The Bill Express

One Can Only Snicker

2008-05-26T21:27:00.009-06:00

What follows is anything BUT a God thing – and not really in keeping with typical Express content – but I can’t pass up the chance to tell you about it.
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A local grocery store chain's latest sales circular trumpets a new “fuel rewards” program, by which we can “Save on Gas!” at their stores' pumps. It will not surprise you that an asterisk rises above the exclamation point. The small print reference at the bottom of the ad produces the following math:

If a customer spends $50 on groceries and then buys at least 10 gallons of fuel (about $40...until tomorrow), he or she will receive...wait for it... $0.50 off the cost of the gas!

Fifty cents. Not ten or twenty – They wouldn’t think of minimizing their customers like that.

And not one of those meager thirty or forty cent discounts – Such reductions are for amateurs.

Fifty – that’s right, fifty – whole, complete cents. You save more than one-half of one percent when you fuel up.

Three bags of groceries: $50.
Ten gallons of gas: $40.
Saving $0.50 on your $90 trip to the grocery store: Cents-less.
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No prayer. This kind of thing doesn’t have one.

God Things - Act III

2008-05-23T02:19:00.011-06:00

Act III of our play begins with Shari’s atypical appearance Thursday afternoon on the stage of our church as she returned from a medical test (usually she’d be at her workplace). It is she who greets the twenty-something year-old woman who enters the building looking for communications assistance because her vehicle is sputtering on the verge of an empty gas tank.

By phone the woman attempts to reach by a couple of family members, to her dismay connecting only with their voice mail. The second message she leaves is plaintive understatement: “Not having a very good day today. Talk to you later.”

The three of us end up seated in the office, forming something of a triangle of concern about whether she could make it back home to her three children. It’s not long before it’s obvious that the woman’s sojourn into our company is no happenstance, but rather a new expression of God’s gathering confidence in our capacity and desire to move beyond our walls and into the lives of people for whose needs, in the past, our attention to self would have precluded active concern.

As in the previous acts of this divine production, I will not sedate you with details of the hour-plus the three of us shared. Again what matters is the day’s rousing conclusion.

We respond to the woman’s need by offering a gift sufficient for gas to get her home and to her own resources. But before the small but useful financial transaction, comes a touching, enlightening, hopeful conversation about kids and faith and spiritual hunger. By the end of our conversation she commits herself and her kids to join us Sunday morning, telling us, “I don’t know what made me stop here. I thought about going to that other church next door, but something told me to drive in here.”

We tell her that her decision is a God thing. Shari happened to be there, allowing the young mom to meet her kids’ prospective Sunday school teacher, and giving witness to our congregation’s informal Sunday morning dress code. The woman's inability to reach her family members opened the door for our church’s participation in her life. And we still had available a copy of our latest church newsletter, an issue in which my column is about our efforts to reach people not currently connected with the church.... A God thing.

The woman drives away smiling, confident that she will make it home and encouraged that she and her kids, at least one of whom has been actively hounding her mom to get connected to a church, will be learning and worshiping this weekend.

So yet again God has opened gates that for so long our church has kept closed, even barricaded – gates into acts of service and provision for people in need; gates into conversations about how a relationship with Jesus changes your life and frees you to care about others. For the third time in seven days, God presented us an opportunity to demonstrate the legitimacy of the claims of those vision words our board discussed last week: meeting needs, healing wounds, and connecting people to Jesus. And for the third time in a week we accepted the offer.

Today’s encounter reaffirmed an important lesson for our and any other church wanting to escape the imprisonment of its dying ways: First meet people at their point of need, then talk faith and church.

Remember Teresa, the woman with epilepsy, whose house needs organizational help? She was quite open and anxious to talk about faith, but we piqued her interest by engaging the wounds of her life.
How about the three siblings whose mother’s funeral was the core of “God Things, Act II”? Some or all of them and their families now expect to join us for worship this weekend, but their interest in our community arose because one of our followers of Jesus joined them at a funeral home, stood with them at a grave side, and journeyed with them through the valley of the shadow of death.
Finally, Thursday’s spiritual traveler drove onto our premises, likely well aware of her spiritual needs. But our willingness to add to the few fumes in her vehicle’s gas tank fueled the trust necessary to share her heart with us.

Meet needs. Heal wounds. THEN connect them with Jesus.

He did it that way, of course. Jesus instructed people to praise God only after giving them cause – via restored sight, healed limbs, or exorcised demons, for example. Can you think of a time when Jesus preached without also providing? He knew that meeting needs created credibility. He knew that helping people overcome their circumstances opened ears, hearts, and minds. He knew that tangible deliveries of God’s goodness produced optimum conditions for receipt of spiritual truth.

Meet needs. Heal wounds. Show concern. Establish trust. Practice what you preach. Open doors. Be the Jesus you claim. THEN offer a connection.

Three times in the last seven day that sequence has worked, to our exuberant delight; it a far cry from our previous mantra: “Wait for people to come. Hope they fit in. Feel bad when they don’t. Wait for the next one.” Three times God has said here’s a chance for you to show me you’re serious, and we have been.

As the woman drove away, my spirit considered crying out, “Enough already! We get it! Bless someone else for a while.” That craziness lasted only an instant, however, when I remembered we are always only a breath away from the wilderness. God, I cried, keep doing your thing.

Here ends the most blessed Express trilogy yet. Blessed, not because of its literary merit, theological prowess, or spiritual maturity, but because each piece testifies to hope and new life – witness of which not long ago I was not capable.

At the first of this year I was lost on a cynical, desperately pessimistic sea. My creativity was stymied. My vision was blocked. My heart had withered. My hope was gone. I was playing out a string and considering options for a second career. By ‘08's dawning, I had given up: on myself, my calling, and the congregation I served. Oh, I was still trying. I hadn’t stopped writing sermons, making hospital calls, or caring about our people. But I had stopped believing. More than once I confronted God, demanding an explanation for the two decades-plus I had wasted in a ministry that, to my broken perspective, was a mistake, or, more cruelly, a divine but mean-spirited practical joke on me.

Things have changed. Much to my surprise and praise, I have found new reason for my and our season. Sure, we will still doubt and wander through scary valleys. Further, I can’t imagine that the next seven days will hold a candle to those that just ended.

But that’s okay. For we have seen things, felt things, acted in response to things, and cried in praise to the one who provided those things...all those God things.

Pray with me:
God, for all your magnificent and undeserved productions of grace, we say thanks...and just know that we’re in line ready for the previews of your next show. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

God Things - Act II

2008-05-20T23:45:00.006-06:00

As described in the previous entry, early Monday morning I spoke with a lady named Teresa, whom God had led into our congregation’s path, whose needs we are able and willing to meet.

In Monday’s late morning I met with the three daughters of a woman whose funeral I will conduct on Wednesday. The getting-to-know-you sessions I hold prior to writing funerals have a predictable rhythm to them, so for most of our first hour together, I got what I expected and needed to create an experience for the gathered mourners, but little else. Following the prayer with which we closed our formal session, however, things changed...and so did I.

“I have a question about your services,” said the youngest of the three daughters, a thirty-something mother of one, who owns a poignant personal story. I thought she was going to ask how much they should pay me for the funeral – the objective of similar questions others have asked – but it turned out she really wanted to know about our church.

I could tell you everything she, and eventually her siblings, asked about, but that would quickly grow tiresome, so it will suffice to say she was a seeker...in our church building, a seeker! [A "seeker" is a spiritually hungry person who claims no particular loyalty to or heritage in a specific congregation, denomination, or faith tradition.]

If you read this from afar, you may wonder about the exclamation point. It’s there because we don’t get seekers in our church. Seekers are usually young, selective, and dismissive of older congregations such as ours. Seekers prefer an eclectic menu of options for themselves and their kids. Seekers lean toward live bands and large auditoriums, not the recorded accompaniment tracks and A-frame sanctuaries that churches such as ours offer.

When I tell you we don’t get seekers, I mean we don’t even see seekers! It’s as if we have a neon sign flashing in the front yard: “Warning: No Seeking!” It’s as if a spiritual search animates otherwise-dormant enzymes that equip seekers to sense when a trip onto a particular congregation’s premises won’t be worth the effort. It’s as if God leads people away from churches like ours because God knows that for them we’re not a good match.

But there they were, three seekers sitting five feet from me, asking about our church, telling about their past – and not always positive – church experiences, wondering whether it would be worth their effort to disregard our flashing neon no-seeking sign.

I label this conversation as the second act in a “God Things” play because for several years many in our congregation, including myself, have believed we weren’t ready or even capable to receive (i.e. serve) the people we claimed to seek. We have interpreted our failure to connect with the unconnected as a sign of God’s verdict against our approach to people and ministry. But as Monday morning became Monday afternoon I experienced potent evidence of that verdict’s apparent nullification.

We can reach people we haven’t reached before. We can speak the words they need, offer the hope they crave, embody the encouragement they seek, and be the Body of Jesus that just might connect them to the power they – and we – so desperately need.

This piece is terribly provincial, I fear. Many who read this blog aren’t part of our congregation, and hence won’t feel much claim to the exuberance I’m trying to express. But you who live beyond the shelter of our particular church do know what it’s like to cry out for God, to implore God to be obvious in your life, to offer reassuring evidence of God’s permanent and passionate presence in your struggles. You know, regardless of the seat from which you view this post's action, how urgent can be our need for divine intervention, and how broadly our spirits can smile when that intervention becomes obvious....Welcome to our province.

My spirit smiles because of what God is doing in the life of our particular congregation; I hope our story offers you and your congregation (if you claim one) encouragement. If you or your church has a story of your own “God Thing,” tell us about it in a comment, or, if you want to give it a larger treatment, send it to me for inclusion in the Express as regular posting. If you’re still waiting for your God thing performance to begin, tell us about your wait (remember those anonymous comments); we will hold you in prayer.

And in case you’re not yet satisfied with the God thing currently on display, one final scene from Act 2:

During my conversation with the lady’s three daughters, one of them noted her understanding that her son’s grandmother had once attended our church. She first gave me the name of the grandmother, which I recognized, and then her son, whose last name I needed to connect the dots to a photo I believed I had in my office, a picture of the grandmother and grandson taken 10-12 years ago.

“Before you leave today, let me see if I can find that picture,” I asked, thinking I knew where to find it.

As they prepared to exit the building, I went into my office, quickly found the desired photo, then offered it to the broadly-smiling mother of the grandson, she by then wearing wide and moistened eyes, not owning any pictures pairing those two.

The God thing in that picture’s transfer was that I knew exactly where to find it. Amidst the calamity which is my office (hard as it will be for people who know me to believe, I am not the most organized person in the world), the picture I gave away Monday lay exactly where it had lain for the last many months: on the floor, near the corner of my desk I navigate daily to find my chair. The photo had been there for months – face up, a small obstacle over which I had stepped countless times – offering a daily visual reminder of two people who used to call our church home.

Now you might think I hadn’t picked that photo up because I was messy. You might call it nothing more than good fortune that it was the only one whose whereabouts I could have reported with any certainty as the daughter talked about her son’s grandmother. Or, you might devise your own explanation for how it was I knew just where to find the perfect send-off gift for this family of seekers (as in the people we’re trying to reach, but never even see). Go ahead. But I know better.

It was a God thing!

Pray with me:
God, keep moving. Keep acting. Keep speaking. Keep loving. Keep surrounding. Keep shouting. Keep delivering. And then welcome the praise as we sing, “God thing, you make my heart sing....” In the name of Jesus, Amen.

God Things - Act I

2008-05-19T23:24:00.007-06:00

Three or four months ago, a woman spoke to me in the produce aisle of a local Wal Mart. She had seen and appreciated one of the short reflection pieces I regularly record for the Quad Cities’ ABC affiliate television station. Her gesture of mega-mart recognition prompted a subsequent broadcast reflection in which I spoke of our encounter and fame’s fleeting fortunes. End of story, I thought.

Last Friday that same woman - named Teresa - called our church office, responding to my “First Christian Church. This is Bill Coley,” with “Hi, Bill Coley. I’m the person you met in Wal Mart.” She told me she had seen the follow-up reflection – which just happened to have aired on her birthday – as well as the one from the most recent week that encouraged acknowledgment of personal fault, weakness, and need. “I’ve been thinking about it, and I believe it’s time for me to acknowledge my need,” she said.

She then told me about an accident some years ago in which a horse kicked her in the head, a concussive injury that resulted in the disabling condition known as “temporal lobe epilepsy.” Details aren’t necessary here, except to say that among its aftershocks is that she needs some help organizing her home...so, the call to us.

Do you see the God thing here? Teresa – who spends most of her time in Rome (Italy)! – happens to be up at 2:06 a.m. in her home in Milan (Illinois!) to see one of the recorded reflections, then runs into me among a grocery store’s vegetables. Our brief conversation produces (look closely, or you’ll miss the cleverness) another reflection, which she sees on her birthday. Connection made, she then views a third recording, one that encourages her at her point of need, in response to which she decides to call for help.

That’s a great big God thing.

Last week our board gave favorable first reactions to new language to describe the vision of our church, a word picture that describes the kind of church we believe God is calling us to be. The language says, “We will be a caring community of hope and encouragement that meets needs, heals wounds, and connects people to Jesus.” Two days after the board meeting, Teresa called. Two days after her call, eight people from our church signed up to be part of a ministry team that will assist Teresa in her organization.

We cared. We encouraged. We will meet a need. Vision will become reality. That’s a God thing.

Today I called Teresa with news of the team’s formation. She labeled this entire journey, from first reflection viewing to ministry team creation, a “miracle,” a.k.a. a God thing.

God blew me away today, not only because our and Teresa’s paths again crossed, but because in the afternoon... well, that’s a story best told in act II. For now, I close with encouragement. God wants to blow you away. God wants to show you grace, give you mercy, provide you hope, and make big, bold splashes in your life. I can’t know what those incursions will look like for you, but today’s act of the long-running play, “God Things,” offers at least two possible directions from which they might arrive: either to you, at your point of need; or through you, as God’s response to another’s need. Or, most likely, both.

Don’t close your eyes or your heart. God’s play is too good to miss.

Pray with me:
Thanks for allowing my life (our lives) to be your holy and remarkable playground. You are awesome beyond our words, but, hallelujah, not beyond our reach. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

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p.s. Please check in occasionally with the comments section of the entry called "A Relationship by Any Other Name," which immediately follows this one. As of this item's posting, two well done comments have been offered; others are welcomed (dare I say, expected?) Keep the conversation going!

A Relationship by Any Other Name

2008-05-17T20:20:00.008-06:00

Last week the California Supreme Court ruled unconstitutional state statutes that prohibit same-sex couple relationships from being called “marriages.” The decision basically says that the California state constitution provides equal protection for people, whatever their sexual orientation, and hence for couples, whatever their make-up. Granting the term “marriage” to opposite-sex couples, but not to same-sex couples, violates the equal protection clause, and risks second tier status to those couples, a result that cannot be tolerated without it being in the “compelling and necessary” interests of the state. Since the court could find no “compelling and necessary” reasons to prohibit same-sex relationships from being called “marriages,” it ruled the state laws unconstitutional.

I hope I didn’t bore or lose you in that summary...well, perhaps I hope I did bore you, because it might help make the point that the California ruling, however much bluster it generated from pundits and partisans, focused on just one piece of the gay marriage controversy: Can a state such as California, which grants extensive legal protections to so-called “domestic partnerships,” refuse same-sex couples a specific title to their relationship? Is it constitutional in the Golden State for one group to “marry,” while another group may only “partner”?

[If you're curious, a link to the court's opinion is below the prayer that concludes this piece. It's long and tedious, so I recommend that you stick to the first 12 pages, which comprise the opinion's summary.]

This week’s decision was about the name attached to the relationship between two persons united in a committed, covenantal relationship. It was not about whether gay marriage is constitutional.

Which suited most of the religious folk engaged on this issue just fine, because they don’t want to argue about a name or a constitution, anyway. They want to contend over whether gay marriage is “right,” “moral,” or “biblical.” Do you? I am genuinely curious; do you? Or better, how do you?

I thought I would write a piece dissecting the gay marriage issue from a spiritual/theological/biblical perspective – and I probably still will – but when I read the California court’s opinion summary, I was so taken by their avoidance of the issue people really care about, I decided to change course.

As a person of faith – if you believe yourself so to be – what do you think about gay marriage? Don’t tell us whether you think it’s lawful or constitutional or enforceable or practical; tell us, in a comment, how you address the “right or wrong,” “moral or immoral,” “biblical or unbiblical” questions. You may not know for sure; fine. Then tell us the issues that matter to you, the questions for which you wish you had better responses. Tell us the one question about gay marriage you would ask Jesus, since in the Gospels he says nothing about either the specific subject or the broader issue of homosexuality.

Using your comments as guidance, I will fashion a future Express piece on the subject of gay marriage, which, no doubt, will prompt other comments, and more Express pieces, which will produce more.... [Please remember that anonymous comments are truly that, anonymous, and are also valued here; remember also that you are free to post more than once – perhaps as a new thought, or in response to another’s entry.]

I don’t know how most of the people who read this blog think about gay marriage. Here’s my (and your) chance to find out, as well as your chance to foster dialogue. I await and anticipate your response.

Pray with me:
God, some subjects we deal with in society are really hard; some, like this one, sometimes seem impossible. Give us wisdom and discernment as we reflect, and kindness and self-control as we respond to each other. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

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P.S. Here’s the link to the California Supreme Court ruling (you'll have to paste it into your browser's address window):
http://www.courtinfo.ca.gov/opinions/documents/S147999.PDF

Many Election Returns

2008-05-13T00:23:00.003-06:00

For a partisan politico such as myself, it’s a tough confession to make, but there isn’t much to like about the way we evaluate presidential candidates in things called primaries, caucuses, and general elections.

Opposition campaign operations staffed for instant response to the slightest misstatement. Searing media scrutiny of every word uttered, stand taken, promise made, and relationship considered.

Cameras, tape recorders, and reporters’ notebooks witness much, and tell few lies. Hence, candidates’ long-forgotten, sometimes innocent and off-handed remarks, made with benign intent years ago, lie like shackled goblins, waiting for search engine liberation, so as to damage reputations, question sincerity, and, in the modern lingo, dominate the next few news cycles.

Consider Hillary Clinton’s recent run-in with herself over a trip to Bosnia she made as First Lady. At several campaign stops earlier this year she described the overseas landing as a harrowing experience, an encounter shrouded in the fog of civil war and the danger of significant sniper fire.... The problem for Senator Clinton was that it didn’t happen that way...at all. How do we know? Someone checked the video vault, and there found recorded images of a peaceful, serene setting, more like “The Sound of Music” than the sound of gunfire.

It was instant fodder for late night comedians and her political opponents. The controversy drowned out any conversation she may have planned to start about health care, the economy, or the war in Iraq. It was just about the dumbest political move a candidate has made in recent memory. Come on, didn’t anyone notice the snapshots they took of the sweet smiling, gift-bearing children who greeted the entourage? Weren’t the kids a bit of a hint?

It was false. It was stupid. But did it prove a flawed character? Did it show that she was so arrogantly conniving that she believed no one would notice if she just made something up to impress campaign crowds? You’d think so, given the tenor of the media’s attention. You’d think she was a pathetic, as well as a pathological, liar.

This example is not intended to advocate for Senator Clinton, for she, too, has contributed to the superficiality of modern campaigns: Witness the week she used earlier this year to call attention to the presidential aspirations Barack Obama announced...in fifth grade!

You are entitled to your own assessment of politicians’ statements, but those I’ve cited here alert me to the failure of modern political processes in which we judge prospective leaders on the basis a sound byte or a slip-up, rather than the clarity of their vision or the practicality of their ideas.

Why do we do it? Because it’s easy. Our work as loyal citizens is much less taxing if we can decide about a candidate on the basis the instant or the obvious. We don’t have time for, let alone interest in, reflective analyses or “in his/her shoes” sensitivity sessions. So, we take the easy road, which so often proves to be the low road.

You may doubt the following turn, but when I think about our scouring of candidates and the campaigns they wage, I think about the woman caught in adultery, whose execution – just moments away – is scuttled by Jesus’ gentle insistence that the executioners take a second look at the case; this time, at themselves.

The woman had broken the law – to society’s instant-read legal thermometer, she deserved death – but Jesus refused to allow such cursory examinations. He asked the judges to hear from one more witness – themselves – before passing sentence. Upon further review, the judges became the judged, complex and complicit characters who were at least equally condemnable. Stones and outrage dropped simultaneously as the jury of her “leers” abandoned the execution chamber. The surprise pardon permits Jesus to engage the person beneath the broken choices, and to point to the potential in spite of her past.

Consider Saul, the persecutor, the ambitious zealot against all things Christian, whom Jesus chose to plant some of the first churches on record. Upon initial review, no responsible authority would have deemed Saul worthy or capable of such a holy mission. But Jesus didn’t see his mistakes; he saw the man and his potential.

We need some form of this second chance, deeper look in our evaluation of political candidates. We have to expect more from those who seek our votes and donations, as well as from the managers who direct their campaigns and the media that cover them. We must refuse impulsive evaluations that depend on mistakes which are more casual than caustic, more benign than ballistic. Presidential candidates are human, let’s remember. As such, they will make ill-timed, ill-considered remarks; they will speak with lengthy, clumsy rhetoric that, when adroitly edited, can be made to say just about whatever an opponent wants it to say; and they will at times appear to contradict what they said at the last camera-ready campaign stop.

At the top of this piece I confessed my political partisanship. Make no mistake, as campaign 2008 unfolds, I will join with my allies in search of fodder for our battle against the other side. But as I hear the snippets and sound bytes, as I read the blog entries written by people who live on my side of the political fence, I trust I will remember the woman about to be stoned, whom accusers judged on first appearance, whom the crowd condemned without further review. I hope will assess ideas, not personalities, and value issues, not minutia. I pray I will carry only stones that have been polished and softened in the crucible of what actually matters.

Pray with me:
You have chosen me, God. That should be enough to convince me that first impressions aren’t always enough. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

It's Your Turn

2008-05-05T21:55:00.012-06:00

Now that the Express has returned to the Net of the living, allow me to remind you of one of its valuable, though underused features: the comments link.

Below the horizontal line that lies directly beneath the prayers that close Express posts is a line of text which reports the time of the post’s arrival on the blog (left side), and a small envelope icon you can use to e-mail a link to that post (right side). In between the time report and the envelope icon is the comments link, which will always tell you how many comments have been posted to that piece. [Another way of knowing which posts have received comments is to review the list that is the third item down in the column on the left side of this Web page.]

You should click the comments link if either or both of the following are true:
1) The link reports one or more comments already posted –
YOU SHOULD READ WHAT OTHERS HAVE WRITTEN!
2) You have a comment, question, curiosity, objection, praise, protest, or random thought in reaction to my post and/or one or more of the comments –
YOU SHOULD SHARE IT WITH US!

Blogs are best when original posters initiate conversations, when readers react and by their posted reactions create a digital dialogue. However astute the blogger, his or her readers ALWAYS improve a blog by their comments, at times salvaging posts from the ash heap of irrelevance by the new avenues of reflections their reactions create. Peruse other blogs and I bet you’ll decide that the comments are often more interesting than the original post (of course, that will never be the case in this blog, but the general principle is worth noting, nonetheless).... [Hee. Hee.]

I pray that my words prompt you to think, perhaps even to grow. I hope that at least every now and then you read something here that contributes to your spiritual journey. But my greater hope is that when on the premises of the Express, you will find cause to contribute to our spiritual journeys via your comments.

You don’t have to agree with me or other commenters. You don’t have to be a “good writer.” You don’t have to stay on point. You don’t have to say anything profound. You don’t have to make sense. You don’t even have to identify yourself! Just tell us what's on your mind or in your heart. [Once you click the comments link you will find any previously posted comments, and a box in which to type your own response, if you desire. Below the box is a set of options that includes “Anonymous,” the use of which will assure you that no one – including me – will know your identity. If instead you click the “Name/URL” circle, a little box will open in which you can identify yourself - and even there you could use an alias!]

I find value in the Express; I hope you do, as well. I hope you will add value to the Express by using the comments link.

Blessings,
Bill

Just Another Sunday

2008-05-04T22:37:00.003-06:00

Well, today didn’t work out...the way I planned, at least.

My Saturday night run-through of the weekend’s sermon – the conclusion of a seven week series called “Jesus on the Rise, in which we sought evidence that Jesus had in fact risen from the dead, and was in fact still alive today – had produced palpable excitement in my spirit. This closer, Saturday’s final review persuaded me, hit high notes, encouraged people in their spiritual journeys, and continued the rebuilding of our congregation’s attitude following an extended period of self-imposed cynicism and doubt.

I went to bed Saturday night ready to preach. Man, I would have debuted the sermon at a minute past midnight had the congregation consented. I had convinced myself that it was going to be a magnificent Sunday at worship.

It wasn’t.... Well, more on that later.

Our Sundays begin with what we call church school. A few minutes before the start of the groups, it seemed only a couple of people were in the building. More participants arrived, but in toto, there just weren’t enough to herald the kind of worship attendance the morning’s sermon merited.

Neither did the worship crowd live up to my expectations. I thought we were going to set fire to the house today. I knew there was energy and optimism in the day’s proclamation to stir the most hardened of hearts. When I turned out Saturday’s lights early Sunday morning, I thought the walls of our worship center would need reinforcement by the time we celebrated communion, what with all the people who would show for the series’ conclusion. But when worship opened with our praise time – with which we had irritating and interrupting technical glitches, I’ll have you know – there just weren’t enough hearts in the house to stir my own.

And then there was the sermon. I swear it was the same one I had excitedly reviewed Saturday night. But Sunday morning it didn’t sound or feel the same. It didn’t have the same emotional sway, the anticipated rhetorical flourish, or the predicted swell effect in the room.

Oh, it generated some “Amens!” In fact, for a church like ours, the “Amen!” corner was considerably larger than...ever today. But I wanted more. I expected more.... Damn it.

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Childish, infantile, and senseless is this rant of mine, isn’t it?

Worship didn’t live up to my expectations, so I pout.

Our congregational response to God’s glory didn’t satisfy me, so I protest.

I didn’t get what I wanted, so I raise a fit.

Real nice, Bill.

