The iPod Universe

“I acquired male and female singers . . . “ (Ecclesiastes 2:8b).

I’ve not found much about Solomon’s life that I share in common with him. That is, until I came across a phrase in Ecc. 2:8. Solomon writes that he acquired male and female singers. I’ve done that too. I don’t buy them or hire them. I download them. You see, this past April I became an inhabitant of the iPod universe.

For my birthday Marnie gave me a sleek, black video iPod. It’s an amazing piece of technology. This narrow, flat metallic box will hold thousands of songs. It not only holds songs, it plays feature length movies and allows me to download episodes of TV shows I might have missed. I literally hold a world of entertainment in my hand. With a click on iTunes, I can acquire male and female singers – thousands of them!

But here’s the thing about my iPod: I’ve noticed that it cuts me off from some of the greatest things that happen in my life. I like my iPod, I just can’t find the best time to use it. I can’t listen to my iPod and read a book. I can’t listen to my iPod and study my Bible or write devotionals. I can’t listen to my iPod and be a decent member of my family. I thought about taking my iPod to one of John’s baseball games – but then I felt a little uneasy about appearing aloof, sitting with the other parents with my ears plugged up as if to say, “please don’t bother me.”

The solitary nature of the iPod universe comes close to replicating Solomon’s life experience. Having a world of entertainment in the palm of my hand isn’t as great as it sounds. Being cocooned in a world of self-selected music and entertainment quickly looses its appeal when enjoying the music keeps me from enjoying my life. I imagine Solomon with his own choir and orchestra. He quickly found out that the best music falls flat when the sound of applause comes from only one set of hands.

Solomon says he denied himself nothing that his eyes desired – and that precisely was his problem. When nothing is denied nothing is truly possessed. Having 7000 songs in your hand doesn’t match the joy of hearing the handful of songs that are truly special to you. You can be King in your iPod universe, but the collection of singers means little when your universe has a population of one.

Prayer: God, for your good gifts of music and dance, of food and laughter, make me truly thankful. Teach me to receive these gifts in order to share them with others. Amen.

You Look Like You Could Use A Vocation

“I undertook great projects: I built houses for myself and planted vineyards . . . I became greater by far than anyone in Jerusalem before me.” (Ecclesiastes 2:4, 9)

Our culture assumes that work has curative powers. It’s good for what ails us, especially if what ails us is an inner emptiness or some kind of invisible bruise on the soul. When we grieve, we throw ourselves into our work. When things aren’t going so well at home, we throw ourselves into our work, creating longer hours at the office. When we feel anxiety that others are advancing while we’re marking time, we throw ourselves into our work in the hope that our time will come and we will one day become greater than all those who came before us.

Solomon, in his own quest for meaning in life, coupled his no-holds-barred pleasure seeking with an intense work ethic. He built structures, acquired land and managed an expansive staff (2:4-7). These are worthy endeavors. Hard work is valued in scripture. In the New Testament, Paul urged that those who won’t work shouldn’t be allowed to eat.

But work for work’s sake, or for the sake of wealth and accomplishment, proves empty. After reflecting on his impressive career, all that his hands had done, Solomon himself comes back to his familiar refrain. It was meaningless, a chasing after the wind (2:11).

This is when someone needed to say to Solomon, “you look like you could use a vocation.” He had plenty of work, plenty of wealth, and name recognition that could have landed any endorsement contract in the known world. But the work lacked meaning because it had somehow become disconnected from God. Like Solomon, we don’t crave work as much as we do meaningful work - a vocation.

The most significant truth about our work is that before we go to a job, any job, God is already working. God works in the world and chooses to use us in that work. God works through us in offices and schools, in courtrooms and labs, in retail stores and restaurants. All over Atlanta God is at work – and today, as you do your work, you are invited to be a part of the work God is doing.

Prayer: Gracious God, throughout this day, as I do my work, remind me of my vocation. Use me and the tasks I’m involved in as a means of reflecting your character to those around me. Amen.

The Limits of Pleasure

“I said in my heart, ‘come now, I will test you with pleasure; enjoy yourself.” (Ecc. 2:1).

“The happiest place on earth.” That’s the line Disney wants you to know by heart when you think of their theme parks and resorts. Since 2004 my family has made three trips to Disney. Yes, we like it. But “happiest place on earth?” I beg to differ.

The first trip we took was in July. I know . . . not an optimal time of year for walking all over the magic kingdom (what were we thinking?). The July heat literally seared an image into my memory. As I stood in line with my own tired and sometimes complaining children, I looked at the mass of humanity waiting in line with me. Remarkably, given that we were all there at the happiest place on earth, no one looked particularly happy. I saw plenty of folks who looked exhausted and mildly irritated. Fanning themselves or holding those water bottles with little motorized fans mounted on top, far too many of them (us!) looked miserable.

What I saw in the lines at Disney shouldn’t surprise anyone. It’s a truth that we’ve known for a very long time. The deliberate pursuit of pleasure rarely yields true pleasure. It is possible to be surrounded by a vast menu of amusements and stimulants and attractions provided for our enjoyment – and yet never experience joy. Sure, we can manufacture an occasional adrenaline rush, a moment of jolting surprise or outright fear, but soon the ride ends and we get in another line with our fans and water bottles and our quickly eroding patience.

Amusement isn’t joy and pleasure won’t lead us to purpose. That’s what Solomon learned as he indulged in wine and laughter. This doesn’t mean we avoid or despise life’s pleasures, never cracking a smile, never going to the party. It simply means we will not expect more of those things than they can deliver. We see amusement as a shadow of real joy, pointing us to something deeper and further in.

Maybe we can hear Solomon pointing us far beyond his time to Jesus, the one who came that our joy might be full and complete. Even a day that doesn’t look very fun can still bring you joy. What would it mean for you to truly “enjoy” this day?

Prayer: Lord Jesus, fill me with your Spirit today so that I may know your joy in the details of my own life. Make me truly and deeply thankful for the pleasures that this day might bring. Amen.

Lifestorming

I wanted to see what was worthwhile for men to do under heaven during the few days of their lives (Ecc. 2:3b NIV).

Tom Kelley is the general manager of IDEO – a design company specializing in product development and innovation. In his book, The Art of Innovation, Kelley devotes a chapter to “the perfect brainstorm.” Brainstorming is a chance for teams to “blue sky” ideas in the quest for the solutions or new direction. Among the several characteristics of “the perfect brainstorm” is the physicality of brainstorming. Kelley explains that the best brainstormers often practice “bodystorming.” This means that “we act out certain current behavior / usage patterns and see how they might be altered.”

