Take A Break

One week. 400 miles. Seven schools. Eight assemblies. Three evening programs. Three morning services. One four-hour class. Back-to-school night. Date night. Whew!!

For the first time in too long, I took a breather this morning. I opened my Bible to the Psalms of Ascents—those psalms that ancient Israelites would sing on their pilgrimages to Jerusalem for the annual feasts; psalms that called reminded them of God’s presence, his power, his protection…even their unfaithfulness to him. I was drawn to Psalm 121, the second in this collection:

      I lift up my eyes to the hills.

From where does my help come?

      My help comes from the Lord,

who made heaven and earth.

This morning, I needed to lift up my eyes to the Lord, the source of my help and energy. I was reminded of Jesus’ habit of going off by himself, whether late at night or early in the morning, to spend time with his Father. I don’t do that enough—or well. Those times were not only rejuvenating for him, they also kept him focused on his priorities.

In the first chapter of the gospel according to Mark, we get a glimpse into what I expect was a typical day in Jesus’ life. He comes into a town (Capernaum, verse 21) on the Sabbath and goes into the synagogue to teach. While there, a man with an unclean spirit comes in, whom Jesus proceeds to heal. Afterward, Jesus goes over to his friend Simon’s (for lunch and a nap, perhaps?), where he finds Simon’s mother-in-law in bed with a fever. He heals her. By evening, Simon’s front porch is crowded with the town’s sick and demon-possessed—just the kind of folks you want hanging around the neighborhood, right?! In fact, Mark says, “the whole city was gathered together at the door.” (Mark 1:34) And Jesus, being Jesus, heals them. He casts out a bunch of demons. And then, presumably, he goes to bed.

Early the next morning, Jesus gets up, gets out of town, and prays. This is where it gets hard, particularly for those of us who are doers. The teaching, the healings—those aren’t the hard things; we thrive on the action and, yes, on the attention and affirmation they bring. And they’re good things, important things, even God-honoring things. But Jesus knows what is too easy for me to overlook: the power to do those good and important works comes from the Father, and the power comes through a relationship with him. Not from doing things for him, but from being with him. So Jesus gets alone and prays.

As if this isn’t hard enough, this getting quiet with God, what comes next is almost as amazing to me. Simon and some others track down Jesus and tell him, “Everyone is looking for you.” Undoubtedly, many of the previous evening’s healed patients had gone and told their friends, who gathered in the breaking dawn on Simon’s porch. Some undoubtedly wanted to be healed, but I suspect that many more just wanted to see a healing for themselves. And Jesus’ shocking response is, “Let us go on to the next towns, that I may preach there also, for that is why I came out.”

Did he really say that? Did Jesus—the loving, compassionate, healing son of God—just turn his back on sick people desperate to be made well? Yes. You see, Jesus knew what his mission was: to proclaim the kingdom of God. More than once, Jesus healed for the express purpose of glorifying God (see, for example, John 9). He healed out of compassion and in response to expressions of faith (see Mark 5:25-34). But Jesus’ primary purpose was not to heal; it was to proclaim. Even his great prophecy-fulfilling claim in Luke 4:16ff (cf. Isaiah 61) is not primarily about showing compassion; it is about proclaiming good news.

And so, after a hectic day of teaching and healing, woke early, got alone, and prayed. The time alone with his Father helped him focus on his mission and rejuvenated him for the days ahead: more healings, more people clamoring for a piece of him, more people wanting more from him than just the truth.

Our days are busy and hectic. Work, kids, school, chores, spouse…all clamor for a piece of us until we feel we need to run away screaming! But don’t wait that long. Get some time away where you can be quiet before God and just soak in his presence. It’s not always easy, especially if you’re not in the habit. You may need to start small: seven minutes in the car before you walk into work; or thirty minutes in a coffee shop once a week. Read Psalm 121 (or Psalm 131—it’s even shorter!) and reflect on God’s help. Lift your eyes and heart to God.

Then do it again. Tomorrow, the next day, next week (but don’t wait too long). Make it a habit. Get time alone, quietly, regularly, with God. Soon seven minutes will not be long enough; once a week will not be often enough. But I know that as you do this, you will become refreshed and will be able to refocus on what God has in store for you.

