Our Father…

Jesus said when we pray, we are to begin with “Our Father…”  This got me thinking, “What if my Heavenly Father lived in my house?”

Would he sit down on the edge of my bed in the morning and say, “Time to get up!  I have made an amazing day for you.”  Would we talk over breakfast about the day ahead?  Would he remind me that I would face temptations, but that he would always make a way out for me?  As I walked out the door, would he say, “Remember, I will never leave you or forsake you?”

Would he call me mid-morning to check in?  Would he encourage me about an upcoming meeting that might go badly?  Would he give me an idea for a project I was working on?  Would he tell me that I would run into a colleague, and she would be crying, and that I should not rush past her, but encourage her?

Would he come by and pick me up for lunch?  Would he ask how my morning went?  When I tell him about my “little white lie,” would his eyebrows arch in a questioning look?  Would he gently remind me I need to acknowledge that “little white lie” as a sin, ask forgiveness, and go back and apologize to the person I lied to?  Would he send me off with a warm embrace?

When I get stuck with a problem I can’t figure out, I’d call him.  Would he tell with a chuckle that he faced that problem before and give me an idea how to solve it?  Would he remind me to call someone I promised to keep up with? 

When I was tempted to leave work early, would I remember his teaching, to put in a full day’s work to get a full day’s pay?  He taught me so much: would I remember not to stare at the attractive woman walking down the street?  Would I remember not to be angry with the driver who cut me off?  Instead of judging the guy with the loudspeakers that rattle my car and teeth, would I remember not to judge him, but try to understand him?

When I got home, would he be waiting to hear about my day?  Would I feel the urge to tell him about the times I didn’t live by his teaching, or the five occasions I violated his rules?  If I confess, would I again feel his warm hug, telling me he forgives me and loves me?

Would we cook supper together, maybe sing some songs together?  Maybe we would sing an old hymn or a new contemporary song.  Or maybe we would sing “Always stay humble and kind,” by Tim McGraw.  One thing I know: My Heavenly Father has perfect pitch.

What would we talk about at supper?  Would we talk about his heartbreaks, how wars trouble him deeply?  Would we talk about the homeless man I gave five dollars to, but never asked his name?  When I ask him if it will rain tomorrow, he smiles and says, “We’ll see.”

I doubt we would watch TV.  Honestly, it’s no fun watching “Jeopardy” with him; he knows all the answers.  Instead, he might tell me stories that date back thousands of years, stories of how David killed Goliath, or how Solomon fell deeply in love with a girl and wrote her a love poem, or how he told the prophet Hosea to marry a prostitute.  I might ask, “Why in your name did you ask him to do that?”  Would he smile and say, “It was the best way for him to learn about grace.”

He might even tell me some funny stories, like how his other son, Jesus, once walked three miles with some men who thought he was dead, and they never recognized him.  Or he might tell me about the time he told Abraham and Sarah they were going to have a baby in their nineties, and they both laughed so hard, they snorted. 

When it was time to go to bed, I would thank him for being such a great Dad.  I would thank him for forgiving me for the dumb things I did that day.  I would ask him to give me good advice on how to live the next day.  I would ask if there was anything else I needed to cover.  And I would go to bed, knowing that he would be up all night (he never seemed to need sleep), watching over me.

When Jesus taught us to pray “Our Father,” I think this is what he had in mind.  We would learn to do life with our Heavenly Father.  His son would teach us.  His Spirit would guide us.  We would be encouraged.  We would never be alone.  A life of joy could be ours.

So, what’s stopping you from doing life with your Heavenly Father?

Imagine Your Life as a Movie…

Imagine your life as a movie.  I once heard a motivational speaker issue this challenge.  Your life, he said, is a movie, and the script isn’t finished.  It’s up to you to decide if your life finishes as a tragedy or a comedy. 

I’m not sure I agree with that last statement. 

I can imagine my life as a movie.  The opening scene is a year-old baby, sitting on a horse in front of his Dad.  The scene shifts to a confusing night an eighteen-month-old cannot understand; why is Mama crying and why is Daddy not there, and why will Daddy never come home again.

There are scenes from childhood, of exploring orange groves, pastures, and woods with my dog Mo, going to school with my lifelong friends.  Then my mother marries my stepfather, and I step into the strange world of Florida suburbia.  High School is music, band, and championships.

The thread throughout the movie is this early, strange call to be a pastor.  I am a leader in church.  I preach my first sermon at sixteen.  I go to college to learn the Bible, how to think theologically.  I have my first serious romance.  I have my second serious romance.

There are mistakes and sins.  Just because you are called into ministry doesn’t mean you are immune from saying “Yes” to bad choices.  I go to seminary.  I stay out a year to pastor my first church.  I go back to school, met a girl and fall deeply in love.  I decide to stay and get my Ph.D. I am called to my second church.  There, I discover not everyone likes me.  I propose.  She says yes.  I struggle with my coursework and working full-time.  We marry.  I’m called to a new church.  God delivered us.

Our son is born.  I write my dissertation, an unreadable analysis of three chapters in Job.  I pass oral exams. Our daughter is born.  I graduate – Jimmy Carter is the speaker.

I’m ready to move.  Nothing works out for two years.  I get depressed.  Finally, a church in a place I’ve never heard of, Sumter, SC, calls me to serve. 

We move.  God shows up.  The church grows.  It’s exciting.  Our last daughter is born.  The church votes to relocate.  People in town think we are crazy.  I need to make more money.  I teach classes at local colleges. 

We move into the new building.  The church keeps growing.  The Great Recession hits.  The church struggles through tough times.  We emerge.  God keeps working. 

The kids graduate.  They go to college.  Smart kids equal expensive colleges.  God provides.  The church is doing well.  We launch a new campus. 

My oldest daughter gets married.  Son gets married.  Covid.  Controversy over a column I write.  Raise money and build building for campus.  Sister dies from cancer.  First grandson is born.  Brother/best friend dies from cancer.  Now I run the family ranch and pastor a church.  Launch second campus.  Knee replacement.

Start to think about retirement.  Start process.  Second grandson is born. 

Which brings us to today.  As I look back, I realize I wasn’t the only one writing the script.  Satan and the forces of evil were trying to wrestle the pen away from me, encouraging me to make wrong choices and decisions.  They were often successful.  The lie they told me was that they could write a better script than I could.  The tragedy is how often I believed their lies. 

God also offered to take the pen and write.  Funny how it seems like letting God write my story feels like losing control, when letting Satan write the script is also losing control, but doesn’t feel like it.

I look back and I see God leading me down the right paths, guiding choices, granting me blessings beyond measure. 

My movie isn’t over.  I don’t know how long this life/movie will last.  I hope it lasts a long time with good health.  Don’t we all?  I do know this: when God is writing the script, my life, my story, my movie is better.

I don’t agree with the motivational speaker who said I get to write the ending to my story, to decide if my life is a tragedy or a comedy.  I remember from English class that tragedy leaves you sad at the ending; comedy leaves you smiling.   I’m not sure life is that simple.  I’ve known many believers who lived tragic lives.  But I also know the great promise of Jesus: there is a life beyond death, and in that life, if we are his children, his followers, there is great joy, great feasting, and great music.  There is a triumphal sound in heaven, a melody of joy that reverberates throughout the city of God. 

When God is writing your script, your life is a joyous comedy, because you know, no matter what tragedy falls on you, God will work out all things for good.

Just be sure to keep the pen in His hand.  Let him write the script.

A Long Way Down…

Maybe it is because I grew up in the Florida flatlands.  Maybe it is because I was pushed off a dock when I was little.  Maybe it is because I jumped off a sandhill when I was six and sprained my ankle. I really don’t know why, but I am afraid of heights. 

It is embarrassing at times.  I was with a group of friends in Chicago, and they convinced me to go to the observation deck of the Willis Tower, once the tallest building in the world.  Not wanting to admit my fears, I went up and spent the next thirty minutes clinging to the walls, away from the glass.  I felt this panicky feeling that unless I held onto the wall, the whole building was going to come down.  There were parents who foolishly let their children lean on the glass.  I still feel a knot in my stomach when I think about it.

We celebrated one of my birthdays by going to Chimney Rock in North Carolina.  There were beautiful views, but also steep drop-offs.  My courageous wife would go out ten feet from the edge and look down.  I got down on all fours and crawled away from the ledge.  Not my most manly moment.

I went to a USC-Florida game and had to sit in the upper deck.  A Clemson engineer must have designed it because when “Sandstorm” played, that deck started to bounce.  I was already struggling not to freak out, but the bounce nearly did me in.

Recently, we went to an Atlanta Braves game at Truist Park.  My son-in-law made the arrangements.  I know he thought he was doing us proud by getting us good seats in the upper deck, first-base side, second row.  Going up to our seats didn’t bother me.  But we had to walk down to the seats.  The closer we got to our seats, the more my old fear of heights kicked in.  I knew if I tripped, there was only a pane of glass to stop my fall to the deck below. 

We were in the middle of the second row and had to squeeze past folks.  Sitting next to me was a man not as tall as I, but rather large.  Now I felt my fear of heights full on, plus a bit of claustrophobia. 

