Sprained Ankle: Limping by Design

Emails and Phone Calls

2012-02-13T13:54:00.004-05:00

Every two weeks I receive an email from Tom Julien. He asks me when we can get together. We are working through the concepts integral to Equipping Churches. These are churches where pastoral staff does not simply do the work of ministry, but empowers others in doing. (Give a man a fish...)

I am not the only one who receives emails from Tom; he reads and sends hundreds a day. Many are prayer updates for missionaries or news feeds from churches. He probably does not get mass marketed by Oriental Trading the way I do.

Our modern era has numerous forms of communication. Letters and phone calls are among the sputtering class. Phone calls seem awkward, invasive, and outdated; letter writing is cumbersome, and stamps are expensive.

Unfortunately, the simplicity and efficiency of digital exchange have a dark side. They get buried beneath spam, calendar reminders, and Constant Contact newsletters. By the end of the day, an important correspondence is endangered. By the end of the week, it is extinct.

Tom does not like conversations to sputter and die. If you do not hit Reply, he makes a phone call. He invades. And in an effort to gain momentum for the Equipping Church network, his line is always tied up.

______________________
(Part 2: Travels with Tom)

A Clone of Tom Julien

2012-02-06T11:58:00.000-05:00

I am becoming a clone of Tom Julien. I read his books. I parrot his words. I improved my French accent. If this transformation does not stop soon, I might buy a castle and start driving a Buick. Fortunately, he is a good man to imitate.

Over the past year Tom and I have accumulated many hours and hundreds of miles together to discuss church leadership. We have attended funerals together in South Bend (IN) and shared meals at Hong Kong buffets in Van Wert (OH). We have parsed Ephesians 4:11-16 and re-written twenty drafts on what it means to be an Equipping Church. We have consumed several French Presses of coffee and prayed earnestly.

We're making progress, but our hope is for movement. Progress was a myth. Movement is a work of God.

_______________________
(Part 1: Travels with Tom)

Endorsements

2012-01-23T10:00:00.001-05:00

"Pastor, I have a question about your sermon notes," said a visitor to our church. He had underlined one of my bullet points listed on the back. Each week I provide additional information, research that may not fit into the preached message (for it is too technical or tangential), but may help stimulate further discussion.

My point was worth discussing. It read: "Notonly were monogamous, same-sex marriages envisioned in Eden, they were affirmedby Jesus and other NT authors (Matt. 19:1ff; 1 Cor. 7:1ff)." The phrase "same-sex marriages" was underlined. I gasped.

To be fair, my sermon was crafted as an endorsement. However, homosexuality was not its candidate. I aimed to endorse greater equality and, thus, more leadership opportunities for women in the church.

Captivated by William Webb's "redemptive hermeneutic" in Slaves, Women, and Homosexuals, I find a compelling argument in comparing the ethic and narratives of the Old and New Testament against their surrounding cultures (e.g., Ancient Near East and 1st Century Mediterranean). Women stand out as YHWH's heroines, Jesus' disciples, and leaders of the early church. My sermon sought to endorse the return to Eden, where the image of God reflected equally among male and female (Gen. 1:27). To take a verse out of context: What God has brought together, let no one separate (Matt. 19:6).

One of the primary arguments against expanding the role of women in the church is considered "The Slippery Slope" argument. Once you open the doors for women to preach and teach, you might as well invite the gays to lead a parade for Sunday worship. The logic is terribly flawed and fear-driven. Ironcially, the glaring typo in my sermon notes had me sliding head first into the mud puddle of moral relativism at the bottom.

"Wow. Thanks for pointing that out," I said to the young man. "It should read "Hetrosexual" marriages." Fortunately, the young man was a former intern at our church. And better yet, a lady who overheard our conversation added, "Don't worry. No one reads your sermon notes."

Or my blog.

Chipped Plate

2012-01-09T15:20:00.000-05:00

My wife can make beauty from ashes. She takes delight in discarded picture frames sold for a dime in the local Goodwill. She collects old furniture and remakes it with gold spray paint. And she'll make a gloomy day of rain into an adventurous opportunity for puddle-jumping.

What I love about her clairvoyance is how contagious it is. My daughters imagination tends toward optimism; they learned from their mother.

The best example is our shrinking stock of dinnerware. Our mugs and plates and cutlery and glasses are in various stages of decomposition: bent and broken, smudged and stained, cracked and chipped. I am sometimes embarrassed to serve guests, so I break out the Dixie cups. My wife noted that our kids were following my poor lead. If Margot were served on the chipped plate, she would cry and reject her food. If Claire were given the fork with the bent prong, she would moan and eat with her hands.

One morning my wife turned the tables. Her eggs and toast landed on the chipped plate. She viewed breakfast with an irregular excitement. Hoisting her hands in the air, she pronounced, "Yes! I got the chipped plate!" Immediately, the chipped plate was a treasure.

My daughters still reject their food and eat with their hands, but they receive the chipped plate as a gift.

Sleepless

2012-01-03T16:54:00.000-05:00

Last week reading Paul's missionary journeys helped me through a sleepless night. When Paul faced a sleepless night, he sang hymns and saved souls (Acts 16). I grumble and catch up on my Bible consumption.

My sleep did not fare well last night, either. I had visions of my mother-in-law falling, and my father-in-law's skin bursting open. I prayed for them.

As much as I delight in sleep, the occasional battle with restlessness is a gift. It calls me to spiritual devotion. It exposes the fears and stresses that plague my mind. And it reminds me that my help comes from the LORD, who keeps His beloved and does not slumber (Psalm 121:2-4).

Connect

2011-12-29T17:03:00.002-05:00

A guy from my church invited me over to indulge in homemade pizza and Star Trek. When he opened the front door, I greeted him with my fingers spread in the Vulcan salute. I stopped short at saying, "Live long and prosper." I am not a Trekkie; I am a pastor, which means some days I watch Deep Space Nine in an effort to connect.

The episode ("By the Pale Moonlight") was handpicked; it boasted moral dilemmas concerning deception, warfare, and human sacrifice. The Commander (Sisko) broke laws and rationalized it, following the precedent of our forefathers Abraham, Moses, and David. All leaders have breaking points and selling prices. All but Him who hung cursed on a tree (Gal. 3:13).

When the episode continued, we had time to kill and calories to burn, so we moved the couch and enabled X-box Kinnect to scan our bloated bodies. For ten minutes we braved rapids and collected coins. Then we coughed and wheezed and enjoyed snapshots of us flying through the air like amateur cheerleaders. The captions read, "Jumping Buddies" and "Surfing Pals." We didn't upload them to Facebook for general viewing.

With more pizza to eat and enough time for another episode, we returned the sofa to Netflix position. We returned to the final frontier to learn another lesson about galactic leadership: Pride cometh before the fall. And the Valiant crew suffered a mighty fall. I ended our time with a cookie.

All in all, it was a productive day of ministry: Four X-box games; three pieces of pizza; two Deep Space Nine episodes; and one chocolate chip cookie. I love my job.

Emotional Health

2011-12-05T16:42:00.001-05:00

I just scored lowly on an Emotional Healthy Inventory. Taken from Peter Scazzero's book, The Emotionally Healthy Church, the test revealed my low tolerance for "Embracing Grief and Loss." On the other principles of emotional health, I rated well. Grief and loss induce thumb-sucking.

Perhaps the greatest emotional loss came when my parents put my dog to sleep. Liz and I had returned to Worthington for a weekend break from college. News of my dog's condition was not good. Tumors covered her body. Lethargy slowed her movements. When she greeted me at the door, her tail wagged for the first time in a week and the last time of her life.

We took the dog to an emergency clinic. We knew the clinic was not going to remove the tumors. But it would take away the dog's pain. My father paced the hallway, choking back tears. My mother stared at the floor. When given the choice, we opted to hold our dog when the vet administered her shot. She did not flinch. We sobbed.

I remember my father wrapping his arms around us: my mother, Maggie, Liz and me. Only one other time had I seen my father so emotionally unraveled. He wailed. Our tears intensified.

Other experiences in my life have merited grief. Broken friendships and buried loved ones. Dashed hopes and unwarranted criticism. Personal failure and family suffering. And a lifetime as a Cleveland Browns fan. But nothing has rivaled the death of my dog and the decades of repressed sorrow that flooded from my father's eyes.

Memories

2011-11-28T15:12:00.001-05:00

I started a writing project a month ago. I am recording vignettes of my early life. The project provides an opportunity to be disciplined in a craft and nostalgic about my childhood. About my mom swearing. About my arm breaking. About my suspicious neighbor giving candy to kids. About old friends and rivals and anything that bubbles to the surface.

Some day I hope to read these stories to my children, even if they're partial and somewhat flawed. I likely exaggerate my accomplishments; I probably dramatize my trials; I certainly miss a quote or scenic detail. The essence of the event is captured, but the specifics are skewed. Time is like a carnival mirror, it has a way of distorting what is true.

On the other hand, as I've practiced the virtue of remembering, another fruit has resulted: accuracy. A few stories into my childhood, and I began to recall the pattern of our living room carpet, the layout of my neighbors backyard, the street name of my best friend's drive, and the pitch of our dog's bark. The more work I put into memory, the more I remembered.

I want to continue to develop this, for we live in a culture-of-the-moment. Here: the art of recall is fading. Now: the science of history is outdated. This would be bad news if news weren't ever-breaking. But it is. So is our culture. Ever-breaking. Always-broken.

But there is a solution to the hectic, amnesic, and broken culture-of-the-moment. Memory. Walter Brueggemann wrote, "Amnesia renders the human community lean without resources, unprotected from the past, and left with the need to invent and reinvent endlessly" (Word the Redescribes the World, 10). So I reminisce.

Truth Between Us

2011-11-21T15:14:00.001-05:00

I agreed with an agnostic today. "The world is brutal. People can do good. We all make choices." I supported my arguments with Scripture and a smile. She shared with tears in her eyes and a tissue in her hand. She has a brain tumor, and good works cannot save her. Neither can they save the planet.

"The world is brutal."

Perhaps Eden was more wild than we give her credit for. She was a habitat for both the lying snake and Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. She required Adam's sickle and promised pain to Eve's labor. (Note: Birth pains increased in the curse of Genesis 3, which implies a moderate level of pain were a baby to emerge).

