A Life Worthy

Category: A Life Worthy

  • Power 

    number 1Never underestimate the power of a good connection.

    A couple of weeks ago, the power went out in two of our rooms.  It was puzzling. Why, I wondered, would the power go out in only two rooms, and only to the wall sockets—and only some of the sockets, at that?  Yes, you probably know all about electrical circuits and how contractors always put sockets on a separate circuit from the lights.  You’re very smart that way.  Where were you when I was trying to figure all this out?

    The mystery increased when the power suddenly came back on…then went off again…then came partially on…then went out again and took additional sockets with it, just for spite.  Short circuit?  Poltergeist?  Time to investigate.

    Please remember that, while I have the heart of a handyman, I have the hands of a history teacher.  You may recall that I once tried to fix Cathy’s electric oven.  We were dating, and I was confident that I could wow her with my manlifixitosity.  I jiggled this, and wiggled that, and I did have a very primal kind of success—I made fire.

    In an electric oven.

    Not so good.

    But hey, that was a long time ago, and I’ve learned a lot of…stuff…since then.  So, I decided to figure this problem out.  I jiggled this and wiggled that and generally looked for something loose or…wrong looking. (“Wrong looking” is a technical term, by the way.  Use it and people will think you are skilled.) Then I found it…a scorched outlet.  That must be the problem!

    Nope.

    I mean, it looked like the problem.  It really should have been the problem.  But, after replacing the socket—six screws total…are you impressed?—I encountered a conundrum.

    No juice.

    A beautiful, well-installed socket, sans power.

    I know, you’re thinking, “Circuit breaker!  Circuit Breaker!”

    Of course I checked the circuit breaker.  In fact, I checked all of the circuit breakers, since whoever labeled my circuit breaker box used symbols from a magical land that only he has ever visited.  Nada.  Nadissimo.

    I had done all I knew to do, and some things I didn’t.  It was time to call in the medium gun.  I would have called in the big guns, but the big guns are expensive.  The medium gun—my former-apprentice-electrician-while-working-his-way-through-college friend—works for the delight of my company.

    And the fear of lifelong guilt if he doesn’t come over and I electrocute myself.

    In any case, he inspected my work, pronounced it acceptable, and proceeded to not fix my problem.  Oh, he jiggled and wiggled with far more authority than I did, but with the same result.

    No juice.

    With a sigh, I caved and called in a real electrician with tools and wires and a truck and everything.  He came; he saw; he chuckled; he fixed.

    Are you ready for the big anticlimax?

    Circuit breaker.

    But I had checked the circuit breaker!  Multiple times!  Honest!

    It turns out, according to Mr. Electrician Man, that a little bit of dust or fluff or whatnot had gotten into the circuit breaker and was breaking the connection.  It looked good from the outside, but power couldn’t flow.  He smacked it, and all was well.

    Eesh.

    I hadn’t realized that I was in need of yet another humbling experience.  It seems that I was wrong.

    Hmm…

    All that power, blocked by a little bit of dust, dirt, earth—a little bit of the World, if you will. All that power running through the circuit breaker, which looked fine on the outside, but…

    Chew on that for a minute.

    So, when you consider your heart, when you think of the Holy Spirit moving in and through you, when you feel the things of the world getting in there and spoiling the connection, ask yourself this:

    What’s your fluff?

    Search me, O God, and know my heart;

    Test me, and know my anxious thoughts.

    See if there is any offensive way in me,

    And lead me in the way everlasting.

     

  • Breaking Point 

    number 1I have a ladder which I like quite a bit.  Apart from its inherent usefulness, the thing I appreciate most about this piece of household equipment is that it clearly communicates its limitations to me.  There is a bold sticker on the side that says, “Max. wt. 300 lbs.”  If you weigh in at 350 and you hoist yourself up on my ladder, you’re going to have problems—and don’t come crying to me about it.

    Ladders, bridges, fishing line—they all have a breaking point, and they all come clearly labelled so that you don’t expect more of them than you should.  If only people…

    Today, a story of breaking points. Gird your loins–it’s a bit long for a Wednesday, but it does involve riots, crazy people, and secret police.  I think you’ll enjoy the ride.

    It was my last day in Romania, just past Easter of 1990.  The entire nation had reached a breaking point just a few months earlier.  The people had absorbed the final ounce of torment from their dictator, Nicolae Ceausescu, and had removed him from power—rather violently and rather permanently.  I had come in later as part of a team to minister to the Christian churches, who were adding a measure of corporeal freedom to their freedom in Christ.  Now, my time was done, and I was looking to go home.

    My plans were thwarted by another group of people who had reached a breaking point—the Romanian airline pilots.  It seems that they had grown tired of being paid bus driver wages for flying 747’s, and had decided to exercise their newfound capitalistic power.  They went on strike.  By the time I arrived at the airport for my morning flight to London, the place was teeming with thousands of travelers who had places to go, but no way to get there.

