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In 2012, Becky and I did a 1000-mile handcycle trip around the perimeter of Florida.

Today’s photo captures an episode from that adventure. I was invited to speak to a wonderful group of adults who were working hard to overcome developmental disabilities. I was supposed to be somehow inspirational to them.

As almost always happens, they ended up inspiring me. Their remarkable attitudes and their excitement about the opportunities they’d been “given” were infectious, and most welcome to a guy who was admittedly a bit weary after lots of miles.

We spoke to the director of the center and learned of their struggle to maintain adequate funding. It was frustrating – the people running this place were making such an extraordinary difference, helping their clients operate in the community, teaching them to be self-reliant, but securing the relatively tiny bit of funding required was a constant battle.

Those sorts of conversations tend to depress me, but this group of folks wasn’t going to allow that. We went outside and found them lined up, several with orange pom-poms, prepared to give me a rousing sendoff!

These people had all the reason in the world to complain. Instead, this lovely group wanted to cheer for me.

Occasionally someone wonders why I keep writing this blog. The answer is simple.

I hope to be a cheerleader. I hope somewhere along the line my story encourages or inspires someone. I want to speak words that rebuild the torn down places in others.

We’ve all got some torn down places. Each time I write, my goal is to say something that might, in some small way, rebuild one of those spots in someone else.

Or, in myself.

Each time I speak to a group, Becky prays the same silent prayer. “Jesus, please speak to these people through Rich’s words.”

On that day in Florida, it was the other way around. Jesus spoke to me through people with silly orange pom-poms.

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Spend 45 seconds smiling at my cheerleaders:

In a candid statement published on his LinkedIn page, Josephson wrote about his experience:

“It was rough for me,” he wrote. “I like conversation as much as the next person. Take an extreme statement that I disagree with and I’ll tell you about it. Make a well-considered post about the people I  disagree with and I’ll share it with everyone. And say anything at all about puppies and I’m with you.

“But early Wednesday morning, I was reading my mail, like I always do. There was a message that had been forwarded to me from a guy named James. He talked about it not being good enough to just read stuff from God, we need to do it. It was an interesting point. But it made some sense.

“Then James talks about how stuff we say is like a fire. It can ignite whole forests. When I was scrolling through my friends’ posts, I started noticing that my chest was tightening and my temper was heating up. And comments on some statuses added up so quickly that it was like a fire spreading. And I knew that I had to stop just reading and do something. So I did something. I took my fingers off the keyboard. With the mouse, I closed Facebook.

“I’m not sure what to think about this. I mean, after a few minutes, the knot in my stomach relaxed. But I’m pretty sure I’ll start wondering what’s happening to my friends. But maybe I’ll just call them. No one on the phone ever talks about puppies.”

Some of Josephson’s friends shared his statement on Facebook. There are several comments supporting and condemning him.

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I wrote this in 2014. I probably should have read it more often since then.

I wrote those sentences on January 2, 2014.

I was thinking about writing a manifesto, a battle cry of belief. A manifesto is an answer to the question posed on the back of a Radisson hotel in-room coffee wrapper: “That’s our philosophy. What’s yours?”

The manifesto I was thinking about would be called “The beauty of ordinary”. It would speak to all the people who believe that they are just ordinary. It would speak to all the people who hear about people who leap out of planes and think, “That must be necessary to prove you are human.”

And I wrote, “There is no shame in not leaping from a plane.”

Because there are many people who matter to God and to others who have never leaped from a plane.

They have never quit a job. They have worked in a cubicle for thirty years. The longest essay they ever wrote was in a graduation card for a child: “Proud of you. Dad.” The furthest they have traveled on a life-altering mission trip is next door. The longest speech they have given was the time that they received a watch for working for the same company for 45 years and they said, “thank you”. They regularly bake chocolate chip cookies and put them in an ordinary Ziplock bag without any holiday decorations and shyly give them to someone at work.

I passionately want those ordinary people to know that a majority of the people who heard Jesus speak and did what he asked never went on the road or wrote a gospel or got mentioned at the end of a letter from Paul.

They just loved.

From now until December, the Sundays aren’t anything special. After the fasts and feasts, after Advent, Christmastide, Epiphany, after Lent and Holy Week and Eastertide, we are in ordinary time, Sundays known by their numbers, or by their weeks after Pentecost.

