Hooah

It was early March, 1983. A Saturday evening. I was in town to speak at FBC Bethalto the next morning. If things went well they would be voting on calling me as their associate pastor that evening.

But on Saturday I found myself at His dinner table. It was just his family, a few of their friends, and my family. His name was Jerry and to know him was to know how to laugh. He had a serious side but could also see a bit of humor in everything. Perhaps it was because of the warm, friendly nature of this man and this family that the church selected them to be the first ones we shared a meal with in what was soon to become our home of twenty-four years.

After we relocated to their village Marsha and Jerry became close and fast friends to Debbie and I. Our kids were little and Marsha was an expert in all things medical. She made her share of trips to our home on the spur of the moment to dispense wisdom and assure us that all was well. She was a part of the volunteer staff in our youth ministry and Jerry was around anytime we were leaving town as a group. He loved the kids and they loved him. He was also a deacon and involved anytime there was a repair or a decision to be made. He is the kind of guy you want to have around your church when you need either brains or brawn.

I have been thinking much about my friend Jerry over the last weeks. He called me one Sunday evening in 1992 after I had spoken in our evening worship service. Game six of the World Series was just about to begin in Atlanta. He asked me if I had a bag packed. I told him that I didn't but I could get one together quickly. I trusted Jerry. I didn't even need to know why. Within the hour we were on the road driving to Atlanta. We were not going to the ballgame. We were going to bring home his daughter who had run away from home to seek greener pastures. It was thirty-six hours I would never forget. We drove all night, arrived around 7AM and proceeded to poke around inner city Atlanta for hours. Without going into detail I'm pretty sure that I came as close to death on that trip as I ever have. He and I were separated by a building and about 30 yards when I was confronted with two of the largest, fearsome looking men I have ever met. I think an angel blinded them and whispered lies into their ears because they concluded that I was a plain clothes narcotics officer and they made a hasty retreat. When we got back into Jerry's car we had his daughter with us. Jerry drove through downtown Atlanta while I (literally) accepted punches from and wrestled with "his little girl" who was trying to get past me to strangle her father. It was well after dark when we arrived back at home. Jerry and I seldom talked about that trip but it cemented a bond between us that stood the test of time.

Jerry is famous around my family as being the one who would steal my son's dinner on Wednesday evenings at church and hide it. There was little Scott could do to retaliate against the Vietnam veteran that knew all of the tricks. I do believe that he got a small measure of revenge one evening when Jerry encountered him and randomly said, "Boxers or briefs?" Scott replied, "I'm not wearing either." Jerry never messed with "Captain Commando" again.

I could go on and on about my friend. He shared his war testimony for the very first time when he was with us on a youth retreat. His story was something that no man should have to live through. He wept between each sentence as the stories poured out of him. Stories that nobody had ever been told. I understood why he had no time for war movies. It was all too real for him. Jerry is a true hero. The fact that he returned from the brutality of Vietnam is a testimony to the grace of God. The fact that he remained sane in the wake of it is just as much a testimony.

Before yesterday I had not seen Jerry in five years. I had moved in a different direction and I got separated from this man that I love so much and respect so greatly. And then came the news that he is fighting a new fight. His latest battle is against an invisible enemy named "Leukemia." I remember how Jerry has been a platelet donor for as long as I have known him. Now his own blood has turned against him. This battlefield is his own body. I followed his story as closely as I could through friends and an occasional email from Marsha. It seems the battle is about over. As surreal as it seems, Jerry may have met the enemy that will finally take him down. Yesterday I made the trip I have been dreading.

I walked into his hospital room and into the arms of Marsha and their two daughters. Jerry lay on the bed, life giving fluids flowing into his body through a vast assortment of tubes. Monitors recorded every heart beat and every fluctuation in his ravaged system. He mainly slept. Yet every now and then his closed eyes would become barely open slits and he would look up at Marsha. He draws peace from her presence. We have all done that at one time or another.

And then it was time to go. I walked to the side of his bed. Marsha spoke loudly to him, "Jerry, Ron and Debbie are here. They want to pray with you." Jerry opened his eyes fully. He turned his head slowly, giving Debbie a smile. His eyes finally settled on mine. He didn't say anything. Really, he couldn't. I didn't expect anything more than a quiet moment to pray and then he would certainly drift back off into a merciful sleep. But I suppose there has just been too much shared between us over the years. We have walked through many good times together. And we have both watched each other get beaten up by the various twists and turns of life. Bonds between friends form tightly through the stress, strains, and confusions of this fallen planet.

Jerry raised his hand toward me and I took it. He pulled my hand toward his face. He drew my fingers to his lips. In the holy silence he gently kissed my hand.

What do you do with that? How do you respond when a weary soldier ... one of your few living heroes ... kisses your hand? I did the only thing I knew to do. I placed my other hand on his head, bald from the ravages of chemo. And I prayed. I asked our Father to hold my friend. To allow him to find God's arms of grace. And yes, I prayed for healing. And Jerry will find his healing. Here ... or at "home." He is destined to be well.