This ever happened to you? Have unmet expectations ever disrupted more than their fair share of your spirit? Have you ever allowed the (un)-fulfillment of your predictions about someone or something to determine your experience? That’s what happened to me today. My heart was so set on what I thought was going to happen, that I didn’t let it happen. I was so convinced of the results of worship before it began, that I didn’t allow people to worship once it began. I was so certain that we’d achieve a certain vision of emotional and spiritual high, that no other result mattered. I set myself up, and paid for it.

Shari assured me that worship went well. The “Amens” were quite non-Disciple like. And there was at least one person who waited to come through the end-of-worship line who doesn’t usually do so.... Come to think of it, I would NEVER have expected that!

God is awesome and amazing. God is beyond our words or imagination. God is also not dependent on our plans or ambitions. The next time you dream, dream big; but remember Jesus’ great escape clause: Not my will, but yours be done.

Pray with me:
In all things, at all times, on every day and at the end of every excited evening, not my will, but yours. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

The Day We Buried Kelton

2008-04-30T23:01:00.003-06:00

It was a funeral unlike any I had ever attended, a service for a 21 year-old man named Kelton Trice, killed recently in an incident with an East Moline police officer.

Gathered in the church were more than 400 people, many in their teens and twenties, scores wearing t-shirts emblazoned with Kelton’s picture and varieties of accompanying artwork.

What I haven’t told you yet – what I wanted desperately to avoid telling you – is that Kelton was an African American, while the officer who killed him is Caucasian. For a moment I thought I could tell you about this funeral without reference to the mourners’ racial configuration, but I can’t, because it’s necessary to make my point. Nor can I avoid reporting the arrest warrant the police sought to serve on Trice the night he was killed, a warrant alleging his involvement in one or more armed robberies.

It’s such a complicated world.

In local papers, private conversations, and talk radio programs arose commentary about the shooting in which a bullet-proof vested police officer was injured. One comment that stuck with me came from a caller to an afternoon radio program. “He got what he deserved,” said the caller. “It’s too bad, but he got what he deserved.”

None among the throng of mourners would have agreed with the caller’s conclusion, of course. First, because no one would have cared to consider a circumstance in which their friend or family member deserved to die. But also because they were too busy crying, doubting, and wincing in emotional and spiritual pain, to analyze Kelton’s just desserts.

The pastor conducting the funeral invited other clergy to join him up front. From that vantage point I was moved by the room’s prevailing, pulsating agony-in-search-of-hope. The gathered – most younger than 30 – struggled openly with their loss. They knew what all of us know (but sometimes in our urge to protect social order and the rule of law won’t say): that whatever your reputation, however many or serious the warrants out for your arrest, you’re not supposed to die when you’re 21.

The mourners were, almost all, from a different race, and, in the main, from a different generation than I. We had little in common other than the meeting space we shared for the funeral’s duration.

They knew and loved Kelton; I knew him only because he was dead.
Together, they formed something of a community of the aggrieved, the force of their union not hostility or rebellion, but passion and love. I felt only for them.

We had little in common, but everything to gain from finding common ground. And that common ground is somehow rooted in our shared humanity.

They had questions about their world and the punishing losses it sometimes enforces. I have asked those questions.
For the couple of minutes I spoke at the funeral, I testified to the incident’s mystery and the power of hope resident in friends, family, and a God who won’t let us go. Many in the room – but sadly, not all – had experienced hope’s personal and spiritual renovation.
And at the end of the pastor’s sermon, when he asked whether there were people in the room who wanted something better in their lives, whether for any reason they wanted to change the path they were on, and somewhere between forty and sixty people stood up, I understood their decision because many have been the times when I felt the need for course correction.

Shared humanity. Common cries for help and hope, for light to shine on paths that lead somewhere. These, we’re all in together.

I can’t identify or speak for the community that shaped – some would say corrupted – Kelton Trice. I don’t know what it’s like to be a police officer late at night facing gunfire in an unlit alley. But I do know what it’s like to cry when sad, to question when in doubt, and to hug when in need. So did every mourner. So does every police officer.

Shared humanity.

What I also know, what Jesus calls you and me to teach and tell, what some of those mourners and police people may not yet know, is how to connect to the one who tames angry seas and rides above storms, the one who lives in spite of the mystery, who raises us to new life, even when all we can do is cry, doubt, and hug.

Because there will more Keltons and their grieving friends, we who follow Jesus still have work to do.

Let’s pray:
Jesus came, taught, died, and now lives so that we could make it through funerals of friends and family, so that we could hold on to each other through life’s mysteries. Give us fresh evidence of the hope you offer, and boldness to find, encourage, and restore the aggrieved within our reach. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

Of Third Cousins Thrice Removed

2008-04-23T23:13:00.001-06:00

In this corner, Jeremiah Wright, retired pastor of the church home of Barack Obama, a principal contender for the Democratic Party’s presidential nomination. Pastor Wright has said the U.S. government created then injected the AIDS virus into people of color, and that the attacks of 9/11 were as much a product of American imperialism as Islamic fundamentalism.

And in the other corner, John Hagee, pastor of Cornerstone Church in San Antonio, Texas, whose endorsement John McCain, the presumptive Republican Party nominee, sought and accepted earlier this year. Pastor Hagee has linked the Catholic Church to the “great whore” mentioned in the book of Revelation, and said that Hurricane Katrina was God’s retribution for a gay pride parade held in New Orleans.

These two pastors have been in the news recently, not so much because of what they said, but because of whom they know. Yes, there was a significant outcry when each one’s comments became public, but absent association with a major public figure, neither would have stirred widespread attention.

Pastor Wright’s confrontational theology would have wandered off with him into the ministerial sunset had not one of his former parishioners been running for president. Pastor Hagee, a more public figure because of his television ministry, would have pursued his fundamentalist agenda in the protection of our beloved separation of church and state had a presidential contender not sought his political assistance.

As a result, we’re not talking about the substance or nuance of Pastor Wright’s “God damn America!” nor are we exploring the biblical veracity of Pastor Hagee’s aggressive opposition to Catholicism. We’re instead talking about two presidential candidates and the alleged character flaws their associations with these pastors expose. The controversial pastors are little more than means to an end that these days is commonly labeled “gotcha politics.”

None of the mouthy political operatives who have spouted off in the last month or so really cared about Wright’s or Hagee’s beliefs. They only cared that using those beliefs provided another day’s campaign leverage, or another gem to bank away for use in a precision-targeted media blitz.

And also as a result, in this election year we’re not talking about the economy, or the war in Iraq, or the high cost of gasoline, or the breakdown of the American family, or the...whatever you can think of that actually matters. We’re rather running opposition background checks, seeing who in his or her past did something, said something, thought something, or once met with someone who did, said, or thought something we don’t like but can use to our side’s political advantage.

This is McCarthy-era guilt by association updated for the 21st century. We’re in a season in which we don’t care about candidates’ stands on issues or ideas for the future; we care about whom they knew, when they knew them, and what cheap, tawdry political advantage we can make from the mistakes and misstatements of those confidants. It’s 21st century McCarthyism because modern technology allows us to store, discover, and disseminate these political hand grenades in the flash of a mouse click.

Because his former pastor said something controversial, said things many find troubling, Barack Obama’s candidacy is questioned? Because John Hagee holds unpopular and unconventional beliefs, John McCain is to be doubted? Since when are Obama and McCain their pastors’ keepers?

What a sad surprise awaits any of the kids who have been part of the church I’ve served for 23 years, should they ever run for president. Some devious political hack will explore the record, discover a connection to me, wend his or her way to a few BillExpress pieces archived in some dank Website cavern, find out that I hugged a lot and encouraged others to do so, then will publish a three-part expose on the mysterious and cult-like community in which the candidate was raised, effectively sinking an otherwise worthy candidacy.

Martin Luther King dreamed of a day when society would judge children by the content of their character, not the color of their skin. In today’s slimy political climate, I have to hope King would dream of an election in which we judged candidates by the content of their competencies, not the purity of their associations.

There’s also a biblical problem with guilt by association – and on this you may be way ahead of me. With whom did Jesus spend most of his time? Prostitutes, tax collectors, and the socially outcast – none a great addition to his personal resume. And did people in Jesus’ day think less of him because of his associations?... I guess we haven’t changed much, have we?

Let’s pray:
God, politics is a rough and tumble business, but we want to believe it doesn’t have to be the way we have made it. May something change in us and in our society, to make us aware of the dangers of this current path, to call us to unearth the political implications of your command to love our neighbors. First step: Remind us who our neighbors are. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

Out of the Night That Covered Me...

2008-04-20T18:56:00.002-06:00

Though few have missed it, the Express is back, resuscitated by a personal spiritual resurrection, and a mesh of social, political, and faith events to which I feel an urge to respond.

Why the many months of silence? Principally because of a crisis of rhetorical confidence I experienced beginning last fall. For reasons I hope I understand, last year I entered a lonely and sizeable desert in which I no longer believed I had anything meaningful to say, that any entries made to this blog would have been contrived reflections I didn’t need to write, and no one needed to read. Yes, in the desert I continued to create sermons and newsletter articles, but they often felt forced – like products of Sunday worship necessity or monthly publishing deadlines – not fresh. For a period longer and more enslaving than I can remember experiencing, I couldn’t imagine anyone caring about anything I had to say.

Of even more concern, while in that desert I lost my desire, and perhaps even my ability, to reflect on life and the world through the filter of faith. I think I stopped caring about the spiritual implications of what happened in the world, nation, or community in which I live. Significant events, which before the desert would have roused me to commentary, passed, creating a stir whose reach extended only until the next issue, event, or distraction.

Combined, the aforementioned senses of irrelevance and disregard doomed the Express to months of silence.

But things have changed. In the last couple of weeks I have felt an occasional urge to write, to add my voice to some of the recently-erupted debates. And here on a Sunday night, much to my and probably your surprise, I am actually tapping keys and connecting thoughts. The Express is back...at least for now.

What’s changed is my attitude. I doubt last year’s desert wanderings arose from incompetence or lack of eloquence. They came as a consequence of a pessimism about the church and my ministry that had consumed my spirit. This destructive spirit started long before the Express derailed, meaning that most of the previous entries you read here were produced from remnants of energy already in the pipeline – think of water that’s in the garden hose when you turn off the faucet.

The water’s now flowing again because I have largely defeated the pessimism. Where for months – that collected into years – I felt increasingly hopeless about the future of the church I serve, and consequently about the prospects and consequence of my ministry, I now feel encouraged and excited. I look forward to preaching. I expect good things to come from worship. I know God is not finished with me or our congregation.

With this entry, waters from the new-flowing stream have at last reached the business end of the Express’s long-arid hose. Praise God.

So, look for more from me, more often. There is more to tell about my spiritual awakening. We have to talk about Jeremiah Wright (Barack Obama’s former pastor) and John Hagee (the pastor who has endorsed John McCain). We have talk about the spiritual implications of war (in Iraq, for example). We have to talk about guns and violence. We have to talk... or at least, I need to write. I hope you will want to read.

Get ready to ride the new Express, and consider responding via the Comments link below each entry, a feature I encourage you to use right now, if you wish to respond to what you have just read.

Let’s pray...
God of all wanderings and wanderers, it’s lonely and unlit out in the deserts of our lives. Find us, direct us, protect us, then welcome us back home. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

Signs of the Times

2007-10-15T21:08:00.000-06:00

There’s a billboard not too far from our home that features a fresh-faced 20-something’s smile, and not much else.

Most of the advertising space surrounding the relatively small feature photo is blank, save for the following text:

“Listening. Caring. Doing the right thing.”

That’s it. No advertiser name. No sponsoring organization. No phone number or Web address. No identifying information whatsoever. Just six words, a head shot, and a lot of white space.

Why? Why invest the time? Why impose on the graphic designers? Why spend money to develop and erect such a resultless visual experience that can’t possibly sell anything or direct potential customers anywhere?

Then I recalled the Sunday during my seminary years when my faculty advisor accompanied me to worship to get a feel for how I was doing “in the field.” On the return trip to Lexington, our evaluation conversation eventually turned to the sermon I had preached that morning. He liked my delivery, thought I was well prepared, and that I had said some good things. But then he asked why my sermon could not have been delivered at a convention of the American Psychological Association.

It was not a knock against the APA, but a necessary corrective to the foundation of my sermon. What was it, my advisor wanted to know, that made what I had said a proclamation of the Christian Good News? I had cited no Scripture. I had hardly invoked the name of God. It was, he rightly noted, a speech more than a sermon, an inspirational halftime pep talk more than a faithful declaration of the Word of God.

What he wanted to know was why passer-by listeners would conclude there was anything particularly “Christian” about my sermon. The truth was, they wouldn’t...just as passer-by drivers cannot conclude there is anything particularly...anything about the billboard near our home.

When we fail to connect our actions to our motivations we devalue our motivator (Jesus), and virtually guarantee that others will credit us for blessings not of our creation. Feeding hungry, visiting sick, building homes, or donating to disaster relief efforts without identifying Christ as our cause invites the world to think highly of us – which feels nice, but is wrong – rather than the one who has already fed, visited, rebuilt, and donated his life to us. Such identifications, in isolation, will convince few if any to connect to Jesus; but without them, the spotlight will never shine on its only deserving target.

Years ago someone told me Christians must never speak the name of Jesus without also doing a good deed, AND they must never do a good deed without also speaking the name of Jesus. That is, make a difference to people, then make it clear why you’re doing so.

Or, in billboard-ese: Listening, caring, doing the right thing...in Jesus’ name.

Pray with me:
O God, St. Francis of Assisi asked you to make him your instrument -- do the same for us; just leave such a strong imprint of your hand on our us that when we fail to credit you, others will have no trouble seeing the truth. You are an awesome God. In prayer we give you praise and glory. Today, in life may we at least give you recognition. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

Much to Do about Nothing

2007-09-17T18:59:00.000-06:00

The Details:
When: Saturday past
Where: My home office
What: A media frenzy

The Scene:
I, seated in my home office chair, angled toward the computer monitor on which is displayed Major League Baseball’s Website, through which I am tuned to the New York Yankee’s home radio broadcast of their big game with the arch rival Red Sox. In addition, on the PC I have opened a couple of news- and politics-related Website as well as my e-mail application.

At my right foot, below the computer desk, sit speakers attached to the PC, on the face of which is a power/volume knob by which I can control how much, if any, of the speaker’s output reaches my ears.

To my left, atop the PC tower, is an AM/FM radio tuned to the local affiliate of the Hawkeye Sports Network, this day broadcasting coverage of the intra-state football rivalry between Iowa and Iowa State.

Slightly behind me and to my right is a television connected to a satellite’s worth of channels, currently employing a list of favorites I’ve labeled simply “Sports,” allowing me to rotate quickly and efficiently through available games.

The Operation:
Amidst that phalanx of gadgetry, for a couple of hours on Saturday I danced a ballet – call it “The Multitasker.” Fluidly switching from output to output, from pause command to mute button, I conquered as best I could the devilish detail that neither the Hawks’ nor Yanks’ television product was in sync with its radio com padre. My objective was to watch plays before hearing them, then flip and turn and click as necessary to listen to the homie announcers’ spin, a result whose pursuit kept me in perpetual motion since the TV Yanks were forty-five seconds ahead of the Internet radio variety, while the Hawks on TV lagged five seconds behind the radio network. It was quite the show, quite the dexterous display from a fan eager to have to it all ways.

The Lesson:
When the circus ended and I didn’t have to think about the direction from which I would receive the next bit of information overload, I connected my brief laptop dance to experiences common in today’s culture. In this frenetic, technocentric age, it’s almost required that we adeptly handle the random but persistent information storms that seek our attention from all angles.

Newspapers, radio, and television are the grizzled veterans, but today they are joined by an online universe far greater in size, scope, and potential immersion. From online bill paying to news and entertainment delivered to cell phones and computer screens, today’s information consumers are bombarded with options. The more experienced and proficient the consumer, the more likely he or she will choose many rather than only a few of those options, the result being a divided, distracted attention span. Add to these new media such things as family life (can you say “soccer practice”?), work, and friends, and the result is life pulled in more directions than there are points on a compass.

What happens to our spiritual health in such a cacophony of options? When the next appointment, obligation, text message, or other information over/download is just minutes away, what happens to our spiritual focus? When there is no such thing as time away, how do we manage time away with God?

Given the attractive choices modern times provide – choices that are frequently not mutually exclusive – it’s easy to rationalize reductions in our time spent in prayer, Scripture reading, or worship. “I just don’t have time!” is an excuse likely to generate considerable empathy... except from God.

It’s not often noted, but the Israelites Moses led out of bondage in Egypt lived in a spiritually pluralistic piece of the world. Witness the first commandment, which demands only that people have no other gods before God – an obvious, if also tacit acceptance of the existence of other gods, other diversions of attention. Later in Israel’s history, the rise of monotheism (one God; only one God; no others; get it?) demanded that people make an irrevocable choice. In our current age’s technological pluralism, I think we need to revisit Scripture’s demands. (How about Jesus’ rejection of would-be followers who wanted to bid farewell to family members before turning their attention to him?)

Because God is not satisfied to be among the inputs we consider, it was challenging fun to manage multiple Websites and various media outlets from my home office chair last Saturday, but it was not a template for healthy spirituality. It’s not enough to speak a “Thank God” every now and then, if that’s our sole or even just primary voice of praise. It does not suffice to gather with Christians on Sundays, if those meetings are our week’s only worship.

I know you’re busy. I know the modern world gives you all kinds of options. But I also know God doesn’t accept second place. Leave a comment to tell us about how you make sense of all this.

Pray with me:
Help me acknowledge then filter out the things that distract me from you, God. I am a busy person, but not too busy to stay busy with and for you. I accept your command for first place in my life. Direct me to choices that reflect that acceptance. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

That Thing God Does

2007-09-13T01:50:00.000-06:00

Laurie, my office partner at the church, tells of the lost tooth that her daughter Gracie the other night expectantly placed beneath her pillow before falling asleep.

Morning – and its well planned payout – came, but not without a twist. Laurie says she went to Gracie’s room, her daughter still sleeping. There on the floor – on the hardwood floor that not long ago was covered with carpet – lay the enamel moneymaker, the lost incisor upon which Gracie had placed her faith. Mom and dad had forgotten that the tooth fairy does not take walk-in appointments. They had placed no money under the pillow.

Until, of course, Laurie found the stray tooth lying in full view, on a floor until recently covered with carpet, carpet that would easily have hidden the tooth from the most determined parent’s searching eyes.

More, the tooth – the missing marker of monetary momentum – had escaped its usually well-secured cocoon under Gracie’s pillow. Typically, she places lost teeth in a trench directly below her head, no doubt in an effort to prevent the precious object’s loss in advance of the forthcoming financial transaction. This time – maybe for the first and only time – Gracie must have lodged the tooth uncharacteristically close to the edge of the bed, which allowed it to fall to the floor in plain view of a grateful mom, who just happened to have a dollar bill close at hand. Grace awoke, searched for and celebrated her new wealth, not at all aware of the back story, which her mom believes was a God thing.

Then there’s my wife Shari’s grandfather’s current hospitalization for pancreatitis, a potentially life threatening inflammation of the pancreas. The other night Walter suffered seizure-like symptoms – dizziness and shaking limbs, to name two. Upon transport to a hospital, ER personnel and the usual buffet of tests tracked down the pancreatitis, whose symptoms do not include seizure-like events of the kind Walter suffered at home. To this moment, doctors know his disease, but can’t explain his symptoms or connect them to his condition.

Shari can. She believes it was a God thing, to get her grandpa the care he actually needed.

God things come in packages little and large, in moments serious and sublime. God things come at the crack of dawn and in the middle of the night. God things save us and the people we love from everything from embarrassment to ... you name it.

I mean it. You have to name your God things, because they can’t penetrate determined ego, and are easily cloaked by false bravado or personal desperation. God things are obvious, to the willing and faithful; but they dress in camouflage before the eyes of people too busy, too hopeless to care.

Do you need a God thing in your life today? Do you need a miracle, small or significant? How about a sign, a little teaser from heaven to certify God’s involvement in your life? You shall have one if you’re a willing labeler, if you’re willing to experience life today as a pressure-sensitive board, every impact upon which potentially leaves a divine signature, every incident of which is an occasion of God’s personal encounter with you.

Not every God thing is dramatic or profound. To be honest – and probably a bit heretical – most are too small or too personal to merit the attention of this kind of essay. But exist they do, in your life, at your point of need.

But not if you want the credit for your life’s good turns. Or you honor coincidence or serendipity. Or you think God has abandoned your cause and left you to fend for yourself. In all of those cases, you will claim your God things as either “you things,” or no-things.

As a result of God things, a child has renewed faith in a predictable, if unseen, friend; a parent has been saved from explaining that friend’s unforgivable absence; and a grandfather is able to receive and appreciate visits from adoring family. Our God is an awesome God (thing), indeed.

Pray with me:
I want to see you, feel you, hear you, touch you, be convinced of you today, God. Chances are I will get in the way of that outcome, so make your self and your things clear. But don’t be surprised if I misunderstand (or just miss) your entrance in my life; I can get pretty self-consumed. You’re not done with me, yet – thank you – even though I sometimes act as if you are (or that I am done with you). Hang in, then so will I. In the name of Jesus I pray, Amen.

p.s. Any God things to tell us about? Use the "Comments" link below this post to share your witness.

A Day Late; a Quarter-Century Later

2007-09-06T23:38:00.000-06:00

September 5 was the 25th anniversary of the first Sunday I ever preached and got paid for it. Or, in slightly more theological terms, the anniversary of my first day as a pastor of a congregation.

It was the first Sunday of September 1982. Classes at Lexington Theological Seminary were underway. My living arrangements, text books, and orientation to the city were in process, but I had yet to cement my “field work” position – the required, minimum one year ministry “lab” setting whose purpose was to provide the practical experience for which no professorial lectures could substitute.

Over the span of an hour and twenty minutes I drove from Lexington to Henry County in Kentucky, using the twisty back roads designated by the seminary’s field work supervisor. Having left earlier than I needed to, the wrong turns I made along the route produced anxiety and frustration, but no lasting consequences.

As I pulled onto the small gravel parking lot of the small country chapel called “Drennon Christian Church,” what first struck me was the gathering of people loosely assembled outside the building; I thought them to be the congregation’s welcoming crew...or jury pool. They were the people who would decide my fate, who would cast votes on whether to retain my one-of-these-days professional services as their pastor.

Greetings and salutations typical of people new to each other preceded what proved to be a relaxed and, I believed, successful worship experience. For the only time in my entire ministry, that day I reused a sermon, a reflection piece first preached for the congregation of my college days in Iowa City. After worship we had a bit of discussion time, then I went outside while the Drennon Congregation voted.... I won.

Did I ever win. Out of those nondescript beginnings arose a spiritual, pastoral, educational, affirmational relationship the likes of which I know I will never see again. Though small in number, the Drennon folk proved enormous in impact. Though without the alleged perks and prestige of larger congregations, the Drennon church demonstrated better than any collection of textbooks or classroom conversations what the church is, or at least is supposed to be: loving, tolerant, receptive people united in the cause of Christ.

That first Sunday provided an ample preview of coming attractions. Following worship, as was and would continue to be the practice throughout the three years of my ministry, a family in the congregation invited me for dinner. The drive up the hill from the church to their lane was quite the challenge for my Chevy Vega, but I forgot the mile-long climb when I took the first bite of what I thought was roast beef from the cornucopia set out on my host’s table. It was salty; that’s all I remember today. I thought Kentucky residents had found a new way to package salt, to make it more palatable to the salt-resistant by giving it the shape and color of roast beef. Turned out that the saline solid was country ham, which, as you may know (but I didn’t!), is salt cured.

In the instant of my first bite of country ham I knew I had been transplanted into a new and very different culture, I had become the biblical stranger in a strange land. My new church family lived different, talked different, were very different from me.

I, midwest. They, south.
I, city. They, country.
I, fast paced. They, relaxed.
I, one way. They, the other.

And yet it didn’t matter. Somehow we forged a strong partnership, an effective ministry. They and I, people who grew up on very different sides of the country, became great and trusting friends. My loyalty and appreciation for the Drennon Church so moved me as to produce annual return visits during the first decade-plus of my ministry with the church I now serve, a series that was sadly interrupted for several years in the late 90's into this century before resuming last September, a series whose latest member is my visit to the Bluegrass this weekend in observance of our 25th anniversary.

Perhaps most amazing about my relationship with the Drennon congregation was that I learned about and resisted the potential of my serving there a month or so before I decided finally to attend Lexington Seminary. I reacted coolly to the offered position; in fact, I was disappointed. I thought the church too small for my needs, too limited for my skill set (yes, I was pretty freaking stupid back then). In polite rebellion, I sought out another seminary – in Indianapolis; my second choice among Disciples schools – and even interviewed with a Presbyterian congregation an hour or so from Indianapolis. But God had other plans for me, a reality pounded into my spirit when I learned that the Presbyterian church could not call a non-Presbyterian pastor. Still, by grace and grace alone, the Drennon door was still open. Against my not-better judgment, God led me back to the open door, a door I reluctantly entered, a door because of which my life is forever and indescribably blessed.

I write this piece to let you know how much I love the people in that little Kentucky church, to praise God for gifting my life and pastoral journeys with what was, not surprisingly, supremely and exclusively the right soil in which my ministry to take root, and to encourage you to be on the lookout for your version of this kind of grace. I don’t know your needs, but I know the one who does. I don’t know your desires, your preferences, the road map you have laid out for your life, but I know the one who knows where you need to go and whom you need to welcome you there.

My Drennon experience, now a quarter-century old, tells me we can’t predict, or many times, even identify God’s directing hand. Often, the only view we have of divine guidance comes in life’s rear view mirror. But I know there is a hand, there is a map, there is an open door...somewhere. Just be prepared to change course when the map takes you where you didn’t plan – or thought you wanted – to go.

No single essay, no single book can say what I need to say about the church I met 25 years ago this week. So, two words will have to suffice: Praise God.

Pray with me:
You changed my life in a single relationship 25 years ago, God. Thank you. May at least one reader of these words have his or her own encounter with this kind of grace, God. May he or she not try to predict or even identify your move, but rather just be moved by it. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

Frankly, I Don't Cotton to the Idea

2007-09-04T20:54:00.000-06:00

We took one of our nieces to the circus over the weekend. Good time, especially for her – which, of course, was the point.