God is in the Details

Have you ever wondered if God was concerned about the details of your life? Maybe you – like me – have been fairly certain he was at work only in the big things, like marriage, health, job, and family. Two weeks ago, God blew me away with his attention to the little things!


Nineteen people from our church were in Rosarito, Mexico, to build a new home for a family. It had been a great week: deepening relationships within our team, making new friends with the family and, of course, the completed home. The family had even slept in it the night before we finished, and told us Thursday morning that it was their first night of warmth and no water dripping on them! That evening we all had joy-filled spirits as we crowded around a taco shop anticipating a delicious and very authentic meal on our last night in Rosarito. Then…


Someone broke into one of our trucks and stole my backpack and a money pouch holding three passports; the backpack had two more passports, a laptop, an iPod, a cell phone, and a few smaller things. My heart sunk. I was strangely unconcerned about the electronics, but the passports – three of them for minors – were going to be a problem. It had been a great week and I knew Satan was just trying to steal back some of the glory that God had gotten. Still, I was suddenly under a heavy weight of despair, and I sensed it settling onto our team, too.


Leaders are supposed to show confidence in crisis, right? But how could I do that? “Fake it till you make it?” Lousy theology, but perhaps sometimes necessary. As we finished eating I said something to one person, then another, and eventually it became my mantra: This is just another opportunity for God to reveal himself. I confess that that was definitely more a statement of hope than of faith, but I clung desperately to it. All week we’d been looking for and talking about how we’d seen God show up; why not now? Why not in this?


The rest of the evening, for six of us, was spent with Amor Ministries staff, Mexican police, and on the phone, filing reports and arranging for other identification to help us get back across the border. Friday morning dawned bright and clear, and as our team began to wake up, we got a phone call from Pastor David back at home: four of the five stolen passports had been found by an American in Tijuana! We quickly gathered the team to celebrate and thank God! As we stood in a circle and prayed, tears of dumbfound joy choked my words. I could barely mutter a brief, “thank you” to God, then let loose with a primal scream! (A few minutes later we learned that the fifth passport – just a card – was also found!)


The mood in camp changed from pensive and uncertain wondering to jubilation and excitement. We really had seen God work! But he wasn’t done yet….


We made arrangements with our own good Samaritan, CP, to meet in Tijuana to pick up the passports he’d found the previous evening. I was driving the last truck and got stopped at a light just before turning into the parking lot. By the time I pulled in, Dan had already met CP and was walking toward me, holding up a plastic grocery bag and saying, “here they are.” It struck me as an awfully large bag for a few passports. When I got out and looked closer, God just hit me again! There in the bag were a book about Amor Ministries that I had just purchased, a stack of papers, and the money pouch. A very thick money pouch. As I opened that, those choking tears returned: my calculator, digital recorder, checkbook(!), church keys, spare trailer keys, hand lotion…all those things that I thought were too inconsequential to worry about, that I had hardly mentioned to the police, that I neither expected nor particularly cared whether they were returned…God cared about.


In reality, I’m not sure that God cared about those things nearly as much as he cared to show me that he’s not too big for the little stuff.


Oh, and that statement of hope? (“Another opportunity for God to reveal himself.”) Well, he did – in little ways that proved very large, indeed.

Resurrection Stories

He is risen! He is risen indeed!


Peter's Story

Fear bred denial.
Denial gave way to loss.
Loss brought forth doubt, disillusionment, confusion.
Then, a glimmer of hope…but only a glimmer.

Mary came running, breathlessly exclaiming “I’ve seen the Lord!”

Could it be? Fear mingles now with a breath of hope, and suddenly, there he is! No turn of the key, no opening of the door – he’s just…there!

A greeting of peace; a cryptic breath about the Holy Spirit, and then…more waiting.

A day passes. Another. Six days, and we’re beginning to think it was just the shock of the crucifixion; that we hadn’t really seen him at all. But then again, just as before, he’s there with us!