As for me, I carry the symbol of a friendship that has endured more than a quarter of a century. For our friendship is etched forever into my memory through the tears I saw a father shed for his daughter on a night long drive ... through the honor of being asked to accompany him on that most important trip of his life ... through holding his angry daughter at bay until he could get her home and teach her the depths of his love for her ... and through a silent kiss placed upon my undeserving hand.

It was an honor to serve with you, Jerry, in The Holy Army of Our Lord. HOOAH.

I Would Be Toast

I was born at just the right time in history. Recently a friend and I took up the challenge to read the Bible through in 66 days. If you didn't know, there are 66 books in the Bible. That's a book per day. More precisely, it is 18.0151515 chapters per day. Some chapters are short. Psalm 117 only has two verses. On the flip side, Psalm 119 has 176 verses. Psalm 118 languishes there in the middle with a more typical 29 verses.

Last week I decided to take down two of the "giants." You know what I mean. It's easy to read Genesis. Hey, God's creating the world! It's a good read! And then you jet through the first half of Exodus with stories of plagues of locust and water turning into blood. Frogs everywhere. Riveting stuff. Then suddenly ... BOOM. The last half of Exodus brings you back to earth with its boring monologue of rules and regulations. Still, you can get through it because the odor of sweaty, terrified, Israelites lingers in your nostrils from their trek through the Red Sea.

Leviticus and Numbers ... that's a whole new deal. The sin of fallen man required that animals be sacrificed and rules be obeyed. It was a band-aid. A temporary fix to the sin problem. But it was very real and very important to those Israelites to whom it applied. And as I waded through the details my mood sank like Pharaoh beneath the waves of the sea. And I realized ...

If I lived in the days of Moses I would be toast.

How did anyone survive? I mean, I understand why anybody who gives their child to Molech the pagan god should be put to death. Give your kid away and you deserve pure wrath-filled judgement. But I knew I was in trouble when I found out that whatever animal you sacrifice to the Lord must be without blemish. You see, I don't really know what a goat is suppose to look like. What constitutes a blemish on a goat? Honestly, the entire thing looks like one big blemish to me! Same thing with Rams. Fact is, I live in St. Louis where all Rams are blemished. (Sly football reference.) And then God says in Leviticus 26 that if you disobey Him, He will "visit you with panic." Panic? Can you imagine the panic God can visit you with if He sets His mind to it?

THIS. IS. NOT. GOOD.

You see, I have a sin problem. I'm better than I use to be but I'm still pretty messed up. I don't need panic adding to my issues. Numbers 19 tells me when I should burn a heifer. Not just a heifer. A red heifer. Friends, the only way I would recognize a red heifer is if it was standing next to a blue chicken and you told me to guess which was which. Furthermore if I find myself in a tent with a dead person I'm unclean for seven days! I don't go in many tents and now you know why. My "camping-avoidance-mechanism" suddenly makes total sense. And then there is the statute that says if I accidentally drop a rock on someone and he or she DIES (this hasn't happened to me yet but obviously it does happen or God wouldn't have mentioned it) then it is up to the congregation to judge whether the "Avenger of Blood" gets me or I can hide out in a "city of refuge." Avenger of Blood? How do you get that job? Honestly, I don't have that great of a track record when my future has been "up to the congregation." But I digress.

It is clear that, in order to survive in the days of Moses, you had to be very, very, careful. And it wouldn't hurt to have the spiritual gift of administration because you certainly want to have your act in order. As for me ... I'm grateful to be a New Testament believer. I'm thanking God a little more profusely for grace today. I'm more aware than ever of how vitally important the blood of Jesus is.

Without it ... I'm toast.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #60

"Hello? Mr. Jones? We just wanted to let you know that your car has arrived here at the dealership. Yes, sir. They are taking it off the truck right now. Give us a few minutes to put it through the car wash and you can come and pick it up!"

And God Smiled...

You know what would be awesome? If God were going to tell you a joke how funny do you think it would be? Monty Python use to do a skit about this guy telling the funniest joke in the world. The problem was, to hear it was to die. Death by laughter. Nobody could hear the joke and live. It was just too hilarious. That is the kind of joke that God would tell if He wanted to give us both barrels of His humorous streak.

How do I know that?

Two years ago a young couple visited our church on a Wednesday night. Towerview people are scattered all over our building during our midweek events. Youth and children events are going on. The nursery is open. Staffing those positions takes a lot of adults and that leaves a fairly small group to attend the adult Bible Study. And so I doubt that there were that many present when this couple showed up. But in true Towerview fashion one retired couple engaged them in conversation. They were new to our area and were seeking a church. As the talking wound down the older couple gave the younger couple their names and phone number on a small, ripped piece of paper. The wife stuck it in her bible.

Over the next twenty-four months this couple moved to another suburb. They checked out many churches. Dozens of worship bulletins, prayer lists, and brochures passed through our young friends bible. She tried to keep it clean. Every time she came to that torn piece of paper she saved it. It was nice to know that there was somebody in the greater St. Louis area that cared enough to tell them, "If you ever need directions, or suggestions about things in the area feel free to give us a call." Roughly 730 days passed and the couple still had not found a church that "fit." No place really seemed like home. That is what they were seeking. A church that made them feel like they belonged.

