"Bado kidogo..." He says

I go to the cemetery sometimes, when there is no funeral to attend.
I know it sounds creepy, but it's not.  Let me try to explain why...

Wandering down a paved walk.
My heart whispers...Stop and listen.
I look at the markers.
Notice the cuts that frame the stone and the interior carvings.
Angels and flowers.  Crosses and Star of David.
Names and dates.
There are husbands and wives.
Beloved Mothers and Fathers.
Daughters and sons.
At rest.

That whisper again...Listen some more.
A deep breath, and then let it out.
I start to speak, to ask a question, but catch my tongue and bring my lips back together.
Sit down at a bench.
Close my eyes and bow my head.
Another deep breath.
It is a struggle to... be still and know.  To wait.  To truly become silent.

Wind.
Warmth.
Clouds and sunlight.
Birds chatter in the trees.

"Listen some more," He says...softly.
"Come a little farther," He says.  
Before I should speak.
"Bado kidogo..." He says...
Because I can still see the slender Kenyan man, from memory, pointing me down the red, dirt road, toward a rounded turn up ahead in the distance.  There is my destination.  It is just beyond the field of maize, just past anything I can see clearly; just beyond all that I know.

So I continue on, in quiet, and then...I'm "there"... and I know it, because I can feel it. "There" is not a place but still an arrival.
I exhale.
And I realize that it is in this quiet, that
                                            I am found and in full sight.
In this willingness to inch myself away from the cool, hard concrete bench and those
things that my eyes can see, my heart and mind are opened up to so much more.
                                                             Because I am now a witness to this world through Him,
I can become small again, and be protected; under His wing.
I can become whole again, and be hopeful; by His strength.
I can find peace again, and be healed; by His grace.
                                            But only when I step away..."Bado kidogo..." He says.

* Bado kidogo is a phrase in Swahili that roughly translated means, "just a little bit farther."  :)

Creator or Custodian

I'm looking through the living room window this morning at the sunlight pushing its way onto the walking trail behind our house.
There are some tall fir trees and a huge maple. The maple has leaves that remind me of dinosaur footprints, waving back and forth in a gentle breeze, swaying in the sunlight and shadow.
There are smaller, evergreen seedlings and various bushes lining the trail.
There is a shrub with small white blossoms, another with purplish ones and one plant with tiny red berries to add color.
It is beauty.
It is warming.
It is comforting.
I made none of it.
I just get the opportunity to view it and be thankful.

Somehow, this is a reminder to me that in this process called life, I am in great need of being shaped by someone other than myself.  I need a Creator.

To some degree this is the sentiment behind Psalm 62:1 - Take me to the rock that is higher than I.

I am concerned at times that instead of seeing God as one who we are in awe of, as one who is wholly different and beyond us, and yet has a deep, self-sacrificing and passionate love for us, we more or less see Him as our Custodian instead of our Creator.

In other words, we look at the relationship to God as though He stands at the ready, ONLY to make alterations in us that we grant Him approval to make.  We also instruct Him as to when those alterations should happen.  In other words,  we come to Him when we believe it's time for a bit of maintenance, or clean up; only when we are certain that we REALLY NEED that kind of attention.  

So, when He interferes with our plan, without our approval, we are resentful.
When He asks for more of us than what we feel is a fair commitment of time, energy or resource, we back away from him and complain.
It also shows up when we get our feelings hurt by someone, or something that happens which troubles us.  Our response is that we don't pray, or read our bible for a week or a month...or six months. We skip worship at the church we attend and say, "we need a break!"  (Someone is reading this right now and is irritated with me for this observation; feeling like I am being too narrow in my perception of the Christian experience.)

Let me say this, just to help...Church attendance is not the measure of our faith.
However, can I also say that our lack of attendance, does not equate to a greater freedom in Christ.

