Stories & Fingerprints

What God has Joined, Let No Man Tear Apart:

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Mon, 22 Aug 2011 16:27:00 +0000

Mark 10:9 ⁶“But at the beginning of creation God ‘made them male and female.’ ⁷‘For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, ⁸and the two will become one flesh.’ So they are no longer two, but one. ⁹Therefore what God has joined together, let man not separate.”

Matthew 19:4-6 ⁴“Haven’t you read,” he replied, “that at the beginning the Creator ‘made them male and female,’ ⁵and said, ‘For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and the two will become one flesh’? ⁶So they are no longer two, but one. Therefore what God has joined together, let man not separate.”

Genesis 2:18 ¹⁸Then the LORD God said, “It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a helper fit for him.”

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I have the greatest friends. Some of them have little ugly warts. Some of them have huge honkin ones. Most of us have some of both.

Some of us have achieved a high level of success using various techniques to disguise and hide them. But when the kids are all in bed, the sun’s gone down, and the drinks are leaving rings on the table- during that seven-minute lull in the conversation during that short silence- we look at each other- and we all know what’s what and who’s crap belongs to who.

So we talk about it.

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Why do we hold our marriages as sacrosanct? We say “divorce is not an option,” but we all know people who’ve said that... we say “marriage is for life” or we say, we’ll “make it work.” But why?

It occurred to me as we were talking once- the fella used that phrase, “make it work,” and at some other point in the conversation, said something about “her going and doing her thing while I...” and I drifted off to my thinking room while he kept going. (don’t worry, I was recording the discussion in my mind- for quality assurance purposes).

Do we “make it work” because God has declared that what He hath joined, no man should separate (Mark 10:9)? Do we battle through because of the threat of being an “adulterer”? Is that why?

If it is, my fear is that we’re respecting the law only because it’s the law- and this was the sin of the Pharisees. It was for this reason that Jesus could not be the Lord of the Pharisees. And it is for this that God’s desire to be a father is so frequently lost in the awesome fear of a Holy, Righteous Judge.

As we talked, I began to connect some points in my mind. A marriage that is held together only by the bonds of law is no marriage. They are already divorced.

But in Jesus, on the cross, the full punishment was dealt for all sin. In Jesus, we gain son-ship- and our Holy, Righteous Judge regains His place- as our Father.

And our Father paired us with our husbands and our wives because they designed to match our needs through our lives! Because He gives us every good thing. She is God’s very best for me! And he knows my heart!

He is God’s very best for you. That’s why they should not be separated.

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A word- that doesn’t mean that abusive situations should be tolerated. It doesn’t mean that sin should go unchallenged, or unchanged. While God has designed for each other, and is able to make all things turn out for good- that also requires the mutual submission and repentance of the entire marriage. If you are experiencing the kind of turmoil that wrecks our homes and marriages- WORK IT OUT. Don’t be afraid to separate for awhile. Seek shelter in the shadow of God while you rebuild broken trust, broken faith, and broken hearts.

And it may come to pass that you are not able to reconcile before God.

Men, treat your wife with adoration, and serve her every need, and love her, before she has deserved it. Care for her heart, show desire to protect her. Not because she’s helpless, weak or simple. But because you treasure her above all other people.

Women, respect your husbands, and show them that they are amazing, because you know who they are, even if that’s not who they are yet. God is building him through your words, your heart, and through your willingness to respect and believe in him.

This, I believe is what God intends for our marriages. Not that we tolerate each other out of reverence for God, but that we grow each other in adoration both for her AND for God- out of gratitude and hope- for the purpose of the kingdom, and the joy of our fulfillment.

For the Lord said, before sin or anything had been corrupted, that “it is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a helper fit[ted] for him.”

Socialization-schmation!

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Wed, 17 Aug 2011 13:22:00 +0000

There are two things I almost always hear when I tell someone I homeschool my son. The first thing is usually “OH!,” as though a spider just crawled over my shoulder and surprised them. The second thing, without fail, will be a remark or concern about “socialization.”

It was my first concern when we started discussing the idea of homeschooling our kids. The second was stigma, but it’s my thinking that a stigma has to be accepted by the stigmatized to gain legitimacy.

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Our babes are a wee 6, 4, 2, and under 1. So the times, they are constantly a-changin. My heart has been warmed numerous times by the camaraderie shared by the older two boys. They’ve been such tight friends over the years.

Okay, now truth. Seriously, they hang out all day long. IN the trees, ON the couch, racing around the dining room table, hanging off of me (literally), and they TALK the entire time. So you’d THINK that at the end of the day, after all that talking and playing and running that they’d pass right out as soon as their wee heads hit their cheap pillows. But you’d be disappointed. I mean surprised. I mean disappointed. Because they talk. And talk. For another hour and half sometimes. What the world could they POSSIBLY have to talk about. My wife and I haven’t seen each other all day, and we’re sitting on the couch, silently, listening to them chatter upstairs, in zombie like reverence.

Anyways, they’re friends.

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As “Tig” (the older; dubbed because he is CONSTANTLY bouncing, and Tigger’s love to bounce), is navigating through his sixth year, his confidence in his own abilities, knowledge, and general stature as an authority in the world has taking a radical leap. Which has really been great for his studies. HOWEVER, it is also affected his “attitude,” particularly in relationship to his main social contacts, those being his parents and his siblings.

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There’s a gate between the dining room and the kitchen. If you have had kids, you’ve had some version of this gate. No, not like the Black Castle of Mordor with the guards, spears, and giant Ogre’s to open and close the heavy gates. Those weren’t on sale the day we went shopping, though I’ve had my eye in CraigsList™ pretty steadily. We say it’s to keep the kids safe from the implements in the kitchen, BUUUUUUUUUUT I think we all know- they are a shield and refuge, a tower against the storm, a high tower from the assault.

That’s just from my perspective. For them, it’s more like the windy turnstile gates in fast food restaurants or in amusement parks- they go back and forth, back and forth (it’s only a 30” door, for pete’s sake!) trying to weave themselves to the “front.” Where they can be served.

Let’s see, let me think: 30” doorway, 3 kids- that’s 10” per kid.

UNLESSsssss you’re the biggest, in which case it’s 20” for me, and you two can fight for the difference. This, ladies and gentlemen is what Jesus meant when he said “Love your neighbor as you love yourself.”

Or not.

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Seriously. If your children have siblings, they get all the socialization they need at home. Doesn’t matter if it’s 2 kids or 8. If they are in competition for air with somebody, and there is an authority figure present, you have all the building blocks to “socialize” your kids. And you’ll be surprised at how much you gain from a little socialization as well.

Don’t wait for pre-school, kindergarten, driver’s-ed. We have our own little reality at home, where we can set the boundaries of reality and fantasy. Where we can set the mandates and rules, and where we can say KNOCK THAT CRAP OFF! YOU'RE ACTING LIKE A PUNK AND BEING A PAIN IN MY NECK!

Or something along those lines.

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What opportunities have you had to “socialize” your kids at home? How have you seen those moments played out again in public? What tips would you offer the parent of a young child like me?

Coffee Snob

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Fri, 12 Aug 2011 14:26:00 +0000

I’m not really a coffee-snob. People think that I am. But it’s not true. I just don’t like coffee that doesn’t taste like anything. The first coffee I really liked was some *highly* aromatic, “irish-crème” flavored coffee. My roommates and me drank it like it was keeping us alive. But I don’t think I really understood how coffee worked until I was over the ocean.

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We were flying to Amsterdam, and had an engagement about an hour after we landed. I’d tried to sleep on the flight over, but I couldn’t manage. I’d resisted the alluring, siren smell of coffee as the attendants walked by, over and over and over, thinking that I might still get some sleep. Until finally the captain announced that we would be landing shortly, and the attendants offered one last time.

This wasn’t my first time on an airplane, so my expectations were not set very high. I remember sort of looking out the window as I brought the foam paper cup to my lips. Not the sort of thing you do when you’re about to drink the most amazing coffee you’ve ever had. It was almost like I deliberately wasn’t respecting the coffee. It was “just gonna have to do.” I’ll tell you what it did. It spoiled me for life to coffee of the “regular” variety.

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To this day, I have not been able to reproduce what I enjoyed at every opportunity for the next two weeks. The Dutch drink coffee. Not like a taxi driver. Not like a construction worker, or a campus youth pastor, or even a college student. It isn’t the gluttonous main-line, buzz-keeping, taste-in-my-mouth replenishing coffee drinking that I and many others have sunk to. It was more like the British, and their tea. Except all the time. Anytime. “Let me make us some coffee.” And it’s like they have this national brand: Douwe Egberts. Ooooooh, sweet, sweet, Douwe.

All of this over a papercup, in a coach class international seat; tired, sweaty, needing a cigarette (yup, I used to smoke), and not expecting to experience this coffee.

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For years I struggled to reproduce the cup(s) of coffee that were so graciously served to me over and over during my week in the Netherlands. I even bought some of the same brand and had it mailed home. Must be something in the water. Nothing matched up. I found adequate replacements in grocery store aisles, in the French Roasts, Gourmet Roasts, the Black Silks, and over time they helped me to forget. But then... the Rwanda Blend came along. And literally finished whatever “me” there was left after the Douwe- was completely obliterated by the Rwandan blend, packaged and sold by ... you won’t believe me if I tell you. Maybe I shouldn’t.

I think it’s an espresso roast. I don’t know. All I can say is that it is stuh-wrong. But sooo right. What’s amazing to me, and it wasn’t obvious until we ran OUT of the Rwanda blend, is that it is so clear in its flavor. So... distinct. If coffee were something you could draw, like a square, or a circle, this coffee would have a dark black, .7mm borderline- heavy, around a perfectly black square. Like brand new laser toner black on the page. Not at all like, “I think my desk jet is REALLY close to being a dried up piece of junk in my garage” black square.

That’s the best I can say. When we ran out the 2^nd or 3^rd time, we went back to “the source” only to discover it had been replaced by some Guatemalan crap. WHAT? WHERE’S MY RWANDAN BLEND?! Gone. Just. Gone. So, we punted. We went back to the grocery store “Gourmet” and went home. You know what? It was different. It was... muddy and dirty. No matter how strong we made it, it just tasted like... mud. I felt like I was straining the substance through my teeth. Like if I could just run it through some cheesecloth, or another paper filter, maybe I could clean up this mess, and salvage it. But no- I look down into the cup, and I see the inappropriateness of this cup in my hands, where greatness once glistened, like a great dark pool- a mutt of coffees. A blend of blends. A mishmash of flavors. A best of what’s around poor excuse for a cuppa. So I wait, for the beautiful, tall woman, with the basket perched on her head, impressed upon the dark, bronzed bag. My Rwandan blend. Come back to me.

Road Trip

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Thu, 14 Apr 2011 15:17:00 +0000

CraigsList ™ is totally, totally awesome. It’s a free online version of local classifieds. It’s a searchable database of advertisements for pretty much anything you could ever want (to throw away). And it’s free?! And local?! Did I mention that it’s awesome?! There’s just one real drawback.

There’s this sort of unspoken code of ethics connected to Craigslist. No checks. Just cash. Delivery of goods is a privilege. “You haul” is the norm. And the stinger: first come, first served. Just because you make contact with the seller doesn’t necessarily entitle you to first claim. If you can’t get there to purchase or take the item in question, it’s still for sale. And in some instances, if you're not quick about it, you may make the drive to get something and get there only to discover that it’s not there anymore.

This morning, as I read more of Jesus’ life, death and resurrection in Luke’s careful study, I had to wonder if Jesus ever felt that way.

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Jesus and his fellow road-trippers were pretty much always on the move. Jesus says of himself that he “has nowhere to lay his head.” They’re always walking someplace, going from this town to that town. And since at least a third of his little tribe were fishermen, they went by boat, too.

Luke tells of one trip they took across the “lake” where the weather almost got the best of these professional boaters. These master sailors were afraid for their lives while Jesus, the carpenter, is sawing logs in the bottom of the boat. So they wake him, terrified, to alert him of their imminent doom, only to watch, jaws gaping, as he yells to the wind to be calm. And it does.

“Who IS this? Who commands the wind and it obeys?!” they ask each other, incredulous.

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So they land, finally, on the other side of the lake only to be greeted by a freakshow of a man. I can only hope it was still day time when they stepped foot on the shore, because the welcoming committee came out to greet them acting like Marilyn Manson, but even nakeder. And possibly more maniacal. And his opening line? “What do you want with me, Jesus? Son of the Most High God?!”

So the guys who are sharing their spam, and taking turns at the water fountain with Jesus? Not sure who he really is. Freakshow? Seems pretty sure about who Jesus is. Interesting.

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Anyway, on with the story. Jesus cures this man, casting the whole Queen's Navy of demons out of him and, fittingly, into a herd of hogs (an animal the Jews scorned as unclean by Divine proclamation). When the herd managers return with townspeople to demonstrate that it’s NOT THEIR FAULT (the pigs, upon being possessed, promptly took to the lake and drowned themselves), the townspeople saw Marilyn acting more like Mr. Rogers than Mr. Hyde, looked at the floating pigs, and told Jesus to take his show back out on the road.

