Merry Whatever

As you know, the Christmas season is in full swing. For many, it’s become a generic holiday so tepid that even the word “Christmas” is avoided. “Merry Whatever,” I guess.

As the Christmas — I mean “holiday” — season began, one department store decided not to sell Christmas trees. Instead, they’d call them “holiday trees.” Another store took all references to Christmas out of their advertisements, and told its employees not to say “Merry Christmas” to customers.

I read today that public pressure (i.e., the threat of lost revenue) has led these corporations to relent. But it didn’t stop a public school in another state from including in its “winter program” the famous and well-loved song, “Cold is the Night.” (It sounds suspiciously similar to “Silent Night” — but we don’t want to confuse the children.)

How the simple story of Jesus’ birth can be so controversial is a mystery to me. I suppose Christians bring it on themselves by trying to celebrate Christ and capitalism on the same day. Seems to me like a recipe for disaster even without the problem of “political correctness.”

Whether Jesus gets a kick out our massive celebrations or not, I don’t know. He didn’t tell us to remember his birth, but rather his death, resurrection, and return. And I’m quite convinced our massive materialistic mayhem looks more to him like Money-worship than Christ-worship.

Maybe Jesus would just as soon be left out of the whole thing….

Speaking for myself, I love the Christmas season despite its faults. I love the carols played in the marketplace. I love the good cheer spread around to strangers and friends. I love the idea of families gathering together.

Mostly though, I marvel at the reality of the Incarnation (God living in human skin). As I’ve written before, the uniqueness of Christianity among other religious/philosophic points of view is found in the very idea the God is personal as well as powerful, and that he has entered human history at a point in time through the person of Jesus Christ.

Christians don’t just celebrate a religious ideal, they celebrate a real person. They don’t wish for a vague “peace on earth,” but worship a specific “Prince of Peace.” For Christianity is not merely a creed to affirm, a club to join, or a code to follow. Any religion or philosophy offers these things. What Christianity offers is absolutely unique: a Christ to worship.

To me, that’s something worth celebrating. The Magi did it first: “they fell down and worshiped him.” Think of it: Pagan philosophers, likely astrologers, using arts expressly forbidden by God, are led to Jesus and are the first to worship him. On second thought, maybe God is less offended by the materialism of the season than I am. Apparently, whatever helps point people to Jesus is just fine by him.

Merry Christmas!

Coffee Talk

Okay, okay, I’ll admit it: I was eavesdropping. I couldn’t help it, really. The woman across the way was so excited she was hard to ignore. And, really, let’s be honest: we all listen in on other’s conversations once in a while.

I’d been sitting in the coffee shop for quite some time. It’s one of my favorite places to hang out. I love the environment, the java, the spicy mango salad, and the friendliness of the staff. Everything there is first rate.

They even have free wireless internet (unlike the big guys, who make you pay to use their air space). Settling into one of their well-worn weather chairs, computer propped on the left, bagel and coffee on the right, knees in my lap, I’m ready for some serious sur — I mean working!

Anyway, I was minding my own business the other day when I overheard pieces of a conversation. “You won’t believe the miracles I’ve seen; I should write a book about it!” she said. I perked up, wondering where this was leading. “I go up near Pinnacle Peak — I’m convinced it’s got just as much energy as Sedona — and I offer up my intentions. Whatever’s up there, God, or whatever, it really seems to work. I’ve seen miracles happen.”

Their enthusiastic conversation continued along fairly predictable lines. I mused about Christianity: In the marketplace of religious ideas, what is unique about its message? If a person has a meaningful spiritual experience at the base of a mountain, isn’t that just as good as the spiritual feeling I get in church or in reading the Bible? Are all spiritual ideas, like items on the dessert tray, matters of personal preference? What, if anything, is uniquely attractive about Christianity?

In a moment, I knew the answer: others look at the mountain and see grandeur or perhaps an intelligent Designer, but a Christ-follower associates that same feeling of awe with a Loving Personality who thinks and feels, and who desires a relationship with human beings uniquely designed and created in love. Others look to a spiritual leader for inspiration, ideals, and instruction, but Christians look to a spiritual leader whose grave is empty, and who gives them what they believe is a personal, vibrant, ongoing, living relationship with him.

I fully respect and admire every person’s spiritual journey, and would never think of disparaging anyone or their belief system. I think anyone who knows me would vouch for me on that issue. But let us be honest: there is a HUGE difference between following a spiritual leader and his ideas — versus believing that your spiritual leader desires a personal relationship with you. And there is a vast chasm between a faith which makes you one with the universe, and a faith which makes you one with the Creator of the universe.

Christians (and others, to be honest) are always trying to reduce Christianity to a creed (something to believe); a code (some way to behave); or a club (somewhere to belong). But any spiritual system or teaching can offer this: take your pick. What’s unique about Christianity is CHRIST — a living, vital, vibrant, dynamic, growing relationship with the God who made us and loves us.

The distinction is absolutely critical. Perhaps that’s why the apostle Paul wrote, in a verse we camped on in Sanctuary a week ago, “I keep asking that the God of our Lord Jesus Christ, the glorious Father, may give you the Spirit of wisdom and revelation, so that you may know him better” (Eph 1:17).

It’s an audacious claim — arrogant, really — unless … unless … it’s true. Hmmm. Probably worth checking into, don’t you think? And if you ever want to talk about it over coffee, I know a great place!

Family Ties

They both called on the same day: my son and my father. One called to see how I was doing. The other called to tell me how he was doing. Long conversations in both cases. Neither call was expected; both calls made my day.

There’s something about family, isn’t there? The source of our greatest pain and our greatest joy, both rolled into one. Odd, isn’t it, how love and pain seem joined at the hip?