Recently our young couple moved back to a suburb several miles from our church. They remembered visiting our church but not in any specific way. They didn't remember the pastor. They didn't recall the people. They decided to give it another try. They really, really, needed a church. It was important to them. And so on a recent Sunday morning they pulled into our parking lot, shut the car off, and made their way into the auditorium. The worship service would be starting soon. The wife looked at her bible. Hmmm. She opened it, turning through its pages in search of something she thought she remembered. Wasn't this the church where that nice man gave her the names? Yes. Yes, there it is. John and Shirley. And their is their address and phone number. The young woman wondered if the older couple were still attending church here. It couldn't hurt to ask somebody. But who?

In the brief discussion that followed the wife showed the note she had saved for two years to her husband. She asked him what he thought she should do. It would be nice to meet that couple. The husband suggested she ask the man seated in front of them. He had noticed that the man was the only one in the building wearing a tie. Maybe he was a deacon. Maybe he would know this couple.

She leaned forward and tapped the man on the shoulder. He turned, looked at her, and smiled. Excuse me, she said, but do you know Shirley Warren? Well yes, the man replied. That is my wife. Why do you ask?

Two years. 730 days. A torn note. A vague memory.

Tonight my wife and I took that young couple to dinner. Their eyes lit up as they told us the story of the old, worn note pressed into the Bible. There was excitement in their eyes. We sat and talked in the restaurant for three hours and ten minutes. It seemed like maybe half an hour.

This, my friends, is called "The Fingerprints of God." That is the way He works. He goes the extra mile, stands you on your head, and leaves you gasping for breath. He loves you that much.

And if He ever decides to tell you a joke ... I suggest you take a pass. With the kind of creative energies He displays to His children ... you probably wouldn't survive the experience.

That's What Heaven's Going To Be Like

I remember waking up at Glorieta Baptist Conference Center in New Mexico on dozens of June mornings. I was there leading teenagers at "Centrifuge" camps. Every morning in June, tucked into those stunning forested mountains, was incredible. Up at 7. A chilly breeze rushed down from the 12,000 foot peaks and into our camp at a mere 7,500 feet. I would meet my kids to walk to breakfast wearing shorts and a sweatshirt. The sky was cobalt blue and the air smelled pure. I couldn't wait for breakfast so that I could sit with my friends and map out the glorious day ahead of us.

That's what heavens going to be like.

I sat all alone on the top of a 300 foot sand dune. The view to the west was a pristine Lake Michigan. Those little dots were teenagers that God had placed in my care. They were swimming and throwing frisbees and playing "Chicken." I would burrow my feet into the sand and feel each grain caress my skin with the warmth of summer. A young man or woman in shorts and a t-shirt would run past me on my right and leap into the sky as the hang glider strapped to his back carried him heavenward to drift on the rising warm air ascending from the sand. Then I would watch as he swooped low over the lake, carried by the cooler air from the water. Up and down. Up and down. Watching my kids. Watching the glider. Feeling the warm sand. Sun in my face.

That's what heavens going to be like.

The full moon was rose over the Atlantic Ocean off the coast of Jekyll Island, Georgia. I sat on the wooden steps that had carried me over the grass covered sand dune. A hotel of sleeping teens was to my back. I alone saw the waves crash in as I reveled in my impromptu 2:00AM quiet time. The air smelled of water and salt. The heavens were ablaze with a billion stars backed by the blackest of nighttime skies. I thanked God for the moment and drank in His beauty.

That's what heavens going to be like.

My grandson sat on the hardwood floor of my living room. He played with toys that screeched loud sounds as buttons were pushed or levers were pulled. The delight in his eyes lit my aging heart. He reached for the stuffed animal, squeezing the paw to make it talk. He chattered back at it in syllables only he could understand. He stopped and looked up into my eyes. His grandfather. He stared. I smiled. The corners of his mouth bent upward and his eyes took on a new glow. I held his gaze as long as his one year old attention span would allow until he went back to the next toy. My heart was full.

That's what heavens going to be like.

I stuffed my feet into the awkward boots and then clicked the toe and heel of the boots into the special made bindings. Strapped to high-tech boards of waxed polymer I stared at the drop off before me. The snow was a hard pack, recently groomed into the shape of perfect corduroy. My heart beat faster as I mentally planned my way down the fall line. A deep breath. The wind in my face. My breath working to fog the goggles covering my eyes. A scarf tucked snugly around my neck and mouth. Sock hat pulled over my ears to the top of my goggles. The weather station in the cafeteria a mile below me told me that I was standing in 17 degree air with a steady 20mph crosswind coming off the continental divide to my left. I sucked air one more time and pushed off ... committing to my very first run down a ski slope in the Rocky Mountains. It was an intermediate "blue." I didn't know a soul within 600 miles. The adrenaline kicked into over drive as I made a solid run ... upright and non-stop ... to the bottom of the mountain. I slid sideways to a stop and looked back up from whence I had come. One thought possessed my mind. "Again!"

