iWitness Views

5 Reasons To Stop the Denominational Dance

2014-04-16T08:53:00.000-07:00

How many of us who claim adherence to a Protestant denomination have consciously questioned the following: which denomination is the best? More to the point, which denomination is right?

If an audible gasp is your reaction to the audacity of such a question, please allow me to follow up. Doesn't it stand to reason that with so many (dozens of major Protestant denominations) don't some by inherently have to be better than others? And if some are better than others, does it not stand to reason that one of those is best of all? If not, then why are there so many divisions among Protestant churches? Are we all simply to believe that adherence to a particular denomination rests solely on the music used in worship or the decor within the church building?

At the core of each of us that affirms Protestantism is the belief, be it conscious or subconscious, that the particular denomination we attend has some degree of superiority, however small, over the others. If that were not the case, why would we associate with that particular denomination?

Which leads to an unavoidable problem. If, by the fact that I choose one denomination over another, I am saying that my denomination is somehow superior, then does that insist that the others are by definition inferior. And if they are inferior, are they then not somehow heretical? For it must stand to reason that if one denomination is even infinitesimally superior to another, then it is closer to the truth of God, and all others miss the truth of God by even that much.

Such reasoning illustrates why I have tired of what I call the denominational dance. This is my euphemism for denominational comparisons, infighting and backbiting. It seems that no matter how far we progress through the centuries as a Christian family, there is no shortage of man-made ideals within the community to pull us farther away from Christ.

But it doesn't have to be that way. The truth is, denominational differences do more to isolate us from Christ and other believers than they do to bring us together. So it is for the following five reasons I call for a return to the truth of Scripture as the basis for our Christian faith and not the labels of factions we so like to tout.

1. Martin Luther was never trying to create his own sect.

Some will point to Martin Luther and "Look! You say you don't want denominations yet the very man who began your protestant reformation did just that!" This line of thinking is missing Luther's point. It was never his desire to create something new and apart from Scripture. In fact, he was a devout catholic priest, who by all accounts wished to remain as such. Yet it was his acknowledgement and disgust of the manner that Scripture was being twisted and eviscerated by his contemporaries that made Luther desire a return to the truth. His fellow Catholics veered so far away from the truth in the form of indulgences, works related salvation and other falsehoods that Luther's consciousness could do nothing but oppose them. The term Protestantism comes from the fact that Luther protested these wrongs, but in reality what he wanted to see was a return to Scriptural truth, accuracy and authority. The newness he desired was not that of his own making but that which was found in the Gospels and Acts.

2. Do you follow Paul? Do you follow Apollos?

1 Corinthians 3:4-5 shows Paul's opinion on the denominational dance. He shows the folly when one would boast in saying "I follow Paul" or "I follow Apollos". Today we can equate that to saying "I follow Luther" or "I follow Calvin" or "I follow Wesley". As Paul pointed out, are these not all mere men? And as men, are we so foolish as to put our faith in them and what they say? As Paul states, these are only servants. Our faith and trust are to be placed in the only one deserving of that faith and trust, and that is in Jesus Christ. To delineate ourselves among men is to draw away from the truth in Christ.

3. But I like only a particular style of music and preaching.

Perhaps you insist on a denomination because of the style of music or preaching that. Through years of experience I can attest that rarely will you find the same music style in an Episcopalian service as you will in an AME service as you will in a Baptist service. But is music and preaching style really worth tearing ourselves apart from others in the body of Christ? I say enjoy the music and preaching style you enjoy, but do not make the mistake of believing you cannot praise God and receive from His word given an alternate form of service. Even as Paul made his trips through the various churches he encountered a variety of styles. Yet that was never reason enough for him to bring to bear a new name and doctrinal statement apart from following Christ

4. But how will we tell what the people believe?

In the early church there were believers being brought into the fold all around the known world. These believers put their faith in Christ and spread that news to others. At times, these churches would begin down the wrong path (see the Corinthians and Galatians), and it was then that Paul would circulate his letters to bring those churches back into the fold. But at no time are we told that one congregation was superior than another based on its faith. As long as the people put their faith in Christ there was nothing greater. That is the way it should be today. As long as we put our faith in Christ, we are all equal under His authority. We are all Christians.

5. The truth of Scripture is not as difficult as some make it seem.

This is not to say that there are not issues we will all struggle with in Scripture. There are, and will be, aspects we struggle through, and angles of God we will never fully understand. But the basic truths of Scripture are undeniable. And this does not rest solely with the understanding that salvation comes through faith in Jesus Christ. There is a long list of very clear and understandable truths laid out in scripture. Those truly debatable points do not lead to salvational crisis, and truthfully, are not worthy of dividing ourselves from one another.

In the end there will be unity under Christ. Denominations will fall and there will be one King over all believers. Until then, it would be a nice slice of heaven to do away with the denominational dance and unite under the banner of Christ.

Are You Frustrated?

2013-05-28T11:29:00.003-07:00

Just the other day I was asked a simply compelling question.

Do you ever get frustrated?

I had to think for a moment. No, not because I can't remember if I ever get frustrated. I get frustrated, angry, annoyed, discombobulated, out-of-sorts, reticent and fed up. I can list examples of each and examples for those examples, indicating just when and where I have allowed the cold embrace of each to direct my actions. Experiencing those feelings was not the issue.

What I was reluctant to do was admit to those feelings. As a Christian, as a pastor, were such human emotions allowed to spring forth and even more importantly to which I should admit?

Of course they are. But in many circles today it is expected that such feelings should be squelched. Push them down as far as you can until they have to look up to see the sole of your show, then never, ever admit to such evil desires! To which I say poppycock. Or pish-posh. Or ridiculous. Pick your generational favorite.

Frustration, anger and all the others are natural human emotions. It is not for us to be required to live in their total absence. They will pop up from time to time. Admitting to their existence is no crime. God does not want us to exist as robots with no emotions. But He does tell us what to do when such emotions become overwhelming.

1 Peter 5:7 gives us those instructions. "Cast all your anxiety upon him because he cares about you" (NIV). Take out anxiety and replace it with any of the other words. Frustration. Annoyance. Anger. God does not expect us to be perfect in our emotions. He does expect us to know what to do with them.

So yes, I have gotten frustrated. I have been frustrated time and again. But I have learned that in those times of frustration is when I need to call out to God. I call out to Him and beg Him to cover that frustration with His grace. And He has never failed to provide.

Because I Said So

2013-05-22T14:22:00.002-07:00

Because I said so.

How many of us heard that as children - or even adults - and wondered to ourselves "what kind of explanation is that?" The response might have befuddled us yet we had no recourse from lack of age or experience, and took it for what it was meant to be - an order and an end to the conversation.

From a human perspective this answer can be quite frustrating. "Because I said so" does not quell the litany of questions that arise. "Who are you and what are your qualifications to make such a proclamation?", "Is there special insight that you have that I don't?" and "Do you have the power to enforce this reasoning once you've made it?" are just a few.

Now when it comes to parents and children, for the most part we can reconcile that the parent have (or at least should have) more knowledge, common sense and experience to make the proper informed decision that is best. Again, this is a generality - there are always exceptions that prove the rule. But what about when a peer gives this reasoning? Are we not more inclined to raise an eyebrow at that person, questioning both their reasoning and their opinion of whom they directed their comments? It is safe to conclude that when presented with such rationale we find it hard to converse again with such obvious stubbornness.

But what if God used such reasoning? Why would do that you may ask? Well, one look no further than Job to find such an occurrence. After torment and terror was rained down on this righteous man, and after all manner of friends had come by to try and support this stricken fellow, Job threw up his arms and shot questions at God that demanded answers.

"Why, why, why?!?" was hurled at the one Job counted on for understanding.

And you know what the answer was? "Because I said so."

Ok, so it wasn't put so clumsily. But that was the spirit of the response. God laid out to Job that the reason all this happened was God's to understand. There was not going to be a point by point explanation that satisfied Job. Instead, God rightfully expressed that Job was not going to understand. God knew best and Job was going to have to accept that and be settled. Like a parent to their child, "because I said so" was going to have to suffice.

But unlike a parent to their child, or a peer to a peer, "because I said so" from God more than suffices. Why? Because unlike fallible humans, we can rely on that fact that God does not make mistakes. We can know in our hearts that He is infinitely smarter, clearer and more righteous than we could ever be, and in that we can rest. God has taken care of everything in the past, takes care of everything now, and will continue to take care of everything into the future. There is a totality to His rule and a universal reach to His love. We may not get the answer we like, and we may very well not like that we can't understand, but we do know that there is one who does.

From the lips of man "because I said so," can ring hollow. But from the voice of God there can be nothing more comforting.

Gains and Losses

2013-05-20T11:03:00.000-07:00

Every decision leads to unmistakable repercussions that can be measured in gains and losses. When a baby is born, he or she gains access to a world of possibilities but loses the warmth and protection found in the womb. When a child goes to school for the first time, they gain exposure to many friends they might never otherwise have met, but lose the security that came with being comfortable in known surroundings. When a person gets married, they gain the support and unity from another that was absent in solitude but lose the ability to live without burden.

But counting our gains against our losses does not always tell the whole story. This is especially true when ignoring God. Adam in Eve found this truth no later than a blink in the timeline of creation. Their first major decision, absent from the direction and blessing of God, provided them with a myriad of gains and losses. We can see that decision in Genesis 3:6-7.

When the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was a delight to the eyes, and that the tree was desirable to make one wise, she took from its fruit and ate; and she gave also to her husband with her, and he ate. Then the eyes of both of them were opened, and they knew that they were naked; and they sewed fig leaves together and made themselves loin coverings.

Adam and Eve chose to ignore God’s command and subsequently sin entered the world. What they discovered was that their eyes were opened and they understood perfectly what they were losing and what they would gain.

Adam and Eve lost much when they ate the fruit. They lost peace with each other and peace with God. They lost harmony, agreement, accord, order, unanimity, and tranquility. They lost joy in their untroubled lives. No longer were there jubilance, mirth, revelry, delight and cheer aplenty when walking in the garden. They knew that they were naked and were not content. They were not happy, blissful, merry, cheerful or thrilled in their current state. The lost their carefree nature. They lost themselves.

But there can be no disagreement that they acquired much as well! When Adam and Eve followed their own path there was heaped upon them a multitude of gains. They were the recipients of shame in their nakedness. The proceeds of Adam and Eve’s decision were contempt, degradation, derision, dishonor, guilt, humiliation, infamy, irritation and remorse. Adam and Eve for the first time found sadness in waves unimaginable. They were bereaved, bitter, dejected, despairing, despondent, distressed, forlorn, grieved, heartbroken, languishing, pensive, troubled, and sorrowful. They would later hide from God because they had discovered fear. They were filled with anxiety, agitation, consternation, despair, dismay, distress, doubt, dread, panic, revulsion, terror, trembling trepidation and worry. To their already full bag they also had swirling confusion. Like most of us they for the first time felt bewilderment, chagrin, demoralization, distraction, embarrassment, fluster, tumult, turbulence and turmoil. Adam and Eve gained more than they ever imagined.

Gains and losses. It may seem like a simple case of addition and subtraction. But be careful, because as Adam and Eve found out, not every choice has an upside.

Winds of Change

2013-03-26T08:00:00.003-07:00

My body lay crumpled in the corner. I was crying. I was dying.

Of course it wasn’t meant to end that way. It was a common story, really. I was only trying to prove a simple truth. Yet when left to my own desires and no boundaries I proved the only thing I was capable of proving. There was nothing in me of any value.

It started sincerely enough. I was listening to a prominent fellow of great worldly recognition (whose name I have long since forgotten) speak on the origins of the universe. His propositions appeared reasonable and rationale, filled with haughty jargon well beyond my mind, and wrapped up with a succinct and satisfying conclusion. The universe, as well as the earth and its inhabitants, was born from a coalescence of fortunate, if random, occurrences. To put it in terms I could understand, this wise mind offered the illustration that given an infinite amount time and opportunity, wind gusting through the open doors and windows of a house could make a messy room clean and organized.

That’s when inspiration struck! I had been so burdened in my life with people around me who insisted that the universe was created by some grand scheme and designer that it was more than I could bear. Now I had been touched with the perfect way to prove them all wrong.

Now I didn’t live in a particularly windy region, nor did I have power over the air myself, but I did have the next best thing: my gleaming red and black 12,000 horse power leaf blower extraordinaire! (Ok, a bit of an exaggeration on the horsepower, but enough to get the job done). I was also fortunate enough to have a particularly messy room in the back of my house, one filled with papers and knick knacks strewn about, sprinkled with rubbish from the past few days.

I could hardly contain myself as I raced home to prove the theory. I opened every window of that offending room, strapped on my scientific instrument of choice, and cranked it up. A gentle whirring soon burst into a high pitched buzz, and the animal was belting out a storm of invisible fury at the mess inside. Papers and tiny forgotten items flew through the air, spinning and dancing, exuberant in their flight. I let the machines music play for half a minute before abruptly shutting it down. When the noise ceased I watched intently as the last remaining pieces floated to their final resting spots.

It was foolish to expect success on the first attempt. But that is just what I desired. When I looked around the room I found that things had not yet been perfected in their place. There were a few pieces of trash that ended up in the can, but more pieces of important documents ended there as well. I was soon gripped by reality and understood that all would not be proven on the first try.

So I ripped the blower again and swung the nozzle around the room. I pushed harder this time, feeling that earlier I was too passive, and this experiment needed more aggression. I flung the nozzle back and forth with determination. The wind whipped viciously about the room with no regard to friend or foe. I watched as all manner of debris swirled around my head. The orbiting objects became so dense that I was blinded to the room and shut down the machine. I squeezed my eyes close and hoped that a perfectly organized room would be my reward.

Once again I was disappointed. I scanned the room to find things in places where they clearly did not belong. Even trash that had been in the trashcan was now displaced. But what really caught my attention was a small porcelain figure, a white sheep that had been sitting on a shelf, now lay in pieces on floor. It had been evicted from its home and shattered on the unforgiving tile. This was going to cause a problem.

But I was not deterred. If anything I was invigorated. I was going to show just how right I was. Not only would my experiment yield a neat and tidy living space, but it was going to fix that which I had broken. (And if not, it would certainly somehow end up in the trash, and I could dismiss the destruction to user error.)

So I began with reckless abandon. I followed a pattern of running my blower for thirty seconds, shutting it down, and examining the results. Some tests were better than others, but each view was distinct. I was undeterred, buoyed by the fact that no two aftermaths were the same, and eventually I would hit upon the jackpot.

I became obsessed. I lost track of time. Day turned into night and back to day many times. Over and over I had to feed my machine and with each intrusion I got more frustrated at wasting time. I did not eat, drink, nor sleep. I was focused on a task that had to succeed.

That’s when the physical overcame me. It was during one of the rotations of darkness that I finally collapsed, slamming my head against the floor. I did not lose consciousness but in hindsight wish I had. For as I felt a thin stream of blood trickle down my face I heard soft footsteps approaching from the side. It was all I could do to throw off the machine and struggle to sit back against the wall. My breathing was heavy and my sight weak. Through blurred vision I saw a man come close and kneel down as he placed his hand on my forehead.

“Who are you?” I insisted.

“You are hurt,” he said calmly. “What are you trying to do?”

“I need to prove it,” I panted through the fog. “I need to prove how we came to be.”

“Curiosity is not a bad thing,” he replied gently as he tended my head. I tried to make out his face, but I couldn’t focus. “I can help you.”

“You can help?” I chuckled. “I’ve been at this for a long time. I don’t think you can help.”

“What is it you need?”

The question was stated so confidently that I had to ponder my response. I concluded it was folly to hope for anything from this stranger. He couldn’t give me what I really needed. So I tested him. “You really want to help me? Give me endless energy and an infinite amount of time. That’s what I really need.”

The man did not respond to my ludicrous request. He simply stood up and walked away. I tried to stand and follow him but collapsed against the wall. The night was silent and I cried out into the darkness for the man to return. There was only silence and finally I was overwhelmed by exhaustion.

Sometime later my eyes opened slowly to find that it was still dark. I groped around the room and came upon my blower lying next to me. I tried to stand and found that sleep did me better than I could have hoped. When I got to my feet I was filled with a strength I had not known for a very long time. My mind was clear and focused and I had a resolve that was beyond words. I looked around the room and smiled. The obsession was now under my control. I was going to win.

I flung my machine over my back and attacked the room. Over and over again I fought and failed. But I was not saddened or deterred. My strength was not leaving me and my mind was not failing. Night turned back into day and day back into night. But that seemed like an instant. The days and nights crowded together in a string that had no beginning or end. I did not grow weary, and my beast did not need refreshed, for we were on a mission. Time became insignificant as with each failure to produce a perfect room was met with intensity to make it work the next time. I refused to stop. I had a singular purpose.

If I knew how long I struggled I would hardly believe it. But the truth is I fought through my lifetime and many others. To my credit I never gave up those long years that turned into decades and beyond. I was so certain that I could prove the randomness of creation that I failed to see creation at all. The gift I was given to prove out my experiment was lost on me. Lost, that is, until it was finally taken away.