I remember standing beside my now 18 year old son’s crib when he was only an infant. He’d just endured a life-threatening operation removing half of his right lung. His breathing was labored. The night nurse, concerned, would not leave his side. Neither did I. I seriously wondered if he’d ever grow up. It’s not a pleasant memory—even now.

That night, I had a choice to make: would I succumb to fear and anger, or surrender it to God? Thus far, God hadn’t seemed to keep his end of the bargain. I’d never felt so angry and helpless in my whole life.. Retreating to a quiet room, I gritted out these words: “My child belongs to you, Lord, for you alone know best. His future is secure, Lord, my heart can lie at rest.. I don’t know what tomorrow will hold in store for us. But you alone are faithful; in you alone I trust.”

Yes, he survived, and is now a college athlete. But that doesn’t diminish the pain of that evening — nor do I have the stomach for pat answers about God’s will, yada, yada, yada. Pat answers make me puke. The truth is, he suffered, we suffered; I didn’t like it then, and I still don’t like it.. For me the most honest thing to say is this: “Lord, I do not understand you. But I choose to trust you.”

Were there space and time, I could share significant pain, too, as it relates to my father. The bottom line, again, is: Love and pain are a matched set. Can’t have one without the other.

Many of us can’t accept this truth. We avoid pain at all costs. Tough relationship? Trade it in . God lets you down? Cash in your chips. Church not meeting your expectations? Quit. Consequently, our life trail is littered with broken promises, bad memories, and shallow relationships. We never experience the rich textures of love because we never wade through the depths of disappointment.

Before having surgery a few years ago, my shoulder would sometimes separate. It was painful! In order to find relief, I faced a difficult decision. I could remain relatively pain-free in my disjointed condition. Or I could move my shoulder directly into the pain and return it to its natural position. I had to face the pain to find freedom.

Choosing to surrender my child to God despite apparent abandonment was painful, too. But it was the only path out of fear, resentment, bitterness, and a host of other things which would destroy my life. By choosing to accept pain I was able to embrace love — both for God and for my son. I’ve never regretted it.

“My child belongs to you, Lord; With joy I know ‘tis true. I entrust his care to you, Lord; Please keep him close to you.”

Cycling Spirituality

Yes, I'm one of those guys in the tight shorts on a bike. You know, the kind that irritate you on the road. Why just the other day I was pedaling up a ten mile stretch when I was startled by a crack on the back of my helmet. I nearly fell off my bike for fright! Catching myself, I saw a harmless chunk of ice bouncing on the road, apparently thrown at me by the Jeep jaunting merrily ahead.

I don't know why cyclists irritate motorists. After all, I'm a motorist too. I pay road taxes, and while on my bike I'm subject to the same laws you are.

I guess the guy just thought it would be fun to see if he could hit me. If he knew how close he came to causing an accident, he'd probably think twice before doing it again. Or not.

I've been honked at, sworn at, and, now, thrown at. At least I haven't been spat at. Yet.

I got into cycling about a year ago when a friend from our church cajoled me until I consented. I dragged myself out at dawn, dreading the thought. However, despite my misgivings, I was hooked from the first. Part of it was the companionship, I admit, for we always rewarded ourselves with a long stay at Starbucks. But beyond that, I enjoyed the sense of freedom, accomplishment, and improvement I felt with each passing ride. Each week our times improved. My friend, who was monitoring his weight, raved about his progress. And I was pleased to find my own waistline diminishing.

Alas, the summer of our bike content was about to end, for my friend got a new job and we've been able to ride together only once since. Because I had been riding on his second bike, my own riding pleasure was affected.

We'd ridden over a thousand miles by then, so I decided it was time for me to spend some of my own money on my habit. My first venture into real cycling shops was a little disconcerting. I didn't know if I belonged or not, being a "newbie" and all. In fact, some shops made me feel very uncomfortable, especially when I revealed my ignorance by the questions I asked. "What kind of riding do you do?" (I don't know -- the kind on two wheels?) "I mean, Do you ride recreationally or competitively? (Uh, I recreationally ride as competitively as I can.) And, "Are you looking for steel, aluminum, carbon, or titanium? (Hmm, how 'bout a red one?)

Then there was my local bike shop named, oddly enough, "Flat Tire Bikes." It was there I met Kaolen, whose enthusiasm for helping a new rider get his first set of wheels was contagious. He patiently answered every question, never making me feel foolish for asking it. I knew he was more interested in finding the perfect bike for me than he was in selling a bike at all. Needless to say, I got my bike there, and now I shun the big guys for my LBS (for all you idiots, that's cycling slang for local bike shop).

My experience with bike shops strengthens my resolve to make sure that the church I pastor is welcoming to those who are uninitiated in religious slang. I'd like to be like my friend Kaolen, who sold me on his bike shop without even trying to do so. Wouldn't it be great if my natural enthusiasm for being a Christ-follower spilled over in an infectious way to those still in spiritual training wheels?

Unexpected Symphony

I saw Mr. Holland's Opus when it first came out and, frankly, didn't think too much of it. For one thing, while Richard Dreyfuss is a terrific actor, he's not much of a conductor. It reminded me of Elaine's dance on Seinfeld. I kept thinking, "couldn't they cast someone who looked like a real band director?"

The problem's much more noticeable when it comes to casting actors as athletes. Did any of us really see John Goodman as Babe Ruth, or just as the right-handed Cheers guy playing the left-handed Babe Ruth? Maybe that's why Kevin Costner makes so many sports movies. He, at least, is an athlete. (Too bad he can't act!)

I know my bias is showing, but it seems like finding an actor with musical skills should have been a piece of cake.

The other thing that bothered me about Mr. Holland's Opus was its overdrawn sentimentality. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out where the movie was heading. Bottom line is, though everyone else raved about it, I didn't like the movie that much.

