Noah, Rainbow Communion Bread and Christian Sign Wavers

Yesterday, standing in the rain, more was coming down on me than just water.  I was standing in the parking lot of a strip club (isn’t this the beginning of some bar joint joke?) trying to hold my Bible from the elements, listening to a preacher’s loudspeaker enhanced voice.  Let me set the rest of the scene.

There were about 40-50 people there.  Across the street, a billboard hung over a McDonald’s that read, “Jesus is Muslim”.  A local preacher who has had his share of publicity over the years (more on that later) organized the event.  One lone Islamist stood across the street with his own bullhorn defiance, and nothing he said could be heard from where I was standing to make a difference. 

There are Christians, and then there are the ones who bring signs. I wear various shirts that advertise my faith, but carrying a sign is another level entirely.  There was Clever Road Sign Christian—Jesus is the only way—Burn in Hell Christian—with a picture of an omniscient twister—Repent or Else Christian—red letters on black sign always points one to hell more emphatically that a Times New Roman on white—and Abortion Christian—complete with graphic detail poster zoomed to 1000 percent intensity.  I also met the Islam is Satan Christian, except he drove around in a van up and down the street where an American flag sat caboose. 

This isn’t typically my crowd. Before my save date (sounds like an expiration you find on a carton of milk, “best used by”) I always found the Repent Christian to be scary and crazy. You have to be committed to stand on the corner of a street telling everyone the end is nigh, with the eyes of ridicule upon you. That’s exposing yourself. But after my save date, I never felt that this would be a way to win anyone over to Team Jesus.

I cannot confirm whether or not the prayer rally brought anyone knew to the party. It drew passerby approval-honks, and it brought out the Pamphlet Christians, but will the casual person on the fence with their faith stop and listen?

This blog is not an indictment on the organizers of the event. Dave Daubenmire was ousted years ago as a central Ohio football coach because of how he publically stepped out on faith concerning homosexuality, abortion and a list of ills the country has fallen into.  There’s times when the calling out of pastors for being lukewarm, weak or sheep only seems to benefit those already under his umbrella of influence. Because my local pastor isn’t up in arms about Jesus being called a Muslim, does it mean we have lost our way?  My daughter’s boyfriend was with me, just a few months away from going to seminary, and we said aloud what must be their definition of a pastor be? 

I can’t say my faith was strengthened that morning. While the ills of the church are many, I won’t be the one crying foul when I could be doing something about it. I sit in a room every Wednesday planning upcoming men’s events. I work with the junior high youth at my church because I know the seeds we plant now with pay dividends later in their lives.  We’re all called to be pastors.  We’re the Priesthood of All Believers!  I also don’t believe that the world is controlled by the mighty, Godly hand of American faith. Somehow we’ve mixed patriotism with Christianity.   I love my country. I love my God more.

Later, over an onion ring tower and burgers, we talked at length about being relational, the meaning of social justice, rainbow communion bread and our heart for Jesus. We spoke about those hot button issues that always divide people of faith. Do I want to see a world where babies are aborted? Do I want to be the one outside protesting an abortion clinic? The girl who is pulling into the driveway of an abortion clinic has already made up her mind. Do I see eye to eye on gay marriage and homosexuality? But their marriage shouldn’t be any indictment on mine. You know who has tarnished marriage in the eyes of the public?  Celebrity marriages and the increasing divorce rate.  Old men who marry younger girls, a second or third time. The couple playing house before marriage, having kids, struggling financially, dreams deferred.

After lunch we headed off to see “Noah”, also another hot button issue for Christians lately. I had read reviews, interviews and articles from movie magazines to religious publications. I was told not to give the movie my money, but the stubborn man in me had to see it for myself. Ironically, the same can be said about “The Wolf of Wall Street” but I went anyway.

I won’t get into a diatribe about my beliefs of the movie and why you should or shouldn’t watch it. Nor will I itemize the embellishments and inaccuracies from the bible. Anyone who thinks the Ten Commandments was word for word from the Bible has another thing coming. What I will admit is reaching for my bible later that day and reading the account of the flood once more. What I came to realize too is that in theaters right now are two other films playing that have the heartbeat of Christians in mind. There are more coming in the future. I’ll probably be in line for those too, wearing a Jesus shirt and hoping to start a conversation with a stranger. It beats holding a sign and yelling in a bullhorn any day.

The Vocabulary of God.

I'm having a grand love affair.  I had read about this kind of love on countless books about grace, discipleship and finding your heart.  I had listened to the testimonies of others and grew envious of their God stories.  For the first time in five years, I was in love with Jesus. 