But life East of Eden is abundantly more cruel. Miscarriages and market crashes. Head colds and brain tumors. Warts and strokes. Shame. Abuse. Loneliness. And separation from God.

The world is brutal. We can blame bad parents and corrupt governments until the day melts to darkness. Its brutality, though, goes deeper. It goes farther. The ground is cursed and humankind caused it (see Genesis 3).

"People can do good."

Even in this God-cursed, sin-scarred world, little boys and quiet girls reflect the image of God. Hard-working women and industrious men reflect the image of God. Some on purpose. All by nature. But this innate capacity to mirror God in our thinking, relating, creating, and doing good does not save us (see Genesis 1:26-2:25). For we could never do enough good to feed the hungry, foster the orphans, end all wars, and earn God's favor. Our best good is filthy rags.

"We all make choices."

I wore jeans today instead of slacks. I selected a sweater instead of a tee-shirt. My parents took me to church when I was a child. Other parents starve their kids and take their medications. I prefer my coffee black. I ate Chinese food for lunch instead of hamburgers. My parents raised me to be financially responsible. Other parents abandon their kids or die in childbirth.

We all make choices, but no choice happens in isolation. Previous experiences affect us: the brutality of the world; the goodness of our family tree. Eve's choice affected Adam's affected mine.

In the end, there is one choice that matters: Do you love Jesus?

Not: Did you suffer?
Not: Did you do good?
Not: Did you wear khakis to Panda Express.

Do you love Jesus? As much truth as there might be between me and anyone else, this alone has eternal importance.

Contradictions

2011-11-14T15:52:00.001-05:00

My preaching feels fraught with contradictions. I hear them come out of my mouth, so I screen the seats for reactions. Nothing. I expect people to rise from their seats, hands to wave through the air, someone to shout, "That doesn't make sense."

To date, interruptions have been minimal. One lady fainted during a worship service. One couple left for a roller derby bout. Two weeks ago a baby doll uttered a mechanical cry. But no one has argued against my discrepancies.

Or, perhaps, the variances are not mine; they belong to the Bible.

Before I get the heresy millstone hung around my neck, I admit what I am talking about is apparent contradictions--what theologians call "already/not-yet" tensions, which result whenever heavenly ideals rub against earthly realities. The Bible is full of them.

The OT prophets spoke in (apparent) contradictions: You are a royal priesthood; you are a stiff-necked people. I will never leave you; the glory of the Lord departed. Jesus spoke in contradictions: The Kingdom of God is upon you. Paul spoke in contradictions: To the saints in Corinth..."

I speak in (apparent) contradictions:
I tell people the world won't be right until Jesus returns; then I tell them to make it a better place.
I encourage people to reject the world and be holy; then I tell them to be engaged and on mission.
I rail against legalistic practices; then I tell people to read the Bible daily and pray without ceasing.
I remind people God doesn't need our money; then I pass the offering plate.

The list goes on. Every preacher could add his own. I am waiting for the day someone rises from her seat, waves her hand through the air, and shouts, "That doesn't make sense." At least I'll know she was listening.

Rio

2011-11-07T15:24:00.000-05:00

I wanted to shake my tail feathers but I was sitting in church. While the dance policy is not in writing, it's understood that dancing is prohibited. That is, unless you're young enough to miss all the innuendos in the movie Rio.

The film is a visually stimulating tale about birds in love, about overcoming fears, about fighting for friends, and, at the basest level, about procreation. The flashing colors, fighting monkeys, and festive music mask the exotic undertones. Lionel Richie brings them to the fore.

Last night our church consumed Rio and popcorn. My wife and children had seen it, but I'd only caught the tale end. (Sorry for that). I was a little nervous, however, because I'd read the review on Plugged In Online, Focus on the Family's movie review extension. The website does a good job of communicating positives and negatives elements of a film. They provide specific details to support their critique.

Reading their review of Rio had me wondering if I had authorized cartoon pornography as an outreach event. I was a mess. I had sent postcards around to fifty families to spoil their minds with the debauchery of Brazilian birds! Among its list of vices was cross-dressing, rap music, two-piece bathing suits, and dancing. They even referenced Lionel Richie!

Then I watched the movie. It was fun, noble, and did not live up to the warnings waged by Christian movie reviews. We can make things sound worse than they are.

Two Church Services

2011-10-24T10:00:00.000-04:00

I started my second sermon with a joke. "Sorry if I sound repetitive: I already gave this sermon once today." No one laughed. For them morning I was acting as guest speaker (actually, I was introduced as "friend speaker," because I was more than a guest) at Winona Lake Grace Brethren. The bodies and bustle in their Sunday morning requires two services.

Where I experience church life, we all worship together. And if any families are missing, we take notice. We are a small congregation. Dividing into two services would turn us into two small groups.

Nonetheless, splitting into two services is an intriguing concept. It simultaneously expands and dillutes a church's effectiveness. A second service alleviates the need to for more space, but it requires more volunteers. It presents God's word more efficiently, but may lead to factions (and repetition). In any attempt to please ears and meet budgets, we may relieve people from making sacrifices of personal taste.

These are not new thoughts (any church that made the triumphal leap from one service to two has certainly weighed pros and cons more than I intend to), but this was a new experience for me as a guest preacher. And as a new experience, I wanted simply to reflect on a few observations:

I used twice as much gum as I usually do following a message.
My voice was hoarse by noon.
Battery life of the PPT remote may not last two services.
Gaffs and distractions from the first sermon do not have to wait until next week for a reprieve.
It is not a noble goal to make the two sermons as different as possible (while keeping the same outline) just to satisfy my desire for novelty.
Earlier services have a higher median age than later services.
Later services invite more participation.
It is not good to create competition between the early and late services. If the gospel can reconcile Jew and Greek, slave and master, it can bring early-risers and late bloomers together.
I am exhausted.

Solving Hunger

2011-10-13T11:43:00.002-04:00

Last Sunday night, as my children complained about their empty bellies, and I lamented the depleted pantry at my in-laws, I made a game-time decision. I ordered carry-out from Pizza Hut. With my coupon I saved four dollars. And according to the box, I may have saved lives.

The newest push to stave off global hunger is the most appetizing to date. Apparently, eating Pizza Hut is humanitarian. Never before have I been so motivated to practice gluttony. Never before have church youth groups experienced such potential for social justice.

What Pizza Hut has deemed "Sharing a Slice of Hope," is a clever marketing tool. Teaming up with World Food Programme and Zynga (an online gaming platform that blends virtual play with actual relief), Pizza Hut has harnessed our culture's favorite pastime (i.e., eating) for global healing.

America: the land of the free-market and the home of the obese.
America: where football is a fantasy and grease is charitable.
America: where hope is in slices, and everyone can have a piece of the pie.

Eat up, America. It's game time!

Adoption

2011-10-03T15:29:00.002-04:00

My wife and will have a home study in a few weeks. I should really clean up the puddle of sewage in the basement. They assured us the inspection is more about our parenting, emotional health, and personal backgrounds than the state of our home, but I've already filled the mop bucket.

What I know about adoption is akin to what I know about Hebrew. I can't brag about it, shouldn't blog about it, and know it requires a lot of spit, sweat, and furious effort. The agencies we work with, both nationally and internationally, are interested in why Liz and I want to adopt. They will want to know our rationale and plan.

What inspired us to adopt? What assures we'll parent well?

These are thick questions, and I hope the answer translates well. The quick and easy to both question is prayer. Unfortunately, this answer will not suffice for every question related to adoption:

How will you discipline? "Prayer."
How will you pay for this? "Prayer."
How will your family adapt to becoming bi-racial? "Prayer."
How will style your adoptive child's hair. "Essential oils and Prayer."

I don't want to be naive. Neither do I want to over analyze the process. We do this because the love of Christ compels us. Our plan starts with cleaning up the mess on the basement floor.

Broken Glass

2011-09-15T13:48:00.003-04:00

We've had a lot of broken glass in our house recently. The first incident followed my daughter's banishment from the dinner table. She would not eat a leaf of spinach per our request. Then she would not stop screaming about it. I sent her to her room, which overlooks the patio where the rest of us finished dinner. To let us know she made it to her bedroom in one piece, she kicked at her window. We ignored her. She kicked the window again. The window imploded. We stopped ignoring her. Glass was everywhere. My daughter remained in one piece.

The second incident came when we watched a friend's dog. Molly and Zeb (our dog) are good pals. They bite one another on the face and eat from the other dog's food dish. They also bark at every ambulatory creature that dares use our sidewalk. On a typical school day, the bodies and barks seem endless. To let our neighbors know they are watching, the dogs pounce on the chairs and press their faces against the glass. One of the dogs pressed its face through the glass. The window imploded. The dogs were unscathed.

The third incident ironically started with my lament of barking dogs and broken glass. I swept my hands through the air to emphasize my disgust. I took down a tumbler in the gesture. The glass exploded. Water sprayed everywhere.

Finally, when I sat down for dinner last night, my wife broke some news to me. "We lost another mushroom cup today." A tear fell from my eye. Three months ago my wife purchased a set of eight from a consignment shop. Now we have four. I'm about to register at Kohls for plastic dinnerware. I cannot afford any more breaks.

Disconnect

2011-08-29T11:23:00.002-04:00

I had an older man tell me there was a disconnect between my vision and my life. Then he paid for breakfast.

My two-year strategy to "throw all chips on the table" in reaching the town of Leesburg for Jesus was impressive. The plan included prayer walks, a name change, new t-shirts, service blitzes, and teaching specific to evangelism and integrated ministries. If our church budget stayed afloat, I considered throwing in a cotton candy machine.

The disconnect was my front porch. Its address posts a Warsaw address, not a Leesburg one. Years ago my wife and I decided to live closer to majority of our church members. In my brief stay at Leesburg Grace, the church has never surpassed two families (or couples) from the town. We are a commuter church. The previous week, another older leader assured me, "There is nothing unbiblical about going to church outside of one's neighborhood." If this were so, most American churches would be unbiblical. (Oh, wait....)

To be honest, I don't want to leave my front porch. We have established roots and made spiritual connections in our neighborhood. These are God-directed. But I also feel compelled to preach and perform the gospel of Jesus to the broken and hardened town of Leesburg. This cannot be accomplished from my front porch. Nor can it be accomplished alone.

