Climbing the Crane

I have strayed like a lost sheep. Seek your servant . . . (Psalm 119:176)

About a mile down the road from our church is a construction site that yesterday became the scene of a high stress, high drama, high profile stand-off. Carl Roland, on the run from police in Florida, climbed the 18 story crane on the construction site late yesterday. As of this writing he’s still there. It’s been more than 20 hours. A densely traveled part of Peachtree Road has been closed, engendering very little sympathy for Mr. Roland.

Watching the T.V. news footage, I’m not surprised that Mr. Roland is up there. I’m surprised that he was able to get up there – but he’s a desperate man. The fact that he’s 18 stories above the ground, threatening to take his own life, that doesn’t surprise me. What I find remarkable is the fact that he’s not the only one up there. Not far from him is a police negotiator, a person who was doing his job, got a call and found himself going up the 18 story crane, sitting up there at significant risk, trying to bring Mr. Roland safely down.

I ask myself: would I go up there to do that? I know the answer: not likely. Of course, I’m not a professional police negotiator – but that’s no excuse. I am a pastor. And if anyone should be willing to go to great lengths to retrieve and bring back a lost soul, surely it should be a shepherd, one who follows the great shepherd Jesus.

Grace means Jesus seeking us. We’re the desperate ones, trying to get to something that will save us or trying to escape a past that threatens and accuses us. Our running isn’t nearly as dramatic as Mr. Roland’s crane climb – but there we are nonetheless. Like Carl Roland, so many are simply stuck, immobilized. And Jesus comes to us.

Jesus lived his life to show us that this is God’s heartbeat toward us. Jesus didn’t set up shop and wait for folks to find him. He didn’t teach only those who managed to get to where he was. Jesus went seeking. He told stories to make this clear to us; lost sheep, lost coin, lost son. He made a plain statement of his purpose: “the son of man came to seek and save that which was lost.”

I’m not nearly as much like Jesus as I’d like to be. And I’m more like Carl Roland than I care to admit. That fact alone reminds me how much I need grace. I need Jesus to come to me. I need compassion and mercy, especially when I don't deserve it.

The final verse of Psalm 119 is a peculiar conclusion to a (very) long meditation on God’s word. This Psalm is written by one who loves God’s law, who is committed to living as the law instructs. These are the words of one who has memorized and pondered and applied the teachings of Torah. And yet, at the end of this lengthy exaltation of God’s law, the Psalmist ends with confession. “I have strayed.” This confession leads to a request. “Seek your servant.” In other words, though we love God’s law and do our best to live it, we stray and wander. Unless God seeks us and brings us back to himself, we’re lost.

We need grace. Perched high on cranes of our own making, we are sought and found. Jesus finds us, sits patiently with us. I want to be more like him. I’ll start here on the ground, and maybe (by grace) work my way up those 18 stories.

"But You"

But you, O Lord, are enthroned forever (Psalm 102:12)

Speaking the word “but” is like highlighting everything that came before it and hitting “delete.” Chances are your experience verifies the eraser-like power of the word. Maybe the words have been spoken to you – usually some kind of affirmation, followed by the word “but” which renders all that was previously spoken null and void. And maybe you’ve spoken the word yourself, trying to come across as supportive, trying to come across as the good guy, only to utter “but” and torpedo everything you said along with your supportive good guy persona.

In our conversations, “but” diminishes, takes away, makes less or puts down. Not so in Psalm 102.

Right in the middle of Psalm 102 there is a hinge phrase, two little words that lend strength to the prayer and embolden the one praying. Two short defiant words: “but you.” In a Psalm that is 28 verses long, this powerful little conjunctive comes at verse 12, right near the middle. It is at this point, with these words, that the prayer turns a corner.

Before the text of the Psalm begins, there is a prescript that gives us a clue as to what we’re reading and hearing. This is “a prayer of an afflicted person who has grown weak and pours out a lament before the Lord.” The words of the prayer unfold the affliction with vivid imagery, describing conditions not unfamiliar to many. These are the words of a person who cannot eat and cannot sleep. They seem to be wasting away and all they see around them is ruins. They know the pain of hostility and conflict, the derision of an enemy. The tears flow freely. And to top it off, the one praying implicates God. “You have taken me up and thrown me aside.”

Then the hinge. The prayer turns a corner. After eleven verses of rehearsing the anguish and describing the affliction, the person at prayer utters two words that jerk everything into a new context, two words that move from simple description of suffering toward definition.

“But you.”

Here the affliction is coupled with affirmation. “But you, O Lord, sit enthroned forever” (v. 12). These words do not negate the affliction. There’s nothing magical here that makes the suffering go away. Nor is this denial. What “but you” does is place the affliction in a larger context. The experience of the one praying is understood in light of the presence and ultimate purposes of God. These two small words are steely, determined and defiant. The suffering is real, but it isn’t the most real thing about life. God is enthroned forever. God will arise and have compassion. God will rebuild what has been ruined. God sees what’s going on and he hears the anguished groans of those who suffer. This is real, the most real thing in the life of the one praying.

There are plenty of times when we want to pray, but don’t know how (Romans 8:26). Strangely, these are often times of affliction. It seems like suffering would push us to fervent prayer – but it doesn’t always work that way. In our distress, we bog down and lose words. Even Jesus, before his crucifixion, struggled this way. “Now is my soul troubled, and what shall I say?” (John 12:27). Psalm 102 helps us by giving us two words.

“But you.”

Faith seems to hang on these two little words. Without them, we truly become “unhinged.” Pray the Psalm, or pray like the Psalm. Rehearse the affliction, ask the questions, wrestle with the implications, don’t hold back tears – it’s all prayer.

And in it all, when other words fail, be bold in this declaration: “but you.”

(Suggested reading: Mark D. Roberts, No Holds Barred: Wrestling with God in Prayer).

Finding Troas

. . . they tried to enter Bithynia, but the Spirit of Jesus would not allow them to. So they passed by Mysia and went down to Troas (Acts 16:7-8).

Something’s not right. That’s what we conclude when our plans don’t unfold according to our timelines and charts, or our dreams and hopes and fantasies. Plans aren’t always written and calendared. They may exist in our minds without having ever been fully articulated to another living soul. Whether on paper or held in some deep inner place, we know when they aren’t happening. And our first thought is that something has gone wrong, a deviation from the good and right and normal.

The apostle Paul knew better. Look at this episode from his second missionary journey – a journey that was reasonably planned. Paul had planted churches. Now it was time to go back and check on them. Not a bad plan. But then this:

Paul and his companions traveled throughout the region of Phrygia and Galatia, having been kept by the Holy Spirit from preaching the word in the province of Asia. 7 When they came to the border of Mysia, they tried to enter Bithynia, but the Spirit of Jesus would not allow them to. 8 So they passed by Mysia and went down to Troas. 9 During the night Paul had a vision of a man of Macedonia standing and begging him, "Come over to Macedonia and help us." 10 After Paul had seen the vision, we got ready at once to leave for Macedonia, concluding that God had called us to preach the gospel to them (Acts 16:6-10).

What’s going on here? They were “forbidden by the Holy Spirit” as they sought to enter Asia. When they tried to enter Bithynia, the “Spirit of Jesus did not allow them.” Their plans are thwarted. Whatever is happening, we know that this isn’t simply bad luck or bad timing. The text is clear that the Spirit is involved in this. Suddenly the larger story begins to emerge. In a dream Paul sees the outline of a new plot, a different story. A man of Macedonia beckons Paul, “come and help us.” Now there’s a new plan. This is where the Spirit was leading all along.

What strikes me about this passage from Acts 16 is the remarkable absence of angst in the story. The events are narrated in a matter of fact way that gives no hint of frustration or regret or worry. Had I been Paul, or a member of Paul’s team, I would have lost sleep thinking about the new believers in those regions who needed to be tended to and discipled. I would have stewed for days in frustration over the failed or failing plan, perhaps trying again and again to make it work, pleading in prayer to understand what was going “wrong.” Maybe Paul or his companions did some of this too. Doesn’t sound like it though.