That’s what Solomon seems to be doing in chapter 2 of Ecclesiastes. He’s ransacking his life experience, looking for something enduring satisfaction and meaning. Solomon is “lifestorming.” The words of Ecclesiastes 2 do not come to us from a mere philosopher who anguishes over abstract questions and debates answers with other philosophers. No, this book is life-tested, physical and tactile. Solomon runs after life like children chase fireflies at summer dusk. He collects one experience after another, savors it and examines it, extracts from it whatever he can discover.

The quest for meaning isn’t something that we figure out first and then live into. Usually, in life’s classroom, we have to raise our hands without being certain we’ve got the right answers. Every single day we have to get out of bed and live. Our confusion or boredom will not exempt us from this daily requirement. Sometimes our “lifestorming” yields wrong answers and dead-ends.

But sometimes – as with a perfect brainstorm – something clicks. The grab-bag of ideas sparks one thought that becomes transformational. In “lifestorming” the lived experiences may lead to that same kind of moment. It’s a moment we often call conversion.

Prayer: God, today I want to embrace my life eagerly and thankfully. In every lived experience of this day, work by your Spirit to teach me and guide me to the life you intend for me to have. Amen.

Your Legacy

“The people of long ago are not remembered, nor will there be any remembrance of people yet to come” (Ecc. 1:11 NRSV)

A couple of years ago my grandmother came down from Greensboro N.C. for a summer visit. On an August afternoon we spent time driving around Atlanta – the city of her birth – and she pointed out sites of significance in our family. It was a typical oven-like August, and under most circumstances I would have eagerly sought any excuse to avoid short car trips, interrupted by walking around in the heat, followed by another short car trip that never allowed the AC to get chilly. But these were not normal circumstances. My grandmother, aging and weakening, knows things about my family that I don’t know. She remembers things I’ve never heard about. It was a day of new insights and revelations. I loved every thick hot moment of it.

Not far from Peachtree Presbyterian there’s a little Methodist church on Powers Ferry Road, Sardis Methodist Church. One of the stops that afternoon was in the cemetery that occupies significant acreage next to the small building. That day my grandmother showed me a gravestone marked ROSSER. That’s her name, my mother’s maiden name. My maternal great-grandfather was a member there and was involved in paying off the note on the building that currently stands on Powers Ferry Road.

The writer of Ecclesiastes laments that “there is no remembrance of men of old.” In a way he’s right. How is it that I managed to drive by that church for years without guessing that I had even the remotest connection to the place? Three short generations had rinsed my great grandfather from the canvass of my consciousness.

And yet, there has been all along a legacy. Though unrecognized, it is no less real or formative. The generation of ROSSER that established a little church on Powers Ferry road is not remembered by me in the truest sense, but that generation is by no means escaped or truly forgotten. Our lives are cabled by unseen continuities and connections. The “men of old” are always with us.

By someone, in some way, you will be remembered. Your name and accomplishments may not belong to the ages, but the life you live now will somehow be wielded like a sculptors hammer, shaping another life. What will your legacy be?

Prayer: God of all ages, work in me as you see fit shaping a life worthy of being remembered, if only for a short while. Whatever there may be in my life that lasts into another generation, may it bring you glory. Amen.

More of the Same

All things are wearisome, more than one can say. The eye never has enough of seeing nor the ear its fill of hearing. What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun. (Ecc. 1:8-9).

To those of us who are not kings, that a king could be bored is hard to believe.

The words of Solomon strike me in much the same way my children’s words do when they say to me “I’m bored.” I usually reply, “you’ve got to be kidding; how can you be bored?” And yet, kids with computers and cable TV and Nintendo play stations get bored. Grown ups with comfortable homes and beautiful families and well paying jobs get bored. Nothing new here; Kings get bored. That’s what we learn from Ecclesiastes.

Leo Tolstoy, in Anna Karenina, wrote that boredom is “the desire for desires.” That captures something of the inner deadness that boredom is. The heart beats but never races. The eyes see but never dance in what they behold. The mouth speaks words but rarely to truly say anything.

Thus was Solomon afflicted, as are so many today. In Ecclesiastes the boredom is described as a numbing repetition. What has been will be again. Solomon observed the movements of the sun, the wind, the streams that flow to the ocean. We observe the same traffic patterns in our morning commute, the same scheduled meetings, the routines of carpool and laundry.

Our first response is a change of pace, a new variable in the equation of our lives. This might mean a vacation or a career move. But over time even the new element becomes familiar and well worn. What we need is the capacity to see into the ordinary repeated parts of life and discern the presence and purposes of God. Boredom is what we get when God is bleached out of an otherwise wonderful life. Absent God, the gift of ordinary things, of routines and practices, becomes burdensome.

Try this: Look for God in something familiar. Identify a person in your world with whom you interact every day or every week. Determine to learn one new thing about that person’s life.

Prayer: God, through this day and all of its familiar routines, help me to detect your presence. Remind me that you are at work in the most ordinary details of the most ordinary day. Help me to live this day in eager expectation. Amen.

Beyond Explanations

I applied my mind to study and to explore by wisdom all that is done under the heavens. (Ecc. 1:13a)

His decision to study theology and serve the church was reached by the time he was 16 years old. By the age of 25 he had written two doctoral dissertations. Born the son of a psychiatrist, the sixth of eight children, his father and siblings had little regard for a religious vocation. Nevertheless, the young Dietrich Bonhoeffer was resolute, stating boldly to his brothers “if the church is feeble I shall reform it.”

Bonhoeffer strikes me as a man of conviction and courage. His resistance to Hitler’s regime and his critique of the German church that so readily wed itself to the Reich proved costly. Boehoeffer’s life ended at the age of 39 – hanged in the concentration camp at Flossenburg only two weeks before allied forces liberated Germany.

Without question, the conviction and courage were real. And yet, mingled with these were questions. In prison Bonhoeffer composed a poem titled “Who Am I?” In the poem Bonhoeffer ponders the the chasm between his outer persona - cheerful, friendly, calm and controlled – and his inner turmoil and fatigue and yearnings. Bonhoeffer asks, “Who am I? Am I one person today and another tomorrow?” He finally concludes with these lines

Who am I? They mock me these lonely questions of mine.
Whoever I am, thou knowest, O God, I am thine.