It was dark then, much as it had been long ago when I first met that man. Whatever generation of failure I was on finally laughed at me as I heard a great stroke of thunder pass overhead and rain begin to sprinkle on my head. I was inside, but the moisture I felt belied my sense of protection. Finally the rain became too much to ignore and I lifted my head to peer at the ceiling.

I gasped in horror at what I saw. As I gazed upward, rain pouring in my face, I noticed not a leak in my roof, but gaping holes in what I thought only moments before had been a sturdy structure. I looked around at the walls a ceiling too find that they too were lacking integrity. Windows were busted and drywall lay smashed on the ground. The wood frame was eaten by time and inattention. My house was crumbling around me.

I grabbed my chest and fell backwards. Reeling, I felt all my strength leave, and dropped my machine and crashed against the wall. That is why I was weeping.

How long had it been? Why had I been cursed so? The pain of defeat was worse than any physical malady I could conjure. I felt death approaching and nothing on which to grab hold. I was too weak to even take my own life if the opportunity arose.

But through the darkness and rain I saw a man. I thought my eyes deceived me, for it reminded me of the same man that long ago tended to my head. He approached me again in the same way, though now I was very afraid.

“What have you done?” I screamed. The man said nothing and stretched out his hand. “Please, don’t let me die,” I begged.

“Take my hand,” he replied. Reluctantly I grasped for it, and he lifted me to my feet. He led me around the house, and without saying a word, made me understand what had happened. My house lay in ruin, defeated not by man but by time, and outside all manner of nature had been reborn. I was surrounded by an army of trees, brush, vines and weeds that took advantage of my departure.

The man led me back to where we started. I surveyed the room. It too lay in ruin, and for too long I had been blind to its deterioration.

“All I wanted to do was prove our origin,” I said as I looked over at the man. “It was going to be a triumph.”

“But you did prove it,” the man said as he gestured to the shell of my home. “Don’t you see?”

My shoulders slumped. “All I see is a wasted life.”

The man shook his head. “No! You were given a gift. You had all the time, all the strength, all the determination you needed to prove how it all came together. And you did!”

“Ha!” I cried. “It was an abysmal failure!”

“Through random actions, over the course of infinite time, there was nothing intentional you could do,” the man said. He walked over near the remnants of a shelf and picked something off the ground. “But when things are done intentionally, with a purpose,” he said as he stretched out his hand and showed me the broken pieces of the white porcelain sheep I laid to waste long ago, “then order can be achieved.” The man closed his hand and placed upon a remnant of shelving my sheep, whole and new.

“How did you….?” I started, but before I got too far realization washed over me. I had proven how we came to be. It just wasn’t what I expected.

I fell to my knees before the man. “I am so sorry. I have wasted everything for a lie!”

“No,” he replied as he put his hand back on my head. “You have been given a gift. Go home now, and tell what you have learned.”

The tears the flowed from my eyes matched the intensity of the storm. “I am home and it is ruined. Everything is gone! I am lost!” The man pressed his hand hard against my head, and soon I felt a curtain of warmth flow over me. I slid into a deep sleep on the floor as rain massaged my body.

When I awoke the bright morning sun was flowing through my surprisingly fully functional window. This window was attached to the solid undisturbed frame of a complete house. I jumped up and looked around to find my room was filled with the same mess I remembered from the first day I set out to prove a lie.

A smile crossed my face and heart. I was home. I walked around the room and began to gather things together and put them in their rightful spot. “With a true intention, and a true design, I will make this place in order again.”

I did. When I was finished, I closed the doors and window, lest a rogue gust of wind pass through and disrupt everything.

The Good Shepherd

2013-03-21T11:15:00.001-07:00

There is a sense of familiarity with the parable of the lost sheep. In this story, the Good Shepherd knows His sheep, and they His voice. He undoubtedly loves all in His flock. Yet when one goes astray, missing from the herd, the Good Shepherd risks all to bring that one back into the fold.

This is the undeniable truth of the Good Shepherd.

Yet as confident as we are in the knowledge of the desires of the Good Shepherd, are we aware that there is another shepherd roaming about? We can be blind to the deceitful actions of that other purveyor of flocks. How often we overlook the games of the imperfect shepherd who is focused on his own corrupt desires and oversees a flock that is blind to its own captivity.

It is the imperfect shepherd that must be brought to light. Christians are called to take up the mantle of the Good Shepherd and become locators of the lost. We must bring truth to them and give them an opportunity to understand. This is our greatest command and many are willing to search hard after the lost and bring them back into the fold.

But the lost are not always hidden among craggy cliffs or stuck in a thistle bush. All too often the lost are herded together in a flock that is under the watchful eye of the one who would have us fail. That is where I found myself one day, straddling the ledge of faithful services and the abyss of hopeless rejection.

I was traveling the narrow road, heeding the call to seek out the lost sheep and bring them to their rightful Shepherd. It had been some time since I started down that road, and in that time I had encountered many individual sheep, all of which heard but only some of which choose to follow the road. This particular day found beautiful weather and ideal conditions for the work, and as evening approached a gentle breeze swept through the trees that lined the path. It wasn’t long after that I noticed a clearing at the end of my vision, where all manner of trees disappeared and the grass shone bright and welcoming.

I picked up my pace, for I was excited but thought it was deception to my eyes. In the distance stood a flock of sheep in larger numbers than I had ever seen. This group was nestled together in the middle of a field, and a single figure cloaked in a dark covering leaned against a giant oak tree with his staff propped by his side.

I burst forth into the open, and as my eyes finally confirmed that which my heart yearned. I rushed towards the flock silently preparing my words. The sheep were bleating aimlessly and I could tell by their markings that they had long since abandoned the Good Shepherd. My heart pounded with excitement as I approached the flock, and before I said anything I looked over to see that the dark figure was asleep against the oak. I did not know recognize him nor understand his purpose, but I wanted to gather as many of the sheep together to follow me back before he awoke.

No gate or enclosure surrounded the flock. There was nothing that would keep them in place. Yet they all appeared inhibited, and were filthy and aimless. They stared out in all manner of direction, a lost look in each of their eyes. Some looked at the ground, others at the sky, and still others aimlessly toward the four winds. I recognized that evening was upon us and darkness was fast approaching the land, and I hurriedly devised a plan to convince and harness such a large group. I paced back and forth in front of the flock as I muttered to myself the possibilities. Excitement and anticipation were now residing in me, and the treasure I was going to bring back to the Good Shepherd would surely be met with celebration. Finally, when I was satisfied with my intended plan, I took my first step into the flock.

“Excuse me, sir” a voice beckoned from the oak. My head jolted to see the dark figure arise, his head cloaked and his hands grasping the staff.

“Hello,” I replied nervously, stepping away from the flock. I was caught off guard and frantically gathered my thoughts as the dark figure moved closer. “I did not mean to disturb you. I am here on business.”

“I was not disturbed,” the figure said gently as he rested close to me. The dark figure moved as if frail, but as I peered into his face I was struck that it was handsome and young. His eyes burned towards me and his gaze did not depart from mine. I thought I had no reason to fear, but my heart began to sink in my chest. The dark figure took notice. “What business could you have with these sheep?”

I took a step back and straightened myself, stretching to exude the most formal and imposing impression I could muster. My mind continued to grow foggy, so I cleared my throat, clamoring for that extra moment to gather my thoughts. “I am here on behalf of their Good Shepherd,” I finally said shakily. “Their Master.”

“Their master?” the figure asked softly but with incredulity. He looked over at the flock. “I assure you, these sheep need no master. They have found each other, and themselves. They are happy and ask for no disturbance.”

The figure spoke confidently about the sheep and this raised my curiosity. “You speak as if you know these sheep. Do you claim them as your own?”

The figures lips curled into a wry smile. “I do not claim them, but they are here.” He paused for a moment. “As long as they are here they can share this space with me. I am happy to have them.”

“But their master wants them back,” I quickly countered. “He loves them.”

“Is that why you are here? To bring them back?”

“Yes.”

The figure looked over the flock and back at me. “If you think they belong with their master then gather them together and bring them to him.” I looked at the flock then back at the figure as I anticipated a caveat. When none came I turned and headed towards the flock. I was upon them when the dark figure spoke again. “I wonder why that ‘good shepherd’ didn’t come for them himself.”

As the figure’s words pierced my ears I stopped “What did you say?”

The figure watched as my eyes met his. “I asked why your shepherd did not come himself.”

I turned my whole body towards the figure. “He sent me,” I responded confidently.

“Oh,” The figure said as his face perked. “Then you must be as great as he to command his sheep.”

“Of course not,” I retorted indignantly as I took a few steps back.

“No?” the figure asked. “Then I am certainly perplexed. This shepherd sends a lesser to do his work? If you are not as great as he then you are incompetent to bring back the sheep and he must not truly care about his flock.”

I stood stunned. The dark figure’s frail body turned back towards the tree and leaned against it, his eyes searching me as he rested.

I was stalled. The words I heard were not eloquent or long in voice, trying to convince me with reasoned and rational arguments. They were terse and simple, slipping into my being and rattling around as they contaminated everything I thought was secure. I watched myself as I stepped back further in silence and sat myself away from the flock upon the trampled grass. My heart was in distress as the sheep continued their sounds and the figure rested silently. I sat picking at the grass as my mind whirled.

“You should go,” I heard his voice whisper as I fell into my thoughts.

It is true that I was lesser than the Good Shepherd. I knew that. But did I really understand my incompetence? This figure was right. I had not real authority. I had not real knowledge. Was I resting on a façade, fooling even myself, walking in a lie of my construction? I stared at the ground as dusk consumed the land.

If I was to believe that I was competent and filled with authority, then I still had to question why I was sent. Was the Good Shepherd mistaken in sending me? And if He was mistaken on that, what else could He be mistaken about? If I couldn’t trust Him on knowing who to send for his flock, I couldn’t trust Him on anything.

“You should go,” the figure said again with urgency.

Despair set in. I continued to look down and only occasionally sneaking a peak at the sheep. I wanted to stand up and go forward, but my heart was downtrodden and my body weak. I finally looked back over at the dark figure to find him content in his rest. Yet he was silently beckoning me to return home.

I wanted to leave but couldn’t find the strength. Night fell over the land and with it came the most unusual sight. Out of the darkness of the road that brought me here I noticed others make their way towards the sheep. Men and women much like myself, carrying a small light to illuminate their path, walked past me and towards the flock. I knew them as tasked with the same job as I. A spring of hope leapt in my soul that they could help me get to the flock and bring them home. But as each approached, they heard the voice of the dark figure, and each would engage. My brief hope turned back to despair as one by one, each man and woman, hearing the voice of the figure, turned away from the flock, and disappeared down the road behind me.

Time passed and I no others came forth. The night was late, and I wished that dawn was soon approaching. “Why do you remain?” the figure stood over me and snapped me alert as pity streamed from his lips. “I do not force you to stay. Be on your way. Don’t worry yourself with the likes of these.”

I wanted to follow his instructions. Hopelessness consumed me, as each word he spoke raised doubts that I could no longer scale. My time there was fruitless, and I would be comforted to leave the presence of these sheep and this figure.

“I want to leave.” I mumbled as I hung my head. “I will leave.”

But I was weak and needed more time before I could escape this arena. Silence engulfed the camp, and soon the bleating of the sheep was quiet, as though they too had caught my despair. I closed my eyes as I felt the figures victory over me. I closed my eyes.

I don’t know how much time had passed, but something shook me, and I awoke with a jolt. I noticed light breaking through the trees, and saw that the figure was still standing and staring at me.

“You need to go,” The figure said with great intent. “Go now.”

I looked around and saw nobody else there. My mind began to race. The figure was intimidating me yet my body refused to move. As hard as I pressed I could not move myself off the spot in which I had become planted.

“You are not welcome here!” the figure finally yelled.

“Don’t you think I want to go?” I cried back. “I can’t!”

“If you don’t go now, I will hurt you! You will regret your choice! It will be terrible.”

I put my head down. “Then do it. “ I replied. “I can’t leave.”

I closed my eyes and waited several breaths as I expected this figure to unleash fury upon me. His frail countenance had turned so aggressive, so quickly, that I was filled with terror. Yet my body and my heart betrayed my baser instincts to flee. I could not stand, I could not run. All I could do was submit.

When I felt no swift punishment I raised my head. The figure had moved away from me, still visibly seething, but failing to fulfill his promise. I watched as he slowly walked back to his tree and leaned against it.

I studied him for a moment, and only for a moment, for that is all it took. My mind and my heart, which had earlier betrayed me, finally understood. I rose to my feet and walked towards the sheep.

“Go away!” The figure yelled. “You are not worthy.”

I stopped once again at the edge of the flock, this time with intent, and directed my words back at the figure. “I know. You are right. I am not worthy. But I come in the name of the one that is worthy. I come in the name of the Good Shepherd, who has given me the ability to speak in his stead. You and I both know that I am nothing of myself. That is why you said what you said. That is why you want me to leave. You counted on the fact that I knew I was nothing. But that is on my own. In the name of the Good Shepherd I am worthy, acceptable, and able. It is in that name that you have no power over me.”

The dark figure soaked in my words and unleashed a barrage of curses directed at my mind and heart. He threw all that he had, but I pushed my way into the midst of the sheep. I knew not how, but the curses flung my way hit their target, yet bounced harmlessly off, crashing to the ground beneath my feet. I no longer gave the figure my attention, and the more fruitless he saw his attacks, the harder he attacked. But no matter his efforts I was protected.

I spoke to the sheep in a language I hoped would touch them inside. I offered them the chance to head back to their true Shepherd and to be done with the dark figure. Daylight swept over the field as I proclaimed the message. My voice rang out to the flock, and each sheep heard my words. I looked into the eyes of the sheep, and saw many shake off their vacant stares and light up with hope. When I was finished, I beckoned for them to follow me back to the path and into the folds of their loving Shepherd.

I walked out from among the sheep and headed back down the road. Many of the sheep followed me, while still others remained behind. I think the figure continued to hurl his insults my way, though it is hard to say, for I tuned him out and did not look back. I headed down the narrow path, a trail of sheep behind me, my heart grateful for those that followed and hopeful that one day I may return for the others.

Your Talent

2012-08-09T09:10:00.001-07:00

What are we to do? Are we to believe that God actually has a plan for us, that He gave us talents that can be used for His glory, and that He will give us a path to use those talents? Those are questions that every human asks at some point and some way in life. Be they Christian or not, they wonder in their own manner what it is that they are truly supposed to do on earth, and what it is they can contribute that is special or unique. More so, they ask themselves if there is actually anything special that they can give. For the Christian, this question becomes all the more personal. For there is no doubt that God has created us, and with that creation, has given us special talents and abilities that we can use to glorify Him. They may not be as bold and unique as talents to hold world records or stand apart in the eyes of man. But they are talents nonetheless, and they are talents that He expects us to use. Make no mistake, God does not need us in any way to complete the work which He desires to do. And that is all the more of a blessing, because it shows us that he has allowed us, through Grace, to work with Him, to glorify Him, to completely share in that which He desires. So what of our talents? Does He really want us to use them? What if we don't seem to be in a position to use them? Each of us was created, no matter size, strength or level of intellect, with something that can be used to glorify God. Call it a trait, a talent, or an ability, it is unique to us. I have met men and women who have the highest levels of education or strength that one would point to as obvious possessors of talent. But I have also been with those that the world looks on as inept, incapable, and useless. There is no doubt that in them there is something that can glorify God. I have seen it. More importantly, He put it there. Which brings me to this point. There is something in you that is worthy, whatever you call it, of using to express both uniqueness and a sign of the Creator's desire to express Himself through you. There is no doubt that He will use that talent, if only you will open yourself to that call. The choice is yours.

Mirror Question

2012-08-03T08:19:00.002-07:00

I sliced my hand wide open. A sharp disagreement my flesh had with a molded piece of steel was the cause. My flesh lost I'm sad to say. But the whatnots and wherefores of how the pale skin on my palm flayed to reveal inner muscle and various other oft unseen tissue is unimportant. What really matters is that the hand that was scarred was my right hand, and that is misery indeed, for it is my right hand that is dominant. This was brilliantly shown to me after I could do nothing with this hand, and looked like an inebriated monkey when trying to perform the simplest task. Which led me to think about the blessing from God that is my right hand. It is in this appendage that I display my talents, and when it is crippled I strain with great difficulty to do that which just a day ago was easy. And this made me wonder how often do we forget the great talents that we have been given all in the sense of trying to use our least dominant hand. This is not meant to be literal. In fact, it makes much less sense that way. Figuratively speaking, imagine the talents that you have. I already know some people insist that they have no talents, but that is a falsehood. Everybody has been blessed by God with some gift, be it large or small, and in that gift we exude the likeness of our creator. His talents are on display in us all, and though I will not take the time to enumerate each potential gift, for they are countless, suffice it to say we all have them. Now imagine we are ignoring those gifts. For some this may not be such a stretch. Imagine that we insist for ourselves to be using our figurative left hands, the arenas in which we have been given less abilities and less strengths, when our right hands are perfectly fine and functioning. We may stand there and curse our inabilities in our left hands when we fail to see all that we could do with our right. In simple terms we must ask ourselves, are we using the gifts that God has given us, or are we ignoring them for something we think will bring us greater glory, or something we think we must do instead. This is a good mirror question. For those wondering what a mirror question is, it's that kind of question you ask yourself when you are alone. Looking in a mirror. Yep, it's that easy.