    And now the fun began.

    Thus far the breaking points I have mentioned were good things.  People had decided that enough was enough and had taken action to correct injustice.  Hoorah.  But now, plunge with me into the seamy side of breaking points—what happens when people just can’t deal with life.

    I was fortunate to find a fellow English speaker—British, but close enough in dangerous times—and a calm corner from which I could observe the fomenting riots.  You see, after more than six hours of waiting for negotiations with the pilots to be successful, while passengers continued to arrive for flights that continued to not depart, people began to get cranky.  Complaining became shouting became screaming became pushing became punching became kiosk throwing became ransacking.

    Breaking point.

    Suddenly, the second-floor railing was ringed with soldiers carrying implements of doom, and a strange thing happened.  People who had, moments before, been consumed by chaotic rage found an extra measure of self-control.  Perhaps it was their civilized nature rising to the surface; perhaps it was the sound of a hundred automatic weapons being charged simultaneously.  Regardless, the mellow spread quickly.

    The peace held, albeit by its fingernails.  No one rioted when, after ten hours in the terminal, our flight was loaded on a bus, driven a quarter mile out onto the tarmac, and left.  By left, I mean that a small car pulled up alongside the bus, our driver got out of the bus and into the car, and it drove away.  We were abandoned like Fay Wray, waiting to be taken by the Kong.

    A planeful of people.

    Stuffed on a bus.

    Standing room only.

    For forty-five minutes.

    But we didn’t riot.  Sure, we might have rocked the bus a little, but that wasn’t a breaking point.  That was just some harmless fun.  Besides, it stopped when the bus went up on two wheels

    the third time

    so it’s not like we tipped over or anything.

    Things were rather uneventful after that.  They eventually brought us a plane, and aboard we climbed.  I got a glimpse of the cockpit—secured from terrorism by a heavy-duty curtain—as I passed.  Dials, switches, hand cranks, and a man in the navigator’s chair perusing what I am sure was a Thomas Guide.  No computers or electronics to complicate things.  Keep it simple.

    We were seated, announcements were made, and at long last we were aloft.  I must admit to a little trepidation whenever the crew made announcements, which of course happened several times throughout the flight.  You see, this was a Romanian airline, so it is only reasonable that the announcements were made first in Romanian.  German came next, then something that sounded like Tagalog, but probably wasn’t, and then English.  The pattern went something like this:

    Romanian announcement lasting 30 seconds.

    German announcement lasting 20 seconds.

    Tagalog (?) announcement lasting 15 seconds.

    English: “Please stay in your seats.”

    I couldn’t help feeling that I was missing important information, but what could I do?

    The flight was surprisingly uneventful for about an hour; then we reached the day’s final breaking point.  I do not know her name—I will simply call her The Troubled Woman.  She came suddenly and without warning from the back of the plane, bursting the exhaustion bubble of people who were now thirteen hours late for their destinations and still in the air.  The Troubled Woman ran up the aisle of the plane…then back down the aisle…then back up, all the while yelling, “We must stop them!  They’ve trapped us on this plane!  They’re keeping us hostage!  They’ve taken our children!”

    I don’t know what children.  There were no children on the plane.  Perhaps because they had already taken them.

    My British friend from the terminal and I were all attention.  We had been passing the time playing, “Spot the secret policeman.”  We were convinced it was a thin man with a bad suit and a worse mustache about three rows from the back of the plane.  Sure enough, as The Troubled Woman ranted, Securitate Bob leaped from his seat, grabbed The Troubled Woman—who now began to shriek—and ushered her toward the front of the plane.  Two flight attendants emerged from the front, and The Troubled Woman was pulled behind a curtain separating the cabin from Flight Attendant Land.  Her shrieks continued for about seven seconds

    then stopped abruptly.

    After a few moments, we heard the:

    Romanian announcement lasting 30 seconds.

    German announcement lasting 20 seconds.

    Tagalog (?) announcement lasting 15 seconds.

    English: “Please stay in your seats.”

    It all sounded normal, but they weren’t fooling anyone.  We were just wondering if they had sedated The Troubled Woman or simply smothered her with a pillow.

    You think I’m making this up…but I’m not that good.

    About twenty minutes later, the curtain was yanked aside and The Troubled Woman emerged.  She faced us very calmly and said, “I’m sorry, but you had to know how I feel.  You simply had to know how I feel.”  Then hands reached out from behind the curtain, and she was hauled back out of sight.

    We cheered her.  It had been that kind of day.

    Hey, Michael–any chance you have a point to make in all of this?

    Yeah…there’s a chance.

    Life can be crazy, and we all have our breaking points.  It would be great if we were clearly labelled, like bridges or fishing line, but we’re not.  Often you don’t realize you’ve hit your breaking point until Securitate Bob comes for you with the syringe.  He’s come for me several times over the years—metaphorically speaking.