One of the must-have additions to our niece’s Barnum & Bailey experience was the admittedly odd pairing of a large colorful hat and a bag of tri-colored cotton candy, packaged together, I assume, to sucker people like Shari and me into finding value in the combination’s $10 price tag. The hat was a souvenir; the candy was a both a treat and hark back to one of my past loves.

I remember being such a cotton candy fan in my youth, especially the conquest of stuffing large handfuls of the airy concoction into my mouth. My latest encounter with the stuff, however, has me wondering what I ever liked about it.

I pulled a large piece from the bag as a taste test, expecting it to prompt a nostalgic trip down my culinary memory lane. Instead, what I experienced was the sudden – make that instant – deflation of the alleged candy once it hit my tongue, disappearing to a sugary pinhead within seconds. A large web of spun satisfaction within a breath or two reduced to nothing, prompting a similarly empty look on my face. Subsequent tests produced the same result, leaving me to conclude that either candy contained better cotton forty years ago, or I didn’t have much of a discerning palate in those days.

Now much older and a bit wiser than I was in my youth, I can explain the candy’s disappearing act. I know how it’s made, that its “cotton” is an intentional illusion, an attempt to convince purchasers that there is more there than meets the eye. As I took my first bite from the bag, I knew what I was getting into, I knew that it was “eye candy” in the sense of candy to the eye much more than to the mouth.... I had just forgotten.

When people come to our churches looking for spiritual food, what do we offer? What does your church offer to its hungry patrons?

To people looking for a taste of the nourishment they once knew, to people valuing spiritual nostalgia who seek to reconnect with their sacred side, what do we offer?

How do we feed those new to the table, people who know little more than that there is something missing in their lives, something they can’t provide themselves?

A criticism made of some of today's largest, most popular churches and preachers focuses on a question of substance. “It’s all entertainment!” critics protest, fluffy theology gift wrapped in high energy, low necessity worship whose nutritional value diminishes rapidly...like circus cotton candy.

Some so accused are no doubt guilty, but the fact that their churches thrive in this spiritually contentious and skeptical era tells me somebody’s being fed. Said preachers and churches may be preparing and serving the ingredients (God, Jesus, the Bible, etc.) differently than we do, but somebody’s obviously liking their cooking. We don’t have to eat what’s on their plate, but we had better pay attention to it.

And what about us who live in older, established churches? What do we offer? How do we prepare and serve the Word? “Friendly” servers and “helpful” hosts are a start, but today’s spiritual restaurateurs demand more. They know meat from gristle, and natural flavors from artificial. They won’t tolerate the disappointment of spiritual cotton candy, however it is packaged or presented.

Think about Jesus feeding the 5,000. The first need of the crowd was physical, not spiritual hunger. Caring little for his or his disciples’ convenience, refusing to understate the power of faith, Jesus responded with bread and fish aplenty. Need identified. Need met.

Consider the wealthy man who sought from Jesus the spiritual satisfaction of eternal life. Jesus commanded him to expand his vision of faithfulness beyond following commandments, to include sacrificial giving and devoted following. The wealthy man refused the food, but once again Jesus identified and met the need.

What are the needs of the people in your community? What are you doing to meet those needs?

When the circus sells that hat/candy combo, its principal aim is instant cash, not lasting enjoyment; with help from my family, the Ringling boys may consider that a mission accomplished. When we in the Body of Christ “sell” Jesus to others, what’s our main objective? The moment’s experience, or a life’s transformation?

Pray with me:
God, give us modern Christians the passion and vision we need to feed the modern multitudes. Help us tailor our message to feed hungers, to quench thirsts, to direct people to the bread of life and living water. We are much too polished at fancy place settings and elaborate presentations. Show us the way to the cupboards that are forever well stocked in the name of Jesus, Amen.

Thank You, Mother

2007-08-26T18:30:00.000-06:00

Whether in recent days you have read or heard about these haunting words and their original source, give them your full attention now:

"Where is my faith? Even deep down… there is nothing but emptiness and darkness... If there be God — please forgive me."

"Such deep longing for God -- and ... repulsed -- empty -- no faith -- no love -- no zeal. (Saving) souls holds no attraction -- Heaven means nothing -- pray for me please that I keep smiling at Him in spite of everything."

"What do I labor for?" “If there be no God, there can be no soul. If there be no soul then, Jesus, You also are not true."

"Jesus has a very special love for you. As for me, the silence and the emptiness is so great that I look and do not see, listen and do not hear."

"I spoke as if my very heart was in love with God -- tender, personal love. If you were (there), you would have said, 'What hypocrisy."'

"I utter words of community prayers -- and try my utmost to get out of every word the sweetness it has to give -- but my prayer of union is not there any longer -- I no longer pray."

Mother Theresa. You know, the beloved Nobel Peace Prize winner who is apparently on the fast track to sainthood?... Yeah, her. She said or wrote all of those words, revealed in a new book about her to be published this fall, in correspondence sent to friends and confidants over the last several decades of her life.

What’s your reaction?

Secular press reports I’ve seen treat this like another of the Mother’s miracles, though one with a wounded and stained history. The reports express surprise, as if it is some kind of newsflash that a person of such high spiritual regard, such laudable and selfless achievement, could experience, let alone openly confess, doubt and distrust of this magnitude.

There’s nothing necessarily mischievous about these secular takes. I doubt media people have it in for Mother Theresa, her beatification, or her place in Christianity’s hall of fame. More bluntly, I assume there are great numbers of Christians who upon hearing of her doubts reacted with similar surprise.

“She was a pillar of faith! No way she felt that much doubt.”

“She’s going to be a saint! They wouldn’t let her be a saint if she were that weak.”

“She’s my role model. I need her to be strong so I can be strong. Please tell me she didn’t really think those things!”

It is the faithful’s naive and needy from whom surprise at Mother Theresa’s doubts will sound most loudly. The naive, because they think of the spiritual journey as a linear progression in which travelers are stronger today than they were yesterday, and will tomorrow continue their steady, predictable advances. The needy, because invulnerable heroes – people who escape the demons of doubt – are for them an essential source of hope from whom even a hint of weakness can be crippling.

Seasoned followers of Jesus, however, will be heartened, not surprised, by Mother Theresa’s discouragement. First, because personal experience long ago proved to them that the road to spiritual growth is neither straight nor smooth-surfaced. Advances along the path today are painfully and easily erased tomorrow. Second, and I think more important, because followers of Jesus know that spiritual heroes conquer doubt; they don’t dodge it.

Exhibit A, Jesus. In the Garden at Gethsemene on the night before he died, all but abandoned by accompanying friends, Jesus pleaded with God to take away what seemed to be his inevitable fate. Yet, doubts clearly surfaced, he concluded his prayer with the conquering cry, “Not my will, but your will be done.”

Spiritual heroes survive doubt, but they can’t eliminate it.

Or, on a cross placed ignominiously between the death trees of two criminals, Jesus demanded God’s attention via the opening words of the 22nd Psalm: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” But in the end, victory sounded with his final breaths: “Into your hands I commend my spirit.”

Spiritual heroes overcome doubt, but they can’t avoid it anymore than you or I can.

I honor Mother Theresa’s candor. That she chose to follow one from whom she felt so completely isolated, and by whom she felt wounded, abandoned, and helpless – that she fed and housed thousands, and loved millions of others while inside she wrestled with imponderable spiritual issues is a blazing testament to hope... my hope. After reading the quotations with which this essay began I know that in the spiritual despair of my past I had good, hopeful company, much the same company as I will have the next time.

Later on today – perhaps three minutes after I post this piece – when I am once again vulnerable, I will look to heaven and thank God for all the saints, including Mothers named Theresa.

Pray with me:
If she could, if he could, if they could... so can I. Help me learn from the example of other followers, God. May I learn not only from their service, but also from their doubt. Not only from their faith, but also from their fears. May I learn from them that to be obedient is not to be happy in the moment, but rather joyful in the end. In the name of Jesus I have had my doubts, yet in his name I still pray, Amen.

Countdown to 50 - Redemption

2007-08-19T19:49:00.001-06:00

Final random ramblings as I approach my 50th birthday tomorrow.

I have arrived at the last hours of the fifth decade of my life. A few hours and change from now it will be B-Day, an arcane observation brought to you as a precursor to this week’s final reflection.

My last word before 50 is actually an encouraging one, about progress and hope. When I review the seasons of my life, I do not find one that did not in some laudable, necessary way build upon, improve upon, learn or veer from its predecessors. I am today a better person than I was in my thirties. I was in that decade a stronger, more reliable cog in God’s human wheel than I was in my twenties, etc.

The advances have not been linear, of course. Just as no summer season is sunny and 85 every day, so have my personal seasons been unpredictable collections of stormy, seasonable, and delightful conditions. But from the convenience of hindsight, I can say I have always been better than before.

In my teens I cultivated the seeds of silliness and sarcasm that have so well served me since. But I was also naive, intensely, sometimes laughably naive, about the real world.

The twenties never roared for me as they did for our nation last century, but in them I stretched enough to open myself to profound educational experiences at Iowa and in seminary, encounters of the mind and heart that effectively coerced the surrender of my naivete while surrounding me with supportive, encouraging friends and mentors, people who picked me up when I fell and, in some cases, still share part of the road with me today.

But the twenties were also home to profound personal crisis, to the naming of the internal brokenness that had accompanied me unchallenged for most of my still-young life.

In my thirties I figured out, finally, who and I was. The answer not only provided the subject of my masters’ thesis (the seminary called it a “final project” or some such thing, but in my forties I learned that “thesis” sounded a hell of a lot more impressive), it also rooted my heart in hope that my life could mean something, a potential I had not authentically owned in previous seasons.

But also in my thirties I ended a marriage, only haltingly implemented the strategies for personal growth discovered the previous decade, and stalled professionally, allowing ministry to be a creative, but far too repetitive exercise. Though the world around me was changing fast, I didn’t. Though I could see the effects of those changes, I did nothing to respond to them. Naivete redivivus, perhaps.

And in the forties? I rediscovered physical exercise, which had been a missing person in my life for ten or more years. I acknowledged, finally, that the church wasn’t in Kansas anymore; it was time for change. I discovered God’s gift of a person, Shari, with whom I now share marriage. And I claimed more than ever before ministry as calling – divine imperative – rather than profession or career.

The decade was also home to the ethics case that prompted the most poisonous challenge to that call. While there is no doubt that the case was the most hurtful, disgusting experience of my life, during its hell I discovered that I was willing to fight for what/who I believed in, that I valued integrity about as much as anything, and that justice sought could suffice in the absence of justice received. In an earlier essay on this blog I confessed the flawed ways in which I handled that case, but it was the desert through which I had to journey in order to be the better person I am today.

Which is not at all to say the “perfect person” I am today. As this decade closes I speak no bon voyage to the haunting professional insecurities that have made frequent appearances on the Express. Since 1997, but more precisely, in the last 5-8 years, I have bounced mercilessly between celebrating and denying God’s call on my life. It’s been quite the struggle, one that, in these forties’ waning hours, I know I am better equipped for than ever before.

So what of the approaching fifties? I haven’t got a clue, except, with history as corroboration, that at the end of them I will believe myself to be a better person than I was on that humid August night in ‘07 when I brought this essay to a close.

May a similar conclusion accompany the end of your life’s next season.

Thanks for sharing this week with me. And if you’ll permit...

Happy birthday, Bill.

Pray with me:
For every moment that became an incident that joined with others to create patterns that produced the seasons I look back upon, in the name of Jesus I say thank you, God.

Countdown to 50 - As Old as I Feel

2007-08-17T22:49:00.001-06:00

Daily random ramblings as I approach my 50th birthday next Monday.
[WARNING: THIS ONE LIVES DOWN TO ITS "RAMBLING" DESCRIPTION!]

Among my mom’s favorite aphorisms was “You’re only as old as you feel.” Variations on the same theme included “Age is just a number,” and “I’m 39 and holding.” I guess those were the slogans of her protest against aging.

Have you ever asked yourself how old you feel? Did you have an answer? I don’t, because I have no experience with ages other than with the ones through which I have already passed.

An exaggerated example: Due to the recent death of a Japanese citizen, a 114 year-old American now holds the title of world’s oldest living human. How can anyone other than possibly the 110+ crowd know anything about that lady’s experience? I can tell you what 49 feels like; talk to me on Monday and I will offer a snap review of 50. But as for any age I have yet to pass through... haven’t got a clue.

We have well developed age-based stereotypes, of course. Some true, some not. Some fair, some not: Kids are flexible and boundlessly energetic. Twenty-somethings are in the physical, albeit unrefined prime of their lives. Middle-agers expand around the waist, belly or behind. Seniors are wrinkled and deteriorated, at a deeply secreted rate moving inexorably to the end of their lives.

There is truth to any generalization, but not necessarily relevance. Most age-based generalizations aren’t relevant. What does it mean to feel "old," and why does it matter? Why do we cast our debilitations in terms of age rather than, say, symptoms?

Frequently I hear people grumble, “It’s not easy getting old,” as if age is the culprit, when clearly it is not. You rarely hear people say the more descriptive and accurate, “It’s not easy waking up with arthritis, or gout, or bad vision;” it’s more often about their age.

Hey! I could attribute my growing baldness to my age! After all, twenty years ago I had more hair than I now have. So, it’s not easy (nor as hairy) getting old.

With this essay I declare my independence from age. I am Bill Coley, a person increasingly fit for his....

Well, that didn’t work. I try again:

I am Bill Coley, a person who has to call his doctor in the next couple of weeks because the doc wants to check the usual suspects now that I am about to turn....

Not that either.

Hmm. Age is in fact just a number, but it seems to be an inevitable one.

How old are you?

Pray with me:
God, you are timeless. You offer the gift of forever to everybody. We can’t possibly know what forever feels like until we get there, but one day we will, because time and age mean nothing to you. Keep us on, but diverted from the clock, diverted so that we will spend more time living than counting. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

Countdown to 50 - Six Flags, Some Red

2007-08-16T23:55:00.000-06:00

Daily random ramblings as I approach my 50th birthday next Monday.

The title track of Bonnie Raitt’s magnificent album “Nick of Time” describes her joy in finding the love of her life a bit later in her life than the social norm. Among the lyrics of the song are these:

I see my folks are getting on
And I watch their bodies change
I know they see the same in me
And it makes us both feel strange

No matter how you tell yourself
It's what we all go through
Those lines are pretty hard to take
When they're staring back at you

Oh Oh Oh, scared you'll run out of time

Of such panic are mid-life crises made, I suppose. Fears of unrealized dreams, unfulfilled ambitions, incomplete personal mission projects; fears that it’s now too late to accomplish what in our younger days we thought we would accomplish, that aging’s biological and physiological juggernauts have generated too much momentum to be stopped or even slowed before our names are added to their victim lists.

I don’t think I ever experienced a mid-life crisis. For men, aren’t they most frequent in their 40's (women are probably different; usually are)? I don’t remember a time when I had to have a sporty convertible or when I felt a desire to transplant into a younger generation’s culture to convince myself, if no one else, that there was still tread left on my life’s tires. I don’t look back with regret on the big choices I have made over the years; there isn’t much I would change, were the circumstances to repeat. I spend a lot of time on our treadmill, but that exercise is a natural extension of my life-long attraction to walking, rather than a reflection of a need to look younger than my age.

I’ve had crises, no doubt, but they were situational, not seasonal; once the precipitating incident resolved, so did the crisis. Mid-life crises aren’t as much connected to specific events as they are to generalized needs of the heart and soul; those I haven’t had. Not in family. Not in marriage. Not among friends. But in ministry, in the church, that’s another story.

My seasonal crises have been, oddly and cruelly enough, faith based. Recounted on several occasions in this blog, my struggle with doubts about my call to ministry has been a recurring character in the Coley drama. Often over the years I have asked God whether I was ever actually called to ministry, and if so, why that call had apparently been cancelled without notice. Unknowingly, perhaps I concocted my call out of the anxiety of a graduate studies program at Iowa I chose to give up in the spring of 1982. Or rather, maybe I correctly perceived the original call, but the memo suspending my licence to practice had somehow been lost in the bureaucratic menagerie of heaven’s many responsibilities, leaving me in the church and in the line of fire, no longer indemnified by divine underwriters.

However explained, there have been times when I questioned, not simply whether I was up to a particular task in ministry, but whether I could claim its particular call. That’s a crisis.

As I evaluate my first fifty years, I appreciate my childhood more than ever, I value my time at the University of Iowa immensely, and realize the grace of countless beautiful people with whom I have crossed paths since. But ministry is the unresolved mystery. It’s been an emotional and spiritual roller coaster, at times profoundly grateful for the privilege of serving Jesus; at other times profoundly angry to have been swindled into such a torturous career.

Most troubling, I don’t see the roller coaster stopping before I retire (or quit, or go to prison for spray painting protest graffiti on the walls of every church in the Quad Cities). This chaotic movement from suffering to satisfaction seems to have mastered perpetual motion. I can’t stop it. I can hardly manage it, except to know that I have company – people like the Old Testament prophets, who regularly barked at God for bringing them into revolving unrest.

There is no happy ending to this entry, but neither do I intend a sad one. Today was a good day. I am looking forward to the weekend. Monday will be a fine birthday. I’m in a good mood. It’s just that I know the coaster will begin its next climb to chaos at any moment, and I will almost certainly be on board.

Today’s invitation to leave a comment is about your crises, mid-life or otherwise. I doubt there is much to learn from my present confessional, but your experience might help someone in their struggles. Consider it.

Pray with me:
God of every crisis, author of every life, and Lord of every collision of those two forces, be my spiritual GPS through the maze of life. Help me locate important landmarks. Inspire me to journal valuable experiences. Conect me with people who will accept my fallibility and culpability, as well as people who will raise their hands with mine in praise when life is well lived and much loved. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

Countdown to 50 - They Weren't What They Were

2007-08-15T20:17:00.000-06:00

Daily random ramblings as I approach my 50th birthday next Monday.

On occasion I do the math related to my and my parents’ ages at various stages of my life. For example, thirty years ago, when I was in the last weeks before a return to the University of Iowa for my junior year, my parents were each 50 years old, the same age I will reach next Monday.

Thirty years ago my parents were so old. They looked old. They sounded old. They acted old. There was such a gulf between my modernism and their ancient-ism. I don’t remember being conscious of their numeric ages, but I recall being aware of our generational divide, which I obviously interpreted as their being old.

Today I am the age they were when I was a brand new 20-something. I don’t feel old. Though I clearly look older than before, I don’t think my appearance has fully surrendered its middle age moniker. And one of my ministry’s principal passions is to think and act younger than I am, so as to stay connected to the community our church needs to be desperate to reach........ I’m not old.

Yet, thirty years ago, my 50 year-old parents were.

I talked about this with a member of our afternoon Bible study group today. When I posed to her the historical setting introduced above, she said of my 1970's parental perspective, “They were ancient, weren’t they?” She knew, not that my parents were ancient back then, but that I would have viewed them so.

I suspect that it’s both universal and unavoidable: The more different we perceive people to be from us, the more prone we are to judge them inferior, deficient, or...older than us, whatever the origins of the differences. And then, eventually, if life demands or directs that we become like those from whom we were once so different, we come to understand that our youthful judgments were unfair because they were essentially mechanical, mathematical, and procedural, not personal.

So it is with racial bias. My goodness, it’s mechanical thinking to look at a person of an ethnic heritage different from yours and conclude that he or she is in any consequential ways different from (i.e. inferior to) you. Simple is the equation: Country of Origin + Dialect of speech - Years in mainstream America = Snap judgment.

But thirty years ago, I wasn’t smart or old enough to figure out how unfair I was being to my parents. I think it amusing that age was the problem back then when I assessed my parents... my age, not theirs!

What about you? In your youth, how did you perceive your parents or other elders? Were they in some odd sense older then than at any other time in their lives due to the indiscretions of your youthful judgments? Leave us a comment. Your experience can help us.

Today I have more respect than ever for my parents. Not only because I have a longer-term view of their achievements and contributions, but also because I now realize when they were my current age they had to put up with me at age 20!

Pray with me:
God, help me to think as young as the youngest, to act as wisely as the oldest, to choose as smartly as the wisest, and to love as completely I have been loved, by my parents and by you. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

Countdown to 50 - My New Favorite Stringed Instrument: the AARP

2007-08-15T00:23:00.001-06:00

Daily random ramblings as I approach my 50th birthday next Monday.

Proof that I am about to change age ranges has arrived in our family mail box three times over the last couple of weeks in the form of marketing mailings from the good folks at AARP. While the realities of population demographics, generational turnover, and government financing have in recent years increased the official retirement age, AARP has apparently seen fit to recast its eligibility definition downward to include my (soon) age or older. Consequently, I have received at least three flyers, folders, envelopes, or whatever from them.

Not that I opened them, mind you! Perhaps as a form of civil disobedience against their expansive definition of aging. Perhaps in demonstration of some secreted denial that I am in fact getting on in years. Perhaps simply as another example of my refusal to enable mass marketing campaigns (a.k.a., junk mail). I don’t know why I didn’t open any of the letters, but I know I didn’t.

Which is kind of odd, actually, because in the last year I have thought about retirement more consistently, more afffirmingly than I ever imagined. The numbers from my annual denominational pension report race through my mind at least a couple times a year. I have a spreadsheet on which I track the predicted result of that fund’s increase in value. I have calculated how much we will need, how much we may have, and where we might obtain the millions that will be needed if I am to achieve my dream of retiring in the well-wired guest house on the estate of Bill and Malinda Gates.

So I’m thinking about retirement. Is that a sign of aging? A sign of professional burnout or frustration? Or is it simply a sign that I need something to occupy my free time? If you’re a baby boomer, what are you thinking about these days?

I also think about life after life more than ever. As intimated in a recent essay on this blog, I think about reunions with my mom and grandparents. I think about reconnecting, in whatever way God sees fit, with the people who over the years have so influenced my journey. And I think about eternal chat room conversations with people like Beethoven, Einstein, and the author(s) of the Bible’s “Job.”

Is that a sign of aging? Or of roiling faith? Or spiritual curiosity?

I am in an unusual season of my life. Still creative. Still childlike. Still interested. Yet also attracted to new and possibly telling issues and subjects. . . . just not to AARP mailings.

I wonder what the countdown to 60 will read like?

Leave a comment about your experience, if you feel like it. Don’t worry about making sense; it should be obvious to you that I don’t.

Pray with me:
What a time this is, God. Creative, but uncomfortable. Energized, yet attracted to slower paced life. Hopeful, yet never fully confident. Part of it’s the world we live in. Part of it’s that we’re all changing, time and age wait for no one. So stay close. May your promises never get old as we continue the walk toward your light in the name of Jesus, Amen.

Countdown to 50 - A Week to Go

2007-08-13T19:54:00.000-06:00

Daily random ramblings as I approach my 50th birthday next Monday.

In January of this year I had such a lofty vision of my ascendancy to the middle of my life’s first century on August 20, a vision constructed of three ambitious fitness goals.

— to walk a local annual 10K event in under 90 minutes

— to log 600 miles in treadmill workouts

— to lose a total of 25 pounds, returning myself to the healthy weight that bad eating habits and prolonged inactivity surrendered over the last couple of years

How’ve I done?

— I didn’t enter, let alone complete, the 10K event.
— Current estimates predict close to 560 treadmill miles by Monday, not 600.
— I’ll close my 40's some 5-8 pounds over the healthy weight goal.

Taken out of context, each of those results has merit. Separated from the ambitions they originally reflected, I could make a case that these months before the debut of the throwback dramatic series “BillColey Five-O” have been productive,

But such a case would of necessity rely on explanations and rationalizations. I’d have to explain the injuries that hampered my 10K training efforts, the same injuries that stole as many as a dozen days from my treadmill regimen. And I would have to remind you that the older we get the harder it is to lose weight, so coming up short on the weight loss isn’t such a surprise.

Given your personal experience, you might then accept, even relate to my explanations, but something about them would bother me. I think because over the last four or five years I have come to give high value to accountability, taking responsibility for personal actions and their consequences. At some point, accountable people need to stop explaining their failings and do something about them.

As I approach middle age (each of us is entitled to our own definition of when that epoch begins!) I look back with bemused chagrin upon my first five decades. I have developed and displayed remarkable dexterity when it comes to stepping away from full responsibility for my actions. I can tell you why my best efforts in and outside the church didn’t work, why they might not work the next time, and why, in the end, it won’t matter as long as I tried.

But something tells me, if God’s interaction with my life continues its current pattern, I won’t be able to tolerate the excuses very much longer — I will have to make changes. Which, I suppose, means I have something to look forward to in my life’s next fifty years... if nothing else, a 10K race in which I actually participate.

Leave a comment on how you handle/explain/defend your failings. . . or a note rationalizing why you didn’t.

See you tomorrow.

Pray with me:
God, every day brings us closer to you, if not spiritually, then hope-fully. May I accept your guidance, learn from your wisdom, and be an instrument of your grace. I don’t understand my life, but by your mercy, I don’t have to. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

You Might Already Be a Winner!

2007-08-04T16:27:00.000-06:00

The flyer’s cover achieved my attention:

Congratulations. Your Rewards Are Here!

Because it was sent from our bank, I believed the mail to be legitimate, and so tore it open in search of my rewards.

Peeling back the first flap heightened the excitement:

Your Rewards Certificate is Inside! You’ve already started earning points toward great rewards. All 8 prize levels are full of perfect rewards that are perfectly within reach.

Removal of the tri-fold’s final flap revealed the featured item – a five piece set of luggage for just 800 points – and the temptation of awaiting goodies:

Congratulations! By using your convenient debit card, you have earned point toward a free gift! Below is a certificate you can enter into your rewards account. Once you receive 100 points you can select a prize!

My eyes moved to the top of the flyer where were pictured items such as watches, air travel, televisions, and audio systems, all free of charge to earners of sufficient points. . . . If thrills could kill!

Turning to the only flap I had not reviewed, I discovered a decorative certificate, reminiscent of a bank check, the report of our particular rewards. There in the middle of the flap, in bold print and accompanied by an impressive 32 character ID code, were our points: 1.