Help Wanted: Professional Christians

2012-07-30T09:51:00.001-07:00

I have recently been introduced to the concept of a "professional Christian". On first blush it sounded like some new frontier in job growth. I thought about how wonderful it sounded and how well I was suited for such a position. I have a degree from seminary, I go to church all the time, so where could I sign up? But upon further explanation I realized I was already quite familiar with the concept if not the vernacular. The term "professional Christian" is not on its face either endearing or derogatory. It is what it claims to be. The term refers to a person that has been in church for so long that they know the pace and language by heart, without having to think about the proper response, or search themselves in anticipation of what comes next. It is that man or woman that recites in their sleep the steps of service, the length of the message, the timing of the prayers and the gait of the ushers. This is not necessarily a decay inside of the church, but it does lend itself to complacency if not kept in check. So it was with that definition in mind that I consider myself a professional Christian. But as I pondered the term I wondered about the flip side. Was there group that exemplified amateur Christians? What was it about them that deserved the descriptor of amateur? Did they strive to be professional like myself, or were they happy in their place? And worst of all, could only they qualify for the US Olympic Team? Who exactly is the amateur Christian? This is the man or woman, boy or girl who perhaps slips into church unsure of how he or she will be received by the gathered masses. This person might have only just come to know Jesus, and to their dismay knows none of the well-worn songs blasted in giant letters on the screen above and sung rhythmically if not always passionately by the professionals. When time for offering comes, this amateur tepidly takes the plate and passes it, thinking that the others may judge her for putting too little in, and therefore resigns from offering anything. During the message this amateur listens intently, hearing for the first time the wonders and joys of his Lord that the others around him have heard on multiple previous occasions. The amateur cares not for the time, and in fact forgot to bring a watch, caring only that this new life changing relationship is nurtured. Then the time comes for prayer. The amateur does not want to be seen out of step, and bows her head with the rest of the congregation. But as the pastor prays, she peeks up with a single open eye to make sure she is doing the right thing. That is when the amateur is calmed by the silent voice inside her heart. She puts her head back down and realizes that there are only two people in the building now. It is her and her Lord, and she is talking to him as a curious child to her loving parent. Offering praise and petition as best she knows how, ignorant of the correct Christianeese in which to frame it, but equally joyous that she is bringing it to the feet of the Most High. Prayer ends and the amateur has lingered too long, her head bobbing up several seconds after the professionals. But the amateur does not care. His heart has been renewed, and as the congregation is dismissed, several minutes later than usual to the dismay of some of the professionals. The amateur marvels at how all the others have come to learn the things they have. Will he ever be professional like them? Will he ever know all the words, all the timing, all the language to mingle with the professionals? If her heart remains open, her spirit joyous, her relationship with the Most High her most important asset, then yes, may she one day be as professional as the others. But if the weight and complacency of being among the elite strangles her true desire, kills her want and worship of the Lord, then may it never be. Remaining a rank amateur would be a much more praiseworthy.

A Tribute To Pastor Charlie Chilton

2012-07-27T11:50:00.002-07:00

The sad news came late Wednesday evening in the modern form. Online social sights, phone calls and even text messages revealed that our longtime pastor, and the man who married my wife and I, Charlie Chilton, had passed away after a significant battle with cancer. The news wasn't unexpected, but still difficult to accept, as is often reality. The outpouring of memories and condolences spread just as fast across the little corner of the internet that knew this man. So what else could be said that hasn't already been expressed in one form or another? The lives that this man of God touched were not segregated only to the communities in northern Virginia that he most recently called home, but throughout the world, to far corners that many of us will never see with our own eyes. Pastor Charlie, as he had affectionately become known, was a church planter, and he had a longtime connection with the people of the Philippines. With this in mind I revel in one of my fondest memories of this man. On a brisk April Day in Washington, DC my wife and I were invited to hear Pastor Charlie guest preach at a local church on Wisconsin Avenue. This was well after our wedding, and we had not been blessed to hear him speak in some time, so we pounced at the chance to visit with him again. But we knew from the onset that this would be no ordinary sermon. Pastor Charlie was going to preach to a Pilipino congregation, and he was going perform the service in Tagalog, a native language of these people of which he was fluent. This was my first foreign language service (though not my last) and I was curious if my ignorance of the words spoken would cause my attention to slip. My wife and I settled into a pew halfway into the church and watched our mentor take the pulpit. We surveyed the sanctuary to find that we were most likely the only ones in the modest congregation that did not speak Tagalog. But soon we knew that the language barrier did not matter. Pastor Charlie preached words of truth with passion and authority that were foreign to our ears. We understood almost nothing. But listening to his voice and watching the reaction of the people there was no doubt about the message he was spreading. The truth of Christ was being spoken that day if only in a slightly different form than we were used to and my wife and I understood the beating heart of truth if not each syllable in which it was packaged. There was no grand revelation of a foreign language as brought to us by some mystical power. There was simply the knowledge and peace that the truth of the Lord Jesus Christ was ringing forth and the people in this small sanctuary were receiving and praising. There is no translation needed for that. That would be the last sermon we ever heard from Pastor Charlie and it was an honor to be included. I will most likely never become fluent in Tagalog, nor ever hear a message in that language again, but I do not consider what I heard that day to be a waste. I was forced to hear that sermon with my heart, ignoring my more common senses, and I was blessed by the Lord. It was a great gift. On April 19, 1951, in his farewell address to congress, General Douglas MacArthur said the following: I still remember the refrain of one of the most popular barrack ballads of that day which proclaimed most proudly that "old soldiers never die; they just fade away." And like the old soldier of that ballad, I now close my military career and just fade away, an old soldier who tried to do his duty as God gave him the light to see that duty. Pastor Charlie was blessed both with the light to see his duty and the chance to spread that light over all of God's creation. But unlike General MacArthur's declaration, the Christian does die, however briefly, but will live eternally with Christ in Glory. That is where Pastor Charlie rests today, his accomplishments for the Kingdom never to fade away, his face cradled by the Lord of Lords, hearing the refrain "Well done, good and faithful servant."

Who Among You Is Holy?

2012-07-26T12:39:00.001-07:00

Can man be holy? Some would scoff at the suggestion saying that only God is holy. Others would insist that man can be holy because God is holy. There are even those that would suggest that man cannot be holy and only woman can be holy. The third group misses the point. Looking around the world at the depravity and desecration that takes place on a moment-to-moment basis would leave even the staunchest believer quivering at the thought of naming any individual holy. From churches high in the mountains of distant lands to bars buried in the swamps of the lowlands there is a common denominator. All those creatures that inhabit those places, those flesh wrapped stumbling masses that think themselves behemoths on this planet but are mere specks on a hurtling globe, they are all scarred by the remnants of a plague that hit many thousands of years ago. That plague was brought on by this very creatures actions and has the common name of sin. Certainly man has given it other names to try and take the edge off. But the fact still remains that it marks us all and there is nothing we can do to remove it. But then we come to Christ, and he washes that sin away by His power, right? That is true, but does that really give us reason to consider ourselves holy? Well, it depends on how you view holiness. Is the characteristic of that most blessed adjective one that elevates us to God-like status and gives us carte blanche over the rest of creation? If that is your definition of holiness, then without doubt not a single person can be holy. But what about viewing holiness in another light. What if holiness when applied to man speaks not of the works or actions of that man, but of the impartation of characteristics given by a superior God? What if holiness is belonging to God and living in obedience to him? What if holiness means being set apart by God's power and glory? Can man then be considered holy? The answer can be answered most affirmatively and negatively yet does not relay a paradox.

We can be holy as the Israelites were holy.

The Israelites were set apart by God and were in covenant with God, showing his power over them as well as their uniqueness in His eyes. This is much as the Christian today enters into covenant with God upon accepting Jesus and showing belonging to that God through the work of Jesus. For both the Israelite and modern day Christian, this covenant then begins a relationship of obedience and dedication to that same God. So yes, many today can be considered holy. But make no mistake that no man, no matter how perfect they may seem, no matter how reverent they may become, can never match the holiness when measured against God. The slippery slope of believing one to be near equal to God is traveled when any person believes themselves to gain near God-like status. A myriad of cults and religions throughout time have shown us the outcome of such belief. The more the person believes themselves to be God-like, the harder reality hits them when they fall. There is a uniqueness to God that will never be matched. We should all shout for joy that it can never be matched. So be holy if you are holy. Just remember how you got that way.

From Here You Can See God

2012-07-25T14:50:00.000-07:00

I have heard many complain that if only they could climb a little farther they could finally reach God and look him in the eyes. They became angry that when they look up towards the top of the mountain He is nowhere to be found. I never understood their anguish. All I needed was to look down over the expanse of earth below to see Him clearly. - Anonymous Sherpa climber of Mount Everest, 1947 What if we could climb to the top of a mountain to visit God? Or what if we could take a boat out to some remote island where God lived and spend a day with Him? Would we be more comforted that we knew where to find him? Many people feel that if only they knew where God was and could go greet him, they would be more settled in their hearts. They believe that Seeing God face to face, no matter where they had to travel to do it, would ease their uncertainty and calm their fears. They could ask him any question they wanted and he would answer. They would go on their way with their answer blissful in the knowledge that if ever they needed anything else from God, they would know exactly where they left him. But God didn't do that, and for very good reason. If we had to tramp across half the globe to dizzying heights to find Him then His accessibility would be questionable. How easy it is for you to take a quick trip up Mount Everest? Or a little boat ride into the middle of the ocean? I suspect not easy at all. But where God can be found is no more difficult than walking to your front door. For God is accessible to you right now, where you are, no matter if it is in the bright sunshine of day on the beach or the darkness of a dungeon pit. You don't even have to move to meet Him. He is already there waiting to talk to you.

So stop trying to climb the mountain or sail the seas to find God. Just turn your head slightly to the right. See? He's been waiting for you there all along.

Is Your Bible Useless?

2012-07-24T14:38:00.001-07:00

Is your bible useless? Is it glorious and leather-bound, the sun gleaming off the gold-tinged edges of the meticulously crafted piece as it sits proudly on the bookshelf? Or does the paperback edition you received as a young child still hold fond memories of being clutched in Sunday school as it lay pristine and weighted down by the forces of gravity in the corner of some far off room? Do the thin pages of your New Testament still cling to each other as a brand new volume even though you purchased it over five years ago? Does the bible app you downloaded last month still serve only to consume memory on your device that could be better utilized for shopping or sports apps? Does the cover of your bible seem to be made of the heaviest of metals, daring you to open it, revealing that you don't have the strength or desire? Or is your bible worth more to you than any possessions of which your deepest desires could conceive? Does your bible look ragged and unkempt, tortured by years of use as your fingers fumbled through the pages in your time of need? Does your bible scream back at you with notations and revelations that blared at you in the quiet of the night as you searched for answers. Does it bear the scars of nights on your knees and days gone by that longed for solace? Have your internet searches for different bible translations brought you to the precipice of languages long forgotten and never before seen by your eyes? Is your bible light as air, waiting for even the quietest of wishes to be flung open and reveal the deepest truth? So, is your bible useless?

Grace

2012-07-23T11:48:00.000-07:00

By reason we know ourselves to be greater than the creatures of the earth. By love we know ourselves also more compassionate. But only by grace do we see the Creator's sovereignty with both and our mastery over neither. - Clara Hornsworth, 1941 At the height of the Great Depression on a small farm in the middle of Iowa, Clara Hornsworth dreamed of building a veterinary business. Her youth raised around all types of animals gave her an insight that she believed lent to such a calling. But at the time such a profession for a young woman was considered irregular. But that did not stop Clara. For the rest of her life she strived towards her dream, not swayed by the naysayers of her day. Her deep faith and love for her desired profession drove her in her studies and ultimately to go into practice for herself. But life was not kind to Clara. At the dawn of the second world war she suffered from tuberculosis, a disease that not only attacked her body but consumed what little wealth she had. She would die only a few weeks after her only brother was killed at Pearl Harbor. Yet

this story is not of tragedy but of triumph. Upon her death the only possession she had was a small bible. Inside that bible was the above inscription. Next to it, underlined several times, was this statement, presumably the last she ever wrote: "I am near to meet God and I finally understand Him. I would not give up my trials on this earth for all the glories that same has to offer. In His hands I have been given a grace that I could not repay in five lifetimes. That is most precious to me." Clara was given true sight to see in the midst of her personal struggles. Do we also experience that joy in ours?

The Always People

2012-04-10T18:32:00.000-07:00

Editors Note: In the following weeks, you are going to read the story of one man's journey across America in search of the poor and homeless. You may read the stories and consider them pure fantasy. Or you may read them and feel their truth reverberate in your heart. In either case, know that the names of all involved are fictitious, but the stories are all too real. Men and women across the country today struggle with similar circumstances. And much like the traveler herein we are called to care for and help those in need, meeting them where they are, just as Jesus did.

The dead leaves crunched under our feet as we walked, their veil of frost torn apart with our steps. We wound our way past naked trees and brush to find what I needed to see. I had never been this deep into their land, and my heart wondered why.
The late February wind was forcing itself through the trees as I finally made out a clearing in the distance. We started to walk more deliberately until we could see the area clearly. I could make out shapes and figures and approached cautiously as my guide beckoned me with her flashlight to move faster. She only wanted to return home and had agreed to take the time to bring me after much consideration. To me it was a blessing, for the community that I was visiting meant more than she could have ever known.
I stepped out from the trees and into the middle of the village. Several voices greeted my guide as we arrived, and as she threw her light around I could make out my share of questionable gazes. The men and women that saw me looked considerably cautious, wrapping themselves tighter in their coats and blankets and tending to their personal affairs. Even though I knew several by name I was still an outsider. It was clear with their stares that they made sure I knew it.
For many years I had run the homeless ministry through my church, and many of the men and women in this particular encampment had come for food and fellowship on the dark, cold nights of winter. Where they lived wasn't far from my church geographically, but emotionally it was worlds away. For in this clearing amongst a heavily wooded area, surrounded by high and middle income homes, these unfortunate men and women made their lives. They lived together, rarely in harmony but always with the understanding that they stood a better chance together than alone. Their homes were seven and eight person tents surrounding a common area, where firewood, clothes and other necessities were stored. They had canopies to keep the rain and snow away, though effectiveness was lost when the weather turned violent. These men and women warmed themselves with kerosene heaters and camping stoves within their tents, an effective weapon against the cold that could turn deadly if the ventilation was poor.
In fact it was death that brought me out here on this frigid evening. Though I had only intermittent relationships with these men and women, I had been laid emotionally low by news I received weeks earlier. As I thought back to that day, my guide called for me to join her near one of the tents.
"Here," she said, pointing down. I stared down at the crushed leaves and twigs laying next to a torn tent. She didn't need to say anymore, for I knew what I was looking at.
As I stared down, I thought about the night I heard the news. I had come to know one of the men that had just started coming to our dinners this winter. He was an older man, the father of five, none of with which he had much contact. He had struggled for years with alcoholism, drug use and a myriad of other destructive behaviors, and was seeking even the smallest glimmer of hope to bring him out of his spiraling life. I had thought that perhaps our ministry could be the answer. I had thought that we were doing something different.
But as I came to learn, he had made the same gesture of repentance to dozens of others before, only to fall back into the grip of his struggles. That was why on that particular night several weeks ago he drank what was described to me as his weight in vodka and fell asleep without the proper clothing outside of his tent. He never woke up.
His death was ruled a result of the elements, and very little fanfare was made outside of the campsite. As I came to find out, it wasn't the first time something like this had happened, and it wouldn't be the last. I listened as in the distance I heard the cars and trucks on the nearby interstate, and wondered if any of the people in those vehicles knew just how close they were to such a tragic event, and if they did, would they care?
I had brought a bag of essentials for the men and women, and passed them out as I prepared to leave. The night was growing colder and darker, and as I looked into each dimly light face I wondered if they could sense my helplessness. What I offered them that night was fleeting, something that by morning would be forgotten. I could not meet all their physical needs, and I had barely scratched the surface with any of the emotional ones.
I sheepishly wished them farewell and made my way back out of the woods. My mind was consumed with what I had seen and what it all meant. For the next several days I had trouble concentrating at work or at home, thinking about the man that died and the ones still living on the edge of society. My meager offerings were less than I wanted to give, and even if I gave all it would not amount to much. I felt compelled to go back to see if there was something more I could do.
I finally made my way back to the encampment, this time during the day and without a guide. I had several bags of necessities in tow, including food and water. I was determined to give more in the hope that it might do some good. I caught myself rushing through the trees wishing that my haste could make things better.
I finally saw the clearing, and raced as fast as I could, lifting the bags high so as to not scrape the ground. But as I reached my destination I stumbled from surprise, dropping the bags and standing with my mouth agape. For there was nothing in the clearing save for some trash and abandoned rags. The campsite was gone. Bits of debris and a lone canopy draped over a withering oak were the only remnants of what had been a struggling community. I stood bewildered, and quickly turned my head as I heard the snap of a branch across from me. It was one of the men I had met the other night, as shocked to see me as I was to see him.
"Where is everybody?" I blurted out, foregoing a proper greeting.
"They all gone," he said, walking towards the canopy. "The police moved them out two days ago. Said something about it being unsafe because of what happened to Bob." The man was referencing the deceased as he gathered up the canopy to himself. "Can you believe this shit happens in 2010? They rushed us out so fast I couldn't take it all. I just came back to get what is mine."
I was dumbfounded, and wasn't sure what to say next. The man had what he came for, and looked at me and the two bags next to me.
"You need help with those?" he asked.
I was caught off guard at his question, then looked down at my bags. "Oh, these were for everyone. Do you know where they all went?"
"Here and there, I suppose. I really have no idea. Could be anywhere by now."
I was completely lost, and looked over at the man. "Then I suppose these are yours."
The man perked with curiosity, and I offered to carry them to wherever he was going. But he declined, letting me know that in light of what happened, he would rather not be followed. He asked me to just leave them, and he would return. His paranoia was high, but I couldn't blame him. He had lost a place to live. Yet again.
I did as he asked, and walked out of the woods. I pondered what had happened, and realized that I would not see many of them again. As I drove home, I reckoned within myself my own attitudes towards the poor and homeless and those that I publically stood for, being a representative of Christ and the church.
I had never been completely given over to the essential need to battle homelessness tooth and nail until my last breath. I knew those kind of people existed and had even ministered with them. But my personal views always ended up being a strange brew of my own creation. I had a healthy mixture of wanting to help those in dire circumstances while believing that the best way to truly help the poor and homeless was not to become one of them. As I came to grips with this, I knew I needed a fresh and healthy look at what it was Christ said about the poor. I needed to see what it was that I was truly working for, and why it was that Bob's death struck me so profoundly.
I opened my Bible and scoured it for what Jesus said about the poor. I turned to John 12:8. You will always have the poor among you, but you will not always have me. I flipped to Mark 14:7. The poor you will always have with you, and you can help them any time you want. But you will not always have me. I jumped to Matthew 26:11. The poor you will always have with you, but you will not always have me.
I was overcome. The preposition "always" jumped out at me and grabbed hold, refusing to let me avert my eyes. If the poor will always be here, if they are going to be everywhere, then I had no choice but to help them. I could not assume that somebody else would help and I could just wait and witness the end of poverty and homelessness altogether. They were always going to be in need. And I was always going to need to help.
It was in that moment I made a decision that would drastically alter the course of my life. No force on heaven or earth would have convinced me prior to that moment that I was going to drop everything and journey far beyond my comfort zone. But through the blur of the next few days I had made a decision and I was going to see it through. I knew the homeless and poor in my area. But I needed to go and see more. I needed to look the poor and the homeless in the face and hold their hands and hear their stories. I needed to know who they were, what they needed, and what Jesus would have me do. I had to show them Jesus with skin on, not just utter convenient words to the wind and hope they may fill a man's belly or keep him warm.
So I planned my sojourn. I threw together a all too rushed carload of necessities and made the necessary arrangements at my home and work. Nobody understood why I was doing this, but that didn't matter. I was going to travel across the country, visiting cities and towns, burgs and hamlets, reaching out to those in need and bringing their stories back. If asked at that point what I hoped to accomplish I would have been at a loss to answer. But I was set on a path that would open my eyes to a world that I truly didn't know, but one that far too many people did. So I set out that brisk late winter morning to meet the always people. To meet Jesus Always People.

