up, you will notice that most of the lines look to the future. "The Lord shall..." But not this one. "You have anointed my head with oil." Why? Because it medicates, it prevents sickness, and it heals. Simple.

My cup is full. In the present. Now. Not one day. Not far, far away. But now. Today. My cup is full. Not half-empty. Not half-full. But full-full. Back to the first line of the song: "The Lord is my shepherd." The Lord is. Then to the second line: "I lack nothing." Not later. But now. Today, the Lord is my shepherd. Today, I lack nothing. Today, my cup is full.

Only goodness and loving-kindness shall chase me all the days of my life. Back to "shall." We are looking ahead once again. Talk about imagination. Imagine a day when we are no longer pursued by enemies, temptations, and fear. Imagine a day when we are being chased by goodness. Loving-kindness. This is an overstatement to be sure, but it is there for one purpose: to renew our lives, our faith in the Lord.

And I shall dwell again in the house of the Lord for days without end. I love that this closing line of the song drops the shepherd metaphor and simply says, "the Lord." And once again, imagine dwelling with the Lord for days that never end.

Amen.

One Bite to Remember, Another to Forget

2011-03-29T07:31:00.001-06:00

Unless you are reading this on a Sunday afternoon, communion from the previous Sunday feels like a distant memory. Of if you are a part of a tradition that does not gather around the table every Sunday, it feels like forever since we ate the bread together.

Most of the churches in my tradition use matza bread for communion, which you have to admit is a little ironic. Dry, stale, unsalted cracker made in giant factories supervised by rabbis. That is what we eat to remember the body of Christ? Not that the bread has to be special, but... matza bread? Really? I wonder if any of the rabbis know that Christians use their bread to remember the death of the Messiah?

On my last trip to Israel we finished the trip in a nice hotel in Jerusalem. The dining hall had to be completely kosher. A young rabbi strutted from table-to-table with raised eyebrows like a principal making sure none of the kids were looking at comic books. Quite frankly, it set a tone I did not exactly expect in a place where many of us went to become praying pilgrims for a couple of weeks. That may also say something to us preachers, elders, and church leader types about the ways we have to be careful with our leadership. Too often in the western church, leaders drink the Kool-Aid and come to think of ourselves as authority figures rather than servants who help direct others to deeper servanthood. Even the Lord himself "took on the nature of a servant," emptying himself of the very authority that was his birthright. But I digress. That is tangential to the main point on this fine bloggerland day.

Where was I?

Oh yeah, matza bread.

Lent (for me) is a cruel season this go around, mainly because of this whole brilliant idea I had to give up bread. It has been tough, to put it mildly. But the conversation during communion with my daughter a few Sundays ago has actually been a spiritual fulcrum in time that has sustained me during this season.

First Sunday of Lent. Reese and I sat side-by-side. The plate filled with brittle matza bread was making its way hand-by-hand down the pew. We both turned our heads toward it, eyeing the plate in anticipation like fans at an Indy-car race waiting for the lead car to cross the finish line. She took the plate, did the Church of Christ double-break--(You know the one, where you break off too much and have to take your large piece and break it again in order to get it to the right size.)--and then handed me the plate. I broke off a big piece, and devoured it with joy.

"Daddy, I thought you couldn't eat bread."

I replied, "When I prayed on Ash Wednesday, I decided that the only bread I would eat from then until Easter Sunday would be the bread of communion."

Three Sundays have passed. That dusty, throat-stiffling matza bread has never tasted so good. I take one bite to remember the body of Christ nailed to the cross for the forgiveness of my all-too-abundant sin; I take another bite to forget the shame that the deceiver(s) stirs up in our hearts that tempts us to forget that we are God's workmanship, God's poetry, being shaped into a new creation.

That bread each week tastes good. But I have to admit, it leaves me wanting more.

Content on Friday, Praying about Sunday

2011-03-25T08:11:00.001-06:00

I spent this Friday morning getting ready for Sunday morning. Little ironic considering so much of it has to do with being content with where you are today instead of thinking about things to come. How do you memorize a sermon 48 hours early when the sermon is supposed to be about being present in "The Now"?

One way is to keep a keen focus on prayer. I am grateful that my friend Scot posts daily prayers each day during this Lenten season from one of our favorite writers. I hope it speaks to you today. Today’s prayer is adapted from Henri Nouwen's, Show Me the Way (55-57):

Lord God,

I am learning the secret of being content

in more and more circumstances,

but that does not mean

that I am satisfied with the status quo.

I believe that I,

like all your sons and daughters everywhere,

have an essential role to play

in the realization of the new world to come,

in the realization of your will being done

on earth as it is heaven.

So I keep searching for your new earth

where there are no divisions between peoples,

for your new structure

that allows every person to warmly embrace

every other person,

and for your new life

in which there will be lasting unity and peace.

I structure and arrange my life accordingly.

I am irritated by self-content in myself

as well as in others

since I know,

with an unshakable certainty,

that something great is coming

of which I have already seen

the first rays of light.

I believe that this world not only passes

but has to pass

in order to let the new world be born.

But I will not despair

when I do not see the results I want to see.

For in the midst of my work

I keep hearing the words of the One sitting on the throne:

"I am making the whole of creation new."

Welcome to "The (New) Empty Pulpit"

2011-03-24T09:01:00.001-06:00

Just a note to readers, I will be posting from now on at the new website http://emptypulpit.com. You can still read "The Empty Pulpit" at the original blogsite for now, but if you do not mind changing your bookmarks to the new site, it will save you from the heart-wrenching possibility that you might actually miss an entry.

Seriously, thanks to the readers who made this new website possible, for your encouragement, and most of all for your shared desire to deepen our shared relationship with a true and living God.

Pensado Profundamente

2011-03-23T09:03:00.001-06:00

I am thinking God is not a big fan of sleep. I know God rested and all that. Once. But God does not seem to rest much anymore.

In grad school, back in the mid-90s, I wrote the majority of my papers between the hours of "after supper" until "middle of the night." I used to be a bona fide night owl. Dark, quiet early morning hours welcomed me into the labyrinths of ancient Greek literature, the book of Hebrews, and the Middle Ages. It was during those same lonely hours in the Bible that God often spoke to people in order to send a message. God is an invader of dreams.

My friend Edward wakes up at all hours of the night with deep inspirations to write things that go on to edify the kingdom of God in this temporary place, collections of words that challenge the religious establishment content to build yet another whitewashed tomb. He is one of those rare souls unafraid to question the status quo in order to call people to discipleship over churchianity, weeping at times like Jeremiah over a landscape laid to waste to the Walmartization of mega-churches cannibalizing the mom and pop congregations of Middle America. (With props to my friend Dan for that last phrase.) No way I am on par with that kind of in-touch-ness with God. But it sets a good example for the possibility that fitful sleep has something to do with the Spirit of the Lord. Exactly what, I do not know.

There lies the problem. I do not know. And if you have read this journal before, O faithful bloggerland reader, you know that lack of knowledge is a particularly unsettling thing for your's truly. I like to think, occasionally even deeply.

During this season of Lent, I am not sleeping well. Somewhere in the distant land between this past Sunday night and Monday morning, I woke up at 3:30 a.m. with a deep sense of urgency to pray for a young man I know who is about to embark on his college journey. I have only known him for a year, but he is a uniquely gifted person with all kinds of heart. So I did. I prayed. Dwelt in the presence of a God who does not seem to care whether I get seven consecutive hours.

After about an hour of prayer and thought, I fell back asleep for a little while. My dreams were of angels who had upgraded from harps to electric guitars. These were not peaceful messengers. They had an agenda.

The dreams were fitful, on par with sleeping on an airplane. You may close your eyes, even drift with the Sandman for a few moments. But if you have ever flown overseas, you know what it is to hear things somewhere between waking and sleeping.

I am not sure whether I have ever had an ongoing experience like this with God before or not. Admittedly, it is uncomfortable. It messes with your routines, your notions of rest, presence, and urgency. I honestly want to know and do God's will. But the more I pray, and the more I keep silence before God, the more I hear brothers and sisters in conversations and writing expressing a deep need to be Christ to the world instead of merely doing church programs. The primary reason Christianity/churches south of the equator is/are growing is because they have not had time to settle into the routines of "the way we've always done it." (If you have not read Jenkins', The Next Christendom, it's an eye-opener. Abre los ojos.)

One of the people who has become a daily friend of mine since I moved to Houston is named Antero. He is the building and groundskeeper at Bering. Antero speaks to me in broken English, and I speak to him in broken Spanish. Our children are of similar ages. We both love Futbol. (Soccer for Americans and Aussies.) And we both love to laugh.

Not too long ago he walked into my office as he does every morning to collect the trash and have a few moments of conversation, mainly catching up on each other's families. He walked in.

"Como esta?"

I will usually answer, "Bien." But on that morning, sometime soon after Ash Wednesday, I replied, "I don't know how to say, 'Deep in thought.'" That's when Antero taught me my new favorite phrase.

Pensado profundamente.

One cannot volunteer to be close to God without it causing a bit of a disturbance, which is why Susan B. Anthony said what she said. "I distrust those people who know so well what God wants them to do because I notice it always coincides with their own desires." That'll preach right there.

My desires? Let's see. I could rattle off a list that includes material possessions, church demographics, and family security. But deep in thought on this Wednesday morning, it seems all God wants today is for us to be concerned with today. How can we be Christ today to those who cross our paths?

That's all, folks.

4:23 a.m.

2011-03-18T04:25:00.002-06:00

It's been twenty-two years since I have heard the voice of God. But this morning, at 4:23 a.m., it woke me up. I have no idea what was said. Completely unintelligible. And no, I did not eat Mexican food last night.

When I was 17, I laid down on the backseat of a church van late at night as we drove back from Abilene. Interstate 20 in central-west Texas is a lonely, quiet place. (I think I have told you that story before.) Three people in the van. A young couple who volunteered to drive me and another teen who wound up not going to ACU rounded out the group of four in the van that night. No radio playing. No conversation. Just quiet. That, and the voice of God.

And then there was this morning.

Twenty-two years ago, the voice did not speak in conversational words. It was not like that. It was more of a feeling, a sense of confidence. That was when I knew God wanted me to go into the ministry, to preach, to speak, to be a servant of the Lord. Some people dismiss that as nonsense. Whatever instinct makes people want to be dismissive is a common one unfortunately. Maybe it comes from scores of people speaking on behalf of God to say mean and hurtful things. I understand. If anything, I am probably more judgmental than most when it comes to that sort of thing. And that's why I am writing this particular entry with fear and trembling.

It is now an hour later, about 5:30 on a quiet Friday morning. The distant, gentle drone of traffic from Southwest Freeway is in the near distance. The humming of the refrigerator next to me just finished its faithful cycle. The emotionally needy cat at my feet meows to remind me that he is keeping watch over God knows what. Those are the only sounds in the house.

But the sound of God is still ringing in a place I do not know how to describe.

I wish I could tell you, O bloggerland brothers and sisters, a word or a sentence that sums up the voice. But I cannot. Perhaps my soul is too hardened from years of church work. Perhaps I need a Q-Tip for the ears of my soul.

If I had to guess, based on a single experience, I might say (albeit very carefully) that God was simply saying to remember why I do what I do.

Four or five years ago, when I went to the Middle East for the first time, I stood on the shoreline of the Sea of Galilee and realized that I was a Christian because I was a preacher. (I think I told you this one, too.) I realized that I went into ministry for all the right reasons, and stayed in ministry for all the wrong ones. At that pinpoint-accurate-easily-discerned moment, it was as though God wiped the hard drive clean.

But there was no voice.

This morning, there was. And it was gentle.

At 4:22, I have no idea what I was doing, because I was deep sound asleep. Dreaming in some far off "Inception" world where I can ski and sing. At 4:23, the eyes opened, and that was it. Nothing else to report other than a feeling of presence. Wide awake.

People claim the voice of God all the time. But Moses only had one burning bush over a lifetime of silence. Prayer for most of us is a process of looking to the heavens and asking, "Well?"

Then there's Elijah. God told him in 1 Kings 19 to go shove himself into a crevice, literally between a rock and a hard place. God was about to "pass by." Sometimes the voice of God is a move, a presence. It's not a Cecil B. Demille movie. It's what comes after.

I think that powerfully gentle moment in 1 Kings 19 is particularly close to home today.

Listen.

"Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the LORD, but the LORD was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the LORD was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire, but the LORD was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper."

God was not in the wind.

God was not in the earthquake.

God was not in the fire.

Just a whisper.

It is now 5:59 a.m., and it is good to be awake.

From 32 to 121

2011-03-15T10:58:00.003-06:00

"Isn’t God supposed to be good? Isn’t He supposed to love us? And does God want us to suffer? What if the answer to that question is Yes? Cause I’m not sure that God particularly wants us to be happy. I think he wants us to be able to love and be loved. He wants us to grow up. I suggest to you that it is because God loves us that he makes us the gift of suffering." - The character of C.S. Lewis from the movie Shadowlands

I wish God made sense. I wish the world made sense. I sit here in my office with a ridiculous amount of books, all of which have been written because God is hard to get to know, and the world is even more impossible.

I believe God is good. I believe God loves us. I believe we suffer, whether God's will or otherwise.

I do not believe God wants us to be happy according to the world's measure of happiness. That one is pretty easy to discern. Just watch a commercial or two. They all pretty much make the same empty promise.

"Do you want to be happy? Buy this car."

"Do you want to be happy? Get this security system."

"Do you want to be happy? Lose weight."

Sound like God?

So what does God want? I think Anthony Hopkins as C.S. Lewis is on to something. I am not as certain as he about some things, but one thing is inarguable: God wants us to love, and to be loved. Sounds good.

One more thing: God wants us to take big gulps of God's forgiveness every day.

This past Sunday our church drank for an hour from the deep well of Psalm 32. That song sings the authentic happiness of being found in Christ. No wonder the early churches loved to sing it.

"Happy are those whose transgression is forgiven,
whose sin is covered.
Happy are those to whom the Lord imputes no iniquity,
and in whose spirit there is no deceit."

Happy. Forgiven. Covered. No iniquity. Spirit.

"Happy are those whose transgression is forgiven..."

Happy.

This one is tough for most people. For many, it is easier to forgive than to be forgiven. Do you know what I mean? Do you have a hard time accepting God at face value when God says your sins are actually forgiven? Few would say that they do not trust God's Word. But functionally, it is hard for us to think that God really means what God says on that one.

But it is true.

"Happy are those whose transgression is forgiven..."

That was last Sunday. Then comes the next Psalm in the series for this Sunday, number 121.

"The Lord will keep
your going out and your coming in
from this time on and for evermore."

That sounds good.

But then I watch the news. I see the suffering of fellow human beings in Japan. It is heartbreaking. Some see it as a megaphone of God's judgment. I think that borders on blasphemy. But where some see God's judgment, I simply hear the promise of God's presence, both when we go out, and when we come in.

I hear echoes of the promises of God's forgiveness through the ages, during times of peace, and during times of disaster.

I smell the aroma of the prayers of generations of God's followers who dared to pray, "How long, O Lord?" for they were certain that the only one who could actually hear that prayer was the creator of the heavens and earth.

I touch the hands and faces of young brides and grooms full of hope and love, and then the hands and faces of those at gravesides whose entire world shifts in an instant.

And I feel the joy and pain of all humanity who longs for the fulfillment of time itself when all questions will come to an end, when a single answer rooted in the very heart of God will be all that matters for the remainder of eternity.

Eternal Sandwiches

2011-03-11T07:56:00.004-06:00

I imagine the ancient wilderness wanderers walking out of their tents each morning. Greeted by manna, the wife looks at the husband and asks, "Well, what do you want to do with it today? Manna Waffles? Filet of manna? Mannacoti? Ba-manna bread?" (With a nod to Keith Green.) The husband replies, "I would be perfectly happy with manna sandwiches." And that settled it. Manna sandwiches... again.

Bread of heaven. Stuff of earth.

I remember the best sandwich I have ever had. It was not because of the food itself, but the person with me.

My best friend Wade died in a plane crash almost ten years ago. Man. Ten years. Hard to believe. He is the reason I met my wife. Wade was my best man. I preached his and Amy's wedding. His first daughter was born two days after my son, and his second daughter was born two weeks after my little girl. Wade and Amy used to come to our house in West Texas to sleep for a weekend. Munday, Texas is not exactly an entertainment capital. One thing it is for sure, though, is quiet.

When Wade and Jennifer and I were in school together in Abilene, we would go back to his house in Weatherford for the weekends from time-to-time. Wade always wanted to stop at this hole-in-the-wall mom and pop place that smoked their own hams and made their own sourdough bread. Since he was driving, that's where we stopped every time we made that trip. Every. Stinking. Time. The sandwich was good, mind you. But the company was better.

I remember during our freshman year when Wade and I drove Jennifer to the airport in Dallas so that she could go to her grandfather's wedding in Colorado. The three of us crammed into his blue Chevy pickup that smelled like his chocolate labrador. Jen and I were not dating at the time, but I was madly in love with her. After we dropped her off, I told Wade that I wanted to marry Jen. He smiled. Even though he was kind of dating her at the time, he knew we were perfect for each other, and even said so.

I still remember the three of us eating those sandwiches on that trip. That was twenty years ago. They were the two best friends I have ever had. I am grateful to God every day that I still have Jen. And I cannot wait to get to heaven to see Wade again. Somewhere along a golden-paved interstate, we are going to have to find a sandwich shop.

I guess this whole Lenten fast of bread that I undertook--(Why did I pick bread?)--has me thinking about more eternal things. I take bread for granted. I have eaten it almost every day of my solid-food life. But like the wilderness wanderers and their manna, I am growing into seeing the deeper purpose of bread. It is a simple food. Filling. Some cultures survive mostly on it. Every Sunday we eat it together in the name of Jesus.

I am craving bread this morning. But as I committed to pray, I am asking God to fill that craving with the happiness that only comes through the Lord. And you know what? God is faithful.

I really miss Wade. My eyes still water when I allow myself to think about him as much as I am doing so right now. But like the bread we shared years ago when we were young and full of idealism, God takes those pockets of grief and fills them with holy peace. The bread filled us temporarily; God's peace fills us for eternity.

On the way to my office this morning I saw two different people eating cereal while they were driving. That has nothing to do with this particular reflection. I just wanted to get that out there in public. I actually laughed out loud when I saw the second lady. She was eating Cheerios and milk out of a pitcher. Two separate incidents. I thought it was kind of strange.

On second thought, perhaps there is a connection. We spend our lives eating food that only fills us for a moment. Even at Thanksgiving when we lumber away from the table and vow never to eat again. But then a few hours later, we crave that turkey sandwich. And it's good. Real good.

And that sandwich sounds good right about now. Real good.

But then I pray. I pray. And I have to take a deep breath, because I am again full for a lifetime.

Ashes on Wednesday

2011-03-09T07:53:00.003-06:00

I got into a little trouble a few years ago when my Catholic priest friend Tim asked me to preach at his church on a Sunday night during Lent. Before that night, some people thought I was a lost cause. Beard. Tattoos. Harley. Hate wearing ties. But then when I agreed to preach, some people interpreted it as wishing Godspeed to those dang Catholics. I interpreted it as preaching the Gospel wherever and whenever. So there. A legend in my own mind.

Actually, I do not mean to be so self-aggrandizing. My real point is about the way God seems to have a special place in God's heart for what the world calls "Lost Causes."

About six or seven years ago when I started getting a handle on Lent, I discovered a few things that I already knew. I did not remember that I knew them. But I did.

If you read yesterday's entry, you remember Norman, my Mexican-Catholic friend from grade school who gave up candy for Lent. Everything I needed to know about Lent I learned from Norman. Not only did he give up candy, but he replaced it with prayer.

My friend Fred reintroduced this practice to me in graduate school when he taught me basically the same thing. He talked about the original tradition of Lent, and how we are supposed to replace something ordinary with a virtue, a fruit of the Spirit. For example, one year I gave up the news in order to cultivate peace.

As I wrote yesterday, this year I am giving up bread. But I am giving it up in order to cultivate happiness. Not just happiness as fleeting laughter or fake smiling. But deep, heart-rooted happiness that depends on the eternal blessings of God. One of the reasons I can do that today is because of the experience of that Sunday night sermon.

So there I stood in the pulpit of this small Catholic church in East Texas. I still remember talking about the beauty of repentance as a celebration of God's grace. And while I do not pray to saints, and actually know very little about the tradition of saints, there was one in particular that grabbed my attention that I learned about in Israel from some Franciscan friends.

Saint Jude was one of the original twelve followers of Jesus. Not Judas, mind you, but the one sometimes called Thaddeus. While much of his story is the stuff of legend, he is purported to have travelled all around the Mediterranean, including Libya. (How's that for ironic?) He had a special place in his ministry for those others dismissed. Mother Teresa continued the tradition of the story of Saint Jude in her work in India.

I told the little Catholic church about how I grew up, and how God continued to shape my heart. Many times along the way, even my own family members wondered whether I would make it through adolescence. But somehow I knew deep down that God was there, and that God has hopes, even for us today.

Today. Well, today I will go to a worship service at the Episcopal church down the street, listen to Scripture, wear some ashes, hold hands with my wife, and stop eating bread for a while. I will thank God for faithfulness. I will thank God for never giving up on so many of us. I will thank God for difficult times in the past that helped build some of the character of the present. I will thank God for the happiness known in the Lord that goes beyond world-centered-so-called happiness.

Our oldest son died on Good Friday fourteen years ago. I thought about giving up on preaching. As I wrote last week, I was not sure I wanted to work for God any more. But how could I give up on a God who never gave up on me?

When Polycarp was killed by a Roman proconsul in c. 156, he was given the opportunity to live. He was told, "Take the oath, and I shall release you. Curse Christ." To which Polycarp replied, "Eighty-six years have I served him, and he never did me any wrong. How can I blaspheme my king who has saved me?" So they set him on fire.

Some days it feels like God asks too much. But on those days, I try to remember to pray. I try to find other brothers and sisters in Christ who do not feel the need to act like Christianity is a feel-good pseudo-spiritual psychotropic. I read Scripture. I write sermons that I hope meet people where they are. I try to treat others the way I want to be treated.

And every once in a while I thank God for the story of Saint Jude, the patron saint of lost causes.

Bread on Tuesday

2011-03-08T11:07:00.004-06:00

Rare is the day I do not eat bread. I love it. Any form. A sliced loaf of sourdough wheat, tortillas, flatbread, pastries. Bubba is to shrimp as Jeff is to bread.

The first time I went to the Sea of Galilee we stayed at a Scottish Hotel on the water. They made their own bread. Every night we would walk into the dining room around 7:00 and head straight for the bread table. An entire table filled with different kinds of bread. Somebody slap me and tell me I'm not dreaming. Some nights I just stood there at the table breathing. The aromas were intoxicating. Of all the breads, I hope I never forget the taste of the hot black olive bread. We are not talking here about olives from a can. Nope. Fresh from Mediterranean trees in hand-kneed-slow-rising knock your socks off bread.