During my seminary years I served a small congregation in southern Oklahoma. I would drive every weekend from Fort Worth, Texas to the church field – a two hour trek up I-35W. One Saturday in early January, just after leaving the city limits of Fort Worth, an ice storm moved in, raining wet ice that started freezing to my windshield and then to the roads. By the time I had entered Oklahoma it was dark. My wipers were useless against the freezing rain. My tires weren’t holding the road so well. I’m from Georgia and Georgians have no idea how to navigate these conditions. I managed to pull off the interstate and beat the truckers to the Holiday Inn. I called a church member to let them know I wouldn’t be making it up for Sunday’s services. I should have been thankful to be safe and in a room with heat. But I wasn’t thankful. I was angry at being stuck in a hotel room. I couldn’t go where I wanted to go. I couldn’t get to my congregation. I couldn’t go back home. When I tired of feeling anger I moved on to self pity. I was alone in southern Oklahoma.

That night at the Holiday Inn I had no dream or vision, no one calling me to a new ministry on the other side of the Red River. I can’t honestly say that I ever glimpsed the larger story. I don’t claim to have some insight now into that event that I didn’t have then. Perhaps what God wanted to do with me was show me his awesome power in the storm. I think I missed the chance to worship because I was angry. Maybe the Spirit had a message for me that weekend: “You’re not the savior. They’ll be fine. It’s not your church.” I missed that too. I think I spent more time watching TV than praying.

Somehow Paul found the road to Troas. In Troas Paul was perfectly positioned to go over to Macedonia. Troas is where the outline of the larger story emerges. It is the place where we catch a glimpse of what God is doing around us, a place where we receive what God has next. The same Spirit that kept Paul from entering Asia and Bithynia was certainly leading him to Troas, preparing him for the dream and the call to Macedonia. You make your way to Troas with prayer and by grace. Those who cover their plans with “if the Lord wills” are most likely to find Troas.

So if we follow the counsel of James and cover all our plans with “if the Lord wills,” we had better pray believing. We need to believe that God will in fact do what he wills – and that means that what seems like a failure or deviation to us was in fact the plan from the beginning. We just had to get there. We had to find our way to Troas.

How To Use A Palm Pilot

“In his heart a man plans his course, but the Lord determines his steps.”
(Proverbs 16:9)

“We live the given life, not the planned”
(Wendell Berry, )

The small screen in my hand went blank and then displayed a message that I didn’t understand, but which I knew was bad news: “Fatal error.” There were some brief instructions about pressing a reset button. I followed those instructions carefully, but to no avail. When the little device in my hand came back on, every thing I had recorded on it was gone. It was as if my life had vanished, a kind of electronically induced amnesia. When my palm pilot went blank, I momentarily forgot everything I was planning to do that day, everything I had planned for that week. My carefully scheduled plans were erased. After my initial panic, I managed to recover most of that information by hooking up the handheld device to my computer – but the lesson had been learned. Plans can be lost in an instant.

The name says it all: “Palm Pilot.” Palm is the center of my hand. It suggests a firm hold on something. Pilot suggests one who guides, drives, controls. The “palm pilot” places the direction of my life squarely in my hand. Calendar, clock, memo pad, to do list, phone directory, it’s all right there. And it works pretty well – until the fatal error comes and exposes the fragility of our life management program and the tentativeness of our plans.

To live yielded before God does not mean refusing to own or use a palm pilot. It does mean being able to recognize the myth such a device can create – the myth of having my plans firmly in the center of my own hand. To live yielded and surrendered before the Lord is to hold our plans loosely.

There is nothing particularly “spiritual” about this. All people, regardless of their faith, know that plans can change or fall apart. We begin learning this early in life. I can remember a childhood Christmas Eve when my father (a pastor) received a call at my grandmother’s house about the impending death of a church member. The annual ritual of dinner and gift opening was interrupted for us. We made it through the meal, then we left the gifts we had brought for the clan, we loaded their gifts for us into the car, and we headed back to South Carolina.

Of course, the interruptions that disrupt what we’ve carefully planned don’t always come as fatal errors. Sometimes our agendas are altered by surprising and delightful opportunities. That might mean receiving tickets for a game at the last minute when a friend is suddenly unable to go; it might mean the offer of a new position in the company. Whether by tragedy or opportunity, the reality remains the same. Our well ordered lists and carefully crafted schedules are ever vulnerable to something beyond us. We do well to hold our plans loosely.

This is the counsel James gives in his letter to the Jerusalem church. James urges his congregation to live with constant humble awareness of the “something beyond” their plans and goals and ambitions. He calls them, in the midst of their plans, to deal with God.

Now listen, you who say, "Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money." 14 Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. 15 Instead, you ought to say, "If it is the Lord's will, we will live and do this or that." 16 As it is, you boast and brag. All such boasting is evil. 17 Anyone, then, who knows the good he ought to do and doesn't do it, sins.

Three quick observations:
1. Making plans isn’t the problem. The text says nothing to discourage well made plans for ordinary affairs like business and making money.

2. Even when we plan well, we have no idea what will happen tomorrow. Our life is short and so is our reach.

3. Therefore, the way to plan is to hold all things subject to the work and will of God. Go ahead, plan your work and work your plan. But hold those plans loosely.

What appears to us as a fatal error may in fact be the work of divine guidance and providence. More on this later.

Navigating By Sight

We live by faith, not by sight (2 Corinthians 5:7)

So what was it like to be Jim Schaeffer and Troy Martin on Wednesday afternoon of this week? There they are, comfortably seated in their Cessna 152 aircraft, making their way from Pennsylvania to an air show in North Carolina, no doubt reveling in the blue skies that canopied the eastern seaboard that day.

That revelry must have been deep. So deep, in fact, that they flew into restricted airspace over Washington, D.C. So deep, in fact, that they didn’t respond to radio contact warning them away from the area. The flare rockets being fired in their direction must have been a rude awakening. Down below, the city of Washington D.C. was slipping into 9/11 dejavu. Laura Bush and her guest, Nancy Reagan, were wisked to a special bunker. Senators and Congressmen went scrambling out of chambers. Tourists were running . . . I have no idea to where. Yes, the security measures were implemented successfully, but you can tell from the TV news clips that the freak-out factor was measurable.

And high above it all sit the baffled aviators.

After the “little plane that could” had been forced to land and investigations had been launched, Kevin Madden of the U.S. Justice Department offered a simple explanation for what had gone wrong: “They were navigating by sight and got lost.”

I don’t know the first thing about aviation, but that explanation doesn’t surprise me at all. The entire story calls to mind the words of the apostle Paul in 2 Corinthians 5:7. “We live by faith, not by sight.” In scripture, navigating by sight is simply not reliable.

What is truly remarkable about Paul is that for him, the unseen world was the real world. He didn’t place too much stock in what he could see or in the way things appeared. He didn’t dismiss the seen, but everything he saw was defined and understood in light of another reality – an unseen world. Earlier in the same letter Paul gives us more insight into this and how it actually impacted his life. In 2 Corinthians 4 we read that for Paul an outward (physical) wasting away is matched by daily inner renewal. The troubles of the moment are achieving an eternal glory. For him, the seen world is temporary, fleeting, passing away. The unseen is the real deal – and that’s what determined how he lived. “We fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen.”

I’d like to learn how to live that way. Honestly, I’m more inclined to navigate by sight. Maybe you are too. The problem is, that way of living inevitably leads to an unintended destination. The destination has various names: despair, hopelessness, resigned cynicism. The seen world can’t be ignored or denied – but it can’t be fully trusted either. Paul didn’t live in denial. That man was firmly grounded. But he didn’t get his answers from the seen world alone. He fixed his eyes on what he couldn’t see. But what does this mean?

I’m not entirely sure, but I believe Paul’s understanding of the presence and work of the Holy Spirit is a large part of the answer. To have the Spirit is to have the mind of Christ (1 Cor. 2:10-16). Having God’s spirit is different from having the spirit of the world.