    But on that day in Romania I did not break.  I was twenty-one years old, alone and essentially trapped in a foreign country filled with crazy people—and I was fine.  Why?  I think I had stumbled upon a key that I have lost and found many times over the years.  It goes like this:

    He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.  I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.” (Psalm 91:1-2)

    I was on a mission trip.  I had been bathing in the Word and in prayer for weeks.  When crisis hit, I was so deep in God that I was able to sit back and watch him take care of it…and me.  It’s a lesson I need to remember but often forget.

    When this world is all you have, you will rise and fall on its turbulence.  When your trust is in God, you will be held steady through the storm.  But, of course, the preparation has to come before the crisis.  Trees don’t sink roots while the wind is raging. The fortress is not built during the battle.  Take the time now, my friend.  Sink your roots deep into the Rock.  Make your foundation solid and firm.

    Don’t make me call Securitate Bob.

     

  • Big Cross/Little Cross

    number 1I’m driving along and I get stuck in a massive traffic jam.  Inching my way down the road, I fret, wondering if I will get to where I need to go by the time I need to be there.  Then, up ahead on the right, I see the cause of the jam—an overturned car.  The thought that runs through my head—I kid you not—is, “Oh good.  It’s an accident.  Once I get past that, the speed will pick up.”

    Tell me you’ve done that, at least once.  I’d hate to think I’m the only one.

    My mantra of late has been, “It’s not about me.”  Sounds noble, except that I say it through gritted teeth.  Because, in the end, it usually is about me.  I didn’t say it should be—I just said it is.  I suppose that’s normal enough.  We all see the world through the filter of our own situations, needs, desires.  But we’re not called to be normal, are we?

    The title of this blog is A Life Worthy.  It’s based on Ephesians 4:1, in which Paul encourages us to live a life “worthy of the calling we have received.”  I’m having a tough time supporting the premise that God has called me to a life focused on myself.  After all, Jesus said, “…not my will, but yours” (Matthew 26:39).  The Lord of the Universe, He Who Spoke and it Was, said, in essence, “It’s not about me.”  He said it in Gethsemane.  He showed it on the cross.

    He meant it.

    There are big crosses and little crosses.  I think I could be a martyr, if the need arose.  Seriously.   I think that, if someone stuck a gun in my face and told me to deny Christ, I would take the bullet with joy.  Similarly, if someone desperately needed me, I think I would race into the burning building, dive into the freezing water, leap into the path of the oncoming train.  Those are big crosses, and they come with a payoff—people think you’re awesome.  So, really, even when it’s not about me, it ends up being about me.  Besides, it’s easy to say I’d do these things—what are the chances that any of those moments will come to a middle school teacher?

    The little crosses are different.  They come along every day—and I can bear them easily enogh.  I just don’t want to.  Lately, it seems that everywhere I turn, I’m confronted with “It’s not about me,” moments.  Home, work, friends—I face endless opportunities to develop a servant’s heart, if only I could stop gritting my teeth.

    OK, here’s a classic example from the recent past.  The Wife of My Heart was ill, so I decided to make her Michael’s Miracle Healing Elixir Chicken Soup of Delight.  Now, I’d had an insanely long day, and I was desperate for sleep.  I had to stop at the store for ingredients, and the soup would take well over an hour to prepare.  But none of that mattered.  I only wanted to serve the one I love.  For a brief, shining moment, it really wasn’t about me.  Then Cathy asked me to pick up a few other things while I was already at the market, and I went into a snit.  A full-fledged, honest-to-goodness snit.

    What is my problem?

    Better question: What is my solution?

    Jesus said, “Take my yoke and learn from me…”  OK, a yoke is a tool used to guide and control oxen—among the dumbest animals ever to walk the planet.   Should work for me.  So, guide me, Lord.  Steer me—no pun intended.  Teach me how you, the Lord of all, were willing to be born, to live, and to die as a servant.

    I’m sure this is overly simplistic, and I’m probably missing a ton here—feel free to correct me.  But as I look at the life of Jesus, I see that spending time alone with the Father was a huge priority for him.  Time and again we see that Jesus chose to go off by himself and pray.  Those times were essential to him.  Non-negotiable.  I am not about to surmise what happened in Christ’s quiet time with the Father, but I know what happens in mine.

    When I am alone with the Father he realigns my priorities and my vision. It’s like waking up in the morning and putting on my glasses.  Suddenly everything becomes clear.   A few moments’ time before the throne is usually sufficient to remind me of what is important—and what is not.  It’s amazing how small most of my concerns seem when viewed from His perspective.

    When I am alone with the Father he reminds me of who I am—and who I am not.  He reminds me that I am sin, every day, and then graciously allows me to repent and be restored, every day.  He reminds me that I am his precious, beloved child, called out of this world to love him and to bring him glory. He reminds me that I am his servant, called to humble obedience, even as Christ demonstrated.