I Am Being Hunted

2012-03-25T05:59:00.002-07:00

I am being hunted.
A lone candle illuminates my space. I dare not use anything brighter because I am terrified that they will find me. I tremble as I write this, knowing that any moment could be my last. But I risk even death to tell this story.
The walls of this cave in which I have found solitude protect me for now, but they have their limits. I am dug in deep, far beneath the surface of the earth. How is it that in a single week I have gone from one of my nation's most respected engineers with prospects of a Nobel prize to one marked for death at the hands of my own people? The answer exceeds even my imagination. But I am no fool as to think this unexpected. On the contrary, I am here as a result of a design I stole. A design that was meant for good. A design I should have locked away in the darkest part of myself and never allowed to see the light of day.
I have always been on the forefront of technological breakthroughs. I lost count of the number of innovations and life changing designs that have been a result of my handiwork. But for all of my achievement I still felt unfulfilled. I had failed to successfully complete the one design that had been my life's goal as far back as I can remember.
For years I attempted to design this particular machine. Yet I always fell short of my goal. I was rebuked many times along the way, either due to lack of imagination or poor design integrity. No matter what I tried, failure was always the result. Countless moments had me reason that since nobody had requested such a machine I should retire the dream. But I thought I was smarter and that it was necessary. I just knew that if I could make it work and when it did the world would laud me, understanding how it would benefit all of mankind.
So diligently I continued to work on my machine. Long hours, lit both by the sun and the bulb, were spent on designs and redesigns. Failures were retooled, corrections made, and materials substituted. The fire I had to be successful on this project was unquenchable.
Finally providence intervened. In a moment, all of the frustration and futility at not realizing my passion dissolved under the radiation of genius. It was just after two in the morning, a slight chill in the early spring air gnawing on me in my shed, when I made the first successful test of my machine. I remember the joy that jolted through me as I saw the fruit of my works staring me in the face, gleaming with possibilities I had long envisioned.
For this machine was like no other created by man. This machine was going to open the eyes of the whole world and bring peace to shores that it had long bypassed. You see, my machine was able to show the inner thoughts of a person in their fullness and truth. My machine could peer into a man's soul and comprehend and translate those deepest of longings and desires, intents and feelings. No longer would words need to be minced. No longer would one man fight against another for lack of trust or the disbelief. My machine would put an end to all of that.
Now some thought my machine was meant for harm. They thought that it could acquire bank account numbers, passwords and even secrets. But that was never a possibility. My machine was not designed to take such things from people, for that was thievery of a sort that I would never condone. My machine, in fact, was incapable of such barbarianism. No, my machine did one thing, and did it to perfection. It allowed the user to see the deepest feelings and beliefs of another. My machine could bring to the surface the thoughts that drove a man's life. It allowed people to see why someone was happy, or why they were fearful. It broke down the walls of platitudes and false security and showed the true nature under a man's skin. It was going to revolutionize the world.
My machine would bring people together. It was going to allow for openness and unencumbered communication. If two men did not trust each other and did not know why, my machine was going to show each how the other was really feeling, and allow them to come together in peace and tranquility. If a husband and wife were on the verge of divorce, my machine would show them how they truly felt, and guide them through the river of shadows and bring them to oneness. My machine was going to show people's true hearts.
I had no doubt that I would be nominated for a Nobel prize, and why not? I was going to do that which had eluded man for centuries. I was going to be known as the man that was able to bring peace to a troubled and corrupt world. Does this person desire peace and unity? Use my machine, and when you find out he does, praise him for it. Does that person really mean harm to those around him? Use my machine, and when it is proven so, provide him with the help he needs to become sound, calm and healthy. My machine could provide all of that, and a utopia would be the result.
But I was a fool. I was so blind that even when I was slapped in the face with the truth I barely felt the sting. You must understand that I repeatedly tested my machine, and it continued to work magnificently. But as I tested, a significant pattern was developing. With each test, whether on myself or another, the results were becoming more and more consistent, and they were unsettling. The machine worked as it should, and brought out in clear tone the specific inner thoughts of each individual on which it was used. The problem encountered was that those thoughts were not as peaceful and benign as I had expected. This was true with each person I tested, not only a few. In fact, everyone I tested showed results that were self-centered and closed minded, bordering on destructive and corrupt.
I was at a loss. My machine was supposed to show the good in man. It was supposed to show that deep down, past the layers of protection and masking that each individual wears, there would be a core of wholesomeness and tranquility. My machine was supposed to report back the desire for unity and peace that existed in all men, if buried under piles of self-preservation. But this was far from the case.
It soon came to pass that those I experimented on began to turn on me. To a man, each was excited at what my machine had to offer. But after it was used on them and they saw the unfortunate results, each decried it's methods, insisting that it was either malfunctioning or that I had somehow corrupted it. But neither was the case. The machine worked perfectly. It was the men who were corrupt, and they were being faced with facts they did not want to acknowledge.
My machine began to gain wide acclaim, though in a way I never wanted. The public soon learned of its abilities, and before long local and national government officials began coming to my door, insisting on speaking with me and observing the machine for themselves. I became fearful of what they wanted, and with good reason. For one day they took my machine, and indecently threatened me if I made any attempt to stop them.
I never saw the machine after that, and am certain it was destroyed. But I was not finished. I knew every inch of that machine, and in my heart knew it had to be rebuilt. I made it known to a close few that I would construct an identical machine, and I was going to use it to expose those that had tried to destroy my dream. That was a mistake.
It took mere hours for me to find not only local officials surrounding my home, but citizens, with the intent of destroying me. Fortunately, I saw this from a distance, as I had been tipped off. I was to be murdered, for in their eyes the knowledge I possessed about the machine was far too dangerous to be allowed to survive.
With great haste I drove far from my home, making my way west in hopes that I would find solace somewhere, perhaps with people who knew the importance of understanding their innermost thoughts. But it was not to be, as providence once again interceded. Night was falling, and as I traveled I came across a baby deer. I swerved to avoid killing it, in the process clipping a tree on the side of the road and slamming my car into the embankment. I suffered only minor bruises, and jumped out of my car, fearful that I was being followed. I ran into the hills, and came across this cave. I have been here a few hours, but I know that has been enough time for them to find me. The will find me. In their hearts they have to destroy me.
I have discovered too late that it is not the desire of man to have his innermost thoughts known. For when faced with the truth, man has no choice but to recoil in horror and admit that he is nothing of and by himself. I was a fool to think that anything but destruction would come of my machine. I am living - if only temporarily - proof of that.

As for me having stolen the idea for my machine, that is very true. Yes, my machine was the first mechanical device to deliver such an accurate and damning portrait of the innermost thoughts of man. But there has been something around as long as man that has done the same. For my idea is simply a steel manifestation of the tongue, that part of us that no matter how hard we try, will always betray our defenses and reveal our innermost thoughts. Tame it though we desire, our tongue speaks only that which we have stored up in our hearts. Those innermost thoughts, that for most of us we wish to seal away from the world, will always slip from our grasp, through the portal of our tongues, no matter how hard we may want to restrain. My machine was not original, and the hatred that was thrust upon me was the only possible outcome.
I am finished with my tale, and though I feel the trail of tears rolling down my cheeks, I am content. For I am comforted in the knowledge of what my machine revealed about myself. I am at peace, and I need to be now. For I hear footsteps, and the clanging of men's voices. They are drawing near. Closer comes their thirst for flesh, closer their rage. Still I sit, waiting as a lamb.

Call Me Chief

2012-03-17T12:40:00.001-07:00

With all due respect to the Apostle Paul, I must take a crown from his head and place it on my fully deserving scalp.
No, I am not one of the greatest spreaders of the Gospel.
No, I have not written the Word of God.
But I am the chief of sinners.
It's true, though many would scoff at such a self-diagnosis.
For I am the chief of sinners, at least now, in this place. For that which I have done with my hands and that which I have committed in my heart places me at the head of the list. It is with this knowledge that I unabashedly take spiritual residence with Paul.
This is not some strange need to self-deprecate for pity or the sake of understanding from the public. This is not some attempt to illustrate that I have so succumb to the perfumes of this world that I have no other course of action. Nor is this some weak and ill-fitting attempt to make confession for various immoral, illegitimate or even illegal acts that burden my soul. No, this is a statement of truth, and a statement of faith.
Paul claims in 1 Timothy 1:15 that this is a faithful saying and worthy of all acceptance: that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, of whom I am chief (KJV). Other translations replace chief with equally weighted monikers: foremost, first, worst.
More to the point, who is to argue with Paul? That question can be asked of anything he wrote, but especially in this arena. No doubt in his mind he felt the pressure of his sins being brought to bear as he reminisced about the persecution, hatred and destruction that he reigned down upon the deeply dedicated followers of Christ of his generation.
In his previous life, Paul had wrought terror and horror aimed at the Gospel of Jesus Christ and those that dare cloak themselves in its message. He cursed the very name of Jesus, hunted and imprisoned His followers, and ensured that they were treated like animals. He started his career of carnage by standing witness and holding the cloaks of those that hurled stones at the martyr Stephen, until the deluge claimed that man's life. Paul had seen and done enough to purchase him a top spot on God's enemies list.
As a memorial to that life, Paul declared that he had been, and was still, the chief of sinners. His understanding, belief and doctrine was that he had not shed that former skin completely, though it rested upon him impotent, no longer to condemn him for eternity. So now do I take up that title.
The question to be asked, then, is what are my qualifications? What references do I have that would vouch for me to wear the crown that Paul insisted he deserved? On the surface that list is seemingly thin. I have never murdered, nor watched gleefully as a murder takes place. I have never hunted another man, nor forced my will upon him in such a way that makes his life physically, emotionally or spiritually unbearable. I have stolen that which most would claim insignificant, and my lies and deceits are characterized by men as insignificant and petty.
The world has found no fault in my values. It took inventory of my moral portfolio, and made no case against me. I am considered righteous, at least by their standards. But take a peek underneath my guise. Take a look at the times I cursed God with my own tongue, and more importantly with my own heart. I felt no need for His intrusive gaze, the desire He had to beckon me from my poisonous slumber. I held Truth at bay, wanting to follow only the path I decreed. There was no welcome place for the Son of God to lay his head in my life. I locked all doors and kept my heart for myself.
Oh to be burdened with the vile truth that within the heart lies such amazing evil. It is stretched so far in the soul that man himself can hardly comprehend. We all will try to clean out the infection of sin from that vital area, only to find that our instruments are dirty and ineffective. The sin we claim to rid ourselves of is at best in remission, lying in wait to join it's newborn brethren at a time of our weakness. When left to ourselves, that time rarely lasts longer than the flap fly's wings.
Left alone I found that within my own heart lay adulterous intentions. I had affairs on everything I deemed important. With each sultry gaze towards the enticing, I widened the gap between me and the shore. The earthly moorings I attached my life too seemed sturdy from above the surface, but were rotted and teetering below. I was not going to be told that my ways were wrong, for I knew better, and could see that all else was folly. The only ways that were not putrid to me were my ways, and all else was ignored. Did I need to commit physically crimes? Hardly, nor would I. My heart had done enough on its own.
I even found fault in the righteous. That which was true, pure, lovely, admirable, and even praiseworthy I found worthless. I can't say I was wholly intentional. I hardly think I even knew what I was doing. But the steel rod of sin embedded in me that bent my will away from those things made it impossible for me to comprehend my condition. Truth was a din in my ears, purity a faint shadow. To that of the world which I found praiseworthy I gave my soul. It had no intention of giving anything back.
But if I say I was all of these things, does that still raise my stock to chief of sinners? Some would suggest that Paul was calling himself this from an unrepentant mindset, and for me to label myself as such now doesn't grasp Paul's reflective nature. I would disagree. For Paul knew what I know, what any man or woman who has studied their own heart and found it to be wanting knows. While within this current state of corruptible physicality, there is no way to completely shake the sewn in label of 'sinner'.
So here I stand, chief of sinners, alongside Paul in the Pantheon of Disgrace. I have no way to shake that label I now detest. But be fairly warned that this does not condemn me to a life of derision with a bitter end from which there is no escape. A glimmer of hope shines through as I squint, a hope that is crystal clear and unforgettable. For though the sinners label cannot be shaken, it can be dealt with severely and with extreme prejudice. For that which Paul found to be his hope I too can take hold. That is Grace, the one element in all of existence that allows the chief of sinners to be accepted.
Paul knew this Grace, and that is what made a heinous individual become one of God's greatest servants. Paul was a man like myself, detestable to the core, spitting on and destroying all that is worthy, who turned around and found Truth standing there to embrace and comfort him. God took hold of that chief of sinners, and did such a miraculous work in him as to make all else fade away. So He did the same with me. Knowing all that existed within my fallen form, there was still room for Grace to settle, take root, and blossom. It happened within my ravaged heart, and so it did with Paul. Paul was renewed, and though for a time afterwards he still felt the stain of sin, that feeling was not forever.. Paul slipped past the bonds of earth in an eternal blink, and on the other side finally found the fullness and glory in all that he once despised.
The chief of sinners is here before you, relating his story as Paul once did. I am certain I am worthy of that title, and hardly doubt I am the only one. For who among us finds that we are not brothers and sisters in this unwanted rank. All of us have tasted the rot of sin in our mouths, fixed on it with our eyes and gripped it with our hearts. Who hasn't known the futility that lies therein, and questioned if there was something worthy to reach down and save us from ourselves. Indeed, are we not all the chief of sinners?
I insist that we all are. Proof of this demands that we look no further than the work of our Savior. For we know that He would have still come to live, die and rise again if for only an individual. That individual would have been you. It would have been me. It would have been Paul. Absolutely, it would have been for the chief of sinners.