If you’re navigating by sight, eventually you’ll see something that leads you to some faulty conclusions. But with the mind of Christ at work in you by the power of the Holy Spirit, you may see something far more real than meets the eye. So, with Pentecost Sunday approaching, pray for the Spirit’s work in your life. Seek the Spirit and the mind of Christ. Fix your eyes on what isn’t seen. There’s an alternative to navigating by sight.

Go Ahead . . . Jump A Wave

. . . live your lives as strangers here in reverent fear (1 Peter 1:17b NIV)

Holiness is a nearly ruined word. In The Screwtape Letters, C. S. Lewis wrote that one of Satan’s most subtle and effective tactics in waging war on faith is to take a perfectly good word and ruin the meaning of it. It works. At the top of the hit list these days is the word “marriage.” But that’s another blog for another time. Right now I’m thinking of a far more familiar word that’s becoming increasingly strange to us. Holiness.

A couple of things seem clear to me: First, like it or not, this is what God calls us to be as his people. An entire book of the Old Testament, Leviticus, addresses God’s desire for holiness with excruciating detail. Get past the peculiar instructions for bringing a variety of sacrifices, and the book boils down to one repeated theme. “Be holy because I, the Lord your God, am holy” (Leviticus 19:1). In the New Testament, Peter writes a letter in which he reaches back to his Hebrew scriptures, lifts that very verse, and applies it directly to Christian congregations (1 Peter 1:15). Writing to the very troubled church in Corinth, Paul reminds them that they are “called to be holy, together with all those everywhere who call on the name of our Lord Jesus Christ” (1 Cor. 1:2). “All those everywhere” includes us. We’re called to be holy.

The second thing that seems clear to me is that holiness isn’t held up in an explicit way as the aim of our lives. It’s not that we don’t believe the scriptures. We readily acknowledge that holiness is important. We just don’t like saying it. The word is damaged. It doesn’t get us pumped. No one walks around church on Sunday asking their Christian brothers and sisters about their progress in holiness. That was fine for the Puritans, but we’ve gotten beyond that. The word suggests to us a kind of stodginess. Holiness isn’t daring or bold. It’s snug and smug. Who really wants to be holy?

I realize there are theological dimensions to holiness that need to be kept in mind – that holiness isn’t something we do or attain as much as it is something God gives to us in Jesus Christ. But discussions of imputed righteousness aside, holiness is a way of living and being in the world. It’s not a theological construct. It’s a way of raising children and driving in traffic and dealing with the bored, tattooed kid working the drive-thru window. So what does it mean to be holy? How do we recover the adrenaline of the word?

Almost two years ago Marnie and I were at a conference at Myrtle Beach. The kids were with us, and at the time the beach activity of choice was jumping waves. This meant little hops as the dying “wave” ebbed up on the shore line. Hardly dangerous activity. But my little ones were already exerting independence. They didn’t hesitate to venture out to ankle depth, then knee depth. My insistence on holding a hand was not well received. It was September and hurricane Isabelle was brewing out in the Atlantic and moving to the Carolina coast. You’d have never known that a storm like that was headed our way. The weather at Myrtle Beach was beautiful, but everyone knew it was only a matter of time before things got ugly. The only question was how ugly things would get. In these conditions, “wave jumping” seemed a little riskier. My favorite part was when my kids went running out of the ocean.

There were two very flawed ways to respond to my kids wave jumping adventure. On one hand, we could have just stayed in the condo. After all, we had an excellent view of the ocean. On our balcony we could feel sunlight and breeze. We could avoid the unpleasant feel of sand collecting in especially unpleasant places. Yes, the condo balcony is a safe place to be. No waves to worry about there.

Another response would be to practice X-treme parenting. Send them out to the waves and doze in the beach chair. One good lung-full of ocean water will teach them. They’ll learn.

What we’ve done with holiness seems to err in one of these directions or the other. Some well intentioned believers think that being holy means keeping a safe distance from the threats of the world and the culture. There are plenty of Christians who have settled into their place on the condo balcony. They can see the world, but they really don’t have to deal with it in all its grittiness. They are safe and they are clean – but frankly, they aren’t having much fun. All that Psalms talk about joy and gladness doesn’t seem to faze them. They are after holiness, and they find it by staying removed. Observant, but not influential.

Other followers of Jesus have lost any real sense of what holiness means and requires. They’ve thrown themselves in to the waves of culture headlong. They don’t have the foggiest idea that there is such a thing as a rip tide. There seems to be no recognition of the ocean’s power.

A truly holy life can’t stay in the balcony, and it can’t ignore the power of tides and weather. A holy life knows how to both enjoy and respect the particular conditions found in the world. Holiness gets in the water, jumps the waves – but it knows where the dangers lie, times and places when the surf isn’t friendly. In the event of a rip tide, a holy life knows what to do. It has the strength and presence of mind to swim hard along the shore line. It doesn’t panic in the current.

This sounds like what Peter had in mind when he addressed his congregations as strangers and exiles in the world. They were not at home in the culture surrounding them, but over and over again Peter calls them to a holy life, reminds them that they are a holy people. He urges them to live exemplary lives among non-believers. This is what the Jesus was after when told us to be salt and light. This kind of holiness is powerful. It puts steel in the Christian life.

So go ahead. Jump a wave.

The Crawfish Bible

. . . they received the word with all eagerness, examining the scriptures daily to see if these things were so (Acts 17:11).

I learned how to eat a crawfish this past weekend. This was the real thing – no utensils, rolls of paper towels, mounds of crawfish dumped on a table with carrots and onion and garlic and potatoes mixed in. Protocol was simple. Stand at the table and plunge your hand into the heap, pull out a crawfish and eat it.

I was tutored in the basics: (1) Pull off the head of the crawfish (2) suck the juice from the head of the crawfish (3) Find the meat in the tail of the crawfish. Eat. Repeat. Step two was presented to me as optional. I declined to ingest anything from the head of the crawfish.

Crawfish are ugly. There’s nothing about them that makes you want to eat them. But if you can get beyond such superficialities, they’re actually tasty. I enjoyed eating crawfish. My problem with eating crawfish had nothing to do with the unfortunate ugly crustacean. My problem was me. My skill level in actually getting meat from the crawfish was such that significant labor was being invested with little reward. At the rate I was going, I would need most of the night and an entire tub full of the creatures in order to get a meal.

My lack of skill became clear to me when Virginia – one of the hostesses and a former resident of Louisiana (enough said) – demonstrated proper crawfish eating technique. She actually extracted enough meat from the tail of the crawfish to qualify as a genuine “bite” of crawfish. Her expertise left me wondering, “how’d she do that?” I had no idea how to get that much of the “good stuff.” My well intentioned efforts had not produced the same result. In my hands, the crawfish was a resistant and stingy critter, unwilling to yield its delicacies. In Virginia’s hands, the crawfish was a brittle treasure chest, easily cracked and plundered.

It occurs to me that what I experienced with eating crawfish is not unlike what many people experience with the Bible. For some, the very sight of the bible is off-putting. The stark black leather cover with the gold embossed letters that read HOLY BIBLE doesn’t strike people as a can’t-put-it-down page turner. For others, efforts made to actually read the bible have not been well rewarded. If one happens to attempt to crack open the King James Version, the likelihood of returning for second and third helpings diminishes significantly. The “good stuff” is trapped beneath a shell of Elizabethan English. Sometimes the English is perfectly readable, but historical distance renders the Bible inaccessible.

The joy of my life is helping people learn how to feed on the scriptures. The Bible is food for the soul. The Psalmist said that God’s law was like honey on the lips. There is a Hebrew word for “meditate” that also means “to chew on.” Reading the Bible is like what a lion does as it hovers over it’s prey. God’s word is delicious.

Not enough people know this. My job as a pastor is to do for them what Virginia did for me. I love to gather folks together and plunge into the text of scripture. I enjoy helping them see what’s there, how much good meat there is to be found in these pages. And eventually, I’m hoping that they’ll no longer need me to do this for them. They’ll be able to do it for themselves, and then they’ll gather others and show them the same thing. The Bible is good food.