Shoot.

In my earlier years, beginning at eight years old, I came home from school to an empty house. Almost every day I walked in, turned on the TV, and made myself a ham and cheese sandwich on Mrs. Baird's Large White. I still love sandwiches.

You may already know, O faithful bloggerland friend, that today is Mardi Gras, Fat Tuesday, the day before Ash Wednesday when Lent begins. For the past five or six years I have tried it out. Not growing up in a liturgical tradition, I always thought Lent was cruel. Having lived for four years in a largely Mexican-Catholic town in South Texas, I was introduced to Lent when my friend Norman Garza said he was going to give up candy for Lent. I thought that sounded rather stupid. But then Norman told me he was replacing all the times he would normally eat candy with a time of prayer.

Funny what we remember.

Norman's prayer-life hit me, even at an age when God was not really on my radar. But then I got in touch with God. Although truthfully, I was never a big fan of prayer. No one ever taught me how to do it. So a handful of years ago I got interested in prayer, and thought I would give this whole Lent thing a shot.

What would I give up? I thought to myself, "What do I take in almost every day?" The answer was easy: Meat. Plus, meat was one of the early things people gave up when the tradition of Lent began in the Middle Ages. Lent was tough, but I remember cravings being replaced by more serious prayer than I think I had ever experienced up to that point.

The second year was a complete disaster. Don't ask.

One of the years was on my first trip to Israel. I attended Ash Wednesday worship in Jerusalem. That was something. That was also the year I decided to give up anxiety. Good call.

Last year, because of many transitions, I did not take the time to fast. I may should have, but Cancun and fasting do not exactly go hand-in-hand.

But this year, well, this year is a time of great rejoicing. My life is better than it has ever been. And so, not out of coercion, not out of guilt, and certainly not out of mere tradition, but rather out of thanksgiving, I am going to join brothers and sisters around the world as we enter a season of fasting and prayer in anticipation of celebrating together the resurrection of Jesus Christ. This year, prayer will replace one of the things I love the most in this world.

Bread.

In John 6, Jesus feeds an enormous crowd with fish and bread. They were hungry. Bread fills. Case closed. Or so they thought. Instead, Jesus later used that event to teach his followers about eternal bread. Bread that never spoils. Bread of heaven. When Jesus mentioned such things, his followers begged for that bread. Jesus responded, "I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never go hungry."

I love bread. But I will confess that I sometimes depend on the things of this world more than the things of heaven. Not because I want to, but because it is easy.

Much easier it would be to dismiss Lent as a top-down manufactured tradition invented by a corrupt autocracy to suppress the masses. More difficult it is to eschew cynicism in order to remind myself that when I crave the things of this world, the bread of heaven is waiting there to be feasted upon with joy and gladness.

"Keep falsehood and lies far from me; give me neither poverty nor riches, but give me only my daily bread." - Proverbs 30:8

Christian Mission from the Blue Recliner

2011-03-03T12:12:00.004-06:00

I handed in my "Traditional Ministry" lapel pin years ago. As a long-time member of that club, I woke up one morning and realized I was a maintenance man for the church rather than a participant in the mysterious dance that shapes us all into disciples of Christ. The "growth" my churches experienced during that time most often occurred when disgruntled insiders from other congregations decided to jump ship and try something new. Not all of that was bad. In fact, one of my best friends fits that description, so I am grateful for people who find a home, however it is they do so. Truth is, I fit that category if you look at it from a certain point of view.

What I gave up on, however, was not the church. It was my approach to church. Instead of a place where every decision was made by the budget, I wanted to imagine a group of people that might welcome those who do not exactly fit the typical southern Christian mold.

This morning, I found myself in an unlikely conversation. I already planned on being home today to get some touch-up painting done around the house. What I did not predict last week was that I would be confined to the blue recliner nursing a slowly-healing back injury.

The phone rang.

"Hello."

"Yes, Mr. Christian, this is Linda." (I changed her name, by the way.)

"Okay, I'll meet you at the front door."

Linda the house painter. Speaking of atypical southern molds.

I walked her around the house showing her places that needed touching up, then told her I needed to go sit back down.

"Just come to the living room and get me if you need anything."

"Sure thing, Mr. Christian," Linda said with her thick New England accent.

When she made it into the living room she started talking. The loquacious type, Linda is.

"So I saw the pictures of your family. Beautiful kids."

"Thank you."

"What do you do?" she asked.

"My wife is a therapist, and I am a minister."

Now, if you are a pastor of any stripe you know the look your non-church acquaintances get on their faces when the find out you are a member of the kah-lergy. If you are not, try to picture the look your mother-in-law got when she found out about your tattoo. That look, well, Linda did not wear that one. Instead, she teared up.

"When I was a little Catholic girl," she began, "I wanted to be a priest. But everyone told me that I couldn't, because I'm a girl."

To make a short story long, Linda has not been a part of a church family for years. She quit school in the eighth grade, and as of today considers herself "agnostic." But it was not long until our conversation turned to my church where men and women are on equal footing, where no one has the upper hand in serving God, and where "agnostics" like Linda (and even myself some days) find a room filled with those on a journey seeking something more substantive than a perfectly planned and executed one hour worship service.

"Linda," I told her, "I want you to give God another chance. Just because someone in the past told you something in the name of Jesus does not mean it was actually from Jesus."

From that point on, every conversation, including the one where she showed me a crack she repaired in our bedroom ceiling, was lightly sprinkled with her tears. I really hope I see her again on Sunday.

This May, I am going to a conference that got me interested in this whole lifestyle evangelism thing in the first place. The speakers all have deep interest in this approach to Christianity where every moment is an opportunity each one of us has to shine the light of Christ. (If you want to check it out, by the way, it is called "Streaming" at Rochester College just outside Detroit: http://www.rc.edu/pages/streaming/)

I could not help but think about that conference this morning after Linda left to go on to her next house. My expectation is that it will further equip those of us who attend to rethink what it means to be the church. And if by some wonderful stroke of God's will we get to have people in our path like Linda who long for God but just do not know what to do about the cracks in their own ceilings, well, that may be the best thing we could hope for.

A Body of Memories

2011-03-02T11:17:00.004-06:00

I have been thinking a lot about pain this week. I have been thinking a lot about pain this week because I am in a lot of pain. Friday afternoon, my back zigged when it should have zagged. A handful of times in my life, my back has decided to seize up. Thankfully, it has been years since it happened last. I try to stay in good shape, which I think has helped. But not Friday. In fact, this one put me down worse than any other time.

Friday night I "slept" in my recliner in the living room. I love my cat. But at three in the morning when he wanted to snuggle, and then attack the evil imaginary-whatever-it-was-he-thought-he-saw that happened to be my armpit, well, let's just say he was on my bad list. I swear that cat has issues. Then of course there was the painful truth Friday night into Saturday morning that every time I adjusted my body, sharp pain shot through my lower back like a Singaporean caning.

Told you I have been thinking a lot about pain.

Today is Wednesday. I am still confined to the recliner for most of the day. The pain is less, but still there. All this time to sit has made me wonder about the other pain(s) we carry around.

Muscles have memory. If you have a bad lower back, for example, my rudimentary understanding is that the muscles remember the feeling that something is not right, and thus react. They tighten up to protect whatever it is they protect. But little do they know, you then get to spend the next few days feeling like the wrong end of someone's voodoo doll.

I think the same is true of our souls. This is an area where I have more than a rudimentary understanding. Our feelings and emotions have memory. If you were taken advantage of as a child by someone you trusted, for instance, chances are above average that you have a hard time as an adult put in similar situations to whatever looks now like it did then. In other words, if Uncle What's-His-Name was cruel to you when you were ten, people who remind you of him are going to be a bit of a challenge.

This weekend, my instinct told me to deal with the pain by going to the doctor. Good call. It helped. I am getting better.

So why are we not as proactive when dealing with our spiritual and emotional pain?

Anyone out there in bloggerland carrying around any unaddressed spiritual pain? Can I get a witness? Thought so. I think I just heard a chorus of "Amens."

If you break your thumb today, chances are good that you will go seek help. But that inner child who is hurting, well, he/she is pretty easy to ignore. At least for a while. But unlike a sore back, that pain will not ease. Truth is, it will get worse. Here's some more truth. Preacher 'bout to tell some truth. Ready?

Time does not heal all wounds.

Time does not make emotional and spiritual pain go away. On the contrary.

Our oldest son would have turned 14 this month. When Thompson died, I did not lose my faith in God. However, I was not sure I wanted to work for God any longer. How was I supposed to get up every Sunday and defend a God I was not sure I understood, much less trusted?

Not to jump too quickly to the resolution, but over these past 14 years, I have come to appreciate a God who grieves with us, who in the Word teaches us to lament to a true and living God. To this day, I ask God "Why?" and "How long?" just like the people who wrote the Bible. After all, if you cannot take your pain to God, where else can you go?

Remember the song, "Where could I go but to the Lord?"

I give thanks to God that my spirit is not as sore as it once was. My back is killing me, but my heart is softer than it once was. Some of that is thanks to getting some help to sort through some inward pain. Some of that is thanks to friends in Munday, Abilene, Paris, Tyler, and Houston, along with a few friends scattered now throughout the world. But most of it is thanks to God, even when I wonder what God is up to.

Why do I want you to know all this today? Simple. Because chances are good that some of the faithful readers at this strange little outpost on the internet are walking around today with some unaddressed, much less unresolved, spiritual and emotional pain. If that's you, go get it looked at. Take care of yourself. Be kind to yourself.

If you do not have anyone to go to, you can come talk to me. I will be the guy in the Harley t-shirt in the blue recliner with an icepack on my lower back.

Jesus Didn't Die on the Cross So You Could Go to Another Meeting

2011-02-25T09:35:00.005-06:00

Patrick Lencioni wrote a book called Death By Meeting. Even for those who have never read the book, the title alone resonates with anyone who has ever sat through a meeting where suicide seems an attractive option. You know the one. A group of people sit around an oversized table in a stuffy, windowless room where lots of words get exchanged and nothing gets done. If you have ever been a minister or elder in a church, you have undoubtedly been to one or two.

One of the things that attracted me to the Bering church was their answer to one of my initial questions.

"Tell me about your elder's meetings," I inquired.

"Well, we meet once a month after church to--"

"Stop," I interrupted, "You had me at 'hello.'"

I remember what elder's meetings were like when I preached in Munday, Texas surrounded by cotton fields and down-to-earth farmers and tractor mechanics. The "meetings" consisted of the five elders and me getting to church an hour early to sit in the "office" and drink coffee. That was it. In the five years I was there, not once did we ever have a formal meeting. And you know what? We got stuff done.

In the eleven years between Munday and Houston, my time in Paris and Tyler was filled with lots of meetings, many of which could have taken half the time they did. I do not want that to sound as critical as it probably does. I just do not know how else to say it. Plus, I bet some of the men and lady who shared that time would say the same thing. Part of the problem with having a big church is how difficult it is to keep it from becoming a complex organization. I am not convinced that administrivia is avoidable in a big church.

So as not to sound overly idealistic, small churches have wasteful meetings as well. I find myself in better meetings now, and for that, I am thankful. We go in, follow the agenda, and leave. It's great. Only once over the past year have I leaned over and asked the person next to me to punch me in the eye.

Why am I telling you all this? You ask a good question, O faithful bloggerland reader.

It has taken me twenty years to learn a simple ministry lesson: Jesus did not die on the cross so I could go to another meeting.

Last Sunday, our leadership team at Bering met for a couple of hours. Over the course of the meeting, I stopped the conversation to thank them for something we were talking about. It was important. It had to do with faith, not the color of the carpet.

I shared a wonderful meal this morning with a member of my church. After about an hour he asked, "When do you have to be at the office?" I told him, "There is nothing at the office more important than this conversation."

That's all I have to say about that.

Every Morning

2011-02-21T20:27:00.004-06:00

To paraphrase part of Lamentations 3 from an old high school devotional song (...at least in my particular world):

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases.
God's mercies never come to an end.
They are new every morning...

Dwell on that when you wake up.

They are new every morning.

It will set you free.

God's mercy. It is new every morning.

Every morning.

Even this one.

Even tomorrow.

New every morning.

Every morning.

Buildings and Mountains

2011-02-20T14:25:00.003-06:00

Mount Kilimanjaro is the tallest freestanding mountain in the world. It’s not the tallest mountain in the world. But it is the tallest one that stands all by itself with no other mountains around.

Williams Tower just a few blocks from here is the tallest freestanding skyscraper in the world. It’s not the tallest skyscraper in the world. But it is the tallest one that stands all by itself with no other skyscrapers around.

Skyscrapers are like mountains for city-dwellers. Five, six, and occasionally seven times a week, I drive east on Westheimer and cannot help but see Williams Tower. But I’m feeling a little melancholy lately because I’m not noticing it as much. It’s beginning to disappear.

I have a friend who told a story one time in one of his sermons about his old grandfather clock. When he first got it, the sound of it was jarring, like the sound of a glass breaking in the kitchen. It would go off behind him while he sat in his recliner reading his newspaper, and the gong made him literally jump.

But then something happened. His clock grew quieter over the months and years. And eventually, he stopped hearing it altogether. He noticed this when one of his houseguests jumped at the sound of the clock. It was not the clock that grew quieter. He simply no longer had ears to hear it.

Williams Tower has been like a mountain every morning as I drive down Westheimer. It rises in the distance all by itself. Some mornings it reflects the sunlight. Some other mornings, clouds and fog surround it like a magician covering the box in the middle of the stage. I remember one beautiful bright blue sky when it reflected the occasional slowly drifting cloud that made the tower look like a giant impressionist painting.

But I’m afraid that I am beginning to lose my sense of wonder. The building is beginning to fade. I need a passenger to look at it and say, “That is one big beautiful building.”

I imagine people living in Kenya and Tanzania feel this way about Kilimanjaro. I would guess that native Parisians no longer notice the Eifel Tower.

All these buildings and mountains. I love the way Scripture uses both to talk about the people of God. But for today, we will just stick with buildings.

Do you not know that we are God’s building?

1 Corinthians 3:9 - "For we are God’s servants, working together; you are God’s field, God’s building."

We are God’s building. But when we have been looking at ourselves for so long, our “eyes to see” begin to lose their vision. But thanks be to God, we come together to dwell in the Word and hear things like this:

1 Corinthians 3:16-23 - "Do you not know that you are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit dwells in you? If anyone destroys God’s temple, God will destroy that person. For God’s temple is holy, and you are that temple. Do not deceive yourselves. If you think that you are wise in this age, you should become fools so that you may become wise. For the wisdom of this world is foolishness with God. For it is written, ‘He catches the wise in their craftiness,' and again, ‘The Lord knows the thoughts of the wise, that they are futile.’ So let no one boast about human leaders. For all things are yours, whether Paul or Apollos or Cephas or the world or life or death or the present or the future—all belong to you, and you belong to Christ, and Christ belongs to God."

That last little bit is interesting. Paul, Apollos, Peter, the whole wide world, and life and death—They all belong to you. That’s something to think about. He is telling this mixed up bunch of young Christians that everything belongs to them. I think it’s kind of a neat philosophical way of saying that they can think about and ponder these things all day long. Kind of like the Jews would talk about holding something in your heart.

The world is yours. But not in a mad scientist sort of way wanting to rule the world, or an evil dictator, or Scarface. Not like that. No, God reminds us here through his word that being able to see things clearly only happens in Christ. For when we are in Christ, the whole wide world is revealed for what it truly is. Life is revealed for what it truly is. Death is revealed for what it truly is. So are all your leaders, and basically anything you could possibly name.

This is why God’s building stands out and can be seen for miles. When we are in Christ, the worldly wisdom appears to us as foolish. That’s where Jesus’ teaching on love builds us into a new building. Not only one that others can see, but one that never fades in our own sight.

Matthew 5:38-48 - "‘You have heard that it was said, “An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.” But I say to you, Do not resist an evildoer. But if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also; and if anyone wants to sue you and take your coat, give your cloak as well; and if anyone forces you to go one mile, go also the second mile. Give to everyone who begs from you, and do not refuse anyone who wants to borrow from you.

‘You have heard that it was said, “You shall love your neighbour and hate your enemy.” But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be children of your Father in heaven; for he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous. For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Do not even the tax-collectors do the same? And if you greet only your brothers and sisters, what more are you doing than others? Do not even the Gentiles do the same? Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect."

Jesus is building a dichotomy here, a dichotomy that separates foolish love from wise love.

Foolish love sees the world as a place where we defend temporary things; wise love sees the things of the world as worthy of being shared.

Foolish love says, “I’ll go one mile, but that’s it;” wise love says, “I’ll go with you, because you are important.”

Foolish love says, “Those who slander me deserve a thrashing;” wise love says, “Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do.”

Foolish love says, “I like the people who think I’m the best;” wise love says, “Everyone is invited to the feast.”

The only reason we as a spiritual building stand is because Jesus is our foundation. The most affirming thing that Paul says, perhaps in his entire body of work, is that this mixed up group of basket case Christians in Corinth is still considered the place where the Spirit of the Lord dwells. In all their imperfection, they are still the temple of the Lord. Because God has made, and is making, them holy, they are the temple of God. And that’s what we are.

If we are not careful, such truths become commonplace. Such truths become obscured by clouds like a building in the distance we learn to ignore. We grow used to saying things that once stirred our souls. But the reason we keep saying them, even when we have to strain our ears to listen, has to do with the way we are to keep building up one another. When we say, “We are the House of God,” it changes everything. It influences the way we look at one another. It shapes the things we say to one another. It deepens our sense of mission and why God continues to pour out His Spirit on this church as a place that welcomes everyone who comes through our doors. We begin to see each other, and even ourselves, as holy, because that is what God is making us.

And as those holy to the Lord, we will practice wise love with one another, be gracious to those we do not know, and pray that God will continue to shape us in the image and likeness of Christ.

The whole world is yours. But you belong to Christ. And Christ belongs to God. I think we will always be in the process of learning what that means. But it sure sounds good. Amen.

Looking for God at Dave & Busters

2011-02-19T09:02:00.004-06:00

Reese and I went on a "Daddy-Daughter Date Nite" last night. Her best friend at school told her about Dave & Buster's, a place neither of us had ever been. She said she wanted to go there. Sure. Why not?

The moment we walked in I imagined how they came up with the idea. Two friends named Dave and Buster were sitting in a Chuck E. Cheese after their kids' last soccer game of the season. After a simultaneous eureka, they looked at each other and said, "Let's take this place, make it bigger, lose the disturbing rat, put a bar in the middle of everything, and make the food edible." It may not have happened exactly like that. But I bet I'm close.

So there we were, playing skee-ball, laughing, cheering for each other. Other than the occasional sip of root beer, a permanent smile was glued to Reese's face. She is still talking about it. But the experience would not have been the same for her without me there, and vice versa. We made a memory, and we made it together.

But other than a couple of hours last night, I have been talking and emailing with many of my bloggerland peeps about shame and guilt. I seem to have hit a nerve. Perhaps it is because most of us have been taught to see ourselves as flawed.

Keep in mind that a screwed up church like Corinth, for example, never heard Paul say, "You are bad, worthless people." On the contrary, he wrote, "Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit?" Did they have behaviors, thoughts, and choices that needed to change? Of course. Did those behaviors, thoughts, and choices disqualify them from the presence of God? No.

Take Amos as another example. The farmboy from the south almost 800 years before Corinth went up north to tell Israel the same thing. "You have forgotten how to love one another." But God did not write them off. He wrote them in.

I know some of you are struggling with shame. That notion is of the world. The world points out your flaws. Every woman I know, and many of the men as well, feel judged by airbrushed supermodels on the cover of every magazine. Women, you do not have to look like Katy Perry to be truly beautiful. Men, you do not have to be Superman.

Last night, as we spent our last points on a final game of skee-ball, we took our tickets we won to get a prize. A half-drunk young businessman with a loosened tie was in line just in front of us. They counted his tickets and gave him the grand total. He skipped over to the mini-football helmets, grabbed his beloved maroon keepsake, and walked out with joy in his heart. I looked at Reese, mesmerized by dolls, games, and waffle-irons. (Yeah, I thought that looked a little out of place, too.) She looked beautiful. But it was not her face. It was a smile that radiated from somewhere deep insider her. It was her heart.

And I would like to think that's all God sees when he looks at each one of us as well.

Healthy Acceptance of Oneself in the Midst of Shame

2011-02-18T07:53:00.012-06:00

"The only thing worth writing about is the human heart in conflict with itself." William Faulkner

Part I - The Dreaded Rewrite

Every writer from time-to-time publishes something that in hindsight needed more work. (i.e. That last sentence has competing tenses and really needs to be rewritten.) Well, this past Tuesday I spent the morning writing having thought I had gone to the mountaintop. Alas (sigh), that was not the case. A few of you voracious readers probably caught it before I took it down. The article was about shame. Since it was not the article I hoped it would be, I decided to do an extensive rewrite, mainly because I still think there is something worth saving. If I could look you in the eye right now I would tell you that God is not in the humiliation and shame business, but rather, in the business of redemption. But in my effort to demythologize shame, I wound up doing the very thing I set out to undo. In an attempt to reframe shame, shame prevailed. I fought the law, and the law won.

Part II - All You Need Is Love (yeah, that and a wife with a master's degree in psychology)

I'll come clean: My wife is not only my best friend, but she is also one of the smartest people I know. Aside from the tight jeans and clangy earrings she wore in college, what attracted me to her the most was her intellect. I dated some girls our freshman year in college who were pretty. But some of the conversations--(and I use that term generously)--was like trying to pour water into a grocery cart. Jen, on the other hand, loved hours of philosophical exploration. Not a bad kisser, either.

Over the past twenty years, we have gone through our degrees together, benefiting from one another's learning. But occasionally I think I have understood something than in actuality I have only begun to grasp. Thankfully, Jen is always there as a proverbial sounding board.

Below, Part III is a rewrite of the earlier post some of you may have caught called "Healthy Shame." That article is gone. After a few conversations, and reading Brené Brown, my thinking has shifted, even on what I wrote about Tuesday. What follows is different, healthier, and what I think to be advantageous to a Christian population that has been brought up on guilt ("I did something bad") and shame ("I am bad"). My prayer for you out there in bloggerland is that today will be a day that you feel the redemptive peace that only comes through Jesus Christ. Oh, and be kind to yourself.

Part III - Healthy Acceptance of Oneself in the Midst of Shame

I sat in the hard wooden pew mesmerized by the giant ceilings and the cold stone walls. It was my first Ash Wednesday service ever. The Episcopalians say they do not believe in guilt, but evidently they don't believe in seat cushions either. My professor Fred and I sat, knelt, and stood as we experienced the beginning of Lent, and more importantly, a thanksgiving to God for the gift of repentance.