    He reminds me that I am not God, no matter how badly my flesh wishes I were.

    When I am alone with the Father he fills my tanks.  He gives me the desire to serve him, and then equips me with the love, the wisdom, the grace to do it. I don’t have to manufacture love—he gives it to me.  I don’t have to say, “It’s not about me,” through gritted teeth.  He gives me joy to sing it aloud.

    Can it really be that straightforward?  Can the key to becoming more like him be as simple as spending time with him?  Then why do I make it so hard?

    Answer me that, and you’re my hero for life.

    Come with me, my friend.  Commit to spending the time with him to let him mold you, shape you—the Potter and the clay, Baby.  Then we will have the strength to bear the crosses he gives us.

    The big ones.

    And the little ones.

     

     

     

     

  • The Gospel According to Popeye

    number 1As a child, I used to skip church to watch Popeye cartoons.

    Go ahead…judge away.

    In all fairness to my 10-year-old self, it wasn’t just Popeye.  It was the whole Popeye and Friends show, featuring George of the Jungle and Super Chicken.  This was, as far as I know, the only place to see Super Chicken and his sidekick Fred, and they were well worth seeing.  And the show was hosted by Tom Hatten, who took little squiggles that kids drew and turned them into cool cartoons.

    Up against all that, church didn’t stand much of a chance.  I guess you could say that my walk with Christ lacked a certain intensity in those days.

    I did, however, gain an important piece of wisdom from my bandy-legged, spinach-munching hero.  It was a Scripture verse, though I didn’t realize it at the time.

    And you didn’t even realize that Popeye the Sailor Man was a believer, did you?

    Popeye’s verse—I’m assuming his life verse, went like this:

    “I yam what I yam and that’s all what I yam.”

    I’m sure you recognize this as a slightly, uh, personalized form of 1 Corinthians 15:10a, which reads, “But by the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace to me was not without effect.”

    This verse has been popping into my head a lot recently.  It’s Paul speaking, and he has just finished telling folks that he considers himself the least of the apostles. He says he doesn’t even consider himself worthy to be called an apostle, yet he recognizes that God is still at work in him and through him.

    Hmmm…

    There are various aspects of my personality with which I have been struggling for years.  You know, character traits that just aren’t part of who I want to be.  As I pull 40 with a longer and longer rope, I’ve been starting to wonder if I will ever win the Battle of Michael.

    Here are a few lessons that have arisen from my ponderings.  I doubt that they apply to you, since from the look of it you’ve got it all together.  Still, you’ve read this far; might as well finish…

    First, I have to stop trying to fundamentally change my character.  If I’m to believe God—and if I’m not, what’s the point of all this—then I am fearfully and wonderfully made.  God formed me and knew me in the womb.  He is shaping me as the potter shapes the clay.  Each aspect of my personality was chosen for me by the One who loves me most.  To try to change that—to try to be someone other than the one he has created—is sort of a slap in his face.  It’s telling him that his plan is not good enough, that his creation is not good enough.  Time to accept that I yam what I yam.

    Second, character traits are neither good nor bad…they just are.  A sharp blade can be a tool of evil in the hand of a murderer.  It can be an instrument of healing in the hand of a surgeon.  The same is true of our personalities; each aspect can be used for harm or help, depending upon who is doing the using.

    The character that produces temper by the flesh produces Godly passion when submitted to the Holy Spirit.

    By the same Spirit, weakness becomes gentleness

    Laziness becomes contentment

    Legalism becomes the pursuit of Truth

    Stubbornness becomes strength

    Sarcasm becomes insight

    The loner becomes independent

    The needy, clingy person becomes a faithful friend

    The brutally honest person speaks the truth in love

    The perfectionist seeks excellence for the glory of God.

    The difference?  God’s grace.

    It’s always his grace.

    Which brings me to the third thing I’ve realized: God’s grace is at work in me.  I am God’s workmanship (Ephesians 2:210), and he who began this work will carry it on to completion (Philippians 1:6).  Until that day comes, I have to rest in the fact that I yam what I yam.  This is not an excuse; it’s an acknowledgement.  I will fail sometimes, not because I’m a failure, but because I’m learning and growing and trying.  So sometimes I will fall.

    Sometimes I will stand.

    I will never win the Battle of Michael.  And I don’t have to.  God has already won it; my job is to walk in that victory. I am who I am.

    I will never be perfect.

    I will always be his.

    Happy Monday, Beloved.

  • Poser

    number 1I teach Middle Schoolers—perhaps the biggest bunch of walking insecurities ever to grace the planet.  So concerned with the approval of others, so lost as to their own identity.  I am many years and many miles removed from Middle School.

    Mostly.

     

    Poser

    I care so much what you all think of me.