That's what heavens going to be like.

Except better. Many, many, times better...


nearly heaven

Thank You From Mr. CrabbyPants

I admit it. I woke up crabby this morning. I had one of those dreams last night that you wouldn't even schedule on a late Halloween night horror show marathon. It was ugly. And it was right at the end of my night sleep so when I woke up from it the clock on the night stand told me not to bother trying to doze off again because, if I did, it was going to be the next thing to haunt me.

I hate alarm clocks.

So I got up and showered, dressed myself, ate a banana, and went to church. That is when everything changed. If I were not the pastor there is a fair chance that I would have just chalked this one up, rolled over, and tried to eek out a better dream before beginning the day. But when you are the pastor ... you go. But I'm human enough to admit that I wasn't smiling as I turned left on Old Collinsville Road.

And then I walked into Towerview Baptist Church. I was met at the door by a great guy. His name is Lynn. He always has a smile for me. And as a bonus he holds the door. I walked through the outer office and came across Ila. She is our Sunday Morning Secretary. Yeah. She smiled at me too. Her husband and my friend, Bob, is locked in a battle with Acute Leukemia and yet she shows up on Sunday morning and even has the juice to love on people. Next I met Trish in the hallway. She is our worship leader. She smiled at me and even patted me on the back.

That's when I noticed it. I was smiling back at them. The crabby's were gone. All gone. I walked through the entire morning being loved on by members of "my family." Nobody scowled at me or complained. Nobody smacked me upside the head (literally or figuratively.) They loved on their crabby pastor. Oh, true, they didn't know I was crabby. That doesn't matter. The fact that they loved ... that's the whole ball game. By the time I stepped onto the stage to teach them my own smile was genuine and fresh.

So this one is for you, Towerview family. I want you to know something. I love you. I really, really do. I love seeing you, I love talking with you, I love teaching you, I love being taught by you. Tonight we had a business meeting that was preceded by two hours of meetings. There was love woven through the fabric of all of that. You are reminding me what the church is about. You are reminding me why we are different than any club or organization. We serve and worship God together. When I showed up on your doorstep for the first time almost exactly three years ago God told me to begin teaching you "The Great Commandment." Love God ... and love people. Well, Towerview, you paid attention. I cannot think of one other place on the globe where I would rather "do church." And I can't think of one other group of people that I would rather "do church" with.

It is an honor to be your pastor.

It is an honor simply to be your friend.

I can never say "thank you" enough. But I'm going to say it anyway ... THANK YOU.

Post Holiday Thoughts

I hate blogs that start off with, "Well, it's been so long since I wrote anything I doubt that anybody is still reading this. I'll try to do better though starting now." And then you have more blank pages for the next six months. If you are one of those bloggers just ... quit it.

Ok, I had to get that out. I feel better now.

Ding dong, the holidays are dead. It is safe to enter the highways around the mall again. And you can actually park within a five minute walk of Target. That's what I like about January. Shoppers just ... give up. Perhaps they will wake up in the morning and say, "Well, no reason to shop today. I guess I'll take the Christmas lights down." I doubt it. But is that too much to ask? I found myself stopped at a traffic light this evening shortly after dark. I was looking across a piece of rolling terrain into a local subdivision where a house was still blatantly assaulting the world with strings of lights. (What precisely do multi-colored lights have to do with the birth of the Savior of the world? Did the stable double as one of those rent-by-the-hour roadside motels where they hang colored lights in hopes of tricking you into thinking they are the Hyatt on steroids?) Before I knew it I realized I was calculating distance, wind speed and direction, and wondering if I could somehow borrow a howitzer to take their lights down for them. That's probably over kill too, huh?

You probably think I hate Christmas. Not true. I love Christmas. I am simply not a big fan of the way we celebrate it. If Jesus were to have been born in 2012 there would be no manger and stable. The swaddling clothes would not be tolerated and would be promptly replaced by the results of countless baby showers. Can you picture baby Jesus in footy pajama's with a little hood that sports rabbit ears? Me neither. Obviously that's why He came in approximately 0000. The thought of all of those pictures and the endless stream of relatives and pilgrims parading in front of the nursery viewing window was just too much for Him.

Justin Bieber has a Jesus tattoo? Seriously? How does he know that? Has he really ever seen a picture of Jesus? It's just as likely that the picture resembles some long forgotten Camel Taxi Driver from Lower Jerusalem. He had the picture put on his leg. Evidently he also has a tattoo of a dove and the Hebrew script of Jesus name. So I guess Justin's chosen his faith. Good for him. I suppose I'll have to stop getting a head ache when I see or hear him because it appears we are going to be bunk mates for eternity. I, on the other hand, don't have any tattoo's. Do you suppose Justin will find this irritating? Maybe I should get some ink? I thought about putting John 3: 16 on my bicep but when I tried it with a pen I found out I have more of a John 11: 35 physique. (Look it up.) I guess it's not your daddy's bicep.

