Christmas

"If you don’t hear in the message of Christmas something that must strike some of blasphemy and others as sheer fantasy, the chance are you have not heard the message for what it is." (Frederick Buechner)

Forget Not

Praise the Lord, O my soul,
and forget not all his benefits.
Ps. 103:2

The florescent lights in the nursing home cafeteria buzzed and flickered. Sleigh Ride or Holly Jolly Christmas or some other such jingle played in the background. Dishes clattered as the girl in blue scrubs slid leftover beef stroganoff and crumpled napkins and half eaten dinner rolls and bits of jello-salads into her bin. And my dear old friend, Jon, slumped in his wheel chair, picked at the table cloth, and muttered something I could barely make out. Work to do. Mother is at home. Put that over here.

We were there to offer him the sacrament--the body and blood of our Lord. But we didn't know how it would go. Before arriving, I had been optimistic. But I was becoming less and less sure by the minute. Jon seemed rather baffled by the three men sitting before him. He couldn't remember the name of his son--never mind his pastor and his elder. When I tried to explained that we were there to celebrate communion and set a small crystal tray of cubed bread on the table, Jon reached for one and put it into his mouth--as if it were just some leftover morsel from his lunch that he hadn't gotten to yet.

As Jon nibbled on his bread, I began to think that it was all a silly idea--the old form from the back of the Psalter Hymnal, the little cup of juice, the zig-zagging conversation. What good would it be? How could these things be meaningful for a man who couldn't even remember that his wife of seventy-some years had been dead for months?

I had my doubts. But even so, I began to read my photocopied notes. And as I did, something changed in Jon.

As I went through the old form--the institution from 1 Corinthians, the explanation of what was being proclaimed and remembered, the prayer for the blessing of the Holy Spirit--Jon became suddenly aware. He interrupted--only occasionally--to offer the reference of the scripture passage, or to request a favorite Psalm (139). When we got to the Lord's prayer he said every last phrase--clearly. When it came time to say the words--Take, eat, remember and believe--Jon held on to his bread and juice until the appropriate moment. And then offered his thanks. To me, perhaps. But mostly, I believe, to Christ.

After we had swallowed our bread and sipped our juice, I began to read the traditional thanksgiving Psalm--103. It didn't take long--two verses--before the words caught in my throat and tears threatened to spill down my cheeks. Praise the Lord, says the Psalmist, and forget not all his benefits. When I read those words, I nearly lost it--right there in the nursing home cafeteria. I nearly lost it because I knew that of all the things that Jon has forgotten--the name of his son, the place he attended church for ninety (or more) years, the death of his wife, what year he was living in--Jon has not forgotten Christ and all his benefits. He was able to take, eat, remember, and believe. Dementia has taken so very much from him--but by God's grace, it hasn't taken that.

Praise the Lord, oh my soul. Praise the Lord.

Parking Lot Prayers

The greatest tragedy in life is not unanswered prayer, but unoffered prayer. (F.B. Meyer)

The habit of not praying is far more difficult to break than the habit of praying. (Philip Yancey

When Art and Dolly told me that they always prayed for parking spots--and that they had never been disappointed--I simply smiled and nodded. I didn't ask if they felt guilty about cluttering up God's inbox with their petty parking petitions when they might instead have chosen to bring him a request for--oh, I don't know--world peace. I didn't challenge them to explain why God would take the time to cut down their walk to the front doors of Wal-Mart when he apparently hadn't been able to fit the healing of a friend from church into his ca lander. I didn't ask. In fact, I didn't even raise an eyebrow.

But a part of me wanted to.

I know that I'm supposed to be all for prayer (no matter what it's about)--especially since I'm a preacher and all. But even so, there was something about the way the lovely old couple phrased things there in their doily-filled living room that I found unsettling at the time. It seemed to me that somebody in the prayer equation had their priorities mixed up. Either Art and Dolly did (because they were content to offer up petitions about one of the more trivial matters in life and were neglecting (I assumed) the weightier things). Or God did (because he was so busy managing parking lots that he couldn't seem to be bothered with world hunger and genocide). It would be better, I thought, if we didn't bother God with parking spots or Settlers games or even head colds at all. After all, all of us--and God especially--have more important things to worry about.

Well, last Monday, while my legs dangled from the ski lift and I scrunched my shoulders up against the cold, I found myself praying that my car would start. I didn't mean to--honest. It just happened. I sat there on the lift, thinking about the drive home--hoping that I wouldn't
have to find someone to give me a push start in the parking lot like I had the previous week.* And the prayer just happened. Dear God, please, please, please, let it start today... For the most part, it was a silent prayer. But every now and then, I may have muttered my plea into the pulled up collar of my winter coat.

I felt rather silly about it at the time. After all, I knew there were many other things I should be using my time to pray for. Even as I muttered that prayer for my car, my iPod was piping into my ear an NPR news story about genocide and child soldiers in some far away corner of the world. Shouldn't I pray about that instead? It sounds strange to say it, but suddenly I found myself feeling guilty about praying.