So you know what he did? Got back into the boat and went home.

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There’s a book I read several years ago that completely altered my perspective on more than a couple of things in my faith-life. It’s called Permission Evangelism by Michael Simpson, and it’s an apt title. But it’s not really about evangelism, is it Michael? It’s about the Holy Spirit. Because the Holy Spirit delivers the heart of the broken and rebellious to a place where they can kneel before God and be fixed. And sometimes the heart God wants is simply not ready. God comes to the door, in the person of the Holy Spirit, on behalf of the man Jesus, and there’s nothing to see. God won’t force it. He may come back later. But for now, He just gets back in the boat.

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I guess you could say that I’m fascinated by how Jesus’ agenda works. While he’s going places, he’s constantly interrupted, redirected, misappropriated, reappropriated and in general lives life subject to the needs that surround him. He’s been invited to dinner, invited to sickrooms, invited to funerals, invited to speak, and invited to leave. He’s incredibly open to invitations. Even invitations to beat it. I think my take away is that I need to perhaps accept rejection differently. Maybe I shouldn’t get so bent when people just aren’t that interested. Maybe their acceptance or rejection of me, or whatever I’m trying to offer doesn’t define my success or failure. Maybe it’s alright sometimes to just get back in the boat.

Who Am I?

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Wed, 13 Apr 2011 21:26:00 +0000

Who Am I?

I re-read a story recorded in a historical account of Jesus’ life, death and resurrection known commonly referred to as Luke’s gospel. I had read it earlier this week, and when I sat down this morning to read, it was still there- so I went ahead and read it again.

Jesus has been invited to dine with one of the many Pharisees. Jesus, accepting the invitation goes to the Pharisees house, and while they are eating, a woman, known to be a prostitute, comes and interrupts their meal, crying and carrying on, and anointing Jesus’ feet with her tears, and then wiping them dry with her hair.

The Pharisee, “Jonah” let’s call him, sees and recognizes the woman at Jesus’ feet, and is more than a little perturbed to see this teacher, this prophet, this man who claims to be the Son of God, allowing himself to be defiled by the touch of an unclean person. “Surely, were this man a prophet of God, were He the SON OF GOD, this woman’s uncleanness would be offensive to God’s Holiness!”

In Joe’s mind, the Holiness of God, and the holy ground He stood upon, absolutely sacrosanct. Non-debatable. People had been struck by fire, swallowed by the earth, and just plain fallen to the ground dead because they had defiled God’s presence somehow with corruption, wrongdoing, or sin.

Jesus tells a story to his listeners then, of a money-lender who has two clients about to default on their respective loans. One of them owes 500 denarii, and the other owes only 50. The lender has compassion on them both, and forgives the loans. “When forgiven,” Jesus asks, “which of them will love the lender more?” It’s obvious, isn’t it? “The one who is forgiven much will love much, and he who has been forgiven little, loves little,” Jesus answers.

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Earlier this week, when I read this story the first time, my thoughts were of Jesus, and how I, in contrast, in an attempt to keep my ways righteous, have tended to isolate myself from people or things that are opposed to what I perceive as “right” or “God-honoring.” And how Jesus was secure enough in the righteousness of God to be unafraid. To boldly reach out to someone who was in need of him, unafraid of how their ways or ideas or habits might disrupt his own.

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A good friend of mine has a special gift for putting you, as a listener, into the scene of the Bible. When he tells a story from the Bible, he describes it as if we were both standing there, one level removed from the central characters- supporting cast, or extras in the scene.

So I imagined myself there, around the table, watching this social train-wreck as it unfolds, horribly awkward, and unstoppable, as this whore walks into the preacher’s dining room uninvited, and unwelcome, and starts crying, all the while coming closer and closer to the guest of honor.

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Who am I? As Jesus tells the story, and I listen to him, who am I? Am I the one who has been forgiven little? And therefore, likely loves little? Me with my isolationist, puritanical rules, stubbornness... is that me? But when I am alone, I know my secrets. I know my terrible moments, my inward thoughts, and even the things I’ve dared to say out loud. I know my boasting and my pride. I feel like I’ve been forgiven an awful lot. So... where’s the love? Where’s the compassion, grace, and gentleness, which I’ve been so graciously shown?

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So this morning, my prayer was short. “God, if I have been forgiven little, thank you for keeping me in your presence, in your will, on your path. Please increase my love for people. But God, if indeed, I have been forgiven a great deal- show me the darkness of my inclination, so that I may go forward feeling a greater depth of gratitude. Make me more like your version of me.”

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Is the Net Actually Dirty?

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Fri, 08 Apr 2011 14:01:00 +0000

Jesus Anointed by a Sinful Woman

³⁶ When one of the Pharisees invited Jesus to have dinner with him, he went to the Pharisee’s house and reclined at the table. ³⁷ A woman in that town who lived a sinful life learned that Jesus was eating at the Pharisee’s house, so she came there with an alabaster jar of perfume. ³⁸ As she stood behind him at his feet weeping, she began to wet his feet with her tears. Then she wiped them with her hair, kissed them and poured perfume on them.

³⁹ When the Pharisee who had invited him saw this, he said to himself, “If this man were a prophet, he would know who is touching him and what kind of woman she is—that she is a sinner.”

⁴⁰ Jesus answered him, “Simon, I have something to tell you.”

“Tell me, teacher,” he said.

⁴¹ “Two people owed money to a certain moneylender. One owed him five hundred denarii, and the other fifty. ⁴² Neither of them had the money to pay him back, so he forgave the debts of both. Now which of them will love him more?”

⁴³ Simon replied, “I suppose the one who had the bigger debt forgiven.”

“You have judged correctly,” Jesus said.

⁴⁴ Then he turned toward the woman and said to Simon, “Do you see this woman? I came into your house. You did not give me any water for my feet, but she wet my feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair. ⁴⁵ You did not give me a kiss, but this woman, from the time I entered, has not stopped kissing my feet. ⁴⁶ You did not put oil on my head, but she has poured perfume on my feet. ⁴⁷ Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven—as her great love has shown. But whoever has been forgiven little loves little.”

⁴⁸ Then Jesus said to her, “Your sins are forgiven.”

⁴⁹ The other guests began to say among themselves, “Who is this who even forgives sins?”

⁵⁰ Jesus said to the woman, “Your faith has saved you; go in peace.”

I was reading this story this morning, wishing that it was the story of the Prodigal Son, and listening to my boys make quite the unholy ruckus upstairs. Seriously, boys, I’m trying to get with God here.

My bible and I have only crossed paths infrequently lately. Not a big deal, unless, like me, you believe in the power of Jesus’ Holy Spirit to interrupt your reading with His own voice, creating and showing you subtext and context that draw you and your life directly and personally into the story of God saving the earth and everything in it from every form of corruption and degradation conceivable. So, yeah. It was calling to me.

The prodigal son story sounded good to me. A story illustrating how somebody who thought they’d slipped below the waterline of worth crawling back, hanging onto a grain of hope that he could somehow slave his way back into his Father’s good graces, only to be surprised when his Father lifts his skirts to run down the driveway in a rather undignified fashion to kiss him and hold him, and to embarrass himself with affection towards this very dirty, stick-thin, and unclean man. Yeah, that sounded good to me.

But no. Not today. I turned to the place where I’d stopped last time, and came upon this story- rich with possibility. Jesus, who goes where he’s invited. The woman, who pursues Jesus in repentance and contrition. The Pharisee, who has invited Jesus to come and be a guest. Jesus, who mixes with unclean people, risking his holiness. The woman, who endures obvious scorn from the Pharisee. Jesus, who is willing to forgive both.

I have often recognized my tendency towards Pharisaism. It just seems easier sometimes to know and follow the rules as their written. Sorry. Jesus frequently bawled the Pharisee’s out for following the rules of God in such high fashion, but failing to show mercy, love and compassion.

When I think of Pharisees, or myself, I usually think of someone who has dedicated a great deal of time and energy to honoring the Law of God in all it’s rich implication. In committing myself with discipline to living correctly. Why? Because that’s how God designed us to live. It makes sense to live that way. Sorta like reading the manual and using what you gained in it. Just makes sense. I can relate to that. I think I’ve spent a lot of my life and my energy trying to “do rightly.”

Yeah. That’s workin for me.

Thing that struck me this morning is that the Pharisee was appalled that Jesus didn’t appear concerned by his intimacy and connection with this sinner. He’s recorded as thinking … “he would know who is touching him and what kind of woman she is—that she is a sinner.” The good Pharisee is concerned, for Jesus’ sake, because he’s been caught up into this notion that God’s desire for our holiness is connected to what we do, rather than where our heart is.

What I wonder is if Jesus is so secure in his place in God’s heart that he can’t be touched by the corruption of another’s sinfulness. His faith in God’s power to save has given him strength and freedom to reach out, in justice, loving mercy, and with humble dependence on God.

I’ve been convicted in the last year or so of my own Pharisaism. Not that I live by such a high standard or code, thanking God that I’m not a sinner, tithing my mint and whatnot. Yes, there is some of that mixed into it, but that’s not what God’s been speaking to me about.

The Pharisee in this story isolated himself from the brokenness of the world, from the broken of the world because he was afraid it would drag him down. He was afraid it would somehow rub off, tainting his own posture before God. He couldn’t handle listening to radio stations that played AC/DC and Motley Crue because the lyrics filled his mind with terrible things. The commercials for the Lumber Yard just were too much. The drugs were too much. The cheating, selfishness, and complete idolatry of material goods were too much. What if it rubbed off?

The aroma of Jesus is stronger than the stink of cigarette smoke, the raunch of a dance club, or the smell of beer and puke. The strength of Jesus is greater than addiction, it’s greater than greed, and it’s greater than self-hatred. I just need to grab onto that strength and depend on it. Rather than resting on my own will, my own determination to be pure, my own desire to live holy. Would my life bring greater glory to God were it isolated in holiness? Or dirty like a fishing net? Is the fishing net actually dirty or did it just get some dirt on it?

Like a Brother (part 2)

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Tue, 11 Jan 2011 13:24:00 +0000

Today's post is the conclusion of yesterday's post, "Like a Brother."

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When Jack was born I began to seriously ponder my relationships with my brothers. How did we get to where we are? What did I do in my relationships with each of them to get us here? How can I as a father create a situation for my boys to grow up together? How might what I do as a father create exactly the opposite effect?

It’s a big idea. How do I raise my boys to regard each other as collegues? Co-workers? Life partners?

Yesterday, they were playing with a matchbox car set. Tigger (#1 and currently the Alpha) was dominating and excluding his little brother, Jack. And Jack wasn’t gonna take it lying down.

At first I was tempted to just stick them both in chairs and lecture them about “sharing” and “loving your neighbor.” I want to instill in them the words of Jesus- Jesus says the most important thing is to “love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, and strength.” So that’s sounds pretty important. But then Jesus said that “loving your neighbor like yourself” is like loving the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, and strength. So that phrase gets repeated many times. “Loving the Lord your God is like loving your neighbor.” Because you can’t love a Creator and hate what He creates. The created is an extension of the Creator.

But that’s not what I did. Not this time.

I’m considering a different angle. When I tell the boys that loving their neighbor is like loving God, it’s true. But I wonder if the focus is too lateral. I wonder if that focus keeps them on a track of brother and brother? I think the thing that will hold them together most tightly is if I turn their gazes onto Jesus directly.

I sat them down in front of me and told them to put their cars down. Then I pulled out my little bible and read from the Gospel according to Matthew.

“Do not worry about what your will eat, or what you will wear.” I read them the whole story—“see the lilies? Even Solomon in all his splendor was not dressed as these…”

And finally, “He knows what you need.”

I told the boys that the toys and good things they knew were gifts of God’s generosity. I told them that the money they received to buy the toys that they had was a gift of their grandparents generosity. That generosity provided them with everything they had.

Therefore they had no entitlement to anything except the obligation to show that same generosity to each other. Jesus is generous to us. So the only choice we have is to likewise show generosity.

My hope here is simple. Too much of our satisfaction is found in our relationship to our brothers in the world. We are defined by those things, and measure ourselves by those things. I struggle now, as an adult to measure myself well. As I grow, the Spirit informs me that I must look to Jesus for that. Not to the world. And Jesus says that I am to come and relieve myself of that burden. That he will take it, and replace it with a light burden of grace.

And so begins an era, I hope, where rather than tell the boys how to treat each other, show them how they are responding to Jesus with their actions. And hopefully, the grace Jesus has shown me- the grace he will and does show my boys- will be the grace with which the 3 of us show each other. God knows it smooths over a lot of typically human behavior. Like hoarding, aggression, and spite. Like hurt feelings, the feeling of not measuring up like the other, or of not pleasing like the other. Of being forgotten, or even scorned.

Maybe that grace will shape another generation of Covingtons. I hope I live to see.

Like a Brother (part I)

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Mon, 10 Jan 2011 16:25:00 +0000

I have 3 brothers. 2 older, and one younger. My relationship with each of them is more than unique. It’s flat out different.

I have regrets of course. The real killer is that I have the opportunity to affect all of those relationships- but I don’t. Maybe it’s fear. More likely it’s laziness. Maybe it’s a combination of things. All I know is that I desperately want my 2 sons to have a better life together with their brothers than I have had thus far with mine.