Again, the greeting: “Peace be with you.” This time he focuses on Thomas, who didn’t believe we’d seen him – and whose doubt we were beginning to carry, to be honest with you. He invites Thomas to touch his scars; he holds his hands out to all of us, but we believe…at least, I think we do.

It’s been a while now, though. The days pass as in a fog. Was that it? Is it all over now? What happens next? What do we do?

We stayed in the house for a while – partly from fear of the Jews and the Romans, and partly because that’s where He has shown himself twice before. But as the days pass we’ve begun to venture out more. Finally the monotony is too much. We have to do something. I have to do something. “I’m going fishing.”

“We’ll go with you.”

Seven of us, fishermen all, prepare the boat. It feels good to be back on the water, back among the nets and ropes and smells that I grew up with. To hear the creak of the oars in their locks, the gentle lapping of the water at the hull.

But something doesn’t seem quite right. I’ve been in this boat a thousand times, spent hours beyond count on this very lake, but something’s different. Something’s wrong, but I just can’t put my finger on it.

The night – and the nets – drag on, each as empty as the other. Have the fish moved? Have I forgotten so quickly the best spots? We’ve tried the deeps and the shallows, the coves and the open waters, all to no avail. But the nagging sense that I – not just the boat, but I myself – am in the wrong place tempers what frustration I should be feeling at the futility of our night’s efforts.

And then, with a faint glimmer of sun barely visible over the low eastern hills, a voice comes from the near shore: “Children, do you have any fish to eat?”

“No.”

“Cast the net on the right side of the boat, and you will find some.”

There’s something familiar about that voice, those words. Too tired to argue, to hungry to not try, we haul in the empty nets from the port side and throw them to the starboard. Scarcely have they hit the water before they fairly drag the boat backward. Fish!

Straining against the sudden weight, John, always the perceptive one, always the first to recognize, identifies the stranger on the shore: “It’s the Lord!” he gasps.

With an eagerness that surprises even me, I grab my cloak and dive in, half swimming, half wading the hundred yards. I need to see him, to hold him, to have just two minutes alone with him. What will he say? The last time our eyes met was when that rooster crowed; in the house I couldn’t look at him, though I felt his gaze burning into my soul.

------------------------ 

Our Story 

Denial. Doubt. Disillusionment.

They weigh us down like an anchor. In spite of our calling to something new, we retreat to the comfort of the old and familiar. But something doesn’t feel right anymore. If we’re lucky (or perceptive), we realize that we can’t go back. I remember the pain of that realization the Christmas after graduating from high school. Six months after leaving, I was back at home…and surprised to learn that life had gone on quite well without me.

But Peter’s absence wasn’t just from home or family or job. He had left those things three years earlier, but his triple denial had separated him even from the One for whom he had abandoned all.

The doubt and disillusionment may be with Jesus – or it may be with ourselves. Like Peter, our doubt may be about our own unworthiness to serve the master. Will he really accept me, after I denied him? Can he really forgive me?

But as with Peter, the master – Jesus – stands by the shore and calls to us. Hungry as we are for purpose and meaning and love, he waits for us with a warm fire and a meal of grace. Whether we dive in to get to him
or row patiently, ploddingly, he waits, ready.

No matter how – or how often – we have denied him, Jesus forgives.
It is not an easy forgiveness, for Jesus or for us. It cost him his life; it costs us our pride…and our lives, “For whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will save it.” (Lk 9:24)

And it is not a painless forgiveness, for Jesus or for us. He suffered untold horrors on his way to buying our redemption. For our part, we would just as soon move on from our denial – to leave it in the past and forget it there.  But Jesus won’t allow that; as Michael Card writes:

Jesus is not only the perfect Savior; he is also the perfect Friend. And here he demonstrates perfectly what friendship entails. He has commanded [the disciples] to forgive; now he will perfectly demonstrate it. His painful questions are meant to restore Peter to his proper place. Painful as the questions are, they are an expression of Jesus’ creative forgiveness. Jesus’ questions open a wound in Peter’s soul, a wound that can be tended to and healed only by being reopened. (Michael Card, A Fragile Stone, pp. 124-5)

This morning as we celebrate Jesus’ resurrection, his victory over death, we also invite the pain of his healing forgiveness. As symbols of the pain he endured to purchase that forgiveness, we share together the bread and wine of communion, the Lord's Supper.

