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…”

Breaking Up…

“It’s not you,” she said, “It’s me.”  Something in her tone, her lowered eyes, and her shift in the chair told him it was a lie; it was definitely him.  He knew their relationship had been running cold for the last few weeks, and he was pretty sure he knew why.

“Are you breaking up with me?” he asked.

“It’s not really a breakup; it’s more like taking a break, you know?” she explained.  There was something in her tone that communicated, “I am not going to tell you the whole story.”

“Why?” he questioned.

“We’ve been seeing each other for a long time,” she responded.  “I just need some space.  I mean, we started hanging out together in elementary school.  And I’d be the first to say you’ve been there for me.  When my parents got divorced, and I really struggled, you listened to all my heartbreak.  In high school, you were always the one to encourage me.  That’s when I felt like we were the closest.  I know you pressed me to get serious, but I felt like I just wasn’t ready, and I backed away.  Now that I’m in college, I’m ready to try some different things.”

“Like what?” he asked, “Or should I ask ‘who’”?

Bowing up a little, she said, “That’s just like you.  You always want to know more than I want you to know.  You want me to belong exclusively to you.  If you must know, there’s this cute guy in my philosophy class.  We’ve been talking periodically after class.  He sees the world differently than you.  He says we can trust our feelings and just let love lead us.  He’s not into being uptight about things like you are.”

“I know all about him,” he said.  “I’m sure you can’t trust him.”  She knew he was usually right but didn’t want to listen this time.

“Have you been stalking me?  How do you know him?  How can you know anything about him?  This is why I need to break up with you.  You always act like you know more than anyone else.  You’re always telling me what is right and wrong.  What makes you so sure that you know what is right and what is wrong?  And don’t tell me about how you know things I can’t even understand!” she shouted.

“I thought you just wanted a break.  Now you are saying you want to break up?” he asked, with a gentleness in his voice.

She replied angrily, “This conversation is over.  This is why I can’t have you in my life anymore.  You are always asking me to think about some ‘deeper meaning’ about what I say and what I do.  I just want to live my life, have fun, and live free.”  She got up to leave.

“Before you leave,” he said, “I ask you to remember two things.  Remember, I have always wanted the best for you.  Anytime I shared wisdom with you, that sounded like a rule; it was because I wanted you to have the best life possible.  And remember, I will always love you.”

She grimaced, paused, and looked at him.  A tear formed in the corner of her eye.  She brushed it away, turned, and walked on with a determined stride.  She was finally going to live her life her way.  What did he know anyway?  Weren’t his words just ideas from stuffy old men?

Jesus looked sadly down at his nail-scarred hands as her shadow retreated.  What else could he do to show her that he loved her best and it would be his love that would set her free?  His heart was breaking.  Another one of the people he died for had succumbed to the temptation to walk away.  The temptation looked so good, but he knew the temptation destination: destruction.

How many of us have broken up with Jesus because he cramped our style?  How many of us have come back to him to admit life without him just doesn’t work?  How many of us have to say walking away from Jesus, doing our own thing, was the worst mistake we ever made?

The good news?  He still loves you.  Always.

Stray Dogs…

From the time I was born until I was about six years old, my best friend was Mo. Mo was a German Shepherd, fiercely loyal and protective. My mother would tell me to play outside, knowing Mo would watch over me. He did. Once, I headed north. I made it almost a mile; then, I got tired and curled up under an orange tree and fell asleep. When they found me two hours later, Mama said Mo was snuggled around me, protecting me, while I took my nap.

Another time, I headed south. An old man had escaped from the county rest home and was tangled up in the barbwire fence. They found me again, sitting crisscross, Mo, seated by my side, watching the old man trying to disentangle himself, cussing up a storm. I remember learning new words that day.

Despite my best friend being a German Shepherd, it was drilled into me from before my memory: never trust a stray dog. Unfortunately, people would drive out into the country, find a dirt road, put out an unwanted dog or an unexpected puppy, and drive off. The dog would run after the car, but no dog, not even a greyhound, can do sixty miles per hour. 

The reason I was told to never trust a stray dog was rabies. Mama had strong memories of rabid dogs, salivating, turning aggressive, and biting everything in sight. That was why we did not welcome strays. And there were a lot of them.

Mo tangled with some. Others we ran off with loud shouts. I remember Mama firing the shotgun at two strays once. They tucked their tails and ran. 