I love all of my brothers. There are aspects of each of them that I cherish. My oldest is also a Christ follower. He has faithfully raised a generation of believers, and he has been a model of submission to Christ for the length of my life. He and his wife continue to bless me and mine inspite of my distance. He’s an amazing songwriter. And a jack of all trades. He’s a picture of commitment, holding firm to principals of stewardship that are far-reaching and broad.

30 years ago, he and his wife designed the floor plan for their house. The values designed into that house include stewardship of the sun’s heat to warm the flags of their living room. The rooms are small, and the house meets their needs, and not much more. He and my next older brother built the house together, over a period of years.

He and his wife home-schooled their two children, and probably faced a great deal of skepticism while doing it. They have over the years counted righteousness and obedience to God greater and more profitable than wealth or even stability in a society that measures success and happiness with dollar signs and years in position.

Both of his children cherish and uphold their relationships with their parents. As their parents, not simply as grandparents to their children.

So why don’t we ever talk?

---

My next oldest brother- he’s an altogether beautiful man. During my growing up years he was home every summer, at least for a little while. He has a beautiful voice in my ears, and I love listening to him talk. His laugh is really a chuckle that can turn to characteristically “Covington” hack/chuckle. He and his older brother sound a LOT like each other, especially when they get to that hack/le.

He is full of integrity. Sort of a weird picture when you think of it. You see, “integrity” has come to mean “ethical” but really what it is is wholeness. He is very deliberate. Of course, they both are, so don’t misunderstand me. But a big part of who I am now was formed by my awareness of his wholeness with himself. And how that made him utterly trustworthy to me.

He is a lonely person, I think. He’s loved, but he strikes me as somebody who is sort of alien to society. He prefers solitude. He’s always been a bride to the earth he lives with, committed like a lover. He used to ride his bike on long tours. He would climb rock faces and glacier’s breath was like deep sleep rest. He would fish the dangerous oceans of the Alaskan coast to sustain his flying expeditions. He took my paragliding once. I expected it to be loud- like sticking your head out of a car window on the interstate- but it was utterly quiet. He talked to me while we flew, his head right behind mine. It was like he was talking right into the side of my brain. He too loves to build things.

When we are together it usually means late nights, and long talks. When we part it’s always promises and promises.

But we probably talk 2, maybe 3 times a year.

---

Then there’s my youngest brother. We grew up literally side by side. Ask either of us and we’ll both tell you that we couldn’t be more dissimilar. But that’s probably not altogether true. We’re both fiercely loyal people. We both harbor creativity- or at least the ambition to creativity. We’re both nighthawks (though I’m a reformed night-hawk. It’s customary for me to go to bed early- but that’s an easy habit for me to break given the occasion).

We don’t share a lot in the way of interests. He’s a huge movie buff. Name it, he’s watched it. Likely is you watched it while he was in the projection booth setting up the films.

He’s a performer, and very gregarious. A total freakin ham. So am I. But he is so only in front of a few people. So am I. He has a very carefully constructed image. It appears to be completely the opposite. Me too. We both grew up in the shadow of death waiting for our dad to die, suddenly and tragically. It didn’t happen that way, but we both lived I think in that pallor of fear.

He stayed home though, while I left. And he was the one who called everybody home when it was actually time for Dad to die.

And we were together, with Dad, and with brother #2, when he did. Somehow our triangle of relationships changed. I don’t know how. I’m sure that part of it was that that evening, when Dad died, each of US changed in some way. We each had to face the fear that we’d been hiding from for most of our lives. And facing that fear changed not just who we were individually, but how we were together.

Thing is, he is almost totally isolated from the rest of us.

---(more to come)

On Confession, On Forgiveness...

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Tue, 28 Dec 2010 14:38:00 +0000

On Forgiveness, on Confession

I was in a moment of contrition this morning, listing off the litany of my spiritual ails. It grieves me of course. I was trying to accept the forgiveness of God promised in Jesus, whilst confessing sin by sin. Of course, I desire to live apart from anger, lust, gluttony, greed, etc. I think above all else, my eagerness for heaven is the eagerness to be parted from my wanderings into things that I know are wrong.

But there was a bit of cognitive dissonance- a little bit of friction as I was running down my list, and searching for that feeling of catharsis, of release, of forgiveness-ness.

God doesn’t punish the forgiven.

Everybody: say it with me now, “God does-n’t punish the for-giv-en.” Good.

Why? Because He delivered the FULL punishment for my sins to Jesus on the road leading to, and then upon the cross. And the forgiveness I received in it’s place is full, in perfect proportion to the burden that Jesus lifted from my shoulders. So the question I am lead to; does that mean that I need not ask forgiveness anymore?

I’ve begun to wonder that my life should be transformed to a life of Joy rather than remembering my sins to confess to the Father. I feel like my life isn’t enough transformed- and that can mean only one thing. I haven’t fully realized Christ in my heart, body, and strength. I have refused a portion of God’s grace.

I wonder this morning my effort to confess dutifully, and with full penitence, has hampered God’s ability to deliver me from my sin-filled-ness. Jesus didn’t come to simply remove the burden of ungodly acts from my person. He was beaten almost all the way to death, and then mercilessly stretched out on a cross and nailed down to actually change my being from a being-sin to being-right. And in accepting Him as the Son of God, born, crucified, dead, and raised up as a the first-born of the coming New Creation, I also gained a portion of that piece of the New Creation in me. That’s the Holy Spirit, and in Him I die to my being-sin and Christ is now literally in me.

I stand therefore in the very presence of God’s being. And His being is mysteriously present in my person. When my being-right collides with my being-sin, and I perform an ungodly act, there will be dissonance. There is an ontological, flesh ‘n blood, real-life collision. It is a grieving for the Holy Spirit, and there are definitely genuine consequences in my person, in my experience of God’s creation.

So what should I do? I acknowledge the fact of my failure to rely on God’s Spirit for guidance, and I acknowledge the fact that being-Christ (though only a part, not the whole) is still being formed in my heart, and that my being-sin is not fully extinguished. This is my confession. But I have no need to ask forgiveness- and God has no need to dispense yet another small morsel of forgiveness. In asking for forgiveness, doesn’t that presuppose that God must decide whether to dole it out?

God has already forgiven me. He has already done the work atonement. What is left unfinished is my actual, flesh ‘n blood, real-life transformation that removes and unworks my being-sin entirely. I will then confess my rebellion, but I shall do so as an already thoroughly forgiven being. Therefore I shall confess and give thanks that my rebellion is not held against me, and that even as it happened, was being erased from my histories.

From now on- I will float in the ocean of forgiveness that is around me, under me, and saturates my person. I am forgiven. Sometimes I shake my head, and the water flies away from me, but never do I lift out of the wave.

more on waiting...

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Wed, 22 Dec 2010 14:25:00 +0000

On waiting…

It may seem tiresome. Waiting, I mean. I can say for my part that waiting usually feels like time wasted. Waiting. Even writing the word out makes me a little jumpy. I’m in a season of waiting right now. Maybe you are.

We’re waiting for a baby to be born. We’re waiting for God to show us who he has chosen to pastor our church. We seem to be in a constant state of waiting for “God’s next move” in our life, whether it’s a job thing, or a writing thing, or a music thing- whatever.

I have a nephew who is waiting for a baby to be born. Like today. Or tomorrow maybe. I remember waiting for my second child to be born. It was A_GON_IZING. We’ve waited for children to come home from their freshman year at college. We’ve waited for brothers to come home from war. We’ve maybe even had the burden of waiting for fathers or mothers to come to the rest of death after debilitating illness. And we all wait for the right time, the time when the fate of all creation finds rest in the unfolded revelation of God.

Again.

I find it comforting, in a sort of sick way, that God takes so long to do things. Time is a funny thing- it is. Time is linear. For us. One thing can only happen following the thing that happens before it. It just does. For us.

The bible says a lot of things about time. It says that God has his own time. That it’s different from man’s time. I’ve taken immense comfort from the belief that time is a created thing, and that as Creator, God is not bound or subject to linear time as I am. That a breath is as 10,000 years, and that 10,000 years as a breath. That I can and do exist in God’s sight as he wills me to be upon the completion of his providence and sanctification, even though, in my sight, today, I’m still a pathetic half-wit of a man.

That even if I am in this “desert of the senses,” blind, deaf, and mute, God has fully mapped out the course and circumstance of my life, and not one single moment is wasted as he chips away the excrement from the form and image he created me in. All I really have to do is stand still and try not to flinch too much.

And I’m not really blind. Or deaf. I have the leadings of the Holy Spirit and the instruction and correction of God’s word. Nor am I mute. I have the prayers of my spirit, and the songs of my heart. The bible says that my prayers themselves are inspired by the Holy Spirit, who alone knows the mind of God. So, I can take hints from the words of my prayers.

What are you praying for? When you sing, what do you sing about? What scriptures are you reading? And finally, when you are doing all these things, what is the Spirit of God saying to you? Remember the prophet in the mountain: it came not in the fire, nor the earthquake, but in the whisper. What is the loudest voice saying? Can you hear the quietest?

---

I have to tell you that this morning, I’m basking in the temporary glow of short-term revelation: the message of forgiveness, of it’s indelibility, it’s permanence, it’s irrevocability is especially close to me right now. In the sight of God, I am as he intends me to be. Through Christ. In the sight of the Spirit, I am on a path from where and who I was in sin to the place I shall be, presented spotless and unblemished before the throne of God. In Jesus alone, and by no work of my own, I have gained that status, that glowing report, that untarnished, fleck-less, and altogether harmonious state of existence called Shalom, which Jesus understood but couldn’t know, which the first couple themselves did know in the garden before the serpent, when in the cool of the afternoon, God would walk with them in the shade of the garden’s leaves, and they would hear the rustle of His footsteps in the brush. This is the prize which I run for. My legs are burning, and the wind blurs my vision, but yet I will run. Don’t give up.

Happy Holidays??? Bah. Humbug.

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Tue, 21 Dec 2010 18:37:00 +0000

Happy Holidays from Stories & Fingerprints….

Malarky. I don’t even want to wish you a merry Christmas. Yeah. Anymore, I’m afraid you’ll miss the point. Because you’re dumb? No. Course not. Because I’m mean? Well, I won’t rule that out, but that’s not why.

---

Shortly (high-altitude perspectiver here) before Jesus of Nazareth was even born, the Romans decided to squash those pesky Jews. Mid 2^nd century bc the Roman Antiochus desecrated the Temple by placing a statue of Zeus there, and by sacrificing pigs. (Both really big no-no’s).

The Jews, rather than falling over in the streets, as Antiochus had hoped, rose up and rebelled. As part of the rededication and cleansing of the Temple, the Jews reinstituted all of the ritual practices, including burning the menorah in the Temple, both night and day. It was prescribed that olive oil alone was to be used in the menorah. But they only had enough oil for one day. And it supposedly took eight days to make more.

But the flame burned. And burned. And burned.

---

In a nutshell that’s the story of Hanukkah. As I understand it anyways. Today, the faithful celebrate Hanukkah by lighting one candle each night for eight nights. And there’s revelry and gift giving and whatnot. Whatnot includes ritual prayers over the menorah, recitation of psalms, and story telling. And they do it every night for eight nights.

---
Hanukkah predates the Christian holiday of Christmas. Actually, tradition holds that the wintertime Christmas holiday may not have been celebrated “officially” until as late as the 4^th century. Anymore it’s celebrated from Halloween until New Years. Pretty nifty.

The thing I’m fascinated by with Hanukkah is how the holiday is continuously celebrated over an extended period of time. That’s not a speciality of our race any more. Anything over an extended period of time seems to become tiresome. Do it. Pack it up. Move on.

But there’s another “holiday” that with each passing year grabs my attention a little more and a little more. Advent. The season of waiting.

Rich with symbols, traditions and layers of meaning centuries old and largely unchanged, and pretty much unstained by commercialism, every year the dark colors come out of the closet, and the church begins to wait. Each Sunday, we light a purple candle, or a pink candle on the Sunday prior to Christmas, until finally, the night before Christmas, we light the white candle, the Christ candle.

The story of Christmas is told, part by part, through the month of December. The story of a census, the story of a young girl, her cousin, an angel, and shepherds. A young man, eager to wed, who felt betrayed. And had a dream about it. With another angel. Maybe you’ve heard about Simeon, the old man who saw the baby, and rejoiced. Why? Because he’d been waiting.

Why did the Israelites fight to take back the temple? Because God had promised something to them. He had promised a redemption that was greater than they knew. They were waiting too.

---

I want to celebrate waiting more. Not because I love waiting. I don’t. I hate it. During the times of waiting I pester, I lose confidence, I get brilliant ideas that are shortcuts and doomed to failure. I waste energy, I get angry, I pester more, and I probably push other people into anxiety that they wouldn’t have had without me.

So maybe I should spend more time meditating on what happens when we wait. When we wait, God’s promises reach their fulfillment in “the fullness of time.” When we wait we experience a full range of emotions- rather than just the joy and elation. We experience desire. Who doesn’t love desire? We experience a little bit of agony. Hey, what’s joy if it doesn’t follow agony? It’s nothing. It’s empty. It’s meaning less. It’s just motion. Kinda like Christmas feels sometimes.