In order to feed well on the Bible two things are required:

First, there needs to be an appetite. Part of the reason I enjoyed eating crawfish, challenging though it was, was that I was hungry. I was ready to eat – so every little bit was good, and it was worth the effort. When it comes to the Bible, some develop a taste for it over time. Others are in a state of soul hunger that sends them to the pages of scripture with a kind of ravenous eagerness. For them, it’s like raiding the refrigerator late at night. Either way, the delicacies of scripture will not be found apart from an appetite, a hunger to hear a word from God.

The second thing needed is simply repeated exposure. I think the main reason Virginia was able to do what she did with a crawfish was that over the years she has eaten alot of crawfish. She has picked them up over and over and over again. She knows what to look for, how to hold them, how to get them open. The more you eat them, the more you know about eating them. The more you eat them, the more you discover about what’s good and what isn’t. Veteran crawfish eaters are more likely to suck the juice from the head. I want to read the Bible that way. I want to get every drop of what’s good from every book, every chapter. This is a lifelong endeavor.

Crack your Bible open and search for the good stuff. Come to it hungry and don’t get weary. Keep coming back and feeding on it until your soul is full – and then come back for more.

Why Can't Life Be Better?

He has also set eternity in the hearts of men (Ecclesiastes 3:11)

But our citizenship is in heaven . . . (Philippians 3:20)

Two nights ago there was much weeping and gnashing of teeth when my daughter’s bath time arrived and she was sent upstairs to get ready for bed. The pain was evoked by the fact that her older brother was allowed to stay downstairs and finish his project for the science fair. Never mind the fact that he wasn’t being allowed to play and have fun. Whatever he was doing, he was not getting ready for bed, and this struck my daughter as grievously unfair.

As she cried and carried on dramatically (she knows how to work it) she voiced her protest in the form of a question that caught me by surprise. Through the tears she asked “why can’t life be better?” Talk about drama. My first impulse was to laugh. Where did this come from? From where I sit her five (almost six) year old life looks pretty good.

After a moment I responded, “Anna, that’s a really good question.” I didn’t actually attempt to answer the question, and my word of affirmation did little to alleviate my daughter’s distress. But I meant it. The question is a good one, and it’s a question that never seems to go away. Whether we’re five or eighty-five or anywhere in between, we ask that question. Why can’t life be better?

There are several possible answers. One good answer is “life isn’t as bad as you think it is right now.” Another version of that answer is simply “get a grip” or “get over it.” We need to be told that at times. A second possible answer is “life can be better when you decide to do something about it.” Abbreviated: “stop whining.” This challenges us to assume some measure of responsibility for our lives and our circumstances. We need to hear that too.

But there’s another answer to the question that helps us understand why the question never goes away. Why do we live our days with a gnawing sense that somehow life could be better? And why do we feel this even when we know we’ve got it pretty good? How do we treat this persistent low-grade discontentment?

No doubt, a short-term mission trip to a disease ridden and poverty stricken part of the world cures us for a while. We get clarity for just a moment on how silly and insipid our woes are when we place them in a global context. But that cure doesn’t last long. We get home and get back in to our lives and the dis-ease creeps in again. There’s something lacking in us. Sure, we’ve got it good – but couldn’t it be better?

The reason for our continual relapse is that we are homesick. There’s something deep inside of us that was designed for perpetual thirst in this world, in this life. It will not be fully quenched or satisfied here, and the reason is that the only thing that can quench it remains beyond us now. Our true home is heaven, our citizenship is there, and we were made to be there with the creator and lover of our souls. We were made for something else.

We can choose to live our lives in denial of this or in rebellion against it. We can keep chasing the one thing that we are certain will do it for us. That could be anything: career, marriage, money, a doctorate, a doctor, a diet. The object of our pursuit is elusive and chameleon-like. As we walk through our days in this world the target keeps changing. And when we attain what we were after, it doesn’t take long for the question to come back. Why can’t life be better? In search of the answer, we set our sights on a new target. We don’t always accurately diagnose our homesickness.

The bed-time bath-time crisis is now forgotten. But someday, for a different reason, my daughter will ask that question again. I will too. Sometimes we’ll need to just get a grip and move on. Sometimes we’ll need to stop whining and take a risk in making life better. But whatever we do in response to the question, we’ll need to recognize our homesickness and remember that God has placed eternity in our hearts. St. Augustine nailed the reason for our restlessness, and he also named the cure. We were made for God, and everything here is making us fit for our true home.

(Two good books that say it better than I could hope to: Craig Barnes, Sacred Thirst and Mark Buchanan, Things Unseen.)

Batters and Theology at Turner Field

They spoke against God saying, “Can God spread a table in the desert? When he struck the rock, water gushed out and streams flowed abundantly, but can he also give us food? Can he supply meat for his people?” (Psalm 78:19-20)

Then Jesus said to his disciples: “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life . . . “(Luke 12:22).

This past Friday Marnie and I went to our first Braves game of the season. I’m indebted to my friend Brent for a number of blog-worthy ideas from that game. His insights and ideas started me thinking, and here’s what stood out in my mind:

Whenever a Braves batter comes to the plate, there is usually a snippet of music played – something like a fanfare for the athlete. I don’t know if each Braves player gets to select his own fanfare or if something is just played at random. Regardless, there were two players in particular whose music got my attention, maybe because they were next to each other in the line-up.

One player was Julio Franco. As he came to the plate the music being blasted into Turner Field was an old Twila Paris song, “God Is In Control.” The lyrics assert that God is in control and because of that “we believe that his children will not be forsaken.” The bold declaration continues. “There is no power above or beside him we know (oh-oh-oh) God is in control.” So-so music; good theology, especially for Turner Field.

The next batter was Andruw Jones. The air was then filled with a hip-hop style tune with a pounding rhythm and a repetitive lyric. Over and over the song said “Get out da way, get out da way, get out da way.” This song got the crowd ramped up. I actually enjoyed it – what little I heard of it. But the difference between the two songs was significant.

One song exalts God, the other exalts self. One assumes a posture of humility, the other assumes a posture of pride. Here, as the batters came to the plate, was the fundamental question of human life and how it is lived. One way gladly acknowledges the sovereign presence of God in the world. The other way seeks to be acknowledged and feared. C.S. Lewis rightly observed that pride is a deadly sin because it looks down on everything and everyone around it, and when you’re looking down you can’t see what’s above you.

Psalm 78 narrates the experience of God’s people in being delivered from slavery in Egypt. The drama in this Psalm is their repeated failure to remember or believe that God is in control. Even after the plagues, even after receiving water from the rock, even with a cloud by day and pillar of fire by night, they keep forgetting. They panic. Sure, God came through back there, back then, but what about now? He gave us water from the rock, but what about something a little more filling? Can he spread a table in the wilderness?

And God, in his patience, answered them over and over. He gave them food. He spread a table for them. These gifts didn’t exempt God’s people from God’s discipline – but his discipline and his gifts were evidence of a single truth: God is in control. God will provide.

What often looks like pride in us is actually born out of our anxieties. We’re not sure God is control. More honestly, we say God is in control until God does something we don’t like or don’t understand. Then we say “get out da way” and we busily set about the task of making things right, taking care of the situation.

Knowing that God can and will means living with both confidence and humility, holding the two together. Those who say “God is in control” can’t be passive. Those who say “get out da way” can’t be arrogant. We’re involved, but not in charge. Jesus used the example of the farmer who works hard to sow seed, and then works hard to harvest the crop, but who doesn’t really make anything grow. The seed grows by itself in the dark of the earth whether the farmer sleeps or works (see Mark 4:26-29).

Both Franco and Jones swung their bats hard. To any observer, there was no notable difference in what they did – but maybe those songs offered a glimpse into the difference between how they did it.

So how’s your swing?

Pressure

And apart from other things, there is the daily pressure on me of my anxiety for all the churches (2 Corinthians 11:28).