You might think we should have taken them to the ASPCA. We’d never heard of that organization, and there was no pet shelter in our county. You had to take care of the strays on your own.

When I lived in rural Kentucky, a stray dog came up to our house. Under the influence of my wife, I had grown more tenderhearted and put out some food for him. He ate. He slept that night on the carport. He hung around one more day, but the next day, he was dead. My vet friend thought it was distemper. 

Dumping dogs is still a problem. Our ranch foreman in Florida called me not too long ago to tell me a pack of wild dogs attacked one of our cows and chewed its ears off. A neighbor saw what was happening and fired a shot. Frightened, the dogs ran away, and the cow lived. The pack of wild dogs was probably a group of strays that banded together, scavenged food wherever they could, and reverted to ancient ways of hunting as a pack.

Last time I was down in Florida, a stray that looked like a cross between a dachshund and a terrier followed me while I was walking. He looked fed and well cared for. I thought he must belong to a neighbor up the road. He showed up the next day. I began to suspect someone had dumped him. The women of the family put something out for him to eat and worried what would happen when we weren’t there to feed him. I tried to explain that there was nothing we could do and was grateful we had flown and there was no way to bring him home.

A friend lives near my pasture. He recently got a message to me that a stray bull mastiff had killed his cat. He warned me in case he started to attack my calves. I guess someone turned him out because he got too big or was costing too much to feed.

My current dog, Rags, does not scavenge for food. He eats pretty good dog food, usually flavored with bacon. I have precooked it for my own breakfast. He has his own bed but likes to sleep on a bigger bed with two adults in it. He is very insistent that he be petted, walked, and loved. He is deeply cared for.

I think about our Heavenly Father. He looks at all of us who are unwanted, and it moves his heart. He sees us who have been cast out and rejected. He knows being unwanted makes some people turn wild and destructive. Some people who are unwanted try to find a home. Some people follow anyone who will show them some care and love.

Our Heavenly Father, out of his great love, sent his son Jesus to die for the unwanted, the rejected, and the lonely so they could be adopted into his family. Jesus’ resurrection is the proof he has the power to include us. We are welcomed into our Heavenly Father’s family, to be loved and cherished, to be called his own children.

An old friend told me he didn’t believe in reincarnation, but if he did, he would want to come back as an old lady’s lap dog. I asked him why. He said he thought it would be the closest thing to heaven, just to be loved and cherished.

I don’t want to come back as a dog. But I am looking forward to a forever experience of my Heavenly Father’s love, grace, forgiveness, peace, and joy.

PS: To quote the late Bob Barker, “Don’t forget to have your pets spayed and neutered.”

Cold…

I don’t like cold weather. I could never see the attraction of snow skiing. Why would you pay money to fall down, get snow in your pants, and end the day cold, wet, and miserable? I did take an ice-skating class in college. That was a mistake. I fell, busted my chin, and had to get stitches. My instructor had pity on me and gave me a “B.”

I assume my dislike of cold weather began in my childhood in Florida. I grew up in an eighty-year-old drafty house. For some reason, the fireplace had been boarded up. We had a little gas heater in the living room. You learned to take your clothes into the living room and change in front of the heater. Mama warmed the kitchen by leaving the gas oven on and keeping the door open. When Mama built the new house, it had central air and heat. I marveled that the whole house was warm.

We didn’t have many cold spells in Florida, but that made it harder. We never acclimated to the cold. When it got cold, going down to feed up was miserable, but the horses emitted some warmth we could enjoy. The worst was when it dipped below freezing. When it got below about twenty-eight degrees, the oranges would freeze. In a few days, they would drop to the ground, and the crop would be lost. Before we had irrigation, all we could do was pray.

After we had under-the-tree irrigation, we could water the trees. The water would protect the trees and create heat as it freezes (it’s science, look it up). One year, it froze on Christmas. I remember a miserable night trying to unclog a filter. There is nothing like having gallons of water pour over you in twenty-seven-degree weather. 

We used to hog hunt when I was young. Some of the nights were cold, but most of the guys were not feeling anything if you get my drift. But I remember one cold night, riding in the back of a truck through the woods, freezing. I grabbed one of the dogs and pulled him close just so I could get a little more warmth.

