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

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

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

Oooh, girl.

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

"Truthpaste"

"The Tooth Will Set You Free"

"You Can't Handle the Tooth"

"Tooth or Consequences"

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

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

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

Speaking of smiling children...

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

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

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

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

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

I - Jesus is condemned to death

II - Jesus receives his cross

III - Jesus falls for the first time

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

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

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

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

The Day Before

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But some things do make sense:

Practicing trust in God.

Seasons of prayer.

Recommitment to faith.

Recommitment to calling.

Reconciling bitterness that manifests present wounds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So let's get to the point.

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

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

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

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

Well I won't back down

No I won't back down

You could stand me up at the gates of hell

But I won't back down

Gonna stand my ground

Won't be turned around

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

Gonna stand my ground

And I won't back down.

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

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

Let's stand and sing.

Sometimes Rolling Your Eyes Is The Most Christian Response

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Sigh.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Communion Bread on a Tuesday

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

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

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

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

And that brings me to a personal struggle from yesterday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Lord Is My Shepherd...

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Amen.

 

One Bite to Remember, Another to Forget

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

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

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

Where was I?

Oh yeah, matza bread.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Content on Friday, Praying about Sunday

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

 

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

 

Lord God,

I am learning the secret of being content

in more and more circumstances,

but that does not mean

that I am satisfied with the status quo. 

I believe that I,

like all your sons and daughters everywhere,

have an essential role to play

in the realization of the new world to come,

in the realization of your will being done

on earth as it is heaven. 

So I keep searching for your new earth

where there are no divisions between peoples,

for your new structure

that allows every person to warmly embrace

every other person,

and for your new life

in which there will be lasting unity and peace. 

I structure and arrange my life accordingly.

I am irritated by self-content in myself

as well as in others

since I know,

with an unshakable certainty,

that something great is coming

of which I have already seen

the first rays of light. 

I believe that this world not only passes

but has to pass

in order to let the new world be born. 

But I will not despair

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

For in the midst of my work

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

"I am making the whole of creation new."

Welcome to "The (New) Empty Pulpit"

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

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

Pensado Profundamente

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Como esta?"

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

Pensado profundamente.

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

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

That's all, folks.

4:23 a.m.

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

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

And then there was this morning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But there was no voice.

This morning, there was. And it was gentle.

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

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

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

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

Listen.

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

God was not in the wind.

God was not in the earthquake.

God was not in the fire.

Just a whisper.

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

From 32 to 121

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sound like God?

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

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

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

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

Happy. Forgiven. Covered. No iniquity. Spirit.

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

Happy.

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

But it is true.

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

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

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

That sounds good.

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

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

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

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

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

Eternal Sandwiches

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

Bread of heaven. Stuff of earth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ashes on Wednesday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bread on Tuesday

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

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

Shoot.

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

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

Funny what we remember.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bread.

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

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

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

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

Christian Mission from the Blue Recliner

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

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

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

The phone rang.

"Hello."

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

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

Linda the house painter. Speaking of atypical southern molds.

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

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

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

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

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

"Thank you."

"What do you do?" she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Body of Memories

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

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

Told you I have been thinking a lot about pain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time does not heal all wounds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's all I have to say about that.

Every Morning

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

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

Dwell on that when you wake up.

They are new every morning.

It will set you free.

God's mercy. It is new every morning.

Every morning.

Even this one.

Even tomorrow.

New every morning.

Every morning.

Buildings and Mountains

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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