I learned something about pressure yesterday, and I learned it from a plumber named John (you can find him in the phone book under “John the Plumber.” No kidding.). John was in our home to clean out some slow drains. While engaged in that task, his diagnostic skills kicked in as he listened to various sounds from the plumbing fixtures in our bathroom. “You’ve got too much water pressure in your house. I’ll check that before I leave.” I was skeptical. That sounded like one more little thing for John the Plumber to do and thus charge me for.

I took John to the basement where he hooked up a small gage to some kind of knob on my hot water heater (forgive my ignorance of technical terminology). He showed me the reading – 120 pounds per square inch. He then showed me a pipe in my basement that supplies water to the house. On it is a device called a “pressure regulator valve” – or “PRV.” That piece of equipment clearly indicated that it was designed to regulate pressure to somewhere between 25-75 psi. My PRV had quit working. It was not doing what it was supposed to do. There was far too much water pressure in my home. John the plumber explained that eventually this level of pressure would take its toll on something in the house – a washing machine line, the kitchen sink, the line to the refrigerator. Something with water in it would burst, and it was a question of when, not if. The pressure was too much for the house to bear for long.

If in no other way, here is how people and houses are alike. Intense pressure soon will take its toll. In houses pipes burst and people have their own way of doing the same thing. We vent anger at people who don’t deserve it, usually children or a spouse. Sometimes we don’t vent at all. We shut down, shut out, pull within ourselves. Maybe we work harder, move faster. Sadly, we may choose to regulate the pressure with some other defective measure – a little more drinking, a little more mind numbing television. The truly unnerving thing about the water pressure in my house was that I thought everything was fine. Pressure can build without our knowing it, and this means we can easily ignore it.

The way to fix a faulty PRV is not by eliminating all the pressure. The water isn’t really the problem. In fact, no pressure in the pipes means no clean clothes, no showers, no dishwasher, no sprinklers. The absence of pressure is not good. Astronauts in space workout daily so that zero gravity will not destroy muscle tone. A string on a guitar that is absolutely free of tension will never make music. Seeking the removal of pressure isn’t the answer.

What we need is a good PRV - a way to regulate and harness the pressure that’s there. Pressure rightly controlled can do powerful things. The apostle Paul, in a moment of genuine transparency, admits his own experience of pressure and anxiety. The pressure came from seeing people come to faith in Jesus, gathering them into small congregations, putting leaders in place, teaching them, and then moving on. Paul’s concern for these churches was parental in nature and he lived with a constant sense of pressure for their well being and their progress in the faith (see 1 Thessalonians 2).

Paul didn’t respond to the pressure by getting away from it all. In fact, the passage in 2 Corinthians 11 shows him intensely engaged: hunger, prison, beatings, constantly in danger. High pressure to say the least. What regulates the pressure? What keeps Paul from caving in or cracking up? The answer is grace. Paul embraced the pressure, and he knew his limitations. His own weakness, his fragile self, was the key to discovering the power of grace in his life. Paul lived every day on the strength of this promise: “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness” (2 Cor. 12:9).

In another letter Paul said that where sin abounded, grace abounded even more. Where there’s plenty of sin, you’ll find enough grace to cover it. The same is true for pressure. Where there’s a lot of pressure, no matter its source, there’s enough grace to cover it. It’s God’s PRV. And it never quits working.

A Prayer for the Overwhelmed

And Elisha prayed, “O Lord, open his eyes so he may see.” Then the Lord opened the servant’s eyes, and he looked and saw hills full of horses and chariots of fire all around Elisha (2 Kings 6:17).

For me, any mention of “chariots of fire” immediately conjures up images from the movie of the same title: the familiar theme song, slow motion footage of young aristocratic Brits running on the beach, the sacred stone structures of Oxford. I liked the movie – but it places a distant second to this scene from 2 Kings 6.

The King of Aram is in a rage because the Israelites seem to know his every move. He’s convinced there’s a leak from within his own ranks. He gathers his officers for an inquisition – quick trial, speedy execution. “Don’t look at us,” they protest. “It’s the prophet Elisha. He tells the King of Israel the very words you speak in your bedroom.”

After determining that the prophet is in Dothan, the King of Aram sends an army – horses, chariots, the works – to seize the prophet. This fact alone is amusing and worth pondering. An army sent to take a prophet (I take further delight that he was a bald prophet according to 2 Kings 2:23). The Arameans go by night and surround the prophet and his servant.

Early the next morning the prophet’s servant steps outside. After a yawn and a good stretch it hits him that something isn’t right – and then he sees them. Horses, chariots, soldiers, all in battle formation. The NIV rendering of the servant’s reaction is one of the great understatements of the Hebrew Scriptures. “Oh my Lord, what shall we do?” I’m no Hebrew scholar, but I can imagine that a literal translation of his words would make for some very colorful English.

Luckily, this overwhelmed servant is in the company of a man who has a keen eye for the presence of God. The prophet Elisha speaks the confident, assuring word. “Don’t be afraid. Those who are with us are more than those who are with them.”

There are seasons when we all need someone like this in our lives. We wake up one morning and find ourselves facing something overwhelming. We have no idea how to handle it, what to do, what will happen next. The problem is not a matter of belief. I think Elisha’s servant knew and believed in Elisha’s God. Sometimes, what is thrown at us eclipses our vision. When you’ve just been told that the chemo treatments will last for twelve weeks, or when you suddenly realize in the final trimester that your baby isn’t moving, or when you make the drive home after leaving your child at a rehab hospital, or when you wake up the first morning after losing your job – in these moments the question of Elisha’s servant is asked but not answered. “What will we do?”

There are plenty of people around asking that question for any number of reasons. It doesn’t require a tragedy or crisis. Sometimes the relentless demands of work and traffic and expectations and unpaid bills and ambitious pursuits can overwhelm. We need someone to remind us: “A mighty power surrounds you. This power has been given to you. Those with you are greater than what you see right now.” We need a prophet – and that doesn’t necessarily mean “preacher.” A faithful, believing friend will do just fine.

The prophet’s assuring words are backed up by a prayer. “Lord, open his eyes so he may see.” You can pray this for a friend. You can pray it for yourself. Hopefully there’s someone in your life to pray it with you and for you. The implication of the prayer is that there is something happening that I can’t see. There’s more going on than meets the eye. When we’re overwhelmed, the simple truth is that we need help. We need help to see what is really happening. The words of this prayer are significant. Most often, when we’re drowning in our own circumstances or when we know someone else who is, we pray for changed circumstances. This is valid, but it’s not enough. What we need is a capacity to see what truly surrounds us. We need the strength that comes from the host of heaven arrayed our side.

God answered Elisha’s prayer. The eyes of the servant were opened. He saw the chariots of fire all around Elisha. Whatever faces you today, may your eyes be opened in the same way.

More on Messy Mystics

“You have given me the heritage of those who fear your name” (Psalm 61:5b TNIV)

A word of clarification about these messy mystics: I’m playing with words here. I’m not restricting myself to a tight and scholarly definition of “mystic.” And I’m identifying the stuff of ordinary life as “messy.” That doesn’t mean it’s bad or undesirable or to be avoided. It’s just there, and anyone who lives an ordinary life has to deal with all the details of that life. As a pithy southern colloquialism has it, “the fleas come with the dog.”

Here are some followers of Jesus who knew (or know) well what that southernism means.

Gregory of Nazianzus learned it the hard way. Born in 330 A.D. in a region we know as central Turkey, he was the son of a Bishop and a child of privilege. He was devout even as a child, and as he grew so did his yearning for the contemplative life. Elijah and John the Baptist were biblical role models. Poor Gregory was ordained against his will. As a Baptist-turned-Presbyterian I’m not exactly sure how that happened in the fourth century. His pastor father needed some help and that fact was certainly in the mix. But Gregory wanted something other than the headaches of dealing with the church and church people. He responded to his ordination by running away and hiding out for a while, no doubt praying fervently and attempting to convince God that a major celestial error had been made. God ignored Gregory. Gregory went back home – only to do the very same thing again about ten years later (this was his answer to being given a promotion in the church). Eventually Gregory embraced the pastoral life and had a fruitful ministry. He served the church in a turbulent time, endured threats of assassination, a produced some weighty stuff like a sermon series called “Five Orations on the Divinity of the Logos.” You don’t come up with stuff like that without being something of a mystic – but he did it in a messy time, in the heat of conflict.