I think God wanted me to experience a little more cold in my life, because he directed me north to school. The years in Birmingham were not too bad. The winters in Louisville were a nightmare. People say the coldest place on earth is in Antarctica. These are people who never spent twelve winters in Louisville. Louisville really wasn’t that cold; it was just miserable. Gray days started in November, and bright days did not come back until March. We would be snowed in, huddled around fireplaces and heaters. 

The snow was pretty as it came down, but driving on snow and ice is not for the faint-hearted. I wrecked one car on an icy road and pulled out in front of another car that had no headlights on a misty, foggy dusk. That car had to be junked. 

My last winter in Louisville, we got seventeen inches of snow in one night. The city came to a stop. The next night, the Pastor Search Team from Alice Drive in Sumter, SC, called and invited me to come be their next pastor. I asked how much snow they had. They said none, and I knew it was a sign from God.

This winter, much of the country is experiencing record cold. I have to wear my heaviest coat to go out and feed cows. I wiggle my toes ever so often so I remember that I have them. I know my friends from up north, who have lived in places like North Dakota, will think I am a wimp. When it comes to cold, they are right. Give me a blanket and a fire, and maybe a dog to warm me up.

One of the great things about heaven is there is no mention of cold. The warmth we need will come from our Heavenly Father. His love will warm our souls, and his light will brighten each moment.

I once heard an English pastor say, “Don’t you believe that hell is hot? Hell is cold, bitter cold. In hell, there is no love, no love of God to warm souls.”  I’m not sure he is right about hell not being hot, but I think he has a point. Maybe in hell, it is possible to be burning hot and freezing cold at the same time. Either way, I prefer the warmth of my Heavenly Father.

Jimmy Carter…

I met Jimmy Carter twice.  The first and most meaningful was at my seminary graduation when I obtained my Ph.D.  His pastor in Plains had earned his Doctor of Ministry degree, and President Carter agreed to speak to honor his pastor. 

I still remember much of his speech.  It was not the typical seminary graduation speech.  Instead of being laden with theology, he told us about the work of the Carter Center.  Most of us, despite earning advanced degrees, had never heard of the guinea worm, but President Carter told us how this worm destroyed thousands of lives each year.  The threat of the worm could be eradicated by teaching people to use clean water and providing water for them.

I did not realize it at the time, but he was teaching us, like he taught Sunday School for decades, that we were to be doers of the word and not hearers only.

He spoke of the Atlanta project and how Habit for Humanity would revitalize decaying neighborhoods.  He was showing us the gospel was not just for the uttermost parts of the world but also for folks here at home.

I remember being profoundly moved, not so much by the content of his words, but by the man himself.  Eric Sevareid, a news commentator of an older generation, once said of Harry Truman, “…what stands out now is the character of the man.  He seems like a rock now.”  What stood out that day to me about Jimmy Carter was the character of the man.  He was a man who simply believed what he said.

After he spoke, our names were called, and we walked across the stage to receive our diplomas.  President Carter graciously stood there, shook our hands, and said, “Congratulations” to each of us.

The other time I met President Carter was at a book signing in Birmingham, Alabama.  I was at a meeting, and he was the speaker.  I don’t remember what he said, but I remember buying his book, Turning Point, standing in line, and him autographing the book.  The book, which was not one of his best sellers, recounted how he challenged a fraudulent election in South Georgia and won a seat in the Georgia State Senate.  This may be why the Carter Center has focused on free and fair elections around the world and why President Carter always advocated for justice.

I admit I felt a connection with President Carter.  As Lewis Grizzard, the columnist, once wrote, “I voted for Carter because he talked the way I did.”  I grew up in rural Florida, which was the rural South.  When we moved off the ranch in 1968 to the suburbs of St. Petersburg, everyone in my class was from Michigan and Ohio.  They made fun of my accent.  When Jimmy Carter ran for President in 1976, he made it normal to be from the South.

His book, An Hour Before Daylight, is my favorite.  His stories of life before electricity and plumbing were the stories of my father and mother’s lives.  Times changed so fast, but he left a written record of what it was like to rise early, milk the cows, work hard, and overcome adversity and hard times.

Right before Jimmy Carter’s death, a prominent evangelical leader said he prayed that Jimmy Carter would go to heaven.  His inference was that Jimmy Carter’s progressive views were theologically unsound, and that disqualified him from heaven.  When I read that, my stomach turned.