I guess what I am leading up to is that when I allow myself to be "author and finisher of my faith," it may seem like I am in control, but I'm actually removing Jesus from his role as Creator, and have made him into a

                                                     Jesus, who is my Custodian.

If the truth of God,
                    His living, reality in my life,
                                                             by His Spirit,
                   does not have the freedom to work through me the way He desires it to work,
           I may be more comfortable.    
                                     But is "comfortable" what I really want?

Many years ago, Rich Mullins wrote a beautiful song that lyrically addresses some of the thoughts I have tried to connect within this post.  My favorite lines in the song say this in relation to God's truth,
     
I did NOT make it,  No! it is making me.
It is the very truth of God and not the invention of any man.

Enjoy!: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i3i-_VWxOAc
(This is a re-recording by Third Day/Brandon Heath)



                            

Jogging With George Jetson

As a pastor, it has always been a challenge for me to speak truth that has an edge to it.  Truth that brings comfort is hopeful and easy to deliver.  Truth that brings challenge is difficult to share.  With that thought in mind, here goes:

I believe that fear is working to drain the life out of the church in the United States.  We have not been surrounded and had the hope strangled out of us, we have handed it over freely in favor of a "holy huddle" until Jesus comes.  

To expand a bit...There is evil in the world.  It does exist.  Since Genesis we have had pain, problems and death (and this is just the short list).  But our real issue is that we have forgotten how to rally under The Banner of Love in the church in order come against that evil.    

We act as though the end is near (insert cardboard street-sign here) and duck for cover.  We grimly cling to a truth that protects, preserves and insulates us from the pain around us.  What if, instead, we moved outside the four walls of the church, and carried with us the truth that protects, preserves and reconciles others who are in pain.  Isn't that what is defined by Paul's words (2 Cor. 5:16-20) when he calls ALL OF US to be "ambassadors?"

So, let's not get sucked into the trap of fear, or it will swallow us up like George Jetson's treadmill.   Come on church!

"Do not go gentle into that good night...Rage, rage against the dying of the light." Pick the right battles.  Choose to have courageous conversations with your neighbor; someone who is not like yourself.

There is a fresh harmony that can return to the church today.  Honestly, it isn't new.  It's something that has been encouraged throughout the scripture story.  It's an idea that could unleash The Spirit of God like the prophet Joel spoke about and Luke repeated in Acts 2.  It bridges all that tries to separate. We have only to walk boldly, humbly and repentant toward that harmony.  A blend of race, gender, culture and age that we have somehow forgotten through time, but that the word challenges us towards over and over again.

I truly believe that His Spirit will surround us in this mission.  :)

It won't be easy.  Through time, we have given our enemy too much tether to snare us with.  Too many stereotypes to bind us in.  Still, if we allow Christ to work in us and through us, He will tear apart the tether and release us from those stereotypes that have kept us from the dreams and visions that Joel spoke about.  He will bring restoration to the church, and,
                  
                             "...all the powers of hell will not conquer it!"  (Matthew 16:18)



* For those needing a smile today: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t2Z8kPpLg1g

** For those who want a challenge today, The Sound, by Switchfoot, a music video in honor of Dr. John Perkins, a leader in the civil rights movement and someone I was fortunate enough to meet at a pastor's gathering at Highline College:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mNQgABsUfK8
(BTW - If you are more accustomed to quieter music  :)  you may wish to turn the volume down, however Dr. Perkin's comments are interspersed into the song)

Let Nothing Be Between Us

What I hate...and I rarely use that word, because it is so burdensome, is watching a family disintegrate because they have squared off against each other.  I have seen it happen in all kinds of settings; in counseling, at funerals, even weddings.  It's so disheartening to watch.  It usually begins with something small.  Something hardly worth mentioning.  A pin-prick.  Then it grows.  Fear and selfishness push it along until the pain blossoms into a rage, a wall or a weapon.