Hotel Truth

2012-03-10T18:17:00.000-08:00

The hotel rose high into the clouds and was the most glamorous in the city.
Marbled floors with intricate patterns beckoned me. Crystal chandeliers shone brightly as they floated high above. Oak furniture lined the lobby and at the end was an enormous stone fireplace. Opulence didn't begin to describe that which I surveyed.
I normally would never be able to stay at such a place. But I was here because I was the winner of a contest I never remembered entering. My suspicion was high, and I hardly expected to be let in, believing the contest to have been a fraud. But it wasn't too far from home, and I wasn't going to pass up the hope of staying in such an establishment.
I approached the concierge. "Smith," I said putting down my bag. "Room for one."
The attendant smiled and without lifting a finger towards his keyboard welcomed me heartily. "Mr. Smith, of course, we have been expecting you. Your stay is for one night."
"That's what I heard," I responded coyly. "Everything is set?"
"Yes sir, already reserved and paid for. You are a lucky one. People usually have to wait six months for their stay."
The concierge directed me to my accommodations, and I reflected on his observation. I was notified the week before, so indeed I came on short notice. But with my doubts dispelled, I thanked him and turned towards the elevator. I bent down to pick up my bag and pivoted, just in time to run head first into a burly elderly man. I looked up to see a shocked face staring back at me, the man clad in a pinstripe suit, made of a material with which I was unfamiliar. The man had an unmistakable aura of invincibility.
"I am so sorry," I stammered.
The elderly man just smiled at me. "It is perfectly ok, son. It happens more often than you think."
"Mr. Franks, sir!" the concierge shouted, bursting from behind his desk. "Are you ok?"
"I'm fine," the Mr. Franks chuckled. As I stared at the man and heard his name, my eyes widened.
"You're the owner," I said shakily. Mr. Franks nodded his head and offered me his hand. I shook it vigorously. "It is a pleasure to meet you."
The truth was that meeting Mr. Franks was as unexpected as winning the contest, for Mr. Franks was famous for rarely being seen. He was well known as a philanthropist and deeply involved in the well being of the community. But to meet him face to face was a very rare treat.
The concierge attended to Mr. Franks and the two exchanged several sentences. I could feel the concierge's eyes ushering me away, suggesting that I should not be gawking. I grabbed my bag and slowly made my way to the elevator, staring back at the two the entire way.
I replayed the incident in my mind all the way to my room. When I finally arrived, I slipped my key in the door and pushed it open, nearly falling into the room. My eyes were filled with the majesty of what surrounded me. Words could not describe the magnificence of my accommodations for the evening, and the sheer size alone was larger the most apartments. I gloried that I was privileged to such an experience as I walked towards the window that consumed most of the wall space.
The view that greeted me was unparalleled. I could see far and wide the city below as people and vehicles traversed the painted streets. The buildings burst skyward before me, and the clouds above didn't seem nearly as far as they had when I entered. I felt like I could reach out and grab one.
I was in awe as I took my bag to the bedroom and dumped out its contents. I began to shuffle through my things, placing close by that which I needed most. When I was finished I felt discouraged, for I realized I had forgotten some of my basic toiletries. I looked around for the phone and called the front desk.
A man answered and I told him my request. "Yes sir," he replied. "I will send those up right away." Satisfied, I put down the phone and went to sit on the bed. But before I hit the mattress I heard a knock at my door. I headed over, unsure of who could be knocking.
I looked through the peephole and saw a hand holding up a toothbrush. How they had gotten there so fast confused me, but I flung open the door. Before me stood Mr. Franks, with his suit jacket off, offering me what I had request.
"Mr. Franks," I let out. "I...I didn't expect you."
He smiled at me. "This is what you requested?"
"Yes sir, thank you!" I took the toiletries as he walked away, and I closed the door shocked that I was being waited on by the building's owner. I put down the toiletries and headed to the kitchen.
I was hungry, and thought the kitchen might have been stocked. But it was not, so once again I headed to the phone to order room service. I knew exactly what I desired, and called it in. The voice on the other end assured me it was on its way, and I anticipated a wait for my meal.
But again I heard an immediate knock at the door, and rushed over to see if once again my order had come unbelievably fast. I threw open the door, finding once again Mr. Franks behind a cart laden with dishes and plates filled with my order. This time his fine shirt and suit pants had been exchanged for slacks and a colorful top.
I was awed with silence as Mr. Franks began to push the cart into my room. I jumped aside as he placed the cart near the table, and turned to leave. "Do I owe you anything?" I inquired.
"It's taken care of." Mr. Franks replied, his normal smile fading as he closed the door behind him.
I didn't know what to think, so I went on with my day. I finished my meal, took a shower and got comfortable for the evening. It was my desire to stay and enjoy all the hotel had to offer.
I sat on the couch and attempted to turn the television on. I tried and tried, but to my dismay it was not working. I checked the outlet, knew how to operate the remote, but it appeared to be a defective piece of equipment. I wanted to watch a movie, but was hesitant to call for more help, considering what had already happened. But I gave in to my desire, and called maintenance. I explained the problem and hung up the phone, but instead of settling in I headed for the door. I knew what to expect.
Without fail, there was an immediate knock at my door. Once again it was Mr. Franks, dressed in a once piece jump suit, with a toolbox in hand. I opened the door to find his smile gone, replaced with a look of concern. He said nothing to me, entered the room and proceeded towards the television.
I wanted to say something to this elderly gentleman, but either from fear or confusion I was held back. Several minutes passed and I paced the room, a mixture of anxiety and desire for him to be done settling in my stomach. Finally I heard the click of the television and voices from the box. I readied myself to thank Mr. Franks, but he simply left without a glance, shaking his head as he exited.
Unsure of what to make of his apparent disagreeable nature, I settled myself into the couch. I began to flip through the channels to see what I might enjoy. But as I sat there, the thought of Mr. Franks surly demeanor refused to leave my mind. I began to dwell on his countenance, becoming more and more angry at what I saw as a personal slight. Sure, he was the owner of this gorgeous hotel. He had certainly helped me with several problems already this day. But if he was going to offer to fix the issues with my stay, then there was no reason that he should treat me with any manner of disrespect.
I slammed the remote on the couch and rose to my feet. I stormed out of my room, seething at the thought of what Mr. Franks' silence meant. I made my way back to the concierge and demanded to see the manager. A young man approached me and I was ready to unload.
"Is everything alright, sir?" The young man asked.
"It most certainly is not!" I exclaimed. "I want to know how it is that this place gets away with treating it's guests in such a demeaning manner!" The man stood silently before me. "Don't you even want to know what disgrace I am referring to?"
The young man looked me square in the eyes. "Sir, I assure you, I know why you are here. But let me ask you a question first. Were all of your needs met in a timely and satisfactory manner?"
I tried to consider how I could answer in the negative, but there was no way. "Well, yes."
"And who was it that solved your issues?"
"Mr. Franks, the owner," I replied.
"Of course," the young man said knowingly. "Do you believe in God?"
I was aghast at the question. "I'm not sure how that's any of your business, nor how it is relevant to this situation!"
"That's ok," he replied calmly. "I already know the answer. For you see, Mr. Franks as you know is the owner of this establishment. But he is much more than that."
"More?"
"Yes," he continued. "Not only is he the owner, but he actually built this place with his own two hands."
"Impossible!" I replied.
"Quite possible, actually." The young man paused. "Mr. Franks owned this land far before you or I was around. He built this building, brick by brick. He laid the tile, affixed the chandeliers and painted the walls. He hung the art and even plumbed each room. Mr. Franks did all of that, and yet even when you needed something, he was there. He was ready and answered, and when you continued to need things, no matter how trivial, no matter how given only to your desires, he was there. And as it continued, you began to see him for nothing more than an errand boy. You treated the owner and builder of this most magnificent tower as your personal bellhop."
"Well," I stammered, "he kept coming. Wheat else was I to do?"
"You didn't give him the respect he deserved for who he was. I suspect that's how you treat God."
"How dare you!" I shouted. "You don't know me at all!"
"Don't I?" the young man replied. "Consider for yourself how you see God."
The young man just stared at me, and for all the fight I wanted to give I was overwhelmed with the knowledge that he was right. I treated God as I had Mr. Franks, as my personal bellhop to answer my needs at any given moment, and when He didn't I became enraged. If I could treat my God this way, it was no wonder I could treat Mr. Franks, or anybody, with the same disrespect.
"I need to speak to Mr. Franks." I said sheepishly. "I have been a fool. I need to apologize."
The young man shook his head. "No, that isn't necessary. He already knows. Besides," he said, looking down, "it appears that your stay is over."
"Over?" I asked. But I'm supposed to stay the night."
"I think you've seen enough," the young man said as he smiled at me. "Your bag is already packed and waiting outside for you. We didn't forget a thing."
I was in awe. My heart was heavy with my treacherous nature, but filled with hope that I could change my actions. "What kind of place is this?"
The young man walked from behind the counter, took me gently by the arm, and led me to the door. When we got there he stopped, opened the door, and smiled.
"A place where truth happens."

What Do You Hate?

2012-03-04T14:37:00.000-08:00

What do you hate?
Or perhaps less pointedly, what do you love?
Because they are different sides of the same coin.
So, seriously, what do you hate?
Because everybody in the world loves something. And everybody in the world hates something. Every single person
As a Christian, you may have a guttural reaction to this assessment. You may be screaming to yourself How dare someone make such a jarring and wholly indefensible accusation? Who is this to suggest that I would ever hate anything? In fact, by now you may have stopped reading, insisting that my assumptions are too foul. If you are not a Christian, you may be equally as appalled, feeling in your heart that even though you do not agree with my faith you are loathe to hate anything, considering yourself able to tolerate and coexist with a multitude of different ideologies, none of which you would stoop so low as to hate. To suggest otherwise simply spits in the face of your self-identified amicability.
To be consistent with Truth, it is extremely important to recognize that there is nothing in creation that is worthy of our hate. There is no man, woman or child, no beast of the field nor creature of the sea, no mountain or valley so vile as to necessitate a poisonous hatred from within our souls. There is nothing we can see with our eyes, touch with our hands, hear with our ears, smell with our noses or taste with our mouths that should push us that far.
But hate does exist. We all have experienced it, both internally and externally. It wasn't always meant to be this way. There was a time in human history when hate was not a consideration. But I will hold off on that for a bit. I submit that today in truth we all love something, while at the same time we equally hate something else, even if we don't admit it. In some cases, we can be loud and proud with our loves and hates, shouting them from the proverbial highest rooftops in the way we live and interact with the world around us. When it comes to that which we despise, we may be bold and bombastic in insisting that there are certain things in this world that we simply cannot stand, and more to the point we carve out special places in our hearts with which we can loathe, despise and detest.
Or in some cases, we carry our hatreds most secretly. To the outside world we may seem at peace and in unity with all that is around us. We feel as though we are in balance and nothing would cause us to crouch and dig into that most basic instinct. We insist that we hate nothing, and who is to argue? But deep inside, in places of our soul that we rarely identify or acknowledge, we keep the tiniest of rooms. We hold those thoughts in the dark places we neither admit nor show, but that we clutch like a fragile egg. We plant them and cultivate them, giving them just enough nourishment to grow into full blown hatred. But we will never let them out, at least not in our public lives. There they will stay, hidden from view, invisible to the world around us.
Make no mistake, there are many things that are socially acceptable to hate. War, poverty, and disease are a few of the earthly perils that most would say it is agreeable, if not desirable, with which to direct our sneers.
But then there are those things that are not worthy of hate, yet hate is manifested towards them every day. Surface differences between us and other people, be it skin color, gender or ability. Habitual differences, such as that which exists between the smoker and non-smoker, the vegetarian and the meat eater. And faith differences, a hatred that has manifested itself throughout the centuries.
And to the Christian, he or she is commanded to love. Love one another, love the Lord your God, and love His creation. But be assured, whether Christian or not, there is something of which we should direct that most heinous of feelings. Something very specific, and something most certainly not intended in the beginning.
Which brings us to the crux of the love/hate argument. For the litany of things that could be loathed in the world, it all really comes down to a choice of two entities. You see, we are all going to love and hate something. That much is absolute, and in this world that will never change. The truth is there are only two facets worthy of such devoted feelings.
What are they? It's quite simple, really, if you take even a cursory look around. The first is the system of the world. It is that which everything on this present plane, hovered over and prowled on by the very Prince that dominates the Air, is pushed and pulled. It is that which we should not want, but that which towards we are all too often drawn. You may know it by its common name. It is sin.
Remember the notion that there was a time in human history when hatred was not a consideration. That time existed, though it was comparatively ever so short. It held reign on this world up until the moment that one foolish individual turned his back on Truth and decided that the incorruptible should become corruptible. It was that man's choice - that Adam's choice - that brought us the stinging and putrid reality of sin.
Sin is that which has corrupted, has destroyed, has blemished all that this world once was and could have been. It is the decaying mark that has brought us all those horrors as previously mentioned in the form of war, disease and poverty. It populates this place with its very nature, and infiltrates each and every human from the moment of conception. It is a pox that will not leave this planet through any power that we as men and women inherently possess.
You see it every day. You see it's grasp stretch from sunrise to sunset, to the edge of the horizon and even to the places on the map that have yet to be filled in. You see it in the smallest of inequities. You see it in the horrors of war and destruction. You see it in deaf jealousy and wordless greed. You see it in the death of the living.
It is sin that is to be hated, and hated furiously. Love is commanded in all things, except when it comes to sin, as written in Romans 12:9: We are called to practice love in all things except when it comes to sin. Sin we are to despise and hate, and in doing so we are to turn to what is good and cling to it.
This is not a command against any single man or creation upon this planet. Instead, with all those that we come across, we are to show love in a way that is unmistakable and right. We need to know, and show, that the order of things in this current age, as watched over by the ever present eye of sin, is one that cannot earn our love. Though we know that one day it shall be abolished, that day has not yet come. Until that time, we are to know this enemy. We are to identify this enemy. We are to hate this enemy.
But we need to be ever vigilant not to lose our hatred of sin. For if we lose that, there will be an inevitable need to fill the void. There is a need in all man to love something, and in turn hate something else. The question then is, if we lose our passion against sin, what will we direct that passion towards?
The answer simply enough is Jesus. For if sin is that which is worthy of our hate, then there must be something of equal or greater measure to thrust that hatred upon should we embrace sin. For the antithesis of sin is Jesus, and it is He who is then to be hated.
Does this hurt certain sensibilities of today? Does one really have to hate Jesus if they do not hate sin? Jesus answered this question in Matthew 6:24: No one can serve two masters. Either you will hate the one and love the other, or you will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and money.
Perhaps you are different. Perhaps you feel you possess the ability to have no negative feelings about sin while still loving God. Or be apathetic towards God while dabbling in a playfully sinful nature. This is a fool's playground. It is a paradoxical impossibility. For as God has shown, He hates sin. And his Word repeatedly demands a complete rejection of the sinful order of this current world. In choosing not to completely reject that sin, one is inherently rejecting the commands of God. It can't be avoided.
The concept of hating Jesus may seem all too distasteful. You may not agree with all that Jesus said. You may not even agree that with Him when He said He was God. But hate is such a strong word, and you wouldn't go so far as to say your relationship with Jesus has reached the hate point. Unfortunately, if this is even a consideration, then your current stance towards sin is love. Which leaves only one option for your current stance towards Jesus.
So should you choose to direct you hatred away from sin and towards Jesus, perilous though it may be, you certainly wouldn't be the first. If you choose to fully reject sin and the order of this world, then you should prepare to be hated. For Jesus enumerated both in John 15: 18-19, referring to the sin order with the word "world": If the world hates you, keep in mind that it hated me first. If you belonged to the world, it would love you as its own. As it is, you do not belong to the world, but I have chosen you out of the world. That is why the world hates you.
Joshua said it best when addressing Israel at Shechem for a renewal of the covenant in Joshua 24:15: But if serving the LORD seems undesirable to you, then choose for yourselves this day whom you will serve, whether the gods your ancestors served beyond the Euphrates, or the gods of the Amorites, in whose land you are living. But as for me and my household, we will serve the LORD.
So the choice is simple. Choose today whom you will serve. Whom you will love. Whom you will hate.

Do You See What I See?