More than zero, but less than any everything else, we have earned one point. Only 799 to go for the luggage. Only 3,999 before one of the TVs comes our way. I can taste that second point already. . . . Though I really don’t know what we did to earn it.

The flyer mentions a debit card, which we own, but use exactly once a week at a local grocery store. If it took just five years of grocery store visits to produce our first rewards point, we’ll be packing fresh suitcases by the year 4002. (Though we may have to negotiate with the bank, since the flyer reports our reward point expires in 2009.)

One of the few things my fellow followers of Jesus can do that will raise my ire is to promote a rewards-based Christianity, an assertion that appropriate actions — usually sacrificial financial donations to the ministry promoting the rewards program — result in predictable and beneficial consequences. One Christian television network devotes much of its programming to preachers and other theological pundits who, with fire in their eyes and screeches to their voices, attempt to persuade viewers to call in...and win.

I’ve heard promoters call it seed planting or harvest offerings. “God is waiting to unleash a blessing in your life,” shouts the preacher. “But first you must show your faith. Call the number on your screen. Plant the seed. Show your faith. Then wait for the harvest.”

Captivated audience members wave arms and faces to heaven in apparent agreement, perhaps testifying to their own experience, but more likely energized by a desperate hope that the preacher’s right.

My encounter with the teaching of Scripture is that what awaits participants in this faith-faced shell game is a lot like the rewards flyer I described earlier. I envision the excitement produced as program players tear into their colorful rewards flyer.

“Congratulations! Your rewards are here!” announces the cover.

“Your Rewards Certificate is Inside!” says the second pronouncement, a bit deeper into the flyer, its print jiggling wildly in the players fidgety fingers.

Almost unable to contain their enthusiasm, with sugar plum fairies break dancing in their heads, the rewarded players rip open the flyer’s final flap to discover a certificate that is both less colorful and more attractive than the one described above.

“I am with you to the close of the age.”

Vainly the players search for a rewards points update, an account number, a personalized ID code, something, anything to certify their progress toward the promised blessings. But there is nothing else on the page.

Having located receipts for their gifts, the distraught players call the ministries with whom they had planted their seeds, but discover that those ministries are all out of business. Jesus’ is the only business still open, and he’s offering only one rewards program:

You preach, teach, tell, and baptize in my name. I’ll be with you.

And as for those preachers who proffered that other approach to rewards? That’s for another essay.

Pray with me:
God, in Jesus you changed the world; sadly, we don’t always let Jesus change us. Help me figure Jesus out. Help me both understand and practice surrender to him. Do something with my need for things, as I do something today to prove I no longer need any other reward than your company in his name, Amen.

Bill Coley and the Lifely Hallows

2007-07-25T00:20:00.000-06:00

SPOILER WARNING!! If you are a “Harry Potter” fan and intend to read, but have not yet completed the last book in the series, you may not want to read this entry. Proceed at your own risk (or come back when you’ve finished the book!)

There’s a scene late in the final Harry Potter book in which the title character concludes that if his arch nemesis — the series’ embodiment of evil, named “Voledemort” — is to die, he, Harry, must also die. Willingly, Potter marches into a forbidden forest, on the mission of his life... and death.

On the way to his destiny, he opens a metal object inside which he discovers a magical item called the “resurrection stone,” one of the book title’s “deathly hallows.” (Read the book, if you want explanations for all these Potterisms!) The stone has the power to connect its user with people who have died, though the connection established is neither complete nor satisfying enough to be deemed a reunion.

Seeking comfort and encouragement in his last steps before death, Potter employs the stone to summon his parents, his godfather, and another confidant, all who had died earlier. While the book prompted potent emotions from me, it was this conversation between destined and departed that brought the most fervent tears.

“You’ve been so brave,” says Harry’s mother.

“You are nearly there. Very close. We are...so proud of you,” adds his dad.

Harry wants to know whether death hurts. His godfather tells him death is “quicker and easier than falling asleep.”

Seconds later, the pre-game pep talk concludes this way:

Harry: “You’ll stay with me?”

Dad: “Until the very end....”

Harry: “Stay close to me.”

Conventional wisdom argues the more you care about Harry and his exploits, the more this scene will get to you, but I think its appeal is more universal than that. The prospect of facing life’s ultimate punctuation mark having first been braced by people who have traveled the road you’re on, should sear anyone’s heart.

I envision approaching death’s entrance hand-in-hand with my mom, she telling me about the morning she woke up feeling ill, somehow correctly concluding that she was going to die. I imagine her describing her experience, most likely in minute detail (this is my mom, we’re talking about!), then telling me about the surroundings of heaven before attending to my pressing need for encouragement as I near life’s most mysterious threshold.

I picture my paternal grandparents rising to cheer my carrying on grandpa’s pastoral mantle, as they hold open their arms, affectionately noting how long it has been since they last saw me, how cute I was when I sat on his lap and kissed his puffed-out cheek, and how good it was, all those years ago, for her to have my siblings and me spend nights at their house. Then, I see them calmly and quietly pointing to the gates of glory while assuring me we’ll have plenty of time to talk.

I cried as I read Harry Potter’s forbidden forest conversation, largely because it symbolizes for me a transcendent intimacy and hopefulness. If fear can be vanquished in the face of death, then there is no final fear. If hope can be rekindled in the moments before one’s last breath, then there is no deadly despair. If the people of your past can accompany you to the portals of your forever, then death indeed has lost both its sting and victory.

The ultimate welcoming cheerleader, of course, is Jesus, the one whose example fuels Scripture’s passionate pronouncements about eternal life. Had Harry asked Jesus whether death hurt, I wonder whether Jesus would have said anything about the rusty nails, or the scornful crowd, or the brooding, lonely sky? I rather doubt it. I think he would rather have echoed Harry’s parents encouragement: “You’re almost there.... I am so proud of you.”

At least I pray that’s what Jesus would say to Harry...and to me.

There’s a marvelous song by Carolyn Arends called “We’ve Been Waiting for You,” in which she transforms the welcome home she and her husband have for their newborn child into the welcome she hopes one day to receive herself in heaven. Like the Potter conversation related earlier, these lyrics, taken from the end of the song and intended for her child, bring me to tears. I hope you’ll understand why, and that you’ll experience healing visions of resurrection with the people of your past.

“Another journey awaits us
So when I have to leave

I am pretty sure that I'll be frightened
But even if I cry, please understand
I will know I'm not alone
When my room is ready I'll go home
And when I reach the gate
I'm going to hear them saying

We've been waiting for you
We're so glad you came
We've been looking forward
To showing you the place
There's so much in store and
We've been waiting for you”

Good night, Harry.

Pray with me:
I don’t know whether death will hurt, or whether I will be frightened. But I do know who will be waiting for me, and who cheers and inspires me today. In the present, for the future, I am okay, thanks to you, God. No wonder we have eternal life: to have enough time to express our appreciation. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

Still Stained

2007-07-18T10:29:00.000-06:00

It didn’t garner me a cover shot on GQ magazine, but recently, for the first time in decades, I wore an undershirt – you know, one of the Fruits of the Loom.

For all of my adult life I had resisted the white cotton things, believing them to be superfluous sweat producers. Whatever human body subsystem it is that produces upper body perspiration has always functioned very well in me. Not wanting to add to the precipitation single layer clothing inspires from me (or, I guess, perspires from me!), I shied away from undershirts.

But then I had an epiphany. Not something dramatic like, “God is telling me to take this new path in life!” Or, “I see now the meaning of all human existence.” No. My epiphany was more meager: I finally understood why people wear undershirts.

I ought to feel stupid writing about this discovery, but I don’t, because for me eye-openers about the obvious are not uncommon. Not wanting to pile on the embarrassment, I will simply tell you that in my youth I had, shall I call it, an “interesting, but not biologically likely” explanation of how daddies helped mommies get pregnant. When I discovered the truth – just before graduating from college, as near as I can recall – it was as if scales fell from my eyes as I beheld a brave new, and far more pleasurable, world.

So it has been with the undershirts. What joy I have known, exercising dominion over underarm sweat stains. What pride has arisen, observing the better fit of my dress shirts. What self-confidence has swelled, realizing I have busted yet another childhood myth. What expectation has grown, predicting the next profound but practical truth I will uncover.

And so it is with my spiritual life. The longer I live, the more I discover how much I don’t know. The more mistakes I make, the more rebellions I lead, the more struggles I face, the more I understand how incomplete is my understanding of God and God’s ways. The more I apply what the world labels “intelligence” to the design of my life, the more I claim to have mastered life and its sweat-producing subsystems, the more it’s obvious my best choice is to shut up and listen because I don’t know what I’m talking about.

Back in the fall of 1982, just weeks into my seminary career, on the drive back to campus from the church I then served I reflected on the results of an apparently pastoral conversation held during my after-worship calls. For the encounter in question, I had concluded that I had been where I needed to be, for the persons who needed me, and had provided the precise and particular word those persons needed to grapple with their reality. Watching the road spill past my eyes still wide with pride, I said in an audible whisper, “God, what we do is so important.”

The remaining years of my seminary experience taught me how arrogant, immature, and spiritually vacuous was that claim. By the time I graduated I knew that what we do hardly matters, and in fact, will usually just get in the way. What’s important is how completely we surrender to God, so that God can do something through us. Twenty-two years in full-time ministry have demonstrated that I will likely never reach a wiser conclusion.

And neither will you, by the way. Don’t permit this essay’s clergy orientation mislead to believe that I intend to exclude you from accountability. Spiritual truths don’t discriminate between clergy and laity, between preacher and preached-to. If you follow Jesus, you need to learn to sit down, shut up, and surrender.

The Apostle Paul told the Christians in the ancient city of Corinth that when he was a child, he spoke and thought like a child, but the longer he lived, the more he put away his childish ways. So it is with us spiritual travelers. We spend this life discovering how little we know, and how dependent we are on the one who gives all life.

People who care about the words of people who preach, invest in those preachers at least the appearance of hope that the preachers have traveled a bit more of the spiritual road, that they understand what matters and why, and have achieved a spiritual maturity worthy of their ministries. While this may be true for some, perhaps several of my colleagues, it may not be true for me. After all, I just figured why guys wear undershirts.

And what about you?...

Pray with me:
You are amazing, awesome, lovely, and patient...oh, so patient, God. Thank you for putting up with me, and for still finding a use for me – and the rest of us. I can’t guarantee that I won’t revert to my childish ways, but I can say I know the only one who can rescue me from their clutches. Thanks. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

One (or more) Truly False Church(es)

2007-07-10T21:33:00.000-06:00

The lead from an article posted July 10 by the Associated Press, dateline: Lorenzago di Cadore, Italy —

“Pope Benedict XVI has reasserted the universal primacy of the Roman Catholic Church, approving a document released Tuesday that says Orthodox churches were defective and that other Christian denominations were not true churches.”

And then,

“"Christ 'established here on earth' only one church," the document said. The other communities "cannot be called 'churches' in the proper sense" because they do not have apostolic succession - the ability to trace their bishops back to Christ's original apostles.”

Great.

I thought for sure we had moved beyond this kind of divisive rhetoric in modern Christianity. (Well actually, I thought it had been co-opted by the Bible thumping Protestant groups which live under a delusion that they have some kind of exclusive patent on what it means and looks like to follow Jesus.) As the eminent street theologian of his generation, Rodney King, would ask, can’t we all just get along?

I have no animus toward, no judgment against, no death wish for the Roman Catholic Church. I value its tradition. I celebrate its membership. I thank God for its necessary role in nurturing the Body of Christ through its first 16 centuries. Some of my best and longest-standing friends in the Quad Cities happen to be Catholic. Without fear or flinch I celebrate Catholicism’s place at the table of our – that would be OUR – Lord.

Now why can’t it return the favor?... And it’s not even a favor! Why can’t “The One True Church” acknowledge what Jesus mandated: that all who love each other, tell his story, and follow his commandments are his church?

You might think I am on an anti-Catholic rant, but I’m not. As intimated earlier, Protestants engage in equally mystifying and, I think, unbiblical division of sheep and goats; some of the things Protestants have said about Catholics over the last five hundred years make the Pope’s latest treatise sound flattering. My point is that while it’s sinful when any follower of Jesus diminishes or marginalizes another follower of Jesus because of his or her denominational tradition, when the traditions themselves engage in that diminishing or marginalizing, the sin becomes a destructive curse.

Think about the intrusion of religion into the current political climate. Mitt Romney’s Mormonism has been an issue. Why? Are Mormons spiritually inclined not to care about Iraq, education, or the health care crisis?

Journalist Christopher Hitchens – a self-described “anti-theist” – has published a scathing diatribe against religion called “God Is Not Great,” a best-seller that has been raised temperatures on a host of news channel talk fests. In large measure he strikes out against the practice of religion – oh, I don’t know, maybe the way Christian denominations and traditions speak of each other? – rather than the experience of faith. Can we really blame Hitchens?

I have small ambitions for this piece. I want you to know, and I hope you will share with others the following declaration: Whatever your tradition, in whatever form of faith community you were reared and are now fed, if you call yourself a follower of Jesus, if he is Lord of your life and head of your church, I am humbly proud to believe us parts of the same family. We may disagree on some things, on all things theological, but that's okay because what matters is not what distinguishes us, but who unites us.

The Apostle Paul, who was definitely NOT a member of my denomination, said it for the ages when to the Christians in Galatia he wrote:

So you are all children of God through faith in Christ Jesus. And all who have been united with Christ in baptism have been made like him. There is no longer Jew or Gentile, slave or free, male or female. For you are all Christians—you are one in Christ Jesus. *

Today Paul would write, “There is no longer Catholic or Protestant, Orthodox or Anglican, Methodist or Pentecostal.” Not that the Church(es) would listen....

Pray with Me:
Remind us, God, that we are the keepers and stewards, not the designers, of the flame of Christ on earth. When we, whatever our background, get too high on our holy horses, get our attention – knock us off, if necessary – then remind us of the blessing and promise of your Son, our Lord, Jesus, the one whose Church we ALL are, and in whose name we pray, Amen.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
* Galatians 3.26-28 (NLT)

Broken Promised Lands?... ADDENDUM

2007-07-03T23:46:00.000-06:00

[TO UNDERSTAND THE CONTEXT OF THIS ADDENDUM, YOU MIGHT BENEFIT FROM FIRST READING THE POST THAT IMMEDIATELY FOLLOWS IT.]

As I wrote the original “Broken Promised Lands?” post, my car sat in the parking lot of a local grocery store, the victim of either a bad battery or starter. My sister-in-law had kindly provided me a jump – to no avail – and then a ride home, where I called my auto dealer to learn its preferred towing company. When I called the towing concern, I heard only its voice mail, which assured me of a call back within five minutes.... An hour later I called the tow company again, apparently so that I could enjoy again the soothing strains of the voice mail’s five minute promise.

My first thought upon receiving the voice mail’s reprise was, I’m not supposed to have the car towed; it’s only the battery, which we will be able to replace on our own. [TRANSLATION: It’s a God thing.]

Well, the towing people never called, and I never sought other options – I think because my spirit was so convinced of the God-thing thing – so nothing happened until Shari returned home from her day’s overtime hours. We scurried over to my car, discovered it to have no more pulse than four hours earlier, then trekked down the avenue a bit to an auto parts store, which sold me a battery and even provided loaner tools to complete the replacement. We were back home, two working vehicles in the garage, within an hour of when we left the house.

Now that’s was a God thing. Clear. Unmistakable. Not debatable.

But it wasn’t just one God thing; it was two. The first was that my battery died in a safe place, not far from home, my sister-in-law’s kindness, or the auto parts store. The second was that it came on the same day and in the middle of the original post’s storm clouds of doubt and hesitation about our congregation. God worked multiple magic in my life today.

I’d ask why can’t all God things be this obvious, but I fear what would have to break down in order for me to get the answer!

Pray with me:
You are good, God. I’m not, at least very often, but you are. And for that, at least until my next season of doubt, I praise you. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

Broken Promised Lands?

2007-07-03T18:23:00.001-06:00

I think I had a God moment on Sunday.

I’m preaching a sermon series on change – our congregation’s need for and resistance to it. While the first two parts of the series laid out the need and some symptoms of resistance, Sunday’s third part took the series’ first dig into the teaching of Scripture, focusing on the complaints and criticism of change voiced by the Israelites on their way out of Egypt to the Promised Land.

The sermon’s invitation was for those who, in spite of their personal attitudes and ambiguities toward change, wanted our church to reach the Promised Land God intends for us. In the first 30-45 seconds of the song that followed the sermon, there was no movement in the pews. Then quickly the ice broke, and out of the corner of my eye I saw people from all over the room moving forward, a higher percentage of the room on the march than my sermons ever generate. (Some Sundays, I swear my invitation to stand while we sing sparks interest in only half the room!)

The small throng of us gathered at the front of the worship center held hands and prayed that something genuine was happening, that God’s spirit was the instigator in the incident of which we were clearly a part. The prayer ended, people moved back to their seats, worship continued to its close, and all of us – those who came forward and those who did not – walked out of the church building, into the rest of our Sundays.

Later in the day it occurred to me that something important may have happened during our worship. So many people, some with tearful eyes, responding to a call for change in our church, a congregation steeped – “mired” might be the better word – in its past. Over the next 24 hours I heard from others who had been in the room Sunday morning. They, too, reported the germination of serious hope as a result of whatever had happened.

For several years we have been pursuing a change agenda; as Sunday languished in its final hours, I wondered whether the worship experience had dislodged us from an ice jam?... Or, had the congregation merely been giddy that the changes in our worship service that had taken effect that day were actually going to cut the length of our worship by the advertised 10-15 minutes?

It’s the question of exactly what did happen that intrigues me, and upon which I invite your reflection. Some of us are interpreting Sunday’s experience as a “God thing,” a presentation of the holy in our midst. But was it? What qualifies as a “God thing”? When does an “everyday thing” transform into its godly cousin?

I ask, because in my spiritual journey numerous have been the occasions when I believed God was intervening in my/our congregation’s situation, when God was acting purposefully on my/our behalf or for my/our best interests. It was a feeling I had, a hunch that possessed me, an intuitive surmise that the current course of events was no coincidence, no happenstance encounter with good fortune. I believed God was leading me/us out of our exile. That is, I was having a God thing.... But it didn’t turn out that way. What I thought were good leads, led to murky dead (or dying) ends. What I perceived as divinely inspired paths to destiny, destined me/us to fates and frustrations not much different from, and obviously not much better than the status quo. What I thought were “God things” were...not.

....Or maybe they were.

I hope I am confusing you, because if I am, then I am making myself clear. There are moments when I know I am in the midst of a God thing...and it turns out I am right. There are other times when I know I am in the midst of a God thing...and it turns out I am wrong, at least apparently. How and when do you know the difference? By what criteria do you discern whether God’s is the hand stirring your life’s cauldron?

I am not certain of the answer, but I do know these are some of the issues that fueled a fog over my Sunday enthusiasm. It’s not that I didn’t appreciate the moment, nor that I thought it insignificant that so large a proportion of the worship group came forward to pray, but that I was not sure where it all fit in to our larger, longer journey toward our promised land.

There’s a moment in the Old Testament book of Jeremiah when God says this to the residents of Judah, then on the way to exile in Babylon:

“The truth is that you will be in Babylon for seventy years. But then I will come and do for you all the good things I have promised, and I will bring you home again. For I know the plans I have for you,” says the Lord. “They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope. In those days when you pray, I will listen. If you look for me in earnest, you will find me when you seek me. I will be found by you,” says the Lord. “I will end your captivity and restore your fortunes. I will gather you out of the nations where I sent you and bring you home again to your own land.”

How about this? My problem is I don’t know how many of my seventy years have passed.

How about your count of yours? Think about it and let us know. I’d love to receive your response to these issues.

Let Us Pray:
God, you’re alive, you’re working, you’re engaged in our lives. We will grant you those, now grant us more. Tell us, show us, demonstrate to us that exiles end, seventy years time frames don’t last forever, and your things can still be our things. We await your help to direct our paths to the promised lands you have in store for us. We look forward to your hand’s guidance and your grace’s provision until we get where you’re leading. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

A Hole-y Life

2007-07-01T20:46:00.001-06:00

In the last two weeks technology has betrayed me, abandoned me, laughed at me, and enjoyed the senseless tirades with which I responded to its rebellion.

By now I am so beleaguered, I won’t get the sequence correct, but I believe the first act of aggression was my PDA — one of those handheld computers people use to organize, communicate, and entertain. I’d been experiencing intermittent problems for several months, but one night, during an attempt to backup the unit’s data, its screen went black and stayed black. All recovery methods failed, prompting me to search Ebay for a replacement.

Next came the laser printer at the church office. The task was simply to print some mailing labels for the newsletter we were preparing for the post office. The first page of the labels printed without issue until its final two rows, upon encounter with which the printer made a horrifying screech, produced two rows of solid black rectangles, and then unceremoniously shut down, two onboard dummy lights the only visible sign of distress.

Next was our newly-installed satellite television system. So smart I thought I was to recommend to my household that we switch from cable, whose rates had increased four times in the last sixteen months. Though I don’t yet question my suggestion, the morning one of the four TVs we have connected to the system refused to work, my best efforts online and on-hold with tech support not withstanding, had me shaking my head...and nudging a few middle fingers.

This morning in worship the issue was our projection software, the application we use to beam worship visuals, Scripture verses, and song lyrics to the congregation on a large screen. In the middle of my sermon I heard a ping, one you may occasionally have heard from your Windows PC, depending on your setup. To hear any sound at that moment of worship was unexpected and most likely bad news. Sure enough, the worship software had frozen. Dead. Useless. New worship center wallpaper. Our only recourse was to reboot the computer while I proceeded with my message, reading a referenced Bible text, not from the screen, but from, of all things, an actual Bible. It was quite the scene, watching Shari return to the software and then catch up with me in the sermon slides.

You have no cause or intention to care about the arcane minutiae of my recent techno pratfalls, but I share it with you to season your receipt of this piece’s core observation about what we hold on to.

I am a techie, a geek, a gadget freak. I like most anything that glows or goes when pushed, prodded, or powered on. I depend on my gadgets – personal, portable, owned, or borrowed – to inform, delight, and occupy me. Without them I am not on my game, in fact, I'm not sure I have a game without them.

* When the PDA expired, so did I, at least until I recovered from the shock.

* When the “dish” died, it was like our household had lost a quarter of its nine lives.

* And don’t get me started with reading Scripture from an actual Bible!

None of these failures was permanent; in time I discovered costless workarounds for all of them. But the experiences reminded me how fragile are our dependencies. We connect lifelines, expectations, and future plans to people and possessions that don’t always, can’t always meet them. (God, the horrors were I required to pay bills by check through the mail!) What’s worse, most of us have inadequate backup systems, so that, when failures occur, we’re in a mess.

Some years ago one of the church vitality gurus I appreciate used the astrophysics concept of a “wormhole” to describe the present age. Wormholes are theoretical points of rapid transit from one time/space of the universe to another. The church vitality expert said life is changing so fast in the modern era that it’s like we’re in a wormhole. And in the wormhole, only one thing is sure not to change: Jesus. Hold on to no-thing, no one else, because no-thing, no one else is guaranteed to get through unchanged.

What do you hold on to? On what do you depend with an expectation that it will always be there, just as you need it, whenever you need it? Your health? Your financial holdings? Your family? Tomorrow morning’s alarm?

I am not about to surrender my tech connections, but the failures described at this piece’s beginning have served sufficient notice that I need more effective backup measures. I don’t know what’s been swirling around you lately, but chances are the notice thereby served to you is not much different.

We live in a wormhole. It’s good and helpful for us to hold onto each other, but let’s make sure we have our free hands raised and secured.

Pray with me:
In ways I can’t describe and only you can know, you pulled me through another day today, God. Thank you. Today felt different from yesterday. Chances are, tomorrow will feel different still. Disabuse me of temporary, ineffective security blankets. Make clear to me the path and the connection to your Son, the only one guaranteed not to give up, give in, or fail on me. May he always be my dependency, as I live and pray in his name, Amen.

Out of Gas

2007-06-06T23:52:00.000-06:00

In search of gas for our lawnmower, the other day our gas can and I took a walk to a convenience store/gas station up the street a few blocks. When I reached the pumps, I noticed but paid no attention to handwritten signs taped to their fronts. Following the usual regimen of a credit card swipe and receipt preference selection, I engaged the pump’s cheapest (CORRECTION: least outrageously expensive) blend. Nothing.

I then actually read the sign on the pump’s face, from which I learned that the station had run out of unleaded and premium gas (that would be the least and most outrageously expensive blends). Ever quick on processes of elimination, I deduced there was one choice left for me and my can. Unfazed by the prospect of spending an extra dime a gallon, I pushed the mid-grade button then pulled the trigger. Again, nothing.

I reread the signs – no unleaded or premium – then moved toward the store’s entrance, where I was greeted by an exiting employee, she with more hand-drafted signs in tow.

“Are you out of all gas?” I asked, hoping soon to wake up on the well irony-ed sheets of this farcical moment.

“Yeah, it looks like we are. We thought we had the mid-grade stuff, but it doesn’t look like we do,” was the employee’s authoritative reply.

“Do you expect to get gas anytime soon?” I continued, by now working hard to contain my derision and salvage my excursion’s mission.

“Well, we hope so. We called them, but we never know when they’ll come by,” she said, sounding little like the take-charge leader types I expect to find behind convenience store cash registers.

Some creative four letter commentary punctuated my return home, after which I discovered that the gas outage was a contained phenomenon, as I filled our gas can at another station in the neighborhood.

How does a gas station run out of gas?

A few years ago, when I was not nearly as health conscious as I am today, I drove through a Burger King drive thru for lunch. I ordered a Whopper, or a double cheeseburger, or something in the beef section of the restaurant’s menu.

“We’re out of hamburger right now,” said the would-be server.

“You’re out of hamburger?” I asked, thinking the drive thru’s speaker was seriously distorting the worker’s words.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Do you expect to get any hamburger in any time soon,” I continued, not knowing that one day I would put an analogous question to a convenience store worker.

“Well, we have some on order, but we don’t know when it will get here,” she explained.