There is a way of asking the hard questions that can either alienate us from God or drive us closer to God. What Bonhoeffer shares in common with Solomon is that both men asked their questions God-ward. And in the end, after the questions are asked, what remains is God. More than answers that solve and explain – there is always God. Wherever our questions take us, God holds us fast and meets us in those places.

Prayer: Father, we thank you that even in our questions you hold us fast. We thank you that in the quest for elusive answers we can know with confidence that we belong to you. Amen.

What Do You See?

“I have seen all things that are done under the sun; all of them are meaningless, a chasing after the wind” (Ecc. 1:14).

Do you ever begin the day reading the paper or watching the news, only to wish you hadn’t bothered? The headlines and stories provide us with information and commentary – but all of us take that information and draw conclusions about the world and what it means to live well in our particular time and place. These conclusions can take us in the direction of hope and promise. They can push us toward the search for solutions. They can also take us toward despair.

The words of Ecclesiastes come to us from a shrewd observer of life. The book is a report on what is observed, along with a conclusion. Interestingly, the book begins with the conclusion, moves to various observations, and keeps coming back to rehearse the conclusion. In chapter one alone there are repeated statements of what the writer has concluded about life:

“Meaningless! Meaningless!” Says the Teacher. “Utterly meaningless! Everything is meaningless.” (Ecc. 1:2)

What a fun guy! This hardly sounds like the kind of person we’re eager to hang out with or invite to a party. We can see people dodging into doorways or bathrooms or quickly making a phone call when they see this person coming their way. But this writer forces us to consider a significant question about our own lives and the conclusions we’ve drawn from what we see going on around us day after day.

Do we look at the world and then draw conclusions from what we see? Or do we hold assumptions and ready-made conclusions that determine how we look at the world?

Is it possible that we do both at the same time?

Try this: find a copy of the paper today and scan the headlines. Imagine yourself at Starbucks with Solomon. How would you refute his conclusion “all is meaningless?” Could you refute it?

Prayer: God, I don’t always know what to make of all I see going on around me. On some days my conclusions are hopeful. On other days I sound and feel like Solomon. Help me to see the world as you see it and to live by faith – knowing that there is always more than meets the eye. Amen.

"Lifestyles Under the Sun": A summer series of sermons and written reflections on Ecclesiastes

NOTE: This summer our Senior Pastor, Vic Pentz, launched a series of messages that explores the book of Ecclesiastes. Keying to a familiar refrain, this summer series looks at "Lifestyles Under the Sun" and the quest for the meaningful life that God intends. Along with the weekly sermons, our congregation receives a daily devotional via email. It has been my privilege to contribute to the series by writing the daily devotionals. In the coming weeks I'll be posting those here. To hear Dr. Pentz's sermons as well as those in the series preached by our associate pastors, please go to the Peachtree website.

The words of the Teacher, son of David, king in Jerusalem. . . I, the Teacher, was king over Israel in Jerusalem. (Ecc. 1:1, 12)

Some people simply have life figured out. They’ve mastered it, know their place in it, know what they want from it and how to go about getting it. They’ve got their act together. Or so we think.

The book of Ecclesiastes is surprising. It’s a book of searching and of asking hard questions. That in itself doesn’t disturb us. After all, most of us have asked or are currently asking the same questions. What surprises us more than the content is the person from whom those questions come. The author of the book is never identified by name, but this much is clear. This person has influence (teacher, or literally “a leader of the assembly”). This person has connections that come with a royal bloodline (son of David). This person is powerful (king over Israel). While scholars are not certain, tradition holds that the book was written by King Solomon.

Our assumption about influential, well connected, powerful people is that they’ve got life figured out. Ecclesiastes shatters that assumption. Solomon held a place in life that many would envy, a place which many are scrambling daily to attain. And yet, he asks the most basic questions of existence. What is life all about? What is the meaning of my existence?

We invest significant energy in hiding our questions. What we assume about others is what we’d like them to assume about us. But we know our own questions, the things we struggle with, the parts of life that don’t quite square with our expectations or beliefs.

The book of Ecclesiastes is an invitation to ask some honest and hard questions. In the coming weeks we’ll keep company with Solomon, listen to his questions and follow his search for answers. Along the way we may find answers to questions of our own.

What are your “big” questions? Are there things you ponder, but don’t talk about with anyone else? Find some place to write these down. Keep track of your thoughts as we journey through Ecclesiastes.

Prayer: Gracious God, before we speak a word you know our thoughts. This includes our questions. We thank you for your patient faithfulness that allows us to ask and to seek. Reveal yourself in these coming days through your word. Guide us as we seek you. Amen.

The Championship

I’m a ball park Pharisee. It’s not about the rules and making sure everyone keeps them. I’m not that kind of Pharisee. In fact, I neither know nor understand all the rules of baseball. My Pharisee-ism is of a different kind. It’s the kind that Jesus described when he told the story about those two men who had gone to the temple to pray. One of them – a Pharisee – built his prayer around this theme: “Lord, I’m glad I’m not like other people.”

That’s me at the ballpark when my son’s team is playing. I remain calm as other parents scream – sometimes at their kids – and get all worked up. I try to rise above the fray and say to myself “I’m glad I’m not like that.”

But the truth is, I am like that. I’m just not loud about it. That truth became very real to me a few days ago as my son’s baseball team played for the championship of his league. I didn’t change my behavior and suddenly get loud and frantic as if college scouts were secretly seated in the stands and my son’s future hung on this one game. I retained my even keeled demeanor. But what a hypocrite I am. Inside I could feel my vital organs convulsing every time my son took the field and every time he stepped up to the plate to bat.

As I sat there I became aware of how emotionally involved I had become in this game and in my son’s performance. It wasn’t the first time I had felt that way at one of his games. But for just a moment I wondered about this unseen thing that transpires between parents and players, between fathers and sons.

There was moment in the game when I realized that whatever this unseen thing is, it is at some level an exchange of questions: the child asking one kind of question, the parent answering with another kind of question.

An error was made in the field. I don’t even remember what it was – a missed grounder, a bad throw to second. Interestingly, it seemed so critical at the time but it hardly matters now. Of greater significance than the play was what happened for just a moment after the play had ended. I saw the player look over to where his dad was standing. It was a short glance, not the kind where the parent is trying to coach or encourage. It was the kind of look that asked a silent question: “Am I o.k? What do you think of me?”