Three verses apply.  The first is from Ephesians: “It is by grace you have been saved, not of works, lest any man should boast.”  Jesus saves people out of his overflowing grace, not because we believe a doctrine, but because we believe in a person.  The second verse is from the lips of Jesus: “By this, all men shall know that you are my disciples – that you love one another.”  President Carter, over and over, showed the love of Jesus by building homes, doing acts of kindness for his neighbors, and doing his best to stamp out disease.  The last verse is from Micah, the prophet: “What does the LORD require of you, O man, but to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God.”  In a world that speaks less and less about what is right and wrong for the least of these, Jimmy Carter spoke on their behalf. 

Whether we agree with his politics or not, can we acknowledge that Jimmy Carter served as a follower of Jesus should serve?  I wonder how many people who made the trek to Plains to hear him teach Sunday School had never heard the Bible taught before. 

No one, of course, knows a man’s heart.  But Jesus also said, “By their fruits, you shall know them.”   What do you think Jimmy Carter’s fruit really showed? 

For that matter, what does your fruit show?

What if They Said No?

I believe God gives people room to say “no” to him.  We are not robots.  Somehow, even though God knows our choices, his knowledge does not limit our ability to choose obedience or rebellion.

What if the people in the Christmas story said “no” to God?  What if when Zachariah came home, deaf and unable to speak, and he tried to explain to Elizabeth what had happened in the Temple, then suggested they try one more time to have a baby, she said, “No way, old man.”  Then, there is no John the Baptist.  There is no forerunner for Jesus, no one preparing the way.  Instead of being celebrated as the first couple to launch all God was doing, they would have been forgotten in the dust of history.

What if Mary had said “no” to Gabriel?  When Gabriel made his great announcement, what if Mary said, “I’m sorry, I’m not going through with that.  I will not risk my life or my engagement to something that sounds crazy.  I don’t even know what it means for the Holy Spirit to overshadow me.  No.  That’s my final answer.”  What would God have done?  Chosen someone else?  Tried to persuade Mary to reconsider?

What if Joseph had said “no” when he woke up from that dream?  What if he had dismissed the dream as indigestion?  What if he said, “God wouldn’t speak to me.”   What if he had said, “No way am I going to be humiliated.  I will have Mary stoned for getting pregnant, the little tramp.  Nobody is going to make a fool out of me.”  Jesus would have died when Mary was stoned.  Or what if Joseph stuck with his original plan and divorced Mary quietly?  Would Jesus have been born to a single mom?  Who would be his male role model?  Who would teach him a trade?

What if the Shepherd had said, “I don’t care what those angels shouted.  I’ve got to stay here with the sheep.  I can’t afford to lose a single one.”  They would have wasted a most amazing revelation, given especially to them, that the Savior born in Bethlehem was the chosen one, the Leader of all.  The story that changed their lives would never have been told.

What if when the wise men saw the star, they had said, “My, that’s unusual.  It seems to signal the birth of a new king of Judah.  We ought to go see what’s happened, but you know, it is such a long journey.  I doubt we can even get a university grant to make the trip.  Plus, we have classes to teach and finals week coming up in a month or two.  And we all know if Herod the Great is still living, we’d be risking our necks to see if there was a new king.”  They would have missed seeing God’s future in a toddler, a moment of worship that would never happen again in their lifetimes.  Joseph and Mary would never have received gold, frankincense, and myrrh, which might have financed their flight to Egypt.

What if Herod, instead of being upset by the news that the Messiah had been born, instead of being infuriated that the Wise Men had left the area without telling him what he wanted to know, had said “no” to his paranoia?  What if he realized in that moment that there was a great King, and it was not him?  What if Herod realized his time was growing short and he needed to get right with God?  Herod might have worshipped this new king himself.  He might have genuinely repented and realized he needed to be right with the great God of Heaven.  He might have gone to heaven instead of hell.

What if you stop saying “no” to Jesus?  What if you begin to listen for the whispers of God?  Might you hear God say, “You are being foolish.  You are not in control.  I do not wish to humble you, but if you set yourself against me, you will fail.”  What if you stopped saying “no” to God and began to take his word seriously?  What if you decided to forgive your enemies?  What if you decided to stop your efforts to get even?  What if you got honest about your addictions?