Until now. I was cycling the other day when the closing scenes of the movie flashed through my mind. I'm sure I'm getting it wrong, but as I recall, Dreyfuss' character is cleaning out his desk. He's spent (wasted?) a lifetime as a small time band director at a nondescript high school. He had dreams of writing a great American symphony but the demands of making a living short circuited his plans. He's not famous. He never published. He just taught high school, a temporary job which grew into a lifelong vocation. And now the budget bureaucrats have eliminated his position. Now an old man, he ambles beside his wife one last time out of the school.

Hearing commotion in the auditorium, he opens the door to discover that the entire student body has gathered to pay their respects to the beloved band teacher. On the stage is a former student, now state governor. Behind her are former students, now adults, from all walks of life, seated in sections with instruments. She says, "Mr. Holland, I know you are very disappointed that you were not able to publish your symphony. Instead you spent a lifetime teaching us. But never forget this: We are your symphony, your magnus opus." She calls him to the stage and he directs the symphony which he has been crafting at home all these years.

Yes, it drips with syrup. And he directs it poorly.

But it wasn't the poor directing which captured my mind while pedalling. (I usually count my cadence: 90 per minute is ideal.) No. I was reflecting on my life, it's changes, it's challenges, it's dreams, its ups and downs. (74 75 76.) Frankly, I'm in a lot of transition right now: dreams which seem like nightmares, questions without easy answers, challenges which are rather overwhelming (kind of like that hill on Stagecoach Pass). Will I ever get that symphony written?

Or maybe the symphony I'm writing is different than I'd imagined. Maybe, like Dreyfuss, I'm influencing people in far deeper ways than I realize.

I don't know about that. The movie isn't over yet. But I do know this: I could kind of go for that syruppy Hollywood ending. Even if it's poorly conducted.

Update

Just time for a quick note: We've recently moved and have temporarily lost internet access and, more importantly, the ability to read/send emails. So if you've tried to contact me, please be patient. I'm not ignoring you, really! It's just that your email is lost in cyberspace. Hopefully I'll be up and running soon. Just wanted you to know.

Oh, and, while I'm thinking of it I realize I've been a delinquent blogger. I was hoping I'd get lots of queries as to how some of you can't live without my posts but, alas....

Here's a few blogs in my "Draft" pile, just to tickle your fancy:

-- DaVinci 'Ode
-- Cycling Spirituality
-- Easter at Narnia

Don't you hate blogs that begin with these words? "I'm sorry I haven't blogged for a while?" Me too.

Fat Idiot

Like any good camp counselor I was doing my best to be sociable. Sitting among a crowd at a large wooden table during lunch I spied a quiet girl. She was aloof and substantially overweight. Feeling sorry for her, I tried to initiate a conversation. "Are you enjoying camp?" I innocently asked. "Yes," she said in an oddly squeaky voice. We exchanged a few pleasantries. She didn't seem too bright. "Too bad," I thought. "When fat kids are smart, at least they've got something going for them."

One of my duties at camp was to lead worship around the campfire each evening. This was in the days when we thought nothing of combining camp songs with worship songs. Anything to get the kids involved! Since this was the last night of camp, emotions were high and we had a great time of worship. I sat on the corner of the stage feeling rather pleased with myself.

The speaker got on the stage. "All week I've been introducing you to people who've had significant life experiences with God. I've saved the best for last. The person I'd like you to meet has been with us all week. You wouldn't know it now, but she came within a few minutes of jumping off a bridge to take her own life. Born deaf, abandoned by her family, her life had been one disappointment after another. When she'd lost all hope, her friend came and coaxed her from the bridge. She introduced her to Jesus Christ, and her whole life changed. She's become a much sought-after interpreter for the deaf and even was asked to interpret for President Reagan on his last visit here."

By this time I was incredibly curious: who might this be? What an interesting person! She's been here all week? Who was she?

I soon found out. She was -- you guessed it -- the fat girl across the table from me. The one with the squeaky voice. The one I thought was missing a few marbles. Turns out the only fat idiot at that table was me.

Canseco Fiasco

There’s no question about it: Jose Canseco is a money-grubbing sleaze ball. He’s an embarrassment to the game of baseball -- the very game which made his name a household word. He has broken the athlete’s honor code: don’t rat out a teammate.

It serves baseball right that someone with Canseco’s dubious pedigree finally forced players and managers to talk honestly about steroid use. After all, management could have pushed the issue in the past, but kept their mouths shut for fear of the player’s union and their love of money. And the player’s union, which in my view is the main culprit in this sordid affair, has never taken the issue seriously. The recent steroid agreement, in response to government pressure, is only a bad joke.

It’s pathetic. The integrity of the game has been compromised, as has the health of the players. My goodness! Three former MVPs are now admitted steroid users (four, if you don’t believe that lame story about Cream). Older players who gave their lives to achieve important milestones have watched helplessly as their records have been shattered by bionic men. And fans, who live and die by their teams’ fortunes, have been shortchanged.

Meanwhile, the players union and management danced around the issue – until the federal government got involved, and a rat like Canseco began naming names.

Serves them right. Seems to me there’s more than one rat in this fiasco.

Slow Down

We'd been on the road nearly five hours. It was a beautiful night but we were tired and anxious to make it home before 11:00 p.m. After all, I had to preach in the morning. The weekend had been miserably chilly and wet. It was a lonely desert road, the kind where the speed limit is merely a suggestion. I'd set the cruise control on 79 hours before.

As we neared civilization the speed limit changed for no apparent reason. An uncharacteristic thought entered my head. "Slow down." Usually it's just my guilty conscience and I treat it as a reminder to look carefully for lurking highway patrol cars. This time, however, it seemed more like a prompting than a warning. I stewed on it for a moment, doubting that a cop was nearby. Maybe I should slow down, at least a little. I began to coast downward.