I drove away from the Burger King without my Whopper, muttering respect for Clara Peller, of the infamous 1980's Wendy’s commercial, who asked “Where’s the beef?” but apparently never found it.

How does a hamburger restaurant run out of hamburger?

There are lots of people who will visit churches in a few days looking for spiritual hope, sustenance, and connection. Perhaps the word “church” on the congregations’ main signs will prompt expectations of success; perhaps recommendations from friends or family, maybe a dusted-off childhood memory of the church’s prominence and potential, or a desire to learn more about some guy named Jesus will create optimism as those folks gather with the churches they visit.

I wonder how many of those spiritual travelers will drive away asking, “How does a group of Christians run out of Jesus?"

Pray with me:
Help me be a clear reflection of Jesus, God. No questions. No hastily written excuses. He is my Lord, or so I say. May no one cross my path in worship this weekend having to ask whether I have run out of the one in whose name I pray, Amen.

Something Different This Way Comes

2007-06-03T00:18:00.001-06:00

My current vacation has not distracted me from my spiritual practice of daily Bible reading. I am at the moment five days into my least favorite book, Old Testament or New, Leviticus.

What a challenge. Rules for sacrifices of all sorts. Detailed prescriptions for various offerings (make sure you rub the goat’s blood on the right big toe, not the left!). Minutiae regarding women’s menstruation. Tips for distinguishing between leprosy and other skin infections (Hint: Black hairs in the afflicted area, good; yellow hairs in the afflicted area, not good). As I said, what a challenge.

Most of us modern faithfuls have little use for this kind of legislative Scripture. Rules of such specificity have minimal application in a world fundamentally transformed by medical, technological, and social progress.

We don’t want to know the process by which people were declared “ceremonially unclean.” We aren’t impressed, and in fact, are a bit miffed by the exclusion from the Israelite community of people with illnesses not of their own creation. We don’t benefit from detailed recipes for sacrifices no longer practiced. In sum, we’re hard pressed to discern why Leviticus matters to 21st century humanity. . . . More personally, I rejoice that on Thursday I will move on to the scintillation of “Numbers.”

Just when my reactive boredom persuades me to consider striking Leviticus from my spiritual practice’s reading list, the word “holy” makes one of its 77 appearances, none more penetrating than this, found in the eleventh chapter:

“ I, the Lord, am the one who brought you up from the land of Egypt to be your God. You must therefore be holy because I am holy.”

The book’s obsessive-compulsion with ritual and cleanliness and hygiene is explained in a single word: holy. Israel must be different – “set apart” is a phrase oft-employed – from other nations. Any people chosen to represent a holy God must themselves be holy. Any community daring to define itself as God’s light to the world must shine so that others will notice its glow. The rules, the ceremonies, the details in Leviticus are of little practical consequence for us, but the divine demand for holiness is a spiritual necessity.

For the last several years I have experienced a burgeoning passion about good, right, holy living. Not perfection, mind you, but holiness – different from the rest. There is right and wrong (though we probably disagree as to what they are!). What we say, how we respond to need, want, and inclination all matter.

** If the Joneses are bad role models, don’t keep up with them.

** If a course of action is wrong/immoral/inappropriate, regardless of its potential benefits don’t pursue it.

** Worship’s seeming decline as a spiritual practice in our culture is not a permission slip for followers of Jesus to abandon Sunday morning praise.

** Among lies, neither size nor color matters (“a little white...”).

** Whether we hold the door open for the person coming behind us, whether we tolerate racial, gender, or sexual orientation intolerance even a single appearance, whether we’re authentic reflections of Jesus to our world in the next thirty minutes – not just the next time we’re otherwise unencumbered – matters.

It all matters. . . because God is holy and expects holiness from us. God expects you and me to live differently than the surrounding throngs.

Not “asks for”
Not “wishes for”
Not “humbly requests”

Expects. Demands.

Leviticus is an insufferable read, until we hear its central siren: God has made you different. Live that way.

Four more days to finish the book. A lifetime to prove I understood what I read.

Pray with Me:
God, you believe in me more than I believe in myself, which is one component in your demand of more from me than I often offer. Keep after me. Be intolerant of my excuses. Be encouraging of my efforts. Be gracious through it all. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

Summer School: Accounting 101

2007-05-28T12:13:00.002-06:00

My beloved Yankees have a problem: They suck.

Mired in fourth place in their division, six games below .500 (which is not good, in case you don’t follow win-loss records), and recipients of boos and catcalls from the hometown fans, the Bronx Bombers this season have done little well, and that which they have done well, they have not done consistently. They’re a team with a payroll perhaps three times the average of all other Major League Baseball franchises, but with a performance level that would be hard-pressed to win a seed in the NCCA’s College World Series.

I moan about my team’s horrors in order to applaud its response to them.

* The general manager says, From ownership I asked for and received complete control of the team. We’re not producing, so it’s on me.
* The manager says, Don’t blame the general manager only. He and I put this team together. I accept as much responsibility as anyone.
* Players say, Don’t blame the manager or the front office. We’re the ones on the field. We’re the people swinging and missing, pitching and giving up runs.

* The owner, George Steinbrenner, says, The players, manager, and general manager are all correct; blame them.... Oh well, can’t have everything.

While I am frustrated with my team’s performance, I admire their implementation of accountability, their willingness to accept responsibility for their actions. To be accountable doesn’t mean being a sacrificial lamb, but it does mean owning your place and its consequences in the world, it means you recognize that what you do and say matters. The Yanks are doing that...and precious little else.

Accountability is a challenge in our society. It’s hard to get people to accept responsibility for their actions when prevailing social standards permit and expect dismissal of failures as a products of bad childhoods, physical disrepair, or other personal trauma. It’s not that outside agents don’t affect us, but rather that we lose core independence and individuality when we cede final say over to them. An accountable life acknowledges but also owns its contributing influences; an unaccountable life surrenders to them.

What does an accountable Christian life look like? Spiritual honesty enforced by practical action. When’s the last time you did a thorough spiritual audit? When’s the last time you examined your heart, your relationship with God, your connection to Jesus, with something resembling objective dispassion? When’s the last time you accounted for all aspects of your spiritual life, both healthy and unhealthy?

Make it harder: When’s the last time you made such an accounting to another person? Perhaps your significant other, but just as acceptable, to a spiritual friend? When’s the last time you acknowledged to another person the failures (and successes) of your faith walk?

Our general board has created an accountability group, people who have agreed to make changes in their actions in and attitudes about our congregation. We meet monthly to ask each other a simple question: You said you were going to (whatever). How are you doing with that? Because we know each other well, the question produces honest, if at times uncomfortable, disclosures. An accountable Christian life requires spiritual honesty, which is much more likely if we have one or more accountability partners.

Such mechanics are important, but what matters more than anything is a confessional heart, a decision to accept responsibility for our lives. Are you there yet? When you survey the terrain of your life, do you see destruction of your own creation, or rather the ravages of invading marauders? Do you see damage you can repair, because you’re the one who inflicted it? Or brokenness you can only mourn, not mend?

Personally, I probably talk a better brand of accountability than I live. Though I am moving in the right direction, I suspect there are many wounds in my life for which I have blamed mere accessories, when in fact I was the principal culprit. In the couple of weeks I of vacation that began for me today, I expect to take a pretty intense personal inventory.

I started this piece talking about my beloved Yankees. I close talking about my own journey. Substitute your own team/interest and your personal story, then when you discover something, tell somebody.

You and I have a lot to account for.

Pray with me:
God, hold me close, but also hold me responsible. Don’t let me excuse myself, but also don’t let me harass myself. Lead me to relationships of consequence, relationships of honesty and accountability. Let me be for someone else the honest, gracious, Jesus-like source of truth and hope that I myself seek. In the name of Jesus I pray, Amen.

On the Dotted (and Disappearing) Line

2007-05-26T13:54:00.000-06:00

I discovered the other day yet another reason I will never be president of the United States: I can’t sign my name the same way twice.

Presidents have to be able to do that, don’t they? To communicate continuity and consistency in their administration. To assure the world that though all hell may break loose, it can count on at least the president’s signature (if not his or her policies!) to remain constant.

Imagine the confusion were we familiar with two or three other John Hancocks from... John Hancock. We have come to rely on the flair, panache, and elegance with which he identified himself on paper. When we see his signature, we know instantly who he is and why he matters. Consistent. Predictable.

Presidents need those virtues. Whether for legislation renaming little-used highways, or bills authorizing government spending for the next fiscal year, an expected and identifiable signature reflects stability and congruity... which I can’t offer.

We’re sending out a letter to our congregation next week. My task was simply to add a “Bill” to the bottom of each copy. With each passing page, I grew increasingly amused and entertained by my inability to produce consecutive identical signatures. Okay, that’s an unrealistic standard, I suppose, but I couldn’t even produce pages that were each arguably “Bill”! It became a game to see whether any two of the signatures bore sufficient similarity to convince an independent observer that the same person had signed each.

So, I don’t expect to become president.... Well, I suppose I could become president, then allow someone else to sign for me, or use digital techniques to implant identical images on the required paperwork – that is, I could fake it – but that doesn’t sound very presidential.

This signature silliness got me to thinking about the consistency of my faith life, whether on any two consecutive occasions (or, more generously, any two consecutive days) I demonstrate anything close to a consistent image of the Jesus I claim. Am I able/willing to be as much a vessel for his presence today as I was yesterday, or last month, or whenever I last was able/willing to do so? Or is my faithfulness as unpredictable as my signature? Are there days when it’s not at all clear to an objective observer that I have any lord other than myself?

Of course, I could say I'm a Christian, but then fake it - allow others to cover for me, to excuse and accept my failings - but that doesn't seem very Jesus-like.

No, I have to face this. If in my world, signature inconsistency bars me from presidential consideration, what is the result of unpredictable faithfulness?

Each of us has to answer for ourselves, of course, but I will tell you what I have figured out: Grace may be defined as “unmerited favor,” but in light of my spiritual weaknesses, grace is more practically defined as the guarantee of a known, pre-approved co-signer on my life’s paperwork. Even when I don’t qualify as the follower I claim to be, grace vouches for me, and initials the slip extending God’s contract. Without grace, left to the limitations of my own ways, my worries would be far greater than a foiled presidential bid.

When you have a moment, think back on your life. How does your life’s signature in today’s calm (or tempest), compare with that from last year’s storm (or contentment)? Do you need grace, too?

Pray with me:
The hymn lyrics are “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound,” God. I say, amazing grace, how sweet the look, for even in my most distracted, depleted, or disinterested states, you restore me, you make my heart look like Jesus again. May I never tire of singing or pursuing your grace. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

Watch Out!

2007-05-08T00:24:00.000-06:00

If I had money, I would buy watches – several different watches – so I could wear a different one every couple of weeks. In fact, I might buy “genuine replica” watches, to enhance the look, if not the value, of my chronological portfolio.

“Genuine replica” is a watch genre I discovered tonight during a Web search. They are time pieces made to look like, but not cost like expensive brands such as Rolex. What makes them “genuine” replicas (isn’t that phrase a hoot!!) is the quality of the fakery employed in their creation. The design, nameplate, and color scheme accurately reflect what I guess you’d call the “genuine original.”

The advantage of “genuine replica” watches is that owners get the look, feel, and passerby gawks of the real thing, with only a modest investment. For example, you can get a “genuine replica” Rolex Daytona Cosmograph for $159. That’s still a chunk of change, but it’s quite a discount from the original’s $18,000 list price.

Not satisfied? How about a “genuine replica” Rolex Masterpiece – retail value: $80,000 – for just $329?

If I had money, I’d buy several different watches.... But probably not “genuine replicas;” they’re a bit too illegal for my tastes.

I go through seasons in my life when I feel like a genuine replica Christian. I say the right things. I perform the requisite duties. I read the Bible. I speak the prayers. I offer the worship. I throw my tithe in passing offering plates. From all appearances, to the oohs, ahs, and gawks of onlookers, I am a genuine follower of Jesus.

But I know differently. As its owner and manufacturer I know the deception, the fakery, the misdirection my apparent faithfulness employs. I know what’s beneath the surface. I know how to look and sound like one authentically connected. I know when I am going through the motions, when my words and actions, impressive to untrained observers, are feckless shell games whose ultimate objective is to avoid responsibility or accountability.

I assume you go through, or at least are capable of times like these. Whom do you think we’re trying to fool? Others? Ourselves? God? Perhaps it’s that we have little else to offer. Perhaps our bargain with Jesus is, “Lord, these have been hard weeks; if I had more I would give you more. But for now I need you to accept what the little I offer without too many questions. And for goodness’ sake, don’t send people into my path who will call attention to my game playing. Just be patient with me. I’m sure things will turn around. And if they don’t, well, look at all the good I’m doing, even if my heart’s not into it.”

Imagine a room of people wearing fake Rolexes. Impressing each other. Patting each other on the back for the quality and believability of their misdirection. All satisfied that they had achieved notoriety without sacrifice, high class without high effort. That’s what a church of genuine replica Christians is like. People who celebrate personal achievements, appreciate each other’s appearances, but who have forged their reputations.

Rolex sues sellers of fake watches (which are garbage, beneath the glitzy shells, by the way). I wonder how God responds to faked faith?

Pray with me:
I know it’s not enough to claim the name, God. It’s not enough to have the arms and legs and mouth acting right. I need to have the heart beating with your rhythms. Some days, some seasons I don’t, but at least I am aware when they come. Bless my efforts to shorten those seasons and end those days. I don’t want to be like Jesus, if that means "imitating" him. I want him to live through me...at least that’s my conviction in this brief moment of authenticity as I pray in his name, Amen.

Through the Looking Glass...Barely

2007-05-02T00:21:00.000-06:00

During a hospital visit today I had a moment to look at someone other than myself in a mirror. An odd experience it was, because I had never seen this particular person’s reflected image; I had always seen her the way everyone sees her.

Her mirrored image was very different from the one to which I had become accustomed. Of course everything was reversed, but it was more than that. She didn’t look anything like the person I have known for nearly all my years in the Quad Cities.

Later it occurred to me that for that brief instant I was seeing this person the way she sees herself every time she looks in a mirror; I was seeing her through her eyes, not my own. And the view was quite different. Not different bad, or different good...just different.

The experience prompted me to wonder how differently people see me than I see myself. Is everything for the people who view my life reversed, or at least significantly different from my perspective? Does the person I think I am vary that much from the person others’ experiences?

I ask these questions not to extrude your evaluations of my situation, but rather to request your reflections on your own. What’s your sense of how closely your self-awareness parallels others’ perceptions? Do others receive you the same way you receive yourself? I understand if you don’t care what others think — most of the time I don’t either — but for a moment humor my curiosity.

I don’t think this is a question of whose perception is accurate. Nor am I suggesting that you and I undergo some kind of therapeutic intervention for our distorted views. It’s just that we live basically bottled up in our minds, spirits, and bodies. We have first hand experience of ourselves and the world only through personal senses. Our onlookers – those who receive, review, and evaluate us – similarly have only their own lenses through which to view us. We might be surprised (and aided) if we lived more aware of and open to our respective perspectives and limitations.

That word limitations is important. The person I saw in the mirror today also saw me...in the mirror. For once she saw me the way I see myself. At last word, she has survived the encounter.

Pray with me:
Help me see myself the way you see me. Let me be sensitive to others’ views, but not enslaved to them. Help me grow from the truth you offer to me from others. Shape me into a beacon of light, hope, and honesty to others. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

Darkness in Blacksburg

2007-04-17T19:25:00.000-06:00

Note: This piece is the article I am publishing in our church newsletter this week. I thought I would write a separate piece for the Express, but this one says what I want to say, so creativity is not needed. I covet your response to my thoughts, if you so choose, but more, I hope you will address the larger issues the tragedy in Blacksburg, Virginia raises. I'm not trying to start a petition, but rather a conversation. Use the Comments link below this post to participate.

The shootings on the Virginia Tech University campus have shaken both a community and a nation. How to explain the conduct of a solitary student who apparently used two handguns to take 33 lives, including his own.

It was methodical murder. It was planned, albeit small-scale, genocide.

Already, the psychological and sociological pundits are already in action. The alleged shooter was a loner, isolated from healthy relationships. His disturbing creative writing had prompted school representatives to recommend counseling to him, an invitation he apparently declined.

While I am predictably curious about the demons with which he may have wrestled, in this case my passion burns less for the criminal and more for his weapons.

I say “his” weapons; that’s imprecise. I should write “our” weapons, because as a society we have decided people need the freedom to own the kind of guns he used. The result? 33 dead in Blacksburg.

Why do we allow people to own handguns, weapons whose principal use is to threaten, injure, or kill people? Why do we permit access to such dangerous instruments to anyone other than military and law enforcement people?

Many gun rights supporters point to our constitution’s second amendment, and its “right to bear arms” provision. Indeed, a recent federal court ruling raised serious questions about the constitutionality of all gun control legislation, a ruling based primarily on an interpretation of that amendment.

Well, then why don’t we let people own machine or artillery guns? Why not a bazooka or an AK-47 in every home? Because we have decided there are limits even to constitutional rights, we have concluded that machine guns are too dangerous for widespread distribution. It’s time to decide handguns are too dangerous, too.

In case you care, I don’t want to ban hunting rifles or trap shooting weapons. I just want handguns out of circulation. I want anyone caught in possession of a handgun sentenced to serve at least five years in prison, regardless of whether they used the weapon for any other crime. And I want gun manufacturing, distribution, and importation strictly regulated.

More red tape? Yes. A new black market? Yes. Would it even work? I don’t know. But in 2005, 70% of the 16,000+ murders in the U.S. were committed with firearms; of those firearm-related deaths, nearly 80% came specifically from handguns. We need to do something.

Don’t tell me guns don’t kill people; people kill people; that’s a smokescreen. Had you been among the dozens in those besieged Virginia Tech classrooms, which would you rather have faced: An assailant carrying a bowie knife, or one with an automatic weapon backed by lots of ammo? Can anyone seriously believe 33 people would be dead today had the shooter not had access to handguns, had we not decided he had the "right" to bear those arms?

Pray with me:
God of everyday miracles, we need one now. Heal families. Mend a community. Restore hope. Raise 33 of your children to new life. Grant us wisdom and courage for the facing of this hour. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

A HOLY WEEK: Day Seven

2007-04-07T21:45:00.000-06:00

So it comes down to this. The resurrection is at hand. The tomb’s stone is on the move.

I don’t know what kind of week this has been. It was intense, but at times for the wrong reasons. It was faithful, at least when I was focused. It was satisfying, particularly when I was in worship.

But there was always some task to complete, some appointment to keep, some schedule to uphold, some worship to engage in. There was always something.

Perhaps that’s part of the bargain for people deeply connected to a congregation’s ministry – you may have felt a similar pressure as the week’s faith journey unfolded for you – but I wish there was a better way.

Part of it is the concentration of events. Last Sunday’s palms triggered a spiritual avalanche. If Jesus had distributed the events that led him to the cross across a span of several months, we could more pleasingly pace our efforts.

Or even if there were only a bit more separation between events. For example, we could celebrate Easter sunrise on the Sunday in October when we move the clocks back an hour; that would be quite convenient. And who says Maundy Thursday must occur on a Thursday? Why not place it at the end of a regular Sunday morning worship? More people would participate. Churches would likely save on electric bills in that they wouldn’t be turning on lights for an otherwise inactive weekday evening.

I have lots of time, energy, and exhaustion saving ideas, if only the now-raised Jesus will listen to them. Chances are, however, he will repeat his teaching regarding people who try to save their lives losing them, and those who lose their lives for his sake (and apparently not their own sakes) saving them. More to the point of this weekend, Jesus will also kindly, lovingly ask me who is Lord. And then I will shut up... and worship.

Praise God! Glory be to God! Jesus is our risen Lord, and because of that, this has truly been a holy week.

A blessed encounter with the risen one to you and yours.

Pray with me:
You have saved me, God. Thank you. I was lost. I was alone. I was undeserving. I was on the handle end of the hammer that drove the nails into his hands. Yet, you saved me. As Jesus rises to new life, take me with him. Through him, draw me deeper and closer to you. In the name of the risen one, Amen.

A HOLY WEEK: Day Six

2007-04-06T16:41:00.000-06:00

It’s Friday of this Holy Week. This is the day Jesus dies. No more meals. No more garden moments. No more trials or administrative hoops. Today he dies.

As I drove home from church this afternoon to make final preparations for our community worship observing his death tonight, I didn’t notice anything special. No cars were pulled to the side of a road in shows of respect. No school children were grouped on street corners, heads down in prayerful remembrance of the sacrifice he made. No church bells rang to notify the community of the monumental occasion.

Seemed like any other day.

In November each year, people understandably make a big deal out of the Kennedy assassination anniversary.
In April, people rightly recall the horrible day Martin Luther King was killed.
In June, Bobby Kennedy’s death gets attention.

But today, Jesus’ death didn’t stir much interest.

Of course, the people for whom those assassinations make the most noise are those who were there when the events occurred. I was only six when JFK traveled to Dallas, yet I remember vividly the classroom speaker buzzing with an announcement of the tragedy, and my teacher’s tearful response. If you were old enough to be aware, then you no doubt remember their impacts.

Maybe that’s it, then. For Jesus’ death to pack a punch perhaps you have to have been there...or have to be there, now.

We’re using an old hymn as a recurring component in our community worship tonight. The hymn is “Were You There” (...when they crucified my Lord?). I may change the words as I sing:

Are you there?...

Pray with me:
If I am not there right now, lead me there (or pull, drag, cajole, or coerce me) as you need, for I need to be there as Jesus dies for me. If I’m not, then I am an impartial observer, a dispassionate historian. I want, I need to be more than that. In the name of Jesus, of whose death I am a witness, Amen.

A HOLY WEEK: Day Five

2007-04-06T09:16:00.000-06:00

(As this week advances, I show more and more disregard for the commitment I originally made to post each day by the early to mid evening. It’s mid-morning Friday as I post this reflection about Thursday. Good job, Coley.)

Last night’s worship at our church focused on the night Jesus gathered with his closest followers to institute what today we call communion or the Lord’s Supper. It’s another of the traditional worship experiences (officially known as “Maundy Thursday”) that draws less and less interest with the passing of generations. Last night’s worshipers numbered twelve. Which was a convenient number, if you think about it, in as much as that’s how many started out with Jesus in the upper room, the night before he died.

So the inevitable question was, which one of us will be like Judas? Which one of us will leave church tonight to betray Jesus? Which one of us will be like Peter – another of the twelve – who three times under pressure denied even knowing Jesus? How many of us will be like the original followers, people who deserted their Lord at his time of need?

Those are hard questions to answer, or at least to want to answer, because to do so means I have to confess, I have to say, “Me,” before accusing anyone else.

How many people in the room will fail today? I will.
How many people will in some form or fashion deny Jesus today? I will.
How many people will run away from their faith today? I will.

Because I don’t know your heart as well as I know my own. Because my behavior is an easier target than yours. Because I have no business looking around the room to finger co-conspirators before I acknowledge my role in the plot.

I figure the original last supper was a very personal experience. Jesus all but shined a spotlight of accusation on Judas. He predicted Peter’s denial right to the man’s face. It must have been with a searing gaze that Jesus looked into each of his disciples that night.

And what about you, Bill? I don’t want to hear about all those other people. Tell me about you. What are you going to do?

Most of the time Christians remember the last supper as an event in Jesus’ life, which, of course, it was. But it was and continues to be also a very intimate and revelatory experience for us who claim Jesus’ name. Anyone who dares sit with Jesus as he prepares for the cross is subject to that peering stare, those confession-seeking questions. Anyone who eats that meal with Jesus will be asked, What about you?

Maybe that explains why fewer and fewer people participate in Maundy Thursday worship. Perhaps that’s why I’m thinking about proposing we do away with that worship in our church.

Pray with me:
The passion grows. The intensity deepens. The questions grow harder and harder. Jesus wants me to stay awake while he prepares to die for me. Help me do at least that. If you don’t, I will run away, or deny, or betray, or all of the above. This is a hard week, God. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

A HOLY WEEK: Day Four

2007-04-04T23:10:00.000-06:00

Seems I can’t get around to writing these entries during the day, when I said I would.

I can just imagine the conversation with Jesus:

- - - -
Me: Hey, Jesus. How’s it going?

Jesus: What?

Me: Oh, I guess that’s a bad question this week, isn’t it?

Jesus: Yeah. What about you? How’s it going for you?

Me: Oh, pretty good. Busy. Real busy. Scurrying here and there trying to get things done for Sunday.

Jesus: Sunday, you say. What’s happening Sunday?

Me: Well, it’s Easter, the day you..... Oh, well, we mustn’t get ahead of ourselves. Sorry about that, Jesus.... So...tell me, gotta any big plans for the weekend?.... Oh, wait. Scrap that question. Just forget I asked it. I really feel stupid.

Jesus: You need to slow down. Want to go to the garden with me tomorrow night. Quite peaceful there.

Me: Well...I...wouldn’t want to disturb your quiet time. And anyway, we’ve got worship at our church. You know, Maundy Thursday.

Jesus: Oh, right. I never much cared for that name. Nobody knows what it means.

Me: Or cares! Hee-Hee.... I mean, you’re right, Jesus. It’s a hard word.

Jesus: So are you ready for this?

Me: I plan to be.

Jesus: You plan your spirituality?

Me: Well, I have to; you know, when you’re really busy, and all.

Jesus: I forgot. You’re the busy one. Tell you what. I’ll leave the invitation open. If you can tear yourself away from your plans, I’ll be in the garden. Come anytime. I’ll find you.

Me: Right kind of you, Jesus. I hope you have a good night....or a holy night, or...you know what I mean.
- - - - -

Yeah, I’m ready for this.

Pray with me:
I’m tying, Lord...sometimes, VERY trying. Don’t give up on me. I need to feel the cross and find the tomb, but not yet. Settle me (if you can!), I pray in the name of Jesus, Amen.

A HOLY WEEK: Day Three

2007-04-04T00:03:00.000-06:00

It’s late, really late for a day three reflection. Truth be told, it’s day four of this Holy Week as I write. But, there’s a reason.

