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Permission to Cry

I’d lost my job in mid-November but within just three weeks was talking with a young, growing Christian organization that needed a Chief Operating Officer. The timing, the role, the vision – everything seemed to be moving in the right direction. I was excited, Eiley was excited; there was hope. Then, just two weeks before I was to start, I got a call from the President: “We’re going to stop the process. We don’t think you’re the right fit.” I was crushed. Hope shattered into despair. I lay in the dark on my living room floor. For two hours I cried out desperately to God.  “Why? Am I not good enough? Why? Why? Why?!”  Sometimes words were washed away in a flood of tears and groans. I wept for God’s presence as much as his answers. He seemed silent, distant, uncaring. And I found myself in an unfamiliar place, standing on the precipice of a monumental choice: to abandon the God I’d known my whole life, or to cling ever more tightly to One who seemed to have abandoned me. A fam
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Is Forgiveness Enough?

In Mark 2:1-13, four men bring a paralyzed man to Jesus to be healed. It was hard work (have you ever tried to carry a man on a litter?) and when they got to the house where Jesus was staying, their work got even harder because the crowd wouldn't let them in. So they did what any desperate, loving, enterprising friends would do: climbed the home's outside steps, dug through the thatch-and-earth roof, and lowered their friend down on the mat.  Picture yourself in the house while this is going on: it's small (let's say 25' square) and cramped with people sitting all around - on benches, a table, the floor. It's hot, with the warm stench of sweaty bodies permeating the still air. What cooling breeze might otherwise come through the open window and door is being blocked by the bodies crowding both openings, straining to hear the words of the itinerant preacher/healer. You strain to hear his words over the din of voices outside as they repeat short phrases to b
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Jesus in the Waiting Room

Waiting rooms, I’ve found, can be awkward places to start up conversations. The occupants are usually in the midst of something difficult, so the typical small talk seems out of place. Even casual questions like, what are you here for? can be too prying, or bring painful emotions to the surface. And the waiting room at a jail may be even more awkward than others; I wonder if perhaps there is more of a sense of personal humiliation or failure felt by those waiting to visit a son or daughter, husband or mother. Yesterday afternoon I went to the jail to meet with an inmate who, I’m told, wants to make some changes in his life. I was late, and the staffer at the desk said I might not make it before visiting hours were over, but I decided to wait and see. Something—or Some one —inside me was gently nudging me to put down my book about how to read the Bible and talk to the woman two seats down from me. She’d already told me that she’d been allowed in this late before, but the staffer
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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 L ord , 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
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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
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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.
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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 sup
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