The story this weekend (I've put this blog away for a week, so really it's been two weeks ago) and one I've been blogging about in the last few days, has been stories of transformation.  Part of the God story I share (mainly with other Christians, in a safe environment) was my Emmaus walk almost six years ago.  It was a time of priority challenges and awakenings.  Until then, my answer to the question posed this weekend, "When was the first time you fell in love with Jesus?" was brought back to that Saturday night sitting in a Reynoldsburg church wondering what the feeling was that coarsed through my very bones. 

The new heart that's been beating within me was not a love affair of my own doing.  I felt love, I witnessed loving acts, I've felt the presence of love amongst friends.  My own self doubts and persistent past always left doubt in my mind.  When I left the Emmaus walk, I was under the spell of the realization that God has been pursuing me long before I could remember.  He had this grand plan for my life that up until now had been unknown.  I  was able to look in the mirror for the first time knowing that I was deeply loved and there was nothing I could do about it. 

My past would seep into the cracks on a consistent basis.  I fought back with Bible studies, fellowship, serving on missions and praying.  It wasn't necessarily the guilt of my past sin, but it was the routines and lazy habits one builds up over a lifetime of conscious disregard that it became difficult to make the changes needed to live that life fulfilled.  I struggled with pornography, and worse, I couldn't make daily devotions and prayer part of my everyday life.  I had seasons (a favorite Christian comment) where I was on fire, followed by the murmurings of a lukewarm heart.  My life looked like an EKG of faithfulness. 

When I went to Oklahoma last year, it became another seminal moment in my love affair with the Lord.  However, it answered the burning question of doubt that always seems to arise when bad things happened, when events beyond my control could not be explained.  Does God allow bad things to happen? 

Standing on ground zero, it became apparent that God doesn't need bad things to happen to us to force us closer to him.  If that were the case then the good things in our life would bring us closer to him as well.  But we give credit to luck, karma, friends, chance, destiny and fate.  Bad things, disasters, sicknesses, deaths, it can happen to anyone and everyone. There's no lottery on bad events.  While cancer might not ravage my body now, those that I love who suffer from it provide me a chance to love on them and to walk alongside them.  If I don't get the job I want, but a friend does, you celebrate with them as if it were your own.  To walk into the life we're meant to live, we must do so in everything.  Even the mundane ritual of ordering food through a drive-through is a chance. Someone is always watching us. 

             *                               *                               *                                *                    *

Is it okay to be thankful for the failures in your life?  Perhaps failures are what reminds you that we aren't perfect.  Perhaps it's a reminder that we do need intervention in our lives. 

Back when I was in Houston in community college, I met regularly with a writer's group. We ate Chinese food every week and dissected poetry.  There was a trust involved in that circle.  I trusted that what criticisms came from that eclectic group--a gay man, a Native American woman, a homemaker, a college student and future professor of literature--weren't personal.  Any edits and suggestions were for the good of the work.  Getting published was a goal for each of us.  We wanted to write words that mattered, that spoke for our emotions in ways we couldn't do face to face. 

Now every Wednesday I sit among a group of Christian men.  We challenge one another, we laugh, we criticize constructively.  The trust involved is much the same.  We had a guys event the last weekend.  Today was a meeting to discuss what we need to work on to become better.  Failures were listed, but feelings weren't.  In some way those meetings at that Chinese restaurant paved the way for these small groups. Who knows the great tapestry of our lives?  Every instance and experience matters in the long run. 

I forget this when I'm struggling to get my son dressed each morning.  For my son, each moment is magnified to hyperbolic degrees.  I raise my voice, he hears a scream.  He strikes out in a baseball game, he suddenly feels he's never going to get a hit.  This newfound resilience I've found in me is seemingly absent, or at least untapped in him.  I use my words carefully.  I grew up in a time when sarcastic barbs and pokes about my physical failings were targets for mockery.  I heard how big my nose was, how fat or lazy I was, how bad my attitude was.  But that's what made us tough.  Was it better?  Many adults I know all seem to have been raised in similar families where teasing and toughing up were part of their everyday lives.  How many have heard, "toughen up," "shake it off," or "get over it.". Sometimes I say the same things to my fifth graders.  Perhaps the kids in my life are
more resilient than I give them credit for.  Perhaps the struggles they exhibit are manifestations of our wounds we inflict on them. 

Perhaps they know, my son included, how many various hat we try to wear with excellence each day.  Father, youth volunteer, men's ministry member, Husband, teacher, friend.  How does one do each job effectively?  Can it even be a realistic goal?  We constantly sigh and wonder where the time goes but I know there is waste among the gold.  There's not much time to wallow.  I'm yawning now.  It's late.  I have emails to send and thank you cards to pen.  It's another chance to use God's immense vocabulary for his glory.  I don't think I have enough pens, or blog space, to write them all. 

