Sacrificing Isaac: Report to Brookport Mission Trip, Day 3

I rarely feel I’m ever prepared for a mission trip or work camp. There’s always a tool resting back in the garage that could have saved us a half day’s work, or a personal item that magnifies some weakness. On this particular trip, I left behind my breathing machine. By Tuesday, the sleep I would have had was interrupted by my endless snoring (luckily I’m in my own room or I would have driven back the 6 hours to retrieve it) that later turned into a sore throat. I keep emptying my suitcase as if somehow it would appear, as if it were hiding under the socks and underwear waiting to be found.

On Monday night, a bed fairy surprised me by supplying me with a pillow and a quilt that has kept me warm all week (yes I forgot my pillow and the two blankets I left in the dryer). It’s been that kind of trip. The first full day working at Miss Lucille’s home, she arrived in the afternoon with coffee mugs filled with assorted candies. She asked us if we liked blueberry cheesecake and sure enough it was on the menu for lunch the next day. And lunch? A local church down the road from our site has been providing meals for us all week. It’s blessings upon blessings. Here we are working to help someone else and we are the ones that have gone without any needs.

Each night we have devotional time where we tell one another where we saw Jesus in action. Among the group of volunteers who have served us meals, one particular gentleman has gone above and beyond. He provided each of us with agape forms of love, from beef jerky to pocket crosses. I’m almost certain there will be another surprise waiting for us tomorrow.

But I will admit that every form of agape and every uplifting moment has kept me from becoming weary. Every time I hike myself up into the church van, my right knee reminds me how overweight and old I am. On Tuesday, we worked well into sundown, pushing through the painting we needed to finish. We were told that Miss Lucille could move in by the end of the week. Looking at the house now, without its flooring, the cabinets and bathroom components still in boxes, it feels like a dauntless task. You wouldn’t know it from the crew. Everyone finds their job. Everyone finds their purpose. It’s a clear example of the Holy Spirit giving a person the strength persevere. No one is an expert. No one is a professional.

At devotional time, our leader Rocky presented to us the story of Abraham and his son Isaac. Abraham has been given a test from God. “Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love…..and offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains of which I shall tell you” (Genesis 22). Adam packs the essentials. He brings with him Isaac, a donkey, two servants and cut wood. He had to have had the knife too. The one that would be needed to slay his son. The son that was promised to him by God years ago, the son God told him would be born from Sarah, in her old age.

God could have choses Ishmael, the illegitimate son, or a goat from his own herd. Why did God choose the very son that was a miracle to begin with? Perhaps Abraham had begun to take Isaac for granted. Here was a blessing from God, and perhaps Abraham had not been thankful, perhaps he didn’t quite understand the bigger picture.

In this ongoing story of rebuilding our hearts this week, it’s been time to take a personal inventory. If God had told me to sacrifice the Isaac in my life, what would it be? What blessing was given to me from God that I essentially had nothing to do with? Where is God sending me that involves this metaphorical Isaac?

I texted my wife this week that in all the times I had been away from home, this was the one that I had missed her the most. Not because she would have reminded me to pack my bags correctly, or that she would have offered me comfort in my weakness this week, although I’m sure she would have. It was the fact that is God is pruning me towards a new heart, my wife would be the closest thing to my Isaac. Her and the family.

I wonder if Abraham had these same feelings walking with Isaac up to the mountain. Surely God will provide a substitute for this sacrifice, he must have thought (and in Genesis 22, there are clear indications that Abraham perhaps knew that God had a surprise waiting for him on that mountain altar). When I say “yes” to anything, my first no is to my family. I’m basically binding them up, having them carry the chopped wood up to the mountain, ready to be sacrificed.

I spoke to my son today. He told me he got all A’s on his report card. Back at home there has been one work day sandwiched between snow days. I miss them. While I don’t believe that God closes doors of serving, he does see a way past our own eyesight. Perhaps the first thing after I tell my wife about an upcoming trip, I’ll make sure to add the one essential request I should have known to use the first time I left. “Want to go with?” I can’t wait to see what her answer will be.

The Storms We Try and Nap Through: Report to Brookport Mission Trip, Day 2

The first day at any work site, both from work camps and other mission trips I've attended, are always a patchwork of delays, delegation and expectations. The limitations on supplies are always overtaken by the eagerness of the workers. Instead of a slew of rookie high school kids who are about to embark on real physical labor for the first time, this group has been well tested from experience. It's like bringing an all-star team of Christians to a bible trivia contest. No job seems too big, no task too challenging.

Among the Ohio 9, almost half have been to a foreign country or plan to be in 2015 doing some kind of mission work. Haiti, Tanzania, Puerto Rico, Taiwan, the list goes on. Some of the 9 are looking into careers that will bring them into the mission field. A pastor, a social worker. Almost all have seen the effects of a home wrecked by a tornado or hurricane. Yet, there are moments that even among them cause them to pause and listen. such was the case on our first day.