That incident has run through my mind nearly every time I've tried to start my vehicle the past week (which has worked every time, by the way). And I've concluded that, the next time I'm in the mountains and am worried about the car starting, I'll probably pray about it. Here are a few reasons why:

• God invites us to pray (and is offended when we don't). He apparently likes to be asked--even for seemingly mundane things like daily bread and dependable automobiles.
• Every action (or nearly every action) is habit forming. Every choice not to pray moves me toward a life of non-prayer. Every choice to pray moves me toward a life of prayer.
• Furthermore, when I pray for the "little" things, I'm reminded to pray for the "big" things. And when I learn to trust God with those "little" things, I'm a step closer to trusting him with those "big" things.
• Prayer helps us learn to see reality more clearly. More specifically, it helps me see that God is a apart of my reality. He is at work in my world and in my life--no matter how big or how small the issue may be.

Does all that mean I'm planning on always getting a good parking space or a life free from car trouble? Not likely. But it does mean that I believe God hears me--and wants to hear from me. And for that, I'm grateful.

*Actually, I didn't even need to find them. I prayed that God would help me get my vehicle started then too, and these kind folks showed up and offered a hand. Coincidence? Or providence?

A Day to Re-Member

Our worship service went long on Sunday. Again. Instead of raising my hands, pronouncing the blessing, and telling people to "Go in Peace to love and serve the Lord"at 10:45 as I had planned, it didn't happen until 10:54. It was only nine minutes. Okay, maybe eleven. Not that long in the grand scheme of things. But I still hate it when that happens.

It's not, of course, that I'm opposed to worshipping God. Personally, I've come to look forward to weekly times of worship. I find an hour and twenty-four (okay, twenty-six) minutes of praise, prayer, and reflection quite tolerable--even enjoyable. (That's not something I would have said in the days of my youth when I spent much of the worship service calculating the lenght of each song and prayer so that I could have an accurate countdown to the final "Amen").

Even so, as a worship planner and leader, I get nervous when a service goes long. I'll be sitting there in the front row anxiously checking my watch, sneaking glances around at the congregation, thinking about the Sunday School teachers who have rooms to prepare, the older folks who need to catch a bus to get home in time for lunch, the visitors who might wonder why the preacher talks so long or we sing so many songs.

That being said, it should be acknowledged that there are many Christian traditions--both in the United States and around the globe--that would have been astounded by the brevity of Sunday's service. (Only an hour and twenty-four minutes?! Imagine that!) Sunday morning, in between glances at my watch, I couldn't help but think of a story I heard about one of those congregations.*

I can no longer recall all the details, but the story goes that a Presbyterian from a predominantly white congregation in the Midwest attended a black church in the South one Sunday. The Presbyterian took in the service with wide eyes. The dancing in the isles, the impromptu riffs on the organ that punctuated the preachers point, the shouts of "Amen" and "Hallelujah" from those standing around him--none of those things were a part of his normally reverant and mildly exubarant worship experience. But perhaps the most astounding thing to this Presbyterian was the length of the service. Two hours in and the preacher had yet to begin his sermon. Three hours in and he wondered if he'd be out in time for lunch.

After the postlude, when one of his fellow worshippers asked him what he thought, the Presbyterian straightened his tie and, with uncharacteristic bluntness, declared: "I just don't understand why we had to go so long! " That's when one of elders in the group smiled, reached out and touched his Brother on the shoulder, and gently explained: "All week, people puttin' us down. They tell us we ain't worth a thing. Tell us we're no good. So Sunday, we come to church and we worship so that we can learn to see the straight again. It takes a long time to learn to see straight. Takes a long time to be assured that we're worth something, that we are children of God. That we are loved by him..."

I like that story because I think it helps see the gift of active Sabbath observance. As I tried to say on Sunday, many of us come to church every week feeling like we haven't accomplished enough well enough. We feel dehumanized, worthless, degraded after busy weeks working, producing, consuming. We are taken apart by the messages we've heard all weak from others--or even ourselves. But when we practice Sabbath, we remember God and his grace. And when we remember God and his grace, we are re-membered. That is, we are put back together, made whole, renewed.

And when I look at it that way, it seems like going a few minutes "long" isn't all that bad. Sure, it can be a little inconvenient for everyone (even preachers). But what a gift to come into God's presence and take some time to re-member!

*This was a story I had considered including in my sermon but (perhaps ironically) cut for the sake of time.

Sin 101

I've given myself the assignment of preaching on the 10 Commandments this fall. I've covered #1 (or at least preached a sermon on it) already--but just ran across another good bit from NT Wrigth that I wish I could have included somehow. It's good fodder for thinking about the 1st Command, but also our approach to the rest of them:

When we begin with creation, and with God as creator, we can see clearly that the frequently repeated warnings about sin and death, referred to as axiomatic by Paul, are not arbitrary, as though God were simply a tyrant inventing odd laws and losing his temper with those who flouted them, but structural: humans were made to function in particular ways, with worship of the creator as the central feature, and those who turn away from that worship—that is, the whole human race, with a single exception—are thereby opting to seek life where it is not to be found, which is another way of saying that they are courting their own decay and death. That is to say, with the entire Jewish tradition, that the basic sin is idolatry, the worship of that which is not in fact the living creator God.(NT Wright, Paul, pg. 35)

Providence on the Side of the Road

"Cynthia's down! Cynthia's Down!"

The cry came from my tandem partner, Barb, and it meant exactly what it sounded like. Our fellow cyclist, Cynthia, had crashed while going 20+ mph on a stretch of I-76. She lay on the side of the road with her cracked helmet, holding a throbbing wrist, complaining about a pain in her thigh that would later be identified as a fractured pelvis.