The preacher said at the beginning of his homily: "For those of you who are not Episcopalians, we are like Catholics without the guilt." I giggled. But I wasn't buying it. Western Christianity has turned guilt and shame into an art form. The American education system comes in at a close second.

Let me go back and tell you a story from my elementary school days. It is a story about shame.

I became a regular in the principal's office in elementary school. That was back when they paddled with a big wooden paddle. We kids perfected urban legends on the playground when it came to that paddle. We used to tell the first and second graders that they drilled holes in the paddle to make it go faster before it slammed into your butt. We also told them that for fifth graders, they used an electric paddle.

(Speaking of therapy.)

Mr. Anderson's middle initial was "T." I know that for a reason. The reason has a direct correlation to the paddle wrapped in athletic tape that Mr. Anderson carried in his back pocket. Even as a kid I wondered why he carried that paddle around everywhere he went. I could not imagine a scenario when he would have to whip it out at a moment's notice like a big game hunter and put a kid down immediately for chewing gum. Hindsight makes everything clear. He did it to scare us. Yoda may say that fear leads to anger, but it also leads to humiliation, and humiliation leads to shame.

When I went to the principal's office, it was most often for getting into fistfights. When the other boys and I found ourselves sitting in Mr. Anderson's office, it was always the same drill. He would ask us why we were fighting. The boy I happened to be fighting that day would say something, and then I would say something. Mr. Anderson would lecture us for a while, take in a deep breath followed by a melodramatic exhale, pause, and then say, "You boys ought to be shamed of yourself."

He and our teacher would then waltz us into the boys' bathroom. We would place our hands on the wall like a criminal about to be frisked. Since Mr. Anderson was left-handed, he would place his right hand on the wall between mine just above my eye level. His class ring had his three initials printed diagonally across the dark stone in the middle of the ring.

MTA

I cannot remember how many times between third and sixth grade I heard him say, "Look at the 'T.'"

Each time, I looked at the "T." Then came the first lick. SLAM!

Just enough time to catch your breath.

"Keep your eye on the 'T.'"

SLAM!

The goal was not to cry. Whether you won the fight or lost the fight, you saved face if you did not cry after this sick ritual.

But what hurt more than the licks was the shame. It was humiliating. A child tolerates such things out of fear, not out of respect like some adults think. Children are small, vulnerable, and sometimes feel threatened by the sheer size of the adults around them. We adults need to be careful with that. I believe I have heard that somewhere before. Didn't Jesus say something about that?

My critique of corporal punishment in education, however, might also illustrate the way we Christians deal with one another in our churches.

Brené Brown says her career started around one sentence: "You cannot shame or belittle people into changing their behaviors." In some ways, the education system has learned that lesson. I think it is at least getting better. We Christians, however, may still have a ways to go. That is true of the way we treat others. But it may be most true in the ways we treat ourselves.

Think about it this way, especially if you have kids: Would you talk to your child the way you talk to yourself in your head? How do you talk to yourself? Do you ever shame yourself?

Dr. Brown's book, I Thought It Was Just Me (But It Isn't), goes to great lengths to define shame as a debilitating force in all our lives. She asked a number of people in her early research to define shame. This one struck me: "Shame is that feeling in the pit of your stomach that is dark and hurts like hell. You can't talk about it and can't articulate how bad it feels because then everyone would know your 'dirty little secret.'"

Okay, my church pals, are you ready for some truth? Preacher 'bout to tell the truth. The church as it exists today, yes even Episcopalians, systemically cultivates shame. We dress up in costumes most of us only wear one day a week, and when people ask us how we are doing, we are conditioned to respond, "Fine."

What do you think would happen if we replaced our answers with the truth? And can you believe we are talking about church as a place where we need to tell the truth more often?

I know for a fact, because I have people in my office all the time who are drenched in shame, that some of you on Sunday morning would scare the pants off your fellow parishioners if you told the truth. Or most likely, they would look at you, not know what to say, pat you on the shoulder, say something like "I'll pray for you," and then walk off. You know why? Because in our churches we are not spending enough time encouraging one another to come as you are. Jesus says, "Come to me, all you who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest." We prefer marketing strategies. "Come to us, all you who are a middle-class family of four, and contribute to the church budget."

Boy, this is getting heavy.

Picture this scene in your church's foyer:

"How are you today?"

"I'm in so much damn pain that I don't know why I'm even here."

"I'm sorry. Did you see the game yesterday?"

The church should be the primary gathering in the world where you can come, be vulnerable, and in authenticity, participate with others who exchange shame for the healing salvation afforded through Jesus. It is time that we Christians take seriously how we have participated in the ungodly system that makes men and women think our appearance, both physical and emotional, is more important than honesty.

But do you know why it is going to take a while to turn the corner? It is because elders, preachers, and gossipy church-types have used other people's confessions of sin to shame them.

Shame me once, shame on me. Shame me twice, shame on me.

Can we in our churches at least give this a try? The only way it will work is if we are all in it together.

After years of research, Dr. Brown finally developed this conceptual definition: "Shame is the intensely painful feeling or experience of believing we are flawed and therefore unworthy of acceptance and belonging."

Preacher 'bout to tell some more truth: That has no place in the life of a Christian, whether directed outwardly toward others, and certainly not in the messages we send to ourselves. Church is the last group where anyone should experience not belonging. Repentance is one thing. We all make bad choices. We all sin. But we are also washed clean. Redeemed. And those should be the lenses through which we see the entire world.

You are not flawed.

Bread on an Empty Stomach

2011-02-08T10:03:00.006-06:00

Every once in a while you read something that sticks with you. Not just for a little while, but permanently. It's rare. Very rare. But it happens.

I was in college when I read a prayer written by Virgil Fry at Lifeline Chaplaincy in Houston. This was long before I met Virgil, and certainly long before I ever thought I would be living in Houston. The prayer was called "Mountains, Valleys, and Places In-Between." I cannot for the life of me find it. But I still remember that image, and it has carried me through some dark times in my own walk with God.

Some days are like mountains; some days are like valleys. Most of the time is somewhere in-between.

But in-between can get tiring.

When you are on the metaphorical mountain with God, you want to shout joyous praise; when you are in the valley of the shadow of death, you go to God regularly, sometimes non-stop for comfort, even with pain-soaked questions.

But in-between can get dangerous.

In-between is a place of routines where boredom sets in. Boredom leads to complacency, even sin. If God is a living stream, sin is a shallow puddle.

Two weeks ago I wrote "Uninspired" because I was feeling... well... uninspired.

Last week was a great week of contact with God.

I confess to you, O faithful bloggerland reader, that yesterday I was once again feeling a little uninspired. And yesterday afternoon it hit me as to why I have been feeling this way. As Led Zeppelin so eloquently sang it, "It's nobody's fault but mine." (That quote has stuck with me permanently as well. Virgil can sleep well tonight knowing that he ranks right up there with Led Zeppelin.)

So why am I telling you all this? The answer goes back to what I wrote a couple of weeks ago. I think for most of us Christians, a walk of faith takes work. I know exactly why I have been feeling uninspired lately. I have not been praying like I should. I have not read anything inspiring in a couple of weeks. And for the past couple of weeks I have found myself in that all-too-tempting preacher place where you just read the Bible in order to support the sermon. I like my sermons. I think they have been good lately. But ask any preacher: Just reading and praying in order to prop up the sermon is like cooking a meal for everyone else that you yourself decide not to eat. In the preaching world, you can get away with that for a while, but not for long. It starts to drain you.

But that's actually a good thing. I thank God for hunger. It's a natural instinct that reminds us to eat. That's true of real food, but it may be even more true of spiritual food. Our souls are like sacred stomachs that cry out to us when we are not feeding ourselves like we should.

Ask any preacher who has done this for more than a decade, and he or she will be glad to tell you what it is like to preach on an empty soul. We will then tell you that--"Thanks be to God"--those times do not last. And for me personally, those times are actually growing shorter, and farther apart.

But they do come.

I came in early to the office this morning to spend some time alone. Quiet time. Praying time. Time in the Word. For three hours I was reminded that the bread of life is always fresh out of the oven. It is there for the taking any time we want.

So why do so many of us church types decide to go hungry, or eat food that spoils? And then on top of that, why do so many of us church types blame our hunger on God or the church when the problem oftentimes has more to do with our own spiritual anorexia? It does not have to be that way.

If you are feeling like you are going through life on an empty spiritual stomach, there is good news and bad news. The good news is that bread of life is available to you right now, whether you find yourself on a mountain, in the valley, or most likely, somewhere in-between. Here's some bread. Take it. It's yours.

The bad news is that your church, your family, or your friends are not going to do this for you. Your church can encourage you. Your friends will love you. Your family will put up with you. But you have to bite into the bread of life for yourself.

Dude, all this talk about bread is is making me hungry. I want a real piece of bread. But I think I will wash it down with Psalm 104:

The Lord makes springs pour water into the ravines;
it flows between the mountains.
They give water to all the beasts of the field;
the wild donkeys quench their thirst.
The birds of the sky nest by the waters;
they sing among the branches.
He waters the mountains from his upper chambers;
the land is satisfied by the fruit of his work.
He makes grass grow for the cattle,
and plants for people to cultivate—
bringing forth food from the earth:
wine that gladdens human hearts,
oil to make their faces shine,
and bread that sustains their hearts.

Soup on a Stick

2011-02-01T10:29:00.003-06:00

To quote Wally exactly, "Here's some stuff that I like!"

I like my homemade guacamole made with nothing but fresh ingredients. Fresh avocados. Fresh cilantro. Hand-squeezed lime.

I like waking up next to my wife.

I like my pajama pants made out of t-shirt material.

I like going to church on Sunday mornings with people who care about important things, eternal things.

I like cheese.

I like whoever invented the toothbrush for coming up with one of the greatest things ever created.

I like driving my car in the rain, and riding my motorcycle in the sunshine, although the converse of both of those statements is false.

I like to think that one of the main reasons you read this blog is because you want a deeper relationship with God.

I like writing this blog because it helps me sort through those times when I hear God, and when I don't. Today, I think I do.

I like peace.

I like music, and the power it has at times to bring me to tears.

I like praying with my family before supper when the four of us sit at the table together.

I like my friends.

And I like this song by Brak:

"I would climb the deepest river
Swim the highest mountain
I'd wash my feet in lemonade
If that will do the trick

I would dip my pig in butter
And ride him 'round the playground
If I thought it'd make you love me
I'd put soup on a stick."

Uninspired

2011-01-27T08:06:00.002-06:00

Speaking of irony.

This time last week I was experiencing past and present thin places, those wonderful times when you feel certain of God's presence. But ask Moses. Those highs don't last.

When I started this blog back up about a year ago, I decided not to write unless I felt inspired. It may be a song lyric, a passage out of a book, or a purple car. But I won't write unless I feel some gush of inspiration where I just have to write.

So yesterday and this morning I have been thinking about how uninspired I feel this week. Where did God go? Why does God once again feel distant and silent? Is it really God, or is it me?

I have good friend in Dallas who is a psychologist. He and I talked one afternoon a few years ago about working with people, and how we all at times get stressed, feel down, and all that jazz. He said something I have shared now a number of times. We are in greatest danger for temptation and depression when we feel hungry, angry, lonely, or tired. He said to remember the word "HALT." If you are feeling down, go down the word:

H - Hungry
A - Angry
L - Lonely
T - Tired

If you are any one of the above, heed the warning signs; if you are any two of the above, watch out.

I have had a cold/cough now for over two weeks. I feel fine other than a persistent cough that just won't go away. I'm wondering if the word should be "HALTS" with the "S" standing for "Sick." I'm also wondering whether such things get in the way of our contact with God. I don't think God has gone anywhere over the past week. I have. My being uninspired probably has more to do with me than it does with God.

So why, you may be asking, am I confessing to the world that I feel uninspired? The answer is simple: I think you do too sometimes. You do, don't you?

You see, we church types are conditioned to have to come to church and say we're feeling "Fine."

"How you doin'?"
"Oh, I'm fine."

What might happen if you replied, "I'm feeling uninspired."

Perhaps one of the best arguments for going to church every Sunday stems from this feeling of lacking God's presence. Gathering with other Christians reminds us that we are not alone, whether high on a mountain, down in the valley, or somewhere in between. The silence of God may feel as persistent as nighttime. But when we come together to proclaim eternal truths that outlast our temporary perceptions... well... it casts everything in a different light.

So here we are today, gathered in our little cyber-congregation proclaiming another truth. In my lack of inspiration, I really have nothing to say to you today, brothers and sisters. But maybe next week I will.

We'll see.

Thin Places

2011-01-20T09:11:00.006-06:00

My hands are shaking. I'm thinking about telling you why.

I had a long conversation yesterday with two dear Christian friends about the movement of God's Spirit. For me, I can cite two events in my own life when I felt God. And to this day, I believe it was the presence of God.

The first was what some refer to as a "calling." In my rational tradition, people tend to belittle, and even make fun of such language. They roll their eyes at it like they do the words "pastor" and "sacrament." Nothing I can do about that. But it was as real to me as my belly button.

It was in November of 1989. I was 17. After spending the day in Abilene considering where I might go to college and whether I would pursue professional acting, law, or ministry, I laid in the backseat of a van and looked out the window. It was dark. Late. The stars looked like someone poked little white holes in a black blanket. A perfectly clear night.

I prayed. As the sky stood still somewhere on Interstate 20 between Ranger and East Nowhere, I prayed. Prayed and listened. It was quiet. Who was I supposed to become? I didn't hear voices. No burning bush. Not even a single shooting star. But I felt the strong sense that God was telling me one thing: "I put you there to preach."

And that was it. Nothing ecstatic. Nothing loud or outlandish. In fact, it was more like a whisper.

The second time was just like it.

I stood by myself on the northwestern shoreline of the Sea of Galilee. I prayed and imagined Jesus with his cadre of early followers telling them things that turned their preconceived notions upsidedown, insideout, and sideways. I knelt on the rocks by the water. I had an urge--to this day I'm still not sure why--to put my hands in the water and wash my face. The waters were cold. They felt like baptismal waters.

And that was it. Nothing ecstatic. Nothing loud or outlandish. In fact, it was more like a caress.

But there is another movement of God's Spirit that I feel almost every week. It's not the same as my calling, or my self-baptism at the lake. No, it's not like that. But it's the reason my hands are still shaking. (No, it's not from too much coffee, you silly.)

This morning, I came into the office early. I have been thinking about my sermon coming up on Sunday, especially since it will begin a new seven-week series. When my eyes popped open this morning at 4:22, it's all I could think about. The sermon fairies are no respecters of my desire for shut-eye.

Between the sneezes and coughs that still linger from this dang cold that doesn't seem to want to leave, I felt God's presence.

There's an old preacher joke about a dude who gets up in his pulpit every Sunday. He tells his congregation that he prepares the first fifteen minutes of his sermon, but let's the Holy Spirit take over for the last fifteen minutes. As he is shaking people out the door at the end of the service, a kind but direct little old lady says to him, "It might be irreverent for me to say this, Reverend, but you're a lot better preacher than the Holy Spirit."

So here I am in my preacher's study writing about what happened earlier this morning as I finished preparing my sermon for Sunday morning. That's why my hands are shaking.

I believe that God is just as present during the sermon writing process in my office chair as God is in the pulpit on Sunday morning. And oh how I love Sunday mornings! An old friend long ago said I seem happiest in the pulpit. Fair enough. I feel the presence of God during that moment of proclamation. In fact, the only other time that I feel the space between heaven and earth grow thin is that moment during the week when I'm finished writing the sermon.

That was this morning.

My hands are starting to calm down a little bit. But I still feel the high that comes right after I take a deep breath and know that God still has something to say to the people of God.

Someone asked Jackson Pollock how he knew when one of his paintings was finished. He said that he just knew.

And if you ask me how I can be so sure of the Spirit of God, I will probably reply the same way.

"A time to be silent..."

2011-01-11T19:35:00.007-06:00

...

...

So I still think the best moment in the whole book of Job is when Job, after a horrible tragedy none of us can imagine, is visited by his friends. In wisdom, they sit with him for a week, and say... nothing.

...

...

"I'll divide with ya!"

2011-01-07T08:00:00.002-06:00

We ran out of coffee this morning at the house because we drank it too fast. Not having much in my cup, but more than Jen, I said, "I'll divide with ya!"

I'll divide with ya. I have neither said nor heard that since 1996 when Lorena Burnison died. And when I thought about Lorena, it reminded me to keep practicing the spiritual discipline of sharing grace.

In one of Thomas Merton's journals he wrote, "I have been absurdly burdened since the beginning of the year with the illusions of 'great responsibility' and of a task to be done. Actually whatever work is to be done is God's work and not mine, and I will not help matters, only hinder them, by too much care."

Here at the beginning of the new year, I have already noticed how ramped up everyone is. Last night at the gym, the January crowd was in full force. Fellow gym-rats back me up on this one: Health clubs are always busiest during the month of January.

Churches tend to fill up a little more as well. But we church types have to be careful. We have to be careful not to get too caught up in the false rhythms of new year's resolutions and confuse "church work" with spiritual transformation.

The work of God continues. If there are tasks to be done today in the name of Jesus, they are in thankful response to what God has already set in motion, including what God is doing today. It is a fool's errand indeed to believe that a little more activity on my part is going to do God any favors. Granted, that does not excuse me as a Christian from hospital visits, study, and everyday evangelism. But again, those "tasks" are acts of gratitude, rather than what I used to believe were accomplishments on my part as though God was supposed to somehow tell me "Thank you." Doesn't work that way. What God says is, "Well done, good and faithful servant." But I imagine when God says that, it must be akin to a mom telling her kindergartener that the fingerpainting on the fridge is the most beautiful thing in the world. The mom is not being dishonest. Neither is God. But both in their wisdom can see the works for what they are: Finite. And that's what we are: Finite.

When I stood at the graveside at the Gillispie Cemetery just outside Munday, Texas in 1996, I shed tears saying goodbye to Lorena Burnison. The sun was bright. It was windy. I stood there reading scripture as the tears mixed with West Texas dust fell onto the pages around Psalm 23. I was 24 years old. She must have been 150. I can't remember. But I loved her as a dear friend.

For two years before she died, most every Friday afternoon I walked around the corner from the parsonage to the nursing home and sat for an hour talking to Lorena. She had thick glasses that made her eyes look cartoonish. She was almost always sitting in her chair next to her bed under a quilt. I still have one of her quilts in my home. It's one of my most precious possessions.

It was usually just after lunch that I made my way over to the rest home to see her. I bounded through the door each Friday and said the same thing: "What's up, girl?" She would giggle and reply, "Oh just finishin' my food." And without fail she would continue, "You want some? I'll divide with ya."

I usually said "No," unless one of the ladies from church had brought her a lemon bundt cake, at which point I always said, "Yes." And there we sat. Two people who would have never met except for a common confession in Jesus Christ. An odd couple to be sure. But filled with the Holy Spirit, and a generous portion of lemon bundt cake.

I can still hear her voice. "I'll divide with ya."

When we walk through the doors of our churches this Sunday morning, we will proclaim eternal things with people we love, as well as with perfect strangers. But the work to be done this Sunday will not accomplish something for God that God has not already set in motion long before we presented God with our fingerpainted praise. We are thankful recipients of grace. And that's about it.

God's grace is meant to be shared. It's not a work to be accomplished, but a gift to be shared. I am trying to learn to share the grace I have so generously received with everyone I encounter. And if I see you today, or tomorrow, or Sunday, I'll divide with ya.

A Bunch of Stuff That Doesn't Go Together

2011-01-04T10:01:00.002-06:00

I had never seen a car that purple. I mean purple. Real purple. The kind of purple that when he walked into the paint store the guy must have said, "Give me the purplest purple you have." To which the attendant behind the counter undoubtedly replied, "Oh, you must want our newest shade, 'Ultra-Purple.'"

As I sat behind that car at the stoplight this morning I thought to myself, "This dude must order Grape Crush by the caseload." I also sat there thinking about pancakes, Philippians 4, and ZZ Top. Now I know what you must be thinking: How in the world do all of those things fit together? The easy answer to your question: They don't. And that's the point.

Earlier this morning, I had breakfast with my dear friend, Edward. As with most Tuesday mornings, we gather for pancakes at IHOP, enjoy good conversation, bad jokes that would make a grown man groan, and a chapter out of the Greek New Testament. This morning, we read Philippians 4.

In the chapter, Paul spends a good amount of time trying to help his readers value contentment no matter the situation. Using himself as an example, he talks about being rich, poor, and everything in between. But now that he is in Christ, none of those labels mean what they used to. Free, slave, healthy, or beaten next to death, he says he can endure anything through the power of Christ.

While Edward and I read such wonderful thoughts, the music cascading down from the ceiling speakers included ZZ Top's, "Just Got Paid." I thought that was kind of funny. Billy was growling over the distorted guitars about his pocket full of change while Edward read Paul's description of lacking absolutely nothing. And how could I have anticipated while we read such wonderful words that not moments later I would be sitting behind the purplest car ever painted?

On the surface, a purple car, two pancakes, Pauline theology, and ZZ Top may not seem to have anything in common. And while to the untrained eye such a list may seem downright incongruous, they all come together in one very simple way: Our daily lives.

Every day we encounter a bunch of stuff that doesn't go together. That's life. But through it all, making our way through disparate experiences as best we can, those of us in Christ keep reminding ourselves of what we sometimes call "First Things." One such first thing is that each of us can get through the day by the one who gives us strength.

Unforced Errors, Part II... or... "Should'a Known Better"

2010-12-28T09:40:00.003-06:00

(Disclaimer/Intro: A preaching professor of mine talked about how in some churches you could close your eyes during the sermon and never know there was a woman in the room. The preacher uses football and hunting illustrations and thinks they connect with everyone. That particular criticism is why I hesitate to use two racquetball illustrations in a row. But it's a really good one. So here goes.)

Last night our doubles team won three games out of five. For me, playing racquetball with tournament-level older guys, to win that much is a really big deal. They have brought my game up considerably. But last night, something changed.

As my game gets better, I am noticing how the other players are starting to get on to me more about unforced errors. They make them as well. And they get on to each other. But that's what changed last night. I graduated to the level of getting into trouble for making mistakes.

Six months ago it was a different story. I was rusty, and had not played in years. Certainly not at that level. When I made a bad play or decision, it was easy to dismiss as a "new guy" error. (I am still convinced, by the way, that I went through a "new guy" hazing period, and I have the bruises to prove it.)

But now that I am actually starting to win, I can no longer fall back on my "new guy" status.

And guess what that made me think about?