I am not concerned about anything that would challenge us from outside the family.   We were given  more than enough to stand that test.  Like the woman in the city square, the stones were gathered in a circle at her feet, but none of them touched her.  And she rose from that place; whole and without condemnation, embraced by the love extended by the head of her new family.

I sometimes wonder though.  Once He restored her and brought her into the family, was the rest of the household able to see her as Jesus did, or was their memory too long and their love too shallow to handle it.  We give up on each other so quickly.  If God's house ever goes empty, this will be the reason why.  It won't have anything to do with the world.  It will have to do with fear and selfishness that hides out in the family.

We can't allow for that.  We just can't.  I don't know who, or how, but I'm certain I have wronged someone.  I can say that it wasn't intentional, but I know that doesn't help.  I wish they could tell me about it and that we could work it out.  I am certain we can, if we can only both lay down our fear and selfishness.  In the midst of the wind and the flame described in Acts 2, we were given the most unifying power the world has ever known, the Spirit of God.  How can we keep hold of the hurt that separates when we have access to such a power to heal?

Years ago, I jotted down some thoughts that still remind me that his plan has always been that wherever we go as a family, that we would go  together....you and me...lets never forget it.

The Church...in the beginning

At first, just His voice in the wind above the darkness,

         and somehow,

                 even then I was on His mind,

                                            and so were you.

There we were, names on the lips  of a voice from heaven.

A joyous potential, unveiled in the reflection of forever hopeful eyes.

As we have grown, we are drawn back to that voice in the wind.

It was our hands that ignorantly constructed

                                       the framework of our own forgiveness from the tree

His word spoke into existence so long ago.

                              Yet, isn’t that how it has always been?

The one who we cannot see,

      has gone before our every triumph and tragedy,

                                                               building corridors,

                                                                               and windows

that guide the broken and spilled pieces of who we are back to Him.

Yesterday,

I thought that I heard him again;

calling me back toward that quiet place

and in that same sentence

He was telling me to take your hand as well,

so that we might come together. 

I could not find you, but I will continue the search.

For there is something about you holding His hand

and me holding His hand

                  and our hands together,

that was a part of that plan in the long ago.

There have been times when I couldn’t find you

             and you couldn’t find me

                            and even times when we rested alone

in uneasy places where we couldn’t find Him,

                                                                    either of us.

But His voice above that darkness too, has led me back to Him and also back to you.

And we both know that our paths

will never be so far apart that I can’t see you over there....

no matter how tall the grass grows between us.

Where Do I Live?

They left last week; the grand-babies.

Going back to live near the other grandparents.  I have told myself it is good.  We need to share.  

But, I know there will be so many moments like this one that I will miss...

We were getting ready to go for a chilly walk along the rocky coastline at Saltwater State Park.  Her arms were entwined behind her back.  She twisted at the waist, back and forth and smiled at me.

"I'm ready to go Papa."

I sized her up.  
Sox and shoes on.  
Jacket too. 
She was ready.

I looked down at her shoes again and thought back to what seemed only a few weeks ago, and said, 
"You get your shoes on the right feet all the time now don't you!?"

She nodded and smiled again, and then said, "Remember, you told me that time at the beach that the toes always point in.  So, now I got it and I won't pinch my feet anymore."

"Yep," I said with an affirmative nod.
Then, I put my hand on her shoulder, steering her toward the doorway, and we left the house.

There have been many times that the lesson didn't stick.
There were many approaches.
Gentle.
Urgent.
Diplomatic.
Reasonable.
Bargaining.
Joking.
Fear-tactics.
Prodding.
Near-begging.
Warning.
Contemplative.
Comparative.
I've tried them all.

The hard part is that the recipe for successful teaching seldom repeats.  At least not with this one.  She will look into my eyes and I into hers and I will think there is a connection that will produce understanding...and change.
But it's not always so.  There is a flicker in the eye, followed by a head-tilt, then busy hands or feet or both and I know that my lecture fell on deaf ears.
AND I love her.
AND she loves me.
AND... she does whatever she wants.