No snow. Non. Nada. Zero inches. I sense that the snakes are peeking out of their holes in the creek behind my casa thinking maybe winter was a false alarm this year. Drat. I had this dream about skiing this winter too. It's been a few years. My Orthopedic Surgeon has stopped sending me Christmas cards. I'm 56. I don't have enough winters left to give one over to an off season heat wave. And don't go all "global warming" on me. I recycle.

Some really important stuff happened at the Iowa Caucuses this week. I have no idea what. When somebody figures out who is running please shoot me an email and let me know. Then I'll figure out who I'm voting for. I realize that this sounds childish, irresponsible, and immature. I should pay attention through the entire process. But I have a shorter than average attention span. I have ADHD. That is such an amazingly convenient condition to get diagnosed with. It's like the Swiss Army Knife of psychotic mess-ups. It comes in handy for nearly any accusation thrown your way. "Sorry! I'm totally ADHD! The doctor said so. Hey, do you have any Twinkies?"

O-Bama, Hey Bama, Bama Bama Ho, Bama Hay, Bama Ho, Bama. (To be sung to the tune "Hosanna" from Jesus Christ Super Star. It actually works. If you sing it be sure to send your royalties in...)

Well. There's a wasted 5 minutes you'll never get back. Peace - OUT!

Jesus Just ... blew up

I never really have cared much for nativity scenes. That's no secret. Everybody who knows me knows that. I find them rather ... cheesy. At best you find a display of concrete or hard plastic figures standing in a make believe stable. Most often you'll find a donkey or two. Maybe some wise men. And in the center there is always baby Jesus lying in a feeding trough. Remember, that's the expensive set-ups. The really bad ones are plastic, gaudy colored, and lit from within.

When I think of what it must have been like to be in that real stable the night Jesus was born ... well ... the aforementioned display doesn't come close. It was dark, and it smelled badly, and it was full of blood and after-birth, and manure. Seems to me that isn't much of a place to give birth to any child. Much less God's Son.

God reminded me once that the piece of history that the nativity scene portrays, cheesy or not, represents something that really happened at a specific time in history. It's real. I am very grateful for that. And so I have a rather uneasy peace about the whole thing. It happened. We could do a better job of displaying it. But then, nobody would want it in their front yard.

I have a friend named Bill. He owns a very nice home in suburban St. Louis. Every year Bill drags his semi-cheesy nativity set out of its summer hiding place. He gets it all situated on the front lawn for the neighborhood to see. Bill loves Jesus like I do. And every year while he is setting up his nativity scene he calls me and let's me know that "today is the day! I'm putting Jesus out in the front yard and that made me think of you!" And we share a laugh. Good times.

Bill called me today. He doesn't have to take the nativity scene down this year. It seems that last night, while he and his wife were out of town ... Jesus burned the whole thing down. To the ground. They were just driving along when a neighbor called them and said the police and the fire department were at his house because Jesus was on fire. You don't see that happen every day. Bill said that least one of the wise men melted all the way down to the grass. He not-so-casually asked where I was last night around 8:30PM. I have an alibi. Iron clad. I was eating sweet potato waffle fries at Lions Choice. My wife watched me do it. Innocent.

The truth is, I think Jesus did it Himself. Take a look at the picture taken by a passerby. The real Jesus is dong just fine, thank you. But the plastic Jesus totally flamed out. No need to blow out the candles on Jesus cake this year.

But would somebody mind blowing out Jesus?

The Dark Side Of Christmas

Seldom do I "borrow" a blog from another writer. But tonight my friend, Kellye, posted the following writing by Frederick Buechner. It is more than worth the time it takes to read it. Prepare to enter the wonder of what was done for us by the one we worship ... The Christ ... The one who left heavens celebrations to enter the fallen planet on a rescue mission. He made Himself vulnerable to us. I will never cease to be amazed.

""Those who believe in God can never in a way be sure of him again.  Once they have seen him in a stable, they can never be sure where he will appear or to what lengths he will go or to what ludicrous depths of self-humiliation he will descend in his wild pursuit of humankind.  If holiness and the awful power and majesty of God were present in this least auspicious of all events, this birth of a peasant's child, then there is no place or time so lowly and earthbound but that holiness can be present there too.  And this means that we are never safe, that there is no place where we can hide from God, no place where we are safe from his power to break in two and recreate the human heart, because it is just where he seems most helpless that he is most strong, and just where we least expect him that he comes most fully.

For those who believe in God, it means, this birth, that God himself is never safe from us, and maybe that is the dark side of Christmas, the terror of the silence.  He comes in such a way that we can always turn him down, as we could crack the baby's skull like an eggshell or nail him up when he gets too big for that.  God  comes to us in the hungry people we do not have to feed, comes to us in the lonely people we do not have to comfort, comes to us in all the desperate human need of people everywhere that we are always free to turn our backs upon.  It means that God puts himself at our mercy not only in the sense of the suffering that we can cause him by our blindness and coldness and cruelty, but the suffering we can cause him simply by suffering ourselves." 