Fast forward about 1300 years to a Carmelite monastery in Paris, France. There a monk known to us as Brother Lawrence lived for 42 years. Sounds escapist on the surface, but within the life of the community Brother Lawrence learned what it meant to live seamlessly between times of solitude and worship and times of labor. Brother Lawrence worked in the Kitchen – cleaning pots and pans and dishes until his fingers were shriveled and raisin like. For Lawrence, the Kitchen and the Chapel were both places of prayer. We don’t see him standing at the sink, pining away for the quiet of his cell. He prayed during designated times of worship. He prayed in the kitchen. That’s a tough one for me since I usually find our kitchen and the messes we make there to be a source of endless frustration and repeated labor (didn’t I just empty the dishwasher? My turn again?) I’ve got plenty to learn from Brother Lawrence.

I had the chance to hear Henri Nouwen in the spring of 1994 at the First Presbyterian Church of Fort Worth, Texas. Like many, I had long admired the man through his writings. The final season of Nouwen’s life intrigues me. In his little volume, In the Name of Jesus, Nowen describes the spiritual lethargy that had settled upon him as he climbed the ladder in academia. Notre Dame and Harvard looked good on the resume, but those names did little for the soul of this teacher-priest. In this state of barrenness he prayed for direction and eventually discerned this response: “go and live among the poor in spirit and they will heal you.” So this widely published and sought after teacher left the halls of the Ivy League and went to live among a community of mentally handicapped people- many of whom had not gone to school and couldn’t read (quite a career move). There among the broken and simple, pastoring by helping people to get ready for bed and go to the bathroom, Nouwen reflects on the nature of Christian Leadership and calls leaders to be people who are given to contemplative prayer. I don’t sense that many of us pastors are rushing to sign up for that kind of thing. That’s just a little too messy.

Among the living my regard for pastor-professor Eugene H. Peterson cannot be overstated. Again, as with Nowen, I know him only through his books. I did receive a personal letter from him years ago. This in itself is unusual. That a nobody seminary student could write to him to express gratitude or ask a question, and that he would actually write back seems extraordinary to me now (and it did then). A line from his letter of June 25, 1992 says it well. “Maybe that’s why you find my writings helpful, because they were all written in the middle of the traffic, trying to learn how to practice the contemplative life in the particular setting of the pastoral vocation.”

At this point I feel like the writer of Hebrews. After rehearsing the roll call of faith in chapter 11 the writer seems to lament that there are so many other faithful ones to be spoken of, other stories to be told. Same here. I haven’t said anything about Dallas Willard or Dietrich Bonhoeffer or Jonathan Edwards. Maybe another time. For now, I keep searching for role models among the living and the dead. I urge you to do the same.

The Psalmist says it well (yet again!). “You have given me the heritage of those who fear your name.”

You Can't Be A Mystic Apart From the Mess

So will I ever sing praises to your name, as I perform my vows day after day (Psalm 61:8 ESV).

While “routine” isn’t a word I would choose to describe my life, my life is made up of a collection of routines. Patterns emerge that are repeated, sometimes weekly, sometimes daily. I’m always the first one up in the morning. I go downstairs and make the coffee. After some time in my study, it’s time to wake the kids, get dressed, help my wife get the kids dressed, then down for breakfast. Most mornings I do car-pool duty on my way to the church. The rhythm of the week is marked by Wednesday nights at church, and Sunday mornings at church. At church on Wednesdays there is choir for the kids followed by dinner in the fellowship hall, followed by one of my weekly teaching commitments. My days are shaped by meetings that happen with familiar repetition: A set of meetings for Monday, a set for Tuesday, a set for Wednesday.

Routines. I don’t know who said it – but I’ve heard that the hardest thing about life is that it’s just so daily. This is true. Routines can be deadening. Boredom sets in. All the real living gets bleached out of life.

And when it comes to our walk with God and our understanding of what it means to live a spiritual life, routines are like Novocain to the soul. We know our souls are there, we just can’t feel them. This leads us to the following conclusion: if we could ditch the routines, we could really know God. We could truly live with a sense of God’s presence. We could get close to God. But for these dishes in the sink, and practices to run to, and clothes to be folded, and grass to be mowed, and baths to be overseen, and family members to be called – were it not for all this daily-ness, we could live a spiritual life.

But this conclusion is wrong. We don’t find God by losing routines and patterns and obligations. We don’t become more spiritual by becoming less predictable. We don’t get deep by getting free. If anything, the opposite is true. God is found and grace is received in the midst of ordinariness. We demonstrate a likeness to God in our own faithfulness and steadfast commitments.

The Psalmist seems to have experienced the right mingling of exuberant praise and daily faithfulness. The words of Psalm 61:8 clearly come from one who has discovered what it means to worship in the midst of the daily performance of vows. Praise and daily-ness belong together. We learn to worship as we embrace the familiar every day stuff that constitutes our lives.

Mysticism and escapism are not the same thing. Not even close.

In fact, mysticism seems to thrive on the mundane. You can’t be a mystic apart from the mess.

One of my own ways of kindling a sense of fervor for the life of faith is to find people who know God intimately and embrace life, ordinary life, fully. Many of these exemplary followers of Jesus are long dead, but not all of them. In a coming post I’ll tell about some of my favorites.

Listening Trumps Liturgy

Sacrifice and offering you have not desired, but you have given me an open ear (Psalm 40:6a ESV).

Listening is hard work. I’ve decided that after years in the ministry, those of us who are supposed to have a capacity for listening often master techniques that give the impression of listening – the well timed nod or “humph” of affirmation. All the while we’re sleepy or preoccupied or just somewhere else.

In my pastorate a few years ago in North Carolina, Miss Cloyce was the oldest member of our congregation. She was 98 when I did her funeral in December of 2001. She was also my next door neighbor. Long stretches between pastoral visits didn’t go unnoticed. I liked Cloyce and enjoyed talking with her, but she kept her house very warm. Perhaps I’m just remembering visits made during the winter months. Still, regardless of the season, my memories of visiting Cloyce are marked by the warmth of the house and the comfort of the chair she would have me seated in. It was always the same chair - one of those rocking chairs that actually slides, the sliding somehow simulating the smooth motion of rocking.

After a few minutes in that smooth sliding chair, as the warmth of the house soaked into me, giving attentive pastoral care became nearly impossible. If I happened to visit her after lunch time, well . . . forget it. It was all I could do to hold my head up. And the weird part of this is that I had some conscious awareness that I was struggling to listen (struggling to stay awake) but the awareness did little to help me focus and engage. To my knowledge I never lapsed into a full blown head-dropping- zone-out moment while visiting Cloyce. I can only hope that my zombie like presence wasn’t too obvious to her. Listening is hard work.

And as important as it is to listen well to others, this pales against the importance of listening well to God. There’s no shortage of counsel on how to listen to God. I won’t venture to add anything to that. But what strikes me about Psalm 40:6 is the priority of listening. The Psalmist says that the religious activities of sacrifice and offering rank below listening. Listening trumps liturgy. There’s a footnote in my bible that says that the Hebrew of 40:6a literally reads “ears you have dug for me.” That’s an amazing picture. It suggests that listening isn’t simply something I do, but something that God allows me to do and helps me to do.

Activity – even good worship activity like sacrifice and offering – is always easier than listening. Listening requires outward stillness coupled with inner rigor and focus. It’s exhausting. But if listening is neglected, the liturgy quickly becomes rote.

I want to listen more and better. Clutter makes it difficult. If not clutter, a life that’s comfortable and warm lulls me to inattention. I need help like everyone else. I need God to come and open my ears and give me the capacity to listen.

"Just Show Me Where the People Are."

Recently Steve Haas came to our church as guest preacher. Steve is the Vice President for Church Relations for World Vision. On the day of his arrival in Atlanta it was my privilege to help show him around our church facility – get him oriented to our sanctuary and the setting in which he would soon preach.