It's easy to be an upset Papa when that happens; to be grumpy, but it's no fun.  Especially, when the sun is shining and our shoes are on and the outdoors is calling us toward adventure.  So, what do I do with the frustration that comes when my wisdom gets treated like a branch of broccoli on her dinner plate, and is pushed to the side in favor of....well...anything else?

Instead of trying to answer this question I have been drawn to another.
What does Christ do when I have responded to his wisdom in the same fashion?
I wonder how often he has used all of the methods listed above:  Gentle words, urgent words, words of warning, words of reason....and still I have chosen my own way above his.  Why?

I think it has do to with where I live...

I'm not talking about geography.  I'm talking about my heart.
There are words we use in the church, but only sometimes.
And we speak them with our head bowed usually.
Surrender. 
          Consecration.  
                             Repentance.  
                                             Submission.
                                                               Contrition.
They relate to our ability first to hear and second to yield to the voice of Christ in us.
They relate to our ability to "stay clay" in his hands; moldable to whatever shape he is wanting to fashion us into.
The truth is that sometimes, I struggle against, instead of yielding unto that work.  There is something in me that wants to be done with that process; wants for the work of repentance to be completed.
The actions of my will at that point are: 
                                           debate...defense...reaction...posturing.
The actions of my will when I'm living in repentance, are:
                                                         listening... open... responding...learning.

The Message bible translates Paul's words in Romans 12:1 like this:  So here’s what I want you to do, God helping you: Take your everyday, ordinary life—your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking-around life—and place it before God as an offering. Embracing what God does for you is the best thing you can do for him. 

For me, this is it.  Where will I live?  I want to live in repentance.  In some ways, it requires far less and yet produces far more.  It's peace and it's power.  It's grace that sustains.  One day at a time.  One conversation at a time.
                                      So let it be done in me.  :)

Learning to let the right voice tell us who We REALLY Are

     Years ago, in the first church I pastored, we had one of those number boards that hung at the rear of the sanctuary. Usually the ushers would post the total attendance right after the morning offering. Shortly after accepting the invitation to pastor that church, it was announced with great fanfare, across our district, that there would be an attendance competition, and the winner stood to receive a new fax machine!  We didn’t even own a computer and it was the 90’s for heaven’s sake. I was determined that we would win this fax machine and show everyone that we had joined the technological age.

     On one particular Sunday, during the height of this attendance drive, the ushers had put the number up on the board earlier than usual. To me, it looked to be a bigger crowd than the figure that was posted. Yet my estimate came from my seat on the platform. So I decided that I should walk down the side of the sanctuary, like I had a message for the ushers and get back to the platform before the offertory was finished, doing a quick count, from front to back as I walked.  I was doing pretty good, counting and shaking hands as I went, but about two-thirds of the way down the aisle I failed to take into account the low height of one of the stained wooden beams that supported the beautiful natural wood ceiling in our sanctuary. Either I was too tall, or the ceiling was to low. I’m not sure which is the case, but one thing I know for certain, a six-inch, micro-lam cross beam doesn’t give much when it comes into direct contact with a human head. Whack! I smacked the side of my head into the beam. About six or eight of the people in the pew witnessed the alarming event and immediately began to laugh.

     Needless to say, I lost count in the collision, and so discontinued the effort. After the offertory I told the congregation what had happened and they all laughed with me (or at me, I’m not sure which). I have never attempted to recount a total again. Although, admittedly it is still an occasional temptation. In fact, that week I moved the board to a place where I couldn’t even see it. I wish I could have burned it. As long as that silly thing was around I gave it more value than I should have. 

This lesson became even clearer to me through the near-tragic testimony of a good friend...

     The boat cut smoothly across the clear, blue water of Anderson Reservoir, up above I-84 and in between Boise and Twin Falls, Idaho. The motor purred, near silently and our spin bait was drawn several lengths behind the boat as we trolled for kokanee salmon. We had already caught a handful, and they swam anxiously in the live-catch hold inside the boat. The sun was beginning to set as we made one last, long pass across the near side of the lake, now becoming shrouded in shadows that were creeping toward the east-side of the canyon walls.

     My fishing friend broke the silence, “It was right up there,” he said, pointing to an area on the bluffs above.

     “I just pulled the truck over and pulled out my shotgun.”

     I listened intently, my eyes on his figure silhouetted against the opposite side of the boat.

    “I would have pulled the trigger, except I kept thinking about what would happen to my wife and kids.”

     The boat continued ahead, cutting a rippled “V” in the crystalline water. In the following moments my friend explained to me about how the criticism and wrongful condemnation of the community, in particular people who he counted as supporters had brought him to this state of confusion. My friend is a big man, a former college football linebacker, once even a prospect for the NFL. It’s hard to believe that mere words could break someone like that,...and yet they almost had; completely. I cannot comment on the right or wrong of all that happened in respect to his situation, however, I can with certainty say that it was the opinion of others that wounded my friend’s heart to the point that this quiet, mountain of a man was ready to take his own life.

     I know that too often, too many of us listen too much to what others have to say about who we are. Now, without question, I believe that we need to have some in our lives who we remain accountable to. The problem comes when we begin to base the success or failure of our life on the response we get from others. Whether it’s the attendance figures at our church, the won-loss record of our team, making or not making the cheerleading squad, winning or not winning the class election. The list goes on and on.

My creator knit me together in my mother’s womb and all His works are wonderful...(Psalm 139:14)

 He is the only one I want to allow to have an opinion regarding the success or failure of my life’s endeavors. My hunch is that if I commit each day to Him, one at a time, doing my best to live within His call for my life, that when the day is done, His usual comment to me, regardless of the score, will be, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant!”

A Stolen Christmas

     We had become three.
     A family.
     Our first daughter was born on December 4th.
     On December 24th we piled all that we planned to share with Rhonda's family for Christmas into the 1969 VW Squareback and headed South, down Interstate-5.
     Rhonda had spent weeks creating special homemade ornaments for her parents and her sister's family.  They were made of baked clay, intricately hand-painted and then varnished. She had put wire loops into the top of each, and tied ribbon to the loops so that they could hang from trees.  There were snowmen, Santa, Mrs. Claus, reindeer, candy canes and other incredibly and wonderfully made symbols of the season that my mind can no longer take hold of.  My wife is a very talented woman.  This collection of pieces was a labor of love for her family as well as a money-saving device for us during this "first-as-a-family-we-don't-have-much-money" sort of Christmas celebration.
     We had managed a single gift for each of the family members, in the weeks before Christmas, but nothing elaborate or costly.   Everything was wrapped, bowed, then gently and precisely-positioned into the back of the VW.
      Our daughter was nestled into her brand new carseat.  We had no idea how she would handle the 8-9 hour drive, but within the first hour after leaving home, her head fell forward against a padded support and she was out.  Our little car rambled on into the cold December night.
     Through Olympia and then Centralia.
     Past Portland and Corvallis.
     We were making really good time.
     Not a stir from the baby.
     As we drew close to Southern Oregon a fog descended onto the roadway until it enveloped the landscape ahead.  We had to drop our speed from 60 to 45.  From 45 to 30.  We had planned to arrive around 8pm.  The lights were on at a gas station in Grant's Pass so we pulled over, grabbed a snack and waited to see if the fog would lift a bit.  It didn't.  So, we got back into the car and drove.
     At one point we discussed that we should have called Rhonda's folks at the gas station, but we hadn't.
     It was 1986.
     A cellphone call wasn't an option.

     Instead of the fog moving away, it got thicker.  Most people had the sense to get off the road.  There was nearly no traffic on the highway.  The fog became so heavy I couldn't see the painted lines on the road before me.  I slowed the car to 20 mph, and then even slower.  It sounds crazy, but in order to stay in the lane, for a while, I opened the driver-side door and looked down to my left; just trying to keep the car to the right of the white, dotted line.  It got so bad, I decided to pull over to the shoulder of the freeway for a moment to discuss our options.  We talked about the possibility of staying right there until Christmas morning, but decided against it.   We edged back onto the road, and plugged along at 5-10 mph for what seemed like a long, long time.
      Finally, we saw a glow, amidst the haze in front of us, and in a little bit, road markers telling us of the coming exits into the city of Medford.  A big sigh of relief.  A few moments later and we had arrived at our destination.  It was close to midnight.  We were so tired, we just grabbed a few necessities, including our newborn baby and scrambled into the in-laws house, greeted the family that was there and were soon in bed and asleep.
     The next morning; Christmas day, with the smell of pancakes, bacon and coffee in the air, I trudged out to the VW to get all the packages that were left there the night before.  My wife's nephew, Seth, was bouncing along beside me excitedly, knowing that there was a present inside the hatchback for him.
     "Uncle Ev," he said, "Where are the presents!?"
     I had walked directly around to the driver's side of car, remembering something I needed to gather from the front seat area.
     "They are right there in the back," I replied.
     He was standing on the bumper, his two, little hands cupped together in a circle and peering between them through the rear window.
     "Where Uncle Ev?  I don't see them."
     "Just a second Seth.  They're right there.  I will help you with them after I find something else I left up front last night."
     "But I don't see them Uncle Ev.  Where are they?"
     "Right there in the back....just hold on okay?"
     "Okay."
     I closed the door to the driver's seat, walked past the frost-covered windows to the back of the car, lifted the hatch and reached in to grab all those carefully wrapped gifts that had traveled with us from Enumclaw, WA to Medford, OR.  Only....there was nothing to grab.  Everything was gone.  I looked at the empty space for second, and rubbed my eyes like it was a mirage, closed the back and walked Seth into the house.
     I asked if anyone had gone out to the car to bring our stuff inside already.
     A chorus of negative responses.
     My heart sank as I shared with the rest of the family, the reality of what had taken place during the dark of Christmas Eve-night.  Everything but the baby's carseat had been removed from our car.  All of the presents and ornaments were gone.  Even my wife's winter jacket, which I had bought for her the Christmas before, when we lived in Chicago.
     I have never tried before now to write this story down.  Some years it comes to mind for Rhonda or I, but we don't really spend much time discussing it.  Not because it is too painful to recount.  The truth is, it has become more of story about faithfulness than tragedy.  I remember the pain of the moment only slightly.  I hurt most for my wife who had put her heart into the special-made gifts that she had prepared.  The rest of the stuff was replaceable.  Those items were not.
     For a while I held out hope that somewhere, somehow the police might stumble upon some hand-made ornaments cast aside in alley-way in the city and call us to come pick them up.  They did not.  So, mostly the whole event has drifted away into the abyss of past memory, supplanted in time by all the Christmases where we received abundantly more than what we have needed or deserved.
     We are contented.
     We have been taken care of.
     That was 31 years ago.
     The year that Christmas was stolen, but not really.  
     The holiday was wrapped in the joy of the journey that God had brought us through to get to that day.  Not just the drive through the night, but the longer journey of our lives.
     Once, we were two young people in college.
     Then we were dating.
     Then we were engaged.
     Then we were married.
     Then we were a family.
     There was lots to think on and be thankful for.
     The pancakes, bacon and coffee of Christmas morning still tasted oh so good in spite of the rough beginning.
     And today I am convinced that no one can steal from you, anything that you have freely let go of already.  
     He is faithful.
     He is trustworthy.
     In Him we find completeness and wholeness.
                                                                   In Him we lack no good gift.