How often does that question get asked from the field? How often does the question get asked in other places? How frequently do our sons look to us to know if they’re o.k., if we approve of them? John Eldredge says that every boy needs to know that that they have what it takes, and the person who can best tell them that they do is their father.

That quick glance from the field nags at me. I wonder if my own son has glanced my way, perhaps when I wasn’t looking. I don’t know what that young baseball player saw the other day, but I would hope that that kind of glance and the question it carries would always be met with another question. We look back at our sons and ask “do you know how proud I am of you?” “Do you know how glad I am that you are my son?” “Do you know how much I love you?”

There are plenty of us that look to God mainly out of our awareness of our failures, the mistakes we’ve made, the play we missed. For whatever reason, some see God’s response as stern and demanding and the essence of life before this God is about playing flawlessly.

But maybe, when we look to God out of our failure, God answers us with this question: “do you see what I see in you? Do you know how much I love you?”

John’s team won their game – a high moment for players and certainly for the parents. They are champs. The season may be over, but those questions are still exchanged. When my son looks to me, what do I reflect back to him? Is it about the scoreboard or the well executed play? I’ve not always answered him well – but I hope that somehow when he glances my way he’ll know good news. Love isn’t earned by always getting it right. Love is simply there. This is the gospel.

"When I get to college I am so totally going to jump on my bed"

Marnie has been in Cuba on a mission trip since last Friday. She comes home today (praise God!!). I think everyone is ready for Mom to come home. I'm certain I am, and I'm just as certain that my kids are too.

Last night was one of those moments when I could sense that my needle had dropped below "E." The patience well was bone dry and the presenting issue that revealed this was my daughter jumping on her bed. I know . . . this is somethng that kids do, and I'm not above tolerating a little delightful bouncing just before bedtime. But last night I simply wasn't inclined to let it happen.

I made that very clear to my daughter. Very clear. At least I thought it was clear. To my surprise, she didn't get it right away. This evoked more clarification from me - driving my point home with more volume and intensity just to make sure the message got through.

She got it. She stopped bouncing - but then she came out with this unforgettable line that cracked me up (the silent, inward, parent-only kind of cracking up of course). She said, "when I get to college I am so totally going to jump on my bed."

My kids are beginning to understand that "college" means living away from mom and dad. This is a little disturbing to me in that they are only 6 and 8 years old. But Anna's declaration showed me something about how she views who she will be when it is time to leave home. She is taking the present and simply projecting it into the future. Thus, being at college will mean being able to jump on her bed. She might jump on her bed at college . . . who knows. But I doubt it will mean as much to her then as it does right now.

Do we ever outgrow Anna's way of thinking? All of this makes me wonder about who we are becoming, how we see ourselves now and what we expect of ourselves in ten years or so. And how does that compare with what God the Father knows about us and what God intends for us to be? Spiritually, do we think that the greatest thing for us could be an unhindered ability to jump on the bed (whatever that might be), or do we see that as we grow in Christ, that which seems so important now might become less so. We just might take on the mind of Christ. The image of Christ might actually be formed in us so that we are truly transformed? Is it possible that faithful church-going people stop paying attention to their own transformation, as if warming a pew and sitting on a committee is really what Jesus had in mind for us?

I don't think I'll ever forget that line from last night. I hope I won't. Even at this very moment I can see the day when we'll load Anna's things and taker her to college. We'll meet her roomate and help as much as we can until we sense a readiness in her that tells us it's time for us to go. And just before we leave I imagine glancing at her bed, and looking at the young woman she is becoming, and remembering the night before Mom came home from Cuba.

While Standing in Line at McDonald's

So last week we had a tough morning getting out of the house in a timely manner. This meant that in order to drop the kids off in the carpool line without having to walk in to the office and sign them in as “late,” I left the house without eating breakfast. This is never a good thing for me because as soon as van door slides shut and the kids are sprinting to their classrooms with backpacks bouncing from their shoulders, I start thinking about putting something on my stomach to absorb the pot of coffee I’ve managed to down. Almost always I end up at the McDonald’s not far from the school. Sometimes I have a few bucks in my pocket, sometimes I scrape together just enough from the floor of the van and the change holder beneath the AC dials. I’m not especially proud of this – but see my post below of 2/10/06. All that stuff about lousy eating is true.

But I’m not telling this to talk about food or eating habits. On this particular morning, the real take-away from the visit to McDonald’s was a sign that was posted alongside the menu. It was on a plain white sheet of paper in a large black font, all caps. It read “PLEASE REFRAIN FROM TALKING ON THE CELL PHONE WHILE CONDUCTING BUSINESS AT THE COUNTER.”

This was interesting, provocative even. McDonald’s is a fast food restaurant . . . .fast food. And yet, the management of this particular McDonald’s felt compelled to instruct us to not use cell phones while ordering our # 2 combo meals. We can’t slow down enough to get our fast food. The time we’re supposedly saving by stopping at Mickey D’s isn’t enough. We need to keep multi-tasking, staying after it, getting it done, whatever “it” might be.

Just the day before I had read a wonderful story from Mark Buchanan’s latest book, The Rest of God - a book about Sabbath keeping. He tells about his wife’s grandmother, who lived in a gold-mining town. She had a very large stone in her garden and she regularly polished it, reasoning that since it couldn’t be moved it could made to look decent and thus beautify the garden.

On one occasion while polishing the stone, she noticed the slightest smear of something goldish. She touched it with her finger and saw on her fingertip a caking of gold dust. She felt a rush of adrenaline and began to polish the stone feverishly, scrubbing and scrubbing, seeing the gold dust accumulate more and more. After a few minutes she stopped for a break and as she wiped her brow she noticed that her wedding band was lopsided, thick and full on one side, thin and skinny on the underside – the part she had been rubbing against the stone. She had been sanding away her wedding band, chasing a treasure that didn’t exist while destroying a treasure she already had.

That’s the way too many of us live. That’s why a McDonald’s manager feels the need to discourage cell phone use as we order our fast food. What we know as fast isn’t fast enough. We’ve got to move faster, got to do more. We chase an elusive treasure and in doing so lose the treasures we already have.

Reflecting on those experiences from last week sent me searching for a Robert Frost poem that I’ve liked for a long time but had forgotten about. It’s called “A Time to Talk.”

When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don’t stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven’t hoed,
And shout from where I am, “What is it?”
No, not as there is a time to talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall,
For a friendly visit.