So I wrestle. Can I live with the disconnect? Can I alter my strategy so that it reads "mostly in" instead of "all in." Can I move the church to Warsaw? Can I move my neighborhood to Leesburg? Can I continue with "business-as-usual," and use our savings on a cotton candy machine? Only time will tell...

Bread and Cup

2011-08-22T09:51:00.004-04:00

Leesburg Grace is now offering a Gluten-free "This is My body" offering at Communion. We started this yesterday as our worship service closed with the Bread and Cup. It was appropriate because the sermon focused on Christ's humility and the Corinthian church's disarray. Their communion services provided a picture of freedom-gone-bad. Apparently the church's wine was better than the vat at home, and the bread fresher. Corinthians were gorging themselves on blood and body (1 Cor. 11:23-34). It's no wonder the early church earned a reputation for cannibalism.

Paul was not happy about this abuse of ordinance. The one bread was supposed to symbolize Jesus' broken body. The one cup reflected Jesus' shed blood (1 Cor. 10:16-17). Together the imagery remembers Christ Jesus humbled, crucified, and given as a substitute for the sins of the world.

Certainly, there is something mysterious about this picture of body and blood. Throughout church history it has excited disputes and incited divisions. Some suggest the elements literally turn into the body and blood of Jesus (i.e., Transubstatiation), as if the glorified Christ weekly transmitted His DNA from the heavens to our bakeries and vineyards. Fortunately, this change is in essence, not in form. Otherwise, I imagine, if a wafer felt like a flap of skin on one's tongue, we might have a collection of spit-0ut-flesh to clean off the floor.

Others suggest that the bread remains bread and the wine remains wine, but Jesus' presence visits during the act of worship. Martin Luther authored this idea, both a reaction to Catholicism and the absurdity of Jesus becoming the elements. Luther's doctrine of "consubstantiation" was not wrong: Jesus is present during the Bread and Cup offering. Then again, Jesus told His apostles He would be with them "always, to the very end of the age" (Matt. 28:20). In essence (or do I mean form?), Jesus is present with any meal, cup of coffee, or afternoon muffin blitz.

A plain (i.e., surface) reading of the Scriptures would suggest that Jesus' bread-breaking and wine-gulping gesture was a metaphor. Symbols and images help us remember deep spiritual truths. So we erect crosses in our churches to emphasize forgiveness. We wear prayer bracelets on our wrists to compel prayer. We put stuffed monkeys on our computer screens to ward off the demons of pornography. And we eat bread and drink grape juice to remember salvation is neither earned nor merited. It is received.

Salvation and Free-Range Neighbors

2011-08-15T14:32:00.007-04:00

When my neighbor mentioned being saved, my ears perked up. Religion and faith commitments had not come up in previous conversations. To this point, talk centered on tattoos, birthday parties, and the lovely things our children do.

Interaction among neighbors is common where we live. Our neighborhood is free-range. Kids roam the streets, fight with water balloons, play princesses, invent clubhouses, and fight witches. They also trample our grass and pillage our fruit bowl. Liz and I always intend our home to be a place of peace and welcome. The flies and ants and children have taken advantage. Parents are slower to respond.

The other night we hosted a bonfire. Kids flocked to the fire pit. They roasted marshmallows, chased one another, and stretched the limits of bedtime. We made a special effort to invite parents, and several responded. I strummed my guitar while they chatted. Two times during the conversation, one of the parents slipped in "when I was saved."

My wife and I picked up on this. I started strumming the chords to Amazing Grace. My wife invited the neighbor over to share more of her story.

I have mixed emotions about this "saved/unsaved" language. It can be exclusive and turn people into targets. It can also inspire us to be better neighbors. As someone who has enjoyed following Jesus, I want others to share in the same comfort and hope. I want people to be saved. And I want them to gather on our lawn.

Confession - Scattered Metrics

2011-08-08T15:09:00.003-04:00

My dog ate a can of peanuts. I didn't catch him in the act. I know this because I cleaned up a pile of his feces in the backyard before mowing. He leaves pretty clear evidence of his trespasses. Strings and candy wrappers are not uncommon findings.

I once read a book called Collapse about civilizations that have ceased to exist. More often than not, petrified poop carries traces of human DNA. The implication is grotesque: When the going gets tough, people eat each other. We rarely catch cannibals in the act, but we know whom they had for dinner because we excavate their excrement.

Christians, like most humans, are full of crap. You can guess our indulgences by our digestive track. You may never catch us in the act, but dig around in our septic tanks for a few minutes and you can infer various guilty pleasures. Peanuts in the grass. DNA in the fertilizer. Envy in the grass clippings.

The Bible warns that some day every deed will be exposed, every motive laid bare, every word echoed, and every action will demand an account (1 Cor. 4:5; 2 Cor. 5:10). Shame and fear are typical reactions to this exposure (Gen. 3:8-10; John 3:20). So we lock the door when we're in the bathroom. And we wash our hands after we flush.

There is, of course, a better way. "Confess your sins to one another," John the Beloved disciple suggests, "and God who is faithful will forgive and cleanse you of any unrighteousness" (1 John 1:19). James, the brother of Jesus, adds, "And pray for one another that you might be healed" (5:16).

Sunday morning gatherings do not often lend themselves to public confession. A minute of directed confession by the pastor as the service and songs begin usually suffices. Right or wrong, this is the case. However, confession as John and James describe it take place best when the church is scattered in hallways, coffee shops, backyards, or bathroom stalls.

Road Side Service - Scattered Metrics

2011-08-01T15:11:00.004-04:00

A recent graduate called me last week for a ride. His car broke down on the side of the road. He'd just purchased it with money from his sales job. Unfortunately, he wasn't left with enough cash to purchase gas.

When he called I was in the thick of my sermon preparation. I was investigating Jesus' sign miracles and habit of helping others. I initially asked the young man to call someone else from our church. If no one else was available, he could call me back. A few minutes later, my study of Jesus demanded I act like Jesus. I called him back. Sure enough, no one else was available. (Or perhaps they were screening their calls afraid a sales' pitch was on the other end of the line!)

By the time I picked the young man up, he was drenched in sweat from the stifling heat. We drove to his car to collect his personal items and his stock of cutlery. The car ride to his house was enjoyable. He talked about his growth and development since graduating and entering the work force. He confessed to being lazy. And he learned about reading gas gauges.

Road side service is one of many examples of health in the scattered church. When a church collaborates in service--community gardens, oil changes for the elderly, babysitting for parents of little ones, meals for the sick, intervention for addicts, financial aid, and carpools--it expands its power and exalts Jesus. The Christ Hymn of Philippians (2:6-11) is rich with servant imagery and predicated on the call to be united in love (2:1-5). The "mind of Christ" is fully committed to road side service.

Prayer Times - Scattered Metrics

2011-07-20T09:59:00.004-04:00

Occasionally my wife and I swap spouses with another couple in our church. Fortunately, this not as scandalous as reality television would make you think. My buddy spends the evening at my house sharing dreams, telling stories, and critiquing movies. My wife spends the evening at my friend's house, sharing fears, telling stories, and critiquing literature with his wife. Girls have girl-talk and cry a lot. Guys have have guy-talk and bump chests. Sometimes chips and salsa are involved.

Once upon a time I had told this friend my prayer life was miserable. He confessed God was often on his mind, and he loved his heavenly Father very much. I offered him my pastoral position, but he enjoyed seeing progress in everyday life, and graciously declined.

As our conversation began to digress into tired grunts and guttural moans, we decided to call it a night. My friend stood up, walked to the door, and paused halfway to the porch. "We should pray," he suggested.

It took us two and a half hours of talk to stumble into prayer, but the Holy Spirit seized my friend on the threshold and reminded him of my spiritual weakness. So we prayed. Then we chest bumped. And he went home to retrieve my wife for me.

Several years ago when I asked the elders of our church to consider which program/event of our church they would be quickest to suspend, the majority indicated the prayer group. On Sunday mornings, before anything officially begins, I provide a scheduled prayer time to ask God's blessing on our gathering. Three of eighty regularly attend. On fifth Sundays, we substitute prayer walks around Leesburg for classroom time, but half the people stay inside.

But measuring prayer for the Gathered Church is not a fair metric. Many people monitor their words and emotions in big crowds. They doubt their orthodoxy or eloquence. Or the pastor spends too much time talking to allow another voice issue a praise or request.

On the other hand, when the Scattered Church prays together, there is real power. I know of a husband and wife who spend hours praying each week. I know of accountability partners who connect daily, weekly, or monthly to encourage one another in prayer. I know of people who hear a personal need mentioned and immediately bring it to God's throne. I know a friend who would not leave my front porch until he prayed for my dreams, thanked God for my stories, and begged forgiveness for the movies we watched.

Shared Meals - Scattered Metrics

2011-06-20T11:08:00.003-04:00

We eat at my wife's parents on Sunday afternoons. This is part of our Sabbath rhythm. I enjoy the tradition--probably more than the frozen pizza--but it does limit our opportunity to eat lunch with others from our church.

Shared meals are a mark of spiritual health (not considering the trans fat and high fructose corn syrup). The New Testament calls this "table fellowship." The table might be implied: the leg space between squatters at Jesus' miraculous feeding (John 6). Or the table could be literal: Martha's fine China and best gourmet dish (Luke 10:38ff). These meals happened outside the synagogue walls and temple courts. They happened in upper rooms, courtyards, and small homes. They happened often (Acts. 2:42ff).

In the Western world, the family dinner has all but disappeared. Dinner has been expedited, commercialized, and reduced to a short drive and value meal number: McFamily Dinner. Its disappearance is highlighted by a recent PSA I heard encouraging families to eat together several times a week. Apparently shared meals promote healthy family dynamics. So it goes for the church family.

But the good news is this: A couple from our church invited us to dine. We ate salad and homemade pizza grilled on their back porch. Each slice was personalized, replete with custom toppings and designer crust. And this couple has invited others. Many. They are resurrecting the ancient practice of hospitality. Others are reciprocating. You come to my house, I come to yours.

More thoughtful work on spiritual community and shared meals has been penned by Wendell Berry, Albert Borgmann, and Eugene Peterson. But I propose that the frequency of shared meals is a good measurement for health in the scattered church for three reasons.