We drove about ten minutes through rural roads to get to our job site. The new home belongs to a Ms. Lucille Shannon. She's a retired fifth grade teacher who has spent more than 30 years in Brookport. Everyone knows her. Many of the pastors, community members and other youth have been touched by Miss Shannon's presence. The minute she walked into the home to introduce herself we knew right away that we were among someone special. A life touched by God is something so bright you cannot contain its energy.

We ended up putting down our paint rollers to hear her story. Her original home had all but been destroyed. She had been misplaced for over year, still awaiting the day she can finally move back, call it home. As with any tornado survival story, the question always comes: did you have any warning? In tears, she began to tell us how she felt the storm would pass like many before she had been warned about. Living so close to the Ohio River allows some protection for disastrous storms like tornados. "I was going to go and lie down, let it pass," she said. "They've never hit before."

I saw myself in her home on that day, watching her nonchalantly going to her bedroom to allow the storm to rumble past. Perhaps on any other day like that one, she had fallen asleep, only to awaken to see the clouds dispersed and the rain gone. This time, the storm did hit. She felt the rumble of the oncoming disaster. It shook the floorboards and it shimmied a sense of urgency up towards her heart, she remembered. She prayed for Jesus, not for her, she told us, but for her kids who were at work, saved that day because of their jobs. The house was twisted into a slanted trapezoid. The corners had gone from 90 to 35 degrees, as if the tornado reached down its hand and twisted the frame of the home until it leaned inward and outward.

I think we have all been in a position of Miss Shannon, waiting for the impending storm to rattle some windows and make some noise, but in the end we nap through the commotion. The storm will pass, it always does.

The one thing about this God-imitating life is the storms we create, the ones we find ourselves in, do seem to pass. We grow reliant that the emergency broadcast system is really just a courtesy call. It's an "ahem, pardon me," in an otherwise innocuous day. We take score though, weak as we are, because the storms we try and nap through end up becoming the testimonies as to why we don't obey. In just 12 short weeks, I beat smoking. I never touched a drop again in my life and all it took was (fill in the blank). I knew it would all come out alright.

God isn't in the business of storm chasing. He doesn't create the storms either, in my opinion, but he does allow them to effect our lives. If Jesus is so vital to our everyday relationship with the Lord, why do we have rows and rows of self-help books in our stores? We pay for medications with questionable side-effects. We invest our monies in retirement funds to build something that we can take nice pictures form place them in a frame or photo album to make sure we always remember the days on the beach, the days we worked hard for. Those of us that have been in a storm with god always have the best testimonies. They understand their lives in these moments of near death.

Miss Lucille Shannon is a living stone. I'm referring to a passage we studied after a full day's work from the first book of Peter, chapter 2:  As you come to him, the living Stone—rejected by humans but chosen by God and precious to him— ⁵ you also, like living stones, are being built into a spiritual house^[a] to be a holy priesthood, offering spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ.

A stone isn't a great form of nature's wonder at first sight. It's shapeless and oblong, gray or a mixture of drab colors and earth. There's nothing special about rocks. Stones we keep in jars, or we skip them along the water. We drill holes through them and make them into jewelry. But a rock? We plow them out of the ground to remove them from the land. We toss them aside. We break them apart. So here's God letting us know that Jesus is a living stone. One word alive and the other inanimate. How can a stone be living? be alive? But somehow God is placing these rocks, our lives, into the shape of a precious, spiritual house. Even the best human architects need special epoxies to keep rocks together, to make them livable. God takes what's there and forms them into one. Somehow the erosion of life, the sanctification stamp of approval forms a house built for His purpose. None of us can brag, because without him we'd be just a measly rock with no purpose.

Tonight we were asked to take an inventory of our spiritual homes. What stays when we have to rebuild? What needs replaced? We can either go into the field and fish rocks form the earth, stacking them as high as a Babylonian tower but in the end how far will you go before the work of your own hands crumbles? I find myself tripping over the stones in my life. Tasks, to-do lists, concerns and worries. None of them are helping me build a spiritual home that lasts. The most important stones, my obedience, my family, my love for others, gets placed in a pile of rocks. I'll get to them later. Let me prioritize this pile first. I'll get to it. When is it time for a nap?

Miss Lucille is starting over. Among her new possessions is a scrap book containing pictures and letters from the various crews that have come in to help rebuild. By the looks of the home, the pictures, we can all tell that God has a hand in all of it. I'm not mad at God for causing this tragic event in her life. She's not just some living rock, I think. She's the one made of alabaster. Her new name has been written on her rock. It's now a precious stone, too bright to hold. Too loving for one person to have. On that new stone is her new name. God knows for sure what that name is, lovely and bold. Did you know that to have that stone all you have to do is let Him in? The master craftsman. I hope that when I see him face to face, I'm still not trying to pull an oxcart full of lumpy stones towards a destination too far away for me to see. What stays? What goes? This trip is helping me find those answers.