--from The Face in the Sky, Frederick Buechner

Jesus With Skin On

Sometimes words flow like the sweetest honey down the face of a perfectly shaped biscuit. Those moments are fun. Sometimes words clog like too much of something unpleasant lodged in a flushing toilet. Those moments are not fun. And the plunger comes to the rescue but not without splashing water of questionable content. I trust that you have already abandoned any idea that this will be an article of flowery prose. If the word "unpleasant" didn't get you "toilet" surely did.

Words seemed to come difficult this morning. It is Sunday and I am a pastor. That means you know where to find me when 10:15 rolls around. I'm soon to be standing behind the acrylic desk which holds my scattered thoughts and memo's from God. My primary calling in life is to fashion them into some sort of logical message that will transform the profane into the sacred. And the "message" God gave me this morning was odd for the heart of Christmas season. It was born out of John 3: 17-18. It's a scripture about forgiveness and condemnation. It references how God came that we might avoid the one to obtain the other. More than good advice. Greater than wise counsel. Rather, the very Words of God.

It is a bit scary to stand before a crowd and claim to speak for the Holy One. To make a mistake in this quest is to be held accountable in the most serious of fashions. Misrepresent God and He will most certainly come knocking at your door. And so a wise man will not take this task lightly.

And as I said, the words this morning came with difficulty, as though I had to carve each one out of hardwood with only a butter knife. But the message was clear. The baby in the manger grew to be a man. He revealed that He had been sent from Heaven's Throne to redeem lost mankind from a most unsavory fate. No, you don't want to screw up this message. I took great care to keep one ear open toward heaven for immediate instructions mid-message. I'll admit to receiving a few without divulging their content. Suffice it to say that He spoke in my core and I endeavored to relay His Truth to listening ears.

And then it was over. My heart was poured empty. Several had complained that the temperature of the room was far too cool as the 75 minutes of worship and teaching began. By the time we reached minute 75 I was marinating within the brown sweater I had pulled over my head this morning. And i wondered why. Why had no one visibly responded to God's call? Why was the alter void of kneeling humans? Why no tears? I had given all. By the time a Sunday morning teaching time is completed I am often ready for an afternoon on the scrap heap.

And then John approached me. He's one of my favorite guys. A leader in our church, John loves God with a whole heart and exudes the curiosity of a modern day Peter at times. He tracked me down and gave me the best "man hug" I have had in weeks. His voice was exuberant as he said, "If you had spoken those words at a Billy Graham Crusade, the altar would be full of seeking people this morning!" John doesn't know it but he was Jesus to me today. Honestly, I don't need to speak at a Billy Graham Crusade. I don't generally need adoring words of affirmation and praise. But every now and then you really pour out your soul and you wonder ... did anybody hear? Did anybody pay attention? Did it make a difference at all? Did the words I spoke have any more impact than a chirping cricket on a lonely, dark night?

Thank you, John. Today I just needed to know that I had indeed heard God. And I needed to know that He had shared His Truth through me. You were His voice. You were just what I needed ...

...Jesus with skin on.

Thanks

Thanksgiving has always seemed like such a safe holiday to me. No one fights much over its meaning. It is spelled out right in its name. I suppose it must be difficult to know who to thank if you do not believe in a living God. Maybe you thank your spouse or your parents. It could be that you thank your friends and your employer. Most people know enough to thank someone. Still, I believe that gratefulness is an understated virtue. We are a country of pull-yourself-up-by-your-own-bootstraps people. Ego trumps thanksgiving most days. It shouldn't. 9% unemployment should remind us that not only isn't life fair, it also isn't predictable. What you have today you may well not have tomorrow. I spent time with two men this week. Each of them faces a death sentence at the hands of cancer. Both of them felt pretty well during our time together. They know that that could change at any minute without notice. And yet they each made it clear to me that they are thankful ... and that they know who to thank.

My wife and I were driving to our son's house this afternoon. We made our way west on I-64 out of the suburbs and into the core of the city. The sun was not far from setting and it was very difficult to see. My sun glasses were doing their best but it was a losing battle against the glare. Debbie was talking to her mother. Suddenly she dropped the phone into her lap and audibly gasped. My eyes had been avoiding the sun. We were about to go under an overpass. I had noticed a silver car parked on top of the bridge. She had noticed the woman who had gotten out of the car, scaled a chain link fence and guard rail. One leg was dangling over the edge. She pointed and stuttered and stammered. By the time I understood what she was telling me the overpass was behind us. I dialed 911 on my cell phone and the operator connected me with the Illinois State Police. I told them what we had seen. They had already received one call but had not gotten all of the information they needed. I told them that I am a pastor and I was looking for a place to turn around and go back but I was stuck in a construction zone. She told me the trooper had almost arrived and that I should keep going. She took my phone number in case it was needed.