Shared Space: An invitation to another person's home provides knowledge that is not always easily accessible from online profiles or Sunday morning small talk. Decorum, cleanliness, DVD titles, background music and magazine subscriptions are all on display. Truth be told, shared meals feed our curiosity as much as our belly.

Shared Resources: Communal meals loosen the grip that our resources hold on us. They require us to give of our refrigerator and cabinets, our stack of napkins and tray of clean silverware, our milk and eggs and busy schedules.

Shared Words: The supper table provides a context for conversation that might range from meal blessing to story-telling and everything in between. More words are passed with bread rolls than the offering plate.

A healthy church shares meals. Space, resources, and words are exchanged regularly. Frozen pizzas stay in the box.

Metrics

2011-06-15T09:18:00.004-04:00

I'm ordering multivitamins for my wife. They're suppose to save her digestive track and boost her energy. They're part of a pyramid scheme, but so was Israel and she was delivered from her suffering (see Exodus 1-15).

My father-in-law wants in on the goods. His skin has been revolting for years, and he owns a cough that will not subside. Poor old Mel. Good old vitamins.

Herbalife is one of the notorious vitamin distributors. Their product boasts measurable improvements in immune system health, bone density, memory, heart function, and clarity of vision. The proof of the Herbalife's efficiency is in the metrics. If a customer's bones continue to degenerate and vision continues to blur while ingesting the guaranteed product, she can get her money back... or increase intake volumes and add Vitamin D.

Metrics are not so easy in church life. Health measurements are too often restricted to programmatic elements: Sunday morning attendance, number and percentage of volunteers, budget, missionaries sent and supported. Unfortunately, this treats the church less like a bios (a living, breathing organism) and more like a heiros (temple building).

We need better metrics for church health beyond the building. Perhaps we need better vitamins, too (shaped like crosses). Sadly, when I recently asked a friend trained in organic church ministry about "metrics for the scattered church," his response was null. Then he invited me to a conference that would sell me books and network affiliations. More pyramid schemes.

I need to figure this question out: How do you measure the health of the local church when scattered (i.e., bios). Thus begins my journey.

(NOTE: Anyone who subscribes to this blog can become an affiliate and earn points toward free products. This is a one-day opportunity. Sign up NOW and start saving the local church.)

Terrible Things

2011-05-30T22:12:00.003-04:00

My cousin pitched me a set of Cutco knives today for eight hundred dollars. My life insurance salesman is pushing annuities at a good rate. Some lady wants my wife to buy sixty-dollar vitamins to help her stomach settle. I almost forgot to send the offering baskets around church again this week. And we spent forty dollars on a dinner date a few nights ago.

Oh money, you terrible thing.

I've been preaching through the prophets. They talk a storm about Israel and her forbidden lovers. Idols carved of wood and overlaid with gold. Idols taking bribes and preaching peace. Idols for him. Idols for her. Idols for kids on gluten-free diets.

Oh idols, you terrible things.

Idolatry doesn't come up in casual conversation, unless it relates to pop stars and wannabes. But there are others. Health and wealth. Sex and fame. Power and glory. Facebook and other digital distractions. They rival God for our affections. We are slow to call them idols. It's what they are--terrible things.

Discipleship

2011-05-23T15:48:00.004-04:00

In an experiment to better understand discipleship, I've made a miserable observation: Books with the term discipleship in them often stink. I've read two of these books recently, and rather than providing any clear teaching on the matter, I've been ferried down theological and historical streams that contribute nothing of practical value.

I'll provide an example, without naming the source (although, be certain, The Bible and Discipleship constitute its subtitle).

"Discipleship requires a whole new conversation in a church that has been too long accomodationist and at ease in the dominant values of culture that fly in the face of the purposes of God... Such disciplines intend and permit a drastic reorienting of one's life, an embrace of new practices, and most particularly, a departure from other loyalties that have seemed both legitimate and convenient" (pp. 95-96).

At first glance, this quotation offers some helpful background for a theology of discipleship.

First, it is the work of the church--ideally the Christian church.
Second, it calls the church out from the ideology of its larger culture.
Thirdly, being called out implies certain practices, called disciplines, that contrast church members from the common taxpayer in Cook County.
Finally, what sustains this distinct lifestyle is a greater loyalty to God than the gods of convenience and popular opinion.

Later the author lists, with little definition, the "practices" of a disciple--teaching, fellowship, breaking of bread, and prayer--as observed in Acts 2:42. Shortly thereafter, the chapter ends, as does the book's explicit teaching on discipleship. Next chapter: Citizens versus consumers.

To be fair, this is one example, but I run up against this time and time again when looking for specific, practical guidance on a given topic. The fine art of joining theological foundation with practical application rarely surfaces in printable form. Moralism abounds in the Christian bookstore. Scholasticism reigns in the Seminary library.

What I'm looking for is a text that blends truth with exhortation. Maybe I'm looking too hard.

"Therefore, go and make disciples of all the nations...teaching them to obey all that I've commanded you..." (Matthew 28:19-20).

Pastoral Tension #5 - Discernment

2011-04-26T14:54:00.004-04:00

I felt like I was approaching heresy when I suggested another movie was better than Facing the Giants. The comparison was between it and Braveheart. Perhaps it was an unfair comparison, a battle of David versus Goliath, so to speak. Can Evangelicalism compete with Hollywood? Can the Creation Museum outmaneuver Jurassic Park?

When I raised such questions, my wise Sunday school class (who had allegedly spent the week dieting on Proverbs as part of our Bible-reading challenge for the year) said the question was "relative." No: Uncle Jeremy is relative. The quality of a movie is art and science.

Who wins a battle of Fireproof versus P.S., I Love You was not the real issue. The larger topic revolved around discernment. What value system, worldview, and biblical evaluation does one bring to watching a movie, picking a novel, or selecting a grocery store? How aware are we of our process of discernment? Do we swallow every pill that says Gospel on it? Do we reject every product made in Muslim Indonesia?

I will not answer these questions, but to say that motive and consistency is critical to the discernment process. But consistency does not mean unchanging, for consistency in discernment must include evaluation and re-application.

As a pastor I am ever facing the tension of discernment. How much to lead with questions? How much to tell it as it is? How much to confess? How much to conceal? Fortunately, I take comfort in pure motives (with a hint of vinegar and pride) and consistency (with notes of cherry and evaluation). But I take further comfort in the fact that God grants wisdom to those who ask.

Pastoral Tension #4 - The Show

2011-04-18T15:26:00.003-04:00

The parents don't dance at our church, but the little kids do. They thrash around on chairs during the music. They thrash around during announcements, too. Their energy is both endearing and distracting. The cell phone that rang during my sermon yesterday was simply distracting. What we do as a church on Sunday morning is the Show. One local pastor refers to it as the organizational aspect of the church. There is also an organic element. That is the part where the church members drive home in their hybrids and troll about in their gardens. Then they watch TV until their eyes bleed and fall asleep in recliner chairs. This is the church scattered, in the words of Hugh Halter, et al. We need to learn to do a better job of assessing health and growth in terms of its scattered and organic nature. A regular tension I face as a pastor is how much time to put into the Show (sermons, songs, and ministry spotlights) and how much time to put into the mess of life off-stage. The Christian life is not all that well represented in the Show. The Show is clean, polished, and schedule-driven; life off-stage is unpredictable, unrehearsed, and ambiguous. So we let our kids loose. We invite them to sing with us. Sometimes they storm the stage. Sometimes they snore. So do the adults. Distractions are as immanent as the Lord's return. And if any pastor thinks he can control the environment, he is a fool. But so is the pastor who invites chaos to reign. The Show calls for some order (1 Cor. 14:40): stay awake, silence your phones, and speak in turn. But, please, let the children dance.

Pastor Tension #2 - Overcoming Evil

2011-04-12T14:43:00.006-04:00

Someone drew a phallic symbol on our sidewalk. I felt violated. They used my daughters' chalk. I assume it was a cohort of elementary-aged boys. One found the chalk. Another dared his peers to vandalize the concrete. Another took the dare and the chalk. The rest snickered. I don't miss those days.

I noticed the drawing when I took my dog for a walk. I paused to inspect it. The picture was artistically lacking and anatomically inaccurate. But it was no doubt phallic. Discarded in the grass lay the responsible stick of chalk. I knelt down, like Jesus in the sand, and added a few lines.

From a crude phallic sketch, I produced a common delivery truck. In a few swift strokes, I took back both my daughters' chalk and the sanctity of my sidewalk. Call this conversion. Call this redemption. Call this a victory over juvenile temper and the forces of evil.

As a pastor, I regularly commend fighting against immoral behavior. The categorical word for bad behavior is sin. It includes both a practice (drawing penises up and down Main Street) and bad posture (defying God and victimizing neighbor). This call to fight sin (and live morally blameless) in a sin-saturated world creates a pastoral tension. The demand is impossible, but necessary.

I will not overcome evil... but I should fight it.
I will not achieve perfection... but I should strive.
I will not redeem the world... but I should clean up my sidewalk.

The good news is that Jesus began the work of redemption, perfection, and overthrowing evil. He did it on the Cross. He proved it in the Resurrection. He shared it in the Ascension. He will consummate it in His return.

Until His return, God's people are called to be symbol of conversion, redemption, and evil overthrown. A good starting place for our calling is the sidewalk lining our streets.

Pastoral Tension #2 - Transparency

2011-04-06T08:45:00.002-04:00

My wife received a wine rack for Christmas. Actually, two. Both her father and I shared the idea. As an additional gift, he stocked it with bottles. When we hosted our extended family Christmas, there was enough wine to go around for holiday cheer on all sides. Call it a celebration. Call it Communion.

Of course, when our church celebrated Christmas, we hid the wine glasses and broke out the plastic tumblers. We filled them with Seven Up and grape juice. We called it a celebration. We called it Communion.

There is a certain wisdom, call it Pastoral Survival 101, in separating personal convictions from public practice. One of my mentors will not drink a beer with me in his home town, but will happily raise a glass in my neighborhood. And if I follow the same policy, we have to meet at a neutral location. (Chicago, Lance's Bar and Grille, 9:00?)

When it comes to teaching, preaching, and everyday conversation, there are certain personal convictions or sin struggles that are not helpful for full disclosure. This is a pastoral tension. I've known pastors who confessed sin and lost jobs. I've know pastors who hid sin and it found them out. Transparency is a risky business.