2012-02-26T17:59:00.000-08:00

My wife and I had been shopping endlessly for a home church since our move. We attended large churches and small churches, flamboyant churches and reserved churches, seeker sensitive churches and hearty meat churches. But for all of our toil, all of our searching, it seemed that we could never find the one that was home. Every time we thought a church might be a possibility, God always led us away.
It was for that reason we came here this Sunday. There was nothing overtly special about it on the outside. It was a normal looking church with normal looking people. As we took our seats near the back of the church, we wondered what was in store. Would we be eagerly greeted and accepted? Would we feel at home? Or would it once again end with the feeling of dissatisfaction?
My wife and I spent the next hour and a half taking in what this church had to offer. As the blessing was spoken by a deacon, I felt troubled that he seemed unsure of what to say and paused over several words while offering up his praise. As soon as he finished, the worship team took the stage and began to fill the air with what I felt was a poor offering. Their musicians were noticeably off-key, and the look of the singers was drab. But I cringed the most when I heard the noise that came forth. I suffered through a laundry list of classics that I knew was in no way worthy of the King of Kings. I only shuttered to think of what God himself felt after such a display.
But the best was yet to come. As the well dressed pastor took the pulpit, his appearance gave me hope. I was soon let down at the realization that his delivery did not match his look. His message was fine to be sure, in fact one of the best I had heard. It was biblically based, on target, and without reproach as to the truth. It fed a long time believer such as myself while encouraging those new to or just outside the faith. It was a masterpiece. But the pastor himself fell short. As his sermon went on, I found myself noting imperfections in his look. Slight wrinkles in his pants and shirt caught my eyes. The fact that his tie was a shade to light for the shirt he was wearing distracted me. And his speech was the worst of all. He had a distinct stuttering problem, and when that wasn't acting up he would speak to slowly for my taste. In all it was a disaster.
As the service moved forward, I would steal glances at my wife. She would look back at me, concern in her eyes, but with perseverance to see the service through. When it was mercifully over, I quickly gathered my belongings and stood up. But before I could make my way out of the church I was overwhelmed by greeters and well wishers. Members from across the aisles made their way to our seats to see who we were and if we enjoyed our time. I tried to speak to my wife about the need to leave quickly and never return, but before I could she was trapped by a question.
"Do you think you might come back?" an elderly lady asked my wife directly.
"Yes, of course," my wife blurted out without thinking. I glared at her with shock as we finished the round of pleasantries.
My wife and I headed to our car, and I plopped myself in the driver's seat. Before starting the car, I looked over at her. "I really hate that you had to lie to that old lady."
My wife turned to me. "It wasn't a lie. We should come back next week."
"Really," I said annoyed. "Were you not in the same service I was? It was a mess. An unmitigated disaster."
My wife began to nod her head in agreement. "I know, I know, it isn't what we might have liked. But we need to give it another chance. Didn't you hear the message? Didn't it speak to you?"
"I heard the message," I replied. "And I guess, yes, it was good. It was just the messenger I couldn't get past."
My wife just shook her head and we drove off. We didn't speak about it again until the next Sunday, and my wife insisted on going back to that church. I acquiesced, as I had no better ideas, and forced myself into the car.
We arrived and were again greeted warmly as we took our seats. I braced myself as the welcoming prayer began, and was not disappointed. The same problems existed that week that existed before, and I held my eyes tight in prayer that my suffering would not be long. I refused to look at my wife, as I blamed her for making us go through this again. I focused only on the singers and the preacher until it was almost over. Finally, I turned to my wife to give her one of my disapproving stares. I was disturbed by what I saw.
"When did you start wearing glasses?" I asked her. She simply smiled at me and put her finger to her mouth, indicating a need for silence until the service was officially over. When it was, I stood up to flee from this place, but this time the pastor came down to greet us. My wife politely rose to shake his hand, taking off her glasses and putting them in her purse. I shook his hand and let out a barely audible grunt, as I wanted nothing more to do with this church. As soon as I could I ushered my wife out of the sanctuary and towards our car.
"Now can we never come back?" I pleaded.
"Never come back?" she retorted indignantly. "Didn't you hear the message?"
"Yes, yes," I whined. "It was another wonderful sermon. But come on. I mean, does that make up for everything else?"
"Is there anything more important?" she asked me. "Besides, things were better this time.
I wondered how she could say that. Was she even paying attention? If anything, the service had devolved from the previous week. This time one of the soloists forgot an entire verse. She simply hummed along with the melody. We would come back. This was certainly going to be the last time I ever set foot in that building.
But my insistence held little sway. My wife insisted on going back, and more than once. Each time she gave the caveat that we would only try it "one more time". But each "one more time" seemed to strengthen her resolve. In fact, she was becoming rather involved in this church, and making quite a few friends. Meanwhile, I searched and searched to find another church that might tempt her away from this train wreck.
A month and a half passed since our first visit, and I was at the end of my wits. Each time I had to force myself to go, dragging my carcass out of my bed and to the church, painfully experiencing every moment with excruciating detail, but in the end always having to admit to my wife that the sermon was top notch. I was trapped, and as I did this for the seventh time I was through. I barked and complained at my wife the entire way to church, grumbling about how I could not take another week of off-key singing, out of harmony musicians and a stuttering preacher. We didn't speak a word to each other after exiting the car, and left a space in between ourselves when we sat down. There was a frigidness that existed between us, and it was going to take a miracle to unthaw.
The service started and I winced. I closed my eyes for the prayer and shook my head. Moments later, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to my right to see my wife poking me with her glasses.
"Put these on," she whispered.
"I don't need your glasses," I shot back and put my head back down. I soon felt the poking again, this time more painfully.
"Put them on!" she demanded.
"Fine," I said defiantly, yanking them from her hand. I scowled at her and mockingly put them on. "You happy?"
My wife nodded at me and smiled. But that made me even more furious. Not only were we in this place, but now I looked like an idiot wearing my wife's reading glasses. Pride welled up inside of me and I grew impatient. I was about to get up and walk out of the sanctuary. That's when the worship team stood up to sing.
I can't say that I hadn't heard such a beautiful sound before, but it was hard to recall a such a time. The voices that poured forth were no less than heavenly, and the music that accompanied hit every note with perfection. I soon became engrossed with what I heard, finding myself nearly brought to tears. As the music ended and the pastor stepped forward, I found myself locking in on his gate. For the first time I failed to find any imperfections in his dress. When he spoke it was like hearing the very voice of Jesus bellowing forth and bestowing heavenly knowledge. I was in shock and wonder that these people had made such a turnaround in such a short amount of time. I looked over at my wife with amazement, and she smiled and redirected my attention to the stage. I anxiously waited for the service to be over so I could ask the pastor what had happened.
As the service ended, I quickly took the glasses off, handed them to my wife and rushed to greet the pastor. He grasped my hand and smiled, and I blurted out the first thing in mind.
"How in the world did you do it?" I said excitedly, with no real reference to what I was talking about. The pastor looked at me with confusion. I felt my wife grab my hand from behind, and the preacher turned his attention to her.
"Good morning," he said.
"Good morning, pastor," my wife replied, then turned her attention to me. "Honey, we have to go."
I was still in a stupor, and found my mind racing as to the possibilities of the grand turnaround. But my wife led me out, all the while saying hello to her friends throughout the sanctuary. A smile was plastered on my face, one that did not soon fade. We found our way to the car, but before we got in I confronted my wife.
"You know something, don't you."
"I don't know what you mean," she said coyly.
"You know something," I insisted. "How in the world do you explain that," I said, pointing back at the church. "They were never this good before."
"Weren't they?" she retorted, waiting for me to respond. But I just stared back at her. "Fine," she said. "Those glasses I made you wear. They are special. You finally got to see everyone with God's eyes."
"God's eyes?" I asked. "What do you mean God's eyes?"
"When we first came here, I thought everything was as bad as you did. But I prayed about it, and God gave me the vision to see them as He sees them. Don't ask me how, but it came through those glasses."
"What are you talking about?" I asked. "God is sees everything perfectly. And he sees them for all their deficits."
"Yes, God sees their deficits. But when you look through His eyes, you see much more than that. You see the beauty, wisdom and potential in others. You see them as He meant them to be, not as the world sees them. To Him they are masterpieces, where to us they may seem like torn canvas. You have now seen them as God sees them, and you know how they really are. Your eyes have been fixed."
I pondered for a moment. "As God sees them," I muttered. "Of course. I looked for perfection in the imperfect. I should have been looking for perfection in Him." I paused for a moment. "But what about the glasses? We have only one pair. Who gets them?"
My wife smiled. "I don't think either of us needs the glasses any longer. God has done permanent work to our sight."

That Saved A Wretch Like Me

2012-02-18T19:11:00.002-08:00

It was the same spiritual classic we had sung a myriad of times. I belted out the last few words as it's familiar chords reverberated in my brain. I loved God, and church was almost always a pleasure. But for some reason, on this particular Sunday in this particular church, I actually listened to the words I was singing. Certainly I had seen them in print before, but I had never actually heard them. That was not the case today.
The song ended not to long after noon and our congregation was dismissed as it had been each preceding Sunday. I gathered my belongings and made my way towards the door, greeting many familiar faces on the way and wishing them a good day. Yet as I journeyed, I felt a resentment welling up inside of me. I did not know from where this came, for normally I left this place feeling revived and full for the week ahead. But not this day.
I hopped in my car and made my way home. Throughout the journey, I tried to squelch the feeling of resentment and insult with which I had been struggling. I thought of upcoming activities, of duties I had to perform, and even of the splendor of the spring season that was soon upon us. But nothing I did made that uneasy feeling submit. I was being poked by it, at first ever so subtly, but soon with a certain pointedness that demanded attention.
I arrived home and went about my business. I changed out of my Sunday attire and into clothes that were much more comfortable and allowed my form to flow freely. I prepared myself a sandwich, all the while having my ire raised over that which I could still not grasp. I sat down for lunch and raised my sandwich to my mouth, at which point I could no longer take the prodding.
"Fine," I muttered to myself as I slammed the sandwich back onto the plate. I was finished trying to push it aside, and knew what I had to confront. It was that song, that infernal song at the end of the service. From the moment the final note died until now, I had been choked with the feeling that those words were directed at me. It felt as though they were being used to repeatedly slap me in the face. They were the source of my indignation.
I stood up and walked intentionally towards my bookshelf. I scanned the books lined there until I found the one that held my tormenter. I yanked it from its perch and threw it down on the table. It had been some time since I touched this particular book, as the word "Hymnal" on the cover was shrouded in a layer of dust. Ignoring the obvious need to wipe it, I flung open the book and searched out that particular song.
Moments later I found my target. In typical hymnal script, bordered by musical chords that nobody but the actual musicians needed to see, were the words to that ancient rhyme "Amazing Grace". Those words that for some reason had so bothered me in service earlier were now staring me in the face, mocking and taunting me to take them in again.
I sat back down and began to read. As I went along, I became more and more enraged. I now knew why it was that I had this feeling deep inside of me. It was those words. They prodded at me, insulted me, and mocked me all the while knowing nothing about me.
"I know how to fix this," I said as I scanned the room. Finding what I was looking for, I snatched up a pencil and brought it to the page. "There need to be some changes here."
I started with the first stanza: Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me, I once was lost, but now am found, was blind, but now I see.
I started scribbling in the book. Grace cannot make a sound, I thought. How silly is that. And as for being lost, I might have been, but I found my way, I was not found. And I hardly ever remember being blind, but maybe that's a bit too literal for me. But I know for sure the guy who wrote this wasn't blind.
I continued to the second stanza: 'Twas Grace that taught my heart to fear, and Grace my fears relieved, How precious did that Grace appear, the hour I first believed.
I debated in my head again. Now this is getting ridiculous. Grace is going to make me fear and then take it away? That doesn't even make sense. And I doubt that I am going to see something so paradoxical as precious when I first believe. If anything I would flee from it.
I stopped after the third stanza: Through many dangers, toils and snares, I have already come, 'Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far, and Grace will lead me home.
Well, I do agree that I have been through a lot, I thought. But I had to make it through a ton of that myself. Grace might lead me now, but it hardly has been there every time.
I scribbled and scribbled, crossing out certain words, underlining others, and circling still more. I engraved the paper with my thoughts, and when I was done I looked at my handiwork. There was a milieu of changes to that song that I had made, and I sat back, still unsatisfied.
That's when my eyes fixated on one word. On that word. The word that in my belly I knew was the crux of my pain. Wretch. I stared at it and it stared right back. It refused to relent, and insisted that it was right. But I knew better.
I was appalled. How dare they make us sing this in church? Are we all to acquiesce to the name calling that is in this simple song? Perhaps the author thought he was a wretch, and maybe everyone in my church considers themselves as such. For all I knew everyone who had ever sung this song looked at themselves in this light. But not me. I was many things, but I was not a wretch.
A wretch is an awful person. A miserable being. Contemptible. Hollow. Despicable. Enslaved to that which would corrupt the most wholesome soul. I would not call anyone this epithet, nor would I allow myself to be called the same. That was the point of my contention. That was the word I had finally heard after all those years of singing that song that brought my stomach into knots and unleashed a fury inside of me with which I was unfamiliar. If I was to be called such a thing from a centuries old jingle, then I was going to defend myself. I was going to defend myself with extreme prejudice.
I circled that word over and over again, digging deeper into the paper as I went. I began to think about the type of person that would call himself a wretch in a song, a song that unintentionally became one of the most famous in the Christian faith. What kind of person would insist himself such a monstrosity, then give all the credit for his change to the faceless duality of Grace?
I grabbed for my laptop and punched in the name of the author emblazoned under the song title. "John Newton," I whispered as I typed. As I read the entries on him, I found that this was most certainly not the guy who had an apple fall on his head.
As I perused the biographical data on this man I found that indeed he had times in his life where he could be considered an ultimately contemptible individual. He was engrossed in profanity, gambling, drinking, and most egregiously the slave trade.
But as I read further I found the seed of his conversion. In the middle of the night while on board a merchant ship off the coast of Ireland in the late 18th century, John Newton awoke to a horrific storm that ripped a hole open in the side of the ship. Water began to furiously pour in, and Newton was beside himself with fear. He was so overcome that he cried out to God to save him and the ship. Soon after, in what seemed to Newton to be a miracle, cargo within the ship found its way towards the hole and stuck there, plugging the gouge and allowing the ship to limp back to Britain. Newton attributed this to God - to Grace - and began earnestly studying and seeking the same.
"Luck," I blurted out as I closed the laptop. This Newton had based his entire conversion on a series of coincidental events. I was happy for him that he had come to God, but I realized this whole song, including the overuse of Grace and insistence on his own vileness, was based on a lucky break.
I finally took my pencil and drew a giant X through that contemptible word. I was going to have to find a replacement for it at a later time. It was imperative that I get my revisions to the pastor. If we were ever going to sing this song again, I was going to be heard on why it needed to be changed.
I stood up and walked to my office, searching out the pastor's email address. For the sake of the knot in my stomach, this could not wait any longer. I fumbled through some papers and notebooks, looking for that slip of paper where it was written. Finally I came across the church directory, and realized that I could find it in there. Relieved, I flipped open the book. But what I found was more than I could have expected.
On the inside cover, staring me back in the face, was a picture. It was a picture I had not seen in a long time, and how it got inside my church directory I do not know. The subject of the picture I knew well, and what it specifically captured is not important. Looking at it brought me great joy. But it also brought great pain. It was the epitome of paradoxical, showing me a time in my life of contentment and happiness but also reminding me of sorrow and pain.
But the picture was much more than a single remembrance. For as I gazed at it, my mind went wild. Within me was triggered a rush of memories, all seemingly insignificant or coincidental to the passing eye, but so much more than that. For in those memories, in those little things of life and major changes and adjustments, I saw a work there. In those things that guide us and make our path, I saw the Master's hand cultivating the road in front of me, even though many times I found myself in the midst of hardships, of toils, and of snares. As the film in my mind played, I saw that moment when I knew the power of God and trembled at the thought of how I was but an insignificant microbe to be squashed by His powerful hand, only to then realize that it was the same hand that would carry and comfort me the rest of my days. I saw in those moments of life how blind and lost I was, and how it was through the miracle of miracles that I had been found and made whole to see. And as the memories began to fade, I finally recognized that one day, happily, mercifully, this wretch would be led home.
Grace had made it's point. It was never my will that got me through the difficulties of life. It was His. I dropped the directory, and made my way back to the table. I sat down, pulled in the chair, and lifted my pencil once again. But this time I flipped it around, and brought the power of the eraser to bear on the page. Slowly I erased each blemish I had made, drinking in the unfettered words that now smiled at me across time. The knot in my stomach and the choke of anger were gone.
"This is just fine," I said to nobody in particular.

Oh Where, Oh Where Has My Little Dog Gone?