    Too much, really

    I stand before you as I would a mirror

    Trying to show my best side

    Hide my flaws

    I pose

    It’s what I do

    What I am

    If I let you see what is really in me you will run

    As well you should

    So you see only what I would show you

    Part of me

    The part that does not bring shame

    The part that looks worthy and right and good.

    “Oh Lord, you have searched me and you know me.”

    On Sunday I’m OK with that

    On Friday…not so much

    They are potent words.

    Terrifying words

    Healing words

    Saving words

    Words I am not brave enough to embrace.

    To be known is…dangerous

    Vulnerable

    So I ape a form that is not mine, and strike a posture that I hope is convincing.

    I like the pose—it is wise and good and Godly and not me.

    I pray that someday my form will fit this pose I take

    That I will become

    The man I pretend to be.

  • The Accidental Witness—Part Two

    number 1Yesterday, I discussed the idea of witnessing by accident.  If you missed that post, you would be best off to go and read it, then come back to this one.  Otherwise, this current story will have a less profound impact on your life, and we wouldn’t want that, now would we?

    Ready? Let’s go…

    Romania, 1990.  I was on a mission trip, and had the opportunity to preach.  It was a brutally humbling experience, during which I learned that the word “gypsy,” while innocuous in the West, is a full-blown racial slur in Romania.

    Oops.

    In any case, after the service a young man about my age came up to me and introduced himself as Ovidiu.  He spoke creditable English, and asked if he could show me around the city.  Anxious to escape the whispers and stares caused by my inadvertent racial epithet, I jumped at the chance.  Off we went.

    The two of us spent several hours sightseeing and conversing.  Ovidiu told me about life in Romania, and how it had changed since the fall of the dictator Nicolai Ceausescu (which had occurred just three months before my visit).  I told my new friend about my life in America, and how God was at work, not only in my country, but in me.

    That evening, we returned for the evening church service, where I managed to bring greetings without causing an international incident.  After I finished, the pastor took over.  At the end of his message, the pastor gave an altar call, and my new friend came forward to accept Christ.

    My new friend who I thought was already a believer.

    I had assumed I was fellowshipping; it seems I was witnessing.

    Later, we talked, and Ovidiu explained the situation.  His mother was a member of this church, and was constantly trying to get her son “saved.”  He had no interest in such things.  She had finally persuaded him to come to church that morning to see the American speak.  Ovidiu had invited me to go sightseeing, not for fellowship, but simply to practice his English.  During our time together, Ovidiu had listened to me talk of Christ.  “You made it sound so normal, so natural,” he said to me.  “You made me think that it might really be true.”

    Praise God that I didn’t know I was witnessing to Ovidiu.  If I had, I probably would have driven him miles away from God with Christianese and lofty blather.

    Because I’ve done that too, you know.

    Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not saying that we shouldn’t witness on purpose.  I’m just saying that we should speak normally to people about our life with Jesus.  Witnessing is not an isolated action; it’s the overflow of our lives.  If my vocabulary changes because I am suddenly “witnessing,” then there’s something seriously wrong with either how I speak about Christ, or how I speak in my everyday life.  In the end, the way we live–our day in, day out approach to the challenges and the people around us–says more about our faith than any words we speak.

    Especially when we use the wrong words completely.

    Lest you think I am being a bit heavy today, let me finish with a story about how my wife inadvertently started a cult.  Once upon a time, she who would someday be Wife of My Heart was a new Christian on a missions trip to Mexico.  She was talking to a little boy, trying to tell him about the love of Christ.  My bride’s love for God is amazing; her command of Spanish, less so.  She told the boy that Jesus died for his sins, but the boy seemed puzzled.  She repeated her message; he looked at her strangely, but listened.

    In Spanish, “Pecado” means, “sin.”

    In Spanish, “Pescado” means, “fish.”

    I picture this little boy going home and telling his family of the angel who appeared to him to tell him of Christ’s love for the family goldfish.  I see the word spreading through the land, and a whole new understanding of bumper sticker fishes coming to light.

    O.K., so I guess words are important, too.

  • The Accidental Witness

    number 1“You know, a couple of weeks ago I really hated your guts!”

    Lovely.

    Several questions hit my mind all at once.

    “Why did this person hate my guts a couple of weeks ago?”

    “Why does this person no longer hate my guts?”

    “Why does this person feel the need to tell me this in line at the supermarket?”

    “Who is this person?”

    I see that some backstory is required here.  I was nineteen years old, and working at a grocery store.  My shift was over, and I was standing in line waiting to buy tasty snacks.  The woman behind me began to speak to me, and she opened her conversation with the aforementioned,

    “You know, a couple of weeks ago I really hated your guts!”

    There.  Now you are up to speed, and only as confused as I was at the time.  Remember, I was only nineteen.  I would not be a middle school teacher (and thus immune to such remarks) for many years yet.