Later, after Cynthia had been carted away the ambulance and as we continued to ride somberly toward our final destination, another cyclist commented that it was amazing to see how God was, once again, at work on their tour. "It wasn't just coincidence," he said. "It was providence. It was a 'God thing.'"

I'll admit, I've never really liked the phrase, "God thing." And any time people start talking about the providence of God in a messy situation, I start to get nervous. After all, if they're going to credit God for what went right in a bad situation, are they going to give him credit for what went wrong, too? Isn't there something wrong with that picture?

I don't have the answers to all those questions. But as I continued to reflect on what happened--and what didn't happen--with Cynthia's accident, I had to admit that my riding partner was right. Some how, some way, God was at work.

First of all, there was Sarah. At the moment Cynthia went down, she was being passed by a car with two folks who were heading back to Massachusetts after a few weeks of vacationing out west. They immediately pulled over and one of them one of them (Sarah) just "happened" to be an EMT. Not bad timing, if I don't say so myself!

And then there was what could have happened--but didn't. Cynthia could have fallen into traffic--but she didn't. And she could have taken out the two cyclists who were riding behind her--but she didn't. Things could have been so much worse than a fractured pelvis and a prematurely ended bike tour. But they weren't.

Perhaps--in a world that is broken and fractured by sin and its consequences, in a world that is far from imperfect--that's how God's providence works. No, he doesn't remove all obstacles (or crash inducing litter!) from our paths. He doesn't make us invincible. But God--in his providence*--does make it so that things aren't as bad as they could be. And though God doesn't give us a Teflon coating that causes all the garbage of life to slide right off , He does--in his providence--give us the grace to make it through.

*In our tradition, this has often been attributed to the function of "Common Grace" and what John Calvin (I believe) referred to as "the universal work of the Holy Spirit.

The Brilliance of Bicycles

Two years ago this August, Jill and I found ourselves standing in the rain along side a nearly abandoned country road in Ontario, Canada. Our tandem bicycle--along with the bags of camping gear we were depending on to keep us sheltered, fed, and clothed for our two week bicycle tour--was laying in the ditch along side of the road.

The bike had already taken us over a hundred miles that day (108, if I recall correctly), but we knew that it wasn't going to take us any further--at least not without a little help. Due to on unfortunate set of circumstances (involving the previously mentioned rain, a metal grate on bridge, and some bad advice) our rear tire was damaged beyond our ability to repair it. And so we stood on the side of the road, looking at our wounded bicycle wondering what to do--and where to go--next.

We didn't have to wonder for long. It was only ten--maybe twenty minutes--before a man (whose name I've sadly forgotten) in a Chevy Silverado pickup pulled unto the shoulder next to us. "Where you folks from?" Before we could answer, he went on, "You look like you could use a little help." We seized the opening and explained our precarious situation. And before we could ask him what we really wanted (Did he know of any towns nearby that had a bike shop? Could he help us get there? Or at least a campground nearby), he tugged at his beard and said: "Well, I happen to own a marina in the next town up. I'd be happy to have you stay with me for the night. Then tomorrow morning we'll see about that tire."

So that's what we did. We loaded our gear into the back of his truck and a half hour later we had not only met his wife, we'd also met another woman (also a complete stranger) who offered us the exclusive use of her camper--warm shower, stove, clean sheets and all. For a couple of dirty, worn out bikers, she was a Godsend!

The thing that always strikes me about that story--and the others we have like it--is the way people treat you when you're on a bicycle. There's something about people on bikes--especially people on bikes who have clearly traveled a long way using nothing but their own horsepower--that breaks down the barriers that are usually erected between strangers. Maybe it's the funny outfits. But for some reason, when people see a couple of strangers roll in on their bicycles, they seem much more prone to let their guard down and strike up a conversation. And therein lies the brilliance of bicycles. And the brilliance of the Sea to Sea Bike Tour.

I'll admit, I wouldn't always have characterized Sea to Sea as "brilliant." In fact, I'll confess to being rather cynical about it all. That's not to say I don't like the idea of a cross country ride. I do. In fact, it's something I've personally wanted to do for a long time. So as a cyclist, I always thought it was a great idea. I was not convinced, however, that the tour was really going to be all that effective in pricking any one's conscience about issues of poverty, or that it would do much (besides raise a fair chunk of money from people who might give it any way) to "stop the cycle of poverty."

But that changed yesterday. Yesterday, I had the privilege of riding along with the tour for a day . I pedaled the tandem (this time with a biking buddy from my youth, Barb) from Denver to Fort Morgan. And a long the way, I was reminded of what I had learned on the tours Jill and I have done--when you're on a bike, people want to talk to you. In coffee shops and campgrounds, I got to see my riding companions speak with complete strangers. And not just about the route, or the weather, or the other mundane details of their days. But about things that matter. They got to talk about why they were doing this crazy ride from Seattle to Jersey city. They got to talk about poverty.

I know there will probably be debates about how effective this tour is in doing anything about poverty (although the 2 million bucks they've raised so far should but some of that to rest) or if all the riders should just sell their bikes and feed a hungry family with the proceeds (who of us couldn't stand to sell something?). But I'm convinced. When I got to see the bikers in action--chatting it up with locals and nudging them to think about issues that ought to be of concern to us all--I recognized how tremendously valuable this tour is. It takes a lot to move people to action on atrocities we all grow too easily accustomed to, but it seems that this grass-roots, one-on-one bicycle tour is a fine--perhaps even brilliant--start.