Rebuilding: Report to Brookport Mission Trip, Day 1

There was a story during devotions tonight among the ten of us, as they usually are, about how one can feel like we are so close to the pinnacle of God's touch, that the second we look away we realize the fall was so great. We try and jump across the expanse like a Christian Neo from "the Matrix" and when we fall, we get absorbed into the asphalt. We bounce back, but the ego, that sense of failure, wakes us to an alarming truth. It reminds us that we really weren't that close to begin with. What were we doing that made us fall so hard?

This is my third mission trip to help tornado victims rebuild. Oklahoma, Arkansas and now Brookport, Illinois, a small rural community just outside of Kentucky across the Ohio River. I didn't realize that rebuilding wasn't really what our team was doing before coming here. We did cleanup. We cleared a wheat field in Oklahoma to help a farmer plow his crop. We cleared debris from a house that had been obliterated. We purchased toys to give to several families who had no home so that their kids could have some sense of comfort. But here, starting tomorrow, we actually help someone who has begun to lay the foundation of a new home. Rebuilding.

It occurred to me tonight during devotion time that rebuilding has so many connotations. In one sense it can all deal with construction. But it implies that what came before it was insufficient, or that it was not up to code. It has to be torn down before it can be rebuilt again. Renovations aren't rebuilding. Renovations is putting new paint on the stains of before, adding a semi-gloss to the walls so that no one will remember what was there.

What does it look like when we rebuild ourselves? That was a hard look. A fall from God's touch like some three dimensional scene from the Sistine Chapel. Almost there, Adam, but don't look down at the glowing fruit of knowledge that Eve just took a huge bite of, handing it over with the look in her eyes that says it's fine. Go ahead. Surely we won't die if we take a bite.

Perhaps that is what my spiritual life is really like. A total obliteration of what was before. I have used the God coming in to renovate the rooms in your heart metaphor more than once. It makes sense to me for someone who has moved so many times in my life. God wants to come in. Replace the kool-aid stained carpet, replace the linens, paint the walls, cover up the stains. But tonight the metaphor didn't quite capture the feeling I had looking back on my life, my current life actually, the one I'm trying so hard to keep together.

You see, rebuilding for me means that God wants to lay a new foundation. Coming to Christ several years ago painfully awakened me to the realization that the roots I had established in God were either withered, chopped away or had grown sour. My efforts were not producing good fruit. There was still work that needed to be done to the basement. There were cracks in the concrete. I have always felt that I could seal them over, cover it up like my own personal version of the Tell-Tale Heart. I can cover up the body beneath the floorboards but the sin that trues so desperately to get out creeps back. Moldy soul.

It's a hard truth to realize that God will destroy my house of idols to rebuild my foundation. This does not imply that God needed to wreck the homes of the several hundred here in Brookport. I don't believe that God needed me to suffer either. He wanted a simpler route. It was I who continues to distrust, who continues to disobey. Even through this process, he's been equipping me along the way. You see, you cannot hope to rebuild a foundation in Christ alone. There are others with gifts who pour out their love upon me, sometimes without me even knowing it. I'm totally pouting upstairs in my make-shift home i'm so desperate to keep, while Jesus, the master carpenter, is arranging the chess pieces of my life downstairs, setting up this surprise party that's only for me.

So our group of ten is setting up tomorrow for a rebuilding project. God has maneuvered our lives to intersect in such a way that it will help pour the foundation for a family in need. Already, we have been blessed beyond measure. The church here, Mt. Sterling Presbyterian, is between a graveyard, a dirt road and farmland on all directions. It's a congregation small enough to know that when the pastor testifies to the dwindling attendance at Bible Study, you know exactly who he's referring. But my contemporary worship style met a small town feel this Sunday. Singing from a hymnal, revisiting Jeremiah 29:11 (and a blog of its own perhaps one day), and worshipping with townspeople who have all been impacted by last year's storm.

I sat in an adult Bible study class where the adults had the same concerns I did just 6 hours away in Reynoldsburg. How can we support my church? What gifts do I have? Ho do I utilize them to their greatest potential? I heard the nuances and voice inflections that reminded me that they were concerned about loved ones who lived far away from the Lord. They too were wondering if what they did mattered. It's funny because I wasn't headed towards the adult Bible study class (our groups was going to sit in at some of the youth classes), but before I made my way upstairs, one of the ladies who I had met that morning tapped me on the shoulder and said, "We're meeting downstairs," with the assurance that she was showing me exactly where I needed to be. There's God again. Those nudges to get me closer.

During worship today, the pastor revealed a truth from his own life. Instead of praying for the blessings he so desperately wanted, he asked God to "put me in your plans." At home we have had a huge dry-erase calendar that sits next to the fridge. It helps my wife and I keep our schedule, to make sure we don't double book any appearances. It helps us maneuver our lives. But no where on that board is there anything that simply says, "God's plan." How many "good things" and I filling up with my life that I potentially miss the great things He's so willing to offer? God intervenes in our schedule even when we have a calendar of events. He's always trying even when we sometimes think we have been inconvenienced. That traffic jam. The student who pesters me to have lunch with them even when I'm busy. The phone call or email that needs attention.