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God.

It takes us twenty or thirty minutes to read the whole life of Abram.

To go from your invitation for him to move to grandchildren.
From your promise to family gathered as his funeral.

It takes us a few minutes to read,
and summarize into a couple principles,
and stories we tell and think about how we might have done better.

It took Abram 175 years.

Paul tells us stories about how his faith in your promise is what counted to you.

Not his great military exploits, not his remarkable publishing career,
not his perfect, day to day, constantly wise actions.

Your promise, and his basic and growing belief in that promise.

We worry weekly, or daily, or hourly, that we are wandering from you.
We struggle with what you must think of us when we ask you questions.
We waste years fretting about wasting years.

Perhaps Abram did, too.

But you loved him always.
You reminded him with some regularity of your promise to him.

(Though I think the reminders were years or decades apart.)

But you didn’t lose track.

As we start into ordinary time, weeks marked by their number,
not their story,
I ask today that you will remind us today that you are with us.

Not the promise to Abram of being a great nation.

No, the promise that no matter what,
you, Jesus, are with us to the end of time.
and beyond.

Amen.

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Reflection on Genesis 12:1-9, Romans 4:13-23, and Matthew 28

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I have a really old pair of shoes. I keep them by our front door and only wear them to take the trash out.

The stitching has worn out in several places. The soles are maybe the third set I had put on. I eventually decided to stop repairing them, since they still work perfectly to go back and forth to the trashcan.

We are not perfect. Only God can claim that attribute (Matthew 5:48).

And God can still use us.

I often beat myself up for how I fail. I could go on a lot longer about my shortcomings than I could about the ways I excel.

But God looks at us with love and knows that we are important to Him for doing the good things He created us for (Ephesians 2:10).

Remember that even though you may not be able to comfortably speak before a crowd of 500 people, play an instrument well, paint a beautiful painting or run rings around that coworker who does things twice as fast – you have great value in the eyes of your Creator.

You are the only person like you. God delights in your uniqueness!

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Paul Merrill writes here every first Friday. And he mentioned that he still has these shoes!

Several friends are in their late forties and early fifties. Other friends are younger, others are older.

Some have been in “church work” and it hasn’t gone well. Because church work is more tricky than you might imagine. Senior pastors have expectations. Parishioners have expectations. Managing well takes a set of skills that is often different than providing pastoral care that is often different than preaching that is often different than being part of a team.

Some of my friends moved from organizations to self-employment and have found it challenging to do everything that running a business takes. All the selling of services, all the doing the work. All of the all of the.

And I don’t know what to tell them, what advice to give.

Well-meaning people are full of advice: “God’s got this”. “When a door closes, a window opens”. “My uncle was in your shoes and he did this one thing. You should try that one thing”. “You are a wonderful person”. “Have you tried this job listing site?” “Have you considered Uber?” And so many sentences that start with “at least” or include the word “just”.

So here’s what I’ve got:

This is hard.

Your work is not your identity, but that realization doesn’t pay the bills.

There aren’t as many jobs as the people who have jobs think.

Cashflow can come from many places, some of them unexpected. Asking for help is an okay thing. (Giving people help is an okay thing, too.)

I was going to say, “not everyone can do a paper route, but some people can.” And then I erased it. And then I wrote it again for some reason.

I’ve heard from many people that the application process is really frustrating right now. So, if you are frustrated by it, it’s not just you.

Do something so you feel like you are doing something. I’m not sure what that is. But my guess is that you do. This is my affirmation of that.

I love you. And you.

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Your YES to God requires your NO to all injustice. – Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Bonhoeffer is an enigma to me. A man who stood firmly against the Nazi regime, who could have chosen safety in America but elected to return to Germany and speak in Jesus’ name against injustice. He intentionally and courageously placed himself in danger because he believed his faith demanded it.

He also conspired to murder Hitler. I’ve always wondered how he squared that intent with the clear, powerful words he wrote and spoke about Jesus’ teaching.

I’m not judging. I can’t put myself in his shoes, can’t imagine the terrible internal conflict he might have felt.

Each time I encounter Bonhoeffer’s words, it’s a reminder to stop and check myself. Because I know how easy it is to say what I would do in a difficult situation from the comfort of a place where I will likely never have to make such a difficult and dangerous choice.

