Moving!

This blog has moved to http://revsramblings.wordpress.com/ (And yes, that means I do intend to update it one of these months).

If you are looking for sermon discussion questions, click on the link above and locate the tab in the upper right hand corner of your screen that says "Discussion questions."

Hmmm.

Food for thought:

We're not rejecting God; we just don't have time for him. We've lost
him in the blurred landscape as we rush to church. We don't struggle with
the Bible, but with the clock. It's not that we're too decadent; we're too
busy. We don't feel guilty because of sin, but because we have no time for
our spouses, our children, or our God. It's not sinning too much that's
killing our souls, it's our schedule that's annihilating us.
(Michael Yaconelli, Messy Spirituality, p. 96)

Constant Communication

Some time ago, I rolled up to a stop light on a late afternoon bike ride and and had the following encounter with a fellow cyclist.

Hello! she said. Her hands rested on the handlebars and she rested her weight on the bike's top tube--and stared straight ahead.

Hello, I replied, pleasantly surprised that she had given me more than a nod (but a little perplexed that she couldn't be bothered to look my way).

How are you?! She asked, with what seemed to be unnecessary enthusiasm and concern.

Oh, um, I'm fine. Beautiful day. How are you?

Hold on a second, she said. Some guy is trying to talk to me. I'll call you back in a second...

That's when I finally noticed the tiny gadget hooked over her ear. My face flushed as I put two and two together and realized that there was a good reason it sounded like she was talking to an old friend on the phone--she probably was. Even standing there at the intersection of Franklin and Alameda while enjoying a sunny afternoon on the bike, she was able to stay in touch.

Of course, her ability to do so is no longer a surprise to any of us. A friend updates his Facebook status from the ski lift. The woman in the airport pulls out her Blackberry and sends a quick email without ever sitting down. Members of congress update their constituents via their Twitter feeds even while listening (or pretending to listen) to the President speak. We are people who are in constant communication with one another.

A few weeks ago, a friend relayed a conversation she'd recently had with her eight-year-old daughter. I just love to pray, the little girl gushed. I only dream sometimes at night. Usually I just pray. And lots of times during the day, I don't even say 'Amen' because I don't want it to be over. I just want to keep talking to God all the time.

Here is a little girl who has something that many of us desire--she is in constant communication with her Creator. She, as much as anybody I know, seems to follow Paul's command: Pray without ceasing. Her life is a continuous conversation with her heavenly Father.

I wonder what will happen to that little girl--to her life of prayer--in a few years. What will happen she gets a Facebook account and a iPhone and a Twitter feed with her friends. Will she be able to stay in constant communication with her God--even while she's in constant communication with so many others?

Most of us would like to have it both ways. But I'm beginning to wonder if we can (or if that's wanting to have your cake and eat it too). Does the constant buzz of communication from cell phones and blog feeds and twitter updates leave us with enough space--enough silence--for us to speak to (and hear from!) our heavenly Father?

I'm not one to push giving up something for Lent (I often joke with people that I'm going to try to give up sin). But maybe a helpful experiment for some of us during this time of year would be to sign off for a few weeks--to let our communication with each other slide so that we can get back in touch with our God.

Edit (3.9.09): Apparently the Pope reads my blog :)

Lectionary Text

I stumbled across this poem by Debra Rienstra today in her (very good) book, So Much More. It's called "Lectionary Text" and is about what happens in her household the week before her husband has to preach. My wife will testify that she gets at least the first two paragraphs right. I pray the third will be accurate as well.

Lectionary Text
Once you invite me in, beware:
I toss you from your favorite chair,
I snip the daily news to shreds
And interrupt you in your bed.

By week's end you wish me away--
I drag around your thoughts all day.
You wrestle me down, chop and twist,
But I, with ancient art, resist.

Come Sunday, sweet as Spirit's dew
I gentle fall on folks, through you.
A Maddening mystery? Thus your part
To sink a word into a heart.

Good News or Old News?

"Restore unto me the joy of your salvation."
Psalm 51:12"

"Mind if I join you?"

The question came from the woman standing in the lift line next to me. The collar of her coat was pulled up tight against the cold and her goggles obscured much of her face. I glanced down at her, smiled, nodded, and we scooted forward in line. When our turn came, we plunked down in the chair and the lift swept us up the mountain. Within moments, the woman began to chatter away.

"Well," she said, "I really don't ski that much. My daughter--she's 26--she's the real skier in the family. Of course, she probably won't be doing much of it this year..."

The woman paused. Sensing that this was my cue to prod her along, I asked why.

"Well," she said, "She had climbing accident this summer. Terrible thing. She and some friends were taking the back route up Greys and Torrey's. A ledge snapped out from under her. She fell and broke her back..."

She paused again, giving me a moment to shake my head and cluck my tongue with the appropriate blend of shock and sympathy.

"But you know what?" She didn't pause this time--but leaned a little closer, letting me see the sparkle in her eyes as she spoke. "The doctors were able to perform some surgery--and they say she's going to be fine. In fact, she may very well be back on skis come March. Remarkable, isn't it?"

I've had a lot of ski lift conversations over the last few years--but there was something about this one that was different. I think it was the sense of urgency in the woman's voice, the impression she gave me that she just might burst if she didn't say something. She had some good news--and she just had to share.

Of course, I've got my own bit of good news. For starters, I believe that God so loves us--God so loves me, you, that woman on the ski lift and her daughter, too--that he paid the ultimate price (his own son!) so that we might enjoy a new life with him. It is good news. But even so, it didn't really cross my mind to grab that woman on the ski lift by the shoulders, to look her in the eye, and to declare to her the miracle that I have experienced. "Do you know about this Jesus? About the things that he did? ... Remarkable, isn't it?"

I suppose that if I had, I may very well have learned what it feels like to be stabbed by a ski pole. But even so, it bothers me that the thought never really occurred to me. It bothers me that I can't say with Paul (at least not often enough) that the love of Christ compels me to share the good news of Jesus (2 Cor. 5:14). It bothers me that, all too often, the good news seems to have been down graded to old news.

And so I lift a few words from King David for my prayer. Restore unto me the joy of your salvation. Remind me just how good the good news is.

MLK Day*

On the evening of November 4th, 2008, I sat on my friend's well-worn couch, watching CNN as the tally came in. Colorado goes blue, Missouri goes red, Ohio goes blue, Montana goes red. Finally, at around 9 pm, the race was called. My friend--much more passionate about these things than I--cheered and raised his beer glass in celebration.

Of course, he wasn't the only one celebrating. That night in Chicago's Grant Park, thousands gathered to celebrate the victory of their hometown hero. When Obama took the stage and delivered his solemn speech, the cameras pulled in close on the faces in the crowd--many of them black, many of them weeping. After the speech, the commentators noted (as they have many times since) that Obama's election carries special significance in United States--a country where, a generation or two ago, it was still an open question if black people should have the right to buses and diners and public education now elects a black man president. Remarkable, they said.

And undoubtedly, it is. But I'll admit--the significance was lost on me. It's not that I don't have a clue about where America has been. I've read Fredrick Douglas and Zora Neal Hurston and Martin Luther King. I've been to a town in Mississippi that still has a cinderblock wall running down the middle of it--a wall that divided the white part of that town from the black part for years. But all that seems like ancient history to me. It's so easy for me to put on the blinders--too shut out both the world and the darkened corners of my own heart--and assume that racism is nothing but a relic of an ancient past.

Of course, it's not. Last week, a friend in another corner of the country was praying with a group from his church. One man--a leader in his congregation--spoke up. He started well. Dear God, he said, be with our new President and Commander and Chief. My friend murmered his ascent. But then things took a turn. God, we do not like his politics, his attitude, his religion, or his color...

President Obama carries the hopes and expectations of many with him into office. And today, I (along with many others) add one to the list: my hope is that he will help us all confront the prejudice that lies within, that he will help us see not just how far we have come as a nation, but how far we have to go. And I hope that, somehow, God will use him to help us all take a step in the right direction.

*A week overdue.

The Love of Jesus

Sleepless in Seattle was on again last weekend. And I'll admit--I watched it.

I'm not really sure why. I've probably seen it (or bits and pieces of it) three or four times before. Plus, I've seen You've Got Mail a time or two, and that's more or less the same movie. So I knew the plot line, knew the jokes, knew the happy ending. But I watched it anyway. I blame my wife and mother-in-law.

Towards the end of the movie, the Sam Baldwin (Tom Hanks) character wakes up one morning and discovers that his house is empty--his eight-year-old son, Jonah, has run away. Somehow, the little boy managed to board a plane and fly to New York (by himself!) where he must navigate the bustling streets--alone.

I don't remember what my reaction to this scene was the first (or second, or third) time I saw it. Probably deep skepticism (how could that kid even find his way to the airport?!). But this time, I couldn't help but clutch my wife's arm and hold my breath as the desperate father (Hanks) boards his own plane to New York and then sprints through the streets of the city in search of his son. And I couldn't help but let out a huge sigh of relief when that Father finds his son--when he's able to pick him up in his arms and squeeze him tight. I was captivated by it all in a way that I never had before--because before, I was not a father. Before, it had not fully occurred to me just how terrible it would be to lose a son.

I suppose it's stating the obvious to say that I love my son--a lot. I imagine I would do anything necessary to protect him and keep him safe. And I'm glad to know that I'm not the only one.

That hit me when Adrian baptized this summer. I recall being deeply moved when Pastor Joy pronounced the blessing over him. Adrian Paul, for you, Jesus came into the world. For you he took on flesh. For you he lived. For you, he died. For you he rose again... The words hit me someplace deep inside and I suddenly understood--with new clarity--that there is someone who loves my son even more than I do. The love of Jesus for my son (for me, for you) is more profound and perfect than any earthly father's could ever be. I find that fact to be wonderfully assuring.

But there's a flip side. It's not just the way Jesus loves my child. It's the way I love Jesus back.
One of the lectionary readings for this week is from Matthew 10:34-39. It includes these words:

Anyone who loves his father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; anyone who loves his son or daughter more than me is not worthy of
me; and anyone who does not take his cross and follow me is not worthy
of me.

I do not like those words. At all. I want Jesus to love my son more than I can. But how can I love Jesus more than I love my son? My son--whom I can see and touch and hold? My son--whose soft cries float down the stairs, even as I type this? My son--for whom I would give up my own life? It seems like too much to ask. I fear that it is impossible.

But I pray that God would make it possible for me. I pray, not that he would make me love my son less, but that he would make me love his Son more.

Counting the Cost

Several months ago, Jill and I bought a new computer for our home. I was looking forward to it--at first. When the man from DHL dropped off the boxes on our front porch, I hefted them into the house and ripped into them like a child on Christmas morn. And for the first, say, thirty seconds, it was great fun.

But then reality hit. Soon, I was up to my neck in cords and manuals and speakers and video cards and virus software. Now understand--it's not that a Luddite (at least not that much of one). I can handle some basic computer set-up without injuring myself or anybody else. The trouble is that I am not a patient person. I wanted to be surfing the Internet and organizing my check book and cropping my photos--I wanted my computer--and I wanted it now. As I looked at the mess of the cords, I couldn't help but mutter under my breath. Why did it have to be so complicated? Why did it have to take so long?*

Forty minutes later--with cardboard boxes and broken bits of Styrofoam now cluttering my office--I finally turned the machine on. I rubbed my hands together and sat on the edge of my seat as the little machine began to purr for the first time. I was ready to go. And I figured that the new computer would be as well.

Of course, it was not. Once I got my initial log-in screen set up, I was greeted by what seemed like a ridiculous number (dozens? hundreds? thousands?) of user agreements. Windows XP. Microsoft Office. Norton Antivirus. Qwest Internet. Microsoft Live. Dell Customer Support. Picasa Photo. iTunes Music. All of them demanded that I check a box indicating that I had read and agreed with their fifty page user agreement. Which I, of course, did not do.

At least not the reading part. I checked the box and signed on whatever line they indicated--but there was no way I was going to read all that legal jargon. I was ready to get to work (and play); ready to enjoy the benefits of my new machine. Terms and conditions could wait for another day.

Afterwards, it occurred to me that I had taken a risk by skipping the fine print. The folks at Microsoft and Qwest and Norton could have slipped all sorts of fees in--and I would have been none the wiser (until a bill showed up in my inbox). I assumed I knew what I was getting into when I checked the box and signed on the line--but the truth is that I had no clue.

I wonder we have the same tendency as Christians--to check the box and sign on the line for Jesus--and never really slow down to consider (or share) what the cost might be. At least that was my thought while reading some of the lectionary passages for this week. In one (Mark 1:4-13), Jesus--freshly anointed with the Holy Spirit and heralded as God's own beloved Son--is driven out into the wilderness where he receives no food for forty days and there is no one to keep him company but wild animals (and eventually, the Devil). In another (2 Corinthians 11), Paul rattles of his resume--which includes prison, severe floggings, lashes, beatings with rods, stonings, shipwrecks and other "dangers" (the word is used eight times in a few verses). Put the two together (and toss in a few other quotes by Jesus) and it's hard to dodge the conclusion--Jesus didn't live an easy life, and those who follow him can't expect to either.

But it seems to me that's not something we like to talk about much. We'd rather skip all that (it's such a downer!) and talk about prosperity for the present and bliss for eternity. We'd rather focus on the benefits--some of them real, others not--and get people to check the box and sign on the dotted line. After all, if we really told people what they were getting into when they signed on with Jesus, who would bother? Wouldn't church attendance dwindle? Wouldn't evangelism inevitably fail? Why would people ever be drawn to a suffering Savior--especially when he might call them to suffer, too? As Paul himself says somewhere else, from where some folks are standing, it all sounds like foolishness.

But then again, honesty--counting the cost--may very well be the best policy here, too. Especially when one considers the alternative. The alternative (at least the one tried by nearly every generation) is to promise that Jesus will make a person healthy, wealthy, and wise. And though it sounds much more attractive, most people recognize it as the bill of goods that it is. Most people realize that that if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is.**

But if we were honest--even about the cost--maybe people would find our claims more compelling. If we tell others about the need to shoulder a cross--or better yet, show them how it's done--perhaps our claims of truth might seem gain new traction. After all, if the good news that we bring is so good that we think it's worth suffering for--it must deserve serious consideration.

*Friends have told me--repeatedly--that I should have shelled out the extra bucks for a Mac. Apparently, the fine folks at Apple include Fairy Godmother who waves her magic wand and makes everything work perfectly in the blink of an eye.
**The note able exception being the gospel of grace, of course.

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.

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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.