It's late here as I'm typing. The kids are below in the sanctuary, not yet ready for bed on the night before rebuilding. There won't be wreckage to be found, unless we dig deep and listen to the stories of hope and loss. We don't know if the home is being rebuilt on something that was before, or that it will serve a new occupant. What we do know a little more about is that cornerstone foundation. Is there really more to give from each of us this week? Luckily we have enough clothes and tools for a week to find out.

Spiritual Spreadsheets

One of the many gifts of writing a blog is the chance to share my growth in my walk with Jesus. What a great trip it's been since I said yes about six years ago. I stray with posts about teaching and sometimes even politics, but the very fact remains is the journaling, the account of one's man's thoughts as I drift from obedience to sin and back again.

Part of this overall growth has been the time I get to take for study. Each class I get to take is like I'm back in school, digesting new information and sharing the knowledge and my questions and doubts with other believers. If a man calls himself a Christian but does not open his Bible, how good is his word? Now the method of that reading is always up for debate. I have those who feel their devotions are their form of study. Some find their reading through classes and book studies, like myself, while others read on their own, sometimes Bible reading plans and sometimes not. Regardless, one of the many testimonies I can give another man is the impact study has brought forth in my own life.

This past month I've been reading a book called, "Limitless Life" by Derwin Gray. Among the men's study, my own personal readings and observations, I can say that I'm glad I purchased the book a year ago at a youth ministry convention after hearing Derwin Gray speak. I remember describing the book to a friend after reading the first few chapters. "It's nothing new," I had said, "more for baby Christians, but I do like the writing."

Baby Christians. One thing about the Methodist church is how we PowerPoint and itemize our spiritual gifts, our servanthood and our Christian growth. I think it helps our informational society find their niche, it helps the achievers graph their progress like some spiritual spreadsheet. Now, I fall into this trap too. I wanted the labels because anything sounded better than "Sinner". I wanted to belong to something greater than myself.

So I was quite pleased with myself on being a "Baby Christian." 1 Corinthians 3:1-5 even talks about spiritual infants who need milk before they can take on solid food. I've always eaten myself through an endless amount of literal and figurative buffets. It was time I went on a sin fast (kind of like Slim Fast, right? One scripture a day you lose the weight of sin!). I dove into Genesis studies, a Bible in one year plan, multiple studies and any kind of service I could get my hands on. I wanted the entire Christian package simply because I didn't quite understand what being a Christian was all about.

Later, when I was given the task of facilitating a men's class, we labeled the synopsis as a study for Spiritual Adolescents. It was for those ready for the next step. I too found it a seamless transition into the next phase of my life. I had been on a few mission teams, had served in the youth program and had my share of mountaintop experiences. It felt like a natural progression that could be quantified and measured. Pin a badge on me, I was growing in Christ.

Then the bottom fell out. The course our men's group just finished, "Fight" by Kenny Luck came with a gut punch. Amid the conversations of spiritual warfare and the tactics the devil uses to undermine our faith walk, I was struggling in secret. Temptations were gaining significant footholds. The intimacy I craved with my wife was playing second fiddle to my work, worries and selfishness. Work was a struggle and even the times I served, it felt hollow. I felt myself unequipped and inadequate. Welcome back, sin, I hardly knew you were gone.

Around this time I came across this article, "The Damaging Myth of Relationship not Religion." When I first read it I wanted to write a rebuttal. Of course it's all about a relationship with God, right? Who needs religion and all its rules? Isn't that why leaving the Catholic church felt so right? No more rote prayers, no more kneeling, no more checking my calendar to see if I've confessed enough to warrant communion bread. But amid my rough draft rebuttal, something changed. I looked upon my own Spiritual Spreadsheet and realized I had traded in the rules of Catholicism for the labels of a Methodist, the Great American Christian.

You see, I always understood the message that God had been pursuing me all my life. I was the one running. We are all called to be "royal priests" with Jesus being the head priest. I didn't need anyone to intervene on my behalf, not a miniature statue of the Virgin Mary or a rosary for my prayers to be answered. Everyday I have a chance to say "yes" to my savior and obey, submit and follow his ways. But with that relationship, religion must come in too. Not the rules and dogmatic decrees, but the truth that when we say "yes" to Christ we are inviting the covenantal process to follow. Amid all the excuses of why men don't go to church and all the reasons why we hate church and the hypocrites that line their pews, the real religion, the covenant between God and us, calls us towards a deeper relationship. I have found that deeper relationship amid the walls of my church. There is where we network, where we can serve, where we find other like-minded people who are struggling just the same. I'm thankful for the relationship AND the religion.

Now if I could just shake off this Pharisee feeling.