“Do you love me more than these?”
            Eat my body.

“Do you love me?”
            Drink my blood.

“Do you love me?”
            Follow me.

With each question, the surgeon’s knife cut more deeply into Peter’s pain.
With each answer, the infection of his denials is removed.
With each new commission, Jesus sutures the wounds, reassuring Peter - and us - of his forgiveness and acceptance.

Today, this Easter morning, accept Jesus’ forgiveness.
Today, join in the resurrection story by accepting the new life that only Jesus can offer.

Bell's Hell

If there is anything that evangelical Christians are good at, it is throwing kerosene on a campfire. More often than not, those campfires - at first only warming the toes of a few folks partaking of random fireside conversations around questions that few take seriously - leap into wildfires that ultimately and indiscriminately consume thousands of acres of thoughtful (and some thoughtless) men and women. But as wildfires are wont to do, they ultimately burn themselves out, leaving significant but temporary destruction in their wake; destruction that in time is all but invisible.

Such will be the fate, I think, of the campfire musings of Rob Bell's latest book, Love Wins: A Book About Heaven, Hell, and the Fate of Every Person Who Ever Lived. It may be that there is more readily-available fuel - and a larger gathering of campers - around Bell's campfire than some of the others in my memory ("The Last Temptation of Christ," Proctor & Gamble's supposed satanic influences, Walt Disney's occasional forays into dens of iniquity). Still, I think, the fire would consume itself soon enough were it not for the supply of kerosene-loaded extinguishers aimed by evangelical firefighters.

Some will claim that this is different - bigger - than earlier fires. They will say that his campfire is fueled by the flames of the very hell he reportedly denies. The result, I fear, will be two-fold: first, those who are asking the very questions that Bell raises will be driven not to the Source of the Answers, but to Bell's book of questions. The fear here is that if (IF) Bell's answers are, at best, insufficient and, at worst, unbiblical, then those who rely on them truly are in mortal and eternal danger.

Second, those who are not inclined to ask these questions will be driven neither to Bell's book nor to The Book. Huddled together around the dying embers of their own campfire of second-hand faith, they will have neither the light nor the fuel to invite in and warm those who are shivering under the blanket of universalism.

Rob Bell dares to voice the questions that so many in this sin-depraved world are asking:

• "Does God punish people for thousands of years with infinite, eternal torment for things they did in their few finite years of life?"
• "If there are only a select few who go to heaven, which is more terrifying to fathom: the billions who burn forever or the few who escape this fate?"
• "What happens when a fifteen-year-old atheist dies?"
• "So is it true that the kind of person you are doesn't ultimately matter, as long as you've said or prayed or believed the right things?"

There was a time in my life when I would pass off questions like these with a wave of the hand and a trite, childish, "for the Bible tells me so"-kind of answer. As if just asking the questions somehow betrayed a hellish eternity for the questioner. In the last few years, I have been - by God's grace alone - growing out of that spiritual arrogance (and whatever ignorance it accompanies). I am increasingly intrigued by, and invited into, such questions. The source of answers for me remains the Bible, yet I recognize that the answers are found not in a few memorized but out-of-context verses, but rather in the "whole counsel of Scripture."

There's a very memorable scene in the 1992 film, "A Few Good Men." A young Navy attorney (played by Tom Cruise) is challenging a Marine colonel (Jack Nicholson) about the death of a private under the colonel's command. "I want the truth" demands the attorney. "You can't handle the truth!" shouts back the colonel.

Whether intentional or not, Love Wins is an invitation to all to pursue truth. The question with which you must wrestle - whether you are among the convinced, the skeptics, or the seekers - is, can you handle the truth?

Re:Entry

Mud was still dropping from our trucks as we pulled into Eiley’s folks’ driveway at noon on Thanksgiving Day. Most of us hadn’t showered in a week; many hadn’t slept well in as long. Some were recovering from colds while others were trying to fight them off. The lure of a hot shower, the enticement of a Jacuzzi, the promise of a bountiful Thanksgiving dinner beckoned us out of the wind, rain, dirt, and poverty of the hills east of Tijuana.