I was calming down when the batter hit a foul ball.  As it rose to eye level, panic took over.  The fear triggers in my brain said, “That ball is going to hit you!  Run!” while simultaneously saying, “Freeze, you fool!”  Every foul ball was like that.  My wife knew I was moving towards a panic attack.  She kept saying, “Deep breaths, deep breaths.”

I began to adjust by the fourth inning.  But I would see a child in the first row pull up on the glass barrier and look down.  In reality, they were in no danger, but just seeing them caused the bottom of my stomach to fall out.

By the sixth inning, I was thirsty.  I turned to my wife and asked her to get me a drink.  She understood I could not move and kindly got my drink and some popcorn.  Having sat for two hours, under normal circumstances I would need to avail myself to the “facilities,” but every part of my body was in a nervous clench.

The Braves won the game, and we made our departure.  I looked away from the field and up to the concourse where I knew relief awaited.  Funny, once I was back up on the concourse, the panicky feeling went away. 

There is a verse in the Psalms: “I look to the hills.  Where does my help come from?  My help comes from the LORD, the maker of heaven and earth.” I admit I prayed my entire time in my seat.  I did not pray for the Braves to win (added bonus), but I prayed for God to bring me peace, to trust him even with my irrational fears.

Sometimes people have a good reason to be afraid.  Sometimes fears make no sense at all.  Either way, the Good News is that God is there, walking with us, gently reminding us that he is greater than our greatest fear.   Whatever your fear, bring it to God.  Pray.  Listen to his response.  Ask to sense his presence.  Remember David’s words: “…I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.” 

I imagined God keeping his staff between me and that thin piece of glass.  It helped. 

But next time, I will remind my son-in-law that the scripture says, “Lo, I am with you always.”  Not high.  Lo(w).  No use making God work overtime on my fears.

Never Trust a Man with a Clean Pickup…

I remember when my stepfather, Lawrence, bought a new truck.  He took me and my brother Steve aside and sternly warned us: “Now, this truck has to last a long time.  All three of us are going to be driving this truck.  I want you boys to be careful when you drive it and keep it clean.”

Thankfully, Steve put the first dent in the truck when he backed into a tree and bent the bumper.  Lawrence never yelled at us, but he had a way of reprimanding you that made you feel about five years old.  Usually, it was because we acted like five-year-olds. 

Because Steve put the first dent in the truck, I didn’t get in as much trouble as when I got it stuck in a pond.  It would take me years before I learned four-wheel drive was not the same as amphibious.  

Lawrence himself was not immune to tearing up the truck.  I was with him when he tried to chase a bull out of a pasture in the truck.  He hit a bull hole at thirty miles an hour and tore the front suspension out. 

The truck lasted two years.  Though it only had 40,000 miles on it when Lawrence traded it for a new model, the salesman said it looked like it had been ridden hard and put up wet.

He bought another truck, and again, Steve and I were told the truck had to last a long time, we had to keep it clean, etc.  It wasn’t long before a tree ran out in front of me, and I put a big dent in the side.  The bed quickly filled up with assorted tools, cans of WD-40, hoes, shovels, and axes.  The dirt in the orange groves migrated to film inside the truck.  In two years, this truck was passed down to Richard, the man who worked for us. 

We received the same speech when he bought the next new truck.  Thankfully, Lawrence was the first one to damage this truck.  He was loading his bass boat at a landing, hit the trailer hard, and accidentally knocked the truck into neutral.  The truck gracefully rolled backwards while Lawrence watched helplessly from the boat.  With a few bubbles, it was gone.  Thankfully, I was out of state when this happened, or I’m sure I would have been blamed.

It was about this time that a man came by the barn one day.  He was driving a shiny new truck that seemed to repel dirt and mud.  When he got out, his shirt and jeans were pressed.  I caught a glimpse of the inside of his truck.  It was spotless.  Richard leaned over to me and said, “Never trust a man with a clean truck.  He’s always trying to sell you something.”  Sure enough, the man tried to sell Lawrence an insurance policy.

Every truck I’ve owned got dirty.  The convenience of throwing something in the bed so it will be there when you need it is too tempting.  When my children were small, they did not help keep it clean.  I would find mummified gummy worms covered in dirt, lint, and hair.  However, the dogs still ate them.

I bought my current truck seven years ago.  It was immaculate; it had been owned by a salesman.  I told my wife, “I’ve got to keep this truck clean.”  That lasted about two weeks.

The dent on the right side happened when I tried to make a turn through a gate that was too narrow.  I busted out the cover on the right rear taillight twice (but it still works).  The driver’s seat has a big hole in it, but it doesn’t bother me.  My toolbox has a layer of grease from a grease tube that busted.  I keep a shovel, a hoe, and a pickaxe in the bed of the truck.  Right now, I have a sprayer filled with fly spray for the cows, an empty container of herbicide, a gallon of diesel fuel, and about an inch of hay and dirt up under the toolbox.  There is mud behind every tire well and some on the hood from where I got bogged down in the pasture last week.  I need to run the truck through the wash pretty soon.

Jesus once told the Pharisees they were like whitewashed tombs.  Attractive on the outside, full of rotten stuff on the inside.  He warned them and us not to pretend like we are perfect, like we have it all together.  The scripture says, “No one is righteous, no not one.”   Another way to say this is, “No one has it all together, no not one.”

My friend John Ortberg says he wishes we could start worship like they start 12-step group meetings: “Hi, I’m Clay, and I’m a sinner.”  Isn’t it strange that to begin our walk with Jesus, we must confess this reality, and then many of us spend energy to create the illusion that we no longer have any flaws?  Pride leads to self-righteousness.  Self-righteousness creates distance between you and your Heavenly Father. 

I think this is what Micah meant when he told us to “…walk humbly with our God.”  Admit we are broken.  Ask God for grace.  Pray to not be led into temptation.  Repeat.

My life, like my truck, is broken and dirty.  But Jesus and I are working on that.  I’m not as broken as I once was.  I’ve cleaned up a lot.  I still have a ways to go.  Don’t we all?

Inventory…

We lived off the ranch for ten years.  My stepfather managed the S.H. Kress store in downtown St. Petersburg.  Every year, the store closed on New Year’s Day for inventory.  This was before computerized inventory.  Every item in the store had to be counted.  I’m not sure why.  Maybe it was for tax purposes.  Maybe it was for preparing the annual report.  It never made sense to me. 

I remember the old Jerry Clower story of the dad who ran a general store in a Mississippi town.  His son, a new graduate from Ole Miss, closed the store one day.  When his dad came in, he was surprised to see the door locked and a sign that said, “Closed for inventory.”  When he went in, he asked his son what was going on.  The son replied that they had to take inventory to see how the store was doing.  The Dad said, “Son, go to the back of the store and on the top shelf near the door is the first piece of inventory we ever bought: A bolt of purple cloth.  Everything else in this store is profit.  Now open those doors and let’s serve our customers.”

As children, we were not asked to help out during inventory; we were told to be up at 6 AM, and we would all go down to work alongside the regular store employees.  My sisters ran the office, tallying up the reports.  My brothers did the storerooms.  Various employees inventoried their departments.  As the youngest, I was assigned to count things that no one else wanted to count. 

My first year, I counted postcards.  Thank goodness I passed third-grade math.  I pulled one rack of cards and counted them; then the next.  It took me about twenty minutes to count each rack.  There were forty-eight racks.  I worked most of the day on the postcards, till my brothers told me to count the number of cards in an inch and then measure the stacks of cards.  In the process, God revealed to me that I was not cut out to be an accountant.

One year, I was assigned to count the toy department.  It took me longer than the postcards.  Not because there were that many toys, but I felt to be responsible, I needed to count and test each toy.  My stepfather surprised me in the middle of this joy, and I was reassigned to ladies’ underwear.  I was eleven, and lingerie was repulsive to me. I closed my eyes and counted as quickly as I could.

Have you ever done an inventory of your soul?  Most of us don’t.  To ponder our defects of character, to face the reality of our sins, to see clearly the damage we have done to others brings pain and shame.  Even Jesus followers want to throw paper over our character flaws.  That’s why we resort to blanket confessions: “Heavenly Father, forgive me of all my sins.”  John Ortberg aptly observed, “Bland confessions are like taking a shower with your clothes on.  You are spared the embarrassment of nakedness, but you really don’t get clean.”

We used to say, “Confession is good for the soul.”  Now we believe we shouldn’t dwell on the negative and only think positive, self-affirming thoughts.  The problem with this therapeutic way of thinking is reality.  Every person has flaws, makes mistakes, and does wrong when they know the right thing to do.  Only when we face the reality of our soul’s condition can we begin to receive forgiveness, release guilt and shame, and get healthy.

You need a daily time to be still and take inventory of the day.  You can use the Ten Commandments as a guide or the seven deadly sins.  For example, did I put God first today?  Did I attach God’s name to something he would not approve of (see social media)?  Did someone or something other than God guide my life?  Did I rest? Did I give God time when I focused on him?  Do I honor the good work my parents did in my life?  Do I forgive them for their imperfections?  Do I harbor hate in my heart for anyone? When did I lie today? Have I taken anything that did not belong to me?  Do I treat people as sexual objects? Am I faithful in relationships? When have I been greedy? Do I value money or possessions more than God?