Sadly, there isn’t time to talk, at least not enough time. We live our days looking around on the hills we haven’t hoed, the things left undone that whisper incessantly for our attention. We shout at interruptions, “What is it?” What now?”

Jesus seemed always ready to thrust his hoe in the ground, always willing to make his way to the stone wall for a visit. He stopped in crowds when someone had touched his garment; he heard the shouts of a blind man sitting on the curb, on the margins of the street traffic and action. Jesus stops and calls him over; calls the one to whom I might have said, “What is it?” What now?”

I’d like to live that way. Maybe a place to start is simply in making enough time to actually eat breakfast at home with my children; to begin the day by making my way to a table for a friendly visit.

Astonished

When they saw the courage of Peter and John and realized that they were unschooled, ordinary men, they were astonished and they took note that these men had been with Jesus (Acts 4:13 NIV).

At some point during my first two years of college I discovered C. S. Lewis. That is, I discovered Lewis for myself – learned that such a man had actually existed. I might have heard of him before that, I don’t know. If so, I hadn’t paid attention. But somewhere between 1980 and 1982 I actually held a book in my hands and read words that he had written.

This was important because it was right about this time that the Christianity that had come to me in childhood Sunday school classes, Vacation Bible School, and summer youth camp experiences was no longer working. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t true. It just wasn’t working. It was as if I was away at college trying to wear a favorite jacket that had been given to me when I was nine and then altered somewhat when I hit the ninth grade. It was threadbare. It didn’t fit me. It wasn’t working.

And then I listened for the first time to C. S. Lewis. It wasn’t Lewis himself or some idea I found in him that gripped me. I think what happened was for the first time I heard someone thinking hard about the faith. Here was a man asking hard questions, looking at objections, offering a cogent defense of all that I had known since Sunday School and VBS and youth camp. That started me down road that led to plenty of others who were thinking about faith and thinking about the scriptures.

Thinking became important.

It still is. I continue to hold in very high esteem those Christians who blend passionate faith with the life of the mind. I’m amazed at the collection of Calvin’s commentaries that sit on my bookshelf – all that careful reflection on the bible written down without a laptop. I marvel at Jonathan Edwards’ pastoral exploration of true signs of grace in Religious Affections. I wonder how he was able to pastor a congregation and spend 13 hours a day in his study. And my admiration isn’t reserved for analytical types only. The pastor poets John Donne and George Herbert merit deep respect as well.

Maybe because these figures from Christian history, as well as so many of my own pastors and professors, have impressed me and influenced me in some way, the statement about Peter and John in Acts 4:13 hit me in a fresh way recently. After healing a crippled man at one of the temple gates, these two preachers are arrested. The day after, they are hauled before the official religious leaders and there they present a powerful and defiant defense. As they do so, their accusers are astonished. They note that these men are not educated. They have no credentials to boast of. They are “common men” (ESV). But what they also recognize clearly is that these men “had been with Jesus.”

I’ve been astonished by great learning. For that reason, I’ve often wished I could astonish others with great learning – or at least the very modest degree of learning I’ve attained. But those who examined and grilled Peter and John were astonished for the exact opposite reason. These men are not educated – but they’ve been with Jesus.

Calvin Miller once remarked that his seminary diplomas “say in bold gothic script that I cannot be arrested for impersonating a preacher.” At one point in his own ministry he felt led of the Spirit to remove his diplomas from the wall and stick them away somewhere until they became less important to him.

Some people – certainly not all - might be impressed by a diploma, but they won’t be astonished. Degrees conferred by the academy may elicit envy or admiration, but not astonishment. The kind of astonishment Peter and John evoked came from something that was not obtained in a book. It wasn’t learning as much as it was insight and wisdom and power. Those things can’t be had by reading, at least not reading in and of itself. Those things come from listening; listening to the voice of Jesus, the whisperings of the Spirit.

It occurs to me now that the learned people who have astonished me were also people who listened as much as they read. What I know about myself is that I live perpetually frustrated at my lack of time to read. But what if I had more time, or made more time to read? So what? If there’s no listening, then “all is vanity.” “Vanity” in every sense: both empty and conceited.

“We don’t have silver and gold, but what we do have we’ll give to you.” Those were the words that landed Peter and John in trouble to begin with. What powerful words. And how fortunate for the cripple at the gate (and for us) that they didn’t follow those words by reading a book to him. They simply spoke the name of Jesus and made the man walk.

That’s more than impressive. That’s astonishing.

For My Wife, February 14, 2006

OVER TABLES

On that day the table was rustic, rough hewn
in a Texas pub made to look like England you asked
“what are you passionate about?”
I was surprised, slow to answer.

On this day the answers hid beneath our covers
shouted “boo!” at me and jumped
from the van, eager to fill the bag and box you tenderly
prepared between “Arthur” and breakfast, running to gather
paper expressions of love in containers made by love.

We sit at table still.
Conference table by morning, dinner table by night
and I hear your question again and look at you and
know my answer without hesitation.

A Drive-thru Diet of Bible: Reflections on "Eat This Book"

I’m a lousy eater. It’s true in the most obvious and plain sense conveyed by those words. My eating habits were formed in the south. I love anything fried, lots of carbs. Gravy can be appropriately slathered on just about anything – especially biscuits. If it’s not good for me, I probably love it.

Eugene Peterson has helped me see that I don’t do much better when it comes to the Bible. His recent release, Eat This Book, seizes upon an image used in scripture for taking in the word of God. The prophet Ezekiel stands out among those who were commanded to “eat” God’s word. God’s call to Ezekiel involved a vision – a hand outstretched, holding a scroll. The Lord commands Ezekiel, “eat whatever you find here. Eat this scroll and go speak to the house of Israel” (Ezekiel 3:1-3).

Peterson explores this metaphor thoroughly – literally chews it up. To read the book is to actually observe him doing the very thing he’s writing about.

I love the book, but I come away knowing I’m a lousy eater. Too often, I deal with scripture like I deal with meals. I eat on the run. I eat late when I’m tired. I eat the fast stuff as much or more than I eat something carefully prepared. I gravitate toward certain things.

Listening to Peterson is like having a doctor tell me some really bad news about stuff that’s collecting in my veins, conspiring to keep me from ever meeting my grandchildren or seeing my kids get out of college. Any idea I might have had about things not really being quite that bad in my scripture diet (after all, I’m a pastor!) was dispelled when my bible reading plan took me through Exodus – right at the same time I’m getting the tough reality check from Peterson.