    Fortunately, the woman continued speaking, and allowed me to figure out what was going on.  You see, I had recently become a Christian, and I was pretty excited about my new life.  She had been a Christian for many years, but had turned away from God.  Somehow, life had harmed her, and she had blamed it on God.  This had turned into anger, and bitterness, and separation.

    One day she had found herself in my checkout line at the grocery store.  As she waited, she heard me “chattering” (her word) with a friend from church, who was also in line.   As she put it, “You were so stinking happy about God, I wanted to puke!”

    That’s customer service, right there.  You don’t get vomit inducements at just any store.

    She went on to explain that, though I was oblivious, God had begun to work in her at that moment.  She spent several days hating me, even cursing me (delightful!) for being such a “Ninny” (again, her word).  Then, slowly, she began to deal with Jesus.

    And He with her.

    Now she was standing behind me in line, thanking me for helping to bring her back to Christ.

    Uh…no problem.

    If you are a follower of Jesus Christ, you are His witness.

    Every day.

    All the time.

    Like it.

    Or not.

    Trust me; the above episode did not fill me with pride.  On the contrary, even thinking about it now gives me the willies.  Because really, here’s the question: How many times has God done that?  Or how many times has he tried, but I wasn’t cooperating?  For all the occasions when I have bumblingly “witnessed” to people, how often has it been my life that overrode my words—for good or for ill?

    I have another story of being an “accidental witness,” but it will have to wait for tomorrow.  For now, I’ll leave you with this question: Are you living your life in a way that proclaims Christ, even when you’re not “proclaiming Christ?”

    In short, Beloved, are you an accidental witness?

  • The List

    number 1It happens every time.

    Whenever I get some time off, I immediately think of all the things I have to get done during my time off.  I want to be organized—knowing that organization is key to any successful endeavor—so I create it.

    The List.

    It does not come into being quickly.  The List takes time. It must be carefully thought out, organized, prioritized.  The list is fluid, growing and evolving through the first hours and days of freedom.  One does not simply jot The List down on a scrap of paper with pencil or pen or crayon—no, Friend, that would be unworthy of such a document.  The List must be crafted on the computer, because computers are important and efficient.  Things happen when you use a computer.  Things like checking Facebook and playing solitaire, which appear frivolous but are in fact essential to the free flow of ideas and inspiration.

    One must consider all aspects of life when creating The List.   There are household issues—cleaning, organizing, repairing.  For example, #35 on my current list reads, “Reclaim garage from a year of neglect and failed projects.” There are family items, like “Have quality time with kids,” and “Reclaim marriage from a year of neglect and failed projects.”  Then of course we have personal goals covering things like writing (#2, “Write a bunch of blog posts so that I’m not always three days behind and writing in a blind panic,”) and exercise (#17, “Reclaim body from a year of neglect and failed projects.”)

    It is crucial to develop the list carefully, because it will define my time off.  I have to see, in great detail, just what I will fail to accomplish during my vacation.  You see, there is a very powerful, predictable pattern at work whenever I make a list.  For example, let’s say that I have a week off, and the list already created.  The days will go something like this:

    Day 1 Rest, nap in my chair, and read fluff.  After all, God commands us to rest, and I wouldn’t want to upset him right at the beginning of my vacation.

    Day 2 Accomplish many things that are not on the list.  These would be things like laundry and dishes, which do not have to be done today, but will give me a sense of quick gratification at my ability to accomplish, as well as allowing for cheap shots at my family for not having done these things already.

    Day 3 Go to the hardware store and buy lots of materials with which to attack the most difficult, and least likely to be accomplished, item on The List.  Like, say, “Build an underground bomb shelter/game room.”

    Day 4 Admit that the weather, geological conditions, and my general lack of skills and training render the Day 3 project undoable.  Go play, because, hey you can’t work all the time, right?

    Day 5 Make one of the phone calls on the phone call section of The List.  Leave a message.  Retire to my chair for many hours while waiting for the phone call to be returned, because I wouldn’t want to miss that important call while I was off doing something else.  That would be inefficient.

    Day 6 Realize that my vacation is almost over and that I have accomplished nothing of value.  Check The List to verify that elves have not come in the night to finish everything on my behalf.  “Pad” The List with items I would have done anyway—like “trim toenails”—to create the impression that I am really a powerhouse.  Do the heavy mental lifting to conclude that, if I worked nonstop for the remainder of my time off, I could not achieve half of what is on The List.  Get twitchy and frustrated and take said frustration out in passive aggressive attacks on my family, prompting them to dream of the day I go back to work.

    Day 7 One of two things happens at this point.  Either I continue in the path of frustration and stress, causing my family to devise plans for an “accident” to claim the insurance money, or I get a grip.  Getting a grip involves looking at Scripture and reading passages such as

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

    And

    Now listen, you who say, “Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money.”  Why, you don’t even know what will happen tomorrow…Instead, you ought to say, “If it is the Lord’s will, we will live and do this or that.” James 4:13-15

    Should I refrain from making lists?  No, it’s good for me to plan and try to use my time effectively.  But I need to remember that The List is not The Lord.  It’s OK if I don’t get it all done; in fact, it’s guaranteed that I won’t.  (As my son points out, I add two things to The List for every one that I cross off.)