You can also use the fruit of the Spirit to take inventory of the positive things in your life.  Do I love like Jesus? Am I living a life of joy? Do I have peace that is greater than my anxiety? Am I patient? Am I kind? Am I gentle in difficult situations? Am I generous? Am I faithful to my commitments? Do I have self-control?

What does your soul inventory reveal? Could it be that God is pleased with the positive and wants to clean up the negative?

Taking inventory is hard.  It is humbling.  It is essential. When you take inventory, you can finally face the reality of who you are.  Taking inventory will show you how much you need God.

The Next Pope...

(This article was written before the announcement of new Pope being chosen, but the same rings true)

I feel strange writing about who will be the next Pope.  I’m not a Catholic.  But I am not of the tribe of Baptists who think Catholics are going to hell.  I was a hospital chaplain with a young Catholic priest, and I was impressed by his devotion and faith.  Catholic writers like Thomas Merton and Henri Nouwen have spoken deeply to my soul.

I admired Pope Francis.  He seemed to be a compassionate man, with genuine care for the poor and a desire for justice.  Instead of appointing Cardinals from traditional bastions of power in Europe and North America, he diversified the college of Cardinals by appointing men from around the world.  Again and again, he spoke of God as a God of love for all people, not just a few.

The history of the Roman Catholic church is problematic.  There have been many abuses of power that date back centuries. Scandals involving sex and greed are woven into sterling examples of selflessness and devotion.  Yes, the present scandals of the church are inexcusable.  Attempts to keep secrets are reprehensible.  The miracle is God works through imperfect people and imperfect churches to advance his Kingdom.

My own tribe of Baptists has its own abuses and scandals.  Southern Baptists particularly were strong proponents of segregation and racial apartheid.  A famous Southern Baptist pastor, W.A. Criswell, declared to the South Carolina legislature in 1956 that, “Anyone who believes in integration is dead from the neck up.”  Not exactly in line with the teachings of Jesus.  We hear regularly about pastors who have abused children and had affairs.  Jesus did say, “Let him who has no sin cast the first stone.”  Baptists have no right to throw stones at anyone.

I think being Pope must be a hard calling.  Everyone in the world expects you to be perfect.  The press jump on every misstatement.  Fellow cardinals jockey for positions of power.  People notice when your eyes linger too long on a pretty woman and accuse you of harboring lustful thoughts.  Even moments of intentional humility, like washing the feet of the poor, are photographed.  Like the President of the United States, all the decisions that come to the Pope are hard ones.  The difference is that the Pope is elected for life; the President steps down after two terms (ever notice how every President ages in office?).

Now that Pope Francis is dead, the College of Cardinals is convening to select a new Pope.  The papacy is no longer bought and sold as it was in the Dark Ages.  There was a time when powerful Italian families controlled the papacy and traded it among themselves.  Reforms came, and the College of Cardinals developed a process to elect a Pope by secret ballot.  Adjusting to technology, today, cell phones are confiscated, and jammers are set up to prevent contact with the outside world.

Behind closed doors, there will be lobbying and politicking.  I do not condemn the Cardinals for this.  In my tribe, there are Zoom calls and late-night meetings to determine who will be selected for a one-year term as President of the Southern Baptist Convention. Every pastor knows there are meetings after the meeting in the church parking lot to determine what should really happen.

Here is the remarkable thing: somehow, through all our human ambition, our flawed nature, God works.  The promise of Romans 8:28 rises up: God is working good in all things for those called according to his purpose.  God has a way of sifting through our mess and making something beautiful happen.

No one expected John XXIII to be a great reformer and bring the church into the modern era.  John Paul II was a brilliant tactician who helped bring an end to Communism.  Pope Francis was a calm, peaceful voice in a turbulent, divided world.  God has a way of bringing the right people forward at the right time.

This is a good promise for all Jesus followers, Catholic, Protestant, and Orthodox, to embrace.  No matter what we face, God is at work.   William Cowper penned these words: “God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform …”  Jesus told us the Spirit blows where he wills.  I cannot fathom all the ways God steers the hearts of people, but I marvel at how he weaves our flaws into his purpose.

I was riding a bus in New York when a man asked me what I did.  I told him I was a pastor.  His understanding of Baptists and Catholics was not very clear.  He asked me if I was a priest who abused kids.  It was then I understood that to irreligious people, all Christians get lumped together.  Whether we are Catholic or not, non-Christians assume the Pope represents all the followers of Jesus.

So, I pray the new Pope will be a person who loves mercy, who does justice, and who walks humbly with our God.  Come to think of it, I need to pray that for myself, too.

-May 11, 2025

Is God Good?

Steve Jobs grew up going to church.  At age thirteen, a copy of “Life” magazine came to his house.  On the front cover was a picture of a starving child in Biafra, the rebel state of Nigeria.  Deeply moved, he brought the picture to church the following Sunday and asked his pastor if God knew about the famine in Biafra.  The pastor replied that God knew everything.  Then Jobs asked, “Then why doesn’t God do something about it?”  The pastor stumbled through an answer to an unanswerable question.  Jobs later pointed to this conversation as his turning point away from traditional Christianity to alternative forms of faith.

Steve Jobs was not the first person to wonder why God seemed unresponsive to suffering.  Charles Templeton, a contemporary of Billy Graham, turned away from Christian faith when he too saw a picture of a starving child.  Templeton said he would never allow a child to starve.  He concluded that there either was no god, or if there was a god, he was not good. 

It is strange when we see suffering, we quickly assume God should do something, that he is responsible.  In the case of the Biafra famine, the rebel government refused to allow planes with relief supplies to fly into their territory.  Was God to blame for that?  In places like South Sudan, food is often left to rot on the docks in Ethiopia because relief agencies refuse to bribe corrupt officials.  Is God to blame for that?

Of course, all suffering is not related to starvation.  Why does one cancer patient survive and another perish?  Why does the couple who longs for a child remain childless while another couple seems over-blessed with children?  Why is slavery still tolerated in India?  Why are oppressive dictators allowed to live in luxury while their people scratch for survival?  Our hearts are moved, and we wonder if God’s heart is moved. 

There is an answer, of course, but it does not make us happy.  God, being God, does know everything.  He is more aware of suffering than you are.  It is always before him.  But God also knows the importance of free will.  He allows people to sin, and their sin causes suffering. 

What about suffering that God seems to cause, like a drought?  The answer to this disappears into the mystery of God.  No book I have read can adequately explain this.  The best we can say is we do not know.  This causes people like Steve Jobs and Charles Templeton to turn away from God.  In doing so, they implicitly say, “We are smart enough to understand the ways of God, and he should explain Himself to us.” 

I have seen enough stupidity on the part of human beings (including myself) to believe we are not as smart as we think we are.  I do not believe that we are able to understand all there is to understand about God, an infinite being.  I’ve studied the book of Job enough to know God does not have to explain himself to human beings.

Any discussion of the goodness of God must consider not just suffering, but also the goodness in the world.  An old hymn says we are to “…Count your blessings, name them one by one.”

Oxygen is a blessing.  It is God-given.  It is free.  Gravity is a blessing.  Imagine a world where gravity is not a constant.  Color is a gift.  What if the world had only one color?  What if God chose gray?  Or olive-drab.  Even yellow would get tiresome after a while.

Your brain is a gift.  Without much thought, I imagine a letter and my fingers type it out.  My brain can remember instructions from typing class long ago.  I can remember how my mother’s fried steak smelled, the taste of her milk gravy on rice.  Even as I type that last sentence, my brain sends a message to my salivary glands to create more saliva in anticipation.

The stars are a gift.  What if we are alone in the universe?  What if God sprinkled all those stars and galaxies in the night sky for our pleasure? 

The ability to love is a gift.  Most animals breed based on lust.  Humans can love and bond.  No one had to tell me to love my grandsons.  My heart went out to them as naturally as a duck takes to water.

Jesus' followers believe that God’s greatest goodness is the gift of his son.  Millions upon millions have turned to Jesus for forgiveness of sins.  Lives have been changed, addictions broken.  Families have been healed; trauma has been redeemed.  God’s great gift is adoption into his family.  We become his children, and he holds us. 

When I look at the gifts and blessings of God, I choose to believe God is good.  I cannot explain all that is wrong with the world, but because I believe God is good, I trust he cares more about suffering and sin than I do.  I believe he cares about my suffering, even though I am far from starvation.  I also believe that as a follower of Jesus, my compassion must grow to be like God’s. 

Before you decide God is not good, be sure to look at both sides.  Do not make the mistake of assuming you can understand all his ways and thoughts.  After all, if you can understand everything about God, is he really God or a projection of your imagination?

Cheap Faith, Expensive Faith…

I was at a gathering of people who had a lot of wealth. Where and when is not important. Let me simply say that it would be incorrect to speak about a Lexus in the parking lot; there were Lexi in the parking lot.  Women were dressed to the nines; the men were thin. Everyone looked perfect. I felt out of place.

Most of the people in the gathering professed faith in Jesus. They belonged to churches and attended when they could. The conversation at the gathering made references to Jesus, to God’s blessings, and to the sorry state of the government.  

Jesus once said it was harder for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven than for a camel to go through the eye of a needle. I get the analogy. When you live in luxury, it is hard to be humble. Sometimes, in my cynicism, I wonder if the ultra-rich would still follow Jesus if he said, “Go, sell your Lexus, give the money to the poor, and come and follow me.” 