So, from all (one) of us at Stories & Fingerprints. Happy Catharsis. I mean Christmas. May it bring you joy, conditioned by waiting. May it bring you peace seasoned by turmoil. And above all, may it shine the light of Jesus the Christ into the utter darkness of your night. Amen.

---

With all wisdom and understanding, 9 he [God] made known to us the mystery of his will according to his good pleasure, which he purposed in Christ, 10 to be put into effect when the times reach their fulfillment—to bring unity to all things in heaven and on earth under Christ.

11 In him we were also chosen, having been predestined according to the plan of him who works out everything in conformity with the purpose of his will, 12 in order that we, who were the first to put our hope in Christ, might be for the praise of his glory. 13 And you also were included in Christ when you heard the message of truth, the gospel of your salvation. When you believed, you were marked in him with a seal, the promised Holy Spirit, 14 who is a deposit guaranteeing our inheritance until the redemption of those who are God’s possession—to the praise of his glory.

Paul’s Letter to the Ephesians, chapter 1

Looking Back

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Mon, 16 Aug 2010 14:12:00 +0000

So I’ve been kind of wondering lately. It’s been awhile since I’ve posted anything on here, and I think it’s because I got stuck trying to write instead of just listening to God speak into my stone cold little heart and trying to make sense of it. It’s an easy thing to do- not to excuse myself or anything. You just get to thinking that God’s going to use you to “do something.” And for awhile you’ve got enough fire in the belly to fuel your little campaign, but then… one morning you wake up and you’re just out.

Nothing left to really say.

So you start to wonder. You start wondering if God changed His mind- took it all back. Gave it to somebody else. Maybe I didn’t do something quite right. No, wait, maybe Satan is working a scheme, and I’m being “sifted” like Jesus said Peter would be… yeah, that’s probably it.

Or not.

---

I’ve been on a journey over the past 30+ years. You too? Huh. I find myself constantly looking back, looking for trends, looking for events, looking for those pivot points and those forks in the road. That’s when I start using phrases like, “for the last couple of years I’ve noticed…” or “looking back, I’ve become aware…” or such and what and all of that. I wonder how the disciples must have been so keenly aware of that same feeling in the years following Jesus’ ascension.

I was reading a statement of belief on a website, and it talked about the Bible’s inerrancy and how God verbally spoke to each author. This morning, the story of Jesus entering the temple and turning out the money-changers was on my mind. In John’s recounting of Jesus ministry this is the 2^nd recorded “big event.” The first was a little skirmish on the fringes of a wedding party that ran out of wine to serve a little early.

That whole thing was kind of weird. He’s at this party- just looking at the text it looks like he’s a “+1.” Like, as in “Mary +1.” So it sounds like he might be out at the fringe of the party, maybe by the doors, where the ceremonial washing vessels are located, and his mom (of all people) comes up and starts nagging him about the wine being gone (MoooooooooM! You’re SO embarrassing me!). She says to servants, “Do whatever He tells you…” and Jesus, kind of exasperated, tells them to fill the jars with water, then take ladle some out and take it to the Master of Ceremonies (father of the bride?). So of course, they do. And FOTB just raves about how great this… wine is? Wine? It was water just second ago?

Ok, so you’d think that Jesus would then jump up and exclaim his arrival. But he doesn’t. He just hangs out, back in the corner by the doors, near the servants (not the bridal party), and that’s all that’s really said about it.

You’d think that when the FOTB went over to the prospective husband and admonished him for saving the best wine till last, Jesus would jump in… “Well, you see sire, that is actually MY fault. If you’ll just step over here, and I’ll explain…” but no. He leaves the party. He leaves the over-attended, bustling party, full of happy, well-heeled, networked… he leaves. No announcement. No headlines. No publicity. Astonishing success.

---

So the next thing he does then is go to the Temple, in Jerusalem, during the most highly attended festival of the year, Passover, and start a small riot in the courtyard. Surely, now He’ll explain himself. Sure, he says “Tear this temple down, and I will rebuild it in 3 days.” Nice. Crystal clear. Sounds really good.

So much for a sound business plan and prudent strategy.

---

But there’s this little bit tucked in at the end of the story. It says “they remembered.” More specifically it says that after Jesus’ resurrection, they remembered this day. They remembered this statement. And then, three long, unsearchable years later they finally understood.

On that first Passover, in the midst of the chaos of birds squawking and men shouting, furniture being tossed around, and people chasing rolling coins, Jesus says a most puzzling thing. I imagine the disciples present were probably more on board with the money-changers than Jesus at that point. But they trusted Jesus- already! And they persisted with Him. And years later they understood. Looking back they understood.

What if they had walked away after that afternoon in the temple courtyard? What if they wrote Jesus off? What if I did? What is God waiting to explain to me, years down the road? What lunacy is Jesus speaking into my life today, that I have to tuck away in my “to be got later” box? Is Jesus telling you something that just sounds nuts? Look carefully. We may well find ourselves looking back at it together in 10 years and finally. FINALLY. Understanding.

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13When it was almost time for the Jewish Passover, Jesus went up to Jerusalem. 14In the temple courts he found men selling cattle, sheep and doves, and others sitting at tables exchanging money. 15So he made a whip out of cords, and drove all from the temple area, both sheep and cattle; he scattered the coins of the money changers and overturned their tables. 16To those who sold doves he said, "Get these out of here! How dare you turn my Father's house into a market!"

17His disciples remembered that it is written: "Zeal for your house will consume me."^[b]

18Then the Jews demanded of him, "What miraculous sign can you show us to prove your authority to do all this?"

19Jesus answered them, "Destroy this temple, and I will raise it again in three days."

20The Jews replied, "It has taken forty-six years to build this temple, and you are going to raise it in three days?" 21But the temple he had spoken of was his body. 22After he was raised from the dead, his disciples recalled what he had said. Then they believed the Scripture and the words that Jesus had spoken.

Dear Papa, Love, Grr...

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Wed, 31 Mar 2010 15:35:00 +0000

Those of you familiar with Stories & Fingerprints already know that it is usually a platform for my standard spiritual snobbery and pontification. However, from time to time, I feel inclined to also tell you a story or two about my exceptionally beautiful family. While it is above average in almost every regard, very occasionally some particular aspect rises even above all that. This will be the topic of our post today.

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I am a father of 3 delightful children. Two of them are boys, rambunctious and just short of miscreant status. They are very, very gifted in their depravity. Likewise they are a testimony to their species in the ways of generosity, kindness and gentleness.

But there is another kind born to us. A gentler kind. A radiant, joy-filled, awe-inspiring girl. Grr, she is called. Why? Well, it being MY blog I don’t really have to say, BUT these kids didn’t just come out spectacular: they learned it. Allow me to explain: #2 (“Mo”) struggled to say her name, and it came out sounding a lot like “Grr.” Suga Mama seemed taken by it, and began using the moniker “Grr” herself, leaving me little choice in the matter.

Since her landing, she has demonstrated her super-power already at her tender age of less than one year. It is patience in *virtually* all areas of life.

You’ll note that I say “virtually.” There are 2 specific areas where exception occurs. One area is Mama time. The 2^nd area of holiness is meal-time.

---

I hate cooking. I hate preparing food. I don’t even really want to put stuff in the oven. I consider it a great personal sacrifice and further evidence of my genuine and loving character when I do such things. I don’t mind eating. Not one bit.

My children don’t care about those things. But they have learned patience as it relates to their sloth-papa. Especially when he uses such sleight of hand trickery as turning on the television, which buys him a half-hour to make a sandwich or two.

With Grr, there shall be no such amusement, no such tom-foolery, and no further delay. This is apparent immediately. Credit that to my male-intuition and insight into the mind of children and women. That and the note that I received in my e-mail inbox.

Papa, my smile and my provider.

A brief explanation and correction of services rendered to follow:

Food will be delivered promptly.

Food presented will be food made “ready-to-eat.” Delays due to poor timing on the part of the preparer will not be adequate excuse for late presentation.

This means there will be no stirring, no blowing, no mixing of cooler elements, nor warmer, nor thickening agents, nor thinning ones. There will be no spreading about of the elements, even to further hurry cooling. Cooling time should have been accounted for in preparation time, back when I was waiting patiently, and appearing to be entertained by something, even content. Too late. Too bad.

Food supply shall continue until it is a clear and present fact that I am satisfied and finished. Any delays or abatement in the food supply shall result in demerits.

Greens shall not be served cool, or cold. They shall be served warm, with plenty of thickening agents present. Heat masks their general unpleasantness by burning the tongue. Oatmeal cereal further hides the offensiveness by blanding overall flavor.

Fruits shall be served by tonnage, not by bowl. Period.

Blowing on my face is unacceptable. If you don’t like my screaming or growling, serve me faster.

You may clean my lips and chin, chest, neck, head and shoulders, arms, elbows, folds, and hands-area with the spoon. As long as it doesn’t delay the next spoonful of food.

All meals will be followed by a wipe-down, using a non-abrasive dish-rag or wipe. Warm water shall be used, not cold, and you shall clean with a respectful dabbing motion, NOT a rough swipe. I am a lady, not a baboon. Thank you.

Optional bottle will be provided, within ½ hour of meal ending time. At this point, I will guzzle it like a college student, and promptly throw up ALL of my dinner. Where is not my concern.

Thank you. I’ll be seeing you again in about 2 ½ hours. Please- Do not further embarrass yourself or me. Be ready this time.

Message of Judgement/Message of Relief

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Wed, 17 Mar 2010 12:35:00 +0000

I’ve been reading in the Book of Hosea recently. Hosea received instruction from God’s Spirit to take a wife. A girl with a “reputation,” shall we say? I’m glad I missed out on that call.

By this woman, Hosea had three children. His first child, a boy, he gave kind of a weird name: Japanese Internment Camp. Ok. That wasn’t actually his name. His real name was “Jezreel.” But the neighbor boys would have reacted to Jezreel the way you’d react to a little boy named “Japanese Internment Camp.” Jezreel was a place of great bloodshed and violence, and it was also a place where the country’s values were scoffed at and defiled.

The next two kids were named “Fascist” and “Injustice.” Whoops, I meant “Unpitied” and “Not-my-people.”

---

The book is filled with messages. I mean, that’s how the bible is, right? Lots of messages, lots of different perspectives. You could read Hosea and talk about God’s wrath. You could talk about the violent imagery of battle, drawn swords, pregnant women and children. Or, you could talk about the promises of wrath and how God seems to turn his face from the Israelites. But for all of that, there is the promise of hope given.

---

I heard somebody talking about the ten plagues the other day- he was discussing that he thought it inappropriate to inundate children with the notion that God favors one people over another, simply by virtue of their race. Namely, he was talking about the 10^th plague- the “Big Nasty,” or as it’s known more commonly, the Visitation of the Angel of Death. It’s also the advent of the longest continuous religious celebration: Passover.

See, I wonder how many times I’ve done the same thing as the guy above? He is honestly looking for the pearl here. And he really believes that teaching children about favoritism is wrong, and here’s the thing- I would say the same thing. Teaching children that God is racist would be very, very wrong. But the thing my friend has done is to really miss the high altitude perspective of the story.

God wasn’t punishing the Egyptians over the nation of Israel. The thing that saved Israel wasn’t their being Israel, it was their obedience to God when He told them to set themselves apart by using the blood of the Lamb to mark their doorways. The same judgment that fell on the Egyptians would have fallen on Israel, had it not been for obedience.

And Pharaoh didn’t obey. 10 times he didn’t obey. He was very, very naughty. But if this was the punishment for being disobedient 10 times, what kind of punishment have I earned for myself? What kind of blood do I need in order to escape God’s judgment on the world?

See that’s the thing that “the world” doesn’t really want to hear: We are all under judgment for disobedience. Not just these people, or those people, stealers, cussers and cursers, drug-abusers, fat people, greedy people or perverts. All of us. Vain people. Mean people. Self-righteous people. Oh yeah. Them too.

The message of God’s prophets and by proxy, God Himself, through the ages, is that judgment is warranted. It is inescapable. That greed, ambition, pride, and the hubris of our race is inescapably and inherently human. That even our good-natured and kindly qualities are self-fulfilling and will become a source of self-righteous pride. Unless. Unless we believe Him, believe that judgment is warranted, believe Him that it comes, and believe Him that we can be passed over.

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It’s hard to transcend your own perspective. I think it helps to remove myself from the story in order to regain that “big-picture” perspective. By reading the story of the Passover in the Bible, with the help of people more mature than myself, I can begin to regain that high-altitude God-perspective of a world that is in need of discipline.

I guess the thing I’m getting to is that I understand why people think the stories and lessons of the bible seem unfair at times. I tend to feel that way sometimes too. But I trust God. I believe He is just, and fair, merciful and compassionate, and that He delights to save and bless. So, trusting that, when I get to thinking something sounds unfair, I try, albeit unsuccessfully at times, to re-understand it, more from a perspective of an absolutely perfect God and an absolutely imperfect me. It eases the corners on my indignation, and warms my heart to God’s compassion.