So back to "Limitless Life." While you can do your own research on Derwin Gray, the short is that he's an ex NFL player who is head pastor for Transformation Church. He's about as engaging as they come, and the Lord has blessed him with a heart for multi-cultural ministries.  For the first few chapters, I felt as I had read similar material from Max Lucado or Bill Hybels. But about halfway through I ran into some significant soul searching on my purpose (you purpose-driven life bashers can see me behind the bleachers if you want to fight it out later, I'm ready to defend myself), my calling and to be a contributor instead of a consumer.

In the chapter titled, "From Worker to Worshipper," Derwin asks the reader to answer a few questions. Take a minute and let these sink in. Can you fill them out? Like me, do you find yourself redrafting and erasing, looking for the right words?

Q1: How do you want to be seen in ten years?
Q2: What do you want to be known for in ten years?
Q3: What do you want your family to be like?
Q4: What makes your heart sing?
Q5: Who in your life will tell you the truth about yourself?

Dear reader, I hope these blogs are not only a way into my heart, but as a way to walk this walk with someone with the blemishes of our pasts. But I do believe that when we shine a light on our sin, to be reflective on our own hard-heartedness, God responds. God will move into our hearts if we let Him. He wants permanent residency.

My relationship allows me to open the door to that request. My religion keeps me from kicking Him out when I don't like what he's done with the décor. These conversations with you are my ways of understanding it all.

That Oddness of Sin: Confessions of a Former Racist

Let me first start off by saying that I am a former racist. I told my fair share of jokes that used the "n" word (on a similar note, I kept quite a few Mexican jokes in my repertoire as well). I laughed when friends of mine used racial slurs. I used some myself too. When the news was on, or when I watched COPS on tv and they were chasing some idiot, my first thought was based on their race. It was always my first assumption.

I've told many of you, and those blogs are all open record, that my house wasn't always politically correct. While we weren't mean-spirited about our racism, we treated it as a joke. Much of our ignorance was from our lack of knowledge. We really didn't have any black friends. We had classmates and co-workers, but when it came to who we hung out with on a weekend, we were always with family or people who had the same ethnic background as myself. I was raised with two images of black families, the one on The Cosby Show (how ironic does that sound now with all the allegations?) and the fractured families on Boyz N The Hood.

By the time I reached 5th grade, my two best friends, Jeff and Omari, represented the blackest I had ever been. It was a big deal that I had actually been in their homes, or had them over to my house for a sleepover. My mom didn't disinfect the house when they came over, nor did she treat them any different. Besides the fact that Jeff's mom drank a bit more than most other moms I knew, nothing was much different.

As I grew into junior high, my football teammates were black. We all joked about the color of our skin, the white boys too. They were allowed to use the "n" word amongst themselves and my white friends would tease them and ask them why they could use the word but they couldn't. We referred to all of our friends by color too. I didn't just hang out with Richard, it was my white friend Richard. My best friend in high school referred to me as a spic. I called him other words too. A joke among pals.

But race and color has always been on the peripheral. I remember my 9th grade football year, when the black guys on the team had running arguments and threats with the Mexican members of the team. When we had our helmets on we were a team, win or lose. The minute they came off, the colors blinded any common ground.

As I grew into high school and later in college, the jokes subsided. If it's possible to grow out of racism, then that's what happens. In elementary you are with the same neighborhood kids, but as junior high melted into high school, neighborhoods merge. The same friends moved onto other interests. You say something wrong to someone you don't know, it could end in disaster. The bus rides home in high school always seemed to end in some kind of verbal threat based on race. Every confrontation was a potential race war. You couldn't argue with anyone, white boys included, without having to fight their entire lineage.

While my misconceptions and biases had already been formed by the time I became an adult, it's socially unacceptable to spread garbage. Looking back, you realize that when you have an ignorant thought about another person that is based on the color of their skin, it feels wrong. Laughter can't always shake off that oddness of sin. Romans 2:15 reminds me that "our conscious also bears witness" in that even for unbelievers, the Holy Spirit resides in all of us. We have no excuse. Wrong is wrong. We can choose to follow the tug of our hearts and change our ways, or we can turn off that Holy Spirit-ometer and continue towards our deaths.

So I sit just as puzzled as I was the year of the Rodney King riots, and during the OJ trial too, as the city of Ferguson literally burned down around the protesters. There's more of an immediacy to today's events. Twitter brings a constant feed of thoughts and consciousness as the events unfold. Bloggers, journalists and tv crews camp out and write a narrative for the viewers to digest. News isn't even news any more. There are only agendas.

Another verse from Romans came to mind as I'm reading countless articles about the Ferguson case, trying to put myself into the shoes of the officer, into the shoes of Mike Brown too. "Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn," says Romans 12:15. The loss of a child, even one with a criminal disposition (let's be honest, Mike Brown was probably no altar boy), is not to flippantly handled with the like button of a Facebook post. There's hurt going on in that community.

Apparently, other cities around the country are feeling the same thing. In Oakland, here in Columbus, New York and Houston, protesters have taken to the streets in a plea that their voices be heard. It's not just a coincidence. I began to view the incidents of injustice as a reflection on my own experiences with law enforcement, and more importantly with the factors that help support the ongoing myth (or reality in some cases) that of a broken system that continues to keep the poorest people poor.