A Heavenly Polaroid

Nothing is coincidental. While we cannot always see the intricacies of our lives, those chance meetings, the decisions that change our paths on a daily basis or the people that move and weave within the tapestry of a lifetime, there is a divine hand in our epic narrative. 

This isn’t a typical Monday for me.  I’m on my last day of the SYMC where the theme has been “Stories of Transformation.”  Today was a field trip for my fifth grade students at the downtown Audubon Center.  It’s the first time in months the temperature has been above 60.  While my students will be looking at the different species of birds and ripping roots out from the ground, I’m trying not to leave my workshop for a pee break because I drank an extra-large coffee.  I’m at a roundtable discussing the multiple roles we play in ministry and our lives (I can’t wait to blog about that subject!)

I’m anxious somewhat.  After this class, we convene for our last general session.  Each session has been worship filled, musically uplifting, and heavy on my spirit.  The best kinds of service are the ones that convict you. 

And this morning brought it back to the garden.  We each have a story, an epic narrative that God has explicitly written on our hearts.  Every epic adventure has been manifested by the choices we ultimately make.  When the spirit interceded on our behalf, the story can truly be lived out in epic fashion.  There’s a song, “God bless the broken road that brings me back to you.”  While I have some theological problems with the message of the song (my sin is justified because in the end, I found my true love), I do believe that God redeems all.  So despite the stupid decisions I’ve made in my life, and sometimes continue to make, there have been people placed in my life whose lives I can speak into simply because of those experiences.  Did I want those experiences?  No.  But the brokenness of my life is helping to transform the healing in someone else’s.  A student, a man coming to bible study, one of our junior high kids and some unseen person I have yet to meet.  In a sea of 2000 people this weekend, you begin to point our familiar faces.  How is that even possible?  Who designs such intricate quilts? 

In one inspiring worship service, we were witness to a photo of the earth from the Hubble telescope.  The earth in which wars have been waged, where people are oppressed and thrown into sexual trafficking, where we crave materials and idols, is nothing but a blue dot in a vast universe. A vapor.  Our lives are a vapor.  A blink.  But within those wistful vapors there is embedded the roots of love that is too powerful to overcome. 

Yet, there are times, when the destructive narratives in our lives threaten our spiritual growth.  This is the portion of the epic of my life that I feel have yet to conquer.  Old sins, guilt, the words of failure I tell myself in the mirror.  None of them are true, but they’re plausible, so those beautiful narratives get stuck in plot changes we try to direct.  In a sense, those weeds grow within our heart, and when we try to uproot them with our own strength, we are bound to rip out something valuable.  So we grow our beauty around those weed patches, trying to overlook them.  We get so busy and we get so frustrated that ripping up our own weeds seems like the only respite.  It’s pride not to ask for help.  We’re the alpha-volunteers, the leaders. 

But what I learned this weekend is that Jesus is the only gardener qualified to pull the weeds out of the garden of our lives.  He’s the only one who has the experience to deliver the ultimate plot twist.

Transformation.  Moving to Texas was my first visible sign of Jesus pulling out those weeds.  Would I have found Jesus in Texas?  Perhaps, but I don’t want to relive a life where there’s a doubt.  Moving out of Zanesville was another.  Later it was changing job locations, the decision to adopt, and then the deus ex machina was that Emmaus walk.  It was like an explosion from an Indiana Jones movie.  You’re awed and floored.  But you want more.  So much more.

And God is happy to keep pouring into our lives.  He doesn’t save us and then walk away.  He’s always creating newer versions. Sequels and reboots.  There’s cross over TV specials when we meet others.  Subplots are explored and revealed. 

I told our youth pastor this weekend that it was such a relief to be around so many genuinely nice people.  How fulfilling to know that there are so many youth pastors and volunteers in all places of America that are pouring truth and love into the lives of children.  Seeing the book cases packed up, people giving each other hugs reminded me that it was over.  It’s another mountaintop that God reveals to us like some heavenly Polaroid, but to remain is selfish and unloving.  We must share our lives.  Our love.  Our witness. 

 

 

Chiseling the Doubt

Transformation.  The word of Friday night.  It's the word of my life, truly.  It's the theme of this weekend's Simply Youth Ministry conference  for youth workers.  I'm exhausted.  Like I said a few blogs ago, there's no way you can "overfeed" your spirit.  But there are times when the emotions and breadth of what you're listening to become overwhelming for your heart.  It's that near crying moment.  You know everything your hearing has some profound truth, that each word and phrase was meant exactly for you at this very moment. 