**Want to donate? Click here.**

Let the Little Children Come

I spent the better part of the last two days helping to lead a mini-retreat for kids who are interested in professing their faith. Among the many gems I overheard was this one from a fourth grade boy:

"I think God is like a bird flying through the sky not giving up on others
because if he did he couldn't fly."

Good Books

I don't often recommend books to others. However, I just finished up Timothy Keller's latest, The Reason for God , and can't help myself. Read this book. Whether you're just curious about the Christianity, a committed believer, or somewhere in between, take some time to ponder what Keller has to say. You won't regret it.

Prayer

Stumbled across this old comic recently and was reminded of the parables we've been studying from Luke 11 and Luke 18.

The Trouble with Grace

I had been dreading the conversation for days. Weeks.

Months actually.

Someone I know was stuck in a rut. They were clinging to a certain sin (or their sin was clinging to them--I'm not always sure which way it goes). They didn't want to give it up. They didn't even want to categorize it as "sin." And they certainly didn't want me to put it in that category for them. So I'd been dutifully looking the other way. Pretending not to notice. Pretending it really wasn't there.

I thought about saying something earlier. But really, who wants to be "that guy"? You know the one. The Christian who is "good" in the worst sense of the word (as Mark Twain said). The preacher whacking people over the head with is ten pound King James Version, whipping out the bullhorn to declare God's judgement and wrath on those who have violated his commandments. After all, we are supposed to be people who model Christ's love. People who show the world his grace.

But that, it seems to me, is the rub. We're supposed to show the world grace. That's a kingdom value. But does showing the world grace mean that we can no longer talk to the world (or to each other) about sin? Does it mean that the right thing for me to do with my friend would've been to look the other way?

That's a popular idea. People often say things like: "More grace, less judgment". What they mean is that yes, I should keep my mouth shut. I should accept my friends no matter what. I should show grace, not judgement.

And of course, there is something right and admirable about the impulse. But I have to admit, I think there is something slightly off base about it.

The problem is that when we put grace and judgment at odds with one another, we've confused grace and tolerance. Like grace, tolerance accepts everybody--regardless of what they've done or left undone. But unlike grace, tolerance refuses to deal with sin head on. Tolerance deals with sin by renaming it--by calling it something other than sin. Tolerance looks the other way, always minds it's own business, lets every person do as s/he sees fit. Tolerance makes no judgements about right or wrong.

It's an attractive approach. But it's not grace.

In order to show grace (and not mere tolerance) you have to make a judgment that something is wrong. You have to acknowledge that a person (maybe even you!) needs to be forgiven, needs mercy, needs unmerited love and acceptance. That's the trouble with grace. When you talk about grace, you also have to talk about sin.

Here's what Neil Plantinga says on the subject:

"For the Christian Church ... to ignore, euphemize, or otherwise mute the lethal reality of the sin is to cut the nerve of the gospel. For the sober truth is that without full disclosure on sin, the gospel of grace becomes impertinent, unnecessary, and finally uninteresting." (Plantinga, Not the Way It's Supposed to Be, p. 199)

So what does that have to do with my friend?

Well, after a lot of hand wringing, pacing around my office, and--yes--prayer, I decided I had to have that difficult conversation. I decided I needed to tell him that--from what I understood of God's word and will for his life--what he was doing was sin. I had to make a judgment. But I also I had to do it in a way that was not judgmental. I had to do it in a way that was full of the fragrance of Christ. A way that showed him unconditional love, mercy, acceptance of Jesus Christ despite what he was doing wrong.

I wish it was easy--like tolerance. But it wasn't. Sadly, there's no handbook for these things. No neat and tidy procedure that ensures we'll get it right. Like most people, I had to work things out within the messy context of relationship. And like most people, I stumbled and fumbled. Like most people, I didn't get it all right. But I tried. By the grace of God, I tried.

Learning to Read

“My current project is writing a talk I am to give to the Macon Parish Catholic Women’s Council on the dizzying subject – 'What Is a Wholesome Novel?' I intend to tell them that the reason they find nothing but obscenity in modern fiction is because that is all they know how to recognize.”

Flannery O' Conner

Lifted from the fine folks at Toads Drink Coffee.

Whooot!

Adrian Paul was born Wed night at 10 pm. 7 lbs 12 ounces. 21 inches long (the cone head adds some, but he wasn't standing up straight, so I figure it more or less evens out). Everyone involved is doing well...

"My Pleasure"

"Nothing presses the noses of the faithful up against the windows of their faith like death."

Thomas Lynch

We had another funeral on Monday morning. We came together as a community, sang songs, prayed, heard God's word, and, afterwards, shared stories over ham buns and jello in the church basement.

Twenty-four hours later, the family huddled under a green tent pitched in the middle of a vast cemetery. They sat on their folding chairs, the casket holding their mother and grandmother setting before them--unavoidable--waiting to be lowered into the ground. And again we prayed, we heard God's word, and afterwards shared stories as the family read the names off the surrounding grave stones and remembered those who had already gone to be "with the Lord."