Suddenly, I found myself crashing into standing water. As is common in our state, water was on the road even after the rain had passed. I hit it like a load of bricks, nearly losing control of the van. We bounced to the right like a ball off a tennis racket. I hung onto the wheel and we nearly overturned as I veered back left across the road. I turned back to the right and we found ourselves back in our own lane. As soon as it began, it was over and I was cruising again.

My legs went faint. I caught my breath. I looked at my wife and she at me. I breathed a prayer of thanksgiving, wondering how close we had come to death. I thought about the two cars facing me on this otherwise empty road. It's a good thing they were already past when I veered into their lane.

Once I got home, I mused about our near accident. My first reaction was one of guilt. I should have slowed down more. I should have responded more quickly to the prompting, rather than to question it at first. I might have gotten ourselves or others killed.

Why is it that I am so quick to criticize myself? A more sane reaction would have been to be grateful that God had prompted me, to be thankful that I had slowed down, to have thoughts of praise and thanksgiving for God's protection. After all, I had slowed down -- probably enough to ensure that the opposing two cars were safely behind me rather than in front of me when I veered into their lane.

I imagined God saying to me, "Son, won't you relax a little? There's no need to feel guilty. I was proud of you tonight. I prompted you to slow down, and you did. You did good! Quit being so hard on yourself. Give up the self criticism and relax in my grace. "

As I write this, I'm reminded of a cheesy little song (there's that self criticism again) I wrote many years ago.

I can see you watchin' me
Standin' there and watchin' me
And I'm tryin' so hard to make you love me.

I'm afraid to stop and listen
But finally you speak to me
With eyes filled with grace you are saying,

"I love you my son
And I am proud of you
Slow down, you don't have to run,
'Cause there's nothing you can do,
For I already love you."

"Slow down." Hmmm. Guess I've heard that twice now. 'Bout time I paid attention....

Lost Liturgy

I didn't grow up in a liturgical church. In fact, I grew up thinking or assuming anyway that liturgical churches didn't really believe the Bible, and that they put more trust in their traditions than God. We, on the other hand, believed the Bible and were not bound by religious tradition.

That's a lie, of course, but I didn't know any better. In fact, I'm still trying to figure it out. In my church tradition we never observed the church calendar or the lectionary. I never heard of Whitsunday until I was in college. And the idea of some nameless source choosing your readings and sermon texts for you -- why that was unthinkable! Let the Spirit lead! And throw away traditions!

Only we didn't. I've since learned that our lack of using the lectionary meant that we ignored whole sections of scripture. And in later years, our sermons became little more than pop psychology with a scriptural proof text. "How to affair proof your marriage." Remember that one? As if there's any text in the Bible whose original purpose was to teach that topic.

As a pastor committed to preaching on marriage, I always found it to be a very difficult task. Honestly, how many marriage texts are there in scripture? Certainly not enough for an annual series on marriage! In fact, I was always troubled by this conundrum: name one example of a good marriage in the Bible. Go ahead, I dare you. Give me the text and the principles it teaches. Thought as much. Now, name me five examples of a poor marriage in the Bible. Easy to do, right? Abraham, who twice pawned his wife as his sister? Isaac, whose played favorites with his wife over his children? Jacob? (Which wife is our model?) David? (Don't forget about Bathsheba.) Solomon?

But who needs biblical texts when you've got itching ears to scratch? So every year, sometimes twice a year we rehash marriage principles, usually between Mother's Day and Father's Day. The fact that these holidays often obscure Pentecost Sunday doesn't matter to us. After all, isn't it more important to preach a practical and relevant message than to honor the coming of the Holy Spirit and the birth of the church on Pentecost?

So while evangelical and fundamental churches feel secretly prideful that they don't honor the formalism of the "catholic" church year or the lectionary, we follow a more subtle liturgy of our own. We have our stewardship emphasis, our family emphasis, our Mother's Day and Father's Day events, our Independence day festivities, our Back to School emphases, our Harvest Festivities -- oh, and Christmas and Easter. And to accomplish these things we recycle the same tired texts every several years or so. In so doing, we unconsciously cultivate a consumer-oriented clientele.

Meanwhile, our liturgical brothers and sisters follow a time-honored calendar that removes church from the horse and pony show. By design, their focus is not on the parishioner, but on the Savior. So this week they showed up on Ash Wednesday to receive the mark of the cross on their heads just as it has been done for over a thousand years. They're oblivious to the pressure to perform that so characterizes our evangelical show. They're not after the contemporary and relevant, but rather the ancient and timeless.

This year I decided I would observe Lent. I'd gather with a few friends on Ash Wednesday to talk together about self denial and discipline. I thought I'd take some time to reflect on Jesus' sufferings along with my liturgical friends. I decided I would give up caffeine. It's a lame sacrifice, to be sure, more symbolic than real. But you wouldn't know it by the revolt my body is waging against me. I'm tired, I'm lethargic, I'm depressed. I'm really ticked off by my dependence on this drug. But that's probably a topic for a different blog. All I know is that right now I could really use that sermon on Stressbusters.

Mini Me

I've been leading a double life. It's time for me to come clean.

For some time now I've had two blogs: a public blog and a secret blog. The one identified me, the other didn't. One was known to only a few friends, the other was posted on our church website.

I'm tired of living an edited life. It's just too much trouble trying to post on one site and edit it (or omit) on the other. So, with a fair amount of trepidation, I've decided to have one blog, warts and all, for anyone to see.

If you're reading this blog as a guest to our church website (www.sanctuarytoday.com), I welcome you and ask you to extend me a little grace. Most of what I write is manifestly innoccuous. A few things might raise an eyebrow, depending on where you're coming from. Please don't think that what I write is meant to be the "official church position" on each subject. It's just likely a bad case of indigestion on my part.

Some of you will think my fears are misplaced. I hope you're right, but I doubt it. I've been around the Christian block enough times to know what the boundaries are. In the event you're unclear, let me offer you a few samples....