When new people come to the Christian faith, we treat them a certain way. They are easy to forgive when they make naive mistakes. We would never dream of treating new Christians as harshly as we treat one another who have a longer standing in the church. And I'm not sure how I feel about that. In fact, the more I thought about the analogy last night, the more it fell apart.

To a certain extent, one would expect a Christian who has 30 years of faith experience to behave differently than a newcomer. But if it is true that all of us sin and fall short of the glory of God, then what role does "experience" play in Christianity? I would like to tell you that all seasoned Christians act differently than newcomers. And I would tell you that, were it true. But it's not. Anyone with church under the belt knows that some of the regulars can behave at times like mean high school girls. It is also the case that some newcomers with their zeal for the freshly discovered story behave better than us oldtimers. Maybe it's a case of taking grace for granted.

Or maybe we just get lazy.

When I was a new Christian, when I sinned, I would say, "I should'a known better."

Yesterday, as a Christian now for over two decades, when I sinned, I said, "I should'a known better."

And that's where the racquetball analogy crumbles. While we are expected to mature as Christians being shaped and being redeemed, there is an element of God's grace in our lives that goes beyond what we can learn and perfect. For if I ever got to a point where I mastered Christianity, God would be disposable.

And that, dear bloggerland brothers and sisters, is how we waste so much energy in the church treating it like just another competition.

Unforced Errors

2010-12-23T09:39:00.003-06:00

It's 9:39 in the a.m., and I have already had three songs stuck in my head this morning: "Open the Eyes of My Heart"... "Ace of Spades"... and "Long Line of Cars." My guess is that few people out there in bloggerland would have the same experience. Doesn't matter. Personal quirks are what make us all tick. Plus, "Long Line of Cars" by the group Cake is the only song relevant to this particular entry.

I stood at my bedroom window this morning for a few minutes watching a long line of cars coming off the Westpark Tollway onto Southwest Freeway. Between me and the long line of cars was a billboard for Crown Royal Whisky that reads, "You Shouldn't Have." I know it's supposed to be a Christmas advertisement, but I wondered as I stood there looking at the cars passing the billboard how many of the people in the cars were thinking the same thing about their lives: "I really shouldn't have."

I don't mind confessing to the whole wide world that from time-to-time I make bad choices. Most of them have to do with the demons in my own mind, thinking things I shouldn't. And even if you don't know the three songs listed above, O faithful bloggerland reader, it's probably a safe assumption on this writer's part that you also make bad choices.

And so goes life.

Last night I played racquetball on the challenge court with guys who play at tournament level. They kill me most of the time. But last night, my partner and I actually won two out of six games, which is a really big deal in my world. One of the games we won, however, was due to one of our opponents making a series of unforced errors.

In most sports, avoiding errors is key. Baseball, football, tennis, you name it. When you get to a certain level, you win by keeping errors to a minimum. In pro football, for example, coaches often say that the team who wins is the one who fumbles the ball the fewest amount of times.

When I step on to the racquetball court, I can win much of the time as long as I don't skip the ball. Skipping the ball is an unforced error. That may not mean much to most people, but suffice it to say that "skipping" the ball means the ball is dead. And if you skip the ball before it hits the front wall, it means one of two things: Either 1) you lose serve, or 2) you just gave the point to the other guy.

And so goes life.

Much of the sin we face day-to-day has a direct correlation to our own bad choices. No one makes us do it. We choose. As I get older, I believe more and more that the Christian life has a great deal to do with the Spirit of God working in our lives, and a great deal to do with keeping unforced errors to a minimum.

That's it.

The Advent Slump

2010-12-21T08:45:00.002-06:00

I knew something was different about the world this morning when at 8:00 on Westheimer--(one of the top 100 busiest streets in the United States for all my non-Houston reader-types)--was filled with my car and about ten others. Seriously. Usually between 8:00 and 9:00 on a weekday morning, it's literal bumper-to-bumper Darwinian driving at its basest.

But this morning, Westheimer looked like a scene out of a 70s Christian scare-tactic rapture movie... or maybe the scene from 80s camp favorite, Night of the Comet--(I had to reach deep for that one, eh?)--or when old what's-his-name in Vanilla Sky runs out into an empty Manhattan street? (Okay, I think I have made my point.)

Even the guy standing in the median holding the $19 manicure placard gave me a look like, "Seriously? I shaved my back for this?"

As I turned off Westheimer on to Bering Drive, no one was doing the usual cross-lane-cut into the bank building on the corner. No one was riding my bumper as I pulled into the church parking lot. Where was everybody?

Something is up. Then I remembered this is the week before Christmas. How could I have missed that one?

This being a holiday week, especially for our church who has just walked together through the four Sundays of Advent, today just feels kind of slumpish. We went through the spiritual discipline/rhythm of Advent, anticipating the coming of the Messiah. It was fun, kind of like being a kid again. We know the Messiah has come; and we know he is to come again. Perhaps that's why this week may be the most important week of this whole season.

"The Advent Slump" may be the most realistic time during this portion of the Christian calendar. It most accurately reflects the way most of us live our Christian lives. We do not get to see the parting of seas or the tearing of the temple curtain. Instead, we go to the same church Sunday-after-Sunday. We wake up in the same bed. We order the same thing at our favorite restaurant even though other menu items look good. And somehow, in God's patient wisdom, he reminds us to look for his promises during those mundane moments when, if we are not careful, we might miss something extraordinary.

I have been waking up next to the same woman for almost twenty years. These days, trust me, I know that's a blessing. But the reason I never get tired of waking up next to her gentle face is the same reason I always order an old-fashioned cake donut on special family mornings: It's because one of my mentors taught me a long time ago the simple lesson, "Beauty's where you find it." (No, my mentor was not Madonna, but it's a good quote.)

"Beauty's where you find it."

So here we are this week in "The Advent Slump." Everything is slowing down. And when Christmas day rolls around on Saturday, by mid-afternoon most of us will be bored to tears. I can still hear Tracey Thorn's beautiful, haunting voice singing, "And every day's like Christmas day: It's cold, and there's nothing to do."

I hope this week for you, O faithful bloggerland reader, gets boring. I know many of you need it. You need a little down time.

During this last week of Advent, watch for signs of God's presence. God will be there.

God is still worth waiting for.

When God decided to share his presence with Elijah in 1 Kings 19, Elijah almost missed it:

"Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the LORD, but the LORD was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the LORD was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire, but the LORD was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper."

Insurance companies call hurricanes and earthquakes "Acts of God." I'm not so sure. These days, especially during weeks like this one, I think it's subtler than all that. In fact, as I was driving down an almost deserted Westheimer this morning, and everything was unusually quiet, I swear I heard a whisper.

The Hand That Feeds

2010-12-14T12:59:00.002-06:00

Salvation, for whatever reason, is in God's nature. It's who God is. God is salvation.

Generation after generation asks for God's presence, and then ignores God, or downright rejects God. Ever read the book of Judges?

And God keeps offering salvation.

It's in God's nature.

It's who God is.

God is salvation.

A friend quoted Teresa of Avila: "God, I don't love you. I don't want to love you. But God, I want to want to love you." Some may bristle. Some may not feel that way. But some do.

And God keeps offering salvation.

It's who God is.

God is salvation.

During this time of the year, when we keep reading things like Matthew 1:18-25 and why they named him "Jesus" and "God saves" and "Emmanuel" and "God with us" it takes us right back to salvation.

If we agree that salvation is who God is, we may have to admit that it is who we are not. We are not salvation. It does not come naturally for us survival types whose basic instinct is self-preservation to cultivate a nature of salvation.

Thank God that God is God. The incarnation of Jesus models for us the original intent of creation: That we, by nature, exchange objects of wrath for dispositions of sharing the very salvation we are receiving.

An old Asian story illustrates this well:

Two monks were washing their bowls in the river when they noticed a scorpion that was drowning. One monk immediately scooped it up and set it upon the bank. In the process he was stung. He went back to washing his bowl and again the scorpion fell in. The monk saved the scorpion and was again stung.

The other monk asked him, "Friend, why do you continue to save the scorpion when you know its nature is to sting?"

"Because," the monk replied, "to save it is my nature."

Take a Deep Breath

2010-12-08T07:58:00.007-06:00

Most people do not know that I am a black belt in three different forms of karate, and spent twenty years teaching Kung Fu to monks in the desolate mountains of China. Most people do not know that because it's not true. But if it were, that would be awesome.

Truth is, I took a little karate when I was a kid, and for about a year in college. What I gained from it was something more than the ability to shatter your collar bone with my index finger. What I gained is what most gain: Respect. Respect for others. Respect for discipline and hard work. Respect for the virtue of patience, and how long it actually takes to get good at something.

Joe Hyams in his book, Zen in the Martial Arts, quotes the first thing his first karate teacher said to him:

"I am not going to show you my art. I am going to share it with you. If I show it to you it becomes an exhibition, and in time it will be pushed so far into the back of your mind that it will be lost. But by sharing it with you, you will not only retain it forever, but I, too, will improve."

About twenty years ago, when I encountered some of the philosophies of Asian thinkers through the centuries, I read things that surprised me. And it got me to thinking: What if Christians spent more time truly sharing the gospel with people instead of trying to sell it like a magazine subscription? What if by sharing our faith with those who do not know Scripture well, we might learn something in the process?

Okay. So we are in the middle of the Advent season practicing what it is to wait upon the Lord. That's a tough sell to church-types who think we have it all figured out, and that the goal of church is to keep doing the same things the same way over and over and over. But according to the Word of the Lord, so much is yet to come.

So much is yet to come.

We still have so much worth waiting for. We are works in progress.

For instance, today the blind and the deaf are all around us. We isolate them from regular society for some strange reason. In so doing, we are robbing ourselves from learning what it really means to see, and what it really means to hear. But one of these days, the blind will receive their sight, and the deaf will listen to the sweet sounds of voices without fear.

So much is yet to come.

On one of the walls in my office, amongst my degrees and academic awards and credentials and the hand-carved wooden plaque the monks made for me during my two decades in China where they mastered Kung Fu under my tutelage--(You know I'm embellishing the story for poetic comedy, right? I can just picture people at church saying, "Did you know Jeff is a Kung Fu master?")--

And now, back to our show--

Among the degrees on the wall is a small cross-stich from my childhood. It reads quite plainly, "Please be patient... God isn't finished with me yet..."

It has taken me a long time to realize that the little plaque that hangs just beneath my doctoral degree is actually the most important thing on the wall. For years I operated in ministry under the illusion that my task as the überchurchman was to be the smartest guy in the room whose job included showing people how to be educated, proper-thinking Christians. I thought my job was to get you to think like me. "Trust me, I'm a doctor." Sheesh. I wish so badly that I could go back and take that daft prick of a preacher I was in my twenties and tell him to just calm down.

Truth is, when it comes to being followers of Jesus, we have very little figured out. We still have so much to learn. We still have so much that's worth waiting for.

So much is yet to come.

During this Advent season, instead of showing each other how to wait upon the Lord and learning it like a little girl would learn how to tie her shoes, what if we simply practice waiting together? What if we practice listening to one another? What if we just share together in trusting that the God who brought us thus far is still in the process of making all things new, even us?

At the Corner of Fourth and First

2010-12-01T07:50:00.005-06:00

I'm sitting on the couch in my office thinking about the Lego Pirate Advent Calendar I saw the other day on Amazon.com. It is a beautiful morning. The sun is shining through my window. It's in the fifties outside. The coffee table in front of me is adorned with roses left over from Gurda's memorial service on Monday. Oh, and there is actual coffee on the coffee table. And it's good. Mexican. Muy bueno.

I'm feeling melancholy. It is two hours and eight minutes until I teach the final class of Women's Bible Study for this semester. We have studied Revelation. I am not ready for it to be over. The book, combined with the women's input and thirst for God, has renewed my faith.

But I can't get that Lego Pirate Advent Calendar out of my head. It's bothering me. Goofy calendar. That calendar deserves a Slim Pickens-esque comment like the one from Dr. Strangelove when Major T. J. "King" Kong says: "Now I've been to one world fair, a picnic, and a rodeo, and that's the stupidest thing I've heard come over a set of earphones." (By the way, as a sidenote, Slim Pickens is the greatest southern-drawl actor of all time. We could debate this point if you'd like. But you'd be wrong.)

Okay, back to the Lego Pirate Advent Calendar.

I was talking about the calendar to my new friend Mary the other night at a small group dinner. It was not until that conversation that I realized the difference between secular and Christian Advent calendars. You see, I did not grow up with Advent calendars. Mary did. So I gained from her experience.

Evidently, most Advent calendars begin today, December 1st. Whether Legos or pieces of chocolate, most of them last twenty-five days counting down 'til Christmas.

But for serious Christian traditions--(from what I understand; again, I'm new at this)--today is technically the fourth day of Advent. Today is the fourth day of the discipline of thinking about how we as followers of Jesus are stuck in the middle. Jesus has come; Jesus will come again. But for now, we live in what J. Paul Sampley calls, "the already, but not yet." Or the other way Sampley puts it, we are living "between the times."

So today, on this fourth day of Advent--(not the first day, to all you chocolate-eating-lego-playing-pagans in bloggerland)--we once again anticipate the fulfillment of Jesus' promise to come back and finish what he started.

But in the meantime, we will read and share the joyful promises of books like Revelation that encourage us to keep on keepin' on, to keep enduring, to keep practicing faithfulness. (And I mean "practice" literally; most of us are not very good at it yet.)

Keep practicing faithfulness.

Keep practicing.

From Revelation 7 (also reprised in chapter 21):

"Never again will they hunger;
never again will they thirst.
The sun will not beat down on them,
nor any scorching heat.
For the Lamb at the center of the throne
will be their shepherd;
he will lead them to springs of living water.
And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes."

This first week of Advent is all about hope.

One of these days, God himself will take the sleeve of his garment like a tender mother and wipe away every single tear. And that will be it.

That will be it.

No more tears.

But for now, we wait.

Apocalypse Now: An Advent Meditation

2010-11-30T09:38:00.003-06:00

Used to be that church was about scaring the hell out of people. Literally. That phrase was not originally about cussing or sounding crass. The roots go back to the Middle Ages and the practice of exorcism and driving out demons. [Think of the movie, "The Exorcist." (Which by the way scared the hell out of me.)]

But let's face it: When talking about "Hell" with a capital "H"-e-double hockey sticks, most of what we envision has more to do with Dante than Scripture. The word translated "Hades" from the Old Testament comes from the word "Sheol," which means nothing more than "grave."

The word in the New Testament often connected to images of what we think of as hell is "Gehenna," which was nothing more than a burning garbage dump in the valley next to Jerusalem. It was Jesus' way of describing the destruction of those who forsake God. But as to a place of eternal punishment, again, that comes more from Dante's, The Divine Comedy, seasoned with a dash of John Milton, and a pinch of William Blake.

So I have been thinking about hell a helluva lot lately, some because of my friend Edward Fudge. He (along with many of my new Bering peeps) continues to get me thinking about what I have been conditioned to accept by my environment over against what we have in Scripture and the discernment of Christian witnesses. If that's too much of a mouthful, let me put it a simpler way: Scripture trumps tradition.

Now that may not sound revolutionary to all you in bloggerland. But to me, grafted into a tradition that loves tradition, even at the expense of kindness, it is monumental. In my own personal church history, being right is often more important than being Christian.

Which brings us back to hell that's not really hell at all.

Confused yet?

Blame the book of Revelation.

For the past four months I have been immersed in what the Greek New Testament calls, "An Apocalypse of John." We call it "Revelation." (Just one, by the way; not "Revelations.") I used to think, as many do, that Revelation had a lot to do with hell. Come to find out, it doesn't. In fact, the mention of the burning lake in Revelation 21:8 uses the promise of a "second death." Death means dead. And if you wind up in the lake of fire that consumes, that's it. Dead. I realize that's not what Dante teaches. But why does he get to trump Scripture? That's a central question to much of what we do in the church, is it not?

Speaking of Revelation 21: Earlier in verse 3, there is a tabernacle. And the tabernacle is called, "God with the People."

Sounds like Christmas, eh?

It's either irony or providence, depending on your ilk, that I am finishing a study of Revelation during Advent. Here we are once again singing songs about Emmanuel and reading Matthew 1:18-25 and saying things like one of the original names of Jesus that means, "God with us." It strikes me that the first book of the New Testament and the last go out of their way to describe "God with us." Those two bookends, and everything in between, invite us into the fellowship of God through Christ. For those who confess Jesus, hell is not even on the table, whether a place of eternal torment, or a permanent grave. Rather, through the incarnation of Jesus, we are ushered into the presence of God, not later, but now. Faith is no longer mixed with threat. The call to endurance is all that matters. Fear and guilt have been taken away.

And that's the good news of Advent, the incarnation, the promise of "God with us." Again, not later, but now.

An afterthought:

Recently, in an act of self-congratulations, I went back and read a chapter I wrote in a preaching textbook. I wrote a sermon on Psalm 103 in the book, Performing the Psalms. That particular Psalm uses a beautiful image of sin being taken from the east to the west. In other words, if we sin in the east, the redeeming God takes our sin and moves it as far away to the west as possible. The poetry is sheer magic.

And that got me to thinking: What if that includes guilt and fear?

So here's an afterthought for your first week of Advent: Take all the fear that comes with the threat of the conventional notions of hell, turn them over to God, and let God catapult them to the west. Then, with the host of heaven, celebrate what God has done, is doing, and will continue to do with the incarnation of Jesus who continues to bear our humanity. Finally, forget about hell as we have inherited it by our European ancestors, and return the focus where it belongs to Emmanuel, "God with us."

And that's that.

By the way, I was going to end this blog with clever/cute something where I wrote, "Oh, hell." But I guess I had better not. Instead, I will just wish you a wonderful Advent season as we continue to sing, "Come, Lord Jesus, Come." Yeah, that sounds better anyway.

Waiting for the First Sunday of Advent

2010-11-22T08:08:00.001-06:00

And so we wait. We wait for God to bring everything together, like those wonderful promises in Revelation of a time when there will be no more tears, no more hunger, no more sunburns.

We wait.

We wait for a time when swords will be turned into farming implements. We wait for the last enemy to be destroyed, which God says is death itself.

We wait.

We wait for eternity to begin, because everything just seems so temporary. We light a candle of hope, and watch as the tiny flame reminds us disciples of Jesus that a refiner’s fire purifies and makes us holy in a way we could never be on our own.

We wait.

We wait for the day when every living creature streams to the mountain of the Lord and confesses Jesus as the Messiah. Until that time, we live our lives proclaiming Jesus as the Messiah while trying to discern just what in the world that really means.

We wait.

We wait as we look for opportunities to walk in the light as he is in the light, all the while taking advantage of those times when we can have fellowship with one another in a common confession.

We wait.

From Henri Nouwen—
“Waiting patiently always means paying attention to what is happening right before our eyes and seeing there the first rays of God's glorious coming.”

From Isaiah 2:2-5—
“In days to come
the mountain of the Lord’s house
shall be established as the highest of the mountains,
and shall be raised above the hills;
all the nations shall stream to it.
Many peoples shall come and say,
‘Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord,
to the house of the God of Jacob;
that he may teach us his ways
and that we may walk in his paths.’
For out of Zion shall go forth instruction,
and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem.
He shall judge between the nations,
and shall arbitrate for many peoples;
they shall beat their swords into ploughshares,
and their spears into pruning-hooks;
nation shall not lift up sword against nation,
neither shall they learn war any more.”

We wait.

Pigs on the Wing

2010-11-16T07:40:00.007-06:00

On my way into the office this morning, while at a stoplight on Westheimer, I found myself behind a light brown Corvette. ("Light brown Corvette"... doesn't have the same ring as "Little Red Corvette." But I digress.) The license plate was what got my attention. Actually, the fascinating part was that I couldn't see the plate. It was obscured by one of those cloudy license plate covers. You know, the kind that basically say, "Please pull me over; I'm a criminal with something to hide." I was directly behind it at a full stop, and I literally could not read two of the six characters.

That car made me think about all the pornography we had lying around the house while I was growing up.

Today, I have a beautiful family for whom I am grateful to God more than I know how to express. Maybe saying "more than I know how to express" is the best way to say how thankful I am. I have loved my wife for twenty years. Two cool kids. Dropping them off at school this morning was an authentic moment of joy.

Not five minutes after I dropped them off, as I pulled up behind the light brown Corvette, I was thinking about the innocence of the twelve-year-old boy who lives in my house. I thought about the twelve-year-old boy I once was, part of whom still lives in me. Those two boys are worlds apart, but face the same exact dangers. That proverbial "inner child" in me is not as angry as he used to be. Or I should say, I have learned how to manage the anger over the stuff I got exposed to all-too-soon. Let's just say that what I am about to share with you, O faithful bloggerland friend, is something worthy of our righteous anger, especially anger that leads to action.

It has to do with pornography, criminals, pigs, slavery, and innocence lost.

I hid my first Playboy under my matress when I was eight years old, and found myself in a house during puberty where porno mags and videos were all too available. I had a step-dad who was really into the stuff. I know this is a difficult subject, and that it embarrasses some people, and that your preacher is not supposed to have come from such a background. When interviewing for a ministry position, the committee is supposed to be able to say, "Oh, he comes from a really good family." So I have heard. But I wanted to put this out there to demystify this secret shame that haunts so many men. It is a secret too easy to hide these days of the internet. I have to make the choice every day to stay away from it. But the memories are still there. The images are still there in my head. I decided to share this because we have to start talking more openly. (As a sidenote, if you are a man who struggles with this, let's talk.)

"There is a time to speak..."

Earlier this year my wife was invited to join the board of Eternal Threads. If you are not familiar with the organization, you need to be. It is a group of people who are making a real difference. The organization began in order to get women out of the sex trade in India. They learned how to weave baskets and purses in order to sustain a living wage.

Although Eternal Threads is still a young company, they have expanded to many different parts of the world. Most recently, they have gone into Nepal. This morning, as a result of simple $3.00 red bracelets, one of which is on my left arm even as I type, three girls have been rescued from slavery today. Three 12-year-old girls will no longer be sex slaves because of the vision of this simple little company. Three 12-year-old girls will not find themselves filmed and exposed in the dark world of internet porn.

My son is 12 years old. I talk to him openly about this stuff. The worst thing we can do as parents is to keep silent. There is a time to keep silent. This is not one of those times.

I do not live under the delusion that you can shelter your kids from all harm. But I do hold that certain things can be done in order to partner with God in acts of creation that redeem others. And one of those things is sheltering 12-year-old boys and girls from contexts that do irreparable harm.

And just how do we do that?

We break the silence.

There is a time to speak.

It is time to talk openly about the private harm that pornography does to men, women, and children all over the world. Right now, we are driving around with a cloudy license plate cover acting like the danger's not real. It is time to rescue 12-year-old girls from slavery; it time to rescue 12-year-old boys from things they should not see at such a tender age. If we don't talk about it more openly, the harm will only continue. And like the cliché goes, if we are not a part of the solution, we are part of the problem.

In George Orwell's book, Animal Farm, as well as Pink Floyd's album, Animals, the corrupt power-mongers are represented by pigs. That's appropriate. Animal Farm ends with that chilling scene when the other animals look through the window at the pigs and farmers sitting around the dining room table. The other animals are no longer able to tell the pigs from the men. That's what you get for pretending the danger's not real.

As it was then, so it is today. The pigs are still in power all over the world. People are victimized by other's greed. But thanks to groups like Eternal Threads, maybe today there will be one less victim.

There is a time to speak.

Driving to my office this morning, while sitting behind Mr. Smooth Criminal in his light brown Corvette, I said a prayer of thanksgiving. I'm grateful I am not a victim. I'm grateful I can use what little power I have to do some good, whether partnering with groups like Eternal Threads, or simply driving my kids to school in the morning.

And I'm grateful that I can tell the difference between pigs and men.

"You know that I care what happens to you,
And I know that you care for me too.
So I don't feel alone
Or the weight of the stone,
Now that I've found somewhere safe to bury my bone.
And any fool knows a dog needs a home,
A shelter from pigs on the wing." -Roger Waters

Welcome to the Machine (Veteran's Day Edition)

2010-11-11T07:46:00.006-06:00

"...Sire, these lines are not a homage to brutality
that the artist has invented, but a hymn
from the mouth of reality ..."
- Traditional prologue of the Dark Ages

A 19-year-old boy from Arp, Texas finds himself in North Africa with General Patton fighting the Desert Fox. It was a world away. Fast-forward a year, and the same boy is on a boat crossing the English Channel to land on Omaha Beach on D-Day +8 with the rest of the 612th Tank Destroyers, all of whom originated at Camp Hood way back in Texas. They pushed their way through France until the harsh winter slowed them down considerably. The Battle of the Bulge. The 612th was called a "Bastard Battalion" because they were not attached to any specific group. Lumped in wherever they were needed most, the high command that winter pushed the 612th up to the front where all but four of them were killed during what was some of the most intense fighting of the war. One of the four was my grandfather.

Papaw made it back to the states and never talked about the war again. All I know of the man who died when I was in seventh grade is from my grandmother, along with a few vague memories of him and me riding a motorcycle, horses, and shooting rats in the pig barn.

Three years ago I took my kids to the main sector of Omaha Beach. We stood there and listened to the waves. I have passed the stories on to them so that they can pass the stories on to their grandchildren.

After all, we are stories.

Speaking of stories...

A couple of days ago I listened intently to an interview with Nora Ephron. Other than my wife's and my love of When Harry Met Sally, I have little more than a pedestrian appreciation of Ephron's work. As I listened to her talk about her new book, she got on the topic of "last meals." You know, the old "What would you eat for your last meal?" conversation.

Ephron described a friend of hers who died recently of throat cancer. She was not able to eat a "last meal." Ephron learned a hard lesson: Eat your last meal all the time. Enjoy it today. Don't wait. If your favorite meal is a deep dish pizza, scour the earth to find the best one today.

As critical as I can get about institutional dynamics, whether church or national politics or dysfunctional families, the truth of the matter is that large or small, local or national, household or giant family reunion, all of us are a part of multiple gatherings throughout life. The hard truth is, there is no escape from machines. You can watch The Matrix ten times, but nothing ultimately dismantles the machine, no matter how much we rage against it.

If my grandfather were still alive, I think he would cringe to see how divided our country has become. Pick a side of the aisle, and like it or not, the rhetoric of both sides is doing what I am afraid may be irreparable damage. Likewise, I think he would look at the American church, especially compared to his experience as a deacon in the Baptist church just south of Pettus, Texas--(Yes, we are talking out in the serious sticks)--and likely think, "What's all the fuss?" The Papaw of my memory would say, "Just go to church, love those around you, and enjoy life." I'm not sure whether that's Papaw or Ecclesiastes. But it's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

I remember going to McDonald's with my grandmother every morning in Victoria, Texas as Papaw was dying of cancer. I could not count if I tried the number of times I had hotcakes and sausage sitting across from her as she ate her Egg McMuffin. Today, she's gone too. She died in a car accident ten years ago. Gosh. Ten years. But I am thankful for years of "last meals" we were able to share. I am so thankful.

My kids do not know it, but every time we go to McDonald's, and it is almost always at breakfast, usually on a road trip--(Let me start that sentence over.)

Every time I sit across from Reese as she eats her hotcakes and sausage--(Funny what gets passed down through the DNA, isn't it?)--I don't think about the institutional machines that surround us. No politics, or meetings, or anything else for that matter. Just McDonald's and my family. And again, I am so thankful. Reese, hotcakes, sausage. That's it. Nothing else matters at that moment. I just look at her beautiful eyes, eyes that remind me how much our stories are imbibed with deep contexts and experiences that shape who we are today. I just look at her beautiful eyes, eyes that remind me of my Papaw, and think about all the "last meals" we are still able to share thanks to the God-given gift of memory.

Welcome to the Machine

2010-11-05T07:54:00.007-06:00

"Like every believer I know, my search for real life has led me through at least three distinct seasons of faith, not once or twice but over and over again. Jesus called them finding life, losing life, and finding life again, with the paradoxical promise that finders will be losers while those who lose their lives for his sake will wind up finding them again." Barbara Brown Taylor, Leaving Church

I held her in the rocking chair. Her little purple face bruised from a fast delivery. Baby noises. Nothing quite like them. The room was dark. Her big eyes stared up at me, surely an odd experience after having been in warm, comfortable darkness for nine months. I can still feel that tiny hand squeezing my index finger while I rocked her in that hospital chair on her first night in the world.

I held her in the water almost ten years later, the two of us standing in the church equivalent of a giant jacuzzi. Her beautiful little woman face. About to be delivered again. The sound of her "I do" after I asked her if she believed that Jesus is the Lord. Nothing quite like those words. Her tender eyes stared up at me, an odd experience after having learned some of the hard lessons of life for the past ten years. I can still feel my hand on her bony shoulder while I eased her under the water as she committed her life to Christ.

Her brother, our boy, was baptized months later, just before his voice went from soprano to bass overnight. Even today when I look at him, I still see his toddler face asking me to take him to "Bugga Kaning." [Translation: Burger King.]

It was during that decade of their early childhoods that I went from finding my life, to losing it, and finding it again. But in order to make that leap of faith, I had to stop caring about church.

Earlier this week, on Monday evening, I played racquetball with what is becoming my regular group of guys. They are all ten to twenty years older than me, and they wipe up the court with me most of the time. One of them, Bill, sent a ball at over a hundred miles an hour right into the back of my left leg. Doubles is brutal. As I sit here in my office, the sun shining through the window, the cool air of an autumn morning, I can feel the yellow-green-blue-purple bruise on the back of my hamstring. My lower back is sore. I have a bruise on my left hand from hitting it with my own racquet two weeks ago. The blister on my left little toe is wrapped in a trusty bandaid. And I have never felt better in my life.

Back in middle school and early high school, racquetball was my life. I gave it up late in high school. It was probably girls. I played every once in a while in college and my twenties, but not much. Now its back, and its great. In spite of having an older body that gets sore more than it used to, I have a mind that understands the game better than before. It's almost a different experience. I found it, lost it, and found it again.

It was during that time in middle school and early high school that I started taking church seriously. I think I met God from time-to-time. But most of the last 25 years have been spent doing church more than living Jesus. Except for the last four.

In January and February of 2007 I took a sabbatical that not only kept me in ministry, but it renewed my faith, perhaps even giving birth to it in a way I had never known. Part of the sabbatical was a two-week pilgrimage with other ministers to Israel where many of us discovered that we were Christians because we were preachers, rather than the other way around. It was during that couple of months of getting away from the business of church that I discovered the importance of God.

Fast forward two years. Reese and I stood in the water, my hand on her bony little shoulder, asking her if she believed Jesus is Lord. By that time I had come to realize that what I wanted to pass on to our children was not a brand name, not an institutional machine, but the grace of Jesus Christ. And not only pass it on to them, but embrace it myself. The question for me shifted from "How do we do church better?" to "What is the Gospel?"

Today, I love the church, but not for the sake of the church. I love it because it is the gathering of those who follow Jesus. We have been conditioned in Western Christianity to advertise church; maybe what we need is to simplify the message back to living Jesus.

This afternoon I am going to go play racquetball with the boy. Today, the game is not about the competition as much as it is about the joy of sharing time together, and the deepening of relationships that only comes from sharing time together around a common interest.

I think the same could be said for church. Especially when the focus is no longer on church, but on living a life shaped in the image and likeness of Christ with those who share the same commitment.

Fearlessness Restored

2010-11-02T09:51:00.003-06:00

I got my first job when I was eight. Pumped gas at my Uncle Larry's gas station in South Texas. To this day, I get nostalgic when I see red gas station rags and how I used to carry one in my back pocket to clean the taillights of cars after hearing that ubiquitous command: "Fill 'er up, kid." That was the summer I learned the value of a dollar. Literally. I worked 4-5 hours a day, and got one dollar. That and a Coke. Oh, and the occasional single serving pecan pie from the snack rack.

When I was 13, I went to work as an assistant janitor--albeit illegally on a cash only basis--at a church in my neighborhood that just happened to be a Church of Christ. Thus was my intro into the rough crowd I got mixed up with at a tender age. I worked like a dog for ten dollars a week cleaning out diaper baskets, washing windows, and vacuuming what felt like an eternally ugly carpet. For that color of red, mind you, I have no nostalgia. In fact, it was a very scary place. Perhaps I will tell you about it some other time.

I look back on my childhood and remember being scared an awful lot, probably more than a child should have been. But now that I have my own kids, I have discovered that children walk around feeling pretty vulnerable much of the time. That's probably why my daughter likes to think of me as big and tough and able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.

Did you know that there are actually studies now that use childhood-based fears as advertising tools to get you to buy things? And wouldn't you know it: Much of the four billion dollars spent over the past few months by the political machine has gone into creating such ads to get us to vote the right way.

I said a prayer this morning thanking God that the political ads come to an end today. Personally, I DVR everything now and no longer watch commercials. Especially during seasons like this, however, I avoid them at all costs. In my humble opinion, no greater damage is being done to our contemporary culture than the colossal mind-numbing brainwash we volunteer for at the hands of political ads and 24-hour "news." It's just mean.

Two years ago for Lent I decided to give up watching the news. I still stay informed through online newspapers, but that's about it. I learned a while back that I really do not need someone coaching me on what I need to fear. I have also come to learn that elections come and go, not that much ever really changes, and that the world got a lot simpler to me, not to mention less scary, when I embraced faith in an eternity that is not bound by what people name with venomous anger as all these clear and present dangers.

"The world and its desires pass away, but whoever does the will of God lives forever." (1 John 2:17)

"There is no fear in love." (1 John 4:18)

Fearless (interpolating "You'll Never Walk Alone")

2010-10-28T09:49:00.003-05:00

You say the hill's too steep to climb; just climb it.

Yesterday, while on the way to my office, I saw a guy in a blue pickup truck driving down the road giving himself a haircut.

Now I know what I have said about "In Christ, we have nothing to fear." I believe that. Most of the time. But I have to confess, O faithful bloggerland reader, I was a little wigged out at that one.

But Houston drivers aside, we have nothing to fear. By the way, don't let the advertising industry know that you know that. Many of their tactics involve frightening you into worshipping at the altar of consumerism. Here, buy this car; it will keep you safe. Yeah, as long as you don't give yourself a haircut whilst driving it.

But again, we have nothing to fear.

Ironically, while driving next to the idiot in the big ole pickup truck, the song playing in my car was an old Pink Floyd song called "Fearless." It begins with the line, "You say the hill's too steep to climb; just climb it." It's all about being fearless in the face of what we fear. In fact, it is a precursor to their masterpiece, Dark Side of the Moon, which is all about the things we fear the most. Interestingly enough, at the end of "Fearless" they interpolate the old Rogers and Hammerstein song, "You'll Never Walk Alone." They recorded it at the Liverpool football stadium where the fans sing the song at the beginning and end of each game.

Being a Liverpool football hooligan, from what I hear, is like being a Cubs fan: You carry a desperate devotion for a mediocre team. In an interview I heard recently with one of the Liverpudlians, he explained the singing of "You'll Never Walk Alone" as a song of suffering. They know that more than half the time, their favorite team is going to lose. So they sing.

When you walk through a storm
Keep your chin up high
And don't be afraid of the dark.
At the end of the storm
Is a golden sky
And the sweet silver song of a lark.

Walk on through the wind,
Walk on through the rain,
Tho' your dreams be tossed and blown.
Walk on, walk on
With hope in your heart
And you'll never walk alone,
You'll never walk alone.

I like the last thing Jesus said in his public ministry in John 16: "In this world you will have trouble. But take heart, I have overcome the world."

And then they killed him. But only for a minute. Fearlessness in the face of fear.

In this world...

In this world, we have plenty to fear. To say things like, "In Christ, we have nothing to fear" is really a world imagined, a world hoped for we do not yet see. We are getting there, but not yet.

To say "We have nothing to fear" is to practice an exchange. We exchange the fear this world cultivates for the promised ongoing presence of God's Holy Spirit. We practice fearlessness in the face of fear. The world is filled with bullies and Scousers and self-grooming pickup drivers. So we sing "Fearless" while also singing to one another "You'll Never Walk Alone," even though we know the odds are stacked against us. Or so the world would like us to believe.

I think that's probably the greatest argument for Christian community. Not for church and classes and big buildings. But for Christian community. A place where you can come and join together with others committed to never letting you walk alone, never letting you walk in fear. We need to remember that every day, that in Christ, we have nothing to fear.

And every day is the right day.

Fearless

2010-10-26T08:51:00.010-05:00

Unmet expectations give birth to disappointment. When something does not turn out the way we hoped it would, it's a real drag. Maybe that's why Yoda said, "Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering." The prequel to that line might could be, "Disappointment leads to fear."

Church people, can I get an "Amen"?

How often have we church types been in a situation of anxiety that results in church leaders "leading" out of postures of fear?

Last night as I drove my kids to karate class we were talking about math anxiety. My boy said he gets frustrated while doing math. Trust me. I understand. I hate math. If not for free tutoring, I would have never made it through college algebra. If there is an actual eternal pit of hell, it will be wallpapered in equations. Oh, and the soundtrack will be the midwestern-accented-high-pitched-male-algebra-teacher-voice I still cannot get out of my head.

I explained to the boy that when you get frustrated, it's much more difficult to perform well. We all agreed, and everything was again right with the world. As we concluded our brief foray into the human psyche, we pulled into the parking garage at the Y, got them to class, and parted ways.

I walked down the hallway, took my racquet out of the bag, and in no time flat got extremely frustrated.

Let me back up a bit.

Last week I stepped very tentatively onto the challenge court that lasts through the evenings on Mondays and Wednesdays at the Y. I haven't played racquetball competitively since high school, but after teaching the boy how to play, I wanted to get back into it. To make a short story long, I asked to knock a ball around with one of the tournament players. It all came rushing back, and I was able to hold my own.

Between last week and last night, my heart pounded with excitement to get back on the challenge court. Let's just say I got my hopes up. Last night is when it all came together, and then fell apart.

Speaking of unmet expectations. And disappointment. And fear. And anger.

The evening began with a game called "Cutthroat." Sounds fun, huh? It's basically a three-person game where the server plays against the other two players. I was actually winning when a fourth knocked on the door and interrupted. But on challenge court, four people at a time play. Them's the rules.

Bear with me, the point is just around the corner.

The fourth guy and I paired up against the other two, thus starting the doubles match. After scoring our first few points, I made one bad shot, and my "partner" started talking trash to me and coaching me and sighing and cussing and... well... let's just say he's not on my "good list" today.

But like all tough experiences, there is usually a character-forming lesson to be learned.

Here's a general truth: Affirmation and encouragement work better than criticism.

Here's another: Anxiety leads to fear.

You have probably been around church-types who are affirming, and you have probably been around church-types who are critical. Which ones do you prefer spending time with?

You have probably been around church-types who are anxious, and you have probably been around church-types who believe that God keeps promises. Which ones do you like more?

I told my boy that when you get frustrated, you tend not to perform as well. My own parental advice rang in my head last night as my frustration grew on the court. And wouldn't you know it, I did not play as well.

And then there is church.

When we "do church" out of frustration and anxiety, we shouldn't be surprised by the kind of environment it creates. Fear gets us nowhere. That's true for our personal lives, our places of work, our families, our politics, and yes, even our churches.

Kierkegaard wrote, "Hope is a passion for what is possible."

I am thankful to be a small part of a small church where passion for what is possible is leading us down a path of affirmation and encouragement. Unfortunately, that is rare place to find these days, which may be why I am so grateful.

When I get back on the court tomorrow night, especially if I have to get back on with the guy from last night, I will remember to focus on two things: 1) Try not to get frustrated, and 2) Affirm him even if he is acting like a jerk.

That may be a good formula for church as well: Try not to get frustrated, and shower the jerks with encouraging words and deeds.

That would make a good rule of life:

"Try not to get frustrated, and shower the jerks with encouraging words and deeds."

Psalm 27 begins with a line that is half prayer, half self-reminder:

The LORD is my light and my salvation—
whom shall I fear?
The LORD is the stronghold of my life—
of whom shall I be afraid?

And then there's FDR during WWII:

"The only thing we have to fear is fear itself."

Or to quote Pogo:

"We have met the enemy and he is us."

Outside the Wall

2010-10-19T10:06:00.004-05:00

Leave it up to the religious establishment to once again encourage a collective "DOH!" by those of us day-to-day Jesus followers who live out here in the real world. Give a check-minus to the Vatican who declared with confidence in an effort to be cool that Bart and Homer Simpson are--(drumroll, please...)--officially "Catholic."

Wait, what?

Never mind that they actually attend the Reformed Presbylutheran First Church of Springfield where Homer has prayed on occasion such prayers as, "I'm not normally a religious man, but if you're up there, save me, Superman!"

I think my favorite part of the article was the reason the Vatican newspaper gave for declaring the Simpson boys Catholic: They pray before meals.

Okay.

I wish I could write an open letter: To the Vatican and the Southern Baptist Convention and almost any time the religious establishment tries to make Christianity relevant in the New York Times, here's a newsflash: You're not helping. You do not realize how hard you make it for us regular everyday ministers to have conversations with burned out ex-churchgoers who use your media-laced tomfoolery as evidence of how out of touch church-types can be.

My friend Edward told me a story this morning during our Greek readings about a minister who began his sermon years ago with something to this effect: "Many of you do not give a damn about the poor and hungry right here in your neighborhood." The preacher then went on to illustrate that many church-types feel more strongly about the use of the word "damn" than the suffering of the disenfranchised.

Ouch. Good call.

So right now our church is spending the next month or so immersed in Acts 5-7. Throughout the passage, the church is trying to be faithful in the midst of a religious establishment that is only making things harder for them. Sounds familiar. Yet there is the Spirit of the Living God, taking Jesus' followers out of prison, putting them outside the wall, and telling them things like Acts 5:20-"Go, stand in the temple and tell the people the whole message about this life."

I wonder what the Vatican and religious universities and even our own local churches might accomplish if we placed our singular focus on proclaiming the simple message. I'm not holding my breath waiting on the establishment. But as far as local independent congregations of Jesus-followers... well... let's just say I am hopeful. Perhaps more than I have ever been.

Many of us have hope, however, not because of what's happening on the inside, but because of what God is doing to send us church-types outside the wall. We are beginning to see the value of church, not as a place to "go to" but a place "from whence we are sent out." Maybe even a place that doesn't use words like "whence" anymore. A place less concerned with pacifying each other and more concerned with putting our feet under the table of people like Homer Simpson who calls his preacher "Captain What's-his-name."

I think the other thing striking about the Vatican declaration of Homer and Bart as Catholics is who the article did not name: Marge, Lisa, and Maggie. The girls. Hip, cool, and relevant, huh? Oh yeah. Nothing says "I've got my finger on the pulse of this generation" like gender discrimination.

Plus, Marge is the one I would claim any day of the week. She's the one who said it best: "Our differences are only skin deep, but our sames go down to the bone."

"Somos una familia grande."

2010-10-14T09:03:00.003-05:00

Our gym just spent a kazillion dollars remodeling, getting all new weight machines and stationary bikes and clocks that can't tell time. Last night, as I ran on one of the shiny new treadmills with its own private television screen, I plugged in my headphones to watch the evening news.

Those of you who know me beyond bloggerland know that I can be a bit of an unemotional clod. I think I have gotten better through the years of beginning to allow myself to... you know... feel. So many of my experiences in life encouraged me to build walls to protect myself from disappointment. (I know this is getting personal, but hey, it's my blog for crying out loud.) Like the proverbial rock star in Pink Floyd's, The Wall, many of us are conditioned to keep others at arms length. Most people I know who come across as cold are actually functioning adults still carrying around a frightened inner-child who will do everything to avoid getting hurt.

Where was I going with that? Oh yeah. Emotions.

When my kids started going to school and getting older, I found myself laughing more, eyes welling up with tears more, and even feeling anger in healthy ways. And you know what? It felt good. It felt right.

My boy and I went to an AC/DC concert last year. As he stood in the chair next to me with his arm over my shoulder, and as Angus started this massively loud riff to "Thunderstruck"--(I think I've told you this story before.)--I looked at the thrill in his eyes and just burst into tears of joy. I must have looked like a total idiot.

Last night was the same thing. There on the treadmill. Sweaty. Old race t-shirt. Headphones plugged in to the little TV tuned to the NBC Nightly News. Brian Williams' smooth voice narrating the scene when the first miner walked up to his son and embraced him, both of them in tears.

(Goodness gracious, I'm tearing up even sitting here writing about it. I think the technical phrase is "Blubbering Idiot.")

So I'm running on the treadmill, all these people around on other treadmills and bikes, and I'm grabbing the sleeve of my shirt to wipe tears away that are just pouring out of my eyes. Husbands and wives and children and parents and friends reunited. It was like the opening airport scene from Love Actually when people hug so tight it knocks the wind out of you.

It made me wonder. Why don't we embrace one another like that all the time?

After a couple of the interviews with the miners and their families, I noticed an emerging theme: Family. One of the miners said it, as did one of the wives of a miner who had not yet surfaced: "Somos una familia grande."

"We are a big family."

Consider yourself warned. If I see you today, you're probably going to get hugged. Or tomorrow night, if you live here in Houston and you come to the concert at Miller Outdoor, we might just embrace one another like we haven't seen each other in months, like the reunion of those families who articulated what we might need to remember more often as celebrants of God's gift of human connection:

We are a big family.