Tuesday was a multi-tasking day. I flew solo in the church office, completed several necessary tasks, and finished work on another of the week’s worship experiences; but more important, I took time for myself. I had lunch with a couple of great people from our church, cooked dinner, went to Davenport, watched portions of the evening political talk shows that feed my partisan hungers, spent a grueling but satisfying hour on the treadmill, and gave Shari her nightly back rub. To top it off, I devoted almost no time to wondering what I could have accomplished had I used those several hours to prepare for the week’s events.

For Jesus, I imagine the third day in Jerusalem had to include some personal time. The Gospels report his penchant for quiet time alone; by day three of his journey to the cross, he must have needed a bunch of it. And in his away moments, when he wasn’t healing, teaching, scolding, or mentoring people, I bet he didn’t worry about how he could have been steeling himself against the rest of the week.

Not for a moment do I compare the itinerary of my small life with Jesus’ preparation for the cross, but I may have at least stumbled upon a valuable lesson from his example: In the face of stress and expectation, in the company of dread or obligation, however large or unmanageable the burdens of your life, be sure to get away. Whether for five minutes or five hours doesn’t matter, just get away. Be yourself. Live your life. Tend to your roots.

Firmly planted in those roots for Jesus was the conviction that the week ahead of him, while spiraling out of his earthly hands, would never leave God’s. Jesus knew he didn’t have to prepare for his destiny, but rather surrender himself to it. God would provide.

What’s on tap for you the rest of this week? Or later this month or year? Big things? Large responsibilities? Potential failures? Do what you have to do, but also make sure you get away. The one who accompanied Jesus on day three in Jerusalem will be there when you get back...and wherever you are.

Pray with me:
The cross looms larger. Help me see it and feel it and prepare for it, without being owned and enslaved by it. That sounds tricky to me, but then again, that’s why I pray and you listen – not vice-versa. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

A HOLY WEEK: Day Two

2007-04-02T17:40:00.000-06:00

Today I think about how busy this week is.

Worship experiences to create. TV spots to write. Supplies to acquire. Events to execute. Responsibilities to manage. Expectations to satisfy.

So much to do.

Holy Week is so task oriented for me. This morning I created in my PDA a list of “must-do”s (which are very different from “to do”s, by the way, which are more easily delayed, rationalized, or rescheduled). Among the week’s “must do”s were time-, energy-, and imagination consuming activities for every day between now and Easter Sunday – outcomes whose failure to materialize would consequentially affect my and/or others’ experience of Holy Week.

Every now and then I get so full of myself as to believe that something I do – perhaps one thing I do – makes a difference. But that’s one thing per week (or month!). My goodness, this week’s “must do”s are a collection of better get it dones.

Then there’s the matter of the week itself. The people I work with put so much attention on this week (damned Christians!). If there’s a week in the year when the inspectors will be out in force and in the pews offering unsolicited reviews, this is it.

So much to do. So many things to accomplish. I measure the rise and fall of this week’s fortunes on the basis of what I do, how soon I do it, and whether those who partner with me in the week’s ministries similarly follow through on their commitments.

Most who read The Express aren’t religious professionals (you may pause now to count your blessings), but if for you Holy Week is an important spiritual journey, if you value worship on or in the special days leading to Easter Sunday, or if you’re just one of those infamous pew sitters who attend more than participate in the life of your congregation, chances are you have a lot of items on your calendar this week, too. Please know I feel your pain and share your stress.

And please also know that Jesus yet again gazes at us in amazement, wondering how you and I can be so caught up in what we “must do,” when our focus and passion this week, of all weeks, should be on what he must do.

Whatever else you’re doing right now, STOP! Raise your hand. Open your heart. And for the next thirty seconds – time for which you will receive neither reward nor recognition – keep your eyes on Jesus.

Whether you want to, need to, or have to, just do it. Now.

Pray with me:
God, keep me silent long enough to pay attention to the one who is about to do for me what I could never do for myself or anyone else, the one in whose name I now pray, Amen.

A HOLY WEEK: Day One

2007-04-01T16:20:00.000-06:00

Today the parade came to town. I heard lots of screams from adults and their children. Some people no doubt got caught up in the excitement of the occasion, more than they did the spiritual significance of God’s chosen one arriving for his date with a cross, but it was good of them to show.

Lots of Bible was heard. “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!” was the most common cry. I had heard that one before...for that matter, I had heard all of it before, many times before. I couldn’t know what was going on inside their hearts, so I can only presume they intended to mean what they said.

Lots of debris, too. Palm branches and coats covered the road. I didn’t stay long enough to know whether owners retrieved their street confetti additions, but at times they were piled in multiple layers, making an impressive display, if nothing else.

The star of the parade, of course, was Jesus; all eyes were on him today. Our particular parade piece identified the wonders and miracles he had performed over the years of his ministry. Easy to cheer such a prolific healer.

As noted earlier, I have been to this parade before, lots of times; for a “religious professional” such as myself, it’s kind of expected that I will be somewhere in the crowd. But no matter how many times I wave my palm branch and witness these proceedings, two observations remain true:

First, there is a powerful disconnect between today’s carnival and Friday’s cruelty, between today’s festivity and Friday’s finality. At every parade I am just short of dumbstruck that people so amiable and appreciative when Jesus came to town – pleading with him to save them now (which is what “hosanna” means), and calling him “King” and the one who comes in God’s name – would so quickly and completely turn on him by the end of the week, calling for his death rather than the criminal Barabbas’. What’s wrong with people?

Second, there’s a reason I know something about this parade and its hypocritical participants: I am one of them.... What’s wrong with me?

Pray with me:
God, the week has only begun, and I am already uncomfortable. I suppose that’s the point, but it’s not a fate I choose freely. Help me get through this day, then get me moving toward the confrontation of the soul – a cross-roads, you might call it – that I need to have. In the name of the one who came in your name, Amen.

The More Things Change. . .

2007-03-30T00:25:00.000-06:00

In our church office we’re sorting, reorganizing, and occasionally discarding the contents of various file cabinets, dusty, seldom-accessed storehouses of documents, most of which haven’t seen the light of review in years.

For me, what stole the show from our archaeological excavation was the modern relevance of many of the ancient papers:

* Letters to the congregation in several years back in the 1970's and 80's sounded alarms about current and expected financial troubles.
* A 1960's letter from their chairperson chided deacons for their lack of regular worship participation, which made frustratingly challenging the task of scheduling people to distribute Sunday morning communion elements.
* And minutes of a 1970's “worship commission” meeting reported that group’s lengthy and productive discussion about the minutia of said communion service, right down to when deacons were to come forward, stop, move, and reposition as the bread and cup made their way through the pews.

As I read these and other uncovered testaments to the church’s unflagging pursuit of repetition, I smiled, appreciated the company, but then realized how far we haven’t come. We’re still struggling with finances, with irregular church leader worship participation and a demon called micro-management. Jesus called us to go out and change the world; seems like we need to change ourselves first.

The writer of that majestic Old Testament treatise on pessimism called “Ecclesiastes” predicted our discoveries:

“History merely repeats itself. It has all been done before. Nothing under the sun is truly new. What can you point to that is new? How do you know it didn’t already exist long ago? We don’t remember what happened in those former times. And in future generations, no one will remember what we are doing now.”

Well, they will if you keep records in church office filing cabinets.

The truth is I provide my own variations on this cycle of dysfunction. My history-not-learned-from-and-hence-repeated is more personal than institutional, but it is no less indefensible. I still fret and worry over the kinds of things that disrupted my younger years. I question and doubt with the same kind of fury that frequented my past. My capacity to misjudge, mistake, miscalculate, and misunderstand rivals any on file in the Coley archives. On occasion I think I have come along way; other days remind me how limited is my immunity from allegations of recidivist behavior.

A group called Caedmon’s Call sings a song called “Thankful,” whose lyrics I thought of as we peered through the past revealed in our church office files:

You know I ran across an old box of letters
When I was bagging up some clothes for goodwill

But you know I had to laugh at the same old struggles
That plagued me then are plaguing me still

'Cause I know the road is long from the ground to glory
But a boy can hope he's getting some place

But you see I'm running from the very clothes I'm wearing
And dressed like this I'm fit for the chase

Is that ever your song?

This has become an early-morning ramble. Perhaps “Thankful”s chorus will take me home:

So I am thankful that I'm incapable of doing any good on my own, yeah
Said I'm so thankful that I'm incapable of doing any good on my own, yeah

Yeah, indeed.

Pray with me:
Thanks for grace, God. Without it, there would be no need for this prayer, and you would have no need for me. The cross closes in. Lead me, drag me there, if you have to. Show me, compel me to look as grace hangs there, grace every bit as fresh, as real, as needed today as it was then. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

This Does Not Compute

2007-03-21T20:48:00.000-06:00

The other day we received a computer catalog in the mail. Not a surprising event around our house, what with my appetite for tech reflected in several magazine subscriptions.

But this catalog was sent by a manufacturer from which we purchased a laptop for Shari just four months ago. Come to think of it, this catalog was the second catalog we have received from that manufacturer since our laptop purchase. Prior to that, we had never heard from them. We knew about them. We saw their ads on television and in magazines. But no contact...until after we bought.

I guess this is how they do things in the computer business. It was my purchase of a desktop PC from a different online retailer back in 1997 that put me on its mailing list for the first time. I loved browsing through the catalogs, but they never prompted a purchase.

I have little business sense, no doubt, but isn’t this odd timing? Wouldn’t it have made more sense for the first computer company to send us catalogs before we purchased? Couldn’t their in-house marketing whizzes figure out that households known to have purchased a computer within the last few months – from them, no less – are probably less likely to purchase a machine than say, households not known to have made such a buy? Why wouldn’t they direct their resources to potential rather than current customers? Or, at least delay delivery of such promotional material for a few months, to allow their new customers to settle in?

That’s a question I could pose to a lot of Christian congregations, the one I serve, included. Our practice is to wait for customers – whom we call worship guests or visitors – to come to our stores, which we call churches. Once a customer comes through our doors, we’re on him or her like a Best Buy blue shirt on Ma and Pa Kettle.

We sell congregational friendliness. We sell youth ministries. We offer sample catalogs called newsletters or bulletins/programs. We put that customer on mailing lists, if we can ferret out his or her contact information. During the week that follows the initial visit we send follow-up notes of appreciation or make brief home visits bearing gifts of appreciation.

After customers hit our stores, after we see them spend hands-on time with our products, we direct our resources to achieving their return business. And if they choose more formally to do business with us – what we call joining the church – why, after that blessed event we bombard them with information and invitations.

After....... Like the computer company. After........

The problem with the church importing the computer company’s marketing strategy is that Jesus didn’t say, “Go ye back to your homes and wait for the world to come to you. Then once it does, make disciples of it for me.”

And he didn’t send his disciples home in pairs to await the arrival of possessed and dispossessed people, potential targets of their newfound authority to do ministry.

Jesus sent them out into the world and into the countryside. He sent them to meet people at their points of need. He sent living catalogs into people homes before those people even went shopping.

Yet the church so often simply waits for people “out there” to come in, passing the time by waiting on its own people, its most loyal and long-standing customers.

Why do we spend so large a proportion of our resources on people who have already bought into Jesus? Why aren’t we directing our catalogs to new customers in untapped markets, to people who may not even know about the product we offer, its amazing price, and (eternal) lifetime warranty? Might our flawed business model in part explain the growing irrelevance of so many denominations and congregations? Might you and I need to adopt a new vision for how and with whom we share our personal experience with Jesus?

Catalogs to people who just bought your product. Evangelistic zeal toward people already in the pews. Somehow, this does not compute.

Pray with Me:
God, Jesus told us to take the news to the world. Help us see the world beyond our doorsteps and outside our comfort zones. He went to astonishing lengths to make sure we got the news. The least we could do is try to return the favor. In his name we pray, Amen.

There's a Reason They Call It Amazing

2007-03-16T23:07:00.000-06:00

This is a small story about a couple of small mistakes that, in the end, caused no lasting damage. I offer it as witness to a grace beyond my comprehension, yet always within my reach.

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All I wanted to do was to create a file I could use to outline a special worship experience we’re hosting at our church Sunday night. All I had to do was enter identifying information about the worship’s elements and sequence.

It wasn’t that hard. In my many years of word processor use I had created thousands of such files. How hard could it have been?

First, we’ll sing THIS.....

Then we’ll sing THAT....

After which, we will pray.....

You don’t have to be a pastor to know how to type those lines. Even if arranging worship elements is not your thing, anyone who spent much time over a keyboard knows enough to get things like that right.

But I had a better idea.

Were this a word processing blog, I’d incite boredom with all the details, but this isn’t and I’m not wanting to wallow, so instead, allow me this brief re-creation of the scene of the crime: Instead of creating a document that was nothing more than a list of the things that would happen during the forthcoming worship, I decided to create a special kind of document, one that could be used to layout future services. This special form would have the basic order of things already in place – saving me some typing and leaving me only to fill in the blanks of the songs to be sung for that particular worship.

It was a great idea.

Except that we host this particular kind of worship only once a year, meaning my fill-in-the-blank thing will not get much use. And the next time we host I may want to do something totally different from what we do this time, resulting in the scrapping of the pre-arranged order’s of events replacement.

I should have just typed a list of the things we’re going to do Sunday....Especially if I was going to screw things up.

Before driving to the church this morning, I checked the contents of the flash drive on which I had saved my revolutionary new worship planning tool. It was there. I was pleased. Following my spiritual focus time at the office, it was time to use my new creation, to fill in the blanks.

But I couldn’t remember what went in the blanks. I had chosen songs to sing a few days ago, had even told our choir of the songs they’ll help lead, but that was two days earlier – a span of time sufficient for me to forget all kinds of things.

Of course, there was a written record of my choices; I knew I had handwritten my choices early in the week for eventual conversion to more readable printed text. But I couldn’t remember what I had done with that version. I feared – really, believed – I had mistakenly pitched it once I had created the fill in the blank thing the night before.

So the scene was a computer file asking me to fill in its blanks, and I with no response to the file’s request.

Then I realized our choir director had made note of the song selections as I shared them Wednesday night. Perhaps her notes were still in the choir loft.... I looked. They were! I was saved.

I returned to my desk, prepared to fill in blanks, when I caught glimpse of a padded portfolio that I had carried home the previous night. On a whim, I opened it to find....my handwritten version of the worship order.

Doubly equipped, I filled in blanks and moved into the rest of my day.

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This is so not an atypical story in my life. I lose things easily. I forget things quickly. I dis-organize best laid plans without a second thought, or even notice of what I’m doing. And those are just the most benign of my symptoms. Several times a week I remind myself of my utter, almost pitiable helplessness.

Yet every time I show my failing, every time I demonstrate my fallibility, and miraculously before I inflict irreparable harm on myself or others, God sends me a reminder or directs my attention to a saving path. For reasons I can’t explain and will never deserve, I incur only a fraction’s fraction of the consequences my helplessness deserves.

Today it was choir director’s notes and a padded portfolio. The weekend’s offered life preserver will no doubt take a different form. I just know there will be a next time...countless next times when I screw things up. Some little. Some large. All grace.

Pray with me:
I don’t know how you do it, God. And I can’t imagine why you do it. But you never stop pulling me out of fires of my own setting, holes of my own digging, messes of my own creation. You need to know, I’ll never get used to your love. May you never grow weary of giving it. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

Having a Cow, Dude!

2007-03-12T23:04:00.000-06:00

My ears ring and a smile crawls a slow retreat as I begin this piece. The causes of those conditions have a produced a God thing.

The ears ring because of a Christian concert we took in Sunday night at the local civic center headlined by a group called “The Newsboys.” The event was not for the faint of heart, the tender of foot, or the sensitive of hearing. Aided by two lesser known but, in their way, even rowdier bands, the concert was a rock ‘em sock’em blast of high energy spiritual party music. With loudspeakers set at “sonic boom,” an array of dazzling, at times hypnotic lighting effects, and a youth-oriented crowd ready to dance at the slightest invitation, the night was a festival for the senses....

Except if you wanted to understand the singers. I think it’s generous to estimate that I made out twenty percent of the lyrics delivered amidst screaming guitar riffs and thundering drum lines. Even in songs I knew and loved, I missed most of the words.

And it wasn’t such a festival if you prefer to watch musical performers from the comfort of an assigned seat. Aside from intermissions, we stood for the concert’s entire two and a half hours. Every act. Every song. But we didn’t just stand. We clapped. We jumped up and down, thousands of us, almost in unison. We raised and waved our arms in rhythmic response to songs’ beats. The night was, at least for many in the arena, a body, as well as spiritual and sensory workout.

Due to exposure to all that sound, at the moment my ears still hum at fever pitch, as if to offer a belated ovation for the audio avalanche which so delightfully damaged them.

This piece is not a concert review, but a description of the scene is needed in advance of a portrait of the night’s most moving experience. During The Newsboys performance occasionally I scanned the hall to look at faces and check for body language, evidence, I expected, of how people were reacting to the sensory onslaught. What I discovered was that the crowd – probably 5,000 strong – was like a collection of unique fibers all interwoven into the same pliable supporting fabric.

As mentioned earlier, nearly everyone in the house stood, waved, and clapped as occasions invited. There were moments when a third to a half of us jumped in unison, our feet pounding rhythmically and simultaneously in lockstep expression of the Spirit’s mighty wind.

Among the young and coordinated, as well as the...not, I saw countless closed eyes, broad smiles, and raised arms operating at the joyful behest of their owners. I saw people offer hit songs as personal prayers. I heard crowd members encourage the lead act’s lead singer in the same way you’d expect an interactive congregation during a sermon to shout “Preach it!” or “That’s right!” I felt the pulse of sound waves beat against my chest and flail at loose fabric on my pant legs. But more, I felt the power of God pulsating in 5,000 people. You couldn’t hear yourself think in that room, but you didn’t need to think in order to be convinced God was everywhere in that house.

After the drive home it was time for my nightly back rub — the one I give and Shari, graciously, receives. During those rubs I watch an episode of “The Simpsons” from my DVD collection. From season eight, the episode on tap for Sunday night just happened to be about church (you gotta know the God thing’s getting close!). It begins with the Reverend Timothy Lovejoy preaching on “constancy, sweet constancy.” Homer’s “Ow!” in response to his sleepy and nodding head’s sudden impact on the back of the pew in front of him causes the preacher to lose his place and start the sermon over. By the end of the sermon’s second go-round, everyone in the room is asleep — mouths open and drooling, bodies angled and disheveled, attentions long since spanned.

Later in the episode, Marge is in Lovejoy’s office when distressed parishioner Ned Flanders calls, deep in personal crisis. The pastor’s remedy is that Flanders read the Bible. When asked for a particular verse, Lovejoy tells him, “It’s all good.”

One night. Two visions of the church. Both very real. Which do you relate to?

I didn’t ask which you prefer. I know which you prefer. I asked which you relate to. Or, which more accurately reflects the congregation you currently call church?

In the privacy of this inconspicuous blog, honesty’s a virtue, but I’d grant you accountability immunity if you could deliver honesty from mainline America. I’d do that because mainline America — the older, established denominations — is dying, and the pace of its/our decline is increasing.

Our worship is boring. Our preaching is irrelevant. Our congregations serve personal needs before personal mission. Our counsel to people in search of truth or hope or purpose is no more inspired and instructive than the Springfield pastor’s “It’s all good” (to which Flanders replies, “Well, thanks anyway.” Hint. Hint.).

Don’t take my word for it. Extract any five people from Sunday night’s concert hall, drop them faith first into a typical mainline congregation, let them steep for a month, then ask for a report. If you can wake them from their ecclesiastical slumber, if you can pull their faces off the back of the pew in front of them, what you will hear may be more diplomatic, but its core message will be the same as mine.

What’s got, and won’t release, my craw here is not an institutional church issue; it’s faith issue. There’s a scene at the end of John’s Gospel in which Peter and company have fished through the night without catching a thing. The resurrected Jesus instructs them to cast their nets on the right-hand side of the boat.

TIME OUT FOR TRANSLATION: Cast your nets where the fish are.

They do so, and the result is a catch so large they can’t retrieve it.

If you can predict the result had Peter & Co. decided to continue to cast on the other side of the boat, you have a grasp on the issue mainline America faces. Jesus commands us to go where the fish are. The fish we are called to catch are not swimming in our lifeless waters. If we’re to be faithful (I told you this wasn’t an institutional church issue), we have to move our boats, or, at minimum, shift the location of our nets. If we don’t, we will die, but more important, we will have earned a name badge whose heading is “Hello, my name is... (unfaithful).”

How do we have to move? What do we have to change? Worship styles. Organizational structures. Resource distribution. Loyalty to denominational hierarchy............. But that’s all fine print. The first move we have to make is one of attitude. We have to decide Jesus intended the church to be a living, pulsating, magnetic fishery, not a stilted, self-consumed bunch of fishers more loyal to a side of the boat than to the targets of our fishing trip.

We have to decide that our calling as followers of Jesus compels us to endure, even encourage, unclear lyrics, sonic sounds, and noisy jumps to and from the creaky floors of our creaky churches, if that’s what it takes to bring in the catch.

We have to decide that the fish we seek are more important than the boats from which we seek them.

We have to decide we’d rather worship with The Newsboys than with The Simpsons.

Pray with me:
Help me figure out what kind of church you want, Lord. I already know what kind of church I want, so I’m only asking you to help me understand your desires. Once you accomplish that feat — and I apologize in advance for how long and arduous a task awaits you — help me replace my vision with yours. One thing I have figured out is life looks better through your eyes than mine. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

The Wait Is Over

2007-03-08T00:00:00.000-06:00

NOTE: What follows is the longest Express posting to date; it is also the most personal. If you can’t, or choose not to make your way to its end, I won't be offended.
This one likely isn't about your spiritual journey; it’s about mine. I wrote this one for me, to have it out there, to put this stuff on the record. If you benefit from it, praise God. If not, praise God that I wrote it.
And if you want to comment, great; I will welcome the feedback (point of fact, I’m rather eager for feedback on this one). But if you don’t say a thing, that’s okay, too. Again, this one’s for me.

Thanks,
Bill

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In November 1999 began the most disgusting, despicable experience of my life.

Someone submitted an ethics complaint against me to our regional church body. The complaint was groundless. I knew it. The people of our congregation knew it. I suspect that in his heart, the person who made the complaint also knew it was groundless.

But that didn’t really matter. Shortly after his filing, the complainant became irrelevant when the regional church body discarded his charges in order to pursue allegations of its own creation.

It took nearly nine months to process those recast charges, the result being what in reality was an ecclesiastical slap on my pastoral wrist that was deposited in my denominational personnel file. But I did not accept the outcome. I filed an extensive, well documented appeal, which in my opinion proved official misconduct and abuse of power among regional church officials involved in the process.

The result of the first appeal was effectively a press of the charges’ “moot” button; it declared them without effect, but still on my record. I did not accept that outcome, either – principally because phony charges were still on my record and because in its decision the appellate body had failed even to acknowledge my claims of official misconduct. So, following more rigamarole at the regional level, I wrote a second appeal, equally well documented, which I presented to our general church. By now, the case was nearly two years old.

The general church not only dismissed my appeal claims (though, I must grant, they offered two or three paragraphs that actually referenced their existence), it also returned the original, heretofore-mooted punishment to active status.... Yeah, that appeal turned out well.

After the general church decision, I made a few attempts to be heard and consulted more than one attorney about potential legal action against the denomination, but there was simply no room in those inns. However unfair and unethical their actions, I was told, there was nothing I could do.

Since August 2001 I have profoundly resented my denomination, especially its leaders who participated in my case. In my head and heart I have replayed hearings, reread appeals, and revisited my own actions again and again, always coming to the same conclusions: What happened to me was wrong. Justice demanded that I pursue accountability.

Then today happened.

This afternoon I worked on the second sermon in a series on spiritual surrender I’m preaching during these weeks before Easter. The sermon references my favorite biblical character, Job, with whose story of personal disaster I identified intensely during the active years of my ethics case. As those long months rolled on, I developed the aphorism “The Wait for 38” as a nod to the chapter in the Bible book wherein God at last responds to Job’s many angry protests.

See, Job, too, believed he had been unjustly persecuted, though he considered God to be his accuser, whereas mine had a distinctly human face. Our essential grievance was the same, however: Injustice – indefensible, but correctable injustice – had been done. God, get in here.

“The Wait for 38" was my rhetorical anticipation of success. I believed there would come a day when my record would be cleared and the officials responsible for my hell would face appropriate consequences. Years passed without so much as a whisper of such an outcome, but I held on to the expectation of eventual vindication...like Job.

During today’s sermon prep, I reaffirmed the relevance of Job’s story to mine, but also identified my misapplication of its teaching. While I still believe – and will always believe – the ethics case cast me as a Job-like figure, unjustly abused and mistreated, I now believe I have been wrong to claim him as evidence of my approaching exoneration.

What begins in chapter 38 of Job is the end of an appeal, not a resolution to the central conflict. God’s forceful intrusion into Job’s pursuit of justice has the effect of a judicial gag order on compliant attorneys, or a camp counselor’s raised hand to a room of noisy kids: instant silence. God doesn’t explain injustice, doesn’t defend divine (in)action in the matter, doesn’t do anything that, for the previous 37 chapters, Job had sought.

Instead, God’s two lengthy litanies of questions to Job – most of the form, “Can you do this: ________ ? I can.” – compel Job to repentant spiritual knees. In total surrender to divine designs, he gives up his protest and says to God,

“And I was talking about things I did not understand, things far too wonderful for me....I take back everything I said, and I sit in dust and ashes to show my repentance.”

Why does he repent? Because he had wrongly believed he understood the ways of the world; he thought he knew how the system operated.... He didn’t.

Contrary to his way of thinking, injustice isn’t always corrected, disaster often strikes the undeserving, offenders don’t always get what’s coming to them, and people of privilege haven’t always earned what has come to them. Justice, at least the stuff of Job’s derivation, is of sorely limited value when trying to explain the way things really are.

So, now what, Job?

Enter today’s epiphany.

In the story, Job gives up his quest for justice the instant he realizes its core irrelevance. It’s not the justice is bad objective (read the rest of the Bible, for God’s sake!); it’s that justice isn’t what Job thinks it is – it’s what God thinks it is. And Job doesn’t have standing to argue the point. He may continue the fight – result: unending frustration – or move on, accepting the world as it is, not as he wants it to be. Job moves on, which is what I have decided to do.