I do, however, have a modern-day model to emulate. There are many ways to rescue people from trafficking situations. Personally, I’d be tempted to put together a well-armed assault team and break down doors. That would be a better TV show and would likely produce bigger short-term results.

I’ve told you before – we partner with Project Rescue because they strive to follow Jesus’ model. Love your neighbor, even the neighbor who happens to be a criminal. Form relationships. Trust Jesus to work for good within those relationships.

I’ve seen the results. Former traffickers transformed into followers of Jesus who work with rescued women and children.

The problem, for me, is patience. I want them ALL rescued, I want the criminals held accountable, and I want it to happen RIGHT NOW. This notion of loving people one-at-a-time, waiting on Jesus’ timing – why doesn’t he work faster?

Perhaps “why” indicates my temptation to take matters into my own hands and make it happen on my timeline.

I thought about that sentence for most of my Sunday morning walk.

It’s from near the end of the letter to the Hebrews.

I thought about it because when we talk about those in prison, we focus on the reason for imprisonment. Whether the sentence was justified, whether the crime was real, whether the person is incorrigible.

And you could argue that the writer is talking about people who are in prison because of expressing their belief in Jesus. Like Paul was imprisoned and beaten and killed. Like Peter was imprisoned and beaten and killed. Like Jesus was imprisoned and beaten and killed.

There are many of those people in many parts of the world. Not so many in the US.

And yet.

The beginning of this section says, “Keep on loving one another as brothers and sisters.”

I’m not sure that the writer is saying that we can ignore people who are in prison for other reasons. There are people who are being held in prison without being accused or convicted of a crime. There are people who are serving sentences and are brothers and sisters.

I’m guessing the writer, and God, are saying that regardless of legal standing, our brothers and sisters in prison are beloved by God, are valued by God, are worthy of being treated as humans created in God’s image. Further, if they are in prison unjustly, working for their freedom is the work of God.

After all, when Jesus was talking about where he might be seen, he included being in prison. Which was, at least once, literally true.

I’ll think about this more the next time I walk.

We now have 10 brackets under the foundation along the back and side of the house. There are piles driven down about 40 feet. My work list includes building steps by the back door, building a deck from pieces of the one I took apart, working with Nancy to level the dirt, and eventually repairing some interior walls.

I’m telling you about this because my work list no longer includes worrying about the house sinking and walls cracking.

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When I was a little kid, we sang one of those kid songs with kid motions. We built a house fist over fist. We made the rains come down and the flood go up. It was a fun song.

One day, I realized that it was wrong. Oh, the wise and the foolish parts were right. But the last verse goes like this (with the repetition removed):

“So, build your house on the Lord Jesus Christ
And the blessings will come down.

Oh, the blessings come down
As your prayers go up.”

That not what Jesus said.

What he said was more like this:

If you listen to all the stuff I just said, really hard stuff, and you do what I said, you will face storms, but you will have strength. If you listen and then you walk away from here and you don’t do what I say, but you build structures on your own choices and decisions, you are going to face storms and you are going to have nothing.

It’s not a metaphor about prayer or about blessing or about formulas. It’s a metaphor about learning a wise way to live.

And maybe, we can shore up ill-grounded houses by tending to the foundation rather that constantly worrying about the storm.

God.
In the beginning.
In the beginning, you.
In the beginning, things were good.
In the beginning you created creatively. You created vibrantly. You created gloriously. You created potential and reality, and it was very good.

God.
We are not in the beginning any more.
Things feel chaotic more than creative.
Things feel failed and flawed and fearful rather than good.

God.
Your people have sinned, my tribe has sinned, I have sinned. We try to put loving each other at the top of our list, and we cannot do it on our own. We try to put loving you on our list, but we cannot do it on our own. Our ways of thinking and of acting are all muddled up right now.

It feels almost like the beginning, now that I think about it. Our days formless and void, our plans impossible, our relationships uncertain.

And in the beginning you, Spirit, were hovering over the waters. You, Jesus, were there as the word, speaking light and land and life. You, God Almighty, were there with loving powerful presence. And you, God in three persons, invite us into your relationship.

God, may this be the beginning.
Through Christ our Lord.

Amen.

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Reflecting on Genesis 1