    What I need to do is remember that my time is His time.  Every day, every moment is a gift, and I should spend it accordingly.  That might eliminate a little of the fluff, and help me to accomplish what is really important.

    Like solitaire…I’m getting really good at solitaire…

  • Family Worship

    number 1I am Husband.  I am Father.  I am called by God to be the spiritual leader in my home.  It’s one of those callings I have received, of which I want to live a life worthy.  Of.

    So I make plans to have Family Worship.  You know, a time to read Scripture, pray, discuss, and sing together as a family.  It is a great plan, and I am a great planner, and it never seems to work.

    I can envision it perfectly.  We begin shortly after dinner.  Everyone is home, the family is settling down for the night—it’s our own private vespers.  I play a little guitar, and my family is transported to the very throne room of God.  Then we read the Bible, and I expound upon the mysteries of Truth as my children sit, awestruck at their father’s wisdom, and my bride silently weeps with the knowledge that this spiritual Atlas is her soul mate.  As we pray, we are drawn, singly and corporately, closer to the Lord.  In nations around the globe, lives change and darkness is pushed back…

    It’s a really good vision.

    Pretty much better than the reality.

    See, the reality is that we seldom begin Family Worship until bedtime or well after bedtime.  You may recall that I get unreasonable after a certain hour—that’s about the time we usually start.  There’s no time for music, so we just pray, and it ends up being pretty rote.  Occasionally I’ll read Scripture—it takes about thirty minutes to make it through four lines because I am unreasonable and sleepy and because we have raised homeschoolers who like to actually understand what they read.

    When the kids were little, we used to all climb up on the bed together for Family Worship. It was cuddly.  These days we are all larger than we used to be, so we end up cramped and cross.  We jostle each other and jockey for position. Holding hands is always entertaining, with teenage siblings in the mix.

    At about this time the dog usually comes wandering in to lick any exposed feet, which transports you back from the Throne Room really quickly.  If the offended flesh happens to belong to one of my ladies, screaming and leaping ensues.  Meditation is replaced by pandemonium, and lives are not changed so much as threatened.

    And yet…

    I’ve got to figure that God is more pleased with our pathetic attempts than with my glorious visions.  We are a real family—frighteningly, annoyingly real—and I know that’s a priority for God. I’m not saying we can’t do better, because I know we can.  He deserves our prime time, not our leftovers. Still, we bring him what we have, and who we are, and he does not turn us away.

    As a Dad, I want to be a better leader.  I want to inspire my family, and, frankly, impress them with my spiritual manliosity.  It doesn’t often work out that way.  I’ve heard leadership described like this: If you think you are a leader, take a look behind you.   If someone is following, then you are leading.  If not, then you are just out for a walk.

    I look back, and they’re still with me.  So, for better or for worse, I am the spiritual leader of my family.  I will do all I can to do it right, and I will drink deeply of grace.

    I’m not pleased with our worship. Praise God, he is.

  • A Letter to My Children About Homosexuality

    heartsHey Kids,

    There has been a lot of hullabaloo in the news lately over same sex marriage.  Many people–even some Christians–are lauding the recent Supreme Court ruling as a triumph for equality.  The slogan “Love Wins” is, basically, everywhere.  Those who oppose gay marriage are responding, at times with malice.  In most arenas, sober, mature discussion has been blasted aside by venom and sarcasm.  At the ripe old age of sixteen, you may find it tough to navigate your way through a society that so strongly disagrees with what you’ve been taught.

    Maybe I can help.

    It will come as no shock to you that I don’t have all the answers.

    But I do have a few.

    Maybe four.

    Here they are.

    1. God says that homosexuality is wrong.

    Yes, he does.  As people of God, you can’t back away from that fact.

    Now, there are three kinds of folks you might find yourself in a conversation with on this subject.  The first is the Christian who agrees with you.  Don’t argue with this guy.  He’s already on your side.  The second is the person who doesn’t believe in God, or who doesn’t trust the Bible.  Frankly, there’s not much you’re going to say that will convince him that homosexuality is sin.  At the moment, he has bigger spiritual fish to fry.  We’ll talk more about him in a bit.

    It’s the third guy you need to be ready for.  He is under the deception that homosexuality isn’t really a sin.  He may have weak contextual arguments from Scripture; he may simply argue that God is a fan of love in any and all forms.  This guy is dangerous.  And he is wrong.

    Genesis 19.  Sodom and Gomorrah.  You know the story.  It’s the text that most people go to when addressing this subject, and for good reason.  God destroys two entire cities for rampant sin…the sin of homosexuality.  Jude confirms this in his letter to the believers, and 2 Peter addresses it as well.  In Romans, Paul declares homosexuality to be unnatural, and a result of Man’s abandonment of God.  And, of course, in Leviticus God clearly calls homosexuality “detestable.”

    Yes, there are people who will argue with all of these examples, but frankly their arguments don’t hold up to a straightforward reading of the text and the application of some good old common sense.  Don’t take my word–or anyone else’s–for it–study the Scripture for yourself.

    Let God be true, and every man a liar (Romans 3:4).

    1. The World doesn’t want to hear it.

    When I was in college, a buddy and I decided to campaign for the office of God.  We argued that there should be term limits on deity, and that the time had come for fresh ideas.

    We were joking…mostly.

    The fact of it is, though we didn’t realize it, we were demonstrating a pretty ancient mindset. In Genesis, God said, “Let us make man in our image.”  For the rest of history, man has been saying, “Let us make God in our image.”  You see, most people don’t really believe that God exists–not as an actual person.  They see him as a philosophy, a societal construct that we use to teach right and wrong. As such, God can be reinvented, or thrown out entirely, to suit the current fashion.  That’s why you hear phrases like, “Well, I could never believe in a God that…”  Seriously, can you imagine any real person you would discuss like that?  “I could never believe in a Grandmother who was a terrible cook.”  Really?  I had one.  Your lack of belief did not make your great-granny’s Imitation Crab Casserole any less nasty, or my indigestion any less uncomfortable.

    In the absence of a God who is a real person, people are free to make up their own rules.  Society becomes one giant game of Calvinball.

    1. Following God will not make you popular

    If you choose to believe the God of the Bible when it comes to the issue of homosexuality–or any other issue, for that matter–you will encounter grief.  Just gird your loins and get ready for it.  I don’t say this lightly.  You are my kids, and I would love to protect you from every hurt and have the world adore you.  I would choose to see you lauded for your strength and grace and intelligence and Godly character.  But if you stand for truth–and I pray that you do–that ain’t gonna happen.

    People will laugh at you.

    People will call you hateful.

    People will insult your intelligence.

    People will ignore your arguments and attack your person.

    It will hurt.  It will be frustrating.  It will make you want to back down, to make nice and let everyone think you’re spiffy.  But you can not.  You must not.  Because…

    1. You have an enemy…but he isn’t gay.

    When someone ignores the truth, when someone mocks God, when someone attacks you for your beliefs, it is easy to see him as an enemy.

    But he’s not your enemy.

    He’s the guy you’re here to rescue.

    Look, I’m no fan of the “victim” mentality, but the fact is that homosexuals are victims.  They have been lied to and preyed upon by society, by politicians, and by the Father of Lies himself–Satan.

    What lies, you ask?  Well, one of them–that God does not call homosexuality sin–we’ve already talked about.  But there is another, even more prevalent issue you need to be ready to address, and it goes like this: Homosexuality is not a choice; people are born that way.  You can’t condemn people for doing what is natural for them.

    Two things:  First, the evidence is still not conclusive–not even close–that homosexuality is genetic, so that argument doesn’t hold as much water as it might.  But what if it is?  What if, just for the sake of discussion, we say that homosexuality is genetic?  Well, then we get to Second.  Second: just because something comes naturally does not make it right, moral, or good.  We live in a fallen world.  The effects of the fall reach even to the genetic level.  There is an established genetic predisposition towards all sorts of addictions, but we don’t encourage the alcoholic, the meth user, or the gambler to “do what comes naturally” to them.  In fact, we encourage them to stand firm and fight their addiction, to transcend the grip of sin in their lives.  We call them, with the help of the Holy Spirit and their brothers and sisters in Christ, to overcome.

    A Christian who is caught up in homosexuality just might be convinced by biblical arguments to leave the lifestyle.  The unbeliever?  Highly unlikely.  So how do you rescue those who don’t see a need for rescue?

    You pray for them.  Not at them, not about them, but for them.  You stand up for them against the rulers and powers of this dark world, against the true enemy of whom they are unaware.

    You listen to them.  Each is a person, not just a sinner.  Each has his or her own story, their own personal struggle.  Treat them accordingly.

    You stand with them.  Don’t lower the bar of righteousness, but don’t beat them with it, either.  How would you respond to a friend who was cutting, or drinking, or cheating, or skipping out on God?  You would tell them the truth, wrapped in love.

    You know, kinda like Jesus did.

     

    I know I’ve droned on for a while here, and there are still plenty of questions I haven’t addressed.  But, like with every aspect of this Dad thing, I’m doing what I can.  Frankly, I would rather wrap you both up in bubble wrap and keep you from all that is dark and warped and icky in the world.  But that’s not what I signed on for when I promised God to raise you for Him.  And I know that is not what would bring you real joy.  Instead, I pray that you will continue to grow, confident in your faith and in your ability to share that faith with a sad and aching world.

    I love you.