While I learned that just saying "yes, sir" or "no, sir" to a cop kept me out of trouble (see the #CrimingWhileWhite tweets, they point to some of this) not everyone follows that same advice. The new wave of law enforcement aggression has now reached a perfect storm as it clashes against the disrespect of the people they serve. Do you expect those that did not grow up with meaningful role models, or positive male influences to submit to searches or to comply? Along with a flurry of movies that nail home the edict of bad cops and corruption, it's no wonder that these confrontations are occurring. Many people have reiterated that Michael Brown's actions got himself killed. Don't rob a store, they said. Who fights a cop for his gun, they say. When a cop asks you to move, why don't you just move out of the way? Aggression, male ego, pride and machismo. These cocktails don't make a good batch of anything.

I'm done blaming either side. The empathy of those in power, those that don't even live in the same environment in the Fergusons across the country add to this sentiment. Even as I sit among my peers, none of the teachers who work in my building live in the same district as the children they service. While the white teachers aren't to blame, they live even farther away than the many black students they teach.

Many teachers I know will probably find that last paragraph a bit disingenuous. Many years ago, our principal, an African-American, gave the staff a book to read. "Black Students, Middle Class Teachers," by Dr. Jawanza Kunjufu. You should have seen the faces in the staff meeting. White teachers were revolting! Many felt it as an insult. "I teach black kids," they basically were telling me. "That should count as enough."

And I think right there is where we have the problem. Just being a teacher doesn't absolve me from serving in other areas God is calling me, challenging me in which to act. But I've met teachers who basically checked the box on that issue. Teaching doesn't mean I have understood all there is about diversity. I still feel just as clueless about the everyday lives of African-Americans as I do aliens on Mars. But if my classroom is any indication, their parents lives aren't probably the posters of what we would call the American dream. Kids who rattle off the names of rated "R" movies, kids who make smoking weed gestures, kids who call one another bitches, kids without school supplies, clean clothes or the look of rest in their eyes. Parents are doing their best, and who are we to judge from afar? I'm not working nights, leaving my kids at home. My income is enough for our household, and my career is somewhat secure. I haven't worked fast food since I was 19. I have moms who work fast food as their primary source of income. You think they want to be pulled over by a cop, knowing their license plate is expired?

Lots of folks find it easy to tell me that they "worked" for everything they have, and I don't doubt their sincerity. Try finding those same jobs today. While I worked for what I had too, there was much more divine intervention and Godly coincidence than the sweat of my brow. The minority scholarship phone call to the academic advisor as I walked in for my appointment to enroll in college at OU. The close calls I had drinking and driving with friends in high school, two that involved cops that never reached more than a stern conversation. Mr. K, who in my eight grade year personally saw to it to see to my well being when my attitude kept me inside school suspension. You know who really worked during my non-belief years? The Holy Spirit. The ones who answered the nudges of their heart to assist me are the ones who were reaching for me from afar, pulling me out of my own abyss.

So where are those people in Ferguson? I believe they are there too. I find stories about teachers working in the library to catch students up with the lessons their missing. I hear of Oath Keepers who are guarding some of the business on the streets from looters. I hear of college students who are cleaning up their own streets during the day, the same ones being trashed by out of town protesters and the tear gas canisters of the police.

So why don't we hear more of their stories?

The Ferguson riots are not the last time America will see their streets burn. Electing a black president just seemed to separate us even more. That's not a knock on just whites. Because of our agenda-driven world, each people of color have their own goals to reach. Immigration. Health care. Etc. Etc. If each agenda gets "fixed" are we really helping everyone? All we have created is bubble majorities instead of helping the minorities. Majorities that live in their bubble world and see the problem with America as the other person's problem.

On a final note, many have asked, where are the churches? Where are the spiritual leaders? I believe they are there in Fergusons all over the nation. The problem is, the youth, perhaps some cops, the system have all turned off their Holy Spirit-o-meters to stun. We're too busy reading a twitter feed, too busy patting ourselves on the back for our simple good deeds, too busy looking outside the curtains of our suburban homes when we hear the sound of a helicopter overhead. We're locking all the doors and battening down the hatches. There's no one home. There's no one to help. I'll pray for you, I hear them mutter, as if they will save the world.

And the town continues to burn around us.

Floating in the Sea of Galilee

On periodic Wednesday's our elementary school sponsors a McTeacher night, wherein staff members serve customers during a designated time in the evening at a local McDonalds. This event has been a source of contention in the Cordova household because the events are always on a Wednesday night. In the Cordova home, Wednesday night is already booked for church activities. Both my kids have been in choir over the past several years. Currently my youngest daughter still attends. My son, with his change of medication and bowing to his demands, still attends Wednesday programming but has given up choir for daycare time. It seems as if all rehearsals are tedious and redundant. Once is enough for him. We sang the song correctly? "Let's move on," I can imagine him saying in class.