As we were walking around the building Steve shared a recent experience of his in which he had hosted a contemporary Christian musician who was visiting the headquarters of World Vision. After touring the offices for a while, Steve asked this Christian rocker if there was anything else in particular he would like to see. The response was surprising but wonderfully honest. The musician said, “Just show me where the people are.”

There may be something generational about this. I don’t know – but it seems that many like myself came of spiritual “age” in an era of Christendom that values institutions and programs and buildings. We know we’re making an impact when these things are large and thus deemed successful. But now, something else is happening and it isn’t about programs and institutions and buildings. It’s relational, connectional. It’s all about the people. The terse request of the musician says it well. “Just show me where the people are.” The offices and rooms and equipment aren’t really that interesting anymore.

In 1 Thessalonians 2:19-20 Paul writes to his new converts and asks “for what is our hope or joy or crown of boasting before our Lord Jesus at his coming? Is it not you? For you are our glory and joy (ESV).” Paul seems to be making his point by asking questions. The point is simple. His glory and joy, that in which he boasts, are the people in Thessalonica who have heard the good news about Jesus and turned from serving idols to serving the living and true God (1:9). They are people whose lives have been changed by the message of what God has done in Jesus. The first thing Paul wants to show us about his ministry is people. He points and says “look at them!”

Of course, this doesn’t negate the need and importance of buildings and equipment. Congregations seem more apt to gather when there are four sound walls and a good roof overhead, when someone has planned a purpose or agenda for the gathering, when it’s generally understood what will happen and when resources are managed in such a way that the intent of the gathering can actually be realized. The institutional life of the church simply will not and cannot go away.

But ultimately the question that demands to be answered is about people. What’s happening to the lives of people as the institution does its thing? Honestly, I’m more likely to seek my glory and joy and boasting in some inanimate achievement like a well attended program or a bible study where people laugh at all my witticisms (and then tell me how good it was).

But is anyone being changed? Is anyone even being helped . . . just a little?

I like what happens when we take Paul’s questions and let the Christian rocker give the answer. “For what is our glory and joy and crown of boasting?”

“Just show me where the people are.”

Blessed or Bitter?

Because your steadfast love is better than life, my lips will praise you. (Psalm 63:3 ESV)

When I was a hospital chaplain at Baylor Medical Center in Dallas our department director was a man by the name of Joe Gross. Joe had the appearance of a large and burly man, not what you picture when you think of a pastoral caregiver. He looked more like a Marine. But Joe had a perceptive mind, a caring heart and some deep wisdom.

I’ll never forget one of his teaching sessions with us. He remarked about a well known saying, “What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger.” That phrase gets thrown around easily in a hospital setting. It’s a way of finding something positive in the midst of difficulty or suffering. But Joe didn’t buy it. He told us that the phrase was not true – at least not always. Sometimes, he said, “What doesn’t kill you makes you bitter.”

Often, since that time, I’ve wondered what makes the difference. What makes the difference between a person who emerges from something difficult as a blessed person and one who simply becomes bitter? Part of the answer is in this verse from Psalm 63. “The steadfast love of the Lord is better than life.”

When I was pondering this statement a while back, I was struck by the boldness of this prayer. The Psalmist is almost defiant in exalting the glory of God and the worth of God’s love above any earthly attachments. I liked the words, and I felt like this was something I wanted to be able to say – but I had an objection. The verse seemed to create a dualism between God’s love and the experiences of life.

Don’t we know the love of God in the stuff of life? Don’t we know God’s love in the voices of our children, the sounds and sights of early morning, the smell of food, the way we feel when we laugh hard, the smell of cut grass, the delight of human touch – holding hands and a good long back rub? Our spirituality is not disembodied. We know God’s love in the earthiness of our lives, in detail. As Eugene Peterson says, “abstraction is the devil’s work.”

All of this is true. We do know God’s love that way – but here’s the problem.

There are many people who can’t have children or who have lost children. There are many people who never feel another human touch, or the touch they feel is violent. There are many who no longer recognize their own family members, who cannot see a sunrise, who do not have enough food to eat, who will never own a home with a yard where they cut the grass.

So if we know the love of God in the stuff of life, then God’s love is “hit and miss.” Not everyone gets in on it.

The best way to understand the Psalmist’s prayer is to understand that while we may experience God’s love in the details of life, God’s love is something other than God’s gifts. If we confuse God’s gifts with God’s love we will be more likely to become bitter people. Bitterness takes root when we place the weight of our sense of rightness and well being on our family, our health, our income or career, our retirement plans and bank accounts. We may know these in abundance – but maybe not. And then what?

When these gifts are no longer ours, there is still the love of God. And we can come at it from the other direction. To have these gifts apart from the love of God is to soon discover how empty they can be. They really can’t bear the entire weight of our happiness.

So I want to do what they Psalmist says. I want my lips to praise God for every gift of grace I know in this life. And should the gift be taken away, I want to be found still praising. I want to live as one blessed, not bitter. The steadfast love of the Lord is better than life.

"Dear Lord" - O Forget It!

I don’t know many people for whom prayer comes easy.

A few weeks back during the Lenten season I read again the story of Jesus’ disciples nodding off in the garden of Gethsemane. Jesus said to them some familiar words – words known by even marginally religious people – “the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.” Those words are used with reference to diets and other habits or urges for which we wish to deflect responsibility. But Jesus spoke the words into a context of prayer. Jesus had asked them to pray, to keep watch, and they couldn’t do it.

I remember one of the churches my dad served as pastor when I was a kid. They had an annual practice called “youth week.” This is where the youth of the church assumed the positions of the staff for a week. Practically speaking, this meant they helped with certain roles in a Sunday worship service. I remember one such service in which a young woman (she seemed like a woman to me at the time) was asked to say the offertory prayer in the worship service. She came to the pulpit and began. “Dear Lord” - and then she froze. There was the longest awkward silence. This was no reverent pause. This was a full-scale meltdown. Finally she blurted out “O Forget it!” and she walked off the platform.

Somehow my dad salvaged the moment and the service went on. The botched prayer left me trying to stifle my laughter. I’m far more sympathetic now. I don’t laugh at that anymore because I’ve done the same thing - never from the pulpit or in the context of worship, but far too often in my own weak efforts to pray. I’ve felt that way about prayer. I try to pray. I get things going – and then just lock up. O Forget it!

That’s why I’m thankful for the story of what happened in Gethsemane. I'm thankful that we’re told that Jesus’ closest followers struggled to pray, struggled with their willing spirits and weak flesh. I’m thankful that when they should have been praying they felt more like sleeping and that sleep won the contest, at least momentarily. I’m thankful that Jesus was direct enough to rebuke them, but that he didn’t do it with accusation. Rather he asked them a question, and the question comes fresh to followers of Christ again and again. Couldn’t you keep watch for one hour? And I’m thankful for Luke 11:1. Here the disciples ask “Lord, teach us to pray.”

Of course, in response to this request, Jesus gave his disciples a prayer which has come to be known to us as “the Lord’s Prayer.” The content of those words has been the subject of thorough study and reflection. What I observe with gratitude is the simple fact that Jesus responded to their request at all. His model prayer is an implicit acknowledgement that prayer can be taught, that the use of a form is a good thing. An outline isn’t cheating.

So much of my understanding of prayer has been shaped by the extemporaneous expression of “the heart.” This usually means an outpouring of emotion, prayer laced with intense feeling. When I’m trying too hard to pray that way I lock up.

But Jesus gave us a prayer. I think he meant for us to use it. His words are help in those moments when my spirit is willing but my flesh is weak.

Yes Lord, teach us to pray . . . and keep on teaching us.

A Hymn in Springtime

The word revival has not entirely disappeared from today’s religious vocabulary. Most often when I hear the word these days I hear of something the church desperately needs. Revival is a work of the Holy Spirit among God’s people, a work for which we are to pray without ceasing. I believe this true. While my own prayers are fitful and forgetful in this matter, I know the church needs revival and I know that only God can bring it about. But in the churches in which I grew up revival meant something more. Revival was an annual event. It was scheduled and planned. Usually a guest preacher was invited to come to the church. There would be revival services each night of the week. (As I grew older the week-long event shrunk to a three night event. Some churches now have abandoned the practice altogether).