But there’s more- I bet it also diminishes my inclination to judge others, too. Maybe that’s what a judgmental world needs- a dose of grace.

capitalC.10 (looking back): What happens when the Church stands up?

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Mon, 08 Mar 2010 16:24:00 +0000

What happens when the church stands up? I’m not going to say what would happen. There are lots of people who are willing to, and I suppose if I hung out with them, I might be more inclined to seeing their point of view. But I’m placing my confidence in God’s Spirit, that He completes what he begins, that He is never idle, and that He is always the victor.

I’ve been harping the last several weeks about the intersection of the Church at worship and the Church serving the world. As if they were two separate things, that coincided from time to time, like asteroids. As though you could love God without really loving your neighbor. Or as if you could truly love your neighbor without being touched by God’s Spirit.

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It’s consumed me this past year. I’ve been a little dry maybe, and needing to be relivened. I’ve met so many people who are so jaded, so skeptical- so smart that they simply can’t understand why a person would subject their minds, subject their lives to a book. The Church, to them, is a corrupted, religio-political means to subject people under a power. Faith is a lie for me to tell myself when I feel blue- when the weight of my life is more than I can bear. It’s absolution and a salve for a conscience burdened by guilt. It’s a blind eye turned towards death, war, and the worst possible living conditions.

So how did it become this big? How did it grow from a homeless rabble and 12 men that were otherwise used up, washed out do-overs, to a world-wide social standard, familiar in all corners of the world? Without the internet?

---

Somehow, this one man, who probably didn’t travel more than 100 miles from his own home (excluding a sojourn in Egypt as a small child) managed to become the focal point for billions of lives. How? Great speaker? Perhaps. Great networker? Weeeeelllll, not really. He didn’t hang with the power-brokers, or journalists. And when he did he usually ripped them six ways. So, I don’t see the cover of US weekly touting him in any kind of positive way. They’d have photos of his “worst fashion moments” and how he really looked in a 2-piece. There would probably be reports from unnamed sources of illicit encounters, midnight deals with God knows who. This guy was no Oprah Winfrey. He wasn’t even Mickey Rooney. He maybe was more like Simon Cowell. Everybody hates him, but he’s ALWAYS right. I don’t know, maybe I went too far with that.

But somehow this guy affected world change! Without major media, without any kind of material trust fund. Mostly by loving the people he talked with everyday. Somehow, by loving the people around him everyday, those people were infected with somekind of insane “pay it forward” mentality that was so unstoppable that an entire region of the world was impacted within one lifetime. Within a mere 3 or 4 generations! People a thousand miles away or more were changing the entire paths of their lives based on the touch of a man’s affection, genuine love, and grace-filled manner.

---

Last week, a small group of people shared that touch. You could tell that the lives in that group had been reoriented. There were about 300 people there. They gave 1684 dollars, and I can’t even begin to tell you how much food. Well, I could begin. I filled up the back of my 1987 Chevy Suburban. It took 2 men about 20 minutes to load it all in. And that was mostly grocery bags or small boxes. It’s not like we stacked it one can at a time. It took two flat carts to get it to the food pantry. I think stuff like that could make a person’s life different. I can see how stuff like that could cause a person to re-examine their life. It would be understandable for a person to receive a gift like this, for them to ask “Why have you done this? What motivates this sort of compassion?”

---

I have an answer. And it has almost nothing to do with me, or who I am, or who I want to be. It has to do with what I deserved. And what I received. And how they just don’t match up. And how amazing that is. How unforgettably amazing.

SPEAKING IN ALL CAPS

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Thu, 25 Feb 2010 14:36:00 +0000

Ok, I admit it. That guy you heard screaming unintelligibly in the next aisle? Yeah, that was me. If you’d had the military-like courage to come over and ask me, I’d have told you I was speaking with conviction and furious glory. But really? I’d just lost my cool and published it in the cloud.

Now, following the admission comes the stark reality that you are standing in what could easily pass for a) a (used) minefield, or b) the center ring in a one ring circus, or c) a public area with lots of expensive and colorful items stacked precariously on their cardboard endcaps all at floor level, or, worst-case-scenario d) all of the above.

Fortunately, because the natural color of my hair is a mottled sort of orange, the grays that are surely sprouting from all available pores are well camouflaged, and difficult to discern.

---

I was standing at the top of the stairs, on my way to wake up my beautiful Grr when I heard it. Tigger, at the top of his voice, speaking to his (currently) smaller brother with a familiar conviction and furious glory. Mo had (reportedly) dropped beans on the floor (that’s a primary-offense, usually punished by removal of said dried beans for a given period of time), and Tig was simply reprimanding in a fashion that precedence had ruled acceptable.
Whoops.

---

I called him up to Grr’s room. Dutifully he arrived. At that point I apologized. I immediately recognized that Tig had simply done what he’d seen and heard his papa doing, and that I owed him and Mo an apology for being a poor example on the matter of “Techniques for the correction and rebuke of minor, yet terribly aggravating offenses.” I made a covenant with myself (albeit a weak accountability partner) in the company of my firstborn son, and heir to my great estate, that I would not raise my voice as casually as I had. That it was not a gracious way. That really, it was selfish, undisciplined, and base. Not who I want to be.
---
I’ve already broken treaty with myself. It’ll be a long road to recovery. But I’m going to keep trying. I want lots of things: I want my boys to obey my voice, not my volume. And I DON’T want my boys to be afraid of me. But most importantly, I want them to know that there’s a difference between being disciplined and being hated.
---

It’s interesting that I gleaned this little distinction from a man younger than me, unmarried, with NO kids. But he has subjected himself to the authority of his teachers, and learned a great deal much earlier than most of us do because of it. We were discussing the matter of discipline, because my boys were running amuck and amusing their less gentile natures outside. And he said something that was plain but very profound. The punishment follows the breaking of a rule. It isn’t about me being angry, or disappointed, or any of that. And when I yell, I communicate anger, not authority. Discipline brings blessing. Anger causes hurt.

---

So: in the matter of the people vs. Mo, we find the defendant guilty as charged. Time served. In the corollary matter of the people vs. His father, guardian and steward, we find the defendant guilty of misguided frustration, misdirected selfishness, and we forgive him his debts as we forgive our debtors. He is henceforth remanded to the agency of the kingdom of the Father, and will from this point forward “go forth and sin no more”. Yeah right. BUT, he will resolve to more righteously use tone and volume as it pertains to bringing well-adjusted and Jesus-loving men into this world which we live in. Amen and thank-you, God, for grace, which issues ever forth for the benefit of fathers, mothers, daughters and sons.

capitalC.10 (the politics of charity) OR "On Meeting my In-Laws"

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Mon, 22 Feb 2010 15:03:00 +0000

Forgive me if the details seem made-up. They could be. But there’s an equally good chance that they’re not.

I’m pretty sure my marriage was destined. I met her mom before I met my wife actually. Almost a year earlier. She (the MiL) remembers it- I’m not sure if I remember it or if I’ve just heard the story enough times that I’ve created the memory for myself. I was playing in the chamber orchestra- I must have been playing cello, or she probably wouldn’t have come and spoken to me. My wife played cello then. So I think MiL-ie was scouting or something.

---

We met for ourselves the next year. I was an R.A. (I’m not really sure what that was about- it seemed like a good idea at the time- but I was wrong and somebody else noticed before I did- whoops). I was sitting desk in the frosh men’s dorm I think when SugarMomma and MiL-ie came in to visit someone else. Suga’ says she liked my “image.” Weekly showers, long hair, and visible tattoos. Hmm. Not sure what Mil-ie thought, but now you’ve got a picture.

---

I was drunk. Or high. Not sure which. Maybe both. I’d gotten a whiff of radical-Jesus. I’d gotten a taste of social-justice-Jesus. I was a born-again, anti-fluff, save-the-poor-people, down-with-the-establishment, disciple of Che-Yeshua. And Karl Marx. Oh man, those were the days. I was of a generation that was gonna subvert the dominant paradigm. We were gonna drag Pat Robertson into the street and shun him publically. We were gonna dismantle the Religious Right, and sneak in through the think-tanks and social action groups. We were green. We were smart. We were young. Tri-fecta.

---

I revealed this glimpse of God’s kingdom to my future dad-in-law at the Koffie Boon. It was exciting because he was willing to talk to me, listen to me- and he cared! It was astounding. Now- he’s my dad-in-law for real now, so I can’t say too much more “nice” stuff, or it might go to his head.
But one thing- I couldn’t believe he wasn’t jumping onboard my Christian socialist bandwagon! Dude! Care for the poor! The widow! Eat the Rich! THAT’S WHAT THE SERMON ON THE MOUNT IS ALL ABOUT! RIGHT!??

Ok, so I may have made up that last part. But I’m sure he thought it. Ok, not sure.

---

He said something to me that night- well, I’m sure he said lots of things. But one thing he said in particular has stayed with me these 13 ?! years. He asked me “What if the church did all those things you want the government to do?” His suggestion, implicitly was that the Church had abdicated her blessed task and mandate to care for the sick, the elderly, the poor and the widowed- and that now people who needed it were left with no better recourse than a deficit strapped government filled with career politicians.

---

This week, the Church is taking back her place, at least here in Des Moines. Five churches are throwing a benefit party for the world. Or, at least for Des Moines. “capitalC.10” is an opportunity for the Church of Jesus Christ in Des Moines, IA to gather together- to worship with every faculty available. And to worship gratefully with human charity. You show up. You’ll see Jesus. He’ll be there, giving and collecting food, socks, towels, crappy couches, soup in crock-pots or gallon-sized zip lock bags, sleeping bags, clothes- He’ll be standing by watching over as we sign ourselves up to put our hands to His work. Organizations already serving in Des Moines will be there to accept your services. To be blessed by Jesus, worshipping God.

---

The Church will gather, the Word will be sung, the good news will be spread- the blind will see, the hungry will be hunger no more, and bound will be set free. The kingdom of heaven draws near. Come and see.

Feb 27. 6322 Hickman Road
www.capitalc10.com

Larry-boy, Forgiveness and Kindness.

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Thu, 18 Feb 2010 20:19:00 +0000

... [he told me] that he knew his obligation to love God in all things, and as he endeavored so to do, he had no need of a director to advise him, but that he needed very much a confessor to absolve him. That he was he was very sensible of his faults, but not discouraged by them; that he confessed them to God, but did not plead against Him to excuse them. When he had so done, he peaceably resumed his usual practice of love and adoration.

-from Conversations and Letters of Nicholas Herman; Brother Lawrence on the Practice of the Presence of God

---

I’m sketchy on the details, but I have this thing that the center of the Christian faith has to be forgiveness. I know, I know, the apostle Paul says its the resurrection. And yeah, I know he wrote like HALF of the New Testament. But if it’s not forgiveness, I’m pretty sure I’d like to just stay dead. If that’s alright with everybody. I mean its probably not. But just for the record.
---

It amazes me how hard it is to get my head around. Forgiveness that is genuine, and that it is complete. That the end of forgiveness isn’t back to “0” –even-stephen-try-not-to-mess-it-up-again. It’s like +100! We’re counted righteous for someone else’s righteous act, and that’s impossible (nearly!) for me to really comprehend. And for what?

---

This guy I quoted- Brother Lawrence, was a cook. Well, that was his vocation. I don’t get the sense that he particularly liked cooking so he became a cook. He was a veteran, and retired to a monastery if I have my facts right. He ended up in the kitchen. So he sort of left one army, where he was a slave to command, only to join up in another army, and another commander. But he was determined that God’s providence had placed him there, and so, there he would be.

---

I never wanted to be a carpenter really. I’d always wanted to be a musician. I accepted the possibility that I could possibly be a scholar, a member of the academic class in perpetuity. That seemed like a distant possibility. But when it was time to decide, my heart wasn’t really in that. So there I was, in a 400- maybe 600 square foot apartment, on the second floor, southfacing side of a building, with two other guys, and NO air conditioning. Or money. Or food. And not a clue to my name. All I knew is that God wasn’t sending me any signals that I was supposed to go anywhere else. Just. Here.

---

10 years later… (imagine the bat-man tv show music when they change scenes-you know, the trumpets…)

---

Being a rockstar is too hard. At least as a carpenter I know where I am when I wake up. Every single morning. And who this is in bed with me. And during the day, I know exactly why I’m busting it in this tin hot-house, sucking dust, and pulling splinters. I guess I’m not that bad at being a carpenter. I’m not that great, but it’s paying the bills, and I like it as it turns out. (but I still love playing music).

---

So, Brother Lawrence- he says it takes diligence, but after a while, after practice and perseverance, his persistence in conversation with God excites his heart. It stirs him. And now, he says, I consider everything as for the love of God. I pick up a piece of straw- it is for the love of God. I serve food, for the love of God. He somehow has found a place where everything he does starts and ends with service and satisfaction to God. He says at one point, “that [I] desired to be received into a monastery… so [I] should sacrifice to God… [my] life and it’s pleasures; but God had disappointed him, he having met with nothing but satisfaction in that state.” Right. Everybody follow along? Yeah, me too. What I think he’s saying, around the tongue in his cheek is that he thought service to God was supposed to be miserable and martyr like servanthood. You know, scraping the ends off your fingers, wearing holes through your knees. Yeah- Christian service? But he has found satisfaction! God has pleased his heart as he served. Somehow, for Larry here, doing things with his mind on God, rather than the recipient of his effort, gave him extra satisfaction- sufficient to continue doing it his whole life. And it all had to do with prayer. And as I can see it, his freedom to live with God in prayer was built on the lynchpin of feeling free. Feeling truly forgiven.