2012-02-12T05:39:00.000-08:00

I assure you that it was the most glorious day you had seen! With nothing in particular that needed to be done this day, I decided to take my four year old spaniel out for a walk. It wasn't the most pleasurable of chores that I had, but on this day it felt like less of a burden.
So I hitched the collar around my dog's neck, latched up the leash and out we headed. We strolled from our home to the main street where cars whizzed by left and right as people passed us lost in their thoughts of the day. I watched as my spaniel scampered here and there, sniffing each tree and post with reckless abandon. I became concerned as he attacked each station with flared nostrils, sucking in the odors that lay in wait and exhaling the same pleasing fragrances, his brain twitching and twirling with instinctual instructions. Though nobody seemed to care, I put my head down and shook it, sure that everyone was aghast at the ferocity at which my dog greeted each vertical object.
"You are embarrassing me," I murmured as I covered my eyes and the dog pulled me forward. Before I had a chance to look up, I felt myself slam into what seemed like a brick wall. I stumbled backwards and fell to the sidewalk, letting go of the leash and instantly fearing that my dog would become crushed amid the racing cars of the street. I opened my eyes only to find his snout pushed in my face, tongue at the ready to lick off my shame.
"Are you ok?" I heard a burly voice ask kindly. A behemoth of a man stared down at me and offered me his hand. "You must watch where you are going. God knows I've learned that lesson many times."
I fumbled for my dog's leash then reached out and grabbed the man's hand. "I am so sorry," I said as he helped me to my feet. "And thank you." I paused for a moment to make sure I was in one piece. I brought my dog in close to me to ensure he was not a nuisance to this stranger. "Of course God knows I have to learn that same lesson, and hopefully He does not have to teach me too many times. He has shown me the error of my ways before!"
The man looked quizzically at me. "Oh," he said, looking me up and down. "When I said 'God knows', it was really just a figure of speech. I didn't mean God literally knows. That would be foolish."
"Foolish?" I questioned. "I hardly think that. God knows everything, so why is it foolish to think he wouldn't know that you need to watch where you are going?"
The man waited a few moments before answering. "I see," he stated condemningly. "You are one of those."
"One of what?" I asked.
"One of those that believe that there is actually a God and he sees everything you do and actually cares about any of it."
"And you don't?" I asked
"Seriously?" he said as he stared back. "Of course not. It's not that I mind if you believe those things, it's just that I have gotten beyond that kind of thinking. I simply don't believe that God sees and knows everything. In fact, I don't believe in God at all."
I felt my jaw drop and the tight reign I had on the leash loosen. My dog leapt towards the man and jumped on him, his paws reaching just above the man's thigh. My dog was trying to lick him, and it took me a few seconds to recognize what had happened. I reeled my dog back in and calmed him down. I then looked back at the man.
"You can do that?" I asked. "I mean, simply not believe in God?" People were passing us left and right, but I was fixated on the man's face.
"Sure," he said, smiling at me.
"And it works?"
"It has so far," he said chuckling. "And I have no reason to doubt that it won't continue to be true for me."
I stood gazing at the man, dumbstruck by the definitive way he lived his faith. He continued to smile at me, then patted me on the shoulder and walked away. I turned around and watched him grow distant, seemingly as content as any man I had ever encountered.
I finished walking my dog and headed home. All the while, I was transfixed on the fact that the man seemed to be so at ease dismissing God. He went so far as to make God non-existent, something I had never even dreamed. I arrived home and walked inside, letting my dog run free as I fell into the couch.
I started to rationalize. If that man so easily dismissed God and was able to live happily, then would it be just as easy for me? In fact, was God something I had simply decided to make up in order to bring everything into easier understanding and focus? And if that was the case, could I just as easily stop believing in Him, and He would no longer exist? It had seemed to work for that man. Maybe he was on to something.
My mind raced with the possibilities. Perhaps all my life I had lived with this power and had never exercised it! If that was the case, it was about time that I started harnessing that which I possessed. But I could not start with something so grand as God. As I rationalized, I figured that this man must have worked his way up to God. He must have started small, and that is where I had to start. I had to find something that I wished to be rid of, and simply stop believing in it. If that worked, then the possibilities were endless. My heart raced at the thought of the power I held.
I looked around my house for something to stop believing in. I looked at my computer, but I really liked it and decided it should stay. I glanced at my cactus plant and thought about the care it needed, but realized that I did hardly anything and it thrived, so it was hardly a nuisance. I looked at my new flat screen television that hung silently on the wall, and decided that not only did I like it, but it took up practically no space. Then my dog bolted into the room and started pawing at my feet.
"Please stop," I said sternly. That's when it hit me. The dog was nice to have, as he did keep me company at times. And on cold nights it was pleasant to have something so warm in the bed. But recently he had become more trouble than he was worth. He demanded a lot of attention, and was costing me more money in food and vet bills than I had originally thought. He was a good dog by all accounts, but I reasoned that indeed my life would be better off without him. My dog was going to be my test!
I quickly called for him and he jumped into my lap. I gathered him up and excitedly jumped to my feet. "Oh, you are going to make me so happy!" I exclaimed. "Now, it is nothing personal, but I'm just going to have to stop believing that you exist. We've had a good run, but it's time to be over."
I walked around the house contemplating how this needed to be done. I saw the back door which lead to my fenced yard, and decided that would be the place. I sat him outside the back door, looked him in the eyes and shrugged my shoulders.
"Well, this is goodbye," I said as I closed the door. I ran back to the couch and held my eyes shut as hard as I could, reciting to myself that I no longer believed in that particular spaniel. This went on for about a minute until I opened my eyes and shut my mouth. I listened intently for any noise that might have come from that dog, and heard nothing. I became tentatively excited as I stood up . But I had to make certain. I walked slowly across the house to the back door where I listened once again. I heard nothing, and with my heart in my throat I gripped the handle and swung the door open.
"Oh my," I exclaimed as I stared down at an empty slab of concrete. There was no dog, and no sign that he had ever been there. "It worked!"
I was overwhelmed with shock. I peered around the yard and found no trace of the dog. I slammed the door shut and practically floated over the carpet back to the couch. I had done it! It was possible to wish something away, and the power that seemed so foreign mere hours earlier was now mine. My mind began to race with the possibilities as I looked for more things of which to dispose. As I looked around, I saw the remnants of the spaniel's life in my house. Dog bowls, beds and toys littered the area. These were the next things that had to go. God would come soon after.
I started to gather up all of my dog's belongings. I found leashes, toys, the bed and bowls, and little clothing I had bought for him. All of it I wanted gone, and all of it I would soon stop believing in. My arms were overflowing with stuff, stretching all the way to my chin. I struggled towards the back door, and with the smallest portion of exposed digits I fiddled with the doorknob and popped the door open. I thrust the pile onto the ground below, and watched as it splattered into a heap. I smiled and slammed the door closed, running back to my couch. I sat down dutifully and closed my eyes.
This was significantly more than just a simple dog, so I reasoned that I was going to need to concentrate harder and for longer in order that it might no longer exist. I sat there, grabbed my knees with my hands and started to concentrate. I concentrated keenly on the fact that no longer did I believe in the dog's things, and in turn they would no longer exist. I sat there for much longer than I had with the dog, but for how long I couldn't tell. Finally, my eyes burst open, and I felt assured that all of those smelly, hairy things were no longer of my reality. I crept towards the back door and opened it slowly, only to find once again a blank slab of concrete staring me in the face.
I was giddy, and ran back into my house. I had discovered the truth, and no longer would I have to be tied down by inconvenient realities or difficult situations. The stranger I had run into on the street was my ticket to an entirely new world. I was going to be the master of my reality, and it was going to be exactly as I demanded!
Like a child with a bagful of candy, I was grinning from ear to ear. I began to imagine all the possibilities. My mind went wild with what my new reality would exist of. But the longer I thought, the more I became uneasy. I was becoming invaded with fear from what my newfound power actually meant. If indeed I could control that which existed or didn't exist, then I had to be careful with that power. I had become stronger than anything I had ever known before. I had become God.
I stood dumbfounded by my revelation. But before I could ponder any further what had happened, I heard a loud banging on my front door. The noise awoke me from my stupor and I cautiously made my way to the front of the house. The banging continued, and I heard a familiar voice calling my name. I quickly opened the door. I was overcome with terror and confusion as in front of me stood my neighbor with a leash attached to my dog in one hand and a clear plastic bag of my dog's belongings in the other.
I stumbled backwards. I had to catch myself on the wall to avoid falling to the ground. Concern crossed my neighbor's face as he entered the house, placing the bag at my doorway and releasing my dog. It bounded towards me, jumping on my legs and sniffing furiously about.
"Are you ok?" my neighbor asked. "You look like you've see a ghost."
"How is this possible?" I responded. "These things no longer exist!"
My neighbor looked confused and stared blankly at me. The dog continued to bounce around the house as I regained my composure. My neighbor ignored my confusing words. "Your side gate was open, and your dog ran into my yard. I brought him back around, but saw all his stuff on your porch. I thought I might as well pick it all up and bring it back in one trip." He paused while looking at the concern on my face. "Are you alright?"
I wasn't sure what to say. It seemed impossible to me that the dog and all his things would be here now, as they no longer existed. But my neighbor seemed definitive, so I decided to tell him what happened.
"A man I met today said all he had to do was not believe in God, and it was so. I figured all I had to do was not believe in whatever I didn't want, and it too would be gone. And I thought it had worked!"
My neighbor gave me a look of pity, then smiled. "If something exists, my friend," he started, "if it is real, then nothing you or I do can make that thing cease to exist. What's real is real, and if you choose to think otherwise, you are only lying to yourself. It will continue to exist no matter what your mind decides."
At that moment I knew he was right. For all my wishing, all my intent, there was nothing that I could do to make that which was true and real go away. I had been a fool to believe that simply by wishing I could make my dog go away. And I was a bigger fool to think that saying God does not exist would make Him any less sovereign over the whole of creation.
I fell to my knees and began to cry. My spaniel ran over to me and thrust his snout to my face. I held him tightly as tears poured forth. But I knew my tears would soon be dried, for the God I thought I could erase would be there to comfort me. And that was real power.

Bubbles

2010-10-18T11:17:00.001-07:00

I knew that I could help God out. I just needed to take some control.
Or at least that is what I tried to do. I know God is awesome, and of His power there can be no doubt. So when I asked God to let me help Him with His job (you know, running the universe and all), I figured he might put me in the Kingdom equivalent of the mail room. I thought he would have me sort out the Dear Jesus letters from the Dear Resident letters. I guess I would have been fine with that, but there was something in me that wanted to do more. That’s how I came up with my brilliant idea to help God.
I asked God for a moment of His time, and when He came I laid out my plan.
“Lord,” I started, “I know your job as God must be very difficult. You have so much to care for, so much Grace to hand out over and over, and so very many people that are constantly coming to you for this and that.” Then I stood up a little straighter and proudly pronounced my intention. “I would like to be your personal secretary!”
God just stood there, looking at me quizzically. As the seconds passed with no response, I began to get nervous. “I mean, it would be at your pleasure of course,” I murmured reluctantly. “I would do whatever you needed done.”God continued to look at me, and just as I thought I was going to pass out from the tension rising in the back of my skull, He spoke.
“You wish to help me out, do you?” God said. “That sounds like an outstanding idea!”
I was very surprised that He was so given to the idea, but I went with it. “Thank you so much, I will….” But before I could finish with my lavish thanks, He interrupted me.
“You will start immediately. I have just the place for you.”
God took me to His side and in the blink of an eye we were standing in a large, beige room with no doors or windows. It was very bright inside, yet there was no obvious reason for the light. I saw no lamps or other lighting, prompting me wonder aloud how is was so bright.
God did not answer, but instead began to instruct me on my job. “This is where you will be working.” I looked around, and as there was absolutely nothing in the room, I queried again, this time asking what exactly it was I was going to do in this place. Before God answered, the room suddenly and without warning started filling with bubbles floating through the air. These were very similar to the kind one might blow from a child’s bubble bottle. How they got there was unclear, yet there must have been hundreds of them. I reached out my finger to touch one, expecting it to explode into nothingness. To my surprise, instead of popping upon contact with my finger it fell to the floor with a thud, seemingly taking on weight. God bent down to pick it up, and handed it to me.
It was much heavier than I would have imagined when it was floating, much like the ball of a snow globe.
“This is your job,” He said, picking up the bubble and handing it to me. “Inside each of these are the prayers of my people. Look inside.” I held up the ball and could see words scrolled across the inside. I read them aloud, surprised to find that this one contained the prayer of a man for his wife. I looked back up at God, and before I could speak He continued.
“It is your job to sort these prayers. I want you to decide which prayers are most important, second most important and so on, so that I may get to them in the appropriate time. Stack them accordingly, and when I return I will collect the piles.”
I was stunned at the request. I felt that God had given me a job of much greater importance than I could have even dreamed. I had about a hundred more questions, but God left before I had the chance to utter a one.
I was thrilled to be given such an assignment. I was going to make sure that prayers got to God in the order of their importance. I thought excitedly about how great it was going to be for those that had the greatest prayers to get theirs answered in such a quick manner, and to know that I had a part to play in that timeliness! It was going to be smooth and precise if I had anything to say about it, and thanks to God I finally did.
But I had to get to work quickly. It seemed that even in the minute that I was congratulating myself the number of bubbles had doubled. So I started with the one in my hand. I decided that a man praying for his wife had to be important, so I put it on one side of the room. I then reached up to grab another bubble. I brought it to my eyes and read about a mother praying for her sick son in a remote region that had little medical aid. I instantly knew that this was important, and placed it in that first pile.
Grabbing another, I read about a little boy who lost his dog, and was praying for its safe return. It brought a tear to my eye to think of that boy and the sadness he felt. Yet I knew that it did not measure up to the previous prayers, so I created a second pile.
I read another from a single lady that felt she was very blessed in life, but was praying for a husband. She seemed otherwise happy and content with life, so I figured she wouldn’t mind waiting a little longer. God would surely want to read this, but it needed to go in the second pile with the lost puppy.
A bubble floated past my nose and I picked it out of the air right before it hit me. It was the prayer of a high school student asking God for help on his big test. I remembered praying such a prayer when I was in a similar situation. I also remembered that if I had studied more the night prior to the test, then perhaps I wouldn’t have had to pray as hard as I did! I figured that this kid would just have to deal with it on his own, and learn the importance of studying. I started a third pile with his prayer.
By this time the room was teeming with so many bubbles floating through the air that it was getting hard for me to avoid hitting them with my head. I started to accidentally brush up against some, causing them to fall to the ground with a thud. I started scrambling to get those read and sorted before I went back to the ones in the air. I raced around from end to end, and the piles were growing.
As I raced, the air grew thick with bubbles. I was not clearing any space, and if anything I was falling behind. I was reminded of the I Love Lucy episode involving the chocolate candy conveyor belt, with me in the role of Lucy. But God had given me a job, and I was going to make Him proud.
Time kept going, and I worked myself ragged. The piles were growing exponentially with each passing hour. However, I soon realized, to my amazement, that I was actually making progress. The room was starting to clear of bubbles, but the floor was getting crammed.
Throughout, I was making difficult determinations on where prayers should go. What I thought was going to be only three major piles for prayers turned into twelve piles. Admittedly, I wasn’t giving each prayer a thorough read. I had to start glancing and looking for certain words to make my determination. I started to regret that I might have accidentally put something with a sickness or a death in a lower importance pile. But I put that out of my mind, knowing that I was doing my hardest and that God was counting on me.
I don’t know exactly how much time passed as I did the job. If you asked my feet, it felt like years, and if you asked my mind there was such a blur of requests that it felt like only minutes. But I did eventually wind down, and looked around at the piles I had created. On the one side of the room stood a stack that towered over me, and I remembered having to throw some of the requests to the top when it got too high. That was the pile that I had started with that kid’s test prayer. On the other side of the room was a pile half the size, which I had started with that very first prayer of the husband for his wife. In between were piles of varying degrees, and I finally felt a sense of pride and accomplishment in what I had done. I dropped down, sitting in the middle of the room with my victories all around me.
That’s when God appeared. “Almost done, I see,” He stated, looking at me.
“I am done, Lord,” I said. “Look around, all sorted and ready for you!” I knew He was going to be pleased with the work I had done.
God looked up towards the ceiling of the room, and pointed. “Just one left,” he said, plucking it from the air.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t see that one,” I exclaimed. “I’ll take it!” God looked inside the bubble and took it to himself. “That’s ok,” He said. “I will keep this. It looks like you have been very busy today.”
“Yes, Lord!” I was so excited, that through my weariness I jumped up and started explaining all that I had done. I pointed to the first pile. “This pile is the most important, you’ll want to get to this first, then over here there is….” And that is when it happened. Just as I was going to run through the list of piles, God raised His right hand and in an instant all the bubbles in all the piles raised into the air. They floated there, not in the perfect piles I had made, but jumbled, mixed as much as when I had first seen them. They hovered over us for a moment, and then shot into the body of the Lord. The room was instantly empty, and silence abounded.
That was a silence that I wasn’t going to let live. “What just happened?!?!” I screamed, indignant that my days worked had been wiped out in an instance. “I worked all day to put them in order, and you just wasted it!”
The Lord ignored my fury, and spoke. “Is the prayer of one of my people any less or more important than that of another? Have I not already heard the prayers, even before you began today?”
I was dumbfounded. Why would He then make me go through this process? Why would He waste my time? Why did He want me to choose which prayers are more important?
But it wasn’t Him. I was the one who wanted to decide. I was the one who wanted to help God, and to make decisions of what was more important and what was less. I was the one who insisted that God needed help. I was the one who would do better than God.
I fell down and started to clench my fists, angry that God didn’t stop me and furious at myself for being such a fool. But God didn’t let me languish.
“Son,” He said, pointing into the far corner of the room. “There is something you need to see.” I looked up and saw a pile of thousands of bubbles that had not gone with God. I thought I had remembered all the piles I had made, but this one was so large and stacked so neatly and perfectly in the corner. I didn’t ever remember making it nor did I remember it being there when I first showed up, and I surely would not have missed it.
I ran over to it, and took the highest bubble I could reach. Bringing it to my face, I read the prayer. Immediately, I dropped the bubble to the ground. I started reaching at others in the pile, and one after one, consumed the prayers inside. Suddenly, I was filled with fear at what I had seen.
“How is this possible?” I cried to God. “What is the meaning of this?”
“These are yours,” He said. “These are the prayers that you have offered up to me over the years that you never really thought were worthy of my attention. You started this pile as a young boy, when you believed the lie that there were just some requests that even though you pray them, really don’t meet my standards. They wait here because you haven’t given them to me yet. I would love to have them.”
I knew exactly what He was saying. All those prayers over the years that I might have thought or even spoken, but never really gave over to God. I was holding on so tight to those things that I thought God wouldn’t care about that I never realized just how much I was holding back from Him. He wanted all of my prayers, and He valued them alongside the prayers of the most desperate and brokenhearted. For by holding back from God, I was denying who He is.
“Take them,” I begged. “I want you to have them. I need you to have them.”
I knew that I could help God out. I just needed to let go.