Anyway, this Wednesday was really no different, except we messed up out times. My son had a middle school skating party but since McTeacher night (we thought) was starting earlier, we had time to have our cake and eat it too. We show up at McDonalds, realize there are no teachers on sight and tell our youngest that there will not be a McTeacher night after all. Commence meltdown.

In the back and forth between parent and child, through tears and repeated pleads, I came to the conclusion that all kids think:

Life isn't fair.
The word "never" is terribly overused.
Never introduce a new vocabulary word when your daughter is crying.

"Sometimes, momma, we have to be flexible. What if we had an emergency, or our car wouldn't have started (which is a real possibility in House Cordova)? You need to learn how to be flexible. This is one of those times."

"But I can't be flexible!"

From the mouth of babes.

I can't say it's anything I didn't expect. Just who do you know who exhibits the qualities that allow one to be flexible? Part of our time management problem was screwing up the doctor's appointment. My poor wife, fasted all day for an appointment that was scheduled for tomorrow. A week or so back, she forgot a crucial ingredient for the Shakeology protein shakes we drink for lunch. Not too flexible was my reaction. How many times in a school day does the computer hamper some progress I'm trying to make? How many times do we adjust our schedules to fit someone else's lack of time management? Many parents in my school show up unannounced, and there are times when lunch or my designated planning time gets wiped from the schedule. Flexibility, right?

I'm already lamenting my weekend. We've had several straight weeks of soccer, and once that schedule was complete, we amped up our Saturdays with outings and errands. This weekend, my wife ordered me to make no plans whatsoever. So what do I get tonight when I come to bible study? A mark on my calendar for a service project, and I'm remembering I've been invited to a former student's birthday party and had dreams of going to see the local football team in the playoffs (that was nixed, they were playing in Cincinnati). After the deliveries, I spent most of my day working on my van. Flexibility is getting stretched.

Did I mention I have a stack of papers to grade?

The Bible doesn't explicitly say much about being flexible. There are plenty of verses on worry, about being prepared, about perseverance, but Jesus makes no mention or spoke any parable about the Gentile who could not shear enough sheep wool to make a bushel before lunch. You see followers, like when Jesus is building his disciple team. "Come and I will make you fishers of men." Literally, fishermen drop their nets, their livelihoods, into the water to float in the Sea of Galilee. Paul was put in jail, talk about a change in scenery. What does he do? He sings praise and writes letters. John was exiled to the island of Patmos. What does he do? He writes the book or Revelation people!

I'm lousy with being prepared. It takes me weeks to get ready for winter. You'd think living in Ohio, I'd learn. If I was in the Sea of Galilee I would have probably said something like, "You mean, now? Like, right now?" If I found myself on a deserted island, it would take more than a blood-stained faced volleyball to get me through my days. I mean, seriously, did John have paper just lying around in a cave?

Perhaps my lack of spiritual prep is behind these words tonight. I date my journal on the days I read devotions. Sometimes I notice that there are 4 days in between entries. 4 days when I don't talk to God out of necessity. It's like I'm playing Candy Crush when God is knocking on the door. I'm busy. Come back later. Someone get the door! Leave me alone!

So I begin to train my thoughts for heavenly matters rather than human. In this walk I've been given, the hardest thing is using my compass, moral or not, to find my way back home. My faith becomes tested during these times. Our pastor today spoke of this battle-tested faith. If the Holy Spirit isn't conducting some kind of scouring of the heart, then how will I ever reach that which is attainable through faith? It's something I reiterate whenever I speak in front of our junior or senior high kids. Don't live this life alone. When you feel the tug of conformity, when you feel swayed by events that seem to be coming from all directions, how does your faith stand the test?

Abraham was a pretty flexible guy. He leaves behind riches and land, status too, for the mystery of Canaan. He waits 25 years to have a child that God promised him he'd have (yes, he did try his own way, had the son he wasn't supposed to have first in Ishmael). Finally, when his son Isaac was born to him, God asks Abraham to sacrifice him.

So here's Abraham, about 100, cutting all this wood for the altar and with the knowledge of having to give up your son to God. He brought Isaac and two of his servants, but before he sets towards the mountain he tells the servants, "We will worship and then we will come back to you." Why would Abraham use the word "we" when he was supposed to be sacrificing Isaac. He would return alone. There's no evidence that Abraham suddenly lied to his servants so they wouldn't suspect his plans. He knew both would return.

Once they reached the mountain, Isaac, who knew something about burnt offerings, noticed there was not a lamb ready to be slaughtered. "God himself will provide the lamb for the burnt offering, my son." He then binds his son. Could you imagine? Artists depict Isaac as a young child, and being bound in such a way, he had to have known that he would also be sacrificed to God. Did Isaac run? Was he old enough to understand?