On moral issues: Give answers, don't ask questions. Black and white is good; shades of grey are bad; rainbow is unacceptable. Tell people what to think; don't teach them how to think. Reduce scriptural teaching to principles and propositions.

On personal issues: Conceal your failures, don't reveal them. Don't let them know you're human with real problems, questions, doubts, sins. Promote honesty, but don't model it.

On church issues: Church success is measured by bodies, buildings and bucks. Be successful, aspire to be, or pretend to be.

On political issues: Refuse to question the Republican party. Be passionate about the rights of unborn children and curiously quiet about the rights of impoverished children. Be prolife and prodeath (penalty) all at once. Need I go on?

While squarely within what is commonly known as "conservative evangelical Christianity," I've never been comfortable endorsing all its trappings and assumptions. For the most part I've kept these concerns to myself. Some of my motives are good: I do not want to erect unnecessary blocks to the gospel. I've always wanted to die on that cross, not the cross of social action or other worthy causes. In addition, taking my cue from Ivan Karamazov, I've been cautious about unnecessarily confusing people who might mistake a question for a command.

But there's another side to my reticence: worrying too much about what others think. Honestly, while I privately rail against "crusty christianity" I never shake the boat too much. I tell myself that I'm looking out for the gospel and respectful of the immaturity of others -- but am I just a wimp? Afraid to take a hit? If people knew I sometimes surfed the seedier side of the internet, would they string me up? If they knew that I wonder why "Christian" politics always favors middle class white America, would they leave the church? If they saw my family warts would they stop respecting me? And on....

On the one hand, this blog has given me an outlet to express creative thoughts about life and critical concerns about Christianity without agenda or fear of reprisal. It's been rewarding to feed some of my creative juices. It's been a relief and a pleasure to get some of my thoughts out of my head and into cyberspace. I've thoroughly enjoyed myself: I think I'm hooked. When I write I feel, in the words of Eric Liddell in Chariot's of Fire, "the pleasure of God."

But it's become a guilty pleasure. For how can I honestly promote authenticity in our church while concealing this more reflective side of myself? How can I expect to offer grace to others while not trusting them to extend it to me? How can I claim to teach the scriptures while minimizing some of its less popular implications? How can I model thinking outside the box when I stay inside it all the time?

The truth is, I can't. I need to come clean. It's time for Mini Me to come out of the closet. I just hope he doesn't get squished.

(If this paragraph is still here, Mini Me's still in hiding.)

Vintage '45

Yes, I've been quiet for a while. Perhaps it has to do with my 45th birthday which came and went last Sunday. Actually, that's not the reason, but it's as good an excuse as any.

All in all, it was a good day, full of the ordinary moments which make life extraordinary. It began with every preacher's worst fear: oversleeping on church day. Having been in ministry more than half my life, I've set the Sunday alarm at least 1000 times. As best I can recall, this is the first time ever that I've overslept. But hey, what better way to begin your 45th birthday than with a rude awakening?

For once my recurring nightmare came true. I don't know if you have recurring nightmares, but I do. It's a pretty predictable plot: church is ready to begin, everyone is waiting, and I'm desperately seeking my shoes, or my shirt, or even my pants. "Wait! Just a minute! I'm not ready yet!" The panic is palpable as the clock ticks; I wake up in a cold sweat. I hate that dream. It may sound innocuous, but then it's not your nightmare, is it?

Anyway, no sooner had I gotten out of the shower and dressed when someone called to borrow our van. Seems a mix-up meant we had no means of transporting the trailer to our worship site (we're a brand new portable church). So while I'm hustling to get ready I'm stewing about how we're going to get all our equipment in three small vehicles and still open up on time. The nightmare continues.

All for naught, I find, for as I arrive I find virtually everything prepared. Nobody appeared stressed. I was pleased, impressed, and relieved. Usually works out that way. You'd think I'd learn....

Sunday's message was "God Forgives Me." It's one of my favorite things about God, maybe because I need it so much. But as I feverishly worked on it the previous night I was -- you guessed it -- stressed. It seemed pedantic and propositional, as if to prove the need for, basis of, and results of forgiveness. What was I trying to do? Present a case before a jury, or offer hope to sinners like myself?

Blecch. I'm sick of treating messages like theme papers. It comes so naturally; I was born and bred in modern expositional evangelicalism. When will I learn that forgiveness is less about clearing a slate, and more about restoring a relationship? Why breathe all the drama out if it by turning it into a lawroom debate? Why is St. Paul's argument in Romans 3 better than Jesus' story in Luke 15? (No lightning, please!)

It was too late to reimagine my whole message, so as I began to speak I did what you should never do: I said, "I don't really like this message, and here's why." I think (hope) you can get away with that once.

What astounds me about God's forgiveness is that he seems to get such a kick out of giving it away. If you doubt me, take a close look at Ephesians 1:4-7 and notice the words (written by, ahem, Paul), "in love," "his pleasure and will," "grace ... freely given," and "grace ... lavished." Love ... pleasure ... grace ... freely given ... lavished. Sounds like God is having way too much fun with this!

And he is. He doesn't fold his arms while Jesus pleads our case to him (apologies to St. Paul). "But you've got to let them go, Sir!" Jesus begs. "Okay, if I must." He glares at us as he pounds the gavel. "Not Guilty! You're lucky he's on your side," we imagine him saying to us. We walk out, free but shamed, our tail between our legs.

My goodness! What kind of picture is that? But it's the natural picture I have of my heavenly father and me. He loves me, but just barely. "Oh, you again?" I know he loves me unconditionally and forgives me fully, but we're not talking here about my head. It's my heart where I get things mixed up.

I just can't get over this forgiveness thing. It was apparently in place "before the foundation of the world" (Ephesians 1), before sin even happened! It's like God said to himself, "I want a canvass on which to paint my grace. I want it be magnificent, lavishly painted with extravagant colors. How shall I do it? I know: I'll make a world full people who'll need my grace in heavy doses."

Later the text says (4 times) that our greatest honor is to live "to the praise of his glorious grace." What is it that so magnificently demonstrates God's grace in our lives? Our sin and his forgiveness. "Look at this one," God says. "You should have seen him before I got hold of him. He was a liar, a cheat, a wife-beater, a real mess. He was -- and is -- a real grace project. I've never had so much fun!"

"Where sin abounded, grace super-abounded." God's having a lot more fun forgiving our sin than we religious-types like to think. At least that's what I think.

Anyway, my message didn't have any of this good stuff in it, so I had to figure out how to sneak it in at the last minute. It came out kind of convoluted, I'm sure, but I hope everyone (especially me) got the point: "God loves to forgive."

After church we invited people to our home for burgers and brats. We do it once a month in order to allow us to get to know one another, and our church a little better. Afterwards, I began, as usual, to talk. "I know we're just a small church," I said, "but...."

A person brand new to our church interrupted me: "Wait a minute. I don't think you know how good you are. You're an air freshener...." Everyone laughed, but he was right on target. We say we want to "cultivate contagious Christians who receive God's love and share it with others." We could just as well say we want to be air fresheners for the kingdom of God. Or, to put it in Bible terms, we want to carry the "aroma of Christ."

When will I stop selling God short in my life? I'm so quick to recognize God's grace in others, so slow to see it in myself. Thanks for the reminder, new friend. I'll gladly be God's air freshener, any day of the week.

We scurried from our home to my son's baseball game. Other parents knew of my birthday and had baked me some cookies. I appreciated their thoughtfulness. I thought of the ten years I've been attending or coaching my son's games, mostly with this small fraternity of friends. Together, we've cheered our guys to three state championships, and we're hoping for a fourth. "You were our son's first coach," she said, and I remembered those carefree days a lifetime ago." I may not have many more of these," I thought as I watched him take the mound in this, his senior year of high school.

I remembered handing him to a surgeon for three successive high risk surgeries when he was only three months old . "My child belongs to you, Lord," I said back then with glistening eyes. That was seventeen years ago. Today he was on the mound, healthy, confident, and really good at what he's doing. I was proud and grateful. Watching your son pitch on your birthday is not half bad.

The game ended and we made our way, famished, to Applebee's. My cell phone rang (my, how times have changed) and it was my daughter calling me from college. "Happy birthday, Daddy!" she said as only she can say. "Daddy" is the coolest word in the English language.

I ate potato skins and the usual: Santa Fe chicken salad. I've had it a hundred times, usually with my family, around a high top table in view of a television, often after a baseball game. Tonight we watched football. Despite my hopes, the best team won. Oh, yeah. I got a free dessert complete with an enthusiastic song.

Homeward, and an evening with the family playing Scrabble (which we quickly abandoned -- too much thinking) and Nerts (a favorite family game kind of like group solitaire on crack). It's the game I played when I fell in love with my wife, way back when we were sixteen. Sitting there next to my son and his girlfriend, both of whom are older than we were back then, I marveled at the passing of time and the grace of life. My, how time flies....

Late at night I sat at my computer trying to write some of the words you now read. But they seemed too ordinary, and I wanted to wax eloquent on such an auspicious occasion. Now, however, I realize there are no ordinary moments, for these are the moments, one by one, which make up that very extraordinary thing we call life.

All in all, a pretty outstanding day. I'm now a vintage '45. Happy birthday to me.

Wrong Aroma

At first I was pleased. Then I was offended. Now I'm furmished (is that a word?)

I was pleased ...

because a friend from long ago emailed me out of the blue. She'd gotten our annual Christmas card and responded with a few greetings of her own. As a vital part of a former church, she had gone on to marriage, parenting, and the like. You know, the usual stuff. I was pleased to hear from her and delighted to know something of what was happening in her life.

Then I was offended ...

for suddenly the tone of her letter changed. It started with the words, "I am writing you to let you know about a fantastic business opportunity. Have you ever heard about...?"

What? Give me a break! How naive does she think I am? Does she really think I don't see through her blatant recruiting effort?

Now I'm furmished...

which is a word my friend uses when ever he sees me stewing over something. Like this: How many times have I used the same technique to interest people in Jesus?

The apostle Paul wrote about two approaches to church planting in his letter to a small church in Corinth. On the one hand, there are those who "peddle the word of God." On the other, there are those who are unpretentious and approach people "with sincerity." These are the people carry on them "the aroma of Christ."

Unfortunately, the way many of us approach evangelism, the only aroma that we give the kind that makes you hold your nose.

Left Behind

Warning: Thinking out Loud.

I've begun to read novel called The Red Tent. It's a story about Dinah, Jacob's only recorded daughter in the Old Testament. One of the new believers in our church told me she'd read it, so I decided to give it a whirl. So far, it’s a pretty good novel, but critiquing it is not my purpose here. Instead I’ve got some thoughts rattling around my brain which I’ll now inflict on you, my unsuspecting reader.

I was raised on the Old Testament and I’ve grown really tired of how it is always viewed as a book of "principles" and "promises." Evangelicals loathe reading story simply as story. We somehow feel the need to tie up all loose ends, explain every detail in light of the new covenant and keep everything nice and tidy. We’re uncomfortable with the ambiguities of real life and prefer instead to make the Bible merely a textbook for theology, not a story of God's love affair with the human race.

The problem is, in so doing we tell only part of the truth at best, and sometimes obscure the very truth we seek to proclaim. We minimize the fact that God works in a full palette of colors, not simply black and white – no matter what we’d like to believe. Beyond that, not only do we misread truth in the process, but we also fail to see the power of story – all by itself – to bring about the very transformation we desire.