Fly Like An Eagle

2010-10-12T10:31:00.007-05:00

The last time we gathered here in beautiful, sunny bloggerland, O faithful reader, I ended the post with an ancient poem by a dude named "Ikkyu." He lived from 1394-1481. I'm not sure if that bears any relevance. It probably doesn't. Other than perhaps as illustrative of truth that transcends situated time and space. Well wouldn't you know it, he inspired me again this week:

Break open
A cherry tree
And there are no flowers,
But the spring breeze
Brings forth a myriad of blossoms!

Call me "Crazy," but for some reason that little Zen poem got me thinking about the Holy Spirit of God. We western post-enlightenment types have repeatedly pushed God into an intellectual pantry where the goal of contact with God gets reduced to little more than us sitting around talking about God like a particular ingredient we pull off the shelf whenever the recipe calls for it. Otherwise, we are functionally content to keep God tucked away until it's convenient for us.

Now I realize that's a run-on over-generalization. Many fine people have had encounters with God through the years, especially in ways that go beyond what we can imagine or understand. I have had a few in my life that changed me in ways where I do not think I could ever be the same, even if I tried. But for the southern American traditions many of us are perpetually stuck in, we expend a great deal of time trying to find the flowers inside the tree, rather than on the blowing wind.

Like I said: "Call me 'Crazy.'"

Did you know that the Spirit of God in Scripture is most often referred to with a Hebrew word and a Greek word that both basically mean "wind"? Maybe that's why the second half of Isaiah makes the promise that God's presence can be experienced with wings like an eagle. The spring breeze. Not perched on the tree. Not inside the tree. Thank God the Bible doesn't compare us to termites.

On wings like an eagle.

What if we held church leadership meetings at bird sanctuaries instead of conference rooms with oversized tables? We would probably spend more time and money on first things: Feed the babies who don't have enough to eat. Shoe the children, and put shoes on their feet. House the people, living in the street. O Lord, there's a solution.

Like I said: "Call me 'Crazy.'" I don't care. Call me, "The Space Cowboy." Call me, "Maurice." Or just call me, "That preacher who gave up his dissecting trees addiction."

"Can't Find My Way Home" ... or ... "Drunk on the Back Pew"

2010-10-04T09:31:00.004-05:00

She stumbled into the church after a night of binge drinking. It was across the street from where she lived. She says it was the singing that drew her in. And that's where Anne Lamott's faith journey began.

Her story reminds me of the song Eric Clapton and Steve Winwood wrote together called "Can't Find My Way Home." Their supergroup was named--(Ready for some irony?)--"Blind Faith." It's a beautifully haunting song about someone who admits/confesses the following blunt line, "And I'm wasted and I can't find my way home."

Sometimes we lose our way.

I must sound like a broken record. My passion these days is focused on reaching those burned out on organized Christianity. I have come to realize, however, that at times I have been a part of the problem, not the solution. Whether that is true on the level of perpetuating organized structural religion, or making people mad with some of my preaching, I regret the times when I most likely contributed to the fastest growing religious group in America: "The Nothings."

Sometimes we lose our way.

I started hanging out with a pretty rough crowd when I was 13 called "The Churches of Christ." I did not know at the time that they prefer using a lower-case "c" on the name "church," nor did I realize how they treated women and social outcasts and preachers. In many ways I have spent the last 25 years repeating the line, "Wait, what?"

When I was 18 I led a Spring Break campaign from ACU. We went to a state university campus and ministered to students. We returned to ACU on a spiritual high after working with a small struggling church in Salt Lake City. But when one of the professors called me into his office and gave me a "talking to" for using a piano to sing "Peaceful Easy Feeling" at the student center at the University of Utah, my "Wait, what?" reflex went into high gear. I realized right then and there that Churches of Christ are uniquely gifted at answering questions no one is asking. Or to put it more gently, we often focus our attention on the wrong things.

I thought about leaving. Some people say I did. Went to that dang liberal church in Houston. But for some reason I cannot leave, kind of like Al Pacino in The Godfather III when he says, "Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in." And I think I know why: Because I absolutely love the original restoration plea.

Back in 1809, after years of inner turmoil, two guys named Campbell, a father and son, both came to the conclusion on separate sides of the pond that the church had bogged down in tradition and insider language. They thought the answer was to start over. They looked at the status quo of the church and said, "I can't find my way home."

But this was not an original idea. In fact, ever since Christians started gathering, the occasional gadfly looks around and notices the disparity between cultivating holiness as a simple body of believers vs. maintaining and perpetuating a religious structure. If memory serves me correctly, someone else in the past looked at religious structures and said they needed simplifying. Who was that? Oh yeah. Jesus.

Thankfully, I am neither daft nor arrogant enough to believe that any of what I am saying about the current state of "church" is original. My friend Dwain Evans led a group of Christians in 1963 to West Islip, New York on a journey that began out of the same impulse. Let's just go be Christians gathered in such a way that welcomes everyone into the holiness of God, rather than maintaining an institution. In Churches of Christ, people have been saying for at least the last fifty years, "Wait, what?"

Maybe we could use Anne Lamott as a test for our church. If she wandered in drunk and sat on the back pew, would we engage her in a way that would begin her faith in God, or would we call the cops?

Sometimes we lose our way.

Back to that whole restoration plea business: The churches described in Scripture did not have a brand name. They were just Christians, gathered in the name of Jesus, celebrating God's grace, and mostly trying to stay alive. We have to find a way to simplify this mess. I sense a great urgency for those of us in Churches of Christ, especially since our children leave home and wind up going somewhere else.

Centuries ago, long before me or Dwain or Alexander Campbell or Martin Luther, a writer named Ikkyu wrote a poem:

Many paths lead from
The foot of the mountain,
But at the peak
We all gaze at the
Single bright moon.

Christians need to spend more time at the peak of the mountain than we do at the foot.

The Cross, Communion, and Coca-Cola

2010-09-27T19:55:00.002-05:00

Those of us who confess Jesus as Lord should get tattoos that read “HUMILITY” on our forearms like Popeye’s anchors that always reminded him he was a sailor man. Just imagine us all walking around with “Humility” permanently emblazoned upon us. Talk about accountability. Humility. Easy to forget. Can I get an Amen?

Humility. That great virtue of God’s followers that cycles through Scripture as a constant refrain that culminates in the vision of the church in 1 Peter 5:6—“Humble yourselves, therefore under the mighty hand of God, so that he may exalt you in due time.”

At points on the timeline of Christianity, humility was ignored all-too- conveniently. While we fought over certain words and catch-phrases and kitchens in the church building and mixed bathing (that’s a funny one to me because I hate taking baths with other people) and women not serving communion (because we know that’s not a “leadership” role, but you know, slipper slope and all that) and so on and so on—(hang on and let me catch my breath; this sentence is getting too long… Let’s just start over…)

While we were putting second things first, I cannot help but believe God was gently whispering, “If you will only humble yourselves before me, I will lift you up.” Put first things first: humility, love, and welcoming one another as Christ has welcomed us. How did we ever lose sight of such first things? Perhaps like Prometheus in his hubris who decided to steal fire from the gods, we made the one true and living God disposable and decided we would do the lifting up ourselves.

Okay, that’s the bad news. Or at least it is a harsh over-correction. Sorry. It’s tough going through detox after 25 years of self-centered churchianity. (I confess, O faithful bloggerland reader, that is not a criticism of the churches where I have worshipped during that time as much as it is a self-criticism of where I mistakenly placed my focus.)

But there’s good news. And it is good news, my dear brothers and sisters of our little cyber-congregation, it is very good news.

Let me tell you a story.

Andy Warhol was born August 6, 1928 and brought up in an immigrant Czech-Catholic family who walked six miles to mass every Sunday morning in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. In their kitchen hung an obligatory print of Leonardo da Vinci’s, Last Supper. Andy was a weak and sickly child, a constant recipient of attention from his doting mother, Julia. They formed a bond that shaped him until his death in 1987.

Warhol today is remembered most for what critics have deemed his “pop” paintings. Campbell’s soup cans and such in the 1950s and 1960s. When he was shot in the late 60s by one of his denizens at his studio, The Factory, the trauma he survived sent him into an artistic period obsessed with death that lasted throughout the 1970s. But it was his painting of skulls in 1976 that led to his redemption. The skulls reminded him of his childhood, how fragile he was (and how fragile we all are), and mostly of his humanity that needed something more than his previous fixations on all things worldly.

The skulls gave way to crosses in the early 1980s. Like skulls, crosses represented death to Warhol, but now in a more redemptive way. Though not well known, his painting Crosses is a collection of twelve crosses, some might say for the twelve apostles. And toward the end of his life, that is who Andy most longed to be, which led back to the painting on the kitchen wall of his childhood.

In the mid-1980s, just a few short years before he died, his crosses gave way to massive reprints and reworkings of Leonardo da Vinci’s, Last Supper. It became his sole subject except for the occasional self-portrait, often superimposed over the images and colors of his Last Supper series. Like the meal represented in the painting of Jesus just before he died, Warhol knew his time was short. The table of the Lord was all that mattered to him. One of Andy’s last works is called, Sixty Last Suppers. It is literally sixty reprints with slight variations in shape and shade of da Vinci’s painting. It was Warhol’s final testimony: "Everyone is invited to the same table."

In fact, that was Warhol’s testimony from the beginning.

In the 1960s, Warhol loved painting Campbell’s Tomato Soup because he said it was the same no matter who opens it. Earlier, he painted Coca-Cola bottles for the same reason.

Personally, my favorite painting of Warhol’s is called 210 Coke Bottles. The painting is—as you may have already guessed—210 bottles of Coke, some full, some empty, some half-full. It was Warhol’s way of saying that everyone gets the same Coca-Cola. They do not make special rich people’s Coke. It is a great equalizer. He was saying the same thing when he painted crosses, and the same when he painted the table with Jesus and his disciples.

Upon further reflection, maybe Christians do not need to get tattoos that read “HUMILITY.” But what if we decorated our ubiquitous bulletin boards with soup cans and crosses and Last Supper paintings as constant reinforcements of humility, reminders that when it comes to God’s grace and shared holiness, no one has the upper hand. New Christians and burned out ex-churchgoers both need ongoing redemption; professors at seminaries and preachers in congregations both need continual salvation; rich and poor, slave and free, male and female are all one in Christ. (Galatians 3:28)

And I am trying to remember in humility that Andy Warhol and I have always been invited to the same table. We both need the bread, the wine, and the occasional bottle of Coca-Cola.

Contentment is better than perfection.

2010-09-27T19:01:00.006-05:00

I rarely link another blog, but this one is just too good, even though I don't know how to link... just cut and paste this:

http://www.ordinarycourage.com/my-blog/2010/9/26/the-perfect-protest.html

Chasing the Wind

2010-09-23T12:40:00.002-05:00

We are fragile creatures.

I played my guitar for a couple of hours last night learning "Dust in the Wind." Playing Sunday night with my buddy Jim inspired me to learn the whole thing. It's such a pretty and haunting song. As I played through it, I kept thinking about how fragile we are, like dust blowing in the wind. I think that's what the preacher meant in Ecclesiastes when he said everything was vanity, like chasing after the wind.

But even at that, opportunities abound to show love to one another. Sometimes it is as simple as a hug, a smile, a good conversation. Then there's immeasurably powerful and ongoing expressions of love. One such expression in Houston is something called "The Hospitality Apartments." Joe Hightower and some others at the Bering Drive Church of Christ had a vision back in the day to provide housing for people who have to come to M.D. Anderson Cancer Hospital. The people who come can stay for months. They receive a bed, a small kitchen, a bathroom, a TV, and the welcome of Christ. The families who come are dust. They are fragile. Hurting. Fully aware that they are chasing the wind.

Then again, we all are. That's why it is so important to love, and to be loved. What might the world think of us if all Christians committed to acts of service and lifestyles of hospitality?

Following Jesus to Luckenbach

2010-09-20T10:42:00.004-05:00

So baby, let's sell your diamond ring
Buy some boots and faded jeans and go away.
This coat and tie is choking me
In your high society you cry all day.
We've been so busy keepin' up with the Jones
Four car garage and we're still building on
Maybe it's time we got back to the basics of love.

So goes the utopian vision of Waylon Jennings' ideal way of life that might come to pass one day in Luckenbach, Texas. Imagine a world where those things we buy to impress one another are replaced with "the basics of love." Or imagine a day when everything physical that gets attached to Christianity--buildings, appearances, landscaping, etc.--is replaced by communities of faith who love and accept those who other churches have hated and rejected.

The basics of love.

The day is almost here when the diamond ring of "churchianity" is being exchanged by the boots and faded jeans of small gatherings of disciples around the world who pool their resources in order to focus on the simple and singular mission of welcoming those who know what it is like to not be welcomed. I know that sounds idealistic. But that's the business I'm in. I'm in the business of trying to move people-(Thanks be to God)-from a world of unmet expectations into a world of God's gracious possibilities.

We church types get in the way of God's will every day when we choose to build an institution with a brand name, rather than simply opening our doors to whomever might walk in, be invited, or even dragged into such an idealistic venture as "God's holy people." Christians are tempted to get together and build the perfect beast; seems to me that Jesus is more interested in redeeming the hopeless. I am now convinced that has nothing to do with external forms. Anywhere will do. Moreover, everyone is welcomed. The days of the church in America as a pretty building where the well-dressed, well-groomed, middle class gather for a couple of hours a week is flickering lightbulb. Unless the contemporary church is willing to welcome everyone, regardless of the way they look or the lifestyle they keep on that fateful day when they first walk up to God and ask to talk--until that happens, the church will only continue to come across to non-church types as a homogenized blend of parrots who are so out of touch with the world that they would never dare to have a conversation with anyone other than those who think and behave exactly like their own circle of friends thinks and behaves.

Once upon a time, a small group of people followed Jesus to Luckenbach, Texas. Waylon, Willie, and the boys were there in the bar. Across the street from the bar was the Luckenbach Gospel Baptist Holy Church of God in Christ. Jesus looked at the group of people who followed him to Luckenbach and asked, "Which side of the street needs us more?"

Maybe it's time we got back to the basics of love.

"If you will it, it is no dream"

2010-09-15T08:41:00.001-05:00

"As this broken bread
was scattered upon the mountains
and being gathered together
became one,
so may Thy Church
be gathered together
from the ends of the earth
into Thy kingdom."

from "The Didache" (2nd century)

The Prodigal Cat (and Other Sinners)

2010-09-13T09:38:00.010-05:00

Some of us have wandering spirits deep inside our depths. For many, life is a quest for meaning, belonging, and most of all, one long occasion to experience what feels like the occasional presence of God. And then there's the way my cat illustrates amazing grace.

Let me rewind six years.

Picture a four year old girl calling her daddy one afternoon. The girl is my daughter; the daddy is me.

"Daddy," she begins in a sing-songy-I-want-something voice, "Miss Judy has some new kittens-"

"No," the mean daddy interrupts in a not-so-sing-songy-you-can't-have-one voice.

"But Daddy," she continues persistently as she is known to do, "He can stay outside and we'll take care of him and feed him-"

"No, honey," the daddy says as his voice begins to weaken. "He might run away or-"

I had nothing. The cat's non-existence had nothing to do with my little girl. It had to do with my own fears. I gave in. And thus came "Cowboy" into our lives.

Three weeks later, he ran away, and I was angry. We all got attached to him quickly. He came back the next day. Over the next few years, other than getting hit by a car, falling out of a tree, getting into a fight with a possum, and almost dying from a bladder infection, everything was just fine.

Until we moved to Houston.

Two weeks after we brought him down, he ran away. This time for good.

I can't say as I blamed him. The wandering spirit inside has long tempted me to explore new lands. I need new challenges, new opportunities, and new birds to kill just like every other wandering spirit out there.

There seems to be a wanderlust category for churchgoers who get tired of one place and decide to go to another ever-so-often. Can't blame them either, especially since I have never been a part of a congregation for more than a decade. But as I get older, I am starting to see the appeal of living/loving a place and calling it home in all of its simplicity.

Maybe that is what Jesus had in mind when he told the story of the prodigal son who had to go off wandering for a while, at first carousing with women covered in cheap perfume, eventually reduced to the company of pigs and eating pig food. Hopefully most of us come to our senses, just like the prodigal son. That's the way these stories are supposed to end.

We knew when we moved to Houston earlier this year that we were coming back to a home we loved when we ministered with a small congregation in West Texas. Although Houston and West Texas could not be farther apart in landscape or culture, the churches are amazingly similar. Small, authentic, family. Coming to Houston was like coming home.

Except for our cat.

He lasted two weeks in the big city, long enough for us to put a red tag on his collar with my cell phone number. But evidently he did not feel as comfortable in Houston as we immediately did. Fuzzball didn't even ask for his share of the inheritance. Just up and left one day. That was back in May, and we were heartbroken that Cowboy was gone.

Slowly in the following weeks we began to discard evidences of his fading presence. We got rid of the kennel on the back porch... a foodbowl... a blanket... then the food...

The little girl from earlier in the story started talking about a kitten, or maybe a hamster she could keep in her room. The latest was wanting to raise crawfish. I could tell she was getting desperate.

So last week I agreed to go start looking for a new kitten. No promises, mind you. But she wore me down with her persistent passion. We were just about to go start our quest for the newest addition to our family.

And then came the voicemail yesterday afternoon.

I was leaving the hospital after visiting a family I have quickly come to adore. I always turn off my phone when making a visit, so as I entered the elevator, I turned it back on. As I walked outside to get on my bike and ride home, I stopped dead in my tracks as I listened to the message. Word-for-word, here it is:

"Hi, Jeff, my name is K___________. I think your cat's over here in our back yard. We're feeding him. I read his tags and saw your phone number. I don't know if he's an outdoor cat and has free roam, or if you want me to try and hold him until you come over." The rest of the message was her phone number and address.

I thought that it must be a joke or a dream. I dialed her number, told her who I was, and then started with the questions. Flabbergasted. Oh my gosh. It's been four months! She was just as astounded. I could not wait to get home.

I roared into our complex, got off my bike, and ran upstairs to find my wife and two offspring playing a game.

"Hit pause," I demanded. They did. "Change of plans for the evening, you guys."

"What?"

"We're going to go pick up Cowboy."

The little girl from earlier in the story who is now a young woman was four years old all over again. She slapped her hand to her open mouth and tears welled up in her eyes. My wife's eyes were the size of plates. Cole just looked shocked.

Off we went to pick up Cowboy.

On the way over, I could not help thinking about the morning's worship at Bering and the ways we are committing to being a church who welcomes those who have wandered away from the church, but who still long for God. Strange coincidence, to be sure, but I could not resist the comparison. So much of what has come to represent "the church" in America either looks like a stadium concert on one end of the continuum, or a rhetoric of out-of-touch-book-burning lunatics on the other. And while there are churches here and there who just want to be a simple community of faith who loves God and one another, they seem to be getting harder to find. Sorry if that sounds nihilistic. But it's the truth as I see it.

What is the church going to do in this generation to welcome home those prodigal Christians who still love God and the faithful ministry of Christ, but who view the church as nothing more than an irrational talking head that has almost nothing to do with the concerns of those who lost faith that God's people could ever gather together without fighting over the color of the carpet? It is probably a safe bet that if we could ever get them to come home, God would be waiting on the porch for them with a robe and a ring with a steak already on the grill.

That's what I was thinking about as we rushed a half-a-mile down our street to pick up our prodigal cat. I could not wait to welcome him home. We drove up. The young lady met us at her garage. Her husband came out. We all shook hands and exchanged names. They walked us into their back porch.

And there he was. Ten pounds lighter, but unmistakably Cowboy.

I was astonished.

We all sat on the ground. He was a little skittish at first. But then he walked up, rubbed up against us, and seemed relieved. I picked him up. His purr was like a sigh. We all thanked the young couple for calling. Then we went home.

Last night, as Cowboy slept in my lap down in my son's room, I thought about the way he illustrated to me--in a corny way, mind you--the idea that he once was lost, but now he's found. And I swore I could have smelled cheap perfume, and the slightest hint of pig food.

The Edwin and Kathleen Rasco Peanut Butter and Jelly Potluck

2010-09-08T13:50:00.002-05:00

When I served the Glenwood Church, one of the former members told me a story about when she used to go there back in the 1970s. One of the elders was Edwin Rasco. One evening he and his wife invited the young married couples over for supper. Back then, going over to an elder's house for supper was a really big deal. Sandy still talks about the invitation with reverence and awe.

Everyone arrived anticipating an uppity sit-down gathering filled with stimulating doctrinal discussion. Some people probably felt like they were going to the principal's office at school. Others probably went just wanting to get the night over with, undoubtedly dragged there by a spouse. Much to everyone's surprise, Kathleen served everyone peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and popsicles. She told the young couples about how important it was to spend time together, to talk, to listen to one another and get involved in each other's lives. She taught them that night about the value of not spending all of our time in preparing a big meal laid out on a fancy table. And most of all, they set the example that anyone can have friends over for supper, especially when the emphasis is on "friends," not on trying to impress or outdo one another.

I have been thinking about this all afternoon, especially since we started the fall semester of Women's Bible Study at Bering this morning. After class, we had a simple lunch in the fellowship hall. It was easily the best pimento cheese sandwich I have ever had. Could we have had a fancier meal? Sure. But the emphasis was on being together.

I wonder how many missed opportunities have passed us by simply out of fear of what others might think. I don't know if it's a southern thing, or a church thing, or a southern church thing. Whatever it is, it's a threadbare value that has no meaning in the kingdom of God. Jesus ate with some pretty rough characters. But they were rough characters who evidently saw the value in sitting at a table with Jesus. Never mind the formalities. Golden plates at the Pharisees' mansions could never compare to a table with Jesus in the poorhouse. Plus, I bet the peanut butter and jelly was downright heavenly.

I think I heard God asking, "Are you sure?"

2010-09-01T13:03:00.004-05:00

I hate it when people say, "Be careful what you pray for because you just might get it." I hate it when people say that because it rings true. I'm not talking about praying for a Maserati. I tried that. Didn't get it.

Dear God, you know that white one we saw the other day with the hand-stitched red leather...

But when it comes to prayers that involve serving others with the Gospel, I have noticed that God seems to have a vested interest in such things. God seems keenly concerned in using us to share his truth with the disenfranchised. Or perhaps "interested" and "concerned" are words too soft, too minor for what God feels. Maybe "active" is a better word. Yeah, I think it is. Active. God is actively involved in sharing a Gospel life with those who do not know him. And whenever we ask God to help us find such people, brace yourself, because he is a fast God. Quick on the draw when it comes to boundless grace and mercy.