---

I think that sounds quite nice. I’d like one of those, please. What did the guest say after watching Sally try her salad? “I’ll take what she’s having…”

---

I think Brer Larry understood something about forgiveness that I don’t quite have yet. Forgiveness doesn’t end at the ability to stand before God and not fear condemnation. It creates joy. It builds a foundation for a weightless kind of joy that just… gives. It continually offers. And without any expectation for remuneration- it’s like a water source- it only really goes one way. Or light. Scripture is filled with images of radiance, light, overflowing water, and abundance. This is the blessed life. I’m not talking Christmas cheery, holiday shmeery “tis better to give than to receive!” nonsense. I’m talking a giving that isn’t giving- it’s just the way it’s moving.

---

But I believe the blessed life is still more. I would love for it to be individualized. We each get our own little totem pole to sit on, and meditate on the goodness of God, the beauty of providence, and the fullness of joy. Alas. I don’t read about totem poles in Eden. Or Revelation. Just cities, gardens, and … people.

---

Shalom. We know it to mean “peace be with you.” But it is so much more than “peace, love, dope, man…” It’s more than “end the war.” It’s more than “disarm.” It’s … turning weapons of war and mass production into implements of agriculture and the husbandry of the earth. It’s lions and lambs laying down together. It’s a small boy sticking his hand into a viper’s nest and giggling because they wiggle.

God’s shalom is a peaceable kingdom. God’s law is the closest man can come on his own. Given our inability that’s not very far into the breadth of His kingdom. But Jesus comes. What is the message of his Gospel? “The Kingdom of Heaven is near.” This is the kindness God has shown- rather than destroy what he has made, he repairs, restores, and rebuilds, making all things new again. Including the way we talk and live together. Not just with God, but with each other.

---

The Church is called to live aggressive shalom. We are not a place for people to come to. We are a people to go out. We are not a sanctified enclave. We are covert operatives, pressing peace into the hands of those we brush against. One of these days, someone will press peace into a man’s hand, and he will turn and say, “what is this?” Have an answer. We wait for the question. But Brother Larry leads them to ask. “Why are you enjoying that lame job so much? Why is it so easy for you?”

---

and he said [he] confessed [his failures] to God, but did not plead against Him to excuse them. When he had so done, he peaceably resumed his usual practice of love and adoration.

capitalC.10 (worshipping together); or "a REST is still a note"

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Wed, 10 Feb 2010 23:41:00 +0000

Do you look in the mirror and say to yourself: I have something absolutely crucial to the world to do today? Nah. Me neither. Fact is (and on this I’m confident of any corroboration coming back in the affirmative) I frequently go days without really “looking”. Remember White Men Can’t Jump? You’re listening, but you’re not really hearing? Yeah, me and mirrors. You’re looking, but you’re not really seeing. Otherwise, you’d be embarrassed right now.

What in the world does that have to do with saving the world?

---

My entire understanding of worship has recently been rocked. By a rich young man. He also blasted my ideas of evangelism, church, mission, and while he was on a roll, kinda tweaked my perspective on success. And you know how? By walking away. Jerk.

---

Worship? Success? When lots of people get together, when music is sung lustily (thanks Chris) and performed excellently. When people get in touch with the Spirit and have an experience. Did I mention “lots?” The more hands there are in the air, the greater the margin of success. Pass the plate.

---

I don’t intend to relay skepticism or any of that weak act. Anybody can play skeptic, play devil’s advocate- play alienated child. I want to set the church free. (I can hear the hushed whispers). The church is bound to a cultural standard of success. It is bound to a culturally defined measure of beauty. Dude- culture is JACKED UP. Walk away.

---

Here’s the thing. Jesus was there. He wasn’t in some synagogue meeting or library. He wasn’t holed up in a cave, and he wasn’t locked in his prayer closet. He did all those things. But he also went outside sometimes. And he touched hands with some pretty vile critters. No news here. When the rich young man came, Jesus engaged with him. When the man asked a question- kind of a leading question I might add, Jesus didn’t blow him off, sass him, or otherwise try to alienate him. He simply answered. Obviously he didn’t antagonize the young man, because the young man stayed in the conversation. But in the end, the man walked away, and so did Jesus. Weird? Yeah, I’d say so.

Did Jesus fail? (err, *awk*ward silence).

---

I wonder what God thinks about the way we “do” church. I am easily persuaded that God loves all different kinds of churches- and not for any reason pertaining to “how” they do church. He says he measures a man by his heart, looking deep on the inside. All we can really do is look on the outside, and so, meh {shrug} that’s what we do.

“ They don’t use any instruments at all!”
“ Sometimes- sometimes people actually fall right over in church over there!”
“ They use irrelevant music, from another time.”
“well they use music that glorifies a cursed society”

Bah. Piffle. (Thanks, Jess). Listen- I’m gonna say something right now that’s gonna ruffle a feather. Maybe two feathers. Fine. I can live with that, cause you’re not my judge, and neither am I. And I pray God’s mercy on me every day because of that fact. I wonder, if “church” isn’t really about “praising God” in the way that we usually mean it OR even about “sermons” anyway? I’m just thinking out loud. Hear me out. I intend no harm. Should we teach in the church? Yes, of course. Should we give God righteous and heartfelt praise? I can’t see how we don’t.

But sometimes I wonder if we should have a look at Jesus and this “rich young ruler.” They had a fairly amicable discussion. Ok. He addressed Jesus respectfully, as a Rabbi or as a “Teacher.” Something happened.

---

As a musician growing up, I played in a weekend symphony. It was a way to get students together with professionals and create a peer/mentoring environment. I played my way through some serious pieces. The conductor is someone I’ll never forget- Gerry Marsh. If you know him tell him his legacy lives on in Iowa. He was a very strong and charismatic man. He had energy that could power a freight train. Or keep a symphony full of kids and “professional musicians” together. And on course even.

I remember him saying once, reminding us of the importance of the “rest” in music. He asked somebody, probably a whole section rhetorically, what note they had at such and such bar. A little voice piped up, squeeking “Nothing!” Graciously, but with strength that left no room for debate or disagreement, Marsh tapped his baton on the podium, sort of like I might scratch my head behind my ear with a pencil while thinking, and he said “A rest is equally important to any played note in the music. Just because it’s silent, doesn’t make it any less of a note.”

---

Our congregation has endeavored to carry many programs. We’ve had Card Ministries, Community “Game-nights”, Movie showings, special services at “non-traditional” times, Sunday school for kids, Sunday school for adults, choirs, worship bands, special music groups, technical assistance groups, shepherding elders, hospital visitors, a Food Pantry, and a free medical clinic. We’ve had coordinators for small groups, coordinators for set-up, coffee, goodies, assimilation for newcomers, greeters, teachers, mechanics, plumbers, accountants, taxidermy, you name it. Name tag people. Hand-shakers. I’m sort of surprised we haven’t ever discussed having hosts and hostesses in the bathrooms to hand you your warm towels, and what-not. Maybe we’ll hit that next year.

Some of these programs brought members together for the first time in a meaningful way. Some of them supported members who were having troubles making ends meet, or even just needed a cheer-up. Some of these ministries have endured, and some have gone by the way-side. All of them were good. But I think we (as a congregation) recognized that we needed to be doing something different. Not more. Less.

---

We’re having an “event” here a couple weeks from now. You’ve probably heard me mention it. It’s gonna be in an empty warehouse-style store. It’s gonna be ONE night. It’s capitalC.10 and I hope that it comes back after this one.

We’re going to be celebrating the kingship of the Lord’s Anointed One, His Messiah.

There’s going to 5 bands, from 5 different churches in Des Moines’ greater “metro” area. There’s going to be booths there from some different humanitarian organizations at work right here in Des Moines and beyond. When the program has finished every item in the building is going to be used or donated to an organization. Except the sound equipment I think.

Now: while we’re all celebrating Jesus’ kingship, there will be some people taking furniture, food, socks, blankets, and all manner of paraphernalia for donations to the Free Store, Hope Ministries, Waukee Area Christian Food Pantry and a host of other organizations.

Nope. That IS celebrating the kingship and reign of Jesus! Do you get it?

Celebrating is singing. Sure. But celebrating is DOING what you’ve been freed to do: Love your neighbor, without judgement, without condescension, without expectation of reciprocation. If they take what you offer, and turn away, you’ve done nothing more or less than exactly what Jesus did.

THAT is the Church at worship- giving freely, living freely, giving and living differently than the world gives and lives. If they come back to find out why we live and give without expectation, THEN the Spirit is at work in their hearts for harvest. Otherwise, we just keep living and breathing and doing the will of God who saves us- loving our neighbors as God loves us, and as we love God.

---

That is the story of the rich young ruler. Jesus was obedient to the Word of Truth in his mouth. He wasn’t counted as righteous. He was the picture of it. Yet here, a potential convert walked away, sad. But Jesus did what God wanted- he loved the man, as he watched him walk away.

capitalC.10 February 27 6322 Hickman
5+5* / $10.00

* 5 dollars, + 5 _ _ _ _ (socks, blankets, towels, cans of food, etc.)
this is how they will know us- by our ~~righteousness~~ love.

capitalC.10 (worship)

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Fri, 05 Feb 2010 15:09:00 +0000

So, for a couple reasons, I've been pondering the word "worship" for awhile now.

Mark ("I put the "fun" back into "fun-damentalist"") Driscoll (one of my man-crushes) says that worship is where-ever your highest devotion lies. That means, whatever it is that you MOST make time for, MOST spend money on, MOST declare as "your team"- that is what/where/how you worship.

Far be it from me to argue with THE Mark Driscoll. He is after all brilliant, and VERY well read. He's a bit of a punk, but he pulls it off. Plus, he's obviously nuts about Je-sus, so, ya know, he's got THAT going for him.

---

My academic background is in what is conventionally known as "reformed" or "Calvinist" schools of thought. One of the fundamentals of this school (at least as I understand it, and speak of it) is a remarkable coherence and unity between all things. Schisms are "BAD". Duality is okay- dichotomy is BAD.

Duality means two sides-, dichotomy means two separate things. I like that, because it makes sense. Things are ... one. You are, or are not. You're never "sort of." You know?

I sense that I'm losing my bearings here. Hang on.

---

What the world does "worship" mean? Sometimes it means "the time when we stand up and sing songs." Yeah---- no.

Sometimes it means "the time when I smash my face into the ground and moan, and speak the deep inner truths of my heart." Yeah---- (waaiiiiit....)NO.

---

I met a few guys yesterday at a coffeeshop. Two of them I had no working acquaintance with whatsoever. The other guy is a FACEBOOK friend. (yeah, yeah, yeah). We'd never met, but I'd been following him for awhile (NO, not stalking, but rather, observing with a caring attitude, from a slight distance, and very, very quietly). #3 guy ended up working with a new church near my old house. One I was very interested in, for the reason that it was in a downtown area, started up by a new pastor, and hot with mission. I had hoped that it would be meeting at a different time than the church where I've been serving for several years, because I was really interested in seeing a "neighborhood" church in MY neighborhood.

So, I felt like we sorta had a connection there.

Well, Chris (#3) hooked me up with an invite to this "capitalC.10" thing. No idea what that meant. I made a mental note to check into it, as it was A) from this guy who moved from California to IOWA for the explicit purposes and sake of Jesus, and therefore clearly mental for God, B) from this guy who was not prone to mass-invitations, C) really, really curious sounding.

I come to find out that if you type in "www.capitalC10.com" you'll be drawn into this sweet, dark website. It just sucks you in. I think it's dark because it's actually sucking light INTO the monitor, rather than projecting it, sorta like a black hole. Now right there's a couple of cool metaphoric images that I could start writing about- but that would be a mistake...

---

Another one of my less-likely man crushes (yes, shhh, I'm a polygamist when it comes to the bromances) is Chip Ingram. He seems kinda shallow and feely at the front end, but if you give him time and the benefit of the doubt, you realize that his heart burns with compassion, and that he doesn't waste it preaching to the choir. He's looking for a big harvest. He'll leave the meat-and-potatoes for another time. Oh, and I think he's capable of bringing that. But even grown-ups drink milk. If I'm losing you here, stick with me, I'll be right back.

He did a series on Worship (yeah, I bought a sermon series on CD. You gonna be ok with that?). The basis was from the passage of Romans 12. That's passage, about offering our lives as a living sacrifice, a rational act of spiritual worship, is at the very center of his whole ministry.

HE says that "worship" is what results from the ENTIRE body of Christ in a locality finding and using their individual spiritual gifts, AS A WHOLE COMMUNITY.

Whoa. Wha....?

It means we each have a gift that is unique to us.

It means that we are each unique.