What You Need To Know About Me

2010-09-27T10:06:00.001-07:00

What if you were going to be remembered for all time because of one thing you did in your life? What if that one thing could be something good or bad by which historians for centuries to come would define you? For many biblical characters, that is exactly what happened. Their lives were recorded for all eternity in the pages of scripture on the basis of one event or one truth about their lives. No matter how long they lived, for good or for ill, all the world knows is one event in their lives.
Take the Samaritan woman at the well mentioned in John 4. In an encounter, Jesus simply asks for a drink from this Samaritan woman. In the ensuing conversation, we learn that this woman is less than pure, having had many husbands and a current relationship with a man that is not her husband. In Acts 8, we learn about the Ethiopian man in that Phillip meets during his travels. This Ethiopian is unable to understand Isaiah’s prophecy and – gasp – he is a eunuch. In Acts 5 we discover that Ananias and Sapphira in made poor real estate deals decisions. Even the two thieves that hung on the cross next to Jesus in Luke 23 are eternally remembered. No matter what else they did in life, they were remembered for all of history as thieves.
My favorite one-hit wonder in the bible is none other than Methuselah. Here is a man that lived longer than any other in recorded history, and that is what he is known for. In Genesis 5, we learn all that we will ever know about Methuselah. He was the son of Mehujael, great-grandson of Enoch, the father of Lamech at the young age of 187, and had a bunch of other sons and daughters until his death at the age of 969
Now one could reasonable assume that if you lived 969 years, you are going to have a few children, so that revelation in Genesis 5 is less than eye-opening. The knowledge that Methuselah is the father of Lamech tells us that Noah was a direct descendant of Methuselah, but not much more. What we are left with is that Methuselah lived long enough to have a cliché coined for him – “being old as Methuselah.”
But delving deeper into Methuselah’s claim to fame shows us more than a man that required the world’s largest supply of hearing aid batteries and tiger balm. Here was a man that could sit at the foot of Adam and hear stories about Eden while later giving carpentry and sailing tips to Noah. He spanned the history of mankind at the time. Imagine what that must have been like for this one man.
Have you ever heard an older gentleman or lady lavish you with tales of the good ol’ days, when almost everything was perfect and nothing was terrible, unlike now when everything is terrible and nothing is right. Perhaps they relished parts of their youth where they could engage in activities that are no longer accessible to them. And you have been blessed to hear these stories on more than one glorious occasion. Now consider Methuselah. As a young man, Methuselah probably heard Adam rattle on about the good ol’ days, which were in fact a lot better than the times in which they were living. Adam could have retold the story of the Garden of Eden, and the wonders and beauties that abounded therein. He could have told of the pleasures of walking each day with the Lord, and the peace that was in Him. By the 100th telling, young Methuselah might have been fed up and blurted out “then you probably shouldn’t have thrown it all away over a snake and a piece of fruit!”
Or consider that Methuselah had to go around with the knowledge that his great, great grandfather committed the first murder, and everyone knew it. For most of us this would probably be considered a black mark in the family and something of which to be ashamed. But considering that at the time most people were somehow related to Cain, it wasn’t exactly something someone could make fun of without inherently making fun of themselves.
A lot of people feel that over time, birthday celebrations, holidays and yearly rituals begin to run together. This was especially true for Methuselah. How many birthday parties can be held for you before they are all the same? Maybe Methuselah suggested skipping a couple of decades of birthdays because by the time they got all the candles lit on the birthday cake for one birthday, an entire year would pass! Perhaps Methuselah even got tired of New Years celebrations and decided to only celebrate each New Century.
There is also the matter of pets. Most people in their lives might have 5 or 6 dogs, tops. Methuselah must have felt like he was running through dogs like Pez. After a while, he probably just used the same name for each subsequent dog, as there weren’t enough names in the world to have a unique one for each new dog. It definitely saved on nametags.
But one of his joys must have been the opportunity to teach and spend time with Noah, his grandson. It is possible that everything that Noah learned about carpentry and shipbuilding he learned from Methuselah. Playing with Noah as a boy and young man might even be what Methuselah credited for “keeping him young”. Some might even go so far as to say that Noah’s ark didn’t have an Aloha, Lido or Fiesta Deck, but instead had a Methuselah, Lamech and Enoch deck. Rumor has it that the Methuselah deck went on forever.
In any case, we know that Methuselah died at the age of 969. Many scholars believe that he died in the same year as the Flood, and that the Lord brought Methuselah to Him before unleashing the Flood. This would mean that not only did Methuselah get to witness the construction of the ark, but that he also witnessed the devolution of man’s morality, and the wickedness that lied therein.
But Methuselah’s story does not end in his death. For what we know as a fact is that this very old man’s life was not confined to a simple matter of numbers. For Methuselah was in the direct lineage of the centrality of Scripture, the person of Jesus Christ. He is mentioned in very important lineages, both in the 1 Chronicles retelling of the lineage of Adam to Abraham, and then in Luke 3, the lineage of Jesus Christ. Yes, he was the oldest man to ever walk the earth, but he was also a vital member of the family of the Savior of the world.
This brings me back to the one-hit wonders from earlier. Those one hit simply known but eternally famous Samaritan woman at the well, Ethiopian Eunuch, Ananias and Sapphira and the two thieves on the cross. Yes, they were known by history for one event or fact. But this one event does not tell their whole story. For their story is not only of fleshly events. Their stories are of encounters. Their stories are of encounters with Jesus Christ.
Yes, the Samaritan woman at the well was loose and immoral. But she also saw Jesus, heard his voice and knew the truth. We do not know what happened to her the rest of her life, but we do know that she was changed. We know that her encounter with Jesus saved her, and that her testimony spread to others.
Yes, the Ethiopian eunuch could not make heads or tales of Isaiah’s prophecy. But his encounter with Jesus came through Phillips explanation. With understanding, the eunuch was compelled to be baptized and went on his way rejoicing for the truth he had learned. We do not know how his life ended, but we are assured that he went to Jesus.
Yes, Ananias and Sapphira made poor choices in real estate. But their encounter with Jesus came in their decision to be disobedient to the truth that they knew, and lie and cheat the Holy Spirit over money. We know what happened to them, as their lives ended that day. We know that they set the example for us to see when we are tempted to ignore God’s truth and try to sidestep His authority.
And yes, the two thieves on the cross are known as just that, and they too died that day on Calvary. But their encounter with Jesus was as personal as any had been during Jesus’ time on earth. As one thief hung there, he mocked Christ, imploring Him to save Himself if He was really God. The other looked upon Jesus and knew in his heart that this was truly the innocent Christ, being crucified unjustly. With this, he begged Jesus to remember him in Paradise. Their deaths, and their futures, are displayed in no uncertain terms.
And so it is for us. Most of us will never have even one story remain for the balance of human existence. But if it should be so, to be known forever as the oldest person, a righteous man, a simple man, a philanthropist, a liar or a thief, it matters little. What matters is what we do with our encounter with Christ. Our encounter with Christ may not keep our human story for the bookshelves of history; but our encounter with Christ will keep our eternal story for the bookshelves of the Kingdom.

Finding the Right Box for God

2010-09-21T08:57:00.000-07:00

Did you know that God wanted you to find a very nice box for Him and put Him in it? I was surprised to learn this too, but upon studying what the Israelites did with the Ark of the Covenant I was convinced that in fact God wanted us to find an appropriate box and place Him inside. It seemed only logical that in order for me to get a good grasp on God and what He is all about, I needed to put Him in a box.
It would appear that getting God into a box is a near impossible task, as He really doesn’t have to do what we ask. But I know that God is a reasonable being, and that if I reasoned with Him, He would understand my point of view and acquiesce to my request.
I approached God on the matter of the box in a most respectful manner, and laid out why I had come to this decision. “Lord,” I started “I know that you are an awesome God, but I need to make a small request. It occurs to me that my life would be better off if I could be allowed to put you in a box. I want the box to be appropriate, of course, and I will choose carefully. I know this is a strange request, but it really would be the best thing for both of us.”
I was a little concerned at the Lord’s reaction to my request, but to my surprise he was very amicable to my decision. The Lord looked at me and with calmness in His voice simply said “Let us try it your way.”
I was very excited that he had seen it from my point of view, and with very little persuasion on my part. The problem was I hadn’t really considered exactly what kind of box in which I was going to put God. I was so concerned with whether He would agree or not that I didn’t prepare myself for an answer of yes.
I asked God if he could give me a few minutes to look for some box options, and he was fine with that. I raced around the house and started to scrounge through all of my possessions, looking for just the right box in which to put God. I came across some acceptable vessels and ran back to God. I excitedly raced to Him with my arms full.
“Lord,” I said, panting “I have a few I would like to try, just to see what is best.” I tossed down my boxes and sifted through them to find the smallest one I had. It was a beautiful purple jewelry box, the jewelry long gone from its cushioned home. I lifted the box up to the Lord.
“If you don’t mind, try getting into this box. It would be great to be able to keep you in here and when I need you, I can find you amongst all my precious things.” The Lord got into the box as best he could, but no matter how we tried to reposition him and squeeze the lid on He just wouldn’t fit. I felt it unfortunate that I couldn’t get the Lord into the beautiful box I had chosen. But I knew that it would be ok, for I had many other boxes to choose from.
The Lord stood there in front of me while I picked up another one of my boxes. It was a brown boot box that once housed one of the finest pairs of snow boots I had ever seen. It was sturdy and larger than the earring box, and I just knew the Lord would go perfectly in it.
“This box is a bit bigger, Lord. I just know it is the right box for you. Then I can place you next to the protective clothing I wear, and will certainly have access to you when I need it.” The Lord obliged and stepped into the shoebox. I closed the lid and smiled as I walked the Lord into my closet and sat Him up on the highest shelf. As I turned to close the closet door, I heard and loud crash, and spun around to see that the Lord’s shoebox had fallen to the floor, popping the lid off. I hurriedly picked up the box, apologizing to the Lord for the fall. But as I looked in the box, He was nowhere to be found. I looked around the entire closet and could not find a hint of the Lord anywhere. I was a little concerned as to where he had gone, and as I reached for the lid I jumped as I saw Him standing next to me.
“Oh, Lord, you scared me!” I exclaimed. “I am sorry for the fall, maybe a shoebox isn’t the best place to keep you.” I decided that I wanted to have a box that was a little bit sturdier, so I led the Lord back out to the living room and to the pile of boxes. Digging through the pile I found a nice, large box that was sturdy and reinforced. It had once held a delicate painting that was sent to me, and I just knew that it would be perfect for the Lord. I could sit it against the wall so that it wouldn’t fall over, and anytime I wanted to look at the Lord I would know just where to find Him. I beckoned for the Lord to get in the reinforced box, and he was very kind to do so. When He was safely inside, I sealed up the top and placed it against the far wall.
I was very satisfied with where the Lord was now, and headed into the kitchen to prepare myself a sandwich. But as I got into the kitchen, I realized that I wanted to look at the Lord one more time, because he was just so beautiful to me. I went back over to the painting box, opened the top and peaked down at the Lord. But to my surprise, he was no longer there. I moved the box to allow more light in, thinking I hadn’t missed Him in the darkness of the box. But I could see all the way to the bottom without a sign of the Lord. I stood upright, puzzled. As I looked in front of me, I was shocked to once again see Him standing there.
“Lord, you got out of the box again!” I was beginning to get frustrated. “I understand that maybe this box wasn’t right for you. Perhaps something a little roomier would do.” I thought about the new dryer I had purchased, and the box that was still in my garage that it had come in. “Lord,” I motioned to Him, “follow me. I have just the thing.”
We made it to the garage and I pointed at the dryer box. “That would be much better for you Lord, and I can keep you in here where you can be in my house but not in the way.” I smiled at my genius to find a much roomier box that would be more comfortable for the Lord and less intrusive for me. “If you would be so kind, you can have this box.”
The Lord stepped into the dryer box, and I closed the top and was very content with myself. But after a moment, I got concerned that the garage might get too dark for the Lord. I decided to check with Him to make sure it was ok to be in such a dark room. “Lord, are you going to be ok out here in the dark?” I asked. I heard no response, and bent down closer to the side of the box. “Lord,” I said again, louder. “Are you going to be ok in this dark garage?” I still heard nothing.
I yanked open the lid and said “Lord, are you going…” but stopped in mid sentence as I realized once again He was not inside. By this time I was downright angry, realizing that the Lord had again left the beautiful box I had for Him. I spun around the room, expecting to see Him somewhere. When I didn’t, I scurried back through the house, yelling “Lord, why won’t you just stay where I put you. You can’t be unhappy with all of these boxes! One of them has to be ok!”
I could find the Lord nowhere in my house, and as I raced to the front door, He walked in. “Lord,” I exclaimed. “What’s the problem? I have given you plenty of good boxes, and you seem to want to get out of each one.” That was precisely the moment that I had a revelation. The Lord didn’t want a common box that you could find anywhere. He needed a box that was special. He needed a box that was just for Him. Perhaps, like me, he wanted something that was His own, and not made for whatever would fit in it. It had to be something the size of a house, or maybe even…
“That’s it!” I cried. “I know where you need to be Lord!” I took him by the hand and we jumped in the car. I raced several miles down the road to the church that I had attended ever since I was a young man. “This is where you need to be. I am sorry I forgot about this. It is the perfect box for you! You can stay in this box, and I can visit you here every Sunday! This works out perfectly!” I lead the Lord into the church, and told him that I would be back to see him in a few days.
I drove home more content with myself than ever before. I knew that I had found the perfect box for the Lord, and that this was going to make our relationship better than ever. I pulled into my driveway, and realized that there was somebody standing there. I jumped out of my car and to my dismay saw that it was the Lord, staring at me.
“What are YOU doing here?!?” I bellowed. “I left you at the church, and I told you I would be back in a few days. You were NOT supposed to come back here. That is YOUR box, and you are supposed to stay in YOUR box.” As I stopped talking, he stretched his hand out towards me. In His hand was the Bible, opened to Exodus.
“Oh, I get it!” I screamed. “None of those other boxes were good enough for you. You want the box that you had in this book, don’t you?!?” I then knew what I had to do. He wanted his Ark back, the box the Israelites kept Him in. “FINE. If that’s what you want, I will make you your Ark for you. If that’s the box you need, then I will build it with my own two hands!”
Over the next week I did nothing but focus my entire life and energies on building a replica Ark for the Lord. I poured every waking hour into that Ark, crafting and perfecting it to be as close to the original as I could. Every second of every day I spent on that Ark, eating and sleeping as little as I could. Into that ark I poured everything. Into it I poured my hopes, my fears; my anger and my joys; my dreams and my horrors; I poured my soul, good and ill, all that was in me into building that one final box with which the Lord would be happy. I poured everything into the one and final box that the Lord would remain in, content not to keep escaping from.
On Sunday morning I presented my work before the Lord. I brought to Him a replica of the Ark, and with it the expectation that it would be the last box he would need. “Lord, here it is,” I said. I was exhausted beyond words, and I collapsed on my knees to the ground. With my head slumped down, I waved to the Lord. “Now would you please just get in the box?”
I sat there for what felt like an eternity, waiting for the Lord to get in the Ark. The Lord walked slowly towards me and put His hand on my shoulder. “You have built a beautiful box,” He said. “But you know it’s never been about the box. It’s been about why you wanted to have me in the box.”
The Lord continued. “You presented to me a jewelry box and wanted to keep me there. With that, you hoped to keep me like a fine piece of jewelry, but only bring me out to wear me when it suited you and on the right occasions. You presented to me a boot box, and wanted to keep me there. With that, you hoped to have me ready in emergencies, such as bad weather, but ready to put me away when the emergency was over. You presented to me a box for artwork, and wanted to keep me there. With that, you hoped to have me around in your home to look beautiful like a fine piece of art, but never to take me outside of your home. You presented to me the box of a new appliance and wanted to keep me there. With that, you hoped to keep me around to do only the things you wanted me to do, and not to be involved in any other part of your life. You presented to me a building, and wanted to keep me there. With that, you could come to me only when it was convenient, and leave me there safely out of your life at all other times.”
The Lord paused, and placed his other hand on the Ark. “You presented to me an Ark, like the one my people carried. With that, you hoped to copy a ritual and safely keep me under control.”
I looked at the Lord, and with exasperation, cried out. “If there is no box to keep you in, what am I to do with you?!? I have no place else to put you.”
The Lord calmly looked at me. “Though the Israelites carried the Ark, and in that were obedient, they were still showing you what it is I want. As with them, I want to know you, and be in relationship with you. And the place to keep me is in your heart.”
I began to cry. The Lord was right. I had been so focused on keeping God contained that I never thought to acknowledge the fact that God will not be contained. He wants to be everywhere in my life, and for that I should be grateful. In fact, I needed to be more than grateful. I needed to be humbled. That’s when the Lord truly humbled me.
“You see,” the Lord said, “there will come a time that will be your end of days. At your end of days, they will all gather, and they will put you in a box. It will be at that time, at a time you are most helpless, that I will come. I will come, and I will stand up for you. I will bring you out of that box. And I will bring you to me.”