So lately I have been encouraging people to pray that God will put people in our path who have left the church. I believe people are in our neighborhood who no longer practice any kind of Christianity other than American piety that says things like, "I'm a Christian." I'm talking about people who say "Jesus" on Easter and Christmas and sometimes Thanksgiving, and people who say "Jesus" when they hit their thumb with a hammer. But when it comes to being engaged in the kind of relationships one builds over years of worship and service together, many are no longer interested. Even though I hear the death knell from those who say the organized church is dead in the water--(fun metaphor, by the way)--I still believe in the value of building deep friendships around the blood of Christ. If I lost my faith in the church, it's in the megachurch. And you, O faithful bloggerland reader, already know that. The only way burned out Christians are going to return to "the church" is by way of actual person-to-person contact where we put our feet under one another's tables. You know, kind of like what Jesus did.

So that's what I have been telling people to pray for at my church. Pray that God will put people in our path who live in this area who will find a home in a simple, authentic gathering of God's people. Moreover, pray that God will give us the wisdom and discernment to recognize them when he puts them in our path.

Be careful what you pray for.

At lunch today, I had to run two errands. Go fill up the car, and go to the UPS store. Just around the corner from my office. No big deal. Nothing special.

I pulled into the gas station. The car in front of me was in obvious trouble. It wasn't running, but the lights were on, and the tough looking lady outside the car had borrowed someone's phone to make what seemed to be a pretty distressed phone call. My personality is such that I did not want to talk to her. If you are a stranger beside me on an airplane, don't expect a loquacious traveling companion. But the lady at the gas station looked bad. So I asked, "Are you having car trouble?"

(I heard an echo in my head at that moment of Bill Engvall saying, "Nope, just felt like parking it at a gas station with the lights on. Here's your sign.")

She didn't respond to the car question. Instead, she said that her daughter had just died and that she did not have a place to live.

Now, being a preacher, I have heard every story in the book from people who knock on the door of the church building asking for handouts. She didn't seem that way. But she did ask me for cash. I gave her the seven dollars in my glove compartment. I usually don't carry any cash at all. Then I went and pumped my own gas. Something nagged inside me.

I went over and gave her my card and said, "Come around the corner if you need to talk."

She started crying more and asked me why God killed her daughter. I told her that I didn't think God works that way. I told her that when my oldest son died 13 years ago that I had to rethink my assumptions about God and life and just about everything else. I then told her I would be back to the office in 15 minutes, and to come by.

She was already inside when I got back. But her husband was standing outside. He looked very hungover. I told him to come inside and sit down.

We put her in touch with two agencies nearby who can provide actual sustainable help. Not a handout, but real help. Food, clothing, job interviewing skills, the works. I hope she takes advantage of the help.

If we talk about a more "missional" approach to Christianity, it has to involve having eyes to see things like going to the gas station as an opportunity to live out the Gospel. It may not happen often. Or maybe it will. Maybe a great deal of this has to do with being open to the movement of God's Spirit, while simultaneously open to those all around us.

Am I patting myself on the back for what happened today? Well, yes... kind of. Not to get accolades from others, but rather as a testimony to the fact that God has somehow managed to break through the hardness of my intellectually rigorous faith to peel away the cynicism I was taught in college and seminary. I am filled with joy that God is actually working in the people I live among to look at the world with new eyes, and to see our own backyard as a mission field. We as a church are praying. Maybe we should pray that God will put in our path ten new families who are burned out on church but who still hunger and thirst for authentic faith. Maybe we should pray that God will use us to be a home for the spiritually homeless.

Maybe we just need to pray more about the things that God cares about.

Although I wouldn't mind if God likes white Maseratis with red leather.

The Holiness of Hope

2010-08-25T12:02:00.006-05:00

While getting ready, both intellectually and spiritually, for a new sermon series we will begin on September 12th, something unexpected happened. And much like a movie that begins with the final scene and then backtracks, let me set that last statement up with a minor confession.

Last Sunday when our youth group led our worship, I thought I would give something a try. I knew the orders of worship were available on the back table. Totally on purpose, I left mine there. Didn't get one. Instead, I just went with it. Instead of looking on the order to see what might come next, I just... well... worshipped.

One of the occupational hazards of being a professional Christian is writing and executing an order of worship. Many Sunday mornings of my life are spent ticking down the list of songs and readings and prayers and tables and sermons making sure everything falls neatly into place without anyone getting hurt.

But since the youth were in charge of the service last Sunday--(and they did great)
But since the youth were in charge of the service last Sunday--(Am I the only one who thinks it's weird to talk about being "in charge" of worship?)
But since the youth were in charge of the service last Sunday, I let go of the habit of management, and as I said, just worshipped.

This is not merely a Sunday morning event, by the way. We preachers can get into routines during the week as well. Let me ease into my point from one other angle.

When I am preparing a sermon series, I am sometimes guilty of the very thing some older preachers warned me about when I was younger and more idealistic. They talked about how we preachers study the Bible so much that occasionally we forget--(actually forget!)--to be recipients of the very promises we proclaim on Sunday mornings. In other words, I preach these amazing things about the promises of God while neglecting to let those promises into my own life. Maybe that is what Jesus meant when he said, "If you have an ear to hear." Because sometimes we don't.

It's getting better, though.

It's getting better.

I am not sure whether it has to do with getting softhearted as I get older, but something is happening. Maybe it has to do with being part of such an incredibly close-knit family congregation. But something is happening. Something unexpected.

And that brings us to the present day.

While getting ready, both intellectually and spiritually, for a new sermon series we will begin on September 12th, something unexpected happened.

The series is called, "The Church as Holy Body." It will take the rich ecclesiology of 1 Peter that is rooted in God's call to holiness in Leviticus and imagine a church with a clear sense of God's mission to announce a message of hope. (Whew! That was a mouthful!)

Where was I?

Oh yeah...

I have been reading 1 Peter, really digging my heels into it. I have been skimming Leviticus 19 and 22. Just treading the water on that one. But I have also been reading a book by Jürgen Moltmann called, Theology of Hope. And it was there, at the feet of this crusty old German theologian, that the unexpected happened.

I read his quote of Calvin followed by Moltmann's own comments:

"'Hope is nothing else than the expectation of those things which faith has believed to have been truly promised by God.' ... Without faith's knowledge of Christ, hope becomes a utopia and remains hanging in the air. But without hope, faith falls to pieces, becomes a fainthearted and ultimately a dead faith. It is through faith that man find the path of true life, but it is only hope that keeps him on that path. Thus it is that faith in Christ gives hope its assurance. Thus it is that hope gives faith in Christ its breadth and leads into life."

Now in the past when I read something like that during sermon preparation I would think, "That would make a good quote." Or I would stroke my beard and ponder introspectively. "Yes, yes, interesting... hmmm." But it did not happen that way this go around. Instead, I found myself deeply moved. Deeply moved.

Churches these days are wrestling with how to communicate the gospel in such a pluralist society. The root of the missional church ideal in Lesslie Newbigin's theology is just now coming to be realized in the United States. But it is here.

It's here.

What if God is calling us to communicate a theology of hope rooted not in the church as corporate institution, but rather as communities of the faithful who know exactly where we place our hope? Hope. Real hope. Hope... not in meeting a yearly budget or composing an ideal staff or cool technological slight of hand... but real hope that reminds us to set our hearts on things above. I know, I know. You gotta have budgets and staffs and meetings. Okay. I get it. I have been around long enough to not be dismissive of such things. But I also know those things have a place in a hierarchy of priorities. And that place is not at the top.

At the top of that hierarchy is articulating a theology of hope rooted in the eternal holiness of the one who is making us into a spiritual house made of living stones. (First Peter reference for your reading pleasure.) The mission of the church is not to be cool or relevant. It is to be holy today, even as God is holy, and to announce a more lasting hope than our mere legacy.

That is why Kierkegaard called hope a "passion for what is possible."

Clowns to the Left of Me, Jokers to the Right

2010-08-23T13:20:00.000-05:00

I am confident, after years of contact with a gracious God, that he is far more patient with the contemporary Western church than I am. (I just realized that was pretty audacious of me to start and end that sentence with the phrase "I am"... speaking of fear and trembling.)

Age is teaching me to be more gracious. I think. But I hear the hateful rhetoric on one end of the continuum, and the pop-psych-fluff on the other end and think, "What is this all about?" I will put the three mini-sermons I heard yesterday from Ashlyn, Abbie, and Anna up against any of that nonsense any day.

I am at least taking a cue from the idea "If the Church Were Christian." Despite the arrogance associated with such an approach (on my part, I admit), I still wonder what God is up to with the church these days? I truly believe many churches are still out there who desperately seek the leading of God's Spirit. I believe many of us long for nothing more than to please God with faithful gatherings of his children. Admittedly, we are all couched in our traditions, some of them good, some of them just plain silly. I remember one time at a church long ago and far away when a Samoan dancer performed for our youth group with his drum and sword. Someone came up to me and asked me why we would allow a drum during a devotional. I thought, "He has a sword and weighs 300 pounds; are you going to tell him what to do?"

Why do churches get so caught up in answering questions no one is asking?

If The Church Were Christian (minus the bones)

2010-08-16T13:46:00.004-05:00

When I went to college as a young Bible major, I arrived spoonfed on a steady diet of fundamentalism. I was not born into Churches of Christ. In fact, I was already training for ministry before I realized what a rough crowd I had gotten mixed up with. On a positive note, I also did not know there was any such thing as a church controversy. I can honestly say that from the ages of about 14-19 I had a faith completely focused on cultivating a relationship with God and his people. Some people would call that naive; I think Jesus said something, though, about children inheriting the kingdom first... or something like that. One of the negative byproducts of such a worldview, however, was a rather dichotomous approach to Christianity, one where "the right way" always trumped "the wrong way." And just like the Pharisees of old (and new for that matter), "the right way" is shorthand for "my way," and "the wrong way" is shorthand for "anything you think that runs contrary to what I think."

So there I was as a young Bible major reading Curious George Goes to Seminary and other beginner theological books when lo and behold, I read something that did not match my beliefs. I found myself at a philosophical impasse. I did not know what to do. I talked to a trusted professor. It helped. He taught me how to read beyond agree/disagree. He said, "Jeff, if you only read the stuff you already agree with you're never going to learn anything." He also taught me the approach to reading where you "spit out the bones."

Which brings me back to Philip Gulley's book, If the Church Were Christian.

After having read through it some more, I'm not as impressed as I thought I would be. This is a classic case of "Don't judge a book by it's cover." In fact, most of the book is just him reacting to his Roman Catholic upbringing, as well as his Quaker present. He also seems to have a need to show how much more sophisticated his thinking has become now that he has learned to dismiss doctrines he has come to see as archaic myths. So on that point, (for me) the book unravels. Plus, on some levels, it just feels self-aggrandizing.

But the title of the book itself still intrigues me, as well as some of the chapter titles. Not all of them, mind you. But some of them. It at least furthers the conversation. And at this point, that's good enough for me.

If the church were Christian, affirming our potential would be more important than condemning our brokenness.

If the church were Christian, reconciliation would be valued over judgment.

If the church were Christian, meeting needs would be more important than maintaining institutions.

If the church were Christian, peace would be more important than power.

On many other fronts, I think Gulley overstates his case. He makes either/or cliff dives when I think he should have gone down both/and paths. But that's okay. It was worth the price of admission just to be reminded that following Jesus should always come before... well... everything.

If The Church Were Christian

2010-08-16T11:00:00.003-05:00

I just started reading Philip Gulley's book, If the Church Were Christian. Just the introduction, to be precise. It strikes me that so many people are looking for simple, authentic communities of people who follow Jesus, but are having a hard time finding what they are looking for. (Please don't break into a U2 song at this point.)

I am assuming most of you know that I minister with a small church in urban Houston. I say "small" not because of our actual size, but because of relative contextual comparisons. In most of the world, we would simply be considered a normal sized church. But considering that just down the road is a stadium where people buy tickets to go to church, and that down the road in a different direction is a mega-church locals affectionately refer to as "Six Flags Over Jesus," well, one might look at our gatherings and use the word "small." That's fine. I don't mind.

Back to Gulley's introduction: One particular paragraph struck me as particularly poignant. Evidently some people who read Gulley's earlier books suggested that he might start a new denomination, a "pure" one, no bells and whistles. Just simple Christian church. Gulley gave three reasons as to why he declined their invitations:

"I found community with my own church satisfying; I had no confidence in my ability to create a pure Christianity after thirty-nine thousand denominations had tried and failed; and I feared that being a key figure in a new movement would expand my head and shrink my heart."

We spend an inordinate amount of money in the American church trying to be state-of-the-art and cool. But what if we poured more of our efforts into being places where real community takes place? What if we could be "small" gatherings where people say things like, "I found community with my own church satisfying."

I'm discovering that most churches are uniquely gifted in making things harder than they have to be. But this is not that difficult. It's just not. Gather in the name of Jesus. Don't gossip. Listen to one another. Cultivate peace and joy. Name injustices. Repeat.

Wow. That sounds hard.

Gulley had me at the title. No doubt about it. I wonder where he is going with it. I am guessing it has something to do with simplifying. I'll keep you posted.

Safida the Slave

2010-08-12T09:26:00.005-05:00

What if you could write a check in order to save someone from a life of slavery? Would you do it? How much would you pay?

What if you could buy a handmade rug that would keep a little girl from being trafficked into a life of prostitution?

When my wife and I found out about Eternal Threads and the work Linda Egle is doing to make a tremendous impact in this world, we started buying their purses, giving them as gifts, and spreading the word.

Now they are selling rugs. We bought the first one. Read Safida's story here:

ttps://app.e2ma.net/app/view:CampaignPublic/id:1404007.6675548323/rid:362bafd732e8048ad9dda6e4e0e3b2f1

If you don't already know about Eternal Threads, you need to:

http://www.eternalthreads.org/

I thank God today for the work of this global ministry.

The Time My Friend and I Cried While Reading Greek

2010-08-10T13:01:00.003-05:00

I don't cry often. In fact, I remember the last time.

It was less than a year ago, which means my son was 11. We were at an AC/DC concert. Just as they took the stage, the lights dimmed, everyone stood up, and Cole stood in the chair next to me so he could see. He put his arm around me to balance. Angus Young's guitar was plugged into 19 Marshall amps. When he crushed the first chord, the stadium shook, and the fillings in my teeth moved just a little. I looked at Cole's face. It was bright with smiles. He looked so much like the beautiful smile of his mother. And I got all teary-eyed.

And then there was today.

It was twenty years ago that I sat in my first Greek class at ACU. I have read the Greek New Testament, the Septuagint, and even some classical philosophy with some of the brightest minds in the world. But today was special.

You may already know this, O faithful bloggerland reader, but just in case you don't: My friend Edward Fudge and I meet at IHOP and read Greek. Today we started Revelation.

If I let my daughter introduce you to Edward, she would tell you that he's famous. He writes books, and wears a cool hat. She would be more diplomatic about Edward's history than I would. I would be more likely to tell you about all the crap from church people he has had to put up with through the years for defending women, children, and Episcopalians. He has written extensively on controversial topics like hell, immortality, women, children, and Episcopalians. But nothing he has written or said to me thus far has made an impression on me like our reading time at lunch today. It is probably too early to say, but it is quite possible that it may have been one of thinnest places between heaven and earth that I have ever experienced, one of the most moving moments in my lengthening relationship with God.

I remember the last time I felt the way I am feeling right now. I was standing on the shoreline of the Sea of Galilee all by myself. Praying. Washing my hands and face in the water.

And then there was today.

Edward finished his bowl of fruit, and I finished my eggs and steak and hashbrowns and pancakes. (I was hungry, okay; I ran three miles this morning.) We pushed the dishes aside and wiped a spot on the table to set down our Greek New Testaments. Edward changed his glasses, and we began reading.

When we get together, we take turns verse-by-verse. First we read out loud in Greek; then we read the verse again translating as we go. Sometimes like today we will get inspired by a comparison to another passage. For instance, Revelation 1 uses the same word about Jesus that the hymn in Colossians 1:15-20 does: "The firstborn." We get excited about such things. You've never seen anyone geek out quicker than a couple of theologians doing textual analysis.

But then something happened, and I never saw it coming. Edward was reading Revelation 1:17. I didn't think anything of it at first, especially because he had been coughing occasionally during lunch. But as he came to the last few words of the verse, his voice trembled. Then he was silent. He forced himself to finish the verse, but it was strained. He was crying.

We sat quiet for a moment.

I broke the silence. "What gets to you about that?" I asked.

He explained as tears streamed down his face about Jesus' encouragement to "Fear not."

That's when I started crying.

Like I said, I have read Greek with some of the brightest minds in the world, but none more sincere than Edward. Never have I been so moved reading Scripture as I was today. It ranked right up there with the birth of my children, and the way I often feel when Jennifer walks into a room. You might even say that as Edward translated verse 17, I felt the palpable presence of the Almighty.

Revelation 1:17 - "And when I saw him, I fell at his feet like I was dead. And he placed his right hand on me saying, 'Fear not! I am the first and the last...'"

Maybe you were able to read that without tearing up. But I don't know if I will ever be able to again.

Things That Make People Happy

2010-08-05T13:43:00.002-05:00

* An act of kindness when you're having a bad day
* Encouraging words
* A home committed to love and growth
* Good food
* Pens that don't run out of ink during an exam
* Music that moves the soul
* A work environment that lacks gossip
* Comfortable shoes
* Water
* A great view

The Road

2010-08-02T10:33:00.003-05:00

The most dangerous road in America is not along the hairpin turns of the California coastline, but a never-ending, straight Texas highway between Pecos and Fort Stockton. No signs. No houses. No trees. Just an inflexibly unswerving asphalt carpet that makes Monument Valley look downright curvy.

On our way back from Colorado, I almost lost track of driving on that precipitous pathway in West Texas. It was dangerous. Not in the sense of having to negotiate obstacles, but rather in the sense of lulling the driver into an absolute daze. Hypnotic it was. Other than the oil wells and a single car, our family was treated to a scenery of nothing. And while driving that insufferably straight stretch of pavement--(Wouldn't you know it?)--my preacher imagination kicked into high gear.

What is it that makes a repetitive lifetime of churchgoing so dangerous?

Could it be that "going to church" Sunday after Sunday after Sunday lulls us into the habit of believing we are "Christian" because we followed the traditional routine while simultaneously making sure we avoided upsetting the prescribed way we have been conditioned to read Scripture?

Or to put it more simply:

Is the 10:00 hour on Sunday morning the measure of our trust in God just because we sang, preached, and tabled "the right way"?

Or how about this:

Does God consider the way I treat the guy at the rental car counter just as important as communion?

(Warning: Meddling Ahead)

Jesus told a story about a man... on a journey... on a road. Maybe it was a ridiculously straight road. On that road, the man was beaten and left for dead. Another man driving along the road was on his way to church. He noticed the oil wells and the single car that passed him. His mind was focused on where they might go out to eat after the closing prayer. For a split second he thought he saw a man lying on the side of the road. But he kept going. After all, it was 9:40 on Sunday morning.

He arrived at the church building fifteen minutes early to greet his fellow churchgoers and have some coffee. They went into the auditorium (not the "sanctuary") and sang along with the song leader (not the "worship minister") and partook of the Lord's Supper (not "communion") and listened to the preacher (we don't call him "pastor") and made sure the women kept silent and the kids sat still and nobody clapped and everything was done decent and in order.

When the service (ironic word) was over, they drove back home down the straight and narrow path. As he drove, he thought about how good the preacher was, and how comfortable his leather Bible felt in his hand. His mind drifted back over the morning, and how everything went perfectly. He filled out his membership card. At one point during the offering, he even took the ribbon hanging out of one of the songbooks in the empty pew in front of him, and put back in its proper place. There, that's better.

His driving daydream was suddenly interrupted by his daughter's voice. From the backseat she yelled, "Dad! There's a guy lying in the dirt!" To which he replied as the pathway plodded forward, "Be quiet, sweetheart, Daddy's concentrating on the road."

The Heat in Purgatory

2010-07-27T11:34:00.002-05:00

Ninety-five degrees every day
No air conditioning
"Going to Colorado to cool off?"
That's what they said
Said they were jealous
Not so much
Go home to Houston to cool off
Night we got home
I torqued the A/C down
Way down
Got under the covers
Even shivered once
It was good
I'm spoiled
Way too comfortable in the world
My car. My house. My chair. My bed.
Hard to read the Bible and hear God tell us not to love the world.
Oh sure, it's easy to hear such words when...
Talking about hate crimes and exploitation of people.
"Do not love the world."
But when it comes to creature comforts.
"Do not love the world."
I like my car. My house. My chair. My bed.
I like granola bars and blue jeans and the smell of Harley-Davidson stores.
I like coffee and crisp white paper and the sound of rain.
I like bookstores and hiking and black and white photographs.
I don't like the heat in Purgatory, Colorado.
But there's more to the world
And more we need to learn to like less.

Log Off / Log On

2010-07-26T09:01:00.003-05:00

I saw a t-shirt while I was in Colorado on my non-electronics vacation. It was one of those "Life is Good" t-shirts with a stick figure and a cute saying. On the shirt was a picture of the little stick figure man lying against a fallen tree. The simple little caption read, "Log off."

It may sound silly, but it was like a sign from God. It was an affirmation that for a time, choosing to be off the grid was a good thing. I worked a puzzle. I walked with my kids. Drank coffee with my wife. We drove for hours. And the world went on just fine without email and iPods and this silly little blog.

But since I am logged on once again to this "silly little blog" I can see the value of it. Not in the electronics or the probable over-abundance of time we spend on computers these days; but rather, in the fact that even as you sit and peruse these thoughts on your computer, O faithful bloggerland reader, hopefully what you are reading is more than just fluff. Hopefully it is something that builds you up for the long journey on the road of faith.

The preacher in Ecclesiastes 3 said, "A time to be silent, and a time to speak." Now is a time to speak. It is another day when something else needs to be said, if only repeated. Perhaps what needs to be said falls along the lines of the warning in First John to not be overly comfortable in the world. To long for another world. To bind up our hearts in eternal promises.

I found a poem I like called "Song of the Grass Roof Hermitage"--

I've built a grass hut  
Where there's nothing of value 
After eating, I relax and enjoy a nap.
 When it was completed, fresh weeds appeared.  
Now it's been lived in 
Covered by weeds.  
The person in the hut
 Lives here calmly,
 Not stuck to inside, outside,
 Or in between.  
Places worldly people live,  
He doesn't live.  
Realms worldly people love,
 He doesn't love.

Off the Grid

2010-07-12T12:15:00.003-05:00

"O Lord our God, teach us, we pray, to ask you in the right way for the right blessings. Steer the vessel of our life towards yourself, the tranquil haven of all storm-tossed souls. Show us the course in which we should go. Renew a willing spirit within us. Let your Spirit curb our wayward senses, and guide and enable us towards that which is our true good, to keep your laws, and in all we do to rejoice always in your glorious and gladdening presence. For yours is the glory and praise from all your saints, for ever and ever. Amen."