For all the years of my ethics case I kept intimate company with Job. I read the story several times, just to buddy up to my partner in pain. But today I realized that if my ambition is to follow Job’s lead, I, too, have to give up. I have to give up my grudges, give up my anger, give up resentment, give up my belief that justice requires a cleared record and an apologetic church leadership. However much merited, those results are simply never going to happen; they’re not the way this world operates. Justice in my case will come – perhaps already has – but not on my terms.

So within the next week I expect to write letters of conclusion to the regional church officials whose actions so repulsed me all those years ago. I will apologize for my mistakes and for my role in the case's constant caustic character. I will tell them that for me, the case is now over. I will tell them that I no longer hold their actions against them, that I will no longer avoid events simply to prevent a chance encounter with them, that I will speak to them when feasible, and even address them without the harsh formality of “Pastor ____” or “Doctor _____” (trust me, that’s a big step). I will tell them that I am moving on, and am now open to interaction/conversation that is not tainted by previous issues.

I won’t issue forgiveness – that requires their confession and repentance, which is another result that will never happen – but I will offer to start a new kind of relationship.

Of course, those leaders may not accept my offer – after all, in my case writings and hearings I was quite the ferocious adversary, one whom many would find it difficult to trust on the basis of a single letter – plus, I am not about to confess to their original charges. I am repenting of attitudes and angers, not of my insistence of innocence and injustice. But I will make an offer.

It’s time to move on, FINALLY time to move on. I have at last reached, read, and resolved chapter 38. Thank you, Job.

Pray with me:
God...Thank you. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

Who Unlocked the Confessional?

2007-03-05T21:56:00.000-06:00

In completion of a self-reflection instrument I requested of our church board members last month, today in two ways I had to identify significant changes I could fully support and work for. The first assignment was to flag changes to our congregation’s administration, organization, or ministry. I filled out that section quickly, or at least with lots of passion. I know lots of things we need to change.

The second assignment was not so simple. It asked me to flag changes in my personal attitude toward and involvement in our congregation’s administration, organization, or ministry. This one I didn’t so promptly conquer. More than once I had to sit back in my chair, stroke my few and dwindling hairs, and ask whether whatever was under consideration at the time was, a) among the most pressing changes I need to make; and, b) a change to which I am authentically willing to commit my life. I didn’t have the same passion for this second assignment.

It’s much easier – not to mention, more fun – to tell others how they need to change. Whether it’s a need for better nutrition or a different political persuasion, lifestyle changes or improvements to financial management, telling others what they need to do is much more the pleasing experience than personal scrutiny.

Maybe it’s that I don’t want others to know my weaknesses.

Maybe it’s that I don’t want the obligation of following through on commitments of transformation.

Maybe it’s that I can’t handle the prospect of chinks in my personal armor.

Maybe it’s just that I like doing things the easy way, and it’s easier to pick others apart.

Or maybe I’m the real audience for Jack Nicholson’s Colonel Jessep in “A Few Good Men,” who angrily denounced people who could not handle the truth.

It doesn’t matter. Jesus is not going to change his teaching just because I struggle when looking in the mirror. That thing he said about extracting the log from your own eye before bitching about the splinter in another’s eye still stands, my sorry tale notwithstanding.

It’s not that I was wrong to ask us to name changes “we” need to make; I just should have asked for the personal changes first. Like now....

Do you need to change? No. That’s the wrong question; you know it as well as I.

How do you need to change?

Don’t tell me how I need to change, or how I could have addressed this subject with greater insight, sensitivity, or understanding. Tell me how you need to change. Better yet, convince yourself that you need to change. Convince yourself – if you convince me, you’ll be a good salesperson; big deal – that there are ways you can live more like Jesus, in closer company with him, in more productive liaison with him. Convince yourself that if you change in areas X, Y, and Z the world will be a better place, you will live in healthier relationships, and that elusive utopia Jesus promised called “the Kingdom” will edge a wee bit closer.

Of course, such ambitious consequences are not possible without the first step, confession. So, take on our board’s assignment: In writing, identify up to three changes in your personal life that you commit to make in order to follow Jesus more faithfully, more completely. When done, if you’re really serious, ask a confidant to hold a copy of your commitments, and to hold you accountable by asking you for a progress update every couple of months....But that’s only if you’re really serious.

It’s kind of funny that I struggled so with that board reflection exercise given that I’m the one who drew it up. I guess I would have seen its challenge more clearly had it not been for that damned log in my eye.

Pray with Me:
I think everyone I know needs to change, God. Unfortunately, that doesn’t matter much until I decide the fate of my own failings. As I continue a journey to the cross, help me label, separate, and act upon the results of intentional self examination. I don’t expect the process to be easy or enjoyable – that is never your promise. I do expect to grow closer to Jesus – and that’s always enough. In his name I pray, Amen.

Shouldn't the Workouts Work Out?

2007-03-02T02:39:00.000-06:00

We’ve had our new treadmill – the replacement unit my weight and fitness health demanded for months after I burned out the motor on our previous one – in the living room for 40 days. I’ve been on the machine 37 of those 40 days, producing nearly 28 hours of increasingly vigorous treading, and just more than 100 miles of in-place distance.

Sound impressive? You’d think it would be impressive, but get this: Total calories burned during those 37 workouts? Enough to lose five pounds. Five freaking pounds! More than a day of hard walking to nowhere and I get credit for five pounds – about a pound every five and a-half hours, I figure.

Let’s do the math: Twenty eight hours at the current minimum wage ($5.15) would be $144.20. Given a choice, which would you choose as the payout for 28 hours of labor – five pounds of calories burned or $144?... I thought so.

Full disclosure requires I acknowledge that as a result of those 28 hours I feel stronger, I bound up stairs faster, my resting heart rate has dropped by 15 beats per minute, I can hold notes longer in choir practice, I have more energy during the day, and I feel better about my health.

Fuller disclosure requires I acknowledge that the small, incremental rewards of my exercise routine bear great similarity to the results of the spiritual walk: slow, often imperceptible progress made only after months, many times years of a journey that at times can seem like it’s going nowhere. But after some time on the road, self-examination reveals a stronger will, a more resilient spirit, a more loving heart, and a more settled hope about your well being. It’s just that there’s a price to pay for such spiritual fitness; it comes neither easy nor on its own.

If you’re not sure your efforts to get spiritually fit have paid off, if you wonder whether there aren’t more profitable uses for your time than the hard work of pursuing an unseen Savior and an incomprehensible God, I understand – these days, both spiritually and physically I understand. But hold on. Keep working. Don’t stop. Results are guaranteed; it’s just that terms of the warranty are not negotiable.

There’s a New Testament writer who says he’s “finished the race” and remained faithful, so now awaits a “prize.” However long, tiring, or unproductive your road today, may you keep your eyes on that prize.

Pray with me:
It’s really hard to run hard, yet feel like I'm not getting anywhere, especially when I’m chasing after you, God. Post some kind of road sign to keep me on track. And help me notice and celebrate the strength this chase is growing in me. I confess I am sometimes blind, really blind when I seem to be treading life. Open my eyes, then show me the prize that will fuel my walk, at least for the rest of this day. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

A Work (Release) in Progress

2007-02-28T01:46:00.000-06:00

By chance, the other night I caught the last minutes of one of the 24-hour news channels’ documentary about the Kentucky State Penitentiary. The end of the program’s focus on a particular inmate’s release from prison included his hopes for a new life “on the outside,” his uncertainty about what awaited him once beyond the high, thick stone walls surrounding his many-years home away from home, and his belief that whatever was out there would be an improvement over life in the slammer.

I stayed with the final stages of the documentary in part because of a soft spot in my heart for the Bluegrass State, having served a church there for three years while in seminary. But more, I stayed because of this inmate on his way to becoming an ex-con. One scene showed him taking his final walk along the pathway of his cellblock, exchanging brief palm slaps with men whom bad choices had made familiar company. Next for him was a stop in the paperwork office, still in handcuffs and leg irons, then finally down a long staircase to freedom.

It was that farewell cellblock walk that got me. The inmate’s imprisonment nearly over, his personal journey about to take a dramatic turn, I experienced spiritual hope and longing as I watched his processional. But the prison from which I saw myself exiting was not formed of rock and barbed wire; it was made of selfishness, pride, anger, failure, isolation, and fear, to name a few. Inspired by this reinvented Kentuckian, I felt myself making a sojourn toward the exit of my personal prison.

Or, at least I wanted to make that sojourn.

There was a complication. See, the governor had issued my pardon. Upon my acceptance of the release, I would be free. As I walked the cellblock of my prison, I looked into the dank, cluttered, worthless cubicles occupied by my “criminal” elements – the selfishness, the pride, etc. I knew them well. I had made frequent company with them...in my previous stays in the prison.

It was a good thing that the governor had served for a long time, had become quite familiar with my case, and had developed an as-yet inexplicable affection for me – a good thing, because I needed the assist. Without the governor’s altruistic bias, I would be a lifer, for sure. So many times I had been pardoned. So many times I locked myself up again.

The complication was that as I walked the cellblock, sensing freedom within my spirit’s reach, I wondered whether this release would be the one that lasted, whether I would finally take advantage of the cleansing of my personal file. Or, would I yet again waste the offer and return to those cold, lonely cells.

These weeks before Jesus makes his walk to the cross are a good time for us to survey our spiritual surroundings. What kind of prison are you living in? Who are your cellmates? Where do you spend most of your broken life? (If your life isn’t broken anywhere, excuse this post’s interruption.)

The one who walks to the cross is the one who delivers word of your and my pardon. He’s the one who invites us out of our cells into the light of a new day, a new life. And best of all, he’s confident that those who follow him out of prison can make it on the outside.

As I watched that Kentucky inmate walk to his freedom, something stirred in me. It was as if I was lifted above the complications and the failures of my past. It was as if this time I could successfully accept the warden’s kind offer. Call that overoptimism, if you want; I call it hope, a hope that filled my heart, quickened my step, and prompted me to want to catch up to Jesus.

Your cell door’s open, too.

Pray with me:
God, Jesus came to announce my pardon. I have heard that line before...as have you. May this time be different. Not because you’re different – grace doesn’t need to change – but because I’m different. May my walk to the cross sign, seal, and deliver me into a new life. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

Toward the Garden

2007-02-23T01:18:00.000-06:00

The institutional church calls these weeks before Easter the season of Lent; I call them a struggle. There is such a storm swirling in my spirit currently, I expect this will prove to be one of the most poignant, troubled, and, perhaps, productive Lenten journeys of my life.

You will notice that “productive” is the only adjective in any way modified in the previous sentence, meaning that I am fairly certain only about the season’s troubled poignancy. Why that certainty? Because my struggle is so profound. Because I’m asking really hard questions — of myself, likely; for God’s response, preferably — and finding very few answers.

Here’s a taste:

“Why have you put me on this road? Don’t you know, can’t you see my failings? There are hundreds, probably millions better suited for what you’re asking me to do.”

“Or perhaps you’re not calling me at all. Maybe I’m just a bad reader of your tea leaves. I assume you’re not so dastardly as to mislead me, so if there’s mistake, it’s mine. But how am I supposed to figure that out?”

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to have rain falling from so many directions? It doesn’t matter how I turn, there is some part of me exposed to the storm. Was that part of your design? If so, just want you to know, it’s working.”

The questions I actually shout to God specify settings and circumstances, of course – more detail than my comfort zoning laws permit at the moment. As Joe Friday of “Dragnet” fame might say, only the names have been removed to protect the deficient.

It’s a risky business, this piece. Readers who don’t know me may question the value of such cloaked confession. The curious, regardless of their connection, may speculate about the underlying culprits. Some may just want to fix it, whatever “it” is.

People in tune with my agenda, however, will receive my words as permission for their own struggles. I don’t want you to heal me; I want you to join me. I don’t want you to fix my failings; I want you to identify your own.

Identify, but don’t expect to fix. It’s worth remembering that from the river Jordan’s baptismal waters Jesus doesn’t rise to head straight for Jerusalem’s cross; and in Gethsemene’s garden, Jesus makes three trips to the prayer chapel before he faces his crucifying accusers. If it took Jesus a while to piece his life together, we shouldn’t surprised by our struggles.

I wish there were a quicker, simpler, less painful way to wrestle with life, but there doesn’t seem to be. It seems the only way to get through storms is to hang on, wake up the master, and then learn from what he tells you – which is likely to have something to do with faith, and your lack of it. In fact, as I write this paragraph I hear the Spirit’s still small voice asking why I am no more trusting than I am. “I think you call it practicing what you preach,” says that pesky presence. No, Spirit. Right now I call it a pain.

I can’t know your struggles, or whether you have any. Whatever your circumstance, I wish for you a profound journey to the cross. I pray you will ask lots of questions, cry more than a few tears, let go of some long-cherished but misguided ideas, and discover that you wouldn’t be where you are without the one who’s prodding you along toward where you’re headed, wherever that is. If I do all that myself, maybe I’ll remove “perhaps” from this post’s first paragraph; maybe. But until then, it’s back to the questions and tears and....

Pray with me:
God, you sent Jesus...to die. Now you want to send me...to do only you know what. Make it clear. Speak it loud. Address my confusion. Get me in and out of my “garden” quickly..........or not. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

It's Not Me!

2007-02-18T18:54:00.000-06:00

An ESPN radio affiliate asked former NBA star Tim Hardaway for a response to current player John Amaechi’s coming out (acknowledging his homosexuality). Hardaway said,

"You know, I hate gay people, so I let it be known. I don't like gay people and I don't like to be around gay people. I am homophobic. I don't like it. It shouldn't be in the world or in the United States."

The next day, pressured by media scrutiny and public scorn, Hardaway recanted this way:

"Yes, I regret it. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said I hate gay people or anything like that. That was my mistake."

He was sorry he said it.
* He didn’t say he was sorry he felt it.
* He didn’t say he was sorry for being so intolerant and hostile.
He was sorry he said it.

Presumably, if he hadn’t said it, or perhaps had he said it in a smaller forum – perhaps to weekly newspaper, a radio station without consequential network connections, or just “the guys” at the gym – he wouldn’t have felt sorry. Or, if he had not said it at all – if he had said to the radio anchor, “I really don’t know enough about that situation to comment on it” – he also could have avoided the guilt.

But he said it. So, he was sorry.

Tim Hardaway is my new hero.

He replaces Mel Gibson, the movie mogul whose bigoted rant to a law enforcement officer during a traffic stop last year made headlines and led the “Passion” man into rehab. In a statement following his arrest, Gibson blamed the outburst on his alcohol addiction. Said Mel,

“I acted like a person completely out of control when I was arrested, and said things that I do not believe to be true and which are despicable.”

So – again, presumably – had he not hit the sauce, had he driven past the bar or cast out the unopened bottles, he wouldn’t have said those nasty things, and would not have had to apologize...for the alcohol. After all, he says he didn’t believe the things he said. He just said them...because of the alcohol.

Hardaway’s and Gibson’s explanations reflect a dangerous sleight-of-words. The truth is each man harbors rage and hatred for particular pieces of the human family. Whether based on sexual orientation or ethnic/religious heritage, their venom is real. Hardaway distracts us from his by apologizing for speaking it (but not for owning it). Gibson hopes the “My name is Mel, and I’m an alcoholic,” line will prompt sympathy, not skepticism.

And it may work. As a culture we seem to appreciate, or at least enjoy, how our glitterati extract themselves from pitfalls and pratfalls. Maybe it’s because their failings help us feel better about ourselves. Maybe it’s because we’re genuinely a forgiving culture. The allure of those attempted resurrections doesn’t concern me, however, nearly as much as the phoniness of their cover stories.

Tim Hardaway should tomorrow speak on-air with the same radio host who received his anti-gay bashing. He should say something like,

“My words make obvious that there is something wrong with me. You don’t say that kind of garbage unless there’s something wrong with you. I just want you to know I am not going to stop until I find out what’s wrong with me. Until then, I apologize the John Amaechi, to the NBA, to the gay and lesbian community, and to everyone else I offended. I shouldn’t have said it, of course. But much more important, I refuse to harbor it.”

Mel Gibson should make an appointment with the same officer and dashboard camera to whom and on which he disbursed his hatred. He should say something like,

“The words I spoke to you were my words, not the alcohol’s. Yes, I was drunk. Yes, I am in recovery. But the words were mine. Drunk or not, you don’t say the kind of garbage I said unless there is something ELSE wrong with you. I am as determined to find out why I hate so much as I am to deal with my alcoholism. I apologize, not for being a drunk – that’s my personal burden – but for being a hateful drunk, which is my personal shame.”

Those are apologies I could accept...but won’t get.

Pray with me:
Help me take responsibility for my actions. Don’t let me excuse myself without owning myself. But then be sure to provide for my healing, too. Confession might be good for the soul, but it’s also quite painful. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

New Feature: Guest Writers

2007-02-17T00:31:00.001-06:00

While writing this blog is a joy for me, I recognize that countless numbers of people – principal among whom are Express readers, of course – bear witness to the journey of following Jesus. Hence, from the first vision of what this space could become, I anticipated one day welcoming other writers to the Express’ main page. With the post below this one, my long-time friend and colleague Greg Guy, a congregational pastor in Kansas, brings life to the vision. I encourage you to respond to Greg’s reflections on doubt via its Comments link, just as you would to any other Express posting.

And I encourage you to make your own contribution to the Express. From the 11 previous posts, it should be clear that almost anything is fair game. If it’s a reflection/opinion/inspiration/exasperation that somehow arises from your attempts to follow Jesus, tell us about it. Whether via 25 words or 500, write to let us know what you think, question, or rebel against. We may agree. We may disagree. But we will always appreciate your efforts.

Proposed Express submissions should be sent to me personally by e-mail: ybubill@yahoo.com. I reserve the right to edit, though that will be done primarily for formatting, not for content. (TRANSLATION: I will not be held responsible for what YOU write!)

Thanks for sharing the ride,
Bill

GUEST WRITER: Greg Guy

2007-02-16T23:45:00.000-06:00

I have been reading a book entitled, “The Myth of Certainty,” by Daniel Taylor. It has seemed to me for a long time that doubt has a part to play in the life of faith. Daniel Taylor offers this insight,

“Perhaps doubt, rather than something to be crushed, can be made to serve faith. Doubt can only be robbed of its paralyzing and destructive qualities when it is admitted for what it is – which isn’t nearly as much as it appears when not admitted – and is accounted for in the process of faith. Normally doubt is seen as sapping faith’s strength. Why not the reverse? Where there is doubt, faith has its reason for being. Clearly faith is not needed where certainty supposedly exists, but only in situations where doubt is possible, even present.”

This topic of faith and doubt remind me of the story found in Mark 9. A father brings his boy who has an evil spirit to the disciples. They were not able to drive out the spirit so then Jesus becomes involved. There is some conversation between Jesus and the father with the father asking, “If you can do anything, take pity on us and help us.” Jesus responds, The father responded, “If you can? Everything is possible for him who believes.” “I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!” Jesus rebukes the evil spirit, the boy is healed, and the disciples ask Jesus in private why they could not drive out the evil spirit. Jesus replied, “This kind can come out only by prayer.”

I identify with the father who seems to express faith and doubt at the very same moment. I need help with my doubt but not in order to gain certainty. Instead I need help with my doubt in order to take the next step of faith.

Faith for the Christian is expressed in following Jesus. He is the one we place our trust in. Jesus had faith in God and believed that all things were possible, but even Jesus expressed a moment of doubt when on the cross he offered these words, “My God, my God why have you forsaken me.” That moment of doubt was followed by an expression of faith and trust, “Into thy hands I commit my spirit.”

Whatever doubts you are struggling with, I encourage you to consider them a part of your faith journey and then offer this prayer, “I believe; help me overcome my unbelief.”

Amen!

A Splitting Headache

2007-02-13T20:31:00.000-06:00

I heard a law firm’s commercial on a Chicago radio station today. The firm’s toll-free number is anything but subtle: 1-***-Get-Split (the asterisks foreshadow the coming editorial).

The ad marketed a divorce lawyer, and began with a woman asking her lover about his plans to leave his wife.

“I thought you told me you were going to leave your wife....?" she asked, exasperation dripping from her voice.

“I would have,” replied the man, “but it’s so complicated to get a divorce these days.”

At the close of an announcer’s description of the virtues of the divorce lawyer offering his services came this heartfelt plea:

“Don’t spend another Valentine’s Day in an unhappy marriage. Call 1-***-Get Split.”

Everything about that ad bothered me. From its context to its conclusion, from its jingle to its view of justice, I held those 30 seconds in contempt.

It’s not that I am unsympathetic to people in difficult marriages. My goodness, as a divorcee myself, I am in no position to cast aspersions. It’s that the ad validates a commonly held dim view of our culture, a view I have not wanted to accept: that we have cheapened the institution of marriage, that we have made too accessible its escape hatches.

Digest a bit of the commercial’s context. First, there’s an extra-marital affair – never, not once ever, a good thing. Then there’s a cheating husband who relies on a tangled legal system to justify his ongoing sham of a marriage. And finally, there’s the toll free number the lawyer’s firm has chosen – “Get Split.” Get out!

Maybe it shouldn’t surprise us that half of all marriages end in divorce, when our culture tolerates marketing ploys such as this one. If we’re willing to lure customers through lurid dramatizations of dysfunctional relationships, if we’re willing to play to the base instincts of people in order to develop a customer base, my goodness, no wonder marriage is in such trouble.

By this column I mean no disrespect toward, no judgment on people who toil in broken marriages. I understand, I know first hand that divorce is sometimes the best choice among a sea of awful ones. But let’s support people through divorce, not glorify the outcome. Let’s encourage people in marriage, not simplify the dissolution of it. If people can’t or won’t make it through their conflicts, if the courthouse rather than the confessional is the final arbiter of a relational breakdown, so be it. But may it not be said of us that we made it worse, or that we helped people find the three digit extension in a phone number like “1-***-Get-Split.”

Pray with me:
God, all relationships of any depth are hard work. Whether family, or friend, or co-worker, every serious connection in our lives is a risk. Help me speak love and hope to people in wounded marriages. Help me offer support and encouragement to people working their way through or following divorce. Help me be an agent of reconciliation, first and foremost through the example of the way I handle my own relationships. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

Name a Star After Someone Else!

2007-02-10T11:37:00.000-06:00

Well, I’ve about had it. With celebrity, that is.

Britney. Branjolina. Boring!

At the moment it’s the death of Anna Nicole Smith: How did she die? Who’s the father of her baby? When did Zsa Zsa Gabor marry a prince?

Hear me: I don’t care about Anna Nicole Smith! That sounds terrible, I grant, but it’s true. Of course I feel for her family in their grief, and for Ms. Smith herself, given the many challenges that complicated her life. But I don’t care, I have neither reason nor desire to care about her death...

...any more than I should care about the dozens of Iraqi civilians who will die in sectarian violence today, or the 90 year old who wanders in the fog of Alzheimer’s Disease, or the child who stubbed his or her toe for the first time last night.

My objection to our cultural obsession with celebrity is at least two-fold. First, vicarious living is vacuous living. That is, in our culture people read “People,” watch “Access Hollywood,” and manage blog shrines to their favorites, all in a condescending masquerade whose aim is to experience the interest and excitement their own lives lack.

That’s condescending, not to the stars, but to God, because God didn’t go through the trouble of giving each of us our own shot of life, just to have us search for some kind of after-market life through the (mis)fortunes of the rich, famous, and tawdry. God gave us what we needed, in the amount and to the degree we needed it, for the reasons we needed it. No celebrities required.

My second objection to our cultural obsession is that it objectifies and minimizes people. Practitioners of celebrity obsession use their targets because for them the stars serve purposes, meet needs, and fill voids. For such users, the rich and well known are not people – children of God – they are instruments of pleasure and distraction; they matter not for who they are, but for what they do.

Worse yet, many celebs need their worshipers as much as their worshipers need them.

The sad truth is that celebrity obsession will persist as long as do empty lives. Just as plant roots in dry ground sprawl out in search of water, so do empty lives search for filler. We obviously have to offer healthier, more person-affirming filler. His name would be Jesus.

I probably don’t need to tell readers of this blog about Jesus’ penchant for spending time with the indigent, the outcast, the infirmed, and the lonely; seldom did he hob knob with the rich and famous. Neither do I need to remind them of his conversation with Peter following the resurrection, in which he asked whether Peter loved him. Peter, of course, said yes. Jesus replied, “Then feed my sheep.” That is, if you worship me, if I become the filler for your empty life, you will turn your attention to someone else. You will go meet a need, feed a hunger, or stand up against an oppression.

Turns out, faithful celebrity is neither idol worship nor idle living.

And as for “American Idol,” let me tell you. . . . . . . . .

Pray with me:
God, you are the one I worship. . . at least most of the time. Jesus is my fill. . . when I don’t turn to others. You are my only hope. So fuel me, fill me, then use me for your purposes. Help me keep my idols straight and my faith focused, in the name of Jesus, Amen.

I Doubt It

2007-02-08T00:23:00.000-06:00

Stressed. Irritable. Anxious.

Such was occasionally my mood Tuesday evening as I anticipated the two events on my Wednesday morning calendar. It doesn’t matter what those two events were. Just know you have them, too:

* Daunting tasks
* Pressing responsibilities
* Challenging errands
* Questions you have to ask or answer
* Deadlines you have to meet or impose
* People you have to confront or contend with.

It wasn’t that I knew things would go badly Wednesday; it was that I feared that they would. That’s it! As Tuesday ended, I feared that Wednesday morning could devolve into failure, that the two events in question would produce unwanted encounters and ill-fated results, that either I or those around me would not respond as needed if I were to avoid. . . . . . . .

You know what? I don’t know what I was afraid of. I just know I was afraid. Not nerves-on-edge fear. Not sweatin’ bullets anxiety. Rather, an internal dis-ease, a disturbed personal equilibrium, an unsettled spirit.

It’s happened to me before. Many times before. Every time I have meetings or events like the two on Wednesday morning, in fact. Same feeling. Same discomfort. Same fear.

There was, however, a glimmer of hope Tuesday night, just before I went to sleep. I remember my saying “God will provide.” Translation: God will get me through the morning. We speak that phrase often in our congregational conversation; I say it myself several times a week. But I knew, saying something was very different from experiencing it.