I've been to a few funerals by now (probably participated in twenty or so in my combined two and a half years in two different churches). I hope it doesn't sound cold to say that this was all pretty standard stuff. I don't say anything new or ground shaking; I didn't come up with anything the family hadn't heard before or said in some way to one another (in one form or another). It was one of those affairs of which Garrison Keillor's Pastor Inkfus commented, "The preacher said said the things that preachers always say on such occasion, but the things that need to be said anyway."*

All the same, one of the children came up to me after it all, shook my hand, and thanked me. It was a pleasure, he said. He was very kind. But his comment caused me to fumble for a reply. The pleasure was all mine or Glad I could do it seemed like the natural response to such a statement. But that felt rather "off" for reasons that should be obvious to anyone. It just sounds cruel to say that doing some Saint's funeral was a pleasure.

But the truth is it was. It was a pleasure spending time with the family--being invited into such an intimate moment in their life. But more than that, it was a pleasure because I got to do such a wonderful thing. I got to stand next to a casket that hovered over a grave--just waiting to fill it--and tell the old old story about another grave that remained empty. I got to say words like "hope" and "peace" and "comfort" and, above all "resurrection".

I say those sorts of things every time. And I get shivers--every time.

Before I started leading funerals, I would've assumed that they would be times of spiritual struggle and doubt for me. I assumed that the dark shroud that hangs over us during times of death would make it impossible to see much of God at all. It's true that I've been to a few funerals that have been like that (of children, for instance) and suspect that may be the case for others in attendance. But as a pastor, I find that some of the most nourishing times for me have been at funerals and by gravesides. For some reason, the Spirit seems to be more tangibly present at these affairs. And perhaps more to the point, it is when death presses my nose up against the window of my faith that I see with greatest clarity my risen Lord on the other side. In those moments I am convinced--right down to my toenails--that I have not put my trust in him in vain. And that is always a pleasure!

*This is a paraphrase. If any Keillor devotees out there know the exact line (from sometime this spring) I'd love to have it.

Children at the Table

If you'd like to do more reading on the topic click here.
If you'd like some questions to guide your reading (written by yours truly), click here.

Cold Water, Hot Coffee

We talked a lot last Sunday about Christ's call to embrace a broken world; the command to go into the world with his other-worldly kindness, love, grace, and service. But talking about it is one thing. Knowing how to do it is another. Someone shared this poem with me that I think gives a good suggestion. It's called "Cold Water, Hot Coffee" and is written by Ann Weems.

Sometimes that cup of cold water,
turns out to be a cup of hot cofeee,
and what we're asked to do is
to pour it...and to listen.
Sometimes we Christians
in our enthusaism
think we were asked
to save the world,
when what we were asked to do
is to go into it
and tell God's story
to people in need of
some good news.
Aanxious activists forget
that just listening is an act
of compassion.
Driven disciples forget
that just listening is an act
of faithfulness.
Guilty givers forget
that just listening is an act
of stewardship.
Since we church people
have a tendancy to be
driven and anxious and guilt-ridden,
perhaps we shoul
read the directs again
and pour a cup of hot coffee
and listen
in his name.

For me, there's sweet relief in knowing that I don't have to "fix" everything. Listening can be enough.

Stomp for Jesus?

I recently went to a production of "Stomp" with some friends. If you're not familiar, it's a dance/drumming group that uses every day things--brooms, newspapers, pipes, gas cans, kitchen sinks, basketballs--to make music. Not the kind of music you'd hear in a cathedral or concert hall--but music nonetheless. Personally, I think they do a mighty fine job of it (see the video below if you'd like a taste).

The show was plenty engaging in it's own right. But even as I watched with simple delight, I couldn't help but think about a question that I often hear: What does it mean to be "Reformed"?

The standard answer is that being "Reformed" has to do with (a) our historical roots in the Reformation of the 16th Century and (b) our conviction that the sovereign God has placed his claim on "every square inch" of our lives and we are to bring him glory in all that we do.

I think that's an accurate answer--but it's not a very inspiring or creative one. So as I sat and watched those musicians swoosh their brooms in perfect rhythm and clang on their sinks in strange harmony, I couldn't help but wonder if there was a better answer playing out right in front of me. After all, we Reformed folks pride ourselves in using the term "worship" in a very broad way. We want to expand the activity beyond the sanctuary on Sunday morning--we want it to overflow into all of life, wherever we find ourselves, no matter what we're doing. And it seems to me that that's exactly what was happening in that show. Of course, those who were making that music may not have intended it that way--but I suspect that God took some delight--in their creativity and joy, their harmonies and their rhythms, in their ability to make music with whatever the could find--anyway.

So, how is it that we can make God glorifying "music" while standing over our own kitchen sinks, clicking at our keyboards, ruffling through our papers? How can we use everything in life--even our garbage--to bring Him praise and glory?

Stomp- Stomp Out Loud

Great Taste During Lent

No joke: I saw this sign in Taco Bell a few weeks ago. There are too many levels of irony to comment on here, but suffice it to say that I'm not so sure that the folks who came up with the concept really "get" Lent. Even so, they helped me "get" it a little better.

I've still got John 4 (the Samaritan Woman at the Well) on the brain. I'm still thinking about why Jesus goes about unraveling this woman's past. The obvious answer (which is usually the best answer when it comes to Scripture interpretation) is that he wanted to help her see how she'd been looking for love in all the wrong places. Jesus wanted to open her eyes to the way that she'd been trying to quench her deepest thirsts and hungers (for intimacy, meaning, security) in all the wrong places. He wanted to show her how she'd been filling up on cheap substitutes that could never leave her satisfied. He wanted to show her just how thirsty (and hungry) she was for Him, and what he could offer her.