It is fun to be self-righteous. It is also dangerous. Nothing attracts the attention of God like the piety of a person who condemns someone else’s externals without first examining the forest of sin in his or her own life.  In that moment of spiritual pride, a thought from God entered my heart: “So Clay, if I ask you to give up your truck with heated leather seats and give the money to the poor, would you?”

Ouch. The voice of God in my soul can bring a troubling conviction. If I am not walking with Jesus, I can begin to think I deserve all God lets me enjoy. This is the temptation of blessing: believing God owes me something because I have been so good.

If you live this way, believe you deserve the blessings of God, Jesus said you will lose something. You might gain the whole world, but you will lose your soul. I do not think Jesus was thinking just of heaven and hell when he said this; he meant you would lose yourself. Think about it: have you ever heard a story about a person who made it big in their career and made a wreck of their home? Or maybe they made a wreck of their lives with an addiction? The track record of human beings staying healthy while successful is not good.

Caroline Mahendran was teaching children in the Sunday School of Zion Church on Easter Sunday. If you have never taught children in Sunday School, you have no appreciation of the peace of heaven. One of the tried-and-true methods of holding children’s attention is asking them a question that requires a mass response. Simple “yes” or “no” questions are usually the best.

Since it was Easter, Caroline taught the children about the Cross of Jesus and the Resurrection of Jesus. She spoke about Jesus’ great sacrifice for us and how he deserved our total loyalty. She asked the class of twenty-four if they would die for Jesus, “Yes!” they shouted.

Fifteen minutes later, as these children were in the sanctuary, waiting for Easter worship services to begin, a suicide bomber entered, detonated his bomb, killing himself and twenty-eight other people. Twelve of the dead were children, the same children who declared moments earlier they would die for Jesus. Zion Church is in Batticaloa, Sri Lanka, where almost three hundred people died in Easter Sunday bombings.

Arasaratnam Verl lost his only child, V. Jackson. His oldest sister was also killed. His younger sisters and his brother-in-law are in critical condition. I cannot imagine what this man feels. He is not counting his blessings. His faith is under attack. In the face of loss, he will face the toughest test: to believe God is still good while his heart hurts. “Love your enemies, do good to those who persecute you” is not a quaint notion for him.

When I read this story, I was brought down. How can I claim any spiritual maturity when there are people who must live with this kind of threat? How can I judge anyone when my faith has never faced this kind of test? All my complaints about the difficulty of life seem trivial compared to the faith that is required to believe when a father sees the blood of his child spilled on the floor of the sanctuary.

King David once said, “I will not give God an offering that costs me nothing.”  Every kind of faith, Christian or not, will face this kind of test. The test will be simple, though the circumstances seldom are. The test is this: Is my faith cheap, an imitation of the real thing, a faith that breaks under pressure? Or is my faith expensive, willing to sacrifice, willing to believe in the face of pain, present in times of trouble?

Cheap faith or expensive faith. Which faith do you have?

The Story of the Nails…

Their story begins in the iron ore deposits on the Ramim-Manara Ridge.  A miner dug out some ore, packed it on his donkey, and made his way to a regular customer, a blacksmith just outside of Jerusalem. 

The blacksmith heated the ore, burning off the impurities.  He knocked off pieces of the surrounding rock that were not pure enough to process.  Then, while the iron was hot, he shaped it with repetitive swings.  Some ore was heated again to a liquid state and poured into molds.  One of the molds was for nails.  Not skinny nails, but ones designed to hold heavy weight.  These were for his best customer, the Roman soldiers stationed in Jerusalem.

The Centurion would pick up twenty or so of these nails each month, paying with Roman coins that had real value.  The blacksmith was not naïve.  He knew what the nails would be used for.

The nails would be used in crucifixions.  Often, the soldiers would use ropes to hold those under a death sentence on crosses.  Ropes were not as expensive and allowed the ones being crucified to linger longer, sometimes for weeks.  But nails were for the hurry-up jobs, when prisoners needed to be dead in 24 hours.  Driven through the hands and feet of the victim and the wood, the nails were often hammered over to prevent them from pulling out as the men writhed in agony.

Once, when the blacksmith was on his way to take care of business in Jerusalem, he saw a crucifixion in progress.  He heard the screams of agony as the soldiers drove the nails through the victim’s hands and feet.  He knew they were probably his nails.  His conscience bothered him some, but the Romans were going to buy nails from some blacksmith, so it might as well be him.

After the crucifixion was over, the soldiers would take the victims down.  If no family member claimed the body, it would be thrown in the city dump to rot.  The cross beams would be reused.  The nails would be hammered straight, to be used again. 

The iron that made up the nails was brittle.  After repeated nailing and straightening, the nail would often break apart.  The soldiers would gather up the pieces and return them to the blacksmith, who would melt the iron down and pour the molten iron back into the molds.

The Centurion arrived one day to pick up a fresh batch of nails.  Rumor had it that several men were going to be crucified that week, so Pilate could show the Jews who was really in charge.  Jerusalem was crowded with pilgrims, who had made their way into the city to celebrate Passover.  Pilate wanted them to know that if anyone entertained a thought of rebelling against Rome, they too would hang on a cross.

The blacksmith was not there when Jesus was nailed to the cross.  He did not hear his screams; he did not see the blood flow from his hands and feet.  But he had to go back to Jerusalem that morning to get some supplies.  As he rounded the curve, he saw three crosses.  As he drew closer, morbid curiosity drew his eyes to the nails.  Were they using his nails? 

He could see the nails clearly, noting they were brighter than used nails.  These were the nails the Centurion picked up earlier in the week.  His normal ability to shrug it off failed him.  There was something disturbing about seeing his craftsmanship used for such a cruel purpose.  He paused his walk and looked at the man in the middle.  He was in obvious pain, but he managed to choke out, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” 

This struck the blacksmith as odd.  What criminal ever forgave those who were crucifying him?  But there was something about this man, a peace as he faced death, that he had never seen before.

The blacksmith moved on, for clouds were gathering and it looked like rain.  As he left “Skull Hill,” he thought, “At least my nails are holding.”

But the blacksmith was wrong.  The man in the middle could have popped those nails right out.  As the old song goes, he could have called ten thousand angels.  He had that power.  But he stayed on that cross.  He stayed with the pain of the nails in his hands and feet. 

The nails were not holding him.  He chose to stay on the cross because he loved the whole world.  He loved you.  And he loved me.   And love, his love, has more holding power than any nail.

Saving Jellyfish…

I was at the beach, relaxing in my chair, watching the waves roll in as the tide went out. A group of children were coming my way, laughing and running. There were five of them: Two older girls, two girls who looked like they were in first grade, and one boy, a little smaller, who was probably in kindergarten. Everyone had a beach shovel except the boy, who had a real shovel, a small one you could purchase in a hardware store. It was almost as tall as he was.

About every five feet or so, a jellyfish had washed ashore. I don’t really remember much about jellyfish from school, except to stay away from them. Watching “Finding Nemo”
re-enforced my convictions about keeping my distance from these invertebrates. When the kids came to a jellyfish on the sand, they excitedly gathered around it. Then, they would argue over which one of them would pick up the jellyfish. Once the argument was settled, the chosen one would scoop up the jellyfish with his or her shovel.

The older girls managed this task without too much trouble. The younger kids, however, were not quite as skilled. I could imagine these dying jellyfish saying, “Please, please let one of the older kids pick me up, not one of the younglings.”

Once the kids had the jellyfish on their shovels, they walked into the water until it reached their knees. Then, they would give a mighty sling and sail the jellyfish into the surf.

Some of the jellyfish did not survive the pickup. Let us say careless stabs of the shovel divided the jellyfish. I do not know how many survived their return to the sea. Every third sling what was once one jellyfish entered the sea in three pieces. 

I observed this process through about twelve jellyfish when they finally made their way in front of me. I called to one of the older girls, “What are ya’ll doing?”

She replied with great confidence, “We are saving the jellyfish!”

I had heard of “Save the Whales,” but saving the jellyfish was a new concept. I couldn’t help but ask, “Why are you saving the jellyfish?”

She looked at me like I was the dumbest adult she had ever met and gave me that superior look that only a nine-year-old girl seem to have. She said, “Because they need saving!” Unspoken in her words but conveyed by her look was “Duh.”

God looks at his world and says, “My world needs saving.”  You and I are stranded on the beach of our own failures, trying to fight against currents and tides with our own strength. Our souls grow weary, and we cannot fight any longer. Then life pushes us to a place where we realize we are powerless over so much.

God, in his great mercy, looks at you and looks at me and declares, “I love this world. I love these people. I want to save them.”  Then the great question becomes, “How will God save his world?”

What if God chooses to save his world with a shovel? Nothing says God must be gentle or thoughtful. God could say, “I will scoop up a few and hope they survive the process.”

We forget that in many ancient religions, only the worthy were thought to be “saved.”  You had to be “good enough to be saved.”  That’s what the religious leaders of Jesus’ day thought. Naturally, they thought they were the worthy ones.

But God, with great gentleness, out of his love for us, sent Jesus to pay our sin debt by dying on the cross. His resurrection shows his power and purity to accomplish forgiveness through his death.

Maybe this is why Jesus said, “Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.”  Jesus does not come to save us with a shovel, tearing us apart in the process. He comes with gentleness. He stoops down from his heaven to enter our world, to live with us. In His grace, he lifts us out of our stranded condition and transforms us into the beings we are meant to be.

Maybe the jellyfish would have been wise to say to their saviors, “I’ll pass on being saved right now. I think I’ll wait for the next high tide.”  But you and I are in a different place. That is why Blind Bartimeus’ cry should be the cry of our own heart: “Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me.”  And “Thank you, Lord, that I am not a jellyfish.”

Loving People You Don’t Like…

I’m not proud of this.

I walked into a restaurant, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man I disliked and his wife.  I knew this man as a professional peer.  From the moment I first met him, something didn’t sit right.  Call it chemistry.  I never found an easy groove with him.

In our encounters, he always had an agenda he wanted to push.  It was not a bad or evil agenda, but it was not one that served our church.  Our conversations began to feel uncomfortable as I had to deny his requests again and again. 

Once, we were in a meeting with other peers.  During the question-and-answer time, he made a statement that felt like an attack on our church and on me.  This troubled me.  I remembered Jesus’ admonition, “If your brother has something against you, go to him…” 

I hate confrontation.  It conflicts with my need for everyone to like me.  But I scheduled the meeting, met with him, and shared my impression.  He denied the comment was directed at me, and I thanked him for the clarity.  The interchange did not make me feel closer to him.

Now, I am in a restaurant, and my first impulse is to position myself so I am unseen.  Again, out of the corner of my eye, I could see him sitting so he could see most of the restaurant.  I hoped for a table out of his line of sight, but the only table available was in his field of vision.  While I waited for my food, I found myself trying to lower my profile, which, in my case, is hard to do. 

I could feel tension rising in my body.  I did not want to have an encounter with this man where I would have to fake a politeness I did not feel.  I also did not want to be rude.  In the back of my soul, Jesus’ words began to build, “…But I tell you, love your enemies, do good to those who persecute you…”  I did not think this man was my enemy, nor had he ever persecuted me.  But I was pretty sure avoiding him was not exactly being like Jesus.

This might sound silly to you, but I felt tense.  I know enough about Jesus’ words that to love someone is to want and to work for their good.  Liking someone is not a Biblical concept. 

Maybe that’s the flaw in my thinking.  I want there to be some gray.  Often, Christians will say, “Jesus said you had to love everyone; he never said you had to like everyone.”  But Jesus and other Biblical writers only speak of love and hate.  God seems to be saying there is no gray area, just a line of wanting good for people and being indifferent or hostile.

In that moment, I felt a whisper from the Spirit: “Clay, you cannot control what he does.  If he comes over to speak, I will give you the words to say.”  It was God’s gentle reminder to me that I am in control of very little.  I cannot stop someone from speaking to me.  I can control my response.  I can speak with a voice of blessing or a voice of distance. 

God once said to Abraham that he was going to be blessed so he could be a blessing.  It came to me that my attitude should be one of blessing.  If the man approached me, I could interact with him in such a way that wanted good for him, even if I would not be comfortable having a conversation with him.

This is how Jesus wants us to respond to people we do not like.  We do not call them names.  We do not try to avoid them.  We do not call them out on social media.  We do not fool ourselves into thinking we can control our encounters.  We can ask God to make us a blessing.  We can ask God to guide us so we are not entangled in whatever triggers fire as we have conversations.  We can ask God for a pure heart, so our hurts do not control us.  When was the last time you prayed like that?

As I grow older, I notice that people who get on my nerves in my first encounter often, but not always, become some of my favorite people.  I don’t think that will happen in this case. My hunch is that he represents someone from my past who wounded me in some way.  I probably represent a threat or a trigger from the past for him.  That’s the way life is.  But as God helps me see him more clearly, I can let go of tension and anxiety and trust God to guide me in a conversation we might have.  I can pray for God’s good to come into this man’s life.  To be honest, he looked a little beaten down by life.  I prayed for him to have strength and hope.

The odd thing is, he never came over to my table.  I wasted a lot of worry energy on something that didn’t happen.  Maybe he is just as uncomfortable with me as I am with him.  Or maybe I hid in my booth really well. 

How do you love someone you don’t like?  You give that relationship to God.

Who Taught You Generosity?

Someone taught you to be generous. The question is, did you have a good teacher or a poor teacher?

I learned generosity from my stepfather, Lawrence. He was generous to our church. But he also insisted on paying for everyone’s meal when we went out to eat with another family. He picked watermelons to give to people in the community. He bought dresses for girls in the church who did not have nice clothes. I saw all this. I even participated in the picking of watermelons. I had a good teacher.

As a pastor, I was taught generosity regularly by people in the churches I served. I remember Mr. Bennett, an older man in my first church who never married. The stove in the church kitchen was broken. This meant we were not going to be able to host a mission team. Mr. Bennett stood up and said, “I’ll buy a new stove.  Let that group come on.”  He set the tone for the whole church to be generous.

Then there was Mrs. Horn. I picked her up every Monday morning for a Ladies Bible Study. One day, she handed me a dirty handkerchief. When I opened it, there were some coins and several crumpled-up twenty-dollar bills. She said, “I know we are trying to buy new hymnals. I got a Medicare reimbursement check, and this is my tithe on that check.”  I was reminded of the story in the gospels of the widow who gave two pennies.

When our church decided to relocate, a young, divorced mom shared that she was cash-strapped, but she was giving up cable to be able to give. Another man told me he decided to disappoint his children and give their inheritance to the building fund. I spoke with another woman, and she told me she was just glad she had something to give. 

My best teacher of generosity, of course, is Jesus. I am regularly reminded of his great gift of bountiful grace. I know I do not deserve the blessings of God I have received, but all that is precious to me comes because of God’s grace to me. The verse we all know so well, John 3:16, begins with these words: “For God so loved the world, he gave…”  What does it mean to love someone? It means you give.

If you are a parent, one of the most important lessons you can teach your child is to be generous.  One Dad I heard of does this by letting his elementary-age kids determine the tip the waitress gets.  They are learning math and generosity at the same time. Teach your children to learn the joy of giving.

What if your generosity teacher was not a good one? Too many families have finances that are trainwrecks. They live with financial anxiety that passes on to their children. As a result, the kids grow up and have no idea how to manage money. When you feel strapped financially, generosity is usually the last thing on your mind. Having a good understanding of your finances and generosity is a great gift to your children.

Culture is a terrible generosity teacher. No one buys a Super Bowl Commercial to invite you to be generous. Instead, we are told that if we buy this car or drink this beer, we will be happy. The truth is that all cars wear out. All beer flows through the body. You might get a happiness high, but it won’t last.

When people hear about the generosity of billionaires, their first reaction is, “If I had a billion dollars, I would be generous too.”  We assume only the ultra-wealthy can afford to be generous.

The work environment is usually a poor place to learn generosity. The boss harps on cutting back and saving money. Workers are told, “The company can’t afford to give you a raise.”  Then we hear the CEO is making millions. There are exceptions, companies that are generous to their employees, paying for benefits and further education. Funny, most of these companies are very successful. Generosity in the workplace equals happier workers, which leads to higher customer satisfaction.

If you do not know a good generosity teacher, start looking for one. Find someone who is generous and invite them to lunch. Find their secrets. Look for stories of generosity. We often call them “feel good” stories. Stories about generosity make us feel good! Learn from these stories.

Read the Gospels and discover how generous Jesus is. He did not have money, but he did have power, and he was generous with it. He gave his time to listen, heal, and teach.  When you learn from Jesus, you will discover why He makes your life better and helps you become better at life.

When you die, would you rather people talk about how much money you had or how generous you were?

Boundaries…

When my mother and stepfather married, she made it very clear that she did not believe in divorce, but she did believe in justifiable homicide if he ever cheated on her. One day, she was cleaning a pistol, and it accidentally went off, putting a bullet hole in the ceiling. She looked at my startled stepfather and, without missing a beat, said, “You remember I told you I didn’t believe in divorce, but I believe in justifiable homicide. Consider that your warning shot.”  She was defining a boundary.

When I was in high school, my curfew was midnight. I learned to calculate distance, speed, and time at stoplights to make it home on time. One night, I lost track of time (it is none of your business why), and I got home at 12:30. My mother was waiting. I was grounded for two weeks. My mother was enforcing a boundary. She said it was for my own good. Try explaining that to your girlfriend.

In college, I did not do the best job of keeping track of my bank balance. Imagine my shock when one day I got a letter informing me a check had been rejected for insufficient funds. The bank was reminding me there was a boundary and they were not going to make an exception for me.

My first batch of heifers I grew out were delivered from our ranch in Florida. They were a feisty bunch. I kept them penned for a few days with plenty of food and hay. After four days, I let them out. They stampeded out of the pens, ran through a four-strand electrified fence, and halted only when they reached a woven-wire fence with an electric strand attached. That fence defined a boundary.

I have been stopped for speeding more than once in my life. Usually, the trooper asks for my driver’s license and registration and then asks me the question, “Mr. Smith, do you know why I pulled you over?”  I know the truth, and he knows the truth. My standard reply is something like, “Officer, I know I was speeding. I assume that’s why.”  The trooper usually nods, then tells me my actual speed and the speed limit. He is reminding me there is a boundary and I was flying past it.

When people read the Bible, they are often confused by all the rules and laws in Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy. People remark the rules are boring. I get it. I once was a librarian in a law firm. I had to make corrections to books filled with laws and cases. It was easily one of the most tedious jobs I ever had.

Why did God want all those rules in the Bible? The laws of the Old Testament are there to show the people of God boundaries. They came from being slaves. The Egyptians set the boundaries and made the laws. God is now teaching them his laws, his ways. When you read the laws of the Old Testament this way, you realize how much his people needed to learn. The Ten Commandments are a morality code. We take it for granted that everyone knows not to steal, kill, or tell lies. They don’t. God had to define morality and boundaries for them. They didn’t know what was healthy to eat and what wasn’t. God had to define some foods as clean and some as unclean. Apparently, they didn’t even know basic sexual morality, like “Don’t have sex with a parent (yuck!)” or “Don’t have sex with animals (double yuck!).”  God defined the boundaries for them.

Of course, whenever a boundary is set, some people want to ignore it, and some people take it too far. By the time of Jesus, the religious leaders had made up new boundaries to protect the boundaries. Jesus said, “I’ve not come to abolish the law but to fulfill the law.”  Jesus was doing a boundary reset. What matters, he said, is living in the Kingdom of God. This meant loving other people like Jesus loves them. It meant surrendering your will to your Heavenly Father. It meant following Jesus wherever he leads. Jesus gave us a radical new way of understanding boundaries. But they are still boundaries.

We seem to be living in an era when people do not respect boundaries anymore. Russia ignores the Ukrainian boundary. Hamas and Israel ignore each other’s boundaries. On social media, people feel the freedom to attack someone (crossing a boundary) without trying to understand the person they are attacking. Some even do it in the name of Jesus. This certainly crosses the boundary Jesus gave us of loving one another.

Boundaries are there for a reason. God gives us boundaries so our souls can grow and thrive. Don’t envy people who ignore the boundaries. They have a way of winding up in the ditch. When you encounter one of God’s boundaries, know it is there for a reason, and that reason is he loves you and wants the best for you.

I Want You to Be Generous…

I'll be honest: I want you to be generous. I want you to let me pull out in a line of traffic. I like it when you spend more on my birthday than I expect. When you let me take the last spot on the elevator, I appreciate it.

It's not just you. I want my children to be generous. I love it when they tear themselves away from their busy lives to come see me. I love it even more when they bring the beloved grandsons. Christmas is wonderful when they cook for me and give me presents. In my old age, I want them to pay for the finest nursing care available. I want them to be generous.

I want the businesses I patronize to be generous. I love it when the doughnut shop miscounts and gives thirteen doughnuts instead of twelve. It's pretty nice, too, when the waitress brings me a fourteen-ounce ribeye instead of a six-ounce sirloin. They tell me to keep the steak and charge me for the smaller one. Accidental generosity is pretty nice, too.

Since I work at a church, I want the church to be generous as well. I'd like them to pay me more for the same amount of work. If they want to add benefits to my compensation, like buying me a new Ford F-150 King Ranch 4x4 each year, I guess I can live with that. 

I also like it when my government is generous. I will take all the tax breaks I can get. One year, the government failed to deposit one of my tax checks. I asked my accountant about it. She said to wait. I waited three months. I called the IRS. When I finally spoke to a real person, they said they would investigate the matter. I never heard back from them. I contacted my accountant again. She contacted the IRS. The response again was they would look into it. Three years passed. Does incompetency count as generosity?

When I meet someone, I love it when the conversation is about me. I get to show off how smart I am, how interesting my life is, and how my grandsons are the most talented, handsome, exceptional boys in the world. When you are generous with your time and attention, and I'm the recipient, I'm thrilled.

In school, I always liked it when the teacher was generous in grading. These words delight every student: "I grade your exams on a curve." I remember getting a "C" on one paper. The professor wrote, "Nice Try." As my daughter said many years later, "'C's' get degrees."

By now, you have spotted the flaw in my love of generosity: I like it when you are generous; sometimes, it is a struggle for me to be generous. That attitude is a pretty selfish way to think and live. Yet isn't it true many of us live this way, even if we don't want to be this way?

Is this the way God wants me to live? Emphatically, no. God made you to be joyfully generous. The most doubted verse in the Bible has nothing to do with the earth being made in seven days. The most doubted verse in the Bible is "It is more blessed to give than to receive." 

Christian Smith and Hilary Davidson, researchers at the University of Notre Dame, wrote a book entitled "The Paradox of Generosity." Through peer-reviewed academic research, they discovered that people who are generous (in their definition, who give at least 10% of their income) have more friends, deeper connections, a sense of purpose and well-being, and better health than non-generous people. People who are generous live more joyful lives.

If this is really true (and I believe it is), wouldn't it make sense to make our goal to become generous people? Wouldn't you be happier if you thought more about how to bless other people than thinking about what you don't have? God designed you to be a pipe. You are to let his grace, joy, mercy, and love flow into you. As it flows into you, it will change you. Then, we allow his gifts to flow out of us to bless others.

I've heard this analogy so often, but it contains so much truth. Jesus knew two bodies of water intimately. The first was the Sea of Galilee. Though small, it had a vibrant ecosystem. Water flows from underground springs and from the Jordan River. The lake, through the centuries, has been a vital fishery, a source of water, and a source of irrigation resources. The Jordan River flows out of the lake to the Dead Sea. The Dead Sea has no outlets no outflows. It is nine times saltier than the ocean. Fish and plants do not thrive in this harsh aquatic environment. Thus, its name is the Dead Sea.

I really do want you to be generous, because I do not want your life to turn into a toxic environment that drives people away. Let's face it: no one wants to maintain friendships with a self-centered person. I want you to experience the deep joy of generosity, of thinking of others before you think of yourself.

I want that for myself as well. God made me and you to be generous. Our goal is to be just like Jesus, the most generous one of all.

Just Because It Doesn't Work, Doesn't Mean It's Broken …

It was after midnight when my flight landed in Santa Barbara, California.  It had been a hard day's travel, including a five-hour flight sandwiched between two large men in the back of a plane.  All I wanted was to get my rental car, find my hotel, and crash. 

When I got to the rental car desks, my chosen company was the only one lit up.  As I approached, the woman behind the counter said, "Thank goodness you're here.  As soon as I get you set up, I can go home." I've never had such speedy service. 

I went out into the parking lot to locate the car.  It was dark, and I had trouble finding it.  Locating it at last, I threw my luggage into the back seat, lowered myself into the driver's seat, and pushed the power button (whatever happened to turning the key?). 

Instead of the engine turning over, I got a warning message: "Check the back seat."  What was there to check?  There was my suitcase and my briefcase. This car, however, was wired to prevent a start if people in the backseat were not buckled up.   Apparently, it thought my luggage was a person.  I got out, put my suitcase and briefcase in the trunk, and got back in the car. 

I hit the power button again.  The dashboard lit up, but the engine didn't turn over.  I checked to make sure the car was in park.  It was.  I hit the power button again, and the dashboard went blank.  I hit the power button, the dashboard lit up again, and still, the engine did not turn over.  I repeated this process three or four more times, but there was still nothing. 

I knew sometimes cars lock up.  Most fobs have some way to extract a real key that can be inserted into a slot, often located on the center console.  I examined the fob closely but couldn't find where the physical key was located.  I tugged and pulled, but no key appeared.   

I looked up and saw taillights disappearing from the parking lot; no doubt, the rental car lady headed home for a well-deserved rest.  I thought, "Great.  Here I am in a city where I know no one, with a rental car that doesn't work, six miles from my hotel." 

I thought about calling an Uber to get to my hotel, but it seemed silly to call for a ride when I was sitting in a rental car I paid for.  I began thinking evil thoughts about the Japanese engineers who designed this car.  Was this all a small part of some master plan to bend United States citizens to the will of foreign powers?  I thought about trying to read the owner's manual, but I was so tired I wasn't sure the words would make sense. 

In frustration, I hit the power button again.  The dashboard lit up as before.  In anger, I stomped on the gas.  The car flew backward out of the parking space, working just fine. 

Then I realized: The car was a hybrid.  It ran first on battery power, then on gas.  No wonder the engine didn't turn over.  The problem wasn't with the car; the problem was with me. 

The truth hit me: just because something doesn't work, doesn't mean it's broken.   

If you listen, God will take your frustration and teach you something.  I thought about times when I am frustrated in relationships and want other people to change.  Maybe they aren't broken.  Maybe I just don't understand how they see the world or how they operate in it. 

Isn't it funny when life frustrates us, we assume God is broken?  When life seems hard, or it seems like God isn't doing what I want, the problem probably isn't with God.  The problem is I am taken captive by my agenda and my frustration that I can't get my agenda to happen.  God calls me to pause and consider the prayer he wants me to pray: Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth, as it is in heaven.   

In my frustration with God, I often try everything I can think of and end up more frustrated.  I start thinking about solutions to my problems that don't make any sense.  I can even vent my frustration to God, blaming him for the way the world is. 

The good news is my Heavenly Father is patient with me.  It seems like he knows I must try to fix everything myself before I finally turn things over to him.  When I do, he comes to me with love and grace and shows me how to operate my life.  It helps when I read his Word and remember it is the operating manual for life. 

If you think your relationship with God isn't working, or if you are simply frustrated with God, remember that just because it's not working doesn't mean it's broken.  Could it be the problem, is you?  Maybe that's why the Psalmist said, "Be still and know that I am God." 

Things that Are Lost…

Back in the day, I loved to watch game shows like “Jeopardy,” “Password,” and “The $25,000 Pyramid.”  You might remember the Pyramid show.  The highlight was the contestant going to the circle, facing away from the clue board, and then guessing what the other contestant was trying to describe.  For example, if the clue was “Things that Fly,” the clue-giver might say, “A plane, a bird, a kite…”  Hopefully, the clue-guesser would exclaim, “Things that Fly!”  Dollar prizes were rewarded, and if the clue-guesser got all six clues, they would win $25,000.

Jesus was a great clue-giver.  He told a story about a man who found a buried treasure someone had lost.  Filled with joy, he went and sold all he had and bought the field just to make sure the treasure was his. 

He told another story about a pearl merchant who traveled from town to town, buying and selling pearls.  One day, he was offered a magnificent pearl by a fellow pearl dealer.  It was an exorbitant price.  But the traveling merchant sees more than the local dealer.  The traveler sells all he has and meets the local man’s price.  I imagine the local dealer thought he had made the deal of a lifetime.  He had no idea the value he just lost.

Jesus told three stories in a row about lost things.  In the first story, a shepherd lost a sheep.  He left the ninety-nine sheep he had to search for the one lost sheep.  When he found it, he was filled with joy.  The one lost sheep was as important as the ninety-nine he had.

His next story was about a woman who lost a coin.  It represented a tenth of her wealth.  She searched all over her house until she found it.  When she does, she calls out to her neighbors to rejoice with her because what was lost was found.

Then Jesus tells the complex story of the two lost sons.  One son is lost because he demands his father to divide his estate.  He goes and lives in a distant land, spending his money in “riotous living.”  The contemporary term might be “living large.”  When he spends all his money, he is reduced to being a professional hog-slopper.  He finally comes to his senses and heads home.  When he approaches home, dirty, smelly (have you ever smelled someone who slops hogs?), weary, his father runs to greet him.  The son recites his rehearsed apology, but the father calls for a party.

The second lost son is the elder brother.  He is an example of being lost while staying home.  His resentments gush out in a refusal to attend his brother’s party.  When his father leaves the party to beg him to come, he protests he never had a party, his brother squandered the estate, he is the one who worked hard and has been good, and it is just not fair.  He’s lost because he lives with an amazing father he does not understand.  Jesus stops the story there to make us squirm.  It is an invitation for soul-awareness: which brother are you?

One of Jesus’ clues is hidden underneath his anger.  He lashes out at religious leaders, telling them they put heavy burdens on the backs of men, and then they do nothing to help the people they have burdened.  They travel long distances to make converts and end up making them twice as worth of destruction as they are.  He declares these religious leaders to be hypocrites, blind guides.  They are lost and do not know it; their religious pride has blinded them.

What do all these clues add up to?  I imagine Jesus in the clue-giver chair saying, “A buried treasure, an opportunity missed, a missing sheep, a missing coin, a rebellious son, a hardened heart, prideful religious people…” The truth finally dawns on you.  You exclaim, “Things that are lost.”

Jesus might go on to the next clue: “God in the flesh, miracles, a cross, an empty tomb…”  You shout, “Things that bring redemption.”

Jesus then looks at you with the final set of clues: “You, you, you, you…”  A tear forms in your eye.  This time, you do not shout; you whisper: “Things you save.”

The buzzer sounds.  You have won.  You hug Jesus.  You understand he is for you, not against you.  He did not come to condemn you.  He came to save you.  You matter to him. 

You realize the Kingdom of Heaven is worth everything.  When you find it, you no longer desire to hold onto what seemed so important moments before.  You let go.  You take hold.  Jesus says, “Now that you are found, let’s have a party.”

Moral Compass…

I have a compass app on my phone. I use it sometimes when I’m not sure which way is which. Something I have never done: argued with my compass. If it points North, I trust it.

Trust goes hand in hand with determining right and wrong. When I was a child, I trusted what my parents told me. If they said it was wrong to steal, I believed them. If they said to tell the truth, I believed them. But I learned they were not entirely trustworthy. They told me liver tasted like steak. They lied. Their moral authority was tarnished a bit.

Who determines what is right and wrong? That’s the scary thing about adulthood. When you are an adult, you make the decision. But who provides you with a moral compass?

For centuries, religions have provided the answer. If the church said it was wrong, it was wrong. In Western Culture, there was an agreed-upon social compact based on the teachings of scripture. Even kings had to acknowledge their right to rule came from God. When democracy was born in the United States, Thomas Jefferson wrote these words in the Declaration of Independence: “We, therefore, the Representatives of the United States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions…”  The representatives appealed to God about the rightness of their actions.

Fast forward to today. The church seems to have lost her voice. Clergy, once the most trusted profession, has fallen to eleventh place, behind chiropractors. Perhaps we have only ourselves to blame, with clergy scandals a regular feature in the news. 

The book of Judges refers to an era in the life of God’s people when there was no King and “every man did what was right in his own eyes.”  Maybe that is an apt description of our own era. A teenager shoots another teen because “He disrespected me.”  A man leaves his wife and children because “I’ve fallen in love with someone else.”  A company lies about its true financial condition because “We need to keep the stock price up.”  We have become people who believe the ends justify the means.

I have seen enough of humanity that I do not trust people to determine what is right and wrong for themselves. Human beings, including myself, seem able to justify nearly anything. Every terrorist believes they are doing the right thing. Leaders of countries are convinced they are doing the right thing when they go to war. I’ve done counseling through the years with people who have blown up their lives. Every one of them was convinced at the time they were doing the right thing. 

In the self no one sees, we all justify our anger, our greed, our lust, our sloth, our gluttony, our pride, our envy. Though most of us would agree it is wrong to harm people, we have trained our souls to look the other way at the damage we cause. A numb soul can bulldoze people without a thought.

Dallas Willard once said, “Original sin is the one doctrine no one disputes.”  The evidence is too great. While we might think we are “good people,” careful examination shows we are not. This is why we need a moral compass outside of ourselves.

It is Jesus who gives us the best, simplest plumb line. He said the great moral compass is to love the Lord your God with all your heart, mind, soul, and strength and to love our neighbors as ourselves.

If I love God, I will adopt his values. I will value human life. I will depend on him. I will want his Kingdom to come, his will to be done. The ends will not justify the means. I will not judge people. I will want and work for the good of as many people as possible. Before I speak or act, I will ask, “Does this honor my Heavenly Father?”  I will remember how I do something matters as much as what I do.

If I truly love my neighbor, I will tell the truth, not just the version that best suits me. I will not treat people as objects. I will not take from another what belongs to them. Greed will not drive me. Before I rush to anger, I will pause and try to understand why I am angry. I will not fall into the lie that if I had what you have, I would be happy. As much as possible, I will take responsibility for my own life and not blame others for my unhappiness. I will not expect others to carry my load. I will respect my neighbor, even if I do not agree with him.

When Jesus said, “Follow me,” he invited his followers to learn to trust him, to see that his way of living, though radically different, was the best way to live. Followers of Jesus do not get to be their own moral compass. When we are not sure, we pray and ask our Heavenly Father to direct us in his way, not our own. This is the genius found in that simple question: “What would Jesus do?”

Sleeping in Church …

From the Archives…..

I admit it – I have fallen asleep in church.  When I was a child, and we had church on Sunday nights, the preacher’s voice seemed hypnotic.  A few minutes into his message, I would be stretched out on the pew, lost in la-la land. 

When I was home from college, late Saturday nights made for sleepy Sunday mornings. The summer I dated Miss Hardee County, we had been out late courting on Saturday, and I was supposed to sing in the choir the next morning.  I made it in time, did my part for the choir special, and then settled in for the sermon.  I could not keep my eyes open.  I went to the old standby position of folding my hands and bowing my head, hoping people would think I was praying.  I was drifting off when Elmo Roberts, two seats over, cleared his sinuses.  I thought I had snored and jerked my head up.  My mother later told me she thought the Spirit had really spoken to me during the pastor’s message.

People do funny things when they sleep in church.  My Uncle Earl wore mirrored sunglasses in the choir every Sunday.  He did not want people to think he was asleep during the sermon.  No one told him when he fell asleep during the sermon; his head rocked back, and his mouth opened.  He looked like a thirsty man trying to drink the rain.

I have seen more elbows thrown in church than in a roller derby.  Most often, it is women elbowing their husbands who have been lulled to sleep by the sermon.  Sometimes, when the elbows are delivered, the men startle awake, look around, and then try to pretend like they were listening the whole time.

There is an old joke about a preacher who was tired of a deacon falling asleep during every sermon.  He decided to make an example of the old man.  During a sermon, the preacher whispered, “Everyone who wants to go to heaven, stand up.”  Of course, the whole congregation stood except for the sleeping deacon.  The preacher told the congregation to be seated, and then he bellowed, “Everyone who wants to go to hell, stand up.”  The old deacon, startled awake, heard the words “stand up” and naturally stood.  He looked around and said, “Preacher, I don’t know what we are voting for, but it looks like you and I are the only ones in favor.”

My Uncle Bud had the best story of falling asleep in church.  He was a little boy, prone to wet the bed.  During one long Sunday night service, Granny stretched him out on one of the slat pews of the Venus Baptist Church.  About halfway through the service, my mother, Uncle Pete, and Aunt Bill noticed a thin trickle of yellow liquid making its way forward on the uneven wooden floor.  A flurry of giggles and pinches broke out until Granny noticed the growing stream.  Then she started to giggle, too.  I am sure the preacher noticed the commotion; perhaps he thought that the last joke he told was finally getting through.

People ask me from time to time if it bothers me when people fall asleep in church.  I used to say, “No, as long as they are awake for the offering,” but people started to think I was serious.  I know for many people, Sunday mornings are the only time in the week they are still.  Sure, I wish people would stay awake while I preach, but I would rather have them sleep in church than be awake in sin. 

People occasionally tell me I am the first preacher who kept them awake.  I used to think it was a compliment until one dear saint elaborated: “Your sermons are like a slow-motion train wreck.  I just can’t look away.”

I was keeping my grandson not long ago.  He was fussy.  His parents instructed me this was a sign he was either hungry, needed a diaper changed, or was sleepy.  I had taken care of the first two, so I knew he needed sleep.  I put him in his swing, but he was having none of it.  His fussing grew worse.  I picked him up, put his head on my shoulder, and started rocking him back and forth.  His crying grew more intense.  Finally, I put him down on my bed, put my arm under his head, and pulled him close.  He turned to me, and the crying stopped.  His eyes closed, and his breathing became regular.  He needed the safety of his grandfather being close to finally sleep.

It made me wonder about everyone who falls asleep in church.  Are they finally close enough to their Heavenly Father that they feel safe enough to let down and relax in his arms?  Maybe that is how we are supposed to live, asleep or awake.

Jesus Talks to Outsiders; Jesus Talks to Insiders

There are always outsiders who don’t quite fit in. Outsiders may be outside by an inch: an odd quirk keeps them out of the inner circle. Outsiders may be outside by a mile: their skin is the wrong color, their religion is wrong, or their culture is a threat. We like to keep people outside our circle… well, outside. We push them to the margin. We blame them for their problems. When outsiders come to our church, our smiles are a little forced, and they pick up the cue: go find your own people.

Jesus met outsiders in his day. Tax collectors were outsiders. Jesus met at least two. To Matthew, he said, “Follow me.”  “Follow me” is the ultimate invitation to become an insider. To Zacchaeus, he said, “I am going to stay at your house today.”  This is less an invitation and more Jesus busting down the door of the outsider to say, “I’ve come to make you an insider.”

In Jesus’s day, women were outsiders. For Jewish males, foreign women were seen as exotic temptresses. Jewish women were thought by some to be of value only for bearing children. Jesus stopped to notice women, not as sexual objects or reproductive agents. He gave hope back to a widow when he raised her son from the dead. When a woman who had ongoing bleeding touched the hem of his garment, he stopped to discover her and then pronounced her healed. He protected a woman caught in adultery from being stoned. His longest recorded conversation was with a Samaritan woman at a well. He changed her life and her village.

Every time Jesus encounters the outsider, he speaks to them invitingly. He notices them. He lets each of them know they matter to God.

There are always insiders who have position and power. Oddly, insiders often protest they are not insiders. Sometimes, they do this so their power can stay hidden. Sometimes, they protest because they are genuinely clueless about their privilege.  

We all long to be inside. This longing is so deep if we are deprived of it, we will create our own insider group to exclude others (usually people from another insider group that threatens us). Kids from dysfunctional families join a gang. A group at work forms to gossip about another group at work that gossips. We want to be inside. 

Jesus met insiders, too. Pharisees were insiders. Their keeping of the religious code made them the spiritual elite. Every time Jesus encountered a Pharisee, he challenged their ideas of superiority. When Jesus met Nicodemus, a Pharisee, he opened the discussion with a challenge: “You must be born again.” Translation: your insider status counts for nothing.

The rich young ruler was an insider, based on the fact he was rich, young, and a ruler. Jesus loved him enough to tell him to sell everything he had, give it to the poor, and follow him. A more radical challenge could not have been given. The rich young ruler couldn’t do it. Being an insider was more important than following Jesus.

Pilate was the ultimate insider. He represented Rome. He had the power of the military behind him. He made decisions about life and death. Yet when Jesus was in front of him, on trial for his life, Jesus did not hesitate to speak truth to him. It so unnerved him he mumbled, “What is truth?”  Funny how power can make you cynical about the truth.

Every time Jesus met an insider, he challenged them. He challenged their convictions. He was fearless. He did not need or want their approval. He had no desire to enter their inner circle. He wanted every insider to turn away from the insider circles they had created to realize the radical change they needed.

Churches are supposed to speak like Jesus. Followers of Jesus need to speak invitingly and warmly to all outsiders. We need to say, “Come and see.”  We do not need to be afraid of messy people. As my hero, John Ortberg puts it: “The messier your story, the more the good news is for you.” 

Followers of Jesus need to speak confrontively to insiders, especially to ourselves. There are too many opportunities to fool ourselves into believing we’re special because we keep a religious code. Maybe instead of passing the peace of Christ, we should pass the challenge of Christ: “Am I seeking the lost so they can hear good news and be saved?”

Don’t miss the truth of Jesus: He loves the outsiders enough to invite them in. He loves the insiders enough to challenge them with the truth. Which way is he loving you?

They Don’t Build Them Like They Used to…

When my mother built the new house, I remember the fun of going to the furniture store.  There were only two in town.  We went to the high-end store, which meant not all the furniture was made of pine.  I was about seven.  Mama picked out a few pieces (money was an issue), good solid pieces.  This furniture came when the house was finished.  The men brought in each piece with care.  All the furniture was put together and fit in the spaces just right.

I married my wife because I loved her.  The fact that her father owned a furniture store didn’t hurt.  Over the years, I have absorbed some knowledge of the furniture business.  My father-in-law decried imports.  I can still hear him say, “This ain’t nothing but a cheap piece made in China.  It will fall apart in a month and be thrown in a ditch somewhere.”  In his opinion, if it didn’t come from High Point, NC, it wasn’t worth having.

These days, most furniture is made overseas.  I don’t know about the economics, but I understand the difference.  Instead of men delivering furniture to my house, now the UPS man brings a box.  When I open the box, out spills a hundred pieces, a large puzzle that I am to put together.  The instructions are all diagrams and no words.  I am convinced in China, there is a regular gathering of industrial engineers who laugh at how they drew the instructions, visualizing an American male trying to put in screws and cams. 

When I put together furniture like this, I fear two things: first, I will run out of screws, cams, or bolts.  The second: I will have leftover screws, cams, and bolts.

I have searched for thirty minutes for a piece labeled “10,” only to discover there is no piece labeled “10.”  The print was so small I misread the instructions.  I have been frustrated that I am to look for the piece labeled “LR” and find that piece after an hour of looking.  It turned out “LR” was hidden under another piece, and you could only find the label if you took the assembly apart.

I am also convinced that the Chinese lie to us.  One piece I put together clearly said, “Takes 1 hour to assemble.”  They lied.  Two hours later, I had it almost put together and had one last major piece to add.  It was then that I realized in Step 2 that I put a piece in backward.  I had to take it all apart, put the piece in correctly, and spend two hours putting it back together.  The dog learned new vocabulary words that night.

The last piece of furniture I put together was a nightmare.  It took Gina and I working together for three hours to assemble it.  To finish it, we had to lay it on the floor.  When I stood it up, the bottom piece began to separate from the top.  The whole thing began to wobble.  As I attempted to move it to the place we intended, screws began to pull away from the pressboard, cams began to come loose, and the back fell off.  We took the top off, and I had Gina hold the bottom while I tried to fix it.  When I tried to reattach the top and bottom, it leaned precariously.  A gap opened between the side and the bottom drawer.  When I stepped back, it looked like something my grandson would build out of his wooden blocks.

Gina thought maybe we should return it.  I wanted to burn it.  But I think a few brackets from the hardware store might salvage it.  Being an American male, I think I can fix what was poorly designed. 

Through this whole process, I could hear my father-in-law’s voice: “They just don’t make them like they used to…”

It is easy to forget before Jesus was a rabbi, he was a carpenter.  He knew about building things.    

Jesus told us a story about people who build quick and cheap things not meant to last.  He said it is like building a house on the sand.  It’s fine for a while, but a storm will come, and it will not stand.  Like my cabinet, people build a life that is not strong enough to persevere, to stand in the storm that surely comes to us all.

Jesus then told about a man who built his house on the rock.  It is harder to build on the rock than the sand.  There is a lot of extra sweat.  It takes more time.  But when the storm comes, it stands.  People who build their lives on the rock of Jesus, on his teaching, on his values, they come through the storm.

After the storm, I wonder if people walked by the wreckage of the life built on the sand and said, “You know, they don’t build them like they used to…”