Wednesday morning came and went. No hitches. No catastrophes. No unresolvable conflicts. In fact, both events went well – much better than my Tuesday night frets projected. Driving away from the second event I whispered a prayer something to the effect, “You did it again, God. Thanks.” Translation: You provided. . . . just like I thought you would.

So if I thought God would provide, why the funk the night before? Ask the father in the ninth chapter of Mark whose son’s body convulses in horrific seizures against which the best efforts of Jesus’ disciples are ineffectual. In response to the father’s request that he do something about his son’s condition, Jesus replies, “Anything is possible if a person believes.” The father says he does believes, but adds, “Lord, help me not to doubt.”

I say ask the father about my funk because he’s me! He believes, or so he says. He probably worships regularly, reads Scripture faithfully, and endorses a “God provides” platform. He must have a developed spirituality of some form – my goodness, he knows enough to seek out Jesus. Yet, his son’s well-being in the hands of history’s greatest healer, the father doubts. That’s me.

My Wednesday morning in the hands of the God of every day, of all time, and I doubted. On record that Jesus can lead me through fire, through storms, through untamed wilderness, and I doubted.

The next time Tuesday night doubts arise I probably won’t escape the nagging fears, but I will know to remember that father’s request of Jesus: Lord, help me not to doubt.

Pray with me:
God, you know me better than I know myself. That makes sense: Creators tend to know their creations. So I guess you know my fears, too. Can you help me understand them? Oh, I would love it if you would take them away, but something tells me I will have to understand them before I conquer them. Something else tells me I won’t do that alone. In fact, the next time a Tuesday night arrives, expect me to call on you. . . . As I do right now in the name of Jesus, Amen.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

P.S. I invite you to leave us a comment about your experience of doubt and fear (if you have any, that is; and if you don’t, then don’t leave us a comment – write us a book!). I suspect this is one topic on which we need to learn a lot from each other.

Super, Man!

2007-02-02T23:17:00.000-06:00

Sunday’s the big day!

People across the country will gather to cheer and hope, and probably pray for God’s assistance. Excitement and anticipation will build to a fevered pitch as things kickoff.

Some among the audience of millions will be jacked up, passionately loyal, decked out in all manners of dress. Others will sit in bored silence, waiting for it all to end, present only to impress friends or satisfy somebody’s expectations.

I’ll be there as always, with people of my church and perhaps others (we open our party to all people, but few take us up on the invitation). Right now I’m thinking I’ll be on fire by the time it gets started, but I won’t have a dependable assessment of my mood until the second half. [To be honest, occasionally I, too, get bored – a fact that surprises some people, given how big a fan I claim to be.]

Now that I think about it, you may not have any interest in Sunday’s goings-on. If so, this post hasn’t had much play for you; my apologies. But if I have caught your attention, why not leave a comment telling us how you’re looking forward to worship.

Pray with Me:
God, at the moment we’re a society super games and superheroes – but only one God. Help us be your most effective commercials. Plant seeds of your victory in and through the name of Jesus, Amen.

Fitness Matters

2007-01-30T14:30:00.003-06:00

I “installed” a new coffee maker in our church office Monday. Granted, it was not an event that turned heads or established new social trends, but the “installation” prompts this reflection.

Contrary to my usual practice, I decided to read the unit’s care and maintenance instructions. From those artful clauses I learned dazzling facts: a proper preparation of the charcoal water filter; the value and relative ease of “decalcification;” and keys to better bean storage. (I know: Oooh.)

Here’s the kicker: I read that banal trivia. . . and actually gave a damn! In my PDA I entered dates for the first filter change and vinegar-water decalcification treatment. Not only did I read and follow all label directions, I reorganized the tabletop on which the coffee maker sits, positioning it, the bean grinder, and a few Styrofoam cups in a careful, useful array. Our office coffee area is as presentable now as it has been in years.

Here’s another kicker: That was not my only recent expression of concern for new products. The manufacturer of the treadmill we drug to our living room last week recommends regular maintenance for best and longest equipment performance; appointments for those operations are now also in my PDA. Why, for the first time ever I Googled “treadmill lubricants”! (I know: Oh Oh.)

Readers who know me are chuckling in derisive skepticism by now. They know that, coming from me, concern for coffee pot and treadmill upkeep is either the hallucination of a decaffeinated daydream, or a symptom of an untreated blunt force trauma. I have never displayed the intention or ambition – let alone the ability – to manage such maintenance. This newfound passion won’t last, so think those in-the-know readers.

And they’re probably right, which leads me to the point of this piece that isn’t about gadgets, but rather about our spiritual connections.

Ever started a new spiritual practice – e.g. Bible reading, prayer, more frequent worship participation – with great excitement, only within the next few months to demote or discard it – I don’t know, because you were busy, or lazy, or simply no longer interested?
Ever made a commitment to deepen your connection to God, to further or resume your relationship with Jesus, only to lose the thrill, to abandon the cause so quickly that the memory of the day you began your journey was still fresh?

My unnatural interest in treadmill and coffee maker care reminds me of my personal collection of failed spiritual quests:

Journeys started in good faith, but ending in predictable neglect
“Decisive” moments when I said the right things, intended the right results, but ultimately failed

Why did I fail? Why was my exuberance such a brief sprint, rather than a long distance run? If my history teaches accurately, I failed because my attention to spiritual health, while in the beginning fanatic, was never fixed. The pattern I chose for my life permitted too many distractions, too many escape routes, too damned many excuses. And because I was not fixed on the result I sought, other behaviors and relationships took precedence.

Was that a good thing? Obviously not. Could I have done anything about it? Was I destined to fall away? It doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is what I – and you – do today.

What I – and you – must do today is decide that spiritual health matters.

How well we know God, matters
How clearly we see (and follow) the path God has for our lives, matters
How personally we relate to Jesus, matters
How often, how seriously we read and try to understand the Bible, matters
How often, how seriously we pray, matters

In fact, these things matter more than any things. But until we fix them as priorities – until we decide that there is no task more urgent, no one more valuable, no objective more pressing than getting and staying spiritually fit – we will forever be manipulating the perception of our spiritualities:

Going to church more to be seen and heard than to worship (or perhaps, just to convince ourselves that we still care!)
Praying only when pressures overwhelm, or someone else speaks the prayer
Engaging Scripture, not because we read it, but because the church’s worship order included it

All with about as much passion and stamina as I had when I rearranged our coffee server area.

If you come to our church office this week, you will likely approve of the look and functionality of our coffee area. If you visit my living room, you may well be impressed by the neat, clean presentation of our treadmill. But if six months from now you return to either location for a similar review, I make no promises.

Right now I consider myself reasonably spiritually healthy: I read. I pray. I worship. I serve. I care. As for six. . . minutes from now? Well, at least that’s up to me.

Now tell us how you’re coffee’s tasting.

Pray with me:
God, I need help setting, then living my priorities. I need help rearranging the look of my life – not for others’ approval, but for my own good. That is, I need help I can’t provide myself. So this prayer is a shout out. I want to know you. I want to understand your plan for my life. I want to experience the joy you promise. Help me fix my heart to pursuing, finding, and staying connected to you. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

Whose Coin Is It, Anyway?

2007-01-27T12:36:00.000-06:00

The old saw proscribes mixing religion and politics. Well, that doesn’t mean I can’t write about it.

Whether by plan or evolution, I rarely wax political during sermons, newsletter columns, teaching experiences, or any other aspect of my ministry. Given the value in pastoral settings I give to listening before talking, inviting before invading, my resistance to in-church political discourse shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. It does because at heart I am so thoroughly political, so intensely partisan.

In college I majored in political science and economics. Thirty years ago in a University of Iowa dorm, with Dutch Masters “President” cigars in hand, friends and I planned our future executive branch administration. We filled staff and cabinet positions. We envisioned a bold future. Our imagination sessions were not products of delusion, but evidence of our fascination, closer to preoccupation, with things political.

Today, for nearly fifteen years eligible – by age – for the White House job, I am still infected. I watch political talkfests. I devour partisan political blogs. I cheer or howl in reaction to the most incidental minutia produced in Washington. That media of all forms are now chewing on 2008 presidential election matters is for most people sickeningly similar to the expansion of Christmas earlier and earlier into the calendar; for me, it’s a calorie-free buffet that’s open 24/7.

Yet, I don’t talk about politics in my ministry. More broadly, as a rule I oppose most any mix of the sacred and the secular:

* Prayer in public schools – NO
* The ten commandments in public places – NO
* “In God we trust” on coins – Doesn’t bother me, only because no one notices the slogan
* Removing “one nation under God” from the “Pledge of Allegiance” – A Valid Point

Coming from me, some or all of those “political” positions may surprise you; if so, your surprise validates my claim of self-imposed ecclesipolitical silence (“ecclesipolitical” is my contrived word for the mixing of religion and politics).

Some or all of those “political” positions may also irritate you; if so, your anger underscores the value and rationale for ecclesipolitical silence! When as a pastor I take a firm stand on the eschatological variations latent in Matthew’s Gospel, no one blinks (except, perhaps, in boredom). When as a pastor I take and declare a position on abortion, or the war in Iraq, or immigration, however, once nodding heads jump to attention, their previously slumbering ears focused on every word. No one cares what, or whether, I think about mundane theology; for most people, there’s little at stake. In political matters, the personal investment is far greater, as is the cost of disagreement to a pastor-parishioner relationship.

So, I don’t mix religion and politics. I no more than nod my head and offer issue-neutral hums in response to partisan conversation with those I serve. . . as did Jesus, I figure. The best known scene depicts Jesus dodging the trap of a Pharisee’s question of whether it’s lawful to pay taxes – He says give to Caesar what Caesar deserves; give to God what God deserves. Later, when under arrest and asked by Pilate whether he’s the king of the Jews, Jesus says his kingdom is not of this world (translation: it’s sacred, not secular).

Jesus was anything but silent on issues of modern political consequence such as poverty, marriage, and children. But he gave little guidance about war, and had nothing to say about abortion or homosexuality, issues that divide political parties and faithful followers alike. Thanks for the help, Jesus.

So what do you think? Do you want pastors and other followers of Jesus mingling things sacred and secular? Or should they watch “Meet the Press” before, and only before, they meet their congregations? How “separate” are your church and state? I invite you to use the comments link below to share your thoughts.

Pray with me:
God, in things political as well as faithful, help me understand what matters (and what doesn’t), what’s worth fighting for and fighting about (and what isn’t). Use me as a healing thorn in the side of dysfunctional social and political systems, but also help me more often close my mouth and open my ears when engaging my world, whether sacred or secular. I don’t know how to mix those two; I just know I’m glad you’re God over both. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

Don't Tread Lightly

2007-01-22T18:14:00.000-06:00

A burned out motor and my disintegrating physical condition prompted a family decision to purchase a replacement treadmill for our home. Smart move. Easy sell. A hard road.

First, ordering the thing online was as frustrating an e-commerce experience as I’ve had, essentially because my Internet browsing software wasn’t compatible with the online merchant’s Web site, and because one of the merchant’s customer service agents wasn’t compatible with me. But in the end, to neither their nor my credit, we worked out the purchase.

Sixteen days after finalizing the order, the new treadmill arrived last Friday – all 324 pounds of it. To move the beast from its perch on the truck to the first floor of our home required an ascent of either a snowy hillside or a steep staircase. The delivery driver – the unaccompanied delivery driver – pitched a bit of a fit about his employer’s lack of concern for drivers responsible for such massive pieces, then told me the best he could do was leave it in our garage. The online ordering process guaranteed “inside delivery” of our new equipment; I guess we should have asked inside what.

Saturday was the day to move the monster to its final resting/treading place...our living room. Now, we all have our strengths in life, but strength is not one of mine. So my and Shari’s role in the transfer was to appear to assist, but more accurately, encourage and applaud my stepson Jake’s efforts to pull the thing up the staircase. “This is insane,” said our fitness fanatic housemate of the unit’s weight. He/we persevered, however, yanking and dragging the thing to its new home, along the way taking out one of the windows in our back door.

After assembly – by far the easiest step in this process – I took my first trek; it felt great to know I was back on track (or tread). Spurred on by naive enthusiasm, I walked 30-40 minutes both Saturday and Sunday, using a variety of speed and incline combinations.

Today is Monday. My leg muscles are on strike. They have not announced when (or whether) they will return to work. Chances are I will use the treadmill again tonight – at markedly diminished settings – not because I feel like it, but because I think I have to fight my way back into a fit lifestyle. I covet your prayers.

As you may covet our prayers if you’re fighting your way back into a spiritually fit lifestyle. Do you know the one to which I refer

* The one in which you worship, not because you grew up in a church, but because your life bursts with joy and gratitude to the one who animates your life?

* The one in which you pray, not because someone drummed into you a “Now I lay me down to sleep...” spirituality, but because God is the spiritual parent with whom your heart demands an instant messaging system?

* The one in which you regularly feed your spirit and grow your faith through intentional acts of learning and service?

* The one in which you manage stress, fatigue, and fear by powers and authorities beyond your understanding, but not your reach?

* The one in which you discover that personal meaning and importance have almost nothing to do with yourself, and everything to do with the one to whom you give yourself away?

Most of us have experienced seasons of life when we felt spiritually fit, when our habits, disciplines, and relationships reflected a healthy focus on what matters. But the same number or more of us have also experienced seasons of poor spiritual health, when we knew our thoughts, beliefs, and actions were not rooted in nurturing soil, but rather in weedy, malnourished dust from which evidence of a God-centered life departed long ago. This Express piece is for that latter group.

I tell our new treadmill’s story for those who know they have fallen into spiritual disrepair and want to do something about it. If it’s been a while since you felt connected to God, if Jesus is for you an intriguing but not particularly inspiring character, if your heart aches for more satisfaction than your current life provides, please know there is a way home; you can get fit again. Just don’t expect such fitness to arrive on your terms or to take its place in your life without your efforts.

In fact, getting then staying spiritually fit is very hard work. Occasional workouts will not work out. Quitting in protest of unproductive worship or prayer experiences will complicate, not resolve the problem. As our treadmill cost us time, money, exertion, and floor space, so will your efforts to get spiritually fit cost you time, focus, and sacrifice. If you want to restore your connections to God, you can. Just expect to struggle. Expect your spirit’s muscles to ache. Expect an inner voice to recommend alternative remedies to your spiritual distress. Then expect to have to make a choice.

Tonight I will get back on our new exercise machine, achy, breaky legs and all. The next time I wander a spiritual wilderness, I pray I will act similarly. . . . And I pray I will meet you in the clearing.

Pray with me:
God, there are days when I am hungry for you; the other days I starve for you. May my need for you be matched by my desire for you. May my need from you meet your provision for me. Invite me to your table. Show me my place. Be my God. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

A Shout Out!

2007-01-18T18:29:00.000-06:00

I interrupt this blog to offer a word of thanks.

People calling themselves Anonymous and Thomas (between the two, I’m thinking “Thomas” is the alias) have broken the digital shrink wrap that encased the “Comments” link on The Bill Express; each has commented on the most recent entry, “A Harsh Winter.”

I encourage you to read their comments, not only for their historical significance – How often do we get to be the first at anything? – but also because they reflect the thoughtful, even confessional conversation I hope the Express will prompt.

You may also comment on their comments. There is no rule that says your contributions to the Express have to follow the course my words chart. Inspired (or maddened, or mystified, or. . .) by someone’s response to a posting? Tell us! The “blogosphere” is by design an unruly world; it will survive, even welcome your entry. And remember, you may always comment anonymously.

Thanks to you both, Thomas and Anonymous.

Bill

p.s. If you’re the one in a million who cares whether I will comment on the comments people submit, the answer is yes. . . when I have something to add. I haven’t figured out the nuances of how or when, but look for my reactions in a comments section near you.

A Harsh Winter

2007-01-18T15:07:00.000-06:00

My morning drive to work most days includes a flip across the car radio’s preset buttons, one of which is tuned to a frequency recently claimed by a (very) conservative Christian radio station. Music is the predominant component of the station’s rather scant programming. . . very bad music. . . make that atrocious music. My God, how awful that stuff is! Why it’s so bad that I . . . . Anyway, I don’t like it.

On a recent drive to the church I ventured into the offending station’s air space, heard its elevator-style rendition of some old song I never liked to begin with, then initiated my usual self-righteous rant. . . until for some reason I started thinking about the song’s writers, performers, recorders, and fans. For those people that song wasn’t a musical misstep or mess of mediocrity; it was rather a testament of faith, a declaration of praise, and a song of hope. It was for them whatever it was for them, but it surely was not for them what it was for me; and that reality gave me pause.

It reminded me of a moment during the recent Christmas season when on an evening drive Shari and I came across a residence whose only seasonal lighting decoration was a single row of large single color bulbs strung from one corner of the garage’s face to the other. That’s all there was. No other lights on the house, or even on the street corner the house occupied.

I thought it silly to go to the trouble of hanging such mediocre lighting, and expressed my sentiment through a snickering cackle of a laugh. Shari quickly corrected my editorial, reminding me that perhaps the residents could not afford other decoration.

It was a valuable lesson her reminder taught, but not one with which I was unfamiliar. During a drive through an economically challenged part of our community a few years ago I saw a house whose exterior was deeply scarred by the effects of time and disrepair. My reaction then was not to smirk or to wax self-righteous. Rather, when I saw a light on in what could have been the living room I thought, that’s someone’s home.

So I understood the lesson when I passed by the worn-out house. Shari reminded me of the lesson when we saw the single strand of Christmas lights. But somehow I forgot what I had learned as I listened to a song I disliked. I am quite the work.

This piece is not about my forgetfulness, though it could be. I use my failings to remind you not to mimic them. There are within the rainbow we call humanity opinions you won’t like, politics you’ll think appalling, music you’ll find laughable, attitudes you’ll deem ill-grounded, and statements of faith you’ll judge harsh and judgmental. Get over it. Whether you like it or not, most people – make that all people – are not like you. No one sees the world the way you do or hears the radio the way I do. About the best you and I can hope for is that those who observe our ways, means, and lifestyles will be no more childish in their assessments than we are in ours.

Jesus said, “Stop judging others, and you will not be judged.” I think what he meant was, if you don’t like the music, shut up and change the station.

Pray with me:
God, help me remember that the world is not destined to be my way, or his way, or her way; it’s destined to be your way. When I look critically, think harshly, or judge too quickly about others, put me in my place, then guide me to a healthier, more spiritual place. Teach me, remind me, and when necessary, scold me back to faithfulness. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

Just Deserts

2007-01-16T00:00:00.001-06:00

One of my spiritual disciplines is daily time with the Bible (Well, the truth of late has probably been closer to a bit less than daily, but who’s confessing?). This week I am reading in the Old Testament book of Daniel, known for its lions’ den, fiery furnace, and apocalyptic visions. Tuesday’s reading, however, was nothing so fantastic or imaginative as those.

A section of the fourth chapter of Daniel reports the confession of a king of Babylonia named Nebuchadnezzar. In a poignant soliloquy, the king describes a walk atop the roof of his palace during which he surveys the land over which he rules. The sights before him prompt this arrogant pronouncement:

“Just look at this great city of Babylon! I, by my own mighty power, have built this beautiful city as my royal residence and as an expression of my royal splendor.'”

God drives some sense into King EgoRunAmok via a trip to and life amidst the wilderness. Upon humility’s successful advance, Nebuchadnezzar voices his new learning:

"After this time had passed, I, Nebuchadnezzar, looked up to heaven. My sanity returned, and I praised and worshiped the Most High and honored the one who lives forever.”

Do you hear that? The king says he was insane! His only sin was egotism: He thought too much of himself, of his accomplishments and his role in them. Many – especially politicians – would say, “I got a little full of myself. I got a bit carried away. I’ll do better the next metropolis I build.” But this repentant king says, “I went insane.”

I hope I remember Nebuchadnezzar’s example the next time I get a little full of myself, the next time I get a bit carried away with my role in whatever good comes of my life. The next time I seek out appreciation, soak in applause, or sop up someone’s kind assessment, I hope I promptly see myself strolling atop that moment’s fragile rooftop. And before the roof collapses, before I am removed from my lofty position and redeployed to the everyday debris that more accurately depicts my life during its ego-centric sojourns, I hope I fall to my knees, raise my heads and hands to heaven, and beg for sanity’s return.

May my remaining days stay within a whisper’s distance of the truth that there isn't anything about my life that is good because of me. There is MUCH that is good – don’t get me wrong – it’s just that I have nothing to do with it.

I realized long ago the fruitlessness of self-importance. Not until now, however, did I have its fitting synonym: insanity.

. . . . I was going to ask about your sanity, but I figure it’s your palace. . . and God knows where to find you.

Pray with me:
There are times when I am an insane person, God. Just insane. Not by medical diagnosis, but by personal choice. I hope this isn't one of those times, but if it is, consider these words a confession. If this isn't one of those times, consider this a preview of coming attractions. When you have to take me down from the artificial heights, use whatever force you deem necessary. Just make sure it works; I’m not too crazy about the wilderness, either. In the name of Jesus, who knew a thing or two about life’s deserts, Amen.

Wouldn't You Like to Get Away?

2007-01-12T23:08:00.000-06:00

A simple game I play on my PDA offers me daily reminders of the importance of time away.

The game’s objective is to clear the screen of blocks adorned with various designs. Move blocks of matching designs together, and they disappear.

The game’s rules and board layouts make for challenges of varying degrees. Some boards clear via a collection of moves that I identify almost instantly. Other boards look easy, but prove otherwise. Some boards seem impossible.

It’s the impossible boards to which I react with predictable impatience. After six or eight valiant attempts, I invariably power down my device or switch to another application, huffing and fuming frustration as I do. “This one can’t be done!” I cry, many times in a hushed but audible scream.

But often, something changes when I return to the game after a few minutes away. It happens frequently that after a break – most times, only a moment or two; rarely hours or days – I look at a puzzling board and see the solution. As if someone switched on the hallway light midway through a wall-hugging, middle-of-the-night journey to the kitchen, the right course lies in plain sight. A few taps of the screen, and I’m on to the next puzzle. Without the interruption I would probably have found the solution. . . eventually. . . but only after too much time and countless expletives. Getting away is good for me.

What situation has you frustrated at the moment? What problem seems too vexing, too daunting, too out of your reach to solve? Might you benefit from a power down, or a switch to something else for a time? Who knows, perhaps after a break the hallway light will also switch on for you.

It’s just a thought.

Pray with me:
God, after creating the heavens and the earth you took a day to rest. If you needed a break, surely we do, too. Help us unhook, turn off, power down, or simply get away now and then. And then open our eyes to see the way, your way through the puzzles of life. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

Light of the World

2007-01-09T20:05:00.000-06:00

There was a major power outage on Avenue of the Cities in Moline Tuesday (the Avenue is a major thoroughfare through town, for readers unfamiliar to our metroplex).

As I drove the congested street, inching along a car length at a time as vehicles ahead of me rolled in careful sequence through newly created 4-way stops, I saw numerous businesses with handmade signs pasted to storefronts informing customers of unforeseen closures.

As the paralyzed car pile progressed eastward with snail-like momentum, I also noticed how barren the Avenue seemed. Sidewalks, usually dotted with home-bound school students and other pedestrians, empty and lifeless. Restaurants, service companies, businesses small and not so small, unlit and locked-tight for the day. The more I looked, the more I noticed how little there was to notice (save the tail lights of the vehicle in front of me that somehow kept pace with my Ford’s blistering 3 mph).

Then, in the distance, light dawned. There, a quarter-mile and a hundred cars ahead of me, I saw a working stoplight, parking lot lamps burning bright, and the buzz of civilian traffic much more reflective of that piece of the afternoon. The limits of the outage’s reach neared.

Once I made it to the stoplight, traffic eased, as did my unease with the street I had just traveled. Rarely had I experienced so telling an example of the difference between the lit and the unlit, between life and no life, between energy and outage.

Ever entered a room full of lifeless people? People unhappy with, disgruntled by, or disconnected from meaning and purpose? Ever been around someone whose teeming lifelessness affected your own spirit?

If so, do you remember what it felt like to leave their presence then discover the company of a party, or at least of someone with an expression about his or her face? Do you remember how different and better it felt to be around life?

We need to be aware of what end of the Avenue our lives are on through the day. People driving by us will enjoy their journey far more if we stay connected to our power supply.

Perhaps we can adapt the motel chain’s slogan: World, in my life, I will leave the light on for you.

Pray with me:
God, the prophet Isaiah said people who walked in darkness have seen a great light. Thanks for letting us be those people. Help us see and reflect the light of Jesus, however unlit appear the roads along which our lives take us. Amen.

Bill

The First of Many

2007-01-07T21:17:00.000-06:00

Welcome to the first of what I expect will be many weekly (or, on occasion, weakly) reflections.

The rules for the BillExpress differ from those of the other principal communication methods I employ in ministry:

In sermons, divine word speaks to specific congregational/theological need; I write so as to speak to a corporate identity called a church. BillExpress pieces will address the spiritual journey from my lived-in shoes and well-worn, less often revealed confessional; that is, from a perspective common to the larger community.

In newsletter columns, the primary constraint is word count. Our publication process expects me to fill, but not expand beyond one page (whether I have anything to say or not!). BillExpress pieces will speak their mind then shut up, whether that’s done with 25 words or 500.

My vision for the Express is a more personal conversation with my — and I pray, your — faith life. I hope these pieces will use everyday experiences to spice, strengthen, and, when necessary, disrupt our relationships with the God revealed so surprisingly in a little child named Jesus.

But I don’t want to be the only person talking — or, at least I don’t need to be the only person talking. To protect the identities of the people receiving the e-mail versions of the Express, I will send them out as blind carbon copies. But I will also post all pieces on this “YBU Blog.” Here, you may add your comment to any piece, past or present, and in so doing invite or contribute to a larger conversation. Plus, you never know who might stumble onto the blog from a Google search!

So welcome to the BillExpress. Enjoy the ride.

Pray with me:
God of every journey, accompany us on this one. Give us direction, and if we’re not open to direction, at lead help us find and value the rest areas along the way. We so need to trust you as the Lord of our every road. In the name of Jesus we pray, Amen.

Bill

NOTE: If you want receive the e-mailed Express, send a request to ybubill@yahoo.com.