The sermon should not be treated as a confessional booth. Nor should it serve as an impersonal discourse on doctrine. Pastors make moral decisions. Pastors make ethical judgments. Pastors distinguish between family practice and public ministry. And pastors lead others to due the same.

I'm not unaware of the "stronger/weaker" brother arguments in Romans 14. Christian liberty is an important issue. Moreover, personal liberties further expose the pastoral tension of transparency. The two reasons below illustrate:

I cannot make decisions for any other person; each one is responsible for their choices
I influence other people's decisions; teachers/leaders face a fiercer judgment

In the end, pastoral transparency is lawful and most profitable when it serves as a paradigm for decision-making to others. I expose my choices--moral, ethical, sinful--to teach people discernment and how to strengthen their walk with Jesus. If pastoral transparency serves merely to justify my choices or shock some listeners, then I should leave it on the wine rack in my kitchen.

Pastoral Tension #1: Sermon

2011-03-29T12:58:00.006-04:00

The joke for pastors is that we only work one day a week. Preparing and presenting a sermon is our labor; if we're diligent, we'll follow up with a midweek email. Regardless, every Sunday morning by 11:45, anyone could leave our gathering and admit I've worked. "He said something," they exclaim. What I said is up for debate, but that I said anything is certain. Most recent training on sermons suggests having a single core/big/critical/central idea. If the people cannot walk away without parroting a catch phrase, the preacher has failed. Sermons have been reduced to slogans:

Follow Christ who favors you.

Courageous Christians make challenging choices.

Believe in a God who believes in you.

Become the answer you are praying for.

Save good money at Menards.

I struggle with reductive preaching. Recent critique has validated this. Three times in the past week I've learned that my sermons are overloaded with information. "I don't know what to do with it," one person admitted. "Pray about it," I replied.

Every week (rather, the one day a week I work) the sermon surfaces a pastoral tension: information versus transformation. I'm not dull; I know these two concepts are not mutually exclusive.* In the digital era, information is not at a premium. Nor has it been since the printing press mass produced the KJV 400 years ago. Sadly, access to Scripture has not alleviated biblical illiteracy. Nor has it curbed loose living and nominal Christian testimony.

No, that is what sermons are for--promoting biblical literacy and inspiring spiritual purity. Ideally, the sermon exposes truth from Scripture and its relevance for daily surrender to God. First and foremost, it is biblical. Second and important, it is practical.

I cannot believe that sermon-as-slogan will curb the trend of marginal Christianity. If anything, the problem will be exasperated. I fear the church will suffer from a slow death-by-topical syndrome. Slogans sell hardware and promote patronage, they do not transform lives.

Thus, I approach my work day with fear and trembling. The sermon is inherently limited by time constraints and cultural trends, by attention spans and information gaps. To be truly effective a sermon does not need better crafting and more concise packaging. Transformative preaching requires the presence of the Holy Trinity, who cannot be reduced to a slogan or exhausted by data overload.

__________________________

* This will be true of every topic in the Pastoral Tension series.

Swag Bag

2011-03-08T13:46:00.002-05:00

I go to conferences to win swag and enter drawings. I once won a Kindle; I'm holding out for an iPad. Most of the contents in a swag bag are mere promotional pieces. When I ran the Columbus Marathon last year, the bag included a shirt, a mint, and twenty applications for future races. My church gives out better swag to visitors.

And if you mention this blog the first time you visit Leesburg Grace Brethren Church, I'll throw in a free copy of Max Lucado's book, Mighty Tumbles in a Dusty Playground. Act immediately, and you'll get a Frisbee thrown in for free, too.

Conferences (and rallies and retreats) rarely yield any new ideas. The Internet has provided unlimited access to tools, trends, and resources in ministry. Ideas are a dime a dozen. For this reason, we like the shiny and shrink-wrapped items in the swag bag. We can take it home or hawk it on eBay.

My recent involvement in a leadership summit followed suit. I drooled over the prize table, covered with books and mugs and DVDs and apparel. I politely nodded at the information in the session. Unleashing God's Word was the theme, the premise being that God's word makes a difference in a teenager's life.

Nod. Yawn. When is the next drawing?

Then the speaker asked the leaders to evaluate their relationship with God, considering quality time in Scripture.

Sigh. Grunt. Is this a rhetorical question?

If my table was a microcosm of spiritual leaders in the country, it is no surprise that we are breeding a generation of "Moralistic Therapeutic Deists," to borrow a term from sociologist Christian Smith. Students will not rise above their teachers, Jesus warned (Matt. 10:24). The task of teaching/leading, James reminded us, is a heavy task (Jas. 3:1). We have a form of godliness (best practices, compelling vision, quality A/V, fun games, and relevant teachings), but we deny its power (2 Tim. 3:5).

It'll take more than swag and novel curriculum to connect the emerging generation to God. His word, neither shrink-wrapped or cutting-edge, is a powerful starting point.

_______________________
"...we 'teach' young people baseball, but we 'expose' them to faith. We provide coaching and opportunities for youth to develop and improve their pitches and SAT scores, but we blithely assume that religious identity will happen by osmosis, emerging 'when youth are ready' (a confidence we generally lack when it comes to algebra)."
Source: Almost Christian: What the Faith of Our Teenagers Is Telling the American Church by Kenda Creasy Dean

Down with Concert Halls and Midi Files

2011-02-28T15:05:00.004-05:00

My friend Micah debuted his new album in his living room last Friday. He started performing to the rhythm of our feet. We pounded the floor; he spoke of lightening. He strummed his guitar; he spoke of redemption. These were "Songs of Love..." if we were listening.

The new album comprised story, analogy, history, melancholy, and a tribute to resurrection. Thoughtfully composed and meticulously practiced, the album was grand. Micah used a capo and finger picked. He tapped his toes and closed his eyes. He got into it.

His wife Nicole complimented the evening with her own notes of love (..if we were eating). Warm brie with strawberry jam filling, freshly baked bread and Nutella, coffee and cold beverages, and glasses and plates adorned the table. She got into it.

Fourteen bodies pressed together. We ate. We clapped. We commented. We laughed. We supported our friend. We got into it.

In a world full of crowded concert halls and compressed midi files, it is refreshing to sit in a room with real people, food, and music. It is a foretaste of heaven...if we're looking.

Diego, et al.

2011-02-21T17:02:00.004-05:00

Last week my ESL class had three Diegos. This simplified the task of learning names. But two of the Diegos did not speak English, which made instruction difficult.

Fortunately, I've mastered a few Spanish phrases over the years. When I worked at a restaurant with two Joses, I often muttered Con Permiso. As I understand, the words roughly translate: "Please let me pass, I have a hot plate of chicken in my hands." I also learned to state my name and ask for another for his. The Joses called me Timerbly. As I understand, the moniker roughly translates: "A girly-boy named Tim."

For the past few years, our church offers weekly ESL classes to stay-at-home parents. Most of them are moms. Many bring their infants and pre-school aged children. Several of them are named Diego. Because my estimable Job Description requires me to teach adults Bible (as a Second Language) on Sunday mornings, I seize the opportunity to teach children on Wednesdays.

While this small ministry may not resolve any border disputes or immigration problems, it certainly models redemption in a culture gripped by fear and politics. It provides a learning community for isolated mothers. It gives them a voice in a foreign country. It gives pastors a chance to work with kids and learn names.

Teaching language (English or Bible) and learning names is a worthy vocation.

Ego Shot

2011-02-14T14:27:00.003-05:00

When a third of the Underground Church participants leave halfway through my presentation, my ego feels punched. I am just getting warmed up. My critique of the current Social Justice movement is reaching its crescendo. My story about whipped cream and embarrassing family moments is just around the corner. Then an entire table stands up and announces their departure.

Smack! Pow! Kazaam!

I've been punched before. My brother punched my arm whenever I flinched. Pop! Crack! And I survived several school yard tussles as a kid. Bam! Crash! Bloody noses stop bleeding. Bruises and broken bones eventually heal. But a wounded ego requires special attention.

Immediately, I begin to wonder if the remaining listeners are equally ready to leave. Eyelids are shutting, tea lights expiring. A half hour remains until midnight, and I have yet to trace diachronically the Old Testament's method of evangelism. (Riveting, I know, but this is what we paid for: Pizza and in-depth study of the OT.)

So I do what any wounded ego would do. I tell my story about whipped cream. It is self-depreciating and nakedly human. The remnant laughs and gives me permission to move forward. I do.

"Turn to Joshua 24..."

_________________________________________
A reflection on my teaching opportunity at an Underground Church event in Warsaw, IN, inspired by The Church at Brook Hills. I discussed the OT narrative and Environmentalism, Social Justice, and Evangelism in the OT.

Confrontation

2011-02-03T11:13:00.002-05:00

In our bi-weekly accountability meeting, my brother-in-law confessed his distaste for confrontation. We sat at a booth at Pizza Hut. To this point, I had eaten a Caesar salad, serving of pasta primavera, two breadsticks, and five pieces of pizza. I was waiting for the dessert tray to be refreshed. Christian accountability is as good a reason as any to practice gluttony.

We spoke in particulars. Who and why confrontation was needed. I asked a simple question: "Did you confront her?" (I won't say who she is; accountability relationships are sworn to secrecy.)

"No," Aaron replied. "I am melgreen."

"You're what?" I asked.

Aaron explained: The father-in-law we share by having married sisters, is named Mel. Until recently, Mel worked in the corporate world. In the corporate world, bosses occasionally provide personality test to their workers to determine personality types and emotional IQs. Mel's boss wanted to know what color he was. Mel was green. And green is the color of compliance, harmony, and conflict avoidance.

What my brother-in-law was trying to say is: "As it is relates to confrontation, I am like Mel, I am green." What he said is, "I am Mel: green." What I heard is: I am melgreen.

Thus in a small town Pizza Hut booth, where two accountability partners consumed a sum of 5000 calories for lunch, a new term was birthed.

Melgreen (n.) the deliberate and complete avoidance of confrontation.

Use it wisely.

Tissues

2011-01-18T15:02:00.004-05:00

Last Thursday I used one hundred twenty tissues on my runny nose. It was a marathon-cold-day, averaging a trip to the Puffs' box every six minutes. Fortunately, they were coated with lotion, otherwise I might not have a nose today.