The day started just the opposite.  Snooze after snooze.  Although the first sunny day in months awaited, I slept in.  That turned into a frantic search for my son's clip-on tie for his Young Gents meeting he has in school.  His pants were on the floor, inside out, and when I slapped them in the air to straighten out the wrinkles like I would a carpet, I realized there was a grass stain on the knee.  That led to a decision to wear jeans.  You would have thought I was torturing my son.  Jeans and a long-sleeve shirt. 

I was met at school by students who aren't even in my classroom who want to avoid the substitute teacher they know is waiting for them by hiding out in my room.  I could literally have 50 kids all crammed in one room, all wanting to sharpen pencils, organize my desk and tell me silly stories from their lives.  The bell rings, I'm in the hallway and doing my usual walk-in-A-line routine.  I end up face to face with a new student who isn't backing down.  These are the mornings that I wonder why I work with kids.  They want confrontation.  It's the one thing in which they can excel.

My own students are walking on egg shells.  There was some disturbance the day before when I took a half day.  I can see the look in their eyes.  Like they know in their one moment of impulsivity they have disappointed me.  I craved that look as a new teacher.  Now I just want them to relax.

But before the morning was done, the decision to stay in that moment of moodiness that typically would ruin my day was taken from me.  I pulled the new kid aside, talked, apologized, invited.  That's my true self.  It's the easiest part of my day that does not involve decimals or cause and effect charts.  I can read the face of one my most trying students.  I've brushed him off this week.  Stop whining.  Put your big boy pants on.  But the words of motivation come easy, and the face looking back at me changes.  That's my true self.

The day went through its paces.  I ended up splitting a class up just after diffusing a fight.  I leave one room unattended to help with another unattended group.  I'm mad about kids who throw the hollow tennis balls that fit on the table legs across the room.  I have films and team building games ready.  Then everything is in lockdown mode.  Now I'm the teacher that punishes the entire class which in turn ends up punishing me.

This day has played a familiar beat.  Step out in faith, the target on your back becomes larger.  I've had some of my worst denials just before reaching a mountain top experience.  I've walked away from great moments of grace and faith to the doubts of my mind when I'm alone on the couch.  Perhaps it's the scenery.  The same place I sit every night and ponder the day, processing the tv noise, sliding the images of my phone friends up like some digital scroll.  It's the same place where I've given up.  The place where food becomes therapy. 

It was this same couch where I told my wife that perhaps this was the last year for me as a youth worker.  Men's Ministry is still calling me.  Every outburst from my son in some ways becomes this totem pole in the middle of my house that displays all my parenting fails.  I'm busy.  Let's not carpool tonight either, I told her too.  No friends.  No anyone.  Just me and you, babe.

But those thoughts too were the doubts.  Not good enough.  Not thin enough.  Not important enough. 

All that feeling quickly changed being crammed in the back seat of a mini-van on the way to the conference's opening night.  Upon arrival the layers of doubt begin to be chiseled away.  Laughter bursts through my sediments like dynamite.  Our group is a few feet away from the sound stage's subwoofers.  The band begins and the music is at once haunting, melodic, hymnal, sprinkled with bit parts trombone and violin.  The last time I felt music like that was last year in Oklahoma.  Soul stirring.

More laughter.  Hugs from old friends.  All the questions I had going in are slipping from me, exfoliated by grace.  I'm praying in a room of 2,000 people.  At one point across the stage I can see one youth worker dancing alone in the aisle while everyone around him was sitting.  No care in the world.  And here I am still wanting to complain about my schedule, my needs. 

The message is one of discipleship.  Do we as youth workers spend so much time telling the kids what to do that we don't actively imitate God, allowing them to see a practical, real-life living?  Stories of transformation.  Stories of hope.  I want the ceiling of my life to be the floor of a future generation.  Wow, what a phrase.  I'm exposed once again for a fool.  The spotlight is one me again with God showing me once again that there aren't any puppet strings attached to my frame.  Instead it's a pair of hands.  I'm here, they call.  I've been here.  Have you forgotten?

So the devil didn't win tonight.  I came home with my stomach hurting from the laughter one has with friends.  My wife is making late-night lunches for tomorrow.  I'm high lighting tomorrow's sessions, double-checking my options.  God already knows what I'm going to learn over the next few days.  One thing is for certain, the heart that beats for Him is "overfed" once more.  A heart can be overfed, in my opinion.  This allows it to drip grace with every step.  Be a difference maker.  Leave a legacy.  Transform.