That's a prayer of Basil the Great, bishop of a Cappadocian part of the Eastern church in the 370s. By that time, Christians were embroiled in bitter controversies about everything from the personhood of Jesus to the canon of Scripture. I am certain they had a meeting or two about whether to put a kitchen in the fellowship hall. But before Basil went into church politics, he was a hermit on the bank of the River Iris. It was a kind of laid back monasticism, not nearly as strict as some of his counterparts. I hear in his prayers a desire to please God that is devoid of anxiety, and instead simply seeks to be in God's presence.

Last week my son and I were on the way home from playing racquetball. We got to talking about our spiritual lives. He said something about sin. I asked him what distracts him from God. He said, "Electronics." He described how they are everywhere. TVs. Computers. Games. We let them demand so much of our attention. Even now, O faithful bloggerland reader, what might happen if you shut off your computer this very minute and devoted ten minutes to quiet prayer? (Who am I to talk, right?) And while we cannot join Basil on the river bank, I believe an "off the grid" vacation might be a good way to practice a contemporary form of fasting. I wonder what it would be like to fast from email and facebook and blogging and television for ten days?

Let's see... move the cursor to the upper left hand corner... Apple Menu... Shut Down...

Something Old, Something New

2010-07-08T09:20:00.006-05:00

Even though I spent 17 of the last 20 years in formal theological education, almost all of it happened while I was engaged with a specific congregation as the preaching minister. While doing my M.Div., I ministered with the Munday Church of Christ for five years. Making time with cotton farmers and John Deere mechanics forced me to keep my feet on the ground and off the top floor of an ivory tower. And while my education made me more critical than I should have been, I have discovered something in the last few years: The value of seeing church in a new old way.

Speaking of new old things.

First John 2:7-10--"Dear friends, I am not writing you a new command but an old one, which you have had since the beginning. This old command is the message you have heard. Yet I am writing you a new command; its truth is seen in him and in you, because the darkness is passing and the true light is already shining. Those who claim to be in the light but hate a fellow believer are still in the darkness. Those who love their fellow believers live in the light, and there is nothing in them to make them stumble."

Our church is spending the summer in John's writings while looking for signs of God's presence in our everyday lives. I think I saw a sign of God's presence yesterday. But it was more ordinary than I anticipated.

I'll come back to that in a minute.

Although it might sound a little too Zen for some people's tastes, it is good to see some churches beginning to embrace simplicity. For every megachurch that remodels an abandoned Wal-Mart, smaller groups of Christians are popping up all over the place who want to engage both the gifts and the works of the gospel in ways that heal broken minds. Church, from the beginning, was/is supposed to be a place where people can come and hear the good news that they are valued by God, and cherished by fellow believers. That's it.

That's it.

For every meeting, program launch, or budget item a church takes on, we should devote double that time/effort/expense to sharing the good news that invites people deeply into Christian community. Real community. The kind of community that misses you when you are not there. If you are a member of a small congregation and someone says they missed you, it's because they really missed you.

Who would have thought that the gospel was as easy to articulate as this: "I rejoice that today you and I get to share in God's life-changing, redeeming love."

Yesterday I saw a sign of God's presence. I had lunch with the Lide's. Judy is one of our shepherds at Bering. She and Rod were out last weekend for the holiday. I told both of them, "I really missed you last weekend." They said, "We missed you, too."

And there was God's presence.

Don Newton, another member at Bering, said something similar last Sunday after being out the Sunday before. He said, "I was at a church of 6000 people last Sunday, but I missed you." I replied, "I knew you were not here, and I really missed you."

And there was God's presence.

Right, Wrong, or Indifferent

2010-07-06T08:48:00.004-05:00

Saw a shirt in the mall yesterday that read, "Team Jacob." I wonder if they make "Team Indifferent"?

In a rather dismissive way, Kurt Cobain sang, "You know you're right."

And I love the way Dennis Miller used to end his rants back when he was on his game: "Of course, that's just my opinion. I could be wrong."

We spend a lot of our days trying to be right, some of our days just plain indifferent, and very few of our days admitting we could be wrong. Philosophically speaking, I'm wondering how we get beyond the solipsistic approach by which we measure "right" according to our own experience(s).

I know what it feels like to be right. My Guatemalan coffee tastes great this morning. I'm right about that. At least... right according to my experience.

Let's try that again.

I know what it feels like to be right. When someone picks up a guitar and strums in a certain rhythm from the open G chord to C to D to A minor it sounds like the opening to "Wish You Were Here." I'm right about that. (Kind of... sigh...)

Let's move on.

I know what it feels like to be indifferent. Whether you have long hair or short hair or facial hair, a tattoo, earrings, piercings, or even if you work for the IRS, such things do not impact the way we share with one another in the gospel of Jesus Christ. In my indifference about such things, I know I'm right.

But this business of "being wrong." That's a tough one. I wonder.

Can we grow as Christians/people if we do not occasionally admit wrong?

I believed for a while that my job as a preacher was to get people out of other denominations--("other" meaning "not mine")--and get them to look like me. In order for them to be "right," they need to think like me. The danger of this approach is most apparent when American missionaries go into another country and unwittingly export our own reactionary issues into their cultures. To this day I appreciate Gailyn Van Rheenen for helping me see the pitfall of anthropological transference. (By the way, I just made up that phrase. Pretty cool, huh?)

Example:

I remember interviewing with a church in the early 90s back when we were considering going as missionaries into the recently dismantled Soviet Union. One particular elder was riding the hobby horse of non-instrumental worship. I pushed back a little because I thought my potential comrades' questions would be of a deeper nature. So I asked what I should say if one of the converts read Psalm 150. He yelled at me: "YOU TELL THEM IT WAS NAILED TO THE CROSS!" I backed away slowly from that weekend. Last I checked, it was Jesus who was nailed to the cross. Last I checked, Psalm 150 did not die for my sins. (Sorry. That was a little sarcastic. But I still think he was wrong and I was right.)

Another example:

When I went to Princeton for my first continuing education seminar after graduate school, my eyes were opened to the beauty of other traditions. I was stunned by the ways they celebrated the inbreaking of God into our world. Artwork. Silence. Responsive readings. Were it not for those experiences, things like the Lord's Supper, preaching, and even the way a sanctuary is decorated would have remained limited to my own view. And even though I cannot write about something beyond what I have seen, I know that this past Sunday, Christians gathered in their tribes in the jungles and confessed Jesus as Lord. Chances are good that their worship looked different than ours. But I bet it was good. And I bet it was right. Not because of forms, but because of hearts. Hearts that hunger and thirst for righteousness.

Amos warned some tribes in the past from the mouth of God: "I hate, I despise your religious festivals; I cannot stand your assemblies." (Amos 5:21) And David discovered a path from wrong to right in Psalm 51:

"You do not delight in sacrifice, or I would bring it;
you do not take pleasure in burnt offerings.
My sacrifice, O God, is a broken spirit;
a broken and contrite heart, God, you will not despise."

Broken spirits and contrite hearts are ones that admit our human weaknesses and failings. We can see where we have been wrong in the past. In retrospect, I think it is easier to see "wrong" in retrospect. But my prayer is that today, beyond the measure of right, better, or superior, we as Christians in the west should at least share a gospel that is at its very core faithful. Not steeped in power or upper hands. Just faithful.

The days of churches tearing down barns and building bigger ones needs to be replaced by incarnational ministry in our neighborhoods and cities that addresses the actual struggles of people's hearts and minds.

Of course, that's just my opinion. I could be wrong.

Crossroads

2010-06-30T11:25:00.008-05:00

Stopped the curb at the intersection of June and July, I can feel the summer gaining speed. Just up the road is another intersection, the one where Tyler and Houston cross. Looks like with a pending contract on our old house that we will make the final turn onto the Houston road at the end of July. And that'll be it. New ministry. New life. New road. But no matter where I find myself these days--whether it's just age or hopefully a little more experience--I'm seeing the world in a different light.

Wonkam Chungji said in the 13th century: "Sitting before the silent, burning incense I watch the moss thicken on the stone bridge. Don't ask me why. I've been out of step with the world since my youth."

Out of step with the world.

I did not grow up in the Christian tradition that sang "This world is not my home," but I have been with southern churches long enough to have heard the reverberations. And while there are plenty of days when I know that this world is, in fact, my home (at least for now), I am developing a deeper appreciation for the sentiment as time goes by. What would the world look like if we recaptured a philosophy of temporality?

First John 2:17 reads, "The world and its desires pass away, but whoever does the will of God lives forever."

Out of step with the world.

I look around as I ride all over Houston. Funny. I don't see the world and its desires passing away. I see the world and its desires growing. Lust for more things. New houses. Faster cars. Updated cell phones that play movies and julienne fries. Perhaps the contemporary proclamation of the gospel is going to have to find ways to articulate a shrinking dependence upon worldly gadgets, maybe even in favor of a more ascetic approach to expressions of our faith in Jesus. In some ways, I wish I had not started this summer preaching series. John is too easy to understand. Ambiguity in Christianity is more comfortable. We can get away with more if we say, "Well, we're not sure what that means." Not so much with statements like the one in 1 John 2:6--"Whoever claims to live in him must live as Jesus did."

Out of step with the world.

The spiritual motorcycle approaches the main intersection and slows down. Stops at the light. The road we've been on thus far is called "The World and Its Desires"... the crossroad is called, "Live As Jesus Did." Do we make the turn? It would be easier to just keep going. I do notice that there's a lot less traffic at the crossroads.

Little Pink Houses

2010-06-17T10:51:00.007-05:00

Urban Houston on a motorcycle. Not as bad as you might think. In fact, I see more. As anyone knows who rides, you tend to notice more of the world around you on a bike than when you are in an air conditioned cage with the radio tuned to the local classic rock station.

Urban Houston. The guy in the status car next to me a couple of days ago was snorting coke at the stoplight. The Unitarian marquee next door reads, "A God Even Atheists Can Accept." Reflections of clouds dance across San Felipe Plaza just outside my window. All these buildings and mountains.

Urban Houston. Different kind of ministry than anything I have ever done before, and a kind of ministry I have always dreamed of engaging. This is not a mission setting where everyone's car has a Jesus bumper sticker and every business has a TV blaring Fox News as you walk through the door. It is filled with people who either do not know the transformative power of the gospel, or who have heard more about church than Jesus. How can today's church in America deconstruct the cult of program-driven marketing campaigns and bear witness as simple gatherings of found sheep? Tear down the billboards. Let the megachurches do their thing. Christians in America are quickly finding more meaning in not-so-structured times of fellowship and dwelling in the word. Younger Christians are no longer attracted to locations; they are looking for authenticity. Seems like old burned out Christians aren't looking for anything other than to be left alone. Maybe a better approach to evangelism is needed. Instead of "Come to our building and meet our cool new preacher" we might should try something like, "We are a small group of Christians being shaped in the image and likeness of Christ."

Urban Houston. Each week one of our ministers has a Bible study in a pub close to downtown. This morning a friend of mine and I read John 2 together at IHOP. We said "thank you" to our waitress and treated her with respect, especially when I found out she had been waiting tables since midnight. She was not originally from an English-speaking country. But I hope her experience with us two anglophile Jesus followers was one that ultimately shone light in the darkness.

Urban Houston on a motorcycle. Not as bad as you might think. In fact, I see more. I see people, and more people. They go to work in some high rise, and vacation down at the Gulf of Mexico. And here we are as a small group of Christians in the midst of all these people, all these buildings and mountains. Seems mission one is fairly clear: Just keep it real.

From Eternity to Here (Redux)

2010-06-14T10:19:00.002-05:00

We just finished reading the three prologues of John at Bering as a part of the new summer series called "A Kingdom of Signs" (John 1:1-18; First John 1:1-7; Revelation 1:1-8). I am moved by the ways each of them speak of eternity that brings everything into the here and now. Even in Revelation, which is mistakenly reduced by many to the ruble of confusion about the future, the main point is encouraging Christians today who have a hard time enduring in their faith.

(Can I get a witness? Ever have a hard time enduring in your faith?)

And no matter where we start with John's writings, Jesus is. Period. Jesus is not just an historical figure, nor is he merely a landlord of our future eternal home. Jesus is. Revelation 1:8 reads, "'I am the Alpha and the Omega,'" says the Lord God, "'who is, and who was, and who is to come, the Almighty.'" The verse is not like our linear thinking where everything lines up in an A-to-B fashion we seem so desperate to conjure at every turn. Instead, Jesus is referred to first as the one "who is." Yes he "was"; and yes, he "is to come." But foremost, Jesus is.

Eternity will begin the day after yesterday.

From Eternity to Here

2010-06-05T16:00:00.002-05:00

In all three prologues of John that we are reading at Bering right now as a part of the new summer series called "A Kingdom of Signs"--(John 1:1-18; First John 1:1-7; Revelation 1:1-8)--it strikes me as deeply moving that all of them speak of eternity in such a way that it brings everything into the here and now. Even in Revelation, which is mistakenly reduced by many to the ruble of confusion about the future, the main point is encouraging saints today who are having a hard time enduring in their faith.

(Ever have a hard time enduring in your faith?)

The beauty of the gift(s) of God all comes together in Jesus, who not only "was and is to come" but ultimately "is." Jesus is not just an historical figure, nor is he merely a landlord of our future eternal home. Jesus is. In fact, I have misquoted Revelation 1 when it says about Jesus that he was, is, and is to come. That's how I quoted it: "Jesus was, is, and is to come." Sounded good to me. Problem is, that's not how it reads. The actual verse in Revelation 1:8 reads, "'I am the Alpha and the Omega,'" says the Lord God, "'who is, and who was, and who is to come, the Almighty.'" The actual verse is not like our linear thinking where everything lines up in a... well... line. Instead, Jesus is referred to first as the one "who is." Yes he "was"; and yes, he "is to come." But foremost, Jesus is.

Is.

All talk of eternity rushes back to now. Eternity is not a distant future we hope one day will come. Eternity begins today, just as eternity was, and just as eternity is to come.

I'm almost sick tonight (Saturday) as I anticipate tomorrow in First John 1 and an entire week before we read Revelation 1 as a church. I cannot wait to completely articulate in our shared worship these three weeks as the clear weight of our church's testimony. I cannot wait. Good thing it's not all about tomorrow. Good thing we have these promises today. Good thing we are offered light today in the midst of darkness. Good thing eternity is right here where Jesus is.

(Explaining "Theopathology")

2010-06-02T19:29:00.002-05:00

Just in case...

Someone asked me if we had experienced gossip at Bering already. Absolutely not. These were a couple of general entries more in response to some gossip a couple of ministry friends experienced in other places in recent times.

That said... allow me to retort...

Gossip has no place in the Lord's church. Period. Nuff said.

Theopathology II... or... Church as a Fourth Grade Cafeteria Table

2010-06-02T09:02:00.005-05:00

First John opens much like the Gospel of John. Talk of Jesus coming into the world and all that. But First John camps out more in the eternal realm, inviting us to witness the broad sweep of eternity in a very simple way: By fellowshipping with one another around a table of God's enduring faithfulness.

Tables. Two tables were on my mind yesterday.

One was the table we Christians gather around to participate in the eternal covenant; one was the table where my daughter eats lunch with her friends at school. It occurred to me last night that both tables have the potential for kindness, and unfortunately, both tables sometimes devolve into gossip.

The fourth grade table where my daughter eats a turkey sandwich every day is the same table where a couple of deep friendships have flourished over the past year. This is also the year they discovered boys. And when little girls talk to little boys, the gossip begins. So be it. My girl experienced it first hand. It's tough. But the true friends have stuck together. And when true friends stick together in the face of gossip, the food at the table tastes that much better. The same is true for Christians around the Lord's Table. Every time Christians refuse to gossip it's like eating the Lord's Supper as a good meal with dearly loved friends; but every time Christians slander one another it's like eating stale bread off a dirty plate.

For those of us who follow Christ, we need to take seriously the warnings against gossip. It is chilling to read Romans 1 and hear "gossips" listed among murderers and haters of God.

I wonder whether the precision we have cultivated in Churches of Christ through the years has actually produced a byproduct of gossip? What if the experience of vicarious shame directed toward others has something to do with our implicit realizations that while we may speak the language of grace, we do so while trying to live according to our works? I heard someone a few days ago say that slandering other people is a way of avoiding our own insecurities. Speaking of vicarious shame. Seems to me that gossip is the primary sign of theopathology.

But if little girls at the cafeteria table can figure out how to get along, maybe grownups around the Lord's Table can commit to an absolute refusal to participate in any form of gossip. When we talk about each other, we give the benefit of the doubt that every one of us who confesses Christ is equally redeemed by the Lord as we eat of the bread and drink from the cup.

Theopathology

2010-06-01T08:48:00.002-05:00

I'm somewhere between incarnation and eternal life. The Gospel of John and First John is an awkward tightrope. Both of them contain "chapter one" prologues, but for very different reasons. One stresses the fleshy and earthy appearance of God into our world, while the other sends us careening into a heavenly eternal life. And let's not get to Revelation just yet. The summer is young, after all.

I'm also somewhere between joy and discomfort. Thanks to Brene Brown's psychological research on shame, I cannot get this image out of my mind that we are currently raising a generation of children (and grownups) who we do not allow to experience discomfort. The only problem with achieving such a goal for our children is that it does nothing to prepare them for the real world. Sorry, but second place doesn't get a trophy during a job interview.

Dr. Brown's work, in a fascinating way, shows that the only way we know joy is to know discomfort. Unfortunately our culture is conditioning us to embrace vicarious discomfort. We want to watch others experience it for us. In a recent speech, Dr. Brown gave the example of how we would never be open about getting in trouble at work, but that we will rush home to watch who gets voted off the island. I was shocked to find out that the highest rated television these days is shame-based programming viz-a-viz people getting humiliated before millions. (Think "American Idol" auditions.)

So how do we as Christians live in such a world while avoiding being of such a world? I think it goes back to the Johannine tightrope. We live with one foot in an eternal, joyful heaven where there are no tears, no tears up there; and we live with one foot on the same damned messy terra firma upon which the creator of heaven and earth humbled himself and became one of us. Not "like" one of us, but one of us. The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. That's the tightrope. That's the story. That's where grace and truth reside. Not in the shallow theology of everything's-gonna-be-alright-everything-happens-for-a-reason cliches that fill the majority of drive-by church marquees. But rather, the visions of the New Testament writings of John that call us as followers of the Word to endure, be patient, and cultivate the kind of faithfulness to God and one another that the eternal throne flows down to us each day.

We as Christians are doing ourselves a disservice by pretending everything is going to be okay. It's not. We live with one foot in discomfort, and one foot in joy. Brene Brown says that those who do not have a capacity for pain/shame and empathy are easy to spot: They are called "psychopaths." Funny, I've never thought about contemporary American evangelical Christianity as nurturing a sort of theopathology... but now that I think about it...

I will fess up and give credit to my wife: I have become a fan of Brene Brown since my wife is a fan of Brene Brown. I'm kind of like Jules Winfield who says his girlfriend's a vegetarian, which pretty much makes him a vegetarian. But like Jules, I do love a tasty burger. And I do love good truth. And we know deep down that when it comes to joy and pain, it's hard to define/know one without the other. Perhaps to know both is to experience true discipleship, the kind the Bible warns brings suffering.

Pain in the darkness.
Joy comes in the morning.
There is no shadow of turning with Thee.

Born Under a Bad Sign

2010-05-25T09:41:00.002-05:00

Signs of God's presence are all around us, but sometimes we are either too daft or too contaminated by the world to see the signs. (By "we" I mean "me" just to clear that one up.) Maybe the problem is the competition between the signs of God's presence, and the signs we put up all around us to keep ourselves amused.

Signs of the world are everywhere. Like the song says, "Signs, signs, everywhere signs, blocking out the scenery, breaking my mind." I never thought about how much of our lives are directed by signs until I started working on this new summer worship series from the writings of John. It has opened my eyes to everything from the street signs that help me find my way, to billboards that tell me what to buy, to door plaques that tell me which restroom to use (and which one NOT to enter). It's no wonder that we have trouble looking for signs of God's presence. We are so busy reading the signs of the world that it becomes darn-near impossible to think critically or spiritually about the ways God undoubtedly communicates with us every day.

What would it take for us to peel away the layers of the world in order to see the evident workings of God all around us?

Reorientation

2010-05-18T09:05:00.004-05:00

Almost like two prequels--(kind of like the more recent Star Wars movies, only with good writing)--two ancient preachers weave narrative sermons to the northern kingdom.

The main story originates on a day not unlike today. Jesus faced teachers of the Law in Matthew 22 who tried to trick him with the Law. "What's the best Law?" they asked. It was a setup. Try to pick from the 613. But Jesus responded, "Love God." And then he kept going. Second verse, same as the first. "Love your neighbor."

Now back to the two prequels.

Two preachers named Hosea and Amos shared an audience over a twenty year period to tell them two things:

Hosea said, "You forgot to love God."
Amos said, "You forgot to love your neighbor."

Hosea and Amos are like prequels to Jesus' summary. Love God, love your neighbor. That's it.

The sad part of the story is that Amos' sermon did not work. If it had, there would have been no need for Hosea twenty years later. The sadder part of the story is that Hosea's sermon did not work either. If it had, Jesus would not have had to summarize the Law, because the people would have kept telling the stories of Hosea and Amos the way they were intended. They were intended to be narrative glimpses into the intent of the Law.

Love God, love your neighbor. That's it.

Here we are, 2800 years after Hosea and Amos, 2000 years after Jesus, and yet we keep forgetting. I keep forgetting. I keep forgetting that the will of God for our communities of faith, for our families, and for our individual everyday lives all comes together around the cyclical action of loving God and each other.

I hear echoes of Hosea and Amos today to churches across the country. The prophets are still preaching. Stop building multi-million dollar buildings and calling that "church" unless you feed the hungry. Do not compose flawlessly timed worship services unless it helps shape who the worshipper is by the time Thursday rolls around. Be careful about the asinine debate over contemporary versus traditional that in the end only serves as a way to avoid cultivating humility. Stop using words like "missional" and "emergent" in every sentence unless it equips people to treat waiters and waitresses and people who work at the grocery store with respect and kindness. And do we really need to have another meeting?

Seriously.

I am afraid that the visible face of the church in America may be asking the wrong questions. The mission of God is not about tearing down barns and building bigger ones so that we can store more grain; the mission of God for the church has always been (and will always be) training disciples of Christ to go and learn what it means to desire mercy. Hunger and thirst for righteousness. Humble yourself in the sight of the Lord. Show others the same mercy God shows you.

As I write on this beautiful morning, I'm looking out the window. The sun is breaking up the haze. The grass is green, and so are the trees outside my office. The cup of ice water beside me is refreshing. Today is too good a day to be about the business of forgetting. Today is a day for remembering.

Simple. Easy. Remembering.

Today is the perfect day for loving God; today is the perfect day for loving each person we see.