It means that I have something to offer that only I can offer.

It means that you need it.

It means that I NEED YOU before I can be WHO God made me to be, and YOU NEED ME before you can actualize who God has made you to be.

And it means that God has given YOU and ME unique purposes with coinciding uses, and neither of us can FULLY realize those gifts apart from each other.

Whoa, horsey.

---

Still waiting for this to make sense yet? Yeah, I get it. Think of how it looks from here. I still gotta make up the rest of this.

---

Chris, Jeremy, and the other guy, who's name I've forgotten, but I swear he looks like the guy married to Jennifer Lopez- these guys got together and said, "lets show desmo what the church looks like when it worships together."

So they've got 5 bands from different bodies of worshippers coming out to lead Des Moines Jesus-lovers in engaging praises. AND they're bringing volunteer organizations into the scene so that hands can find work. And they're going to give everything away when they're done.

See, now that sounds pretty cool. And I think there's going to be soup. Friedrichs is bringing coffee.

(bringing it together)

Mark Driscoll is probably onto something. He usually is. As far as I can tell. Chip, I think you're onto something too, so don't get your nose outta joint. (like he's reading this-- psh).

Chris, Jeremy, "Mr. Lopez" (I'm sorry, I'll get your name in a minute), you guys are right too. We're going to worship AND we're going to give all those couches, loveseats, end-tables, and coffee-tables, and lamps and pillows to the Free-store, and all those food-stuffs to Hope Ministries, and the Waukee Area Christian Food Pantry, and all the other cool .orgs that are coming out.

Here's my thing- it's all worship. Worship is an act. Yeah. But worship is also a walk. A way.

Jesus says the greatest commandment is to Love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your mind, and all your strength. AND, love your neighbor. Your totally doing that. Awesome, and I can't wait to help.

What does worship LOOK LIKE? It LOOKS like people loving their neighbor. Is that all? No. They aren't ONLY loving their neighbor. They're loving their neighbor BECAUSE that's how they LOVE GOD. It's more than kneeling, singing, praying--- those are all part of it. But I think it LOOKS like caring for the widow, and the orphan, and the stranger. Giving water to the thirsty, and food to the hungry.

capitalC.10: kneeling? Check. Singing? Check, Check. Watersoupfoodfurnituresocksshoesstuff? checkcheckcheck.

Grace and Peace. Reconciliation.

Yesyes.

The Forest for the Trees; There's Why- and there's How...

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Mon, 01 Feb 2010 14:56:00 +0000

Morning yuh'all.

It should be noted that the above is 3 syllables in the vernacular. "All" gets 2.

It's still cold- it's mostly cloudy, and it's monday. Suga' momma has gone off to the big city, and we're all here, playing with boxes, hookin' our thumbs in our suh'spendahs, and spitting out of the side of our mouths. 'Cept "grr". (that's what Mo calls our new baby girl). She doesn't spit so much as just let it run out any which way. ('tell you whut, that Grr's got no direction. Jus' gravity).

If you've been out of the loop, Tigger is 1 month shy of 5 years strong. Mo is about 2 years, 8 months, and Grr, well, she's durn near shiney still, with that new baby smell. She's just now 6 mos.

We're planning (by "planning" I mean we've discussed it, and bought a couple books) to start raising our own chickens this spring. Layers for sure, and broilers possibly. We'll see. But I've been thinking about chores, about responsibility, and how I'm going to trick- I mean TEACH, Tigger and 'Mo to do all the work (under my close direction, of course).

Laundry round here usually gets done on the weekends. It's a-STOUNDING how much better my wife is at folding laundry than me. Seriously. A-STOUNDING is really putting a sort of positive spin on it. Ri-DIC-ulous is really more accurate. Not that we are keeping points or anything. But seriously, she folded 4 baskets of clothes last night, and seperated and stacked them, in, like and hour. I had honestly intended to do it myself this morning. I expect that it would have taken me most of the morning. And the piles would have teetered over.

ANY-ways, I've been working with 'Mo and Tig on seeing the piles as part of their responsibilities. They understand that to mean "to knock down, spread around, and then jump up-and-down, over-and-over-and-over again," so the first thing I have to do really is relieve them of that particular obligation.

So... that's done. Tigger, ever eager to show off, likes to push, run, and in general turns putting well-stacked laundry into the dirtiest, elbow-throw-enest, trash-talking, flopping mean-girl-eye-scratching Roller Derby the 70's could have EVER hoped to produce.

'Mo however, having finer sensibilities and a taste for (melo)drama, is happy to play the victim. The bludgeoned and bloody victim, gasping in the throes of his last breath, broken and poured out on his bed of suffering, clean clothes stacked upon his chest. "It's too HEBBY!"

So, not wanting to allow a teach-able moment pass me by, me hads me a thought.

"Okay, boys. Here's what we's a-gonna do."

I told them they were going to assist each other as a means to achieving the end goal of putting away all the folded laundry.

---

Had kinda a neat "A-HA!" moment at church this weekend. Jay's been on a roll. I mean, it's been outta-the-park preachin' anna teachin' for this whole series, but he's really battin' heavy the last couple of weeks.

It really sort of solidifies the loss for our congregation when he leaves this summer. Man, I am going to miss listening to him. But I believe that the call he's following is Spirit-led, so I am eager to see what God has in store for those of us who remain.

The moment arrived during the message. I saw it coming, but more like you see the car that isn't going to slow down at a stop-sign, and you begin to read the expression on the driver's face as it comes through your passenger window.

He was holding a staff. The question he asked the congregation was: "What did God ask Moses to do?"

Crickets.

I'm guessing that was the sound of the open desert when God asked Moses, "What's that in your hand?" I can imagine Moses looking at his empty hand, ponderously. Opening and closing it. "uh, nuthin?" Maybe he tapped his forehead with the hook of his ratty, knobby shepherd's cane. You know, I bet that thing was just a pathetic excuse for a staff. Probably all janky and stuff. Hook was partly broken, end is split.

Then he realizes- "whoops, I guess I have a staff in my other hand."

"A staff?"

"Throw it down."

"what? the staff? What in the world does this have to do with "Let MY PEOPLE GO?"

Jay's point was this- God uses ordinary things. All the time. "What, THIS?" I imagine Moses thinking...

And then it turned into a snake on the ground. And you know something? Moses ran like a little girl. Not that I wouldn't. It takes all the manly I can muster to stare down a small spider, so...

Anyways, point #2 was that God does the heavy lifting. Did Moses turn that thing into a snake? No. BUT. He did have to do one little thing. Any guesses?

Throw it down.

---

At one point, I had Tigger and 'Mo split Mo's load of pants. The stack was too tall for Mo to carry by himself, and he lost heart about 3 steps up the stairs. That was when my little idea took shape.

"Okay. Tigger will take half your stack, and you'll both put your pants away. Then when that's done, you'll both put HIS laundry away."

That seemed good to them both. And so they began. Well, ever eager to show off, Tig ran down the stairs and was waiting for Mo and me to get back downstairs for HIS load.

I made the assignments, but Tigger objected- "I can carry both piles by myself." He could. I knew he could. But that wasn't really the point. He had helped Mo, and Mo had benefited from his service. I wanted Mo to have the corollary sense of feeling the need to help his older brother, and receive the same gratification.

I wanted them to work together. It wasn't about what they could or couldn't actually do. It was about what I WANTED them to do, and learn by doing.

---

I wonder if Moses felt extra pressure. What if the staff hits the floor in front of Pharoah, and just ... sits there?

---

I guess I'm sort of thinking we have a tendency to misread the purposes of things that we are sometimes asked to do. I think it's maybe a lot simpler than we think.

God tells us to give to the poor. He tells us to protect the widows and orphans, to correct our brothers, to tell the good news of a man who God raised from death. We see individual tasks. I think that God is simply illustrating what it means to "love the Lord, your God with all your heart, all your mind, and all your strength." He's illustrating the second great commandment, "to love your neighbor as yourself."

So we donate time to soup kitchens, shoes and pants and shirts to the Goodwill, we write checks to UNICEF and COMPASSION, INTL. Or Justice for All. Or...

We wonder, when is it enough?

Then we go someplace, and a man behind a pulpit tells us that the Church gets 10% of our money. Just like that. BANG.

---

I've heard people ask the question, again and again: Why does the Church need our money? If God is so great, why doesn't He just do it Himself? Or, another one, Why does the Church need our money? Isn't money the root of all evil?

But I've sorta come to think that yes, functionally the "church" needs money to operate. It just does. But more than that- I think the tithe is more than an exacting of administrative costs. I'll never forget one of those church dramas, hastily put together, and passionately demonstrated, where I heard one character speak to the other-

"I don't think it's so much that God NEEDS our money, as much as it is we NEED to give it."

Hmmmm. I hear that, and it's like strawberry rhubarb. Oh, sooooo good. I can just taste it. There's the sweet of the strawberry, helped by 2 or 3 cups of sugar of course, but none the less. But the bitter tart of the rhubarb. So true.

There's more to the stack than meets the eye, Tigger. It's not about whether you can carry it or not. But your brother needs to help you. And you need to be helped. Just trust me on this. You'll understand in time, I hope. Trust me. Throw down the staff. Just do it.

___

"Why?"

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Tue, 12 Jan 2010 14:08:00 +0000

"Why?"

We ask. We answer. We wonder.

This isn't going to be some grand argument or concise thesis. I'm restless in my spirit. My mind is bubbling, and usually it's focused on something specific- some unifying principle that when it's all done sort of gives it the sense of cohesiveness that makes the time investment of reading sort of pay-off.

Sorry.

I've been reminded that I don't have to be so serious all the time. That there was once a time when I enjoyed writing humorous anecdotes of a stay-at-home dad.

I don't know- I just haven't been feeling ... funny. Life just seems so ... well, for lack of a better word, serious. Maybe significant? My heart is sick for people who fail to find significance. Some would say that I place too MUCH significance on life- that I take every little thing too seriously. That it makes me high strung, and not fun to be around. I suppose.

---

It's been sort of brisk outside lately. Ok. It's been dangerous to BE outside for more than 15 minutes at a time. But there was a break in the clouds, and the sun came out for a couple minutes the other day. At that point I suited the boys up and tossed them out into a snow drift. Don't worry, it was all in good fun.

Anyways, since it was so cold, it seemed wise to me at the time to stick my head out the door every so often to make sure they hadn't stuck their tongues on a lamp post or fence, or suburban, or pretty much anything.

#2 has a propensity for removing vital objects of winter-protective wear, garments such as stocking caps, mittens, and once a jacket. So I make a note to take inventory when he comes inside, or even when we cross paths outside.

So stick my head outside to make sure everybody alright. #1 (Tigger) is fine, pushing a Scotts seedbroadcaster around (this is his favorite outdoor pastime- I see the postal service in his future possibly). Check.

I look around for 'Mo (#2). He should have a bright yellow fleece hat on. I see him with his long Beatles hair-cut. Hair. Hair, not hat. Not right. Affirmative, Houston, we've lost a visual on his winter-cap. Copy?

"Hey! Where's your hat!?"

"Know? Papa?" (-ese for "I haven't the foggiest idea- I didn't know it was my day to track it.")

He turns around, and I see it tucked ever-so gently into his jacket-hood.

"It's behind you, boy!" He turns around, looking for his tail. I see him rub the back of his head, as though a genie might *poof* out of his ear and explain what I mean to him.

"No! It's in your HOOD!"

Bear in mind now, I'm in my slippers and bathrobe, bon-bons in hand, TV remote in my bathrobe pocket- No position to stand out side and have a friendly discussion with anybody. Plus the commercials will be done any second now, and Dr. Ricky is caught in an elevator shaft, where he fell trying to rescue Nurse Rachel after she fell through the open doors on the top floor of General Hospital. Time's a'wastin.

As I watch 'Mo pat the back of his head, Tigger informs me (he is a very dutiful messenger) that 'Mo is also missing a ...

BOOT.

Seriously.

Like, his SHOE? Yeah. Like his shoe. I scan the horizon, fields of white snow surround me, reaching to the fine line of sky in the distance. I see in yonder field a small brown boot floating on a drift of powder.

"GET IN HERE! RIGHT NOW!" I shout. He looks at me, eyes welling up with tears (I can't actually see them, but I recognize the expression). You know what he says to me?

Standing there on a sheet of ice (aka my driveway) in the middle of an otherwise barren scape of frozenness and blowing arctic wind (OH CAN-A-DA! MY HOME AND NA-TIVE LAND!), my 2 1/2 year old explorer turns and says "WHY?!" with great exasperation and near-disbelief.

The door slams.

---

We watched a short video courtesy a local news station about how a guy ran out to his car to get a pack of smokes in his bare feet and pajamas, and five hours later was discovered on his own front porch by a neighbor. There are some fairly good shots of his feet. Nice. And they say that smoking can kill you.

Boots are stationed by the door, right next to hats, mittens, gloves, scarves, coats, snow-pants, flares, and snowshovels.

http://www.Post_Santum_Depression.org Part I

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Wed, 30 Dec 2009 15:54:00 +0000

A new support group I've been mulling over. Here's the thing: Christmas is a dreaded holiday for me. Somehow, I've become this extraordinary grinch with regards to this favorite of holidays. I don't know that there's necessarily one reason for it.