It seems to me that Jesus wanted to show her that she was trying to fill up on Taco Bell when what she really wanted was Him.

That, of course, is one of the great questions we ask ourselves during Lent. Who (or what) do we look to to satisfy our hungers and quench our thirsts? Have we been duped into filling up on cheap substitutes and lost our appetites for the real deal?

Recently, a friend of mine posted this quote on her blog:

" Do not be surprised, therefore, when you have yielded your service, given your affection, and poured out your heart to that pleasure of yours, your idol,
your own lust and mischief--do not be surprised, then, if you have no appetite
for Christ, or for that heavenly food."
--Robert Bruce

She then went on to confess that she needs to give up reading anything but the Bible for a while. It's a drastic step for her because she loves books, loves words, loves ideas, loves stories. But she says that she's been so busy trying to satisfy her thirst with them--these "cheapo substitutes"--that she's lost her appetite for Living Water and Bread from Heaven. Books were her "Taco Bell."

I love her insight for it's honesty. But I also love it because it helped me see that sometimes, the things that we need to give up--those artificial substitutes--often aren't bad in and of themselves. What's keeping us from drinking deeply from the well of Living Water might not be something obvious: pornography, or gossip, or promiscuous relationships--those favorite sins of preachers. It may be something that is good in it's proper place--when our loves are properly ordered (as Augustine said)--but that has slipped out of place. It may be that we're filling up on books, family, work, hobbies. It may be that these good things that have become dangerous because we're too full of them to be full of Him. If you'll let me push the analogy--it may be that we're taking what's okay on occasion (Taco Bell?) and filling up on it all the time.

Of course, it doesn't have to be that way. Jesus says he's got something better than Grilled Stuffed Burritos for us. He says that we "he has food we may know nothing about (vs. 32) and that "...those who drink the water I give them will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life."

The next time you're tempted to pull through the drive-thru at Taco Bell, think about that! He is the one who satisfies!

Success

Some food for thought for the season of Lent:

"Any church or any preacher who keeps preaching the cross is not going to grow. The preacher will not be a success and the church will not grow, because in our culture what we are interested in is success, not sacrifice."
Phillip Rieff

Hmmmmm.

I'm not an ER fan (I think I've only seen one episode). Should I be?
Discuss.

Lament

We're talking about--and practicing--the biblical art of lament on Sunday morning. For some wonderful thoughts on why this may be an important part of our Christian lives, check out this entry in Jim Schaap's blog. Good stuff.

Growing into Providence

"I cannot fit it all [tragedy] together by saying, 'God did it.' But neither can do so by saying, 'There was nothing he could do about it.' I can only, with Job, endure.”

Nicholas Wolterstorff in Lament for a Son

An elderly gentleman told me a story today. It must've happened more than eighty-five years ago, when he was a little boy. He didn't elaborate on the details, though it was clearly etched in his mind.

It seems that a a group of children from the neighborhood went swimming at a local pond one day. One of them didn't come home.

At the funeral, the preacher said: "This was not an accident. This was a part of God's plan. This was God's will."

My old friend has never forgotten it.

I'm not sure if he believed his preacher or not. But it seems that he did. It seems that he found the words to be full of hope, full of comfort.

I'm not sure that I do.

I worry that--with all our Calvinistic talk about Divine Providence and Sovereignty and Control--we run the risk of making God the author of evil. For if God pulls the puppet strings that pull a young boy under water, what can you call it but evil? I wonder, wouldn't we be better off if we gave the credit for these things to somebody/something else?

On the other hand--I understand the comfort in knowing/believing that things don't simply happen at random; that there is a higher purpose; that the Good God is in control and that tragedy strikes because he has some hidden good in mind that we cannot understand.

I suspect that there is some messy middle ground between these two positions (micromanaging of the universe on the one hand and liaise faire style of governance on the other) where the truth about God's role in all this lies. There must be some way to nuance our theological language that respects both the power of our good God as well as the reality and power of evil.

I'll let you know when I find it.

In the meantime, I find that when trying to make sense of God's role in the brokenness of this world and in our lives, most folks toss nuance out the window and pick one side or the other. As for me--the longer I'm in ministry, the more I'm learning to respect the folks who put their faith in a God who is in complete control. It takes a lot of faith (and chutzpa) to sit by the hospital bed of a loved one, to stand over the casket of a friend, to take a pink slip from a boss, to watch the evening news and to still say: It was God's will. I do not understand it all. But I know God is good. God is in control. And that is enough for me.

But like I said, I'm not quite there yet. It seems to me that in so many matters of faith, I'm like a child playing dress up--I've got Dad's suit, tie, and shoes on, but they're all too big. I've got some growing to do before I can fit into them quite right. And while I'd like to think that I've grown up a bit in the past few years--while the "pants of providence" don't pool around my ankles quite like they used to--I've still got some growing to do before I say with the the same simple conviction of that Dominie of years gone by: "This was not an accident. This was a part of God's plan. This was God's will."

Deep Sea Divers

I've been re-reading portions of Philip Yancey's book on prayer this week as I prepare for a (unexpected) sermon on Psalm 13. Yancey has a gift for listening to the wisdom and insights of other people. Two of those insights he includes in his book include similiar metaphors--and they seem fitting for this week.