Part of no longer saying “no” to Jesus means you also learn to say “yes.”  When you say “yes,” you become part of God’s story, like Zacariah and Elizabeth and Joseph and Mary.  When you say “yes,” you realize you are invited to see what God is doing, sometimes what he does only once in history or once in your lifetime, like the shepherds.  When you say “yes,” you decide sacrifices of time and money are worth it, because you are being used by God in ways you do not even know, like the wise men.  When you say “yes,” you get over yourself, and you begin living out the words of Micah the prophet: “What does the LORD require of you, of man, but love mercy, do justice, and walk humbly with your God.”  Herod never did that, not once in his life.

This Christmas, will you say “yes” or “no?”

Telling the Story of Christmas…

No one really knows how the Christmas story was told. But if I can use holy imagination, it might have gone something like this:

One night, a small group gathered in the familiar upstairs room. Matthew was there; he wrote everything down. Luke was there, doing interviews and carefully researching the story of Jesus. John was there along with Mary, the mother of Jesus. There is a fire in the corner. The stories of Jesus are not yet etched into memories nor polluted by sentiment. Maybe it is Luke who begins: “Mary, how did the birth of Jesus happen?”

Mary smiles and looks above the heads of Luke, John, and Matthew. She is seeing something they cannot see, hearing again words that will never leave her soul. 

“Well, Luke, there are really two stories. There was Joseph’s story and my story. 

“Our parents agreed when we were children that we would marry. We had our engagement ceremony, but shortly after that, Joseph found out I was pregnant. He assumed the worst, but he was a good man.”  She sighed.

“He decided to divorce me quietly to spare my life. But one night, he had a dream. An angel appeared to him and told him I was pregnant by the Holy Spirit. I would give birth to a son, and he was to call his name Jesus.

“Joseph decided to believe the dream. He came to me, told me about it, and we were married a short time later.

“My story is more involved. It began with my cousin Elizabeth and her husband, Zachariah. He was a priest on duty in Temple. The angel Gabriel appeared to him and told him Elizabeth was going to have a baby who would have a special mission from God. He found it hard to believe. Then the angel struck him deaf and unable to speak. He managed to communicate to Elizabeth the message of the angel, and she got pregnant. 

“About six months after she had a baby, an angel appeared to me and told me I was graced by God. He said I was to give birth to a son who would save the people from their sins. I protested I had never been sexually intimate with anyone; how could this happen? The angel told me the Holy Spirit would come upon me, and I would conceive.

“I remember having so many questions at the time. I had never heard of the Holy Spirit conceiving a child in a woman. What would Joseph think? What did this mean for my life? But I said ‘yes’ to the angel.

“Right after that, I went to see Elizabeth. When she greeted me at the door, she went, ‘Uff.’  I knew enough to know the baby had kicked her. She then broke into a beautiful song I’ll never forget.

“I went back home a few months later, and by then, my condition was hard to conceal. That’s when Joseph found out. Thank God he listened to the angel and went ahead with the wedding.

“We heard that Elizabeth’s baby had been born. When Zachariah wrote, “His name is John,” his deafness went away, and he was able to speak again! Then he sang a beautiful song.

“Then came the event that upended our lives. Caesar issued a decree that everyone must pay a special tax. We had to return to our ancestral homes, which meant Joseph and I had to travel to Bethlehem. That’s a long trip for a pregnant lady!”

“When we got there, the town was overrun. A man had pity on us and let us stay in his barn. One night, the labor pains started, and I gave birth there in that barn. I wrapped my baby up in blankets, then laid him in a manger. It was the only place that was sort of clean.

“I was exhausted, but in a couple of hours, some shepherds came to see the baby: our first visitors! They told of an angel appearing to them, telling them of the birth of a baby who would be the Savior, the Messiah, and the Lord for all people. It was hard to believe at first, but by this time, Joseph and I started to believe angels spoke to people!

Another strange thing happened when we went to the Temple to dedicate Jesus eight days after his birth. An old man, Simeon, and an old woman, Anna, took Jesus from us and proclaimed him as the chosen one of God. I was chilled when Simeon said to me, ‘…a sword will pierce your own heart, too.’

“We decided to stay in Bethlehem for a while. Joseph could work anywhere; his skills as a carpenter were in demand. I think it was about two months later, late in the evening, some scholars from the East came and brought us expensive gifts: gold, frankincense, and myrrh. They looked at my precious little baby and said, ‘He is to be a great King.’ 