For instance, I believe God hates divorce, and that it’s rarely if ever what God wants. But how do I reconcile that conviction with this fact from my life: if my wife's parents had never divorced, I would likely never have met her?

What am I to make of that? Am I to think that divorce was God’s plan for her parents? Am I to think that she and I were never supposed to meet? Am I to believe that God was going to bring us together anyway if her parents hadn’t divorced? (Which is ludicrous, by the way.) What theological construct allows for both the wrongness of their divorce and the rightness of our marriage?

If you’re from my background you know I’m not making this up; these are legitimate questions from my spiritual journey. I know the “principles” informing the discussion: God is able to work despite human sin; God’s grace extends even through our failures; even though divorce wasn’t plan “A” God is still able to work out plan “B”. Yada, yada, yada.

Poppycock. It’s not merely that the answers are inadequate; it’s that the questions themselves reflect a wrong view of reality. Life is a story, not a formula. It is not tidy, it’s complicated. It’s got rough edges. It’s not linear. You can’t reduce life to principles and promises, tips and techniques. It’s deeper and richer than that. It just is.

But my theology has rarely accounted for that. I’m beginning to think the theology of my background seeks to make our lives a “paint by numbers” affair rather than affirming the rich tapestry of colors God meant for it to be. (Note to self: that's a pretty good analogy!)

Some of my readers may think I’m slipping into liberalism by the mere mention of this question. Nothing could be further from the truth.

If I dare to read the Bible simply and honestly (without my “systematic theology” lens) I see a wild story of drama and passion, love and betrayal, guilt and grace. I see a God who told Hosea to marry a prostitute as a human object lesson! What’s that all about? How do you systematize that?

Or consider Bathsheba. Was she meant to be Jesus’ great…grandmother? She entered the family line through King David’s adultery and murder. Was that God’s will? Why, among David's many wives, was Bathsheba the one through whom Jesus was born? How do I view that through a principles and promises lens?

I can’t. (Some of you are already formulating a theological construct for this question. And your arguments, though true, will miss the point.)

When evangelicals read the Old Testament they have to sanitize and systematize everything. In so doing they make it sterile. Solomon’s sexual love for a young woman gets reduced to an allegory for Christ and his church. Maybe Solomon was just horny! Maybe God really did want to kill his people before Moses interceded on his behalf. Maybe God’s relationship with his people is as complicated as love and just as difficult to figure out.

I know I’m just ranting here. I guess what I’m saying is this: God knows life is messy; and God embraces the messiness that it is. He gave us a book of stories, not principles, and he doesn’t need us to tidy it up with textbooks. He knows that stories teach truth better than “truths” do. (Or was Jesus’ style of teaching was wrong?)

But we’re uncomfortable with that kind of ambiguity. We’re like the Pharisees of Jesus’ day: so concerned to protect the law that we end up missing the point. Straining at gnats, swallowing camels.

What does all this have to do with The Red Tent, a biblical novel written by a devout Jewish woman? Maybe nothing. As I said, I’m only in its opening chapters. Thus far I see a story deep in character development, filled with imagination and wonder, unflinchingly reflecting the primitive and pagan roots of our spiritual ancestors. Whether it evolves into a healthy monotheism or not at the end, I do not know. But I wonder: what kind of book would an evangelical have written?

Judging by what I’ve observed, evangelical authors would not carefully craft a story rich with ambiguity and wonder, love and betrayal, drama and passion. Instead, if recently successful Christian fiction is any indication, our version of Dinah’s tale would be stale, heavy-handed, preachy and poorly-written. We no longer have authors like Tolkien and Lewis, Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky, Chesterton and MacDonald, Sayers and O’Connor.

Perhaps I should say it like this: if we continue to minimize the role of the imagination in communicating truth, we’ll have to leave effective storytelling (and its life transforming capabilities) to others. In the quest to say something meaningful about God’s continuing love affair with the human race we’ll be, sadly, left behind.

Blown Away

"But you've got to kill the terrorists before the killing stops. And I'm for the president to chase them all over the world. If it takes 10 years, blow them all away in the name of the Lord." (Jerry Falwell, CNN Late Edition, October 24, 2004).

Does this statement trouble you? It does me. I'm certain that I am to pray for others in the name of the Lord. It's also clear that I am to baptize disciples of Christ in the name of the Lord. I recall a text where men were honored because they "risked their lives for the name of the Lord Jesus Christ." Then there's Paul's tearful statement to his friends in Acts 21: "I am ready not only to be bound, but also to die ... for the name of the Lord Jesus." The scriptures include admonitions to give thanks in the name of the Lord, to anoint with oil in the name of the Lord, to do everything in the name of the Lord, and to call upon the name of the Lord for salvation.

All of these make perfect sense to me.

But an admonition to "blow them all away in the name of the Lord?" Hmm.... I don't remember that one. In fact, it doesn't resemble anything I can think of in my Christian faith. And hearing it suggested by a fellow minister of the gospel ... well, I'm kind of, if you'll pardon the pun, blown away.

Trinketianity

Like many adult males I did a little last minute Christmas shopping. My motto is, "why do today what you can put off until tomorrow?" (I keep angling for a new motto, but it seems these things rather find us than the reverse.)

Anyway, I wanted to buy a Christian book for a good friend. Usually I'd simply order it off the internet but, as I said, this was the last minute.

I instinctively ventured into a well known Christian bookstore. I should have known better. I was immediately bombarded with gadgets, trinkets and "testamints" (breath mints with Scripture verses on them). I found wall hangings, posters, gospel tracts and Christian videos.

As for books, I could find scores of them about the "end times" (by the way, has anyone else ever mused about the similarity between the words eschatology and scatology?). I could read about the Christian family or about how to pray or how to have "driven" life complete with book, journal, daily devotional, music and keychain, just in case I forget. I could also find dozens of "The Passion of the Christ" dvds, as well as some thinly veiled political propaganda. And a host of other things.