At one point I located three trash bags in my dining room, each dedicated to the collection of soiled tissues. At another point I almost cried from exhaustion. After listening me to lament and moan for a half hour on the bench, my wife said, "It's just a cold, Tim. Some people have cancer."

"But cancer doesn't come out of their nose," I replied smartly.

Colds are my cancer. But some day cancer might be my cancer. If it is true that God gives us no more than we can handle, He has deemed me a lightweight. I am okay with that as long as I can reach the Puffs' box and breathe at night.

One hundred and twenty blows in a day does seem excessive. I wondered aloud if this was normal. My wife agreed it was excessive. Some people sniff. Some people swallow. And some noses leak less.

Sadly, I have a distinct memory from childhood where I avoided using tissues. I would sniff and snort and channel the snot down the back of my throat. Perhaps this was not the prescribed method for dealing with a cold, but it worked. Then one day my father yelled at me, "Use a Kleenex."

I did. Excessively. One hundred and twenty in a day. And herein lies the real sickness: I need to forgive my dad.

Enough

2011-01-10T10:50:00.006-05:00

Insatiable is the elevated term my wife and I use to describe our daughters. By this we mean, nothing is ever good enough for them. They always want a little more cereal in the bowl and a little more milk on top; another dip in the candy jar; more time with mom and one more twirl from dad; carried her, transported there; and they still beg our company in the bathroom to wipe their butts. Fortunately, we buy toilet paper in bulk.

Parenting is endless, exhausting, and proportionally thankless.

Three days ago a woman in her fifties admitted that becoming a grand-parent only surfaces the next challenging phase of parenting. How much advice and intervention to provide their children as they learn to rear their own is tenuous territory. Excess and neglect have narrow margins.

So if I'm weary now, I have a long way to go.

Along the way, there are certain payoffs. Parenting has strengthened my alliance with my wife. We are in this battle together. Sometimes it feels like us against them. Sometimes it feels like they are winning. Some day they will get married and move away, and we'll just have one another.

Moreover, I enjoy my daughters' sparks of creativity, signs of maturity, and observing their concept of God grow. We are doing this in unison. For every time I lament their lack of thanks and confess my tried patience, I recall my Father in heaven, who has played audience to enough tantrums to fill an ocean. We all need a time out.

When I consider God as Father, I resolve to outlast my insatiable children. Perhaps one day they'll thank me for it.

Genesis Reflections

2011-01-03T10:02:00.004-05:00

When the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil comes up, most of my Bible resources defer. Its existence is problematic because it assumes that God's good, blessed, and sanctified creation can include evil. At least at a conceptual level--perhaps embryonic or dormant--evil took residence in a God-designed, God-approved creation.

To be fair, humanity made the objective concept a subjective reality. Not until Eve was goaded by the serpent and Adam complicit in breaking the one prohibition, was evil activated. Humanity is to blame.

Nonetheless, human culpability does not answer the question: Why pair good with evil in the first place? Hence, commentator's deference.

Genesis, though, may hint at a resolution. As the narrative races us through the country of good and evil--family squabbles and faithful promises; fratricide and fertility; floods and rainbows; covenants and curses; stolen birthrights and spiritual blessings--it returns to the curious pair of terms from the prohibited garden tree. Joseph mentions good and evil as a summary of his tumultuous life.

"As for you, you meant evil against me, but God meant it for good, to bring it about that many people should be kept alive, as they are today" (Genesis 50:20).

Joseph had lived as a favorite son and slave, exalted servant and criminal, only to land as Pharaoh's second-in-command. Speaking to the very brothers who betrayed him, but now begged bread, Joseph offered forgiveness (50:19). Moreover, he provided rational for the existence of evil. What man activates for evil, God redeems for good.

Joseph does not speak solely for his life, but for every life. Evil exists because God uses it for redemption. And redemption is a better story.

Bible Stories

2010-12-28T15:20:00.003-05:00

In a few days I start preaching through the Bible in a year. My preparation has included Bible binge sessions and a steady diet of Bible Survey books. In recent weeks Abraham has usurped Batman as my hero of choice. I'd like to see the father of nations in a mask and cape.

The plan entails one week for each book of the Bible. Some minor prophets will live up to their 'minor' status, getting grouped together by date and purpose. Kings and Chronicles, likewise, will meld into a single, epic summary of Kingdoms divided and conquered. Finally, synoptic gospels and a few letters will be lumped together.

Each sermon will cover the Literary Flow, Redemptive Threads, and Practical Applications of a given book of the Bible. Part survey. Part Sermon. And it is the balance of these things--content and creativity--that will determine the effectiveness of such a project.

Certainly, I am not original in this endeavor.

Austin Bible Church found the experience transformational (and Logos software turned a profit).
Another pastor queried an online forum for advice.
A Baptist pastor agreed to preach 'through the Bible not around it' so as to capture the grand narrative and not 'cherry pick'

Educators, too, have noticed a slide in biblical literacy. Their corrective has come in the form of theological readings of the biblical narrative, rather than background work on given books.

Both Christians and culture on the whole is losing connection to God's great redemptive story. Stories are not in demand; there is no shortage here. (Though we might argue what inherent value a third Focker movies adds to Western civilization?)

What the world needs is a fresh and full hearing of God's redemptive story. It begins with creation, stumbles tragically, and then finds fresh legs in the form of Abraham and his barren bride. God leads and sometimes lets go; God speaks and sometimes remains silent. God delivers and sometimes banishes.

Then God became flesh. The story does not end there, but finds a new beginning in the resurrection of the crucified Son. God's people find themselves in a long resolution as a called out people. An unfinished people in an unfinished story, living the Bible that they rarely read.

This year, though, I will read it. I hope some people join me.

Carols and Faith Undone

2010-12-06T15:44:00.003-05:00

"Jesus pooped," Margot sang from the backseat.

She rode home from church with me yesterday. My inquiry about her Sunday school class led to this chorus about Jesus. I do not blame the teachers. They were sharing the Christmas story, which is the remarkable tale about God in human flesh.

In the early church it was popular to deny Jesus lived in bodily form. Apparently the thought of him pooping, puking, or wetting his bed was too much for some Christians. They claimed He only seemed fleshly--later gaining the name Docetists from the Greek word dokeo, to seem. If Jesus pooped, as Margot chimed, He must have had a body. Bodies are of the essence for Virgin birth and death-by-cross, too.

The Sunday school teachers implied nothing about Jesus' bathroom practices. Margot's carol was the result of poor parenting. During one weak moment in my daughter's second year of life, I laughed when she said "Poopie." It has become her favorite word. Every secret, punchline, or adjective defaults to defecation.

What are you playing, Margot? Poopie game.

What do you want for breakfast, Margot? Poopie.

What did you learn in Sunday school, Margot? Jesus pooped.

I stopped laughing long ago, but the precedent was set.

Elders and effective teachers are called to control their children (1 Tim. 3:4-5). My child was flirting with heresy. Margot was on the opposite end of Docetism, treating Jesus as merely human. My attempt at correction was to avoid laughing and to assure Margot that songs about Jesus should be more respectful. Jesus did poop. That I could not argue. But if we were going to sing about Him, I'd prefer more traditional songs.

Take for example, Away in the Manger. The kids were learning that carol for our church's Christmas service. Surely an exposed infant sleeping in a feeding troth really enhances Jesus' image. My daughter Claire didn't think so. Last night she refused to sing it at our church. I should clarify: Claire did not want to sing it at our church, because the Winona Lake Grace Brethren Church sings better than ours. She told my wife this on the way to their Kids' Christmas Chorale.

Christmas carols were undoing the faith of my family. One daughter ignored the deity of Jesus; the other slandered the local church. Our Christology and Ecclesiology were under attack. Perhaps next year we'll stick to Jingle Bells.

Beware the Brand

2010-11-29T15:31:00.003-05:00

If the recent vote by Forbes Magazine--11th best little city to raise a family--didn't boost Warsaw's self-image, the addition of Starbucks has boosted local pride. The global coffee shop moved into our town with pomp and circumstance. The town is buzzing with caffeine and holiday cheer. "Warsaw [IN] has finally arrived," residents are saying. "Now I can die," others have said.

The Starbucks is strategically tucked in the front corner of the new Martin's Superstore. Shoppers who come in for fresh produce and dairy products can enrich their grocery shopping experience with a Peppermint Mocha. Those coming to restock their cereal shelf and purchase French bread can do so with a steaming cup of Pike's Place Blend in their hands.

Warsaw residents are finally in a position to shop and drink coffee at the same time. Glory, glory! Our time has come.

Since its Grand Opening, I've been to the Martins-plus-Starbucks twice. Both times there were lines for Venti Egg Nog Lattes. Both times shoppers were maneuvering their carts with their hips while their hands cupped Grande Sugar Free Vanilla Soy Lattes. Both times I watched shoppers swell with pride and renewed zeal for their little town. Both times I was sickened.

I am not anti-Starbucks. For six months I worked at one in Denver, making enough with tips to buy diapers for my newborn. Liz and I survived on the free pound of beans I received weekly. My boss treated me well, called me buddy, and once gave me a pin for my excellent service.

My gripe is not with the corporation, as much as with the consumer. Do we really need coffee to grocery shop? Really? Does a naked siren and green circle really make coffee taste better? Really? Are local coffee shops so inept that we need global players to come in and show us how it's done (and run them out of business in the process)? Really?

Unfortunately, we put more stock in a brand than a product. Americans prefer Starbucks to Latte Art and 1000 Park Bak-afe. Americans prefer Martins to Jones' Food Market. Americans prefer Community churches to Grace Brethren ones. Americans prefer Dan Brown books to Tim Sprankle ones. (Perhaps for good reason...he's published!)

In the end, the global brands will consume the local performers. Starbucks, Martins, and Dan Brown will run the world. Beware the brand, Warsaw, the Apocalypse is coming. And I'll be writing from the clouds.

Destiny

2010-11-22T13:45:00.002-05:00

I ate his destiny, and it was sweet. My professor didn’t believe in fortune cookies: this dessert was a threat to orthodoxy. But I could not let a delicious, chocolate-dipped cookie go to waste on the Lazy Susan. I snatched it up and swallowed, waiting for the wrath to come.