They did not tarry, but that night, Joseph had another dream, telling us wicked King Herod wanted to kill our baby. We packed in a hurry and fled in the night to Egypt, out of Herod’s kingdom. We stayed there two years and heard Herod was dead. It was time to go back home. We returned to Nazareth, and as they say, the rest is history.”

Matthew and Luke had been writing furiously as Mary talked. She suddenly looked very old and very young at the same time. She had seen God do incredible things in her life, things beyond description. She had known great joy and great heartache. But the sparkle in her eyes spoke of a youth, an eternal youth, an optimism. She had seen it all, the whole story. She knew what her son had done, so she knew how it all turned out. In her face, you could see a peace beyond understanding, the peace of knowing God’s plan worked for good. Good for Joseph, good for her, and good for the whole world.

What One Bale of Hay Costs…

I was going out of town for a few days. Thanks to a recent frost, all my grass is brown. Brown grass is not very nutritious. It’s like cereal: filling, but not much energy. I’ve put out protein tubs, and I feed my cows several times a week, but while I was gone, I knew they would need more.

My friends, the Lowders, grow the best hay in these parts (in Florida, the best hay is grown on the Buckhorn Ranch. Message me for details). But feeding hay is expensive. I try to hold off as long as possible, but not too long. As the old-timers say, “No one made money in the cow business starving their cows.”  I’ll start feeding hay in earnest in a few weeks, but for now, I just needed one bale. For one bale, there’s no need to hook up the trailer. It’s a tight squeeze, but one bale will fit in the back of my truck.

I pulled up to Lowder’s barn and signaled to my friend I needed one bale. He loaded it, then got out to talk to me for a minute. We had a good visit, and then he slammed the tailgate shut.

I’ve had trouble with the tailgate on my truck. It's not surprising since I have slammed it with gooseneck trailers, backed it into trees, and had my bull, Happy, headbutt it trying to get to the feed. Sometimes, I have to push it in to unlatch it. Right before the tailgate slammed shut, I thought of saying, “Stop!”  But I figured it really wasn’t any problem. I was wrong.

When I got back to the pasture to unload the hay, I lifted the tailgate handle. Nothing happened. I pushed on it, like usual. Still nothing. I leaned on it with all my weight. Nothing. It was then I remembered my high school physics: a six-hundred-pound bale of hay exerts a force greater than a two-hundred seventy-five-pound man. 

The cows were already gathered around my truck, pulling tufts of hay over the side. I opened my toolbox and went to work. First, the farmer’s favorite tool: WD40. I sprayed it all over. I tried to open it again and again; nothing. I got out a crowbar. I pried one corner, then another. Nothing. I was starting to bend metal and that did not seem like a good idea.

Not all ideas are good ideas. I got the idea to drive my crowbar into the bale, then hook my tow strap to a tree and pull the bale over the tailgate. Problem: I only had one crowbar. I remembered there were some metal fence posts in the barn. I got one, drove it into the bale, and hooked up the tow strap around the tree. The crowbar held. The metal fence post bent. Cheap import. 

Since that didn’t work, I decided to wrap the strap around the bale to see if it would hold enough to get the bale out. Once the tow strap was arranged correctly, I eased forward. I could see the bale starting to move. This was going to work! 

It did, but not in the intended way. I heard metal screeching and felt the thud of the hay bale. Success, but I had a feeling something was amiss. 

Again, I should have paid more attention in high school physics. When a six-hundred-pound hay bale in motion meets a defective tailgate mechanism, the hay bale wins. My tailgate was twisted like a piece of licorice. 

The cows, however, were very happy. They tore into the hale bale, happy to eat something nutritious. Strangely, I was happy too. I got the hay bale out of my truck.

When I took my truck to the body shop, my friend Billy (my body shop man and I are on a first-name basis) took one look and said, “You did it this time.”  He says that every time. The tailgate was beyond being straightened. It would have to be replaced, along with a taillight I hadn’t noticed. I don’t know the final cost yet, but it will be more than the cost of that hay bale.

Hay bale + truck repairs = hundreds.

No matter how much our false wisdom twists up and wrecks our lives, Jesus says you are worth whatever it costs to straighten you out. You are worth so much; I came to earth, lived in a human body, died on a cross, and rose again so your life could work the way God intended it to work. 

We don’t have to count the cost of straightening ourselves out. He already paid the bill.