I have no idea what had driven this woman to consider something as horrible as suicide. I never will know. I suppose for every person that celebrates the joy of a day like Thanksgiving, there is at least one person that grieves in loneliness and pain. Did she jump? I do not know. But my heart breaks at the realization that she was out there in the first place, even considering it. Maybe she had looked for something to be thankful for today and came up with ... nothing. I just don't know.

Two hours later we were driving from our sons house to our daughters house. The highway had four lanes. Two in each direction separated by a grass median strip. I had just stopped at a red light when it was my turn to go ... "AAAAHHHH!!!!!!!" We were in the left lane and suddenly a car passed by me in the right lane, going the opposite direction. Debbie said she saw a handicapped sign hanging from the person rearview mirror. I was busy honking my horn and pointing in the direction the driver needed to be going. About 50 feet beyond my car the other car stopped. It's turn signal was on and it sat still in the middle of a busy highway facing the wrong direction. My light turned green and I had no choice but to continue on. What happened? Did the person turn around safely and rejoin traffic? Was there an accident? Was this an elderly person who had gotten confused or a drunk who was driving blind? Once again, no idea. I do know that this persons Thanksgiving had not gone according to plan. I do not know what price was paid for the mistake.

I have been mentally processing these two events for the past few hours. All I can come up with is this. Sometimes life goes horribly wrong. The result can be intentional or accidental tragedy. It can ... and does ... happen every day. I am not above screwing up myself. (Just ask those who know me the best.) But I am convinced that there is a God in heaven who has showered me with his love. He has given me eyes to recognize the good in life for what it is ... a gift from my Father. Believing in Him has given me all of the purpose and imputes I need to stay alive, stay sober, and to seek to please Him with my every breath. And I have learned to give thanks. When things go right I give thanks because I am overwhelmed with His goodness. When things to wrong I give thanks because I have learned that I will never be content until I accept everything that comes my way as His perfect plan for my life. As long as I kick against my circumstances I will be restless and discontent.

Today is Thanksgiving day. And I give thanks. I give it to my God, my creator. My thanks is due Him. And honestly, giving Him thanks and gratitude makes my life worth living. I am so glad ... so glad ... that my life matters. So glad that my decisions can all be run by Him for approval before I act on them. So glad that the sunny days bring joy and gladness to my heart. So glad that the rainy days teach me to remember that this fallen world is loved by Him with such intensity that He sent His Son to give His own life to set things right for those who trust Him. Yes, it is Thanksgiving. And I saw a line of people today. They were camped out in tents, waiting until midnight so that they can be the first into the electronics store to be the latest technological wizardry. I have no desire to be in their line. (Though I do love me some electronics.) But I have found the line for me. It calls out for me. I want to be in it every single day.

I want to be the first in line to say "Thank You" to the one who gave me this life. Thanks to Him I'm going the right way and I'm staying off of bridges.

The Final Straw (almost)

I could have died. Possibly from blood loss. Most certainly from embarrassment. I am convinced that it will be a passing moment on a seemingly non-lethal day that will eventually "take me out."

It started and ended with a straw.

Those who know me understand that I am propelled by two things. Sunshine. Caffeine. Mix the two together and, not only am I good for the day, but I'll probably manage to engage in unintentional self-humiliation several times. It is my lot in life.

And on a sunny Saturday I was on a quest to satisfy my unquenchible thirst for a sparkly, ice cold, Vanilla Coke. I stood by the soda fountain with 44 ounces of goodness in my hand. I squeezed the plastic lid onto the styrofoam cup, grabbed a straw from the bin and banged the end of it on the counter to force it to poke its little tip out the other end. Whoever runs the machinery that wraps these straws in clear plastic must have a PhD in sadism. It clings tightly to the straw, refusing to relinquish it from its grasp. But a firmly, well placed "thump" on the counter will cause about a quarter of an inch to burst through to freedom. I had accomplished just that. I raised the free part of the straw to my mouth and grabbed it with my teeth, preparing to drag the wrapper off the other end. That's when my left hand turned on me. The one holding the cup. I moved to put it on the counter when a noise to my left distracted me. Turning my head to find its source was my undoing. The bottom of the straw jammed into the top of my left hand. Momentum took over. The straw rocketed through my not-yet-clinched teeth and embedded into the back of my throat.

And when I say embedded, I mean "EMBEDDED."

This was the kind of impact that takes you by surprise and makes your gag reflax go into overdrive. I grabbed the straw and pulled it out of my mouth, eyes tearing up, throat shocked by the savagery of the sneak attack. I looked at the offending plastic tubing. The end of it held a nice, neat, round piece of Ron meat. I actually saw a part of myself stuck inside a straw. How many people can say that?

It's been two days now. I'm trying not to swallow any more than absolutely necessary. Speaking at church yesterday was interesting. I avoided big words, prefering to use their single-syllible cousins. The bleeding stopped Saturday evening, which is good because the Red Cross is calling me about every other day wanting more of my platelets. I think I am down to ... three. They can have two of them. Just leave me one for old time sake.

And The Moment Was Golden

She is two years old and the sun rises and sets in her eyes. This little blonde princess seems unable to decide if she will be shy or the eternal extrovert. All I know is that when I enter the room for some odd reason her face breaks into a smile. If I do not walk immediately to her side she will come to mine. Her arms go up, hands extended, eyes asking the silent question. "Will you hold me?"

(Little girl, the tides will stop lapping against the shores, the birds will forever forget their song, the planets will cease to rotate before I will respond to your question with anything short of a "yes.")

As she settles into my lap she looks until she sees a laptop or my ipad which is always close by my side. She points at it. I know what is coming. Two words joined into one. "Airplane." I do not know where she learned a love for flying as she has never flown. At least not in her waking moments. I suspect that her sleep finds her coasting tranquilly through broken clouds, playing tag with her own shadow. She has fallen in love with the equation of altitude + motion. Their sum, in her gentle eyes amounts to "happy." Where she came by this I know not.

She waits patiently, legs dangling across mine, as I type in the perfect web address that will satisfy her hunger. And for the next minutes we soar together on the wings of fighter planes and shiny red bi-plane racers. As one video comes to an end she looks at the selection and points to the one she wants next. She leans into me and I feel her relax as yet another dream dances across the screen.

She was mine last Saturday. She sat in my car as she, her sister, her grandmother, and I drove to a nearby air force base. Outside the main gate is an airplane park. Huge cargo planes sit in a semi-circular configuration, beckoning a welcome home to the airmen who call this place home. I held her hand as we walked among the jets, her eyes ablaze with the knowledge that these metallic creatures are hers to touch. She points at the door of a monstrous jet and says, "knock!" Instead I lift her high off the ground and tell her to knock herself. She hesitates, small hand clenched into a fist. And she knocks half scared that some one will answer. They do not. And we move on to the next airplane.

An hour later we sit together in a McDonalds, fulfilling her supper request. She eats a meal punctuated by trips to a console of computer games for children. Finally she settles in my lap. As she lifts a french fry to her mouth she looks up into my eyes. The hand with no fry reaches for my face. I pause, not knowing what she is doing. With an open palm she runs her skin agains the skin of my cheek. She pulls away only to repeat her gentle touch. This time longer, seemingly lost in thought. I do not know what two years olds think of. But I know love when it touches me.

I am her grandpa and I took her to airplanes. And the moment was golden.

Adidas On The Asphalt Revisited

I've been thinking a lot today about yesterdays Adidas on the asphalt. Stark, sober, reminders of the fragility of life. Nobody expects to die today. But it is more than that. The picture in my head represents more than the imminent possibility of the unexpected. It is...

The stuff of heaven meeting the stuff of earth. The holy in a violent collision with the unholy. Shoes do not tell much of the story. Not really. The God of heaven stooped down to the dust and formed a man. He breathed life ... and holiness ... into the body of clay. And the profane became sacred. Very sacred, indeed. A life lived without conscious awareness of the nearness of God is a life wasted. But as long as the life remains in the body there is still hope. Hope that the body-dweller will wake up to his uniqueness. Hope that the eternal breath will be recognized. Confessed for what it is. Hope that the life will change and begin living up to its exquisite potential.

Was this the story of the Adidas man? Was he ever made aware of how special he was? Did he know that God Himself created him? Chose him to live in this time and this place? Did he yield to this imaginative God? Was he living up to his potential? Honestly, I am clueless and I forever will be.

But I know this. Each of us bears the image of our creator. Just as those black shoes had the triple stripes of the Adidas Corporation we have the mark of God branded across our very souls. I choose to live my life faithful to my brand. Whether my end comes on an asphalt expressway or a nursing home bed is of little consequence to me. I prefer to exercise my brain cells to focus on the undefined period of time I have before I become permanently horizontal. It is so important to me ... to you ... to recognize the end as imminent without spending an excess moment dwelling upon it. The pursuit of our purpose is far too vital to be concerned about our end. I can do something about the former. I can only accept the latter.

The Word became flesh and dwelt among us. Words from the Bible. God became flesh and walked this fascinating planet Himself. He wove His story into mine. I can barely wrap my brain around that. And then ... and then one day his sandals were stripped from Him and he was tortured and executed so that I would not be. The sinless paying the way for the sinful. Righteousness laying it self down and taking on sin as its new identity. He was not just affected by sin. He was MADE SIN ... for me. And I go free. Free to worship or free to worry. Free to follow or free to flee. Free to live by faith or free to cling to my own folly.

The asphalt saw violence yesterday. It left me breathless in its stark contrast to the son that I was soon hugging and the grandson I found myself caught up in playing with. The violence came roaring back after the lights were off and the distractions melted into the darkness. And it comes back tonight as well. And because it did I realized I needed to finish last nights story. I seem to have ended it too early. To abruptly. I failed to tell you that you are deeply loved. You have a purpose. You are not an accident. Your creator loves you and His Son, Jesus, showed you that love on a cross of death. He desires your love in return. I hope you will offer it to him. I hope the Adidas man did too. It is too late for him to do anything about it. But you ... you still have time.

Use the time wisely.