When I started reading the last half of Exodus I could sense the resistance within myself. This is where God gives Moses instructions for building the ark of the covenant, the tabernacle, the furnishings for the tabernacle, the priests’ garments, on and on. It’s excruciating. It’s tedious. It raised my sympathy (only a little) for my six year old daughter who refuses to eat a green vegetable.

But there in the middle of what seemed to be tasteless and bland, I found something delicious. It’s quietly present in the text, not put out on display. It is assumed in the course of the story. I found in Exodus the essence of what is often called “the Christian life.” As people are bringing supplies and offerings to accomplish all this tedious work we read “all the men and women, the people of Israel, whose heart moved them to bring anything for the work the Lord had commanded by Moses to be done brought it as a freewill offering to the Lord” (Exodus 35:29 ESV).

They did what was commanded. They did it because their hearts moved them. God's command and heart's inclination, perfectly wed. When these things are not held and joined together we get a sick spirituality: a spirituality of raw compliance with what God commands, void of heart and passion and joy in obedience; or we get a spirituality defined by whatever our hearts want – which changes regularly, roaming and restless. To live life well before God and with God is to live in such a way that God’s commands and the inclinations of my heart are joined.

The proximity or distance between God’s command and heart’s inclination varies almost daily it seems. We spend a lifetime trying to join them consistently in our living. In Exodus it appears effortless, at least for that season. Israel had a hard time with this too, and the Hebrew scriptures describe this in all its sordid detail.

But I’ve learned something about eating well. Don’t skip things in order to get to the “good parts.” Eat a little slower. You never know where you’ll find the delicacies God has for those who can come to the table and stay a while.

The Spirit at Work in Camden, S.C. in the 1960s

When I was in the second grade in Camden, South Carolina I became good friends with a black boy in my class. The year would have been around 1969. The Civil Rights Act had been signed into law. The Voting Rights Act had also become the law of the land. But real change, social and personal transformation, wasn’t brought about by debate in the house and senate, nor was it obtained by a president’s signature. If such things had been effective in bringing about change, the effects were not yet being felt in Camden – or at least not in some parts of Camden.

At some point during that second grade year my mother received a phone call from my teacher. She was expressing concern that I spent too much time with one child in the class. She thought it would be a good thing for me to expand my friendships, include other kids. My mother was able to read between the lines. I don’t know exactly what was said. My teacher was a member of the church my dad served as pastor. I think she was uncomfortable with the friendship I had developed with a black kid. Being the pastor’s wife, my mother didn’t want to be rude to a church member – but I think mom knew what was going on. She told me about my teacher’s concerns regarding having “more friends.” I think I knew what was going on as well. I was given no mandate in the matter, but something changed with my friend. I wish my memories were a little clearer about it all.

Today Martin Luther King, Jr. is being remembered and his achievements celebrated. And in the midst of the remembering and celebrating, there is an awareness of something not yet fully obtained, of a dream not fully realized.

Yesterday, just before dozing off for my requisite Sunday nap, I caught a few minutes of a documentary on MLK - a montage of old film footage and interviews with King’s friends and associates. One of the men remembering MLK spoke specifically of the day Lyndon Johnson signed the Civil Rights Act. The film showed Johnson seated, signing the legislation, King and many others standing behind him. There is a smile on King’s face, a look of deep gladness and satisfaction. It was clearly a significant moment, one long waited for and prayed for. But now, roughly 40 years later, what seems clear is the powerlessness of law to change human hearts. And until hearts are changed, King’s dream remains elusive.

The church my dad served in Camden, the church to which my second grade teacher belonged, didn’t escape the tremors sent through the nation (especially the south) during the racially tense 60s. On one Sunday morning about 20 students from the predominantly black Mather Academy came to the First Baptist Church and seated themselves in the sanctuary. As my dad tells it, that event sent shock waves through the congregation and provoked a moment of decision. Would black people be seated in worship services at the First Baptist Church? About two months after the event the congregation met to vote on the question. The result was that the church voted to seat any and all persons who came to worship.

But the real story happened at the end of the meeting. As a traditional way of ending and dismissing on a positive note, my dad asked that a hymn be sung. I don’t remember the meeting. I’m sure I wasn’t there. I can only imagine the emotion in the room. After all, votes don’t change hearts and there were surely some bitter people among the relieved and triumphant. But something happened during that hymn. An elderly woman, Mrs. Richburg, slipped out of the pew and made her way to the front of the sanctuary where my dad stood. No “invitation” had been extended with the hymn – but she came anyway. She told my dad that she had come forward to make a rededication, a renewal of her commitment to Christ. After Mrs. Richburg came, others came to do the same. The meeting became revival, lasting another 45 minutes.

King was a prophet, and the words of prophets aren’t born of political and social machinations. Yes, prophetic words have political and social implications, but the vision and words are born of the Spirit. And it’s the Spirit that changes hearts and causes old southern women to make recommitments to Jesus. And it is by the Spirit, not legislation, that the dream will be claimed and lived.

That Narrow Place In The Road: Believing In and Walking With Jesus

While he was still speaking there came from the ruler’s house some who said, “your daughter is dead. Why trouble the Teacher any further?” (Mark 5:35 ESV)

Urgency will drive us to Jesus, but what keeps us there when the sense of urgent need no longer exists?

Sudden illness, financial crises, fragile relationships, unexpected and unwanted news that leaves us disoriented, not having a clue what’s next – these things drive us to Jesus and drive us to our knees before him. But eventually these things resolve. The illness becomes health or is finally healed in death. The crisis passes. The disorientation leads us to what is often called a “new normal.” And what then? What keeps us at Jesus’ feet? Or do we wander off and take care of our own stuff until the next crisis pushes us back to the ground where Jesus patiently stands.

Jairus had a twelve year old daughter who was dying. Things don’t get more urgent than that. This urgency has pushed him to seek out the teacher. In the circles in which Jairus moved, Jesus was likely looked upon as a renegade. Jairus has some connections with the well established religious structures of his day. He’s a synagogue ruler – not an “ordained” person but someone who has authority and responsibility in the place of worship. It’s hard to imagine that he hasn’t heard things about Jesus. He’s overheard and been in on the conversations, the disparaging remarks, the questions, the theological critiques of what the young rabbi says and does. Jairus has been watching Jesus froma distance.

And as he has watched and wondered about Jesus, his daughter has gotten worse.