At some point during the week there would be a gathering of the people that involved no small amount of food. The preaching was intense, the singing was robust. Typically held in the springtime of the year, these revival meetings were the congregation’s rousing from the slumber of winter: A yearly shot-in-the-arm for the faithful, a frequent Damascus road for those who had never made a commitment to Jesus Christ. This is what was happening at the North Trenholm Baptist Church in Columbia, South Carolina in the spring of 1970. I had just turned eight years old. My uncle Earl was the pastor of that church, and the guest preacher for the week was my Dad.

I wish I could remember more of the details of that particular April evening – the look of the church, what I had done that day, the very spot in the sanctuary where I was seated, the words of the sermon my father preached. I honestly can’t recall much of that evening (I think it was a Thursday). But there are a few things that have remained with me over the past thirty-four years. As with almost every worship service in a Baptist church, this one ended with an “invitation” to respond to God’s work, and especially God’s promptings through the preached word. The most urgent invitation, especially in revival services, was often a call to make a decision for Christ. This response or “decision” usually meant walking down the aisle to speak with the pastor who stood at the front of the church as a hymn was being sung. This coming forward was an open declaration, the act that constituted a public profession of faith. My father, having finished the sermon I don’t remember, extended the invitation.

I remember the mingling of longing and dread, knowing that I needed to go forward, and yet not wanting to move. Still, for whatever reason, this was the moment when I knew in my eight year old spirit that the time had come to respond. I remember moving to my left to exit the pew. And above all else I remember the hymn that was being sung at that moment: I Surrender All. In the years since my eight-year-old-center-aisle journey, I have sung that hymn time and time again in a variety of worship settings. However, it has been only recently that I’ve begun to feel the weight of what the hymn says. The act of yielding one’s life, handing it over, letting it go, lies at the heart of the Christian life.

The night I went to the front of the church to speak to my father about trusting in Jesus, I Surrender All was background music. Now, thirty-four years later, “I surrender all” is becoming a theme song. In a sesne, it defines what I’m seeking to do every day as a follower of Jesus Christ. Honestly, those words are much easier sung than lived. Those words name the struggle, the fight. Why do we find it so hard?

The Rock Wall

On the day my son turned seven we were in a large sporting goods store getting gear for his soon to start baseball season. At the back of this particular store is a large rock-climbing wall, a wall that spans the entire two-story height of the building. Since each floor has very high warehouse ceilings, this is a tall wall. John wanted to climb it. He’s never climbed this particular wall before, but he’s been to plenty of birthday parties at “Atlanta Rocks.” He loves climbing these knobby contoured walls. So there in the store I paid for the climb and one of the store staffers helped John into his “harness.”

My son started making his way up the wall, and the higher he went the more I felt a kind of pride and delight welling up within myself. By the time he cleared the halfway point I was into it. From time to time he would pause and search for the next hand-hold, a place to put a foot, anything to hold on to. I would try to coach him. “Look to your left John” etc. Mostly I just encouraged him to keep climbing. I wanted him to make it to the top. And he did.

That picture of my son scaling the rock wall, making slow-but-sure progress, stopping to look for the next step – it’s stayed with me as a picture of what ministry is about. The words of Paul in 1 Thessalonians 2:11-12 capture the rock climbing nature of being a pastor. “For you know that we dealt with you as a father deals with his own children, encouraging, comforting and urging you to live lives worthy of God who calls you into his kingdom and glory.” Much of what I saw in John’s climb reflects life experience that most of us eventually encounter. Progress is slow. From time to time we need to stop and consider what’s next – look at options, assess where each option might take us. At times we’ve got a firm grip, at other moments we’re barely hanging on.

The good news is we don’t climb alone. We need people to help us, to offer some guidance and counsel, to tell us we’re not finished and that we can keep moving. Pastors get to do that. Parents and friends are also on the frontlines of this kind of work.

The rock wall experience took on an added dimension when John was finished with his climb and had been lowered back to the floor. Now it was my daughters turn. She’s five. She did fairly well, but after climbing the bottom third of the wall she decided she’d had enough. “I want to come down now” she said in a matter of fact tone. I kept coaching, urging her to reach for this or that knob, giving her the benefit of my superior vantage point on the floor. Anna responded to my exhortations by letting go of the wall. And there she dangled, swinging slightly back and forth. She was finished – but held firmly in place next to the wall by the belay.

Climbing the rock wall isn’t just about effort and progress. It’s also about grace. We all hit places on this climb where we decide we’ve had enough. We decide to stop. Sometimes, we slip. What we thought we could reach turns out to be beyond us. We can’t hold on. And at those moments God holds us firmly in place. We are anchored, even when we’re dangling.

I’d like to tell you that my daughter eventually reached the top of the wall. Not this time. But someday she will – and until then, and with every step, there’s always grace.

No God-Forsaken Places (wrap up)

So . . . there are no God-forsaken places.

I've got solid biblical grounds for saying so - but I'm not in the hospital now, I'm not stationed in Iraq now, I like where I live and what I do. Easy for me to say.

Still, my hunch is that what we call "God-forsaken" has little to do with what we really believe about the presence or absence of God. The pain we feel as "forsaken-ness" comes from the absence of ourselves. By that I mean to say that what we call God-forsaken is in actuality any place or circumstance beyond my control and the exercise of my will to change it and shape it. It's a place or situation void of me. God may be very much involved.

Back to Elijah at the Kerith Ravine. The story is found in 1 Kings 17. Honestly, the details are sparse. We don't know where the place is or what it was like. What we do know about this season in the prohet's life makes two things clear. First, Elijah isn't doing much. Second, God is doing plenty. And maybe that's the point of all so-called God-forsaken places.

The only thing we really see happening at the Kerith Ravine is not of the prophet's doing, but of God's. God tells Elijah that in this place of hiding ravens will arrive daily with bread and meat. Every morning, the ravens bring breakfast. Every evening, the ravens bring dinner. Elijah does not grow his own food, and he does not work to earn it. He waits by the brook. He hides. He sits in quiet obscurity and lives by grace.

In our God-forsaken places we too learn to what it means to depend entirely on God. We may not like where we are. We may find it hostile or boring. We may resent it because we never wanted or expected to be where we are and with every passing day we're convinced that our lives are being wasted. But God has a purpose in those places. He renders us still and then he provides - day after day, morning and evening, showing himself faithful.

God seems intent on teaching us to rely on him and him alone for our well being. Even when we embrace the difficult place we usually do so while formulating our plan for escape. Yes, this is not where we want to be, not where we planned to be - but it can't last forever. Soon we'll find another place that suits us. But the next place doesn't always hold up under the weight of our hopes.

Elijah eventually moves. His relocation is brought about by two factors that often work closely together. For one thing, practical circumstances dictated that it was time to move on. The brook where Elijah had been hiding and from which he had drawn water began to dry up. God was keeping his word. There was no rain in the land and not even Elijah was immmune from the impact of drought. Elijah had to go. But in addition to the dictates of circumstance, the move was directed by God's word and God's will. "Go at once to Zarephath of Sidon and stay there" (1 Kings 17:9).

Zarephath is hardly a move "up the ladder." The water of the brook and food supplied by ravens is replaced by a widow's meager provisions. She has a handful of flour and a little oil in a jug. No health care plan for the prophet here. Barely enough for the woman and her son. But again, Elijah in Zarephath continues to know what it means to live by grace - the lesson of the Kerith Ravine is being taught all over again.

Maybe the place we dream of is a place where we can be just fine without God. That's precisely where God will not take us. It's our sin that makes us yearn for such a place - the old garden of Eden lie. And from time to time we find ourselves in the difficult place, the unexpected place. We join the prophet Elijah in learning (again) to live by grace. And grace is there. We need help in seeing it. Then we can say with Jacob "surely the Lord is in this place and I was not aware of it" (Genesis 28:16).