Taking For Granted

“Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind, and with all your strength” - Mark 12:30

Nope, haven’t walked away yet.  I know – shocks me too.  I haven’t written in a long time though.  I don’t really know why.  I guess I still struggle with the thought of “writing to impress.”  The other part is I often think – anything I have to say has already been said, and that said so much better!  It’s almost like I should just copy and paste (and credit) other peoples’ stuff, things I find really interesting or cool.  I dunno, maybe I will sometime.  Probably not.

A couple weeks ago I had a little accident and fractured five ribs.  I’d love to say it was due to some great sacrifice wherein I rescued someone (I’d even settle for a dog) from some worse fate.  Alas, the accident occurred because of one of two things (maybe both).  I made a really stupid move and fell because of it, and/or because I’m just getting old and can’t do the things I used to.  So, at my age, broken ribs bring life to a standstill.  Since I’ve had so much time to sit and think, I’ve become a superchristian!  I spend my time like a monk, meditating on God, the nature of God, the physics of the trinity, seasons of prayer which have brought me to a sweet communion with Christ.  Yeah, not so much.

The reality is, while I haven’t walked away, I might as well have.  You see, Christianity has become for me a ritual, a habit.  Oh I read my Bible – most days.  Say some prayers – as I fall asleep.  Get to church – as long as there isn’t too much else going on.  I even tell others about Christ – but it’s usually just when I include his given and surname together in a sentence.

I don’t feel like a hypocrite.  I don’t tell others how to live and then live the opposite.  I certainly haven’t walked away – I no longer deny Him.  Or do I?  Yup, this is one of those ramblings that’ll probably go nowhere.  I do deny Him.  I deny Him every single day when I just take for granted what others, namely Jesus, sacrificed so much for.  I deny Him my time, talent (read that any way you like), and I deny Him communion with his adopted son (that’d be me).  How did I get here?  Just look back to some of the original posts on this blog and you will see a man who thirsted after, craved, a REAL relationship with Jesus.  And at some point, I think I had that. 

Maybe that’s it.  Maybe I “reached my goal” and everything since is just coasting downhill.  Kinda sad isn’t it?  It’s funny how these thoughts came to me today.  I coughed.  Thaaaaat’s right kids – I coughed.  With five broken ribs, that isn’t very comfortable.  And somehow, in the midst of that excruciating, stabbing pain I thought about when the Roman Guard stuck the spear in Jesus’ side and how much that must have hurt.  I mean, I was about doubled over and hadn’t been beaten and I certainly wasn’t hanging from a cross!

That’s it.  Nothing fancy.  Wasn’t a life changer.  But it made me open my computer and start typing.  Taking stock of how far I’ve devolved.   

There's Something in the Fog

But though He had done so many miracles before them, yet they believed not on Him.  -- John 12:37

Somewhere in the fog of time I may be able to stumble around until I trip over the very moment. At some point in my life I came to no longer blindly accept the precepts, tenets and doctrines I had been taught since that first Sunday my Mom took my sister and me to a little baptist church in my hometown. Even though the sign outside the church had words like, "Independent," "Premellinial" and "Pretribulational" on it, I was just a little kid, so in the beginning it was simple things. I learned the Bible stories, David and Goliath, Noah's Ark, the Beatitudes, and always, ALWAYS...did I know Jesus as my personal savior?

And it was an ambitious little church. I learned that the Great Commission meant soul-winning on Saturday mornings, stuffing the church bus with as many little kids as could be fobbed off by parents who would never darken the doorway of the church, and special Sundays where we just might, with a little prayer and a lot of work...get 400 into that little place.

Man! Those were halcyon days! I measured my spirituality by how many times I went to church in a particular week, how many chapters of the Bible I read, how often I prayed, and how detailed were my sermon notes. It was a simple Christianity, but then, I was just a kid! Everything was simple! My biggest concern was - would The Sporting News even mention Duffy Dyer that week (don't ask).

I remember arguing creation vs evolution with my biology teacher - wouldn't my youth pastor be proud of me? My heroes were the likes of Jack Hyles, Jerry Falwell, Curtis Hudson, and a whole string of Independent, Fundamental, Premellenial, Pretribulation, Dispensational, King James Only preachers. Going to church on Sunday was a given. 

Somewhere in that fog was a day when I came to understand that Christianty was indeed the opiate of the masses. It was a collection of myths designed to sedate us from the anxieties of a miserable and utterly meaningless existence. I began to question every-single-thing I had ever learned about God.

Reading was for me the principle vehicle of my discontent. From Brueggemann I learned that "those of us who think critically do not believe that the Old Testament was talking about Jesus..." Tillich, in turn, taught me that God was essentially an impersonal "necessary being". And of course, Nietzche instructed me in the art of killing God. After all, God "had to be killed because nobody can tolerate being made into a mere object of absolute knowledge and absolute control." 

Over time I came to understand that not only was Christianity a simple fable, it was a farce, a cruel lie that robbed people of freedom, subjugating them to a code meted out by weak men with control issues and delusions of grandeur. It gave false hope, and just plain made people, ah - who am I kidding? The fact is - it made ME miserable.

Somewhere in that fog of time Christianity became nothing more than a vapor. But here's the weird thing - I actually know how it all started. I can't see through the fog of time clearly enough to see the date on the calendar, but in my mind's eye I can pinpoint the exact spot when it all changed for me. And it all started in church.

It was in the Men's Sunday School class when the pastor was discussing the miracles in the Gospels. I don't know by what twist of thought it happened, but for the first time in my life I heard the miracles and thought, "Oh reeeeally now." Up until this moment I had always thought of the miracles in the Gospels as the great proofs of the Christian faith. But as I listened, I began to run through all the possible explanations, to rationalize how the "miracles" actually happened. No longer able to accept the isolated fact of each story, I became utterly baffled by each telling. Bit by bit the very foundation of my faith evaporated into the fog until what remained of the superstructure of faith shook, teetered and collapsed at the first breezes of the coming storm. 

Since those days, some of which are only now beginning to dissolve into that murky fog, I have begun to see the miracles of The Christ a little differently. I don't know if it's because I can't or because I won't, but I no longer see the miracles as an obstacle - I no longer see them as the bulwark of faith. Rather than as isolated evidence, I've begun to see the miracles as a treasure... God reaching down to man, providing us with memories of how much He loves us, loves me.

Lord, Help Me Forgive

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil:  for thou art with me... Psalm 23:4

This kind of post is difficult to write.  As Paul so aptly pointed out, there lies within each of us two natures.  Never has that been more true in me than at this moment.  In my last post I confessed that I have hatred consuming me from within, and whined about how I wrestled with it.  Then this weekend, during the funeral of my dear, sweet Grandmother, I joked about it, made light of it, and even acted out a bit - much as a petulant 6th grader would do.  I know better.

Let me tell you how I know better.  For one, the very person for whom we were gathered taught me forgiveness.  You see, my mother and grandmother have always had an incredible relationship, one that could stand as a model.  When I was a teenager (and probably a thousand times before and since) I greatly wronged my mother.  Yet, years later when I "returned to the fold" so-to-speak, Gram welcomed me with open arms and that sincere loving smile, that smile that started with her eyes and ended with, "I love you Georgie."  I don't think I ever apologized to Gram for the wicked ways I treated the family, but she forgave me - just like that.  That was my Gram.

Then there's my mom.  Again, I can't imagine (and frankly don't wish to) how many times I hurt my mom.  I have done things in my life that, in most families, would create an unbridgeable chasm, yet mom has forgiven me so thoroughly and completely that I can barely imagine it.  Not only has she told me a million times (okay, hyperbole makes good copy), to forgive others, she has shown forgiveness, not only to me, but even to others whose forgiveness I could never picture.  That is my mom.

The rotten part of this is - it's all so very convicting.  Man!  I have this gut-kicking hatred in me.  Fury, berserk and perverse.  But not only do I hate this person, I hate that I hate this person.  I cannot continue to live this way.  It eats at me.  Like anyone else, I have a job that can be stressful, responsibilities that can keep me up at night, worries of the silly to the serious.  But this hatred, this fire inside, consumes me at times, it is the single most stressful thing in my life.  But why?

Because I was afraid.  That's right.  This person is a thief of the worst kind.  This person has stolen the trust and love of numerous people, stolen it, stomped on it and trampled it to a fine dust.  And this frightened me.  I had already lost so much to this person, and was afraid that I would lose the one thing, the one person I don't think I could bear to lose again.  And so this fear evolved, no - DEvolved, into hatred.  But I no longer fear.  I am no longer afraid.  And with the security of knowing that the thief cannot steal what cannot be stolen, I begin to think with a clearer mind.

I once asked my uncle how to deal with this hatred and anger.  His answer, so simple and profound, was - pray for him, it's hard to hate when you're praying FOR someone.  And that belies my dichotomous nature.  I have been praying, then I acted the boor.

My prayers went something like this:  "Lord, please strike him down."  I'm ashamed to say that, yes, I prayed that - for a long time.  After talking to my uncle, "Lord, teach me what to pray for him."  A couple days ago my prayers began to be more, "Lord, open his eyes."  Then, "Lord help!  I don't know what the hell to pray!"

I had a three hour drive today, and during a lot of it, I found myself praying.  My prayers started out with just thanking God for giving me such an incredible grandmother and such a wonderful mother.  Of course, I spent some time being selfish, prayers like, "Lord, help me be as loving as Gram and mom."  Then something happened...

Now, I don't have one of those relationships with God where he talks to me sounding like James Earl Jones or Sean Connery, but I gotta say, I had a very distinct message come to me.  I was praying about this hatred within me, when I suddenly was overcome with the knowledge that I MUST forgive this person.  I'll be honest - I immediately said a few cuss words and refused, but as I drove, I realized that this is what The Christ would actually do.  This is what Jesus actually did.  He forgave.  And so, this is what I must do, lest my Christianity be even more of a sham than I've already made it.

I don't know how it will work from here.  I don't know how there will be reconciliation or how relationships will be healed across the board.  When all are ready, I trust that God will make that happen too.  But in the meantime, I sincerely take the example of Gram, the forgiveness I have witnessed my mother bestow, and try to emulate He who has forgiven this wretched being.  I forgive, Lord - help me forgive.

Hatred

Not too awfully long ago I was embarking on a spiritual journey, a journey that saw my daughter’s accident bring me closer to God than I had ever been.  In the months after the accident, I realized a closeness and joy I had never before experienced.  Those were truly halcyon days. 

Since then, I struggled with how to keep Christianity real in my life.  I loathe cliché Christianity, the kind of Christianity that puts a, “God is my co-pilot” sticker on the back bumper, while cursing and waving the middle finger at the guy who cut into the lane too close.  Or the Sunday-go-to-meetin’ kind, who are overly-emotional, glad-handing “Amen”-shouting kind, who spend the other six days of the week living like hell with no apology, unless the preacher’s around that is.  Yeah, I know, I’m a judgmental pr&%$.  But I don’t wanna fake it!  That’s right, this time around with Christianity, I have endeavored to be real about it – warts and all.

This seems like it could be pretty liberating doesn’t it?  Be who you are, no apologies – just be real.  So I did, so I am.  I swear too much still, and it bothers me.  Sometimes I make a conscious effort to watch my mouth, a lot of times I find myself praying about it.  But I’m not gonna hide it.  I try to be socially appropriate, but I’m certainly not pretending to be something I’m not.

And I seem to be okay with that.  It’s a process.  When I took the first steps in this journey, I kept asking Uncle Harold what Christianity looked like.  How was I to take what The Christ had done inside me and translate that to my life – how was I to live a REAL Christian life?  I don’t remember now exactly how Uncle Harold addressed this, but I do know that it came down to what Philippians 2:12 said:  to work out my salvation with fear and trembling.  So that’s exactly what I have been doing, and not by wearing a “WWJD” band on my arm. 

And of course, most of the time I fail.  And I am failing worse now than ever.  You know how, when something in your life just isn’t right, you feel that gnawing inside?  That nudge of conscience – conviction of the Holy Spirit?  Well, I have that one in a BIG way right now because I have a serious, deep-seated sin branding the innards of my soul with the word, “HATRED”.  This is hard, because it’s a very real, very serious hatred and frankly, I just don’t know what to do with it.

One thing that troubles me is that people often think they can just quote a Bible verse and that’ll take care of the problem.  But merely quoting scripture without God behind it simply renders scripture – cliché.  It is the Balm of Gilead with no power, the cure-all, merely snake oil!  Scripture quoting won’t get the job done here.

I don’t have all the answers (even though I often try to convince everyone that I do!).  I don’t know how to change this hatred, hatred so profound that it, in very real ways, hampers my relationship with God.  I know I don’t want to walk away from God (again), but I also refuse to pretend I’m one kind of Christian, when inside, a worm tunnels through the core of my soul, leaving me to squirm and writhe at my own sin.

Running

Attend unto me, and hear me: I mourn in my complaint, and make a noise; - Psalm 55:2

I'm a runner. The very first memory I have of running must come from around 1971 or 2. My parents were sitting on the front steps with our neighbors, and some of my friends and I were playing (who knows what). Whatever we were playing required us to run and I remember running around the house and (I know this is hard to believe but it's true) thinking, "I wonder if they (mom and dad maybe?) see how fast I can run!" I also recall my mom sending me to the store for cigarettes (sorry mom), and running to Cozy Corner as fast as I could and back, just so someone would notice how fast I was.  I ran in high school, in the Army I ran (forget the jokes here), and even as a middle age adult I've been a runner.

So there, I'm a runner in a very real and literal sense.  But I've also been a runner in a figurative, metaphorical sense.  I spent the better part of my life running.  As a teenager I "ran away from home."  My perception was that things were so bad at home.  You know - that typical adolescent angst.  In reality, the reasons I ran from home were quite simple - I had rules, and I didn't want them.  

I have spent the better part of my life running.  As a young adult, my wife and I changed churches more often than West Virginians change underwear (I should probably delete that, but nah).  We always seemed to be looking for something better, something more.  In reality, we (and here I should really say "I") kept changing churches because I wanted more opportunity to be noticed.  I kept looking for a church where I could be somebody.  

I've spent the better part of my life running....just ask my kids.

I've spent the better part of my life running.  If anyone reading this knows me - then you know I have run from God more times than...ah - insert your own metaphor here.  You would also know that's been a big concern for me this time around - that I would leave God, simply put my Bible in the drawer and who knows - maybe a few years from now pick it up again.  

No.  I'm not running right now.  But this idea seems to be a theme around me right now.  Several people I know and care about seem to be struggling with the idea that somewhere else, something else, someone else may be better than right here, what they're doing, or the person they're with.  I don't know.  I don't have all the answers for everyone (I barely have the answers for me).  But this I do know...

No matter where I go, there I am.  I have no idea who said that.  I Googled it and the origins have been attributed to Confucius, a cartoon character, a rock band, and even some guy in North Dakota that insists he was the first to say it in 1954.  Another thing - I usually hate cliches, but sometimes they say more than I could say in a thousand pages.  You see, in all the running I've done, be it literal or metaphoric, whenever I arrive at my destination - there I am.  Me.  I'm still there.  And every   single   time, I brought me with me.  All my shortcomings, deceits, lies, and just plain stupidities came with me.  I wasn't running away from others, I was always running from myself.

I don't know when it finally happened.  I don't know if it was Ashley's accident, or some other (relatively) recent time or event, but I have finally stopped running - at least for today.  Circumstances have forced me to come face-to-face with the me that's always there.  And you know what?  Yeah, there've been tough moments, but all-in-all, it hasn't been too awfully bad.  

An English novelist, Terry Pratchett, said, "Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it."  I find that to be an interesting concept.  I suppose there are many theological arguments and/or sermons that can speak to this, but I leave that for the professionals.  It simply says to me ...No matter where I go, there I am, I'm already there.

None of this is to say that change is always bad.  But I think, for the first time in my life I've come to realize that I need to think about my motivation for change.  Is it because it's a good thing, or am I running from myself?  Then there's the whole God's Will thing.  I don't mean to minimize that in any way.  I just haven't matured enough to understand exactly how we know that - what is God's will?  But I do know that, when faced with "big" things these days, I find myself praying about it, you know - "he shall direct thy path..." 

I realize I am the last person on earth to, in any way, preach...but if I could say anything to the people in my life who are looking for...I guess I would have to say this:  pray about it.  Get on your knees and ask God to hear your complaints, your moans and groans.  Ask Him to show - am I running from myself?  What would you have me do?  Yeah, I know...it's always easier to tell someone else how to live, but believe me - I'm trying to learn to do the same thing.  Running can wear one out.

Fear Knocks at the Window

"...because fear hath torment..." - 1 John 4:18  


Last week my Grandfather died.  He went more peacefully than anyone I had ever seen.  I know that sounds weird, but I have seen dozens (dare I say 'in the hundreds'?) of people pass away in my life, and I honestly can't recall anyone "going" so calmly.  And here's the thing about that - I'm not talking just about the moment he actually passed.   


You see, several months ago Gramps was diagnosed with lung cancer.  From what I hear from family, he seemed to accept his fate right from the start.  In the last couple months of his life, I had the honor and pleasure to spend just a bit of "quality time" with Grampa.  In those times, the most amazing thing that stuck with me (aside from the really cool stories he told me) was just how at peace he was with his coming death.  One day Grampa and I were talking and he asked several questions about "timing", essentially he was asking who would go first - him or Gramma.  When I told him that he would likely go before Gramma would, he just stated that that was good, he just never wanted to hear the words that Gram was gone.  I even asked him flat out if he was scared or upset about dying...in his own inimitable way, Grampa just said, "no."  And in the limited number of hours that he and I spent together in those last couple months, I never once heard him complain, and he never, not once, gave any sign that he was scared.  This I find amazing.


Don't misunderstand what I say next.  I don't purport to be one bit a hero - understand that.   Okay, I have faced the very distinct possibility of death a few times, mostly (I think entirely) in battle.  I was scared, there's no sense in pretending - I was.  But there's something about those moments when you realize that you HAVE to do something to prevent it, and the sense of self-preservation completely and entirely takes over.  Doesn't mean I wasn't scared, and it certainly doesn't make me a hero.  But in those moments, had I died, it would have been in the course of fighting back.


Then there's the thought of insidious death, the death of a disease that may grab hold and take time to take one away.  Watching Grampa, I have often wondered - would I, could I ever be so brave and peaceful?  My entire family attributes Grampa's peacefulness to his faith in Christ, and that may very well be so.  But I wonder if I would ever have that kind of faith.  


This is a hard one to write.  There's a decent possibility that my family may read this, and I hate the thought that my kids may see, yet again, a glaring weakness in their father, but alas - this is about truth.  In my head I know that God is there.  I have read, re-read, and read again, the many promises of God.  That to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord.  Even the verse used in this post says, "There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear."   My head knows these things.  But, to be honest, I still struggle with believing these things.  Hart Crane wrote this poem in 1917:


The host, he says that all is well
And the fire-wood glow is bright;
The food has a warm and tempting smell,—
But on the window licks the night.


Pile on the logs... Give me your hands,
Friends! No,— it is not fright...
But hold me... somewhere I heard demands...
And on the window licks the night.


I fear that's more how I would be.  Afraid of the night outside the window.  Don't misunderstand, even though I was a big chicken as a little kid, I've pretty much outgrown most silly fears (with the exception of the occasional, really good scary movie).  But when it comes to what-comes-next, well frankly - I still struggle with that.  When my day comes, will I sit in my chair shaking, fearful of what waits outside my window?  Will my last days be so consumed with fear that death comes with a mighty, sniveling torment?  I can imagine myself in terror.  What an awful picture.  


Faith.  Faith.  Faith.  Grampa, in his silence and by his example, has shown me what I still lack, still yearn for. 

I am what I am

"But by the grace of God I am what I am:"-1 Corinthians 15:10

I am what I am...good grief!

On Easter Sunday, Harold preached a message entitled (I think), "Most Miserable".  This was the day after Grampa passed, and the day we celebrate the resurrection of The Christ.  Truly a day of mixed emotions!  It was a good message, appropriate for the day, but as is typical for me, I remember one thing Harold said over all others.  "Most of us live somewhere between Most Miserable and Perfect Peace."  Just a day-or-two before, I had a conversation with Harold about this very blog.  You see, I am what I am. And because of that - I worry and I persistently live closer to most miserable than to perfect peace.

I worry about my motivation for this blog.  Since my last post (I think almost a year ago) I have written several times, but just couldn't pull the trigger on actually posting.  Because I worry.  I worry that I write to try to impress.  I worry that these inane ramblings may be some attempt to draw attention to myself.  And that is contrary to what I want.  I have spent (and I mean spent) the better part of my life, doing things in an effort to gain peoples' approval.  No more.  At least that's what I said when I endeavored on this leg of my spiritual journey.  I wanted this Christianity to be real - or not to be at all.  No more pretending to be something I'm not.

So I started this blog and at some point I began to think that maybe, just maybe, I was writing to gain approval.  So instead of simply being conscious of this...instead of going to Christ and seeking HIS approval - I just stopped.  No great loss to the world by any means...but for me it was.  It was a loss to me because I began to dwell on how unworthy I was.  I allowed the doubts, the fears and the analyzing to cripple me.

Radiohead sings this song called "Creep."  Don't worry, I won't sing it to you, but here are some of the lyrics:

I want you to notice
When I'm not around
You're so very special
I wish I was special

But I'm a creep

I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doing here?
I don't belong here…

THAT'S what I focused on.  My fear of myself.  Clinging to my worthlessness.  Fears of being disingenuous.  There came a point where I really did wonder what the hell I was doing here.  I didn't belong here.  I am most miserable.  But...


Paul didn't just say, "I am what I am," and just throw up his hands and walk away.  There's more to the verse and the context of I Corinthians 15.  Paul was talking about the resurrection.  Christ had risen and was seen by scores of people, including Paul!  THEN Paul says, "...I am the least of the apostles, that am not meet to be called an apostle, because I persecuted the church of God.  But by the grace of God I am what I am: and his grace which was bestowed upon me was not in vain..."

It would be easy to not write anymore.  Oh, I'd miss it because I enjoy writing, but like anything else - it would be easy to just quit.  And I suppose if I were going to do this for the attention and in my own strength - then I SHOULD quit.  But I'd like to see what would happen if I really trusted in the grace of God.

What if I wrote something and was quite pleased with it, then before posting it I pray.  Ask God to check my heart.  Ask God to help me not write for adulation.  Not write for attention.  What if I did this every time?  Maybe sometimes the grace of God would point out to me that I was being a jerk.  Maybe, on a minute-to-minute, day-by-day basis I could learn to trust in the grace of God rather than trying to be a show-off.  Perhaps, just maybe, the grace that God has bestowed on me would not then be in vain.

Thanks Harold.  

Desperate Jesus - I don't get it

For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.  John 3:16

My Uncle sent me a recording of his sermon from this past Sunday.  Beyond the fact that he is a gifted orator (Harold, insert cutting jokes here!), the content of his messages so often hit home.  This particular sermon was about, well – man’s total depravity.  The idea, nay – fact, that man, at the very core of being, is wicked.  But the interesting take on this concept was Harold’s focus on how desperately wicked people are.  Not just wicked – desperately wicked.

And it’s true.  Thirty minutes of the eleven o’clock news illustrates man’s wickedness every night.  A quick glance at my blog alone demonstrates the wickedness of a man who posed as a Christian for a large portion of his life (that would be me).  I’m not going to spend a lot of time here re-preaching Harold’s message, I’d probably just mess it up.  But I have been thinking about that message. 

I’ve been thinking about how desperately wicked I have been.  Oh, I’ve done some nice things in my life, but these are external works so-to-speak.  They were simply me living within social norms, treating people kinda well.  I say “kinda” because ultimately there is nothing I could have done to “be good” in the eyes of God.  I realize that.  Desperately wicked.  That phrase is crushing.

But then I started thinking today:  if we are desperately wicked, then just how desperate was Jesus?  It blows my mind to think about it.  God creates humans.  God gives one “Thou shalt not”.  Man does it anyway.  And it all goes downhill from there.

Caine kills Abel.  Lot’s daughter gets him drunk…Sodom and Gomorrah.  Floods.  Plagues.  A riot in Ephesus because some merchants are losing money due to Paul preaching Christ.  The Mongul Hoardes.  Crusades.  Hitler.  Nagasaki and Hiroshima.  9/11.  The Middle East.  America.  You.  Me. 

Good grief, there’s not been a whole lot in the history of mankind to make the Creator look at His creation and think – Hmm, I think I’ll die for them.  What!!??  Really???  I don’t really understand the Trinity (and if you do – please stop fooling yourself), but I wonder if the three-part Godhead actually discussed this?

Did the Father simply say he regretted even starting this whole thing, and maybe it would be better to just forget about it?  Did the Holy Spirit offer to move among us and see if something could be done? 

And what about Jesus…how desperately must He have loved us!  Did He say to the Father – I know you’re disgusted but please don’t do this thing.  I can fix this.  I can save 'em.  I know – I'll die for them. No more goats, lambs, bulls, feasts - no more.  I will go and live among them and let them kill me.  Whatever you need, I'll do it.  Daddy, just don't do this thing. Please.  

I can’t even continue with this line of thought. 

I know this post doesn’t make much sense.  I am not a talented enough writer to express my thoughts on this, but Harold’s sermon haunts me with the thought of how desperately Jesus must love us.  

The Fullness of Joy!

These things have I spoken unto you, that my joy might remain in you, and that your joy might be full.  John 15:11

Some days I drive a lot for work, and as it turns out I spent several hours on the road today.  Idle time for me can be a fun or should I say – bizarre time.  I wonder if everyone does it – this whole flight of ideas kinda thing…start out with a snippet of a thought that takes you down the rabbit hole and leads to all kinds of things.  Today I started thinking about my childhood, actually, one particular day in my childhood.

I must have been ten or eleven years old and it was the first snow day off from school for that particular winter.  Anthony and I decided to make some cash, grabbed shovels and headed over to the motherlode – Euclid Ave.  I have no idea what those people on that street did for a living, as a matter-of-fact I don’t think I ever knew a single soul that lived there, but that street had the nicest houses in town.  There were big Victorians, Tudors and styles that I don’t even know the names of, all of which had the biggest, nicest yards with grand old trees and boxwood hedges.  But the best thing of all, to a couple of snot-nosed kids on the first snow day of the year, was these rich folks had long sidewalks and big driveways!

So on this particular day we headed down Euclid and found a corner house, talked to the lady inside and contracted for the whole sidewalk.  I don’t know how long it took us to finish the shoveling, it seemed like hours, of course half that time was filled with snow angels and snowball fights.  When we were finished we showed the rich lady the completed job and she paid us five dollars!  Let me say that again – five dollars!  In those days that was huge!  We felt like the richest kids in town, so much so that we decided that with this single job we had done a day’s work!

Anthony and I were just elbows and teeth as we ran, whooped and hollered the few blocks from Euclid Ave to Cozy Corner, the little general store-wanna-be-diner down on Johnson and Washington.  I might be wrong, but this may have been the most money we ever had and the only thing on our minds was - candy! 

Cozy Corner was one of those general stores you expect to see in the Andy Griffith Show – I think I remember wide planked wood floors and a counter with that huge glass front with all the candy behind it.  Anthony and I stood there gawking at all the goodies trying to decide what to get when the lady (would it be too much to say she had a beehive hairdo and horn-rimmed glasses?  I really think she did) told us to hurry up and decide.  Now-and-Laters (all three flavors), Chunky chocolate bars, Cowtails, Chick-O-Stix, and a quart bottle of Coca Cola in a big glass bottle that needed an opener to pop the top.  I don't remember how much we payed, or if we had any money left over, but I do remember that DING! the old cash register made as we handed over our cash.  

But the best part of the day, my favorite memory, is of Anthony and me…sitting in the cold with our snow pants on, a light snow still falling, and the two of us just sitting on the stoop outside the old bakery a couple doors down from Cozy Corner.  In my mind’s eye I am still ten or eleven and when I think of that moment, even today, I smile.  I feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

So that’s where my thinking today started.  That moment some 35 years ago.  Then I started wondering…how much of my adult life have I spent trying to get back to that moment?  What have I been looking for?  The Youth?  The innocence of a couple of goofy kids sitting on a concrete stoop in the snow eating candy?  I don’t know.  I wracked my brain for several miles, then it came to me:  what I’ve been looking for is the joy.  That youthful, innocent, stress-free, goofy joy of childhood.

I don’t know if I’ve found it yet, but it occurred to me that in the last several weeks I certainly do sense a change.  I don’t know if it’s simply the idea of casting all my cares on Jesus, or maybe it's because my new yoke is light.  Maybe I’ll never have that same joy, it might be kinda creepy if I did, but I am learning…one moment at a time…to find the fullness of the joy of Jesus.

Thank You

But I will sacrifice unto thee with the voice of thanksgiving; I will pay that that I have vowed. Salvation is of the LORD.  Jonah 2:9

I’m sick.  No – not that way!  I have a cold.  I hate colds, they seem like such a waste of time.  The upside is…I’m spending a little time doing nothing.  Doing nothing is kinda hard for me, but alas – I haven’t a choice.  So tonight I took a little time to look over some of my blog postings, just remembering what things were like, seeing from where this journey has come.    

One thing I noticed though…I haven’t been very thankful, and I have A LOT to be thankful for!  I won’t even attempt to go through the list of people by name to whom I owe a debt of gratitude for their thoughts and prayers.  Thoughts and prayers for me through the beginnings of this journey, and even more so – thoughts and prayers for Ashley.  You know who you are (as do I for the most part) and from the depths of my heart – thank you so very much, you’ll probably never know how much I appreciate everything.

And then there’s God.  How do I even begin to thank God for what He has done?  You know how, when someone really goes out of their way to do something really special for you, you have to think and search and consider how to really show your appreciation?  Know how hard that is?  I realize right now...ugh!  How much harder is it to think of something for, for, for...GOD.  Really!  God!  You know - creator of the universe!  Talk about the ultimate man who has everything!  What could I possibly do to sincerely show my appreciation to the Being who spoke all into existence?  

I looked through the Bible for some examples.  I don’t have any lambs, and I don’t think God is calling Linus (my beagle) to the altar of thanksgiving.  But I do see several examples of people singing praises to God.  Now, I’m not much of a singer, but if that would do it…

But how would singing a song be enough?  Seems like anything I could sing, say or do would be the ultimate in understatements!  So I guess I am left with thanking God in this way:

Father,

Thank you for what you have done on so many levels and in so many ways, and to, and for so many people.  Thank you for what you are doing for me.  Teach me and guide me, help me to learn how to thank you by offering myself as a living sacrifice. 

A Response to "Dirty Laundry"

I muddle a lot.  Sometimes I scratch, and hunt and dig for words to try to get a thought out.  Then someone else writes something and I think - wow!  That's exactly what I wanted to say!  This is one of those occasions.  In reply to my previous post, Harold Burrell (Uncle Harold to me) wrote the following.  I originally posted it in the "comments" of this blog, but thought it so much clearer than what I was trying to say, that I thought its own post was more appropriate.  Thanks so much Harold!

 I'm sure you are familiar with this passage:

2Co 11:3-4 But I fear, lest by any means, as the serpent beguiled Eve through his subtilty, so your minds should be corrupted from the simplicity that is in Christ. For if he that cometh preacheth another Jesus, whom we have not preached, or if ye receive another spirit, which ye have not received, or another gospel, which ye have not accepted, ye might well bear with him.

"Another Jesus..."  I wonder about the exact details of the circumstances to which Paul was addressing this warning.  I wonder what was being preached specifically...and who was preaching it.  I wonder what fruits it produced...specifically...in the church itself.  And I wonder how this warning effected the hearers, when it was first read in the church.

In other words...I wonder if they "got it" right away.

But I really wonder how the other apostles took it when first they read it.

"Another Jesus..."

Judas was all about that.  It was about the time of the "alabastor box" incident that the Jesus that Judas had created and the Jesus that stood before him were revealed in contrast to such an extreme that Judas was forced to make a choice.

He did.  And we all know what happened.

Yeah...Judas was all about that.

But, wait...what about Peter?  All the times he tried to rebuke Jesus in regards to His plans.  "No, Lord.  You've got it all wrong.  Let me tell You what You're supposed to do.  How YOU are supposed to act."

You see, even Peter's ideal Jesus...and the Jesus of the Scriptures...occassionally stood in contrast.  To the place where...on the eve of the crucifixion...standing before an otherwise harmless maiden...he chose which one he wished to follow.

And really...in that sense...is that not what all of the disciples did?  One by one.  In their own way.  As they forsook Him and fled.

They all were faced with a choice between their ideal Jesus and the Jesus that they did not...and could not...understand.

But did that negate their initial call?  Oh, no.  Not at all.  Was it another Jesus that spoke to the 12 one by one and challenged them to "follow Me"?  Of course not.  And who was that Jesus whom they sat under for over 3 years?  Some imposter?  Don't be silly.

Then what was the problem?

Namely this (IMHO)...though they followed Him for all that time...and watched Him walk, talk, eat, sleep, pray, teach, preach, perform miracles, help people, sigh, cry and die...they never really knew Him.

Oh, they knew plenty about Him.  But they did not really know Him.  Personally.  Intimately.  Practically.  Nor could they...

Until they first knew themselves.

"Lord, I will die for you."

"Will you Peter?  I tell you that this night will not pass before you have denied me..."

"Lord, do you want us to call down fire from heaven?"

"James...John...you know not what spirit you are of..."

Kind of adds another perspective as to the how and why the Peter of Passover was so vastly different from the Peter of Pentecost, doesn't it?

And it also adds a certain sense of urgency and desperation to those 10 days in the upper room.  Because they had caught a glimpse of who they were.

And only then could Jesus reveal Who HE was.

Dirty Laundry

Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy lovingkindness: according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions.  Wash me throughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin.  For I acknowledge my transgressions: and my sin is ever before me.  Psalm 51:1-3

Ashley looks great!  To look at her you wouldn’t know that anything had ever happened.  Her mind is sharp and her body gets stronger by the day.  Miracle (a word I definitely don’t bandy about lightly) is the only word to describe it.

I ended up speaking at my Uncle’s church today.  It was an experience.  Beyond those things that I will not describe here, are the things that were hinted at, and some…simply thought but not spoken.  I guess that’s why I have this silly blog – it’s a forum to say those things I wouldn’t otherwise say.

Standing in Harold’s church brought back a flood of memories, an overwhelming flood for that matter.  Looking at Ashley sitting not 15 feet away, facing the shortcomings in my life, made me think of this verse in Psalms.  It seems that no matter where I turn, my sin stands before me.  There’s a constant reminder, but I guess maybe that’s part of the cross I bear in being a disciple of the Christ. 

I’m guessing the whole of my Christian life will not revolve around my unworthiness and wrangling with myself to come to terms with what my life has been up to this point.  I’m guessing that this is a cathartic phase if you will, although the realization of my worm-ness will likely never leave me. 

So, what’s the problem here?  What have I done that’s so horrible?  Well, this is definitely not the forum for those details, but if you’re reading this (and I don’t mean to be snarky here), simply think of the things you have done and who you have been and my list is probably very similar.  But there is one thing worth discussing here.  One thing that has defined my life, one thing that, because of its ubiquity in my life, needs to be addressed here…today…now.  I kinda hinted at it at Harold’s church today, beyond the fact that I have no idea how to make Jesus plural, the problem is this:

Two Jesus’s. 

I was thinking about Harold’s comment to an earlier post where he said, “I believe all of your "callings" were of God. Does not the Bible tell us that there are none that seek God? And did not Jesus say that no one can come to Him except the Father draw him? That  tells me that any inclination that we have toward Christ is from God.”  I suppose that’s all true, but what if it wasn’t really Jesus I was drawn to before? 

Looking back at my life, I’ve come to realize that the Jesus I was drawn to before was nothing more than an idol, the very graven image that we are so often warned against.  You see, in previous times my attraction to Jesus wasn’t Jesus at all.  Rather, it was the trappings that we set up around Jesus that drew me.  The opportunity to, in some heinous way, make opportunity for myself.  As a child, it was the approval of my family that came with appearing to love God.  Let’s be real for a minute.  Mom, if you’re reading this I’m sorry, but you may want to skip this part.  I really don’t remember ever loving God in any real way.  I don’t know, maybe I did – but looking back it seems like it was all just make-believe.

Bible college and ministry.  Man!  What a farce that was!  I can honestly say that that whole part of my life was about how I could be a star – the size of the stage didn’t matter nearly as much as the idea that I would be “the guy”!  The Youth Pastor, the Assistant Pastor, Pastor, the wanna-be theologian.  NONE of it was about Jesus.

So.  Was I drawn to Jesus by the God who sent Him?  Did Jesus, being lifted up, draw me to himself?  No.  Not at that time.  I was drawn to an idol called Jesus.  And that explains, at least to me, why I never found peace or comfort in Christ.  I was worshipping the idea of church.  Really, I was worshipping me.  It some ways, my whole life had been a fraud, hollow.  And it makes sense.  Isaiah 44:9 says, “They that make a graven image are all of them vanity; and their delectable things shall not profit; and they are their own witnesses; they see not, nor know; that they may be ashamed.”  I didn’t stand a chance!

So what’s different this time?  Jesus #2.  Jesus.  That’s what’s different, or rather – that’s who is different.  I don’t know how or when, but at some point in the last several months, I died.  There is, in some miraculous, mysterious way – a new creature.  Jesus somehow became real, not merely an idol.  Jesus is no longer the trappings of church.  Jesus no longer is - me!  The best part is that I realize now that it IS God who draws me, it IS Christ, having been lifted up, who draws me to himself.  Now, that doesn’t mean that I won’t once again try to weasel my way in to make something of myself.  But now that I am aware of who I am, (like the scorpion who stung the frog – it’s my nature) perhaps I will hear the voice of God when He reminds me that it’s not about me and to ‘Knock it off!’ 

My sin will always be before me.  Also my nature.  I’m just one of those guys who thinks, over thinks, then exceedingly abundantly over thinks.  But there’s this really cool passage in Hebrews that gives me hope: 

This is the covenant that I will make with them after those days, saith the Lord, I will put my laws into their hearts, and in their minds will I write them; And their sins and iniquities will I remember no more.  Now where remission of these is, there is no more offering for sin.  Having therefore, brethren, boldness to enter into the holiest by the blood of Jesus, by a new and living way, which he hath consecrated for us, through the veil, that is to say, his flesh; and having an high priest over the house of God; let us draw near with a true heart in full assurance of faith, having our hearts sprinkled from an evil conscience, and our bodies washed with pure water.  Hebrews 10:16-22 

Yes? Who's Calling Please?

…and called Mary her sister secretly, saying, The Master is come, and calleth for thee.  John 11:28 (KJV)

Sometimes I just want to write.  Very often I come across a thought while I’m reading and I just want to write about it.  There may be no particular lesson or deep, personal experience with it, but it hits me and I just want to write.  The downside is that this often happens late in the evening and if I don’t jot down some thoughts, it’ll keep me awake…sometimes for hours.  This is one of those times.  Not sure where this is gonna go, but settle in and let’s see…

The thing that grabbed me about this particular verse was how lucky Mary was to have Jesus, the very Christ – asking for her!!!  I started thinking how thrilling that must have been.  I wondered if Mary thought about it for a second; did she have the presence of mind to savor the thought?  She certainly didn’t think long about it because the next verse says that “as soon as she heard that, she arose quickly, and came unto him.”

I suppose there’s a lot here.  I’ve heard the call, felt the draw of Jesus several times in my life.  Not much appreciation there.  I usually answered the call with my thoughts and intentions elsewhere.  Other times I simply didn’t listen to that call, it went ignored even shunned.

Another thing that struck me was that the story isn’t about Mary seeking Jesus.  She didn’t just wake up one day and decide that…oh, I think I have time, or – maybe I’ll meet with Jesus today.  No.  Jesus called her, and she responded.  How many times have I, as the result of a certain nausea toward life, just decided that maybe Jesus would be the panacea, a hobby, a means to an end?  Each of those times ended in either more loneliness, disappointment, discontent or simply loss of interest.

I’m always fretting over the thought that maybe this go-round is more of the same.  But it doesn’t seem that way. Sure, in the beginning there were certainly some events that might make it seem the same, but…I don’t know – somehow this time it’s different.  I guess I simply have to have faith that this time it was Jesus calling and not George looking for some opiate to relieve the dead wall reverie of life, or looking for a means to an end.  I struggle with that.  But if it is Jesus calling – oh that I would be like Mary and run quickly!

Indeed!

But Jesus answered and said, Ye know not what ye ask. Are ye able to drink of the cup that I shall drink of, and to be baptized with the baptism that I am baptized with?...   Matthew 20:22 (KJV)

He is risen!!  From a Christian perspective this is indeed great news!  If Jesus stayed in the tomb, well – I don’t know what we’d be talking about right now.  If the Jews of Jesus’ time and shortly thereafter became evangelistic after the diaspora, then I suppose we’d be celebrating Passover and looking for the Messiah.  But He did.

Jesus rose from the grave – great, awesome, incredible news!  Jesus rose from the grave – uh, oh boy…what does that mean for me?  Oh I know it means that the debt of sin has been paid.  I realize the justification, sanctification, and …  But I have that feeling that it means even more (or am I looking for additionally?) right here, right now.  I guess I’m considering what it means in my every-single-day life.

I find it hard to believe that Jesus died on a cross and rose from the dead just so I could go to church on Sundays, give a bit in the offering plate, sing some songs and maybe even now-and-then do good things for other people, although these certainly seem to be part of the big picture.  But if that is all there is to being a Christian, then I would have to agree with Bonhoeffer when he called that kind of Christianity “cheap grace”.  The kind of grace where my life remains unchanged, I could continue in sin, no worries because ‘He is risen!’

I have no interest in a cheap grace Christianity.  My desire is for Christ to be real, substantive in my life.  It is, in Bonhoeffer’s words once again, a “costly grace”.  For this grace cost Jesus more than I could even begin to express here.  And it is a grace that will cost me…what?  My life?  Maybe that’s what it is – I surrender my life to the will of God.  I haven’t a clue how to do that.  The best I can do is offer it daily, maybe even sometimes moment-to-moment.

I suppose I should be careful what I wish for.  Costly grace.  Drinking from the same cup.  A baptism in which Jesus surely was not referring to water.   But cheap grace is too similar to what my life has always been, and frankly – I don’t want it, it’s hollow, empty, sad.  I don’t know what a costly grace will look like in my life.  I don’t know what the resurrection, His and mine, will do to my life, but I have already been crucified with Christ, now it’ll be interesting to see what my life will be with Christ living in me. 

He is risen!  And so am I!

A Long Good Bye

Then cometh Jesus with them unto a place called Gethsemane, and saith unto the disciples, Sit ye here, while I go and pray yonder.  And he took with him Peter and the two sons of Zebedee, and began to be sorrowful and very heavy.  Then saith he unto them, My soul is exceeding sorrowful, even unto death… Matthew 26:36-38 (KJV)

When I was being shipped out for the first Gulf War, the hardest part was the waiting to go and the long good byes.  I remember calling my parents and my Dad, with a quivering voice, tell me to watch out for the gas.  I don’t remember what else he said, if anything, I just remember his voice.  Then the night before I left, my wife and I stayed up all night holding each other, crying, and watching North by Northwest.  It was the longest night. 

The next day two things stuck in my mind:  we had this sergeant in our unit who was the meanest SOB I’d ever met.  He wasn’t a particularly big guy, but he was hard-as-nails tough.  He had been in my unit for three years but he wasn’t going with us because he was leaving the Army within a month.  So as we marched out the gate of our little post, Sergeant K stood and shook each of our hands as we went by…tears streaming down his face. 

The other thing I remember was marching through the airport in Nuremburg with civilians lined up all along the walls.  There was no cheering or flag-waving, just these somber stares and tears.  I’ve come to hate long good byes.

Gethsamane haunts me.  With Maundy Thursday coming, I spent some time thinking about Gethsamane and reading it over and over again, praying over it, chewing on it.  It spooks me.

I see Jesus with the figuratively literal (huh?) weight of the world on his shoulders, going to a garden with some friends to pray.  But it’s so much more than that isn’t it?  It’s the middle of the night, He’s already told his friends he’s gonna die.  Matthew tells us that when he got to the garden Jesus became sorrowful and very heavy.  And herein lie the thoughts that trouble me. 

I can’t begin to fathom how the whole God-intertwined-with-man thing works, but I wonder if part of the sorrow was the long good-bye to his friends.  I wonder if he went to Gethsemane looking to the Father for comfort.  Did he get it?  He knew that in a matter of hours the Father would betray him – what anguish!    Where were the angels to minister to him this time?  Was the Father already grieving?  Was He looking at Jesus and thinking 'I just can't watch this'?  He asked twice (!) if the cup could be passed from him, when the Father answered...was His voice quivering?  Peter and the boys were sleeping...was Jesus already alone in this whole thing?  

There are lessons here.  But sometimes I don't want lessons.  Sometimes I just want to think of Jesus and let that be enough.  I can’t put it into words except to say that I cannot, not even once…read the story of Gethsemane and not find tears on my cheek.