Eating another man’s fortune cookie is playing with fate. Eating another man’s fortune cookie who declined to eat it in good conscious because he wants God to author his future not a treat is playing with God. I ate it nonetheless.

Surprisingly, nothing happened. No divine condemnation. No wrinkle in time. No acid reflux. Just sugary, sweet aftertaste.

More surprisingly, simple table etiquette has a way of revealing deep, moral convictions. What we eat may be driven by a sense of purity, holiness, or festivity. Whom we eat with may be motivated by a sense of equality, fraternity, or charity. When we eat may be guided by a sense of rhythm, rest, or compulsion. Why we eat may be fueled by a sense of thanks, remembrance, or liberty.

Not only was fellowship around the table central to Jesus’ ministry, but narratives of dining and feasting are woven throughout the biblical narrative. Eating shapes God’s people. (Obesity is not in view). The what, with whom, when, and why are important. Love feasts and idolatrous meat markets sparked regular debates—all questions included (Acts 15; Romans 14; 1 Corinthians 11). Christian liberty and bad company incited arguments.

My biblical position on fortune cookies was more liberal (and tasty) than my professor. His view was more thoughtful and less caloric. But I did not want to trifle over a truffle. Nor did he. “It’s just a damn cookie,” he stated. Better it than him.

Encouragement

2010-11-16T21:19:00.002-05:00

"Why did you go to Cambodia?" I've answered the question many times.

My wife and I are not world travelers. Five years ago we secured passports for an anniversary trip to Ireland. They stamped our books, and we snapped some photos. It was a shame to let our passports expire without a few more impressions. But we did not go to Cambodia for stamps and snapshots. We went for friends.

More than a year ago friends of ours moved overseas. They boarded a plane to engage a foreign city. They would have to find lodging. They would have to learn the language and culture. They would have to pursue a vision and build a home for their child-on-the-way. (Weeks before departing they found out they were pregnant.)

I have two kids; they block simple goals. In a good week, I can embrace the interruptions. Not all weeks are good. Half the time I wonder if I will have enough time to pay bills and do laundry. Nonetheless, I have a vision to pursue and a home to build.

But what I realized in Cambodia is the indispensable link between family and mission. My calling is first as a husband; second as a father; third as a pastor. An unfaithful husband or absentee father may appear as a good pastor, but he is a bad man. He has forsaken the marriage bed and neglected his children. What can such a man offer a congregation?

Pastors and missionaries share this link: family is the first calling. So Liz and I were thrilled to travel across the globe to encourage our friends in their primary calling. We were impressed with their Khmer and brilliant smiles when talking to neighbors. However, our greatest joy was watching them play with their son, shape his life, and share the stress of another crying fit.

The last night together we dedicated their son. After reading Deuteronomy 6 and praying for God's love to shine through him, we sang "Jesus, Be the Centre" as a benediction. Traffic outside honked and darted. Fruit sellers peddled their goods. Spirit houses appeased dead relatives. And we praised.

As the song closed, Liz said, "You forgot to ask 'Who will help this couple keep their commitment to raise Ian to love God?'" I had forgotten. And since we were the only ones present for the commitment, we committed.

This is why we had come to Cambodia.
________________________________
This is the final (5 of 5) Cambodia Update

Appeasement

2010-11-11T07:40:00.005-05:00

Spirit houses guard homes and business places in Cambodia from evil spirits. By standard definition, Cambodia is listed as a Buddhist nation; however, animism is a more appropriate listing. Disembodied spirits and dead relatives float in and out of daily life. Spirit houses keep them from haunting homes and marketplace transactions. To appease the spirits, residents deposit food and spices into the opening of the spirit habitats and hope for the best.

Religious practice there spills into daily business. Appeasement is a mode of survival. Beggars beg until appeased. Peddlers peddle until appeased. Voices of poverty cry until relief organizations come in and appease. Police randomly patrol the streets until appeased. Government officials horde and hide and occasionally build a park to appease.

The driving force behind an appeasement culture is fear: fear of spirits; fear of death; fear of hunger; fear of a night without Agkor beer.

I do the same thing. In the morning my children ask for candy; I say no. They ask again; I say no again. They ask again, afraid they may not get their sugar fix. I appease; I fear my children will drive me mad with their incessant pleas for candy, and I just want to pour myself a bowl of cereal.

Unfortunately, appeasement does not solve problems, it merely prolongs them. Appease one child selling bookmarks at a premium discount of one dollar (every item was one USD), and five others will come knocking. Appease two children begging for Skittles, and cavities and emotional meltdowns are around the corner. The peddler learns his tactic works; the child learns that her whining produces; the appeaser learns that giving in keeps people away. But no one learns healthy engagement.

Enough conversations with people about their view of God have convinced me that Christians embrace an appeasement theology. God is not happy with me. God will judge me harshly. God cannot forgive me, they surmise. Perhaps a little more church, a little more Bible, a little more prayer, a little more service, and I can avert His wrath.

But God does not need appeased. Jesus did that work. Rather than keeping God at a distance, we are to accept Him. "Receive the Holy Spirit," Jesus says (John 20:22). "Become the Spirit's house," Paul echos (1 Cor. 6:19). With His abiding presence, we can live fearlessly--engaging God and neighbor.

_________________________________
Cambodia Update 4 of 5

Loss of Faith

2010-11-08T15:46:00.004-05:00

I lost my faith in humanity when I visited one of Pol Pot's prison facilities. At one time Tuol Sleng was a school. Boys and girls, clad in uniforms, had learned their letters in these classrooms. Gossip and chatter had echoed down the stairwells. Laughter and games had filled the courtyards.

Then Pol Pot converted it to a mortuary. Driven by suspicion and a heartless ideology, he imprisoned his former officers and their families. Inmates erected their own shabby cells from brick and mortar. They boarded windows to eliminate the light. They stained the floor with their own blood.

One of my college professors advocated for capitalism because it understood the depravity of man. Men are greedy and need carrots. Men are lazy and need sticks. When men are given a context to seek their own good, they will find it. Knock, and it will be opened. Capitalism, though, also works because the creative image of God in man.

Pol Pot could not comprehend the failures of communism. (He was not thinking of himself.) Equality and purity are attractive national goals. In fact, to suspect man can achieve these ends is to demonstrate a deep sense of faith in humanity. Oddly enough, the communist manifesto comes with a deep record of brutality--genocide, ghettos, and AK47s. Perhaps greed is good.

One man trying to capitalize on this tragic site greeted our tuk-tuk at the entrance. His face was melted, presumably a survivor of the Khmer Rouge, and he petitioned us for change. We bought our entry and strictly observed the "No Laughing" Rule. Melted faces and mocking tourists further crushed my faith in humanity.

But the final blast to my faith came when viewing the portraits of Pol Pot's victims. Meticulously photographed, thousands of faces took their turn in the subject's chair. Among the nameless masses was the face of a little girl, younger than my youngest daughter. She pursed her lips and arched her eyebrows in a curious expression. She looked innocent, slightly amused, immune to the slaughter awaiting her.At the end of the second building, Liz discovered a stairway hosting a lively debate. Pol Pot was slandered, defamed, and condemned. His guilt is unquestioned. But there was another line of questions; they related to God. Does He exist? Is He good? If so, why is barbed wire covering this building?

Those are fair questions, but not for today. I've already lost enough faith--faith in man. I want to hold my faith in God another day.
____________________________
This is Cambodia Update 3 of 5

Honk and Dart

2010-11-04T14:22:00.003-04:00

"Stay close to me when we cross," Tim said.

We were about to cross Sisowath Quay, the street running parallel to the river. Cars and motos honked and darted past, observing uncertain traffic laws. They veered for the elephant wearing shoes, but not for me and Tim.

"This is like Frogger," Tim shouted back to me as we dodged traffic.

We hopped across, surviving several near misses. Unfortunately, this was not the only time during our jog that Tim led me through traffic. We braved other intersections and one roundabout that I was sure would flatten me. Tim ran undaunted; I shifted in fear.

My distrust for Cambodian drivers has good cause: Pedestrians don't get the right-of-way. On my block certain rules govern the flow of traffic. One ways, traffic lights, stop signs, and crosswalks direct us. In Cambodia these signals are irrelevant. (For this reason, the book Go, Dog. Go! will not make any sense to my friends' son growing up overseas!)

Motos are the main form of transportation in the city. Cheap and versatile, the moto serves as a taxi, family transport (sometimes carrying 5 people), storefront, and delivery vehicle. By law, drivers are required to wear helmets, but few other regulations exist. It is, however, a courtesy to honk when darting past someone.

Honk and Dart defines the streets. Motos do it. Cars do it. Vans do it. Buses do it. Pedestrians just dart.

Fish Massage

2010-11-01T14:45:00.004-04:00

The Doctor Fish staff stands behind its service. Each fish massage comes with a 'Happiness' guarantee. No happiness, no charge. Free cans of Angkor Beer help the cause. Liz and I surrendered five dollars.

The fish massage is built on a simple premise: Tourists will try anything. After three days in Cambodia, I'd proved to be a good consumer. My inhibitions slackened and appetite expanded. I chewed iridescent meat, swallowed squid tentacles, and ordered iced coffee in broken Khmer.

A fish massage reverses the roles. The consumer becomes the consumed, as swarms of fish suck the dead skin off wet feet. Fish will try anything. They nibble bunyons and blisters, athlete's foot and plantar warts. They ingest decrepit skin and it tickles.

Liz and I dominated the fish tank. Within seconds of submerging our feet, they were surrounded by wriggling crowds of fish. Three other pairs of feet braved the tank during our fifteen minutes of happiness, but they barely received a bite. Our feet were gourmet. All natural White meat. Authentic American cuisine.

The final few days of our trip, Doctor Fish became the defining metaphor for tourists in Cambodia: consumers getting consumed. Swarms of merchants and beggars, moto drivers and food vendors offering to massage our wallets and suck the dead Presidents from our feet. Our soles were tender when we returned home, and our wallet was empty.

___________________________________
This is Part 1 of 5 updates about a recent trip to Cambodia

Cambodia in Motion

2010-10-20T21:23:00.003-04:00

After my first day, my friend Tim asked me for my impressions of Cambodia. "Motion without movement" was the phrase that came to mind. Their third floor apartment overlooks a marketplace. From five AM to nine PM, motos and merchants flood the block with the appearance of activity. Traffic and trade are governed by unspecified rules.