On grief: "Evengelicals tend to want to get to the happy ending. Sometimes, there is no happy ending, and we're simply suspended in grief. When I'm with suffering people, I feel like a deep-sea diver accompnaying them into the depths. Come up too fast, and you'll dangerously decompress. We need to stay with the grief for a while, feel it, let it out. maybe we can see things through tears that we can't see dry-eyed." (269).

On prayer: "...God has equipped us to go deep-sea diving and instead we wade in bathtubs. What makes the difference...is how seriously we take prayer. I see prayer as the process of becoming available for what God wants to do on earth through us." (276)

Wisdom: A Sneak Peek of Daniel 4

Working on Daniel 4 this week, I was reminded of the opening line of John Calvin's Institutes.

"Nearly all the wisdom we possess, that is to say, true and sound wisdom, consists of two parts: the knowledge of God and of ourselves."

Hopefully, we'll take a few steps in the direction of that "true and sound wisdom" this (and every!) Sunday morning.

Obedience

On Sunday morning, I quoted Sietze Buning's (Stanley Weirsma's) poem Obedience. However, I left out what I think may be the best part (the last few paragraphs). So for your pleasure (and pondering), here it is in full:

Were my parents right or wrong
not to mow the ripe oats that Sunday morning
with the rainstorm threatening?

I reminded them that the Sabbath was made for man
and of the ox fallen into the pit.
Without an oats crop, I argued,
the cattle would need to survive on town-bought oats
and then it wouldn't pay to keep them.
Isn't selling cattle at a loss like an ox in a pit?

My parents did not argue.
We went to church.
We sang the usual psalms louder than usual--
we, and the others whose harvests were at stake:

"Jerusalem, where blessing waits,
Our feet are standing in thy gates."

"God be merciful to me;
On thy grace I rest my plea."

Dominie's spur-of-the-moment concession:
"He rides on the clouds, the wings of the storm;
The lightning and wind his missions perform."

Dominie made no concessions on sermon length:
"Five Good Reasons for Infant Baptism,"
Though we heard little of it,

for more floods came and more winds blew and beat
upon that House than we had figured on, even,
more lighting and thunder
and hail the size of pullet eggs.
Falling branches snapped the electric wires.
We sang the closing psalm without the organ and in the dark:

"Ye seed from Abraham descended,
God's covenant love is never ended."

Afterward we rode by our oats field,
flattened.

"We still will mow it," Dad said.
"Ten bushels to the acre, maybe, what would have been fifty
if I had mowed right after milking
and if the whole family had shocked.
We could have had it weatherproof before the storm."

Later at dinner Dad said,
"God was testing us. I'm glad we went."
"Those psalms never gave me such a lift as this morning,"
Mother said, "I wouldn't have missed it."
And even I thought but did not say,
How guilty we would feel now if we had saved the harvest.
The one time Dad asked me why I live in a Black neighborhood,
I reminded him of that Sunday morning.
Immediately he understood."

Sometime around the turn of the century
my sons may well bring me an article in The Banner
written by a sociologist who argues,
"The integrated neighborhoods of thirty years ago,
in spite of good intentions,
impaired Black self-image and delayed Black independence."
Then I shall tell my sons about that Sunday morning.

And I shall ask my sons to forgive me
(who knows exactly what for?)
as they must ask their sons to forgive them
(who knows exactly what for?)
as I have long ago forgiven my father
(who knows exactly what for?)

Fathers often fail to pass on to sons
their harvest customs
for harvesting grain or real estate or anything.
No matter, so long as fathers pass on to sons
another more important pattern
defined as absolutely as muddlers like us can manage:
obedience.

Seitze Buning, in Purpaleanie and other Permutations
The Middleburg Press, Orange City, IA. 1978.

Praying for Your Pastor

Flipping through Ephesians on Sunday night, I found a pastoral prayer request that ties in well with my last post. Paul says: Pray for me, that whenever I open my mouth, words may be given me so that I will fearlessly make known the mystery of the gospel...Pray that I may declare it as fearlessly as I should. (Ephesians 6:19-20)

A good one for Paul...and a good one for me!

The Revealer of Mysteries: Take 2

I encountered what could only be referred to as irony in my sermon preparation this week. I've been doing my best to write a compelling, relevant, biblical sermon on Daniel 2--and on the "Revealer of Mysteries" that is so frequently referred to there. But in the meantime, I've felt enshrouded in mystery myself. For some reason, I can't seem to see this text with the clarity I would like. I've found myself keeping company with Nebuchadnezzar--tossing and turning at night as I try to understand what God is trying to "reveal" to us in all of this.

Come Sunday (barring major a major revelation in the next 48 hours), I'll be talking about how God's knowledge of the future assures us of his control of the future. But I've also thought--more than once--that this text might take us a different direction.*

It seems to me that old Nebuchadnezzar is on a quest for truth in this passage. He's looking for a kind of truth that doesn't come about through human intuition, or the standard Babylonian ways of knowing that he had long depended on. This methods of knowing the deeper mysteries of life are ultimately insufficient and not dependable. Nebuchadnezzar needs something more. He needs a revelation from God. (That's why he ups the ante with his court astrologers and has them tell the dream--because he wants to know that they can be trusted).