When your little girl is dying the esteem of colleagues doesn’t mean much. After all, none of them have been of much real help. Maybe a pious word, a promise to pray. But Jesus isn’t into pious talk. He heals. He touches sick people and something happens to them. He makes a withered hand nimble, capable of playing a flute. Limp and useless legs are made strong and straight with only a word. That’s the kind of thing Jesus does. So when a crowd gathers on the shore of the Sea of Galilee to meet Jesus, Jairus is there. His words and actions reflect both boldness and desperation. He falls at Jesus’ feet. “My little daughter is at the point of death. Come and lay your hands on her.”

And Jesus goes with him.

The same urgency that drove Jairus to the shore and pushed him to the wet dirt at Jesus’ feet now sustains him patiently in the walk home. Jesus delays. He stops to discover exactly who had touched his garment. This surprises, even amuses, Jesus’ closest followers. But Jesus is intent on knowing what it was that had called forth power from him. The timid woman steps forward and identifies herself, explains her actions. They talk.

And Jairus endures this interruption. Why doesn’t Jesus seem more attentive? Why won’t he hurry? She’s dying . . . the journey resumes.

It is at this point that the drama of the event reaches its full intensity. Many dramatic things happen in Mark 5, but the most critical moment in the story is here. As Jesus and Jairus and others continue their journey, a delegation from Jairus’ house meets them. The news is not good. The dreaded report is blunt. “Your daughter is dead.” And then this directive disguised as a question: “why trouble the teacher further?”

The question thinly masks a kind of despair. Those who report the death of the little girl are saying, “it’s over, the need is gone, it’s too late. Why bother the teacher anymore?”

It is this kind of moment that reveals the nature of faith. Looking to God, calling on Jesus is one thing in the midst of urgent need. But when the urgency is gone and there seems to be a finality that won’t be changed, what happens then. Some would tell us “it’s over, too late, don’t bother the teacher anymore.”

But in such moments Jesus invites us to keep walking. His words to Jairus seem to ignore what has been reported. “Don’t be afraid; just believe” (Mk. 5:36). This is hard. How do you believe when your daughter is dead? How do you believe when the marriage is beyond repair or the business is bankrupt or your job is being eliminated? How do you believe in moments like that – and exactly what are you to believe? Doesn’t belief begin to look a little like denial?

Maybe the believing is simply in the walking. Jesus is ready to keep going. He doesn’t come right out and make promises about what he’ll do or what will happen next. He simply extends an invitation to keep walking, to make the journey all the way to the house.

That invitation is extended even now, and perhaps directly to you today. The urgency that drove you to Jesus may no longer be hanging over you – but don’t stop walking. Don’t quit the journey.

Who knows; this walk may well lead to a miracle, but only those who persevere will see it.

Lift Up the Cup and Call on His Name

When I started writing this there were roughly 40 minutes left in 2005. By the time I finished and got around to posting this the first day of 2006 was nearly over.

There’s a line from Psalm 116 that seems fitting for the cusp of a new year. The Psalmist asks, “What shall I render to the Lord for all his benefits to me? I will lift up the cup of salvation and call on the name of the Lord” (Psalm 116:12-13 ESV). These verses contain a question (v. 12) and an answer (v. 13). The question belongs to the year past. The answer belongs to the year ahead.

I look back and ask with the Psalmist, “What shall I render to the Lord for all his benefits to me?” I’ve known so many benefits this year, gifts small and great, sometimes recognized, sometimes not. It hasn’t been all benefits – but the benefits loom large in my mind tonight.

The only right response to that question is provided by verse 13, and it turns my thoughts to the year that will begin in minutes. We don’t respond to God’s gifts by repaying him, by giving something back. Every year, every minute comes to us by grace and is defined by grace. We live continually by that grace as we lift up the cup of salvation and call on God to fill it. We live by grace as we lean into the new year relying on God.

John Piper explains it this way. “When God helps us – as he does every moment of every day – we will not repay him with wage labor to even our accounts, but we will (again and again) lift up an empty cup of need and call on him to fill it.”[1]

I leave 2005 blessed, a cup filled and running over. I enter 2006 in need of more grace, dependent, calling on God to pour out grace yet again.

Gracious God, giver of days and years,
Time belongs to you and all that time brings comes from you. How can we possibly thank you for the way you sustain us from day to day, faithfully present in our sorrows and joys. We prayerfully lift the cup and ask you to fill it yet again as you see fit to do in these coming days. Amen.
__________________________________________
[1] John Piper, A Godward Life, vol.2, page 155.

Christmas Rush: An Advent Meditation on Luke 2:16

“So they hurried off and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby, who was lying in the manger.” (Luke 2:16 NIV)

I want you to take just a few seconds right now and think through your schedule for the next couple of weeks. What do you have planned? Where will you go or who will be coming to you? ‘Tis the season. Everyone seems to be on the move and in a hurry. It seems especially true at this time of year, but if you do any driving around Atlanta you know it’s true all the time. We are a people in perpetual motion. We never stop. And strangely, the hours of the day around this city that we designate “rush hours” are the hours when we can barely move at all.

I don’t have any illusion that someday this will all change, that we’ll suddenly decide to quit living this way. Living at full capacity is simply a reality, and honestly it isn’t always a bad thing. There’s energy, a “buzz” about it that can be exciting. Living with intensity and urgency isn’t the problem. My concern is that our urgencies are misplaced. Our hurry isn’t making us better people; it doesn’t seem to bring a greater sense of fulfillment and purpose to our lives. Far too often our hurry leaves us depleted, irritable and exhausted.

About a year ago I had taken my children to school and found myself sitting in a long line of traffic at a very short light. The light stayed green long enough to let three or four cars slip through and then went back to red. Every time that light went to red, so did I. I don’t know why. I was not late for an appointment. I wasn’t being expected anywhere. I just hated being at that light. I hated missing the green and having to wait. Eventually my car crept close enough to the “zone.” Only one car separated me from the light. When the light turned green, the person in front of me didn’t move. I looked and noticed that her head was lowered and she wasn’t even looking at the light. She appeared to be digging around in her purse. Meanwhile the clock was ticking. There was no way I was going to miss that light. I leaned on my horn (but I did that in a very Christ-like way). My hurry made me impatient and irritable- for no good reason.