The only clear law is that relationships mean everything. Observation from the third floor obscures this cultural mandate; from here everything looks busy. However, when I engaged the streets with my friend, I quickly learned that life slows at the ground level.

Example one: We step out of the apartment doorway into an alleyway. Promptly, several neighbors greet us with "Sok So-bai." The greeting is echoed. And echoed. Ad nauseam. The neighbors take turns coddling my friend's baby. They make popping noises. They pinch his cheeks. They ask if our wives our sisters and where we plan to work in Cambodia. We will not be opening a market booth soon, I say, in precise Khmer.

Example two: We weave our way through the market. Tim intends to buy sandals. His have recently been stolen by vagabonds who formerly lived in his alley. A neighbor who sells shrimp leads him to a booth run by a friend. Business is driven by such connections. Tim describes the type of sandals he wants, and the merchant produces a pair that does not satisfy his description. He declines. She persists, showing him several other pairs, the last adorned with a pink teddy bear and straps of the same shade. The merchant has hundreds of shoes and sandals to offer, but does not close the sale. Tomorrow she will open again at six AM.

Example three: After a late lunch, we return to the apartment. Several motos sneak around us in the alleyway. Walking is not the typical mode of transport. As we arrive at the entryway, the same gathering of people remains seated on plastic lawn chairs. They were here when we left, and will tend shop until dusk, no doubt. They sell hair products and produce and chicken wings. I have yet to witness a sale.

Example four: Tim and I go to buy iced coffees. The shop is located around the corner from his apartment, less than a minute away. Twice we are offered rides on a moto.

Example five: I wake up this morning at four AM. A few people gather on the sidewalk, chatting. By five AM street cleaners are sweeping debris from the street; garbage trucks come by a half hour later, stab bags of trash with pitchforks, and toss them into the truck. They are cleaning up for commerce and commuters. By six AM the streets are flooded with motos and merchants--the day recycled.

This is business as usual. This is Karma. Constant bustle. Constant motion. But no movement.

Typhoid Fever

2010-10-11T14:16:00.005-04:00

I'm swallowing capsules of Typhoid to prepare for a trip to Cambodia. Liz and I are going to visit friends who are on mission. We are on mission, too. Every Christian should be. Mission in America, though, requires you to consume pop culture trivia and marketing techniques.

We fly out of Chicago early Monday morning, one day after I complete the Columbus Marathon. Months ago I planned these events; it sounded adventurous then. Now it sounds murderous. If I don't die of Typhoid, jet lag or blood clots could kill me.

Death does not discriminate. But God knows our days. I heard a pastor from my fellowship was killed last night riding a bike. I grieve for his family.

Duty

2010-10-04T14:58:00.003-04:00

The late David Plaster shaped my theology of duty. I would crawl into his office once a week and lament my lack of passion for Christ. I loved studying paradigms and ancient customs, but I never wanted to clap in chapel, read the Bible, or pray with classmates. I practiced spiritual disciplines and sheered my sheep out of duty. Passion-free, loveless duty.

Even a lazy reading of the OT prophets portrays duty as a vice.

"I am sick of your sacrifices," says the LORD. "Don't bring me any more burnt offerings! I don't want the fat from your rams or other animals. I don't want to see the blood from your offerings of bulls and rams and goats." (Is. 1:11)

"I hate all your show and pretense-- the hypocrisy of your religious festivals and solemn assemblies. I will not accept your burnt offerings and grain offerings. I won't even notice all your choice peace offerings. Away with your hymns of praise! They are only noise to my ears. I will not listen to your music, no matter how lovely it is." (Amos 5:21-23)

Jesus reiterates the message in John 4, telling the adulterous woman that God is seeking worshipers whose affection is true and spiritual. Worship as mere form is unacceptable. Duty chants an ugly chorus.

Dr. Plaster challenged my guilt-ridden concept of duty. "It's not all bad. Duty can also guard you." His exhortations were as common as the shame for feeling passionless.

Duty could guard me from procrastination, pornography, and plagiarism. Duty could guard me from pride, chapel fines, and speeding tickets. Duty could guard me from the most selfish and indolent sectors of my heart.

Though to be certain, duty would not draw me to the heart of the Father. It tastes too much of Tartar.

Kingdom Come and Cola

2010-09-30T15:14:00.004-04:00

A few weeks ago I broke down in tears while buying dog food and Diet Pepsi. The heavens and earth collided, and I couldn't help but feel both the world's grief and the joy of Jesus flanking me.

It took a Mormon to revive Christian faith in prayer and due process.
Football season kicked off and 24-packs of soda were on sale.
A girl died of cancer, but her testimony stirred international inspiration.
An Olsen twin skipped another week of eating but made the front cover.
My daughters giggled in the shopping cart.
A father thumbed keys on his phone, ignoring his crying son.

Reconciling the holy beauty and horrid pain of our world is a harrowing task. The heavens laugh and the earth laments. I sometimes wonder if there is any greater joy than this moment, or any deeper pain than my past. My emotions are inconsistent, and I project the sentiment on God.

"Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven."

Happily I will pray "Your Kingdom come..." if it means a discount on carbonated beverages. But can Jesus' prayer include recession? The Coming Kingdom suggests peace and power, prosperity and freedom from pain. The Coming Kingdom promises quick check out lines and tearless monetary exchange.

No, this earth is not God's kingdom. It is mine. And yours. We envisioned it from a mountain top, told "we are like God, knowing the difference between good and evil." We were told death was mythic and fresh bread unlimited. We were told the world is watching us. It is a kingdom driven by 6.7 billion "I wills" instead of one I AM. It is a kingdom where we cry.

Nonetheless, Jesus tells us to pray for the collision, the irruption, the coming of His Father's reign. When it comes, when He comes, the tears will cease and we will raise our glasses.

DRIVE by Wal-mart

2010-09-13T14:37:00.003-04:00

A couple from our church tailed us in the Wal-mart parking lot. It was Labor Day. We needed Diet Pepsi and brats for a cookout no one could attend. The other couple needed hot dog buns. They were buying for a dinner party of their own.

On the way in, the husband noticed his pastor was dressed down and holding a grocery list in the middle of the afternoon. "Do pastors get Labor Day off?" he asked, chuckling.

I supplied my typical, self-deprecatory response: "I did all my work yesterday."

Earlier in the day I played golf with a high school student and our youth intern. After tearing up the course (with my club, not my score), I met a grad student from our church for lunch. Picnic and play: Did I work?

There is this curious line between work and play in vocational ministry. Forty hours used to be standard. Somewhere along the line, typical hours mushroomed. Fifty-five became the new median. Earlier in the year, a pastor speaking to a group of youth workers said, "Unless you work fifty-five hours, you won't be part of my team." I withdrew my resume.

In his recent book Drive, Daniel Pink suggests that play, when it becomes work, kills motivation. External motivators (money and pensions) are losing clout. Autonomy, mastery, and purpose are the internal motivators that will shape our future economy.

Engineers develop stickier products when unleashed to create than tied to flow charts and formalities. Artists working for free turn out a better canvas than the commissioned painter. Monkeys solving puzzles find better solutions when allowed to play than taunted by reward.

Pink's ideas are compelling, but they have yet to translate to the random pastoral review conducted in the Wal-mart bakery section. I don't have the time to explain the importance of my family life to ministry. I don't have the space to illustrate the connection between a golf swing and spiritual growth. Nor is Wal-mart the place to articulate a grand vision about our future economy, driven by autonomy, mastery, and purpose.

In Wal-mart there is one value: cheap. Always low prices... even on Labor Day, when pastors dress down and cook out.

Fishtank

2010-08-30T15:53:00.003-04:00

"Do you think our fish is happy?" my wife asked me. I wondered if she was being rhetorical. Can fish be happy? Once I heard their memory spans two whole seconds. Then again, I heard that the spotless mind enjoys eternal sunshine. Memories die hard, like the hammer to a bird's skull. What a shame.

My wife's concern was genuine. Living conditions for our fish were far from ideal. It came to our house in a bag with a brother--birthday presents for Margot. The brother did not survive a week. It is lonesome.

The fish has not one name, but three: Fishy, Fluffy, and Lisa. It is gender-challenged and confused.

And FFL's diet consists of expired food, dropped through a hole in random proportions at random hours of the day. It is malnourished.

Worst of all, the fish tank is covered in scum. Every time I walk by I mentally commit to clean it... on the weekend. My memory spans a whole five days. By the weekend, my mind is spotless and the sun is shining. It is neglected.

Obscured by a green curtain, the fish darts up and down, side to side. Scavenging or forgetting? Exercising or wandering? Who knows? Who cares? It's a fish, not a human soul.

At least we, bipeds on the terrestrial ball, live in ideal situations: never neglected, never malnourished, never confused, never lonesome. Those of us, that is, without a memory.
_____________________________________
Create in me a clean heart, God...
Do not cast me away from Your presence... (Psalm 51)

Shirtless

2010-08-23T10:35:00.002-04:00

My daughter took her shirt off at hole number fifteen. This was her inaugural golf outing. She was hot and flirting with boredom.

I did not tell her it was against golf etiquette to go shirtless. Or climb on the cart. Or talk during a tee shot. Etiquette is for country clubs and fancy restaurants. She was enjoying nature with her dad and Papa, two brutes with clubs attacking a little white ball.

Her highlight was spotting a frog in a dirty stream. Her highlight was riding on the back of the golf cart. Her highlight was a package of M&Ms and pressing the GO pedal.

Earlier in the day we had been in church together. Claire was tired and flirting with boredom. She spread herself listlessly across the chairs during the worship music. Margot kicked chairs and clung to her mom's side. I didn't tell them it is against church etiquette to kick or sprawl about in church. At least they kept their shirts on.

Their highlight was eating donuts. Their highlight was dancing in the aisles. Their highlight was making paper crowns and chasing one another through crowded hallways.

Singing praise and playing golf with my children is a hilarious lamentation. I love the inclusion and teachable moments, but finding that line between permission and enforcement is slippery. And singing about the love of God while suppressing my parental wrath ruffles my theology.

In the end, I suspect golf and church have too much etiquette. The point is to enjoy the game.
________________

Man's chief end is to glorify God and enjoy Him forever (Westminster Shorter Catechism).