The parallel is less exact than I'd like (and that's one of the reason's I didn't preach this) but it seems to me that there may be a very strong Christ connection in this passage. After all, Paul frequently refers to Christ as the "mystery of God" (do a search--it's rather fascinating. Or start with Col 1:25-2:5, 1 Cor. 15)**. The question for us then becomes how we can know the truth about the mystery of Christ.

There are plenty of places to start when we're searching for the "meaning of the mystery" that is Christ. Apologetic arguments, intuition, the words and witness of passionate believers. But in the end, our conviction of the truth of this mystery will not come from our normal sources of understanding; it will not come from our quest to discover and discern Christ. Ultimately, it will come from God's movement toward us. It will come from his act of revelation. And if we take Daniel's actions as a cue, it will only come when we step out in faith and enter a relationship (prayer) with him.

I think it's something worth considering. I know some folks (some readers here?) who are curious about the Christian faith, curious about Christ, but don't know how they can know for certain. To them, I'd say--step out in faith. Pray that God will reveal this truth to you (or to your loved ones). Or if you're a person who struggles with day to day doubts, with the plausibility of what we confess to be true as Christians (which most of us who think about these things will do at some point)--pray to God to reveal the mystery to you. Ask him to give you true wisdom and insight into the certainty of life with Christ.

*More than one, actually. If I get around to it, I'd like to jot down a few things on the politics of Daniel 2.
**A connection can also be made with the "wisdom" idea that comes in Daniel's Song (Chap 2.20 ff)--God gives wisdom, and the wisdom of God is the foolishness of the world--the cross of Christ that we know through the Spirit. Cf. 1 Cor 1

A Rant: Removing the Roadblocks

Pardon me, but I need to rant a bit today. That means this post will undoubtedly include some ridiculous overstatement, silly generalization, or other ungodly use of words. So I ask your forgiveness in advance. But I just can't help myself.

My rant is in response to an email I received recently. It was from a dear friend who was looking for a book recommendation. The book was not for him, but for a family member who apparently has turned her back on the Christian faith (any book recommendations out there?). While explaining his request, he gave a fistful of reasons for her rejection, but the one that really stuck in my craw was one I've heard all too often. This young woman--a bright student in finishing her masters degree in biology at a large university--is under the impression that you can't be a Christian AND be an intelligent scientific thinker. Her proof? The (misinformed) impression she has that all Christians believe (and must believe) that dinosaurs never existed, that the earth is 6,000 years old, that there is no such thing as evolution in any shape or form.

Don't get me wrong. You are entitled to conclude from your reading of Genesis 1-2 that God created the world in a very short time (even 6, 24 hour days). You may believe, if you really think it best, that the dinosaur bones that have been found just west of Denver were a part of God's elaborate plan to create a young earth that merely looked old (on par with giving Adam and Eve belly buttons). You can even insist that the earth is a mere 6,000 years old. You may think all those things and I will have no beef with you. Just don't tell me that I have to believe all those things. More importantly, don't tell my young friend that she has to.

There are a lot of reasons I'd prefer Christians don't run around insisting on this narrow interpretation of Scripture. For one, I (and many other Bible-believing Christians) believe that there are other (better?) ways to interpret the text--ways that remain faithful to Genesis' original intent but not at odds with scientific findings. I think that looking to Genesis 1 to see just how old the earth is and exactly "how it happened" is starting in the wrong place--that when we do that we're asking questions the text isn't trying to answer. I think that the text may not be trying to tell us exactly how God created the cosmos (I can't understand why God would think it necessary to tell us that--first thing!)--but that he created it (I can understand why God would want us to know that). I may elaborate on that in a later post (depending on how much trouble I get in for this one), but that's not really my main point here. My main point is that there are sound reasons for having a different understanding of Genesis 1 and that to insist that there is only one--and that it's the one that seems to contradict so much science--is to put up an unnecessary roadblock to the Christian faith. I'd even go to say that, depending on the severity of the insistence, it may even be making the Christian faith about something it is not.

Let me explain that last sentence--and pardon the tangential thinking. Remember, this is a rant.

Here in Denver, it's not uncommon to see "Darwin Fish" plastered on the bumpers of the Subaru's in the King Soopers parking lot. You know the ones--they have fins, feet, and often, gaping mouths that are chomping down the "Jesus fish". There are probably a lot of things that could be said about those fish (either the Darwin fish or the Jesus fish). But for today, just take a moment and notice the interest pairing that is happening here. The Darwin symbol--which represents one interpretation of the way the world came about--is paired with a Jesus symbol. I don't expect anything on a bumper to be too profound, but in my mind, this should be an apples to oranges comparison--a confusion of categories. After all, when I want people to know Jesus and to become Christians, what I want for them to know is all the life, salvation, holiness, joy, fulfilment, meaning, hope, and redemption that can be theirs in Christ Jesus...not some particular understanding of all the details of the way this world came about. To be sure, we have something to say about that as Christians--but it's not our main concern. Yet the pairing of the Darwin/Jesus fish on so many bumpers suggests that, at least in the minds of many (presumably) non-Christians--that is our (and Jesus'!) main concern. If that's the message we're sending, no wonder so many people remain disinterested--or even scornful--from the "Christian" faith.

That's one of the tragic ironies of all the energy that many Christians have been pouring into the Creationist debate. They've been fighting for "truth" in what may be considered a peripheral issue, but in the process have but up unnecessary roadblocks for those who might come to know the Truth, the way, and the life. In my mind, that is something worth ranting about.