Charles Hummell says that most of us live under the “tyranny of the urgent.” We are driven by things that seem urgent and demanding, but aren’t really important. We are driven by time, driven by the clock, driven by others’ expectations. Other cultures have some proverbs about how we live in the West. A Filipino proverb says that people in the west live with little gods on their wrists. An African proverb says that Americans have watches but no time; Africans have time but no watches.[1]

The answer to this dynamic is not to be languid and listless in the way we conduct our lives, but to harness that intensity in a worthy direction. If we are going to live with intensity and urgency, I simply want to be intent and urgent about the things that matter. We get a picture of this in Luke’s telling of the birth of Jesus, and particularly in the announcement to the shepherds.

When Jesus was born, there were some shepherds working the night shift. I’ve worked the night shift, and everything seems to slow way down at night. You can’t sleep, but there is a stillness that settles in with the deep darkness. Suddenly, the stillness and darkness is shattered by the shining glory of God and the voice of an angel. The voice tells them good news: unto you is born a savior.

After this brief sermon and a rousing anthem from the heavenly host, the shepherds say to one another “Let’s go and see it.” And then in Luke 2:16 we get an interesting detail. “They hurried off and found Mary and Joseph.”

The word that gets my attention is the word “hurry.” The KJV says “they made haste.” I don’t picture night-shift shepherds as men who frequently hurry in their work. Following livestock in the deep of night is not a career for ambitious type-A people. But at this announcement – unto you is born a savior – they make haste. They rush off. They hurry to Bethlehem.

It seems that there are two ways to live with urgency and hurry in our lives:

One way is an urgency and hurry that comes because we feel pushed and driven. This is a hurry born of fear and arrogance. We’re afraid of what will happen if we don’t meet someone’s expectations, perhaps our own silent expectations that no one else knows about. In addition, there is beneath all of this a kind of arrogance that behaves as if everything depends on me.

The other urgency is where something we desire, something we yearn for, draws us to it. It is an urgency that comes from being pulled toward, not pushed. Mark Buchanan calls this kind of urgency a “Holy Must.” Jesus lived this way. His life was all about doing the will and work of the Father. A Holy Must produces a kind of intensity in our living that isn’t fear driven.

That’s what we see in those shepherds. The announcement of the savior’s birth gave rise to hurry, urgency, intensity. They made haste. They went to seek it out and to see it – and then they went to tell about it.

Knowing the savior, sharing the savior. What could be more urgent?

_______________________
[1] These proverbs are quoted in Os Guinness, Prophetic Untimeliness, 28.

Let Every Heart Prepare Him Room

Some time ago, over a long holiday weekend, I attempted to make a bank deposit at an ATM. It was one of those Monday holidays on which banks are closed. As I recall, we really needed this deposit to be there when business resumed on Tuesday. Apparently we were in good company. Over the weekend many people had made deposits at this particular ATM. The deposit slot on the machine was so full of deposit envelopes that the little intake door didn’t close completely – a fact I didn’t notice until I had already started my transaction.

When it came time for me to actually insert my deposit envelope I realized that the deposit slot was absolutely crammed full. At this point I had some options. ATM machines aren’t too hard to find in Atlanta. This would have been a good time to stop the transaction and go to another machine. But no – I was in a hurry. I was going to make my deposit. I pushed the envelope in, carefully sliding it in between other envelopes. When the careful sliding didn’t work, I resorted to some slight shoving. There was still resistance, but I was going to gain victory over this ATM. I pushed the envelope into the deposit slot, pushed it in good. It was far enough in that it couldn’t be retrieved or stolen. But just as I won the shoving contest, the machine beeped and flashed a message on the screen: “transaction canceled.” This was not good. The envelope was irretrievable. Further, I had no credit for a deposit. The bank had no record that I had actually given them my money.

This experience gave new meaning to the phrase “pushing the envelope.” Many of us push the envelope all the time. It’s a way of life. We stretch ourselves to the limits, leaving only the narrowest margins around our lives for the things we say are important: family, relationships, reflection. We seem particularly intent on pushing the envelope during the Christmas season. Church programs, Christmas parties, shopping, visiting family, receiving family – all of these things are good. Still, the sense of the season as hectic and busy is universal. The manger lullaby sounds nice, but silence and calm rarely characterize our December nights.

I learned a lesson at the ATM machine. When something is crammed full, frenetically working in one more thing, just one more little thing, is not a good idea. What is true of an ATM machine is true of us. If we insist on “pushing the envelope” we’ll eventually find our resources depleted with no credit or reward for our exhaustion.

I can’t help but hear the familiar opening line of “Joy to the World.” After announcing that “the Lord is come,” the song gives this exhortation: “Let every heart prepare him room.” Make space, clear the clutter, create a welcoming place. This line carries some powerful implications that may be lost beneath the familiar tune and oft repeated singing.

First, it suggests that right now there is no room in the heart. The space needs to be readied and created. The song seems to know that our hearts are full; filled with our own hopes and dreams and aspirations, and also filled with regrets, resentments, hurts, disappointments.

Second, the song suggests that room must be prepared and that will require us to do something, put forth some effort to get our hearts ready for the God who comes to us. When someone comes to our home, we usually have to do something to get he place ready. The God who comes to us is not passively received. But what does this preparation look like? What does it involve?

We get some help in answering this from the gospel according to Mark. Mark is abrupt in his telling of the Jesus story. He begins by quoting two prophets, and both quotations make use of the word “prepare.” I will send my messenger in front of you who will prepare your way (Malachi 3:1). Prepare the way for the Lord, make straight path for him (Isaiah 40:3). From these two prophets Mark leaps to John the baptizer, baptizing in the desert region and preaching a baptism of repentance. Both his message and his activity are anticipating one who will come and do more than baptize with water. One is coming who will baptize with the Spirit. Repentance is the way to get ready. Repentance is the work of preparing room. It is the soul work that looks at what’s within us and gets rid of what needs to go.

Preparing room (repenting) in the heart isn’t easy to do. It is far easier to convince ourselves that we’ve got room, that our heats are ready just as they are to receive the coming Lord. But the truth of the matter is that our hearts are full. And rather than preparing room and clearing the clutter and debris, it’s easier to push the envelope and convince ourselves that our crowded hearts and lives will be able to take just a little more.

And then – as ridiculous as this may sound – in the middle of the holiest of seasons we wonder why God seems so distant and why we feel so tired. The reason may be simple. When our hearts are crowded we miss the very gift John was trying to prepare us for, and called us to get prepared for. We miss the Spirit. Transaction canceled.

There are alternatives to pushing the envelope. What would it mean for you to “prepare him room?”