The contrast was poignant, and I wondered if we would feast into oblivion all that God had done in us over the past week. iPods and cell phones came out; football games were tuned in on the High Definition TV; kids lost themselves on Grandpa’s computer and the Wii.

The return was too easy for me, too. My computer came out as I began transferring 1,200 pictures from camera to laptop. Then I noticed a simple e-mail from my Mom: “We do not learn from experience. We learn from reflecting upon experience.” And surrounded by the aromas of turkey and stuffing and a table full of desserts, I reflected on what God had done in us and through us….

• A family that two weeks before leaving was ready to quit had heard God ask, “Do you trust me?” – and two days into Mexico they were planning for the next trip!
• A 10-year-old realizing that the campfires and tents that kept us relatively warm and dry were more than many families had in the communities we saw.
• A high school student gaining a sense of God’s purpose and direction for his life.
• A college student recognizing God’s transforming work in her own life – and being moved to pray for the same for her family.
• A family – from 77-year-old grandpa to 1-year-old baby – has a new, warm, dry house to call home.

Even as I write this, tears of gratitude are welling up. My prayers – your prayers – were answered beyond all we could have asked or imagined!

The Other Face of 9/11

On Saturday, across the US - and in many other parts of the world - people remembered the fateful day nine years ago when terrorists hijacked four airplanes and brought a nation to its knees. The remembrances took a variety of forms, ranging from moments of personal silence to gatherings of noisy protest. There were prayers and patriotism, flags and fights. Names of the nearly 3,000 people who lost their lives were read. It is right to remember this day. It is a national tragedy, but one that - if only for a moment - brought the world to our doorstep in shared pain and grief.

And yet a pall has shrouded our nation these past years - a pall not merely of just sorrow, but of enmity; a pall that has not been felt since the last "day that will live in infamy." And this pall shields from us another face to 9/11. This other face also has seen the death of thousands; it is the face of more thousands of survivors mourning the loss of husbands and wives, sons and daughters, sisters and brothers. But for this other face, the havoc was wreaked not on one fateful morning to be remembered by the world; no, for these thousands, death and destruction came more individually in the incessant bursts and bombs of the wars that have ensued over the past nine years. That many of the lost were active combatants - whether soldier or suicide bomber - does not mitigate the grief that their kin must feel. That so many who have lost their lives were as innocent as the World Trade Center victims heightens both the grief of the survivors and their anger at being dragged into someone else's war; feelings shared by our own friends and neighbors.

In some cultures, the day after Christmas is set aside to box up the festal leftovers and serve them to the less fortunate; after celebrating, sharing with those who have little to celebrate. Perhaps we need a day set aside after 9/11 to remember this other face of that day; after mourning our own loss, to share in the mourning of theirs.

Case Dismissed

I went to traffic court today, intent on fighting a ticket I received six months ago. I had done exactly what the officer said: failed to stop at a stop sign. My defense was that I never saw the sign or any other markings at the unlit, unusually wide intersection. I even had photos I’d taken with my cell phone to prove how dark it was.

I never got the chance to state my case. God stepped in, answering my prayer that the officer wouldn’t show up, and the judge said two of the most beautiful words in the English language: “Case dismissed.”

And that got me thinking about The Judgment Day I’ve been hearing about since I was a little kid. The one with movies but no popcorn, where all the sins of your whole life are shown in high definition for everyone to see. It seems strange that they’d have movies like that in heaven, but that’s another rabbit trail.

It seems that I’ve always heard two variations of how Judgment Day will be, at least for followers of Jesus: after the movie, either God declares the star Not Guilty because Jesus wiped the script clean, or else God rules Guilty but notes that Jesus already paid the price, so you get a free pass into heaven anyway.

Today gave a new twist to the ending. What if God simply declares, “Case dismissed”? You and I still know we’re really guilty, but The Accuser (that would be Satan) is a no-show at the courthouse. Kind of like the woman caught in adultery after all the stone-throwers have walked away; Jesus asks, “where are your accusers?” and she says, “they’ve left.” Case dismissed. Don’t sin anymore.