Surely Abraham, at 100, didn't lug all the wood himself. If Isaac was 5 or 7, I don't see him carrying firewood up a mountain. My son can't even carry a Wal-Mart bag from the garage to the kitchen. Some apologetics place Isaac at 18-20 years of age. That's a mind blowing contrast to the image of Abraham, knife drawn, standing above his young son. At 18, 20 years of age, Isaac too realized that God was going to show his hand for the two of them to see.

While God isn't asking me to sacrifice my first born, He does require an offering. He desires my tithe, to test Him in that regard. He wants me to offer my heart and all the baggage I continue to wield as my own. Being a follower means there are parts of our life we simply must let go. Drop the net, Jesus is saying. Let it float in the Sea of Galilee. What a beautiful image it must be to submit to the Lord in such a way. I can surely imagine my lust, my wants, my selfishness, my materialistic desires, floating away on a calm sea never to return. But you see, to God, what we can't imagine, He's already putting into place. Am I willing to put God to the test?

Things could get dicey around here. Heart beware, the Lord is coming in.

Mothballs and Old Biddies: Thoughts on Worship Styles Part 1

I'm beginning to finally realize that Christians don't really like one another. I used to think it was a people problem. Humans being imperfect and all. But there's been a running theme lately in the blogosphere and millennial Christian media that would suggest it's more than humans being humans.

Let me first start by admitting my own guilt in this matter. I blogged several weeks back on my own failings to stick up for members of my congregation, my church too. When I first became a Christian, I mocked Catholics. I backed off after realizing it wasn't that funny, and that Cathiolicism laid the foundation for my future. There were moments during my Emmaus walk, that reminded me that God had always been there even when my heart was absent. Most recently I was guilty of thumbing my nose at those who prefer the traditional form of worship.

I still view things in my life through fragmented lenses. My sarcasm and humor was typically to avoid sensitive subjects, or it was a way for me to understand something that was presented anew. I also cling to my old experiences. I hear the sound of an organ during a hymn and I want to sleep. I hear the all-call of choral response and I think back to my days in a Catholic church, kneeling uncomfortably and wondering why we kept saying the same phrase over and over. When I think traditional service I think mothballs, old white men in suits, old biddies in fancy hats.

Which brings me to my first article I wanted to share with you. I agree with the author of, "11 Reasons to Stop Offering Different Worship Styles," in there is too much division in today's church. Denominationally and racially, we sure know how to reinstate the veil that God worked so hard to tear down. My own church offers two forms of worship, and under some major grumbling, moved the traditional worshippers into their own sanctuary by remodeling an older section of our church. While the differences in service are easy to see on paper (choir v praise band, hymns v contemporary music, pastor in a suit v pastor in jeans). the real division comes perhaps in the ages and ideas of the congregants.

For someone who did not grow up in the traditional Methodist church, I do have some background in styles. Catholic mass was the same no matter the church. I find this ironic because this is what education with the common core feels like. Any kid in America should be able to go to any school nationwide and learn the same way and in the same style. Obviously in education, this is inherently impossible, but for Sunday mass is was pretty much the same.

The pastor enters in a procession of brass candles and altar boys. There's some kneeling, a meet and greet and it's on to some readings from the Bible. The Deacon does his thing, we take communion, exit procession of altar boys. When my wife and I were church hopping before we were Christians, I found the traditional style of worship old, stale and confining. But one thing was certain was that my heart was not circumcised enough to fully grasp what God was doing behind the scenes. Later when church became something of a priority, contemporary service was where I at least found that worshipping was cool, that it could be more than sitting in a pew and drifting away.

The article suggests that fear drives today's churches (I'm excluding the megachurch and non-denominational churches here, since most of them are unmistakably contemporary) to change their worship style, or like mine, offer two separate services. Much of the debate then swings to how the use of music is responsible for how we learn, what we are taught and how we worship.

The author of this article also believes that today's worship music has much to be desired. While I do agree that the hymns sung by the "giants of faith" that came before us are and should be influential towards new Christians today, I think that by saying today's music is just emotional downplays its importance, and it takes some power from the artists who created them. You're going to tell me that the song, "How He Loves Us" by the David Crowder Band only twists our emotions with these lines:

And we are His portion and He is our prize
Drawn to redemption by the grace in His eyes
If His grace is an ocean, we're all sinking

Or what about the countless songs that slip in lines from Psalms. How about, "Blessed Be Your Name," "Your Grace is Enough," "How Great is Our God," and "Mighty to Save"? While there are some Christian contemporary songs today that are bland, and perhaps they don't even have the word Jesus or God in them (I'm looking at you Super Chick) but does every hymn created by John Wesley (and from a great editor friend of mine, that's Charles Wesley!--thanks, Rocky!) equivalent to "Amazing Grace"? And you're not going to then tell me that when I sing "That Old Rugged Cross" that it doesn't elicit an emotional response. Isn't that what music is for? Are we not allowed to grow artistically from the giants of faith? I sometimes feel that because I listen to Christian music, it isn't "traditional" enough to be considered worthy.

I do see the age discrepancies and attitudes from service to service. Traditional worshippers are our grandparents, the retirees. They attