Really Good Friday

Mark the Lutheran and I got a wild idea years ago while eating pizza at Double Dave's in Tyler, Texas. Across from my conservative Church of Christ was Mark's conservative Lutheran Church. We decided to go to lunch, and on that day, discovered that we had more in common theologically than either of us would have ever imagined.

Centrality of Jesus? Check.
Teachings of Jesus for life most important? Check.
Salvation? Check.

What probably distinguished us the most was his funny accent from Minnesota. Likewise, he probably thought I sounded like a character from Dallas.

So Mark and I decided to invite our churches to join one another during Holy Week, which we pulled off with great success for three years. The Lutherans would come worship with us on Wednesday night, and we ("we" meaning me and a handful of skeptics) worshipped with them on Good Friday.

At least a few of us on both sides discovered that we all loved Jesus, and all embraced a life of salvation that while we might only be able to see through a glass darkly, held on to with all of our might, faith as being sure of what we hope for, and certain of what we do not see.

The Lutherans invited us each Good Friday for those three years to come back to their Fellowship Hall--(Hey! We call ours a Fellowship Hall too! We have all kinds of things in common!)--for cookies and punch after worship, the safest of refreshments for two groups wondering about each other. Surely some peered over the edges of their little transparent plastic cups as they sipped red punch, wondering whether that stranger across the Fellowship Hall actually and truly believed in Jesus.

The irony of the red punch on Good Friday was most likely completely lost on most of us in attendance. For while still a few days shy of the Communion of Easter Sunday, might it have been possible for the blood of Christ in that briefly strange moment to cover both Lutherans and Church-of-Christers there under the florescent lights surrounded by wood panelling?

The main reason that so many people no longer take Christianity seriously is because we have spent centuries emphasizing our divisions, in many ways putting Jesus back up on the cross while we cast lots at his feet about whether women should be allowed to serve the Lord's Supper, whether divorced people can do more in worship than just sit there, and whether the Lutherans are doing more than just pretending to love Jesus.

While we argue over the details, millions of people sleep in every Sunday who could not care less about pianos and powerpoint, who instead wake up at 10:00 a.m. wondering if God is actually there, and if God is there, does God really care?

Imagine a really Good Friday where one day, every last Christian church in the world is named the same, where every name brand is gone, and where everyone agrees that Jesus was never meant to be used by us as a bargaining chip to divide.

Centrality of Jesus? Check.
Teachings of Jesus for life most important? Check.
Salvation? Check.

I have been around enough church people to hear the echoes of the objections: That'll never happen in a million years! 

Well then we will just have to hold out hope that it will happen in a million-and-one.

Just Shy of Easter Weekend

Easter weekend is the ultimate reminder that we do not have to be afraid. The world continues to manufacture truth to suit its own needs, wants, and twisted endgames.

So be it.

Politicians around the world from every state, from every nation, have so confused reality with spin that it forces us to question everything and trust even less.

But that is not all bad.

In the late 1950s, Edward R. Murrow was one of the first journalists of a new media era who was unafraid to note that while even when the facts are arranged neatly before us, we may still not have the truth.

And that's where we come in, my dear Christian brothers and sisters, people who must live by eternal truth in the shadow of the promise of a brave new world.

We have an opportunity to tell the story that is so much bigger than our temporary fears. We do a disservice to the story of Jesus every time we try to wedge it into a single day's news cycle. So on this Easter weekend, let us glorify the living Jesus by shining a light in this present darkness.

Let us embrace one another as confessors of Jesus, a common bond far more important than the score on the scoreboard.

Let us hold hands with one another and in unison say, "Christ is risen! He is risen indeed!"

For those seven words are the ones that will last when all others are tucked away neatly into museums, and the stories of history are told in clearer retrospect with introductions like, "Our vision was limited back then."

Tears in Heaven

Death and I have become friends through the years. Not friends in the sense that we enjoy spending time together. Oh, sure, she flirts with me from time to time on a personal level. But in everyday life, we keep things professional and just work together.

I have never liked her in our personal dealings. In fact, some days I cannot stand her at all. Her timing is terrible. She is as arrogant as a gambling hustler on a golf course, and she always wants us to think that she has the upper hand. She thinks she gets the last word.

We let her think that. We have learned better than to try to outtalk a narcissist.

But knowing her as personally as I do has given me special insight into her weaknesses, her little insecurities.

We met when I was twelve. I will refrain from going into all the details, but it was a rude meeting. I thought she was being unfair, and to be sure, I was right. She rarely plays by the rules. She cheats. Does not play fair.

But it was not long before I started doing this whole preacher thing and found myself standing at a pulpit in front of a casket when I was 22 years old. An old, precious Christian woman named Hattie died not long before I moved to a little West Texas cotton farming town. I had never preached a funeral before, and thanks be to God for the grace of an easy first funeral for a wet-behind-the-ears mouthpiece. I had no idea what I was doing. In fact, over the course of 17 years of theological education, in that ridiculously long span of training, I received one hour on how to preach weddings and funerals. One measly hour.

So I stood there at that giant pulpit and talked about Hattie, her faith, her gentle spirit, and how she loved God and God loved her. We all said "Amen" and then made our way down the wood-paneled hallway that began just to the right and front of the auditorium. We made our way to the open room next to the kitchen where women with white hair finished stirring corn and green beans, turning the knobs on the Crock-Pots into the "Off" position, carrying all the food out to the sturdy tables set over red-gingham tablecloths.

Hattie's brother, a crusty farmer with a sweet disposition stood there with me in the hallway at the end of the line for the food. He had his sister's smile. He clutched the right lapel of his corduroy jacket, reached for the inside pocket, pulled out a hundred dollar bill, palmed it into my hand as he shook it, and said, "You did a good job, preacher boy."

Decades of ministry have placed me in similar settings. Holy moments. Bedsides of men who knew they were nearing death and wanted to talk about it. Phone calls asking if I might drop by the house. Prayers. Tears. Blessings of family.

Stories about that time when he was not paying attention and rode the riding lawnmower right into the pool in the backyard. Remember that? We never let him live that one down for the rest of his life.

Remember when she forgot to put tuna in the tuna casserole and we thought it was the blandest thing we ever ate?

Yeah, he got bit on the thumb by a monkey.

She told us just days before she died that she went skydiving, but never had the nerve to tell us because she was afraid we would all be mad.

Do you remember that time when he was responsible for the Palm Sunday worship service?

Death? Oh, you still have some sting. But you have no victory.

My role so often at times like these is to say things out loud about God; meanwhile Death tries to interrupt, to talk over us, to shout louder. She is persistent. I will give her that.

But I also believe that God is unfolding a new creation that is leading us all together down a road to something better, something more complete.

Not only is this new creation a place of no more sorrow, no more pain, and no more tears, but it is a place where feckless Death will no longer be welcome, no longer have a place, a voice.

My guess is that she will be quickly forgotten.

We will then walk a little farther down the road and see things we do not today have the mind to comprehend. We cannot see these things just yet. We cannot fathom them. But I believe in faith that they will be more than we can ask or imagine.

Some people try their best to believe it will be nothing. Dead and gone. I cannot help believing that it will be more than good. Somehow in the presence of God.

And my life today is better for it.

We will laugh. We will no longer see through a glass darkly.

Maybe everything will make sense; maybe it won't.

Maybe we will understand; maybe we won't.

Maybe we will watch Death shrink into a speck in the corner of the rearview mirror until she fades completely. Yes, that one I believe.

And she will not be missed.

While You Were Sleeping

"And then one day you find 
 Ten years have got behind you..."

Forgive me, bloggerland, for I have sinned;
It's been six years since my last confession.

For those of you who remember "The Empty Pulpit," welcome back; for those who are new to the conversation, welcome.

Things have changed.

Since I signed off six years ago from trying to figure out where God was in the midst of significant changes in my own personal life, not the least of which included uprooting my family, moving to Houston, my wife starting her counseling practice, my kids growing up, and me continuing to try to tell people that God actually cares, the world went and got itself in a number of crises of its own. 

Meanwhile, at least three generations of people either grew up, settled into adulthood, or welcomed grandkids.

On the good side, more people seem to be insisting on virtue than ever before, talking about things like kindness and peace and gratitude.

On the bad side, more people have to insist on virtue than ever before, talking about things like kindness and peace and gratitude since we are surrounded on all sides by impatience and hatred and ingratitude.

Old stories that somehow predicted the future have come to life before us, slowly evolving from the entertainment focus of Brave New World to the inauthenticity of 1984 to the strange truths of Demolition Man. That's right, folks. A Sylvester Stallone movie from the 1990s hit the nail on the head when it peered into the future and imagined a world filled with people addicted to personal technology.

And yet... The eternal truths of God's promises have not changed, no not one bit. Even while we distract ourselves with our toys, we can look back into the past and see all kinds of generations and nations and tribes who have come before us, peoples who mastered distraction long before any of us arrived on the scene.

And do you know what God told them that God still continues to say to us? Same as it ever was. God keeps promising to say "Yes" to those of us who in acts of bold faith dare to say "Yes" back to God. 

This is anything but blue skies and rainbows. But I promise you this: If you want to come along on another journey here at "The Empty Pulpit," we will say "Yes" to God together on the days when things make sense, on the days when the world makes no sense at all, and every day in between. 

Welcome back to "The Empty Pulpit."

Exit One Mile Ahead

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Creeping Jehosophat! What is going on?

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

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

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

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

Especially after Katrina.

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

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

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

It was also a time for another bag of crawfish.

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

Fear and Loathing amongst the People

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Today, I am landing in Oz all over again.

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

And then there is my other new Oz.

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

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

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

A Tale of Two Cities

An Opening Word

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

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

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

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

 

Losing My Religion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Choosing My Confession

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

A Final Word

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Losing My Religion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gargoyle Prayers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that love makes life worth living.

The Smell of Water

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Boys of Summer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amen.

"Learning to Fly" (a travelogue)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Little Zen

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

Where the Wild Things Are

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

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

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

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

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

"The Peace of Wild Things"

When despair for the world grows in me

and I wake in the night at the least sound

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

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in beauty on the water,

and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought

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

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting with their light. For a time

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

I Know Why the Caged Bird Wants Out

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

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

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

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

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

But it does not have to be this way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings"

by Maya Angelou

 

The free bird leaps

on the back of the wind

and floats downstream

till the current ends

and dips his wings

in the orange sun rays

and dares to claim the sky.

 

But a bird that stalks

down his narrow cage

can seldom see through

his bars of rage

his wings are clipped and

his feet are tied

so he opens his throat to sing.

 

The caged bird sings

with fearful trill

of the things unknown

but longed for still

and his tune is heard

on the distant hill

for the caged bird

sings of freedom.

 

The free bird thinks of another breeze

and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees

and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn

and he names the sky his own.

 

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams

his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream

his wings are clipped and his feet are tied

so he opens his throat to sing.

 

The caged bird sings

with a fearful trill

of things unknown

but longed for still

and his tune is heard

on the distant hill

for the caged bird

sings of freedom.

Shepherd(s) and Sheep

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

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

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

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

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

Who would dare?

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

You heard me right... first names.

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

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

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

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

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

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

First names.

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

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

But we do.

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

Wild Hogs

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

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

I need to calm down.

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

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

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

Easy-as-you-pleezee.

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

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

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

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

"Really? What for?"

"Just thought you'd like one."

"I would!"

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

"Hey, boy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beyond Halo Polishing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's Time To Get Up

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

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

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

Until this morning.

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

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

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

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

Today is not one of those days.

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

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

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

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

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

But there's a catch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's good.

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

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

X - Jesus is stripped of his garments.

XI - Jesus is nailed to the cross.

XII - Jesus dies on the cross.

XIII - Jesus' body is removed from the cross.

XIV - Jesus is laid in the tomb.

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

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

"Service to others, is service to you."

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

VI - Veronica wipes the face of Jesus

VII - Jesus falls a second time

VIII - Jesus meets the daughters of Jerusalem

XI - Jesus falls a third time

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

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

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

That's it.

Someone serves Jesus; Jesus serves others.

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

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

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

"Service to others is service to you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

IV - Jesus meets his mother

V - Simon of Cyrene carries Jesus' cross

Two people.

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

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

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

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