I'm really not quibbling about that. (Well, maybe a little.) I know a bookstore has to market what sells. But what really troubled me was this: why couldn't I find any books by Dallas Willard, Alister McGrath or G.K. Chesterton? Doesn't anyone care to read these authors and others like them? Are Christians really so shallow that there is no market for thoughtful reading?

I guess they are. So I grabbed a few "testamints" and went on my way. Almost immediately I started feeling more spiritual. Or maybe it was just indigestion.

Mary's Aunt

Mary's in a fix. Her family's all upset and I can understand why. A few days ago her aunt died. Well ... "Aunt" is what she called her, though she wasn't your typical kind of aunt.

See, Mary's aunt was the long time companion of Mary's aunt. Yes, Mary's Aunt Mary was "married" to Mary's aunt. Or sort of. You get the picture.

I'm not defending Mary's "aunts." I'm simply telling their story -- a true story, despite altered names. For Mary it had never been very complicated: she simply had two aunts. It had always been that way and until she got old enough to think about it, she never thought about it.

But now she was thinking about it a lot. For Mary's surviving aunt was in a terrible mess. Rightly or wrongly she had built an eighteen year relationship with someone she deeply loved. Her grief was as real as that of any "normal" couple. She had lost someone whom she deeply loved, and to whom she had devoted her life. Together, as far as they were concerned, they were family -- all of them.

But the state doesn't see it that way. Mary's surviving aunt can make no legal decisions on behalf of her departed soulmate. It's as if she doesn't exist. For nearly twenty years everyone in Mary's family thought of her as family, but now in their moment of crisis the state won't even let them decide whether she is cremated or not. Can you imagine the trauma added to trauma that this scenario creates for Mary's family?

So Mary's taking a day off work to help locate a long forgotten relative of her aunt. Someone who may not even know or care that about the deceased. Someone who share's her aunt's blood lines, but has little connection to her love lines.

Does this story trouble you? It does me. A lot.

I freely confess to a worldview which has always held that Mary's "aunts" were involved in a lifestyle outside of God's preferred plan. I share the concerns of my religious peers over the erosion of traditional marriage values.

Still, would it really be so harmful to provide some sort of legal protection for people who want to commit their lives to one another as Mary's aunts did? Would the venerable institution of marriage crumble? Can there be a distinction between a civil union recognized by the state and a "sacrament" recognized by the church? Why should the church be so dependent upon the state to support its view of marriage anyway?

I don't know what the right legal answer is to Mary's family predicament. But from now on I won't be able to think about this question without thinking about Mary's family.

John Donne

John Donne (1572-1631) has long been my favorite poet. Following are two reasons why:



Batter my heart, three person'd God; for, you
As yet but knocke, breathe, shine, and seeke to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow mee,'and bend
Your force, to breake, blowe, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurpt town, to'another due,
Labour to'admit you, but Oh, to no end.
Reason, your viceroy in mee, mee should defend,
But is captiv'd, and proves weake or untrue.
Yet dearely'I love you,'and would be loved faine,
But am betroth'd unto your enemie:
Divorce me,'untie, or breake that knot againe,
Take mee to you, imprison mee, for I,
Except you'enthrall mee, never shall be free,
Nor ever chast, except you ravish mee.

-- Holy Sonnets, XIV, John Donne



Oh, to vex me, contraryes meet in one:
Inconstancy unnaturally hath begot
A constant habit; that when I would not
I change in vowes, and in devotione.
As humorous is my contritione
As my profane Love, and as soon forgott:
As ridlingly distemper'd, cold and hott,
As praying, as mute; as infinite, as none.
I durst not view heaven yesterday; and to day
In prayers and flattering speeches I court God:
To morrow I quake with true feare of his rod.
So my devout fitts come and go away
Like a fantastique ague; save that here
Those are my best dayes, when I shake with feare.

-- Holy Sonnnets, XIX, John Donne

Ending and Beginning

How to begin a new year? Perhaps with old words.


Homer...
Sing in me, Muse, and through me tell the story
of that man skilled in all ways of contending,
the wanderer, harried for years on end,
after he plundered the stronghold
on the proud height of Troy.


TS Eliot: Four Quartets, Little Giding, stanza V...
What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make and end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from.

.....

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.


J.R.R. Tolkien, Lord of the Rings...
The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.


Again...
All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by frost.

Soccer Dad

As usual, we were rushing headlong to make it to my son's soccer game. Some people are perfectly punctual; others are punctually late. I'm in the latter group. I'm sure it's genetic.

Anyway, I was scurrying for the door and called to my older son, "Are you coming to the game?" Like most 17 year olds, he's got better things to do than watch his 13 year old brother play soccer. He peeked out from under the covers, "No, Dad; maybe next time."

I was frustrated. What I want is for my son to value doing the "family thing" without being coerced. I want him to realize that the world doesn't revolve around him, and to decide on his own that seeing his brother play soccer is a good use of his time.

The problem is, what I want is something my son can only give freely. If I force him to come he will, but that's not really the point. He's practically an adult; he needs to start acting like one.

So I mumble something about, "Well, I sure hope you'll find time somewhere to see your brother play. After all, you haven't been to a single game all season."

It looks more pleasant than it sounded. I'm really good at the "I'll act like I'm not really mad, but you know I really am" game. Or maybe I'm not as good at that game as I think I am. In truth, I was upset and my son knew it.

I got in the car and, like all good Dads, continued to ventilate on my wife. She, like all good wives, was deeply appreciative. I got the message and kept my fuming to myself.

"He's only got a few more months at home," I thought. "Five years from now, will he be glad he slept in, or will he wish he'd gone to his brother's game?"

Then I thought, "He's only got a few more months at home. Five years from now, will I be glad I got on his case, or will I wish I had been a more understanding Dad?"

I hate it when that happens.