I tell friends that it's because Christmas carols were never written for the guitar.

That's true. Not a one.

There's just something about it that makes me so deeply skeptical- so uninterested and distant that I can hardly understand it myself. I think sometimes that it is the repulsion that I feel when I hear the vacuous statements of goodwill as money changes hands. You can hear the drool pooling on the floor behind the register.

And yet I feel entitled to blow my wad (such as it is) through the entire month of December. I was disposing of the wrappings and boxes, and was sort of disgusted with myself. And the thing is I didn't think we'd gotten all that much stuff for the boys. We really didn't. I think they each got 4 things from us.

I thought we'd been pretty thoughtful. We bought them each 12 punch balloons and a boppy for beating up (which they have, thoroughly). There was a Thomas the Tank Engine toy and a Cars toy. There was other stuff too, but I don't suppose that's the point. I guess Christmas is just a let-down for me somehow.

----

I had a discussion with a friend of mine from college the other day. God has placed a great weight on his heart for the shamar of the earth: the mandate that God gave Adam and his legacy to care for and maintain His garden. He believes that our failure to responsibly fulfill that charge has come to a point of imminent danger to the entire planet. He believes that the human race has literally taken over the planet and consumed its resources to the point of pillage. And that feasible options for recovery are very limited.

I agree with him right up to the last couple of arguments. It makes me sad because he wants to put more limitations on the spread and growth of people. That doesn't seem right to me. But I understand his passion.

---

At the shop I used to work for, there were a couple of guys that I just couldn't talk with. And they were alright with that because they simply couldn't talk to me. It just seemed like every time we tried to talk, somebody ended up pissed and it was middle school all over again. Didn't really matter what the topic was.

And that made me sad, because most of the time (I'm pretty sure) no harm was really intended. There was just a screen to our understanding each other.

---

I have a big family. You wouldn't guess it necessarily. I don't really correspond with them much. I don't know if any of them read this blog regularly, so I'm probably going out on a limb talking about them. Some of them I have much stronger bonds with. Some of them... well, not as much. And it's not a big thing, we just haven't spent a lot of time together. Our respective ages run the gamut, as do our various stages-of-life. A lot of us seem to have only our genes in common. I don't mean that to be a slam. We just live our lives in different places. And they don't cross a lot. Does that mean I don't care. No. It makes me sad, because I know that people who knew us all would say that we are all similar to each other in mysterious ways. I know that all the guys sound pretty much the same. And there is a common laugh that always relaxes me when I hear it.

But it makes me sad when I think about how our whole lives are going by and we hardly talk.

---

I wonder how many people practically kill themselves trying to please God. I know that I have spent the better part of my adult life trying to be perfect. Trying to say everything perfectly, to live with perfect integrity, wanting to search out the wisdom of the world, and the Word of God to come to the final flawless interpretation. It's gotten to the point where I can't tell if I'm actually interacting with the "real world" at times. I mean, Christian music, Christian friends, Christian literature, etc. You can live in two worlds pretty easily.

It makes me sad. Because I'm pretty sure that's not why Jesus was born.

---

Over the last year I've been slowly turning away from trying to figure it all out. I haven't completely given it up, I've just allowed myself to lower my expectations a little. At least in that one regard.

I've been trying to push myself towards compassion more than teaching. Sounds arrogant, I know. Guess that's part of the sin-me that Jesus is scrubbing away.

You know I'll never be all the way clean, right? Not during this lifetime. I can hold the title of clean in my hands- He gives it to me as assurance that it's coming. But still he works. I suppose it's like the strap they used to put in a soldiers mouth while the surgeons worked on him. No morphine, just bite down on this. Ok, so the analogy is maybe not perfect. But I have a pretty firm grip on the title. And I seem to grasp it tighter when Satan's whisper gets louder, or when Jesus' brush really bears down.

Anyways... I think I've strayed from my point a little. Or maybe not.

One of my journey-moments is the ongoing deepening of my grasp of Jesus' invitation to the weary to come and take his yoke, his shackles, because the burden he offers is an easy one. That he comes to restore the easy relationship between Creator and creature.

I don't think that Jesus' is about peachy-keeny, sweet and saccharine mushy cushy feelin' groovy kind of spirituality. Don't misunderstand what I'm saying. But I also think it's stupid to think that my mind will ever fully grasp the full breadth of what "God wants"- that I will ever be able to grasp the profound depth of what covenant looks like when God is the other hand in the hand shake.

Paul says that the law came because of weakness. I sort of get that. How do I know that stealing is actually wrong unless I'm told. Otherwise, I might just think it's me being thrifty.

I don't know where this ends up, but I guess the thoughts that I have right about this time of year-- is just how profoundly we DON'T get Christmas. Sure, we know the story. We can sort of grasp it, as Paul says in another context, as though through a glass darkly.

But how tremendously important it must be to God to be reconciled to people. How profound that reconciliation must be, how broad, and deep, that God would forever and permanently relinquish the privileges of being in perfect relationship, in perfect form, in short, in Heaven, and become a baby. A screaming, poopy, colicky baby. And not born into wealth, or high society, but into obscurity. Into a town of 50 families maybe, so far off the beaten path that even the Romans didn't even care.

I think the thing I'm most looking forward to shedding in God's newly minted creation-- misunderstanding. Gack.

On the Way:

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Tue, 15 Dec 2009 13:22:00 +0000

I've not posted for awhile. There are a lot of things I've not done in awhile. I won't list them all for you...

I've been reading in Exodus this last week or so. The early portions of Exodus are familiar ones to me. I've many times begun the book. Plus there is the TBS standard "The Ten Commandments." So, guess what I'm saying is, I know about "let my people go." Or I think I do.

One of my goals over the last couple years has been to give God's voice words. Seems generous of me.

I've many times complained that following God's way, doing God's will, hey- just KNOWING what God wants me to do in this situation or that one- would be so much *easier* if He'd just speak! Being the "philosopher" that I am, I extended the complaint with further analysis: Speaking is done by way of words. Words are understood and translated. What might qualify as "speaking"? As "words"? And dimly at first, then brighter, God's words became more and more audible. Not forgetting that "more and more" indicates a relative relationship: I'm not saying it's always Big Guy: "Thus and such; copy?" and Sean: "Affirmative, 'Thus AND such.' roger that, Lord, you're 5x5, loud and clear."

But it's getting better. Because I'm trying to get God's word to be God's Word. Get it?

So I'm trying to read the Bible as if it could possibly have some relevance to my life. But I also want to be careful not to "over spiritualize-a-fy" what I read by importing some kind of significance that is so far-fetched that even God would scratch his head. There's a problem.

What in the world does a pack of Jews wandering (NOT to be confused with a pack of Wandering Jews) the desert have to do with ice on the driveway and kids that are restless from being inside for too long (and it's not even Christmas!). What I mean is how does the record of Exodus speak to my problems today. My today problems?

---

Here I must depart from my journey from Egypt to God's holy mountain. I leap into the future, about 2000 pages. I have to have hope. You can't accuse me of over-spiritualizing-a-fication, but feel free to point and shout "PROOF_TEXTER!"

Because Faith is hope for something that is unseen. Because how can I hope for something that I already have? but rather, I will hope for something which I don't have.

My point is this; I'll read Exodus today, and I'll read it tomorrow, and someday I'll be reading something else; James or Jude. As I expand my catalog of God's words, God's Word will speak into my current situation with greater clarity and specificity. And I have faith that as my mental catalog of God's words expands, God's Word to me will also expand; become more and more detailed. More and more instructive. More and more audible.

I've seen it happen. All I used to remember of Exodus was "let my people go" or else God'll hammer you clear into next week. But yesterday I read something: "and You will be as God to pharoah." Adonai was speaking to Moses out of the burning bush, explaining to him how he was to go out and free God's people.

Will Moses acquire some kind of elusive temporary deity card? Part time pass to the upper level of the Northwest SkyClub?

Oh man, it was pretty much a flashlight going off in my eyeball. God was informing Moses that he would represent God. He would be the image of God's authority. The local authority standing between the government of Egypt, the world's most prolific political power, and God himself.

Suddenly, I saw a new example of continuity between the "Old Testament" community of Israel and the "New" testament community of the Church. We (the Church) are called to be God to the world. For Moses that meant explaining that God was God-- not Pharaoh. It was a formal introduction of sorts.

For us, it is a ministry of reconciliation. No longer are the Jews alone invited to share with God in communion. It is no longer Moses against Pharaoh. Through Jesus' righteousness and sacrifice, the veil is torn, the doors thrown open. The legacy of Moses is now reaching out to the pharaohs of our world-- those who were once in darkness are called into light.

We are to be as God to the world... desiring that no one should perish, but that all should be saved.

Wow. All that from a pack of wandering Jews. I mean jews, wandering.

A New Scorecard, A New Scorekeeper ... part II

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 17:17:00 +0000

…for the backstory… A New Scorecard…part I

The trouble we had at our church was that for all the effort we put into reaching out to people our church didn’t really seem to be growing. At least as we could tell.

Our attendance was pretty much the same, or it would go up, hang out, then go down. The parking lot had a pretty consistent number of cars and the offering plate looked about the same from week to week. Business was booming in the preschool, it was expanding exponentially, and needed to turn people away. The Food pantry was doing good, which is sort of one of those things you don’t know what to call it. It’s good that we’re getting food to these people, but it’s NOT good that they need it. You know?

But one of our pastors began reading a book called “Missional Renaissance” and quickly brought it to the elder board and the senior pastor. Wasting no time, they all read it together. The man who wrote the book, Reggie McNeal seemed to be speaking right into our situation.

---

My wife shakes her head when I explain that I sometimes feel like I’m not adding to the family like I used to. She hates it if I make comments inferring that this is her’s or she bought that, or whatever. But the truth is, even though she’s right to be upset, it’s hard to redefine your value so radically after, well, earning my own money for so long.

---

We as a church realized that we were using a common system of scorekeeping. Problem was it wasn’t the kind that our Scorekeeper was likely using. Wanting to align ourselves to our Creator, we decided to trade in our old scorecard for a new one.

---

The value I add, or that any stay-at-home parent adds to a family is in legacy building. It’s in establishing and maintaining the kind of environment that you could only hope your child takes for granted: safety, shelter, Truth, and opportunity. The problem is how you touch lives as a parent is totally unquantifiable isn’t it? You see how they handle relationships or make decisions as they get older, maybe as they become parents themselves. But, for now, how do you mark that? Maybe in how my spouse seems to feel?

She frequently tells me how at ease she is, how comforting it is, how happy it makes her just to know that the kids are in their home, with each other, and being nurtured. Constantly. She says it frees her to do better at work. Ok. She hasn’t said that explicitly, but I believe that she would agree to it. If she doesn’t, I’ll just not tell you. Ok?

---

God longs for communion. He longs to heal. He desired so deeply to repair what you and I have broken that he himself became a man, putting himself in harms way as a baby, putting himself at the greatest inconvenience, having to deal with good tastes and bad tastes, good feelings and bad ones, sickness, homelessness, hunger, temptation and tiredness. When he called the apostles, when he gave his Holy Spirit, when he sent us out to the ends of the earth he simply extended the range of his mission. The Church is an institution for healing. It is an institution for the purposes of reclaiming the world. Not shedding herself of it.

---

The struggle in this is similar in nature to the struggle that I myself have been working through: How do you quantify something like that? It would be easy if we could just say that every person effectively “touched” by the church responded to God’s call and became himself a part of the church, giving his life back to God. But that doesn’t always happen. It doesn’t even usually happen.

Jesus performed miracles, performed healings, spoke truth into many ears that simply turned away. Jesus fed many people, who went home satisfied, but probably got hungry again. Well, so does the church.

Jesus was counted righteous.

Could it be that if the Church faithfully fulfills God’s mission to offer repair to what’s broken (free of charge), heal what is hurt (without expectation of a conversion), feed who is hungry (because they’re hungry), she too will be counted righteous?

---

I think the point that I’m laboring to make is that I’ve begun to understand the notion of success differently. God longs to save people. He longs to save their hearts, souls, minds and bodies---their entire beings to Himself, through the work of His resurrected Son. And that redeemed person is of inestimable value to God as an individual and unique creation.

But the path to that person’s salvation is strewn with the loving work of the Church. And that is also of inestimable value to God. All by itself. Because that is how he designed the entire world to function: acting justly, loving mercy, and walking humbly with Him.

So success is no longer measured by cars in the parking lot, money in the plate, or butts in seats. Yeah, we still measure those things. It would be irresponsible not to know if the parking lot is adequate for our needs, if we are filling services to a consistent level, if we need to add services because we’re turning people away, etc.

We’re just not defining the value of our efforts by those things. We count families that come through our food pantry, families that are served in our medical clinic. People who are given the opportunity to experience the same love that God has shown us.

Hopefully they ask us why.

---

I don’t make any money. I help us save the money we do make. I’m trying not to focus in on that, or define my value by my profitability. Because money is only part of the equation. I fully expect to see my value spelled out in about 15 or 20 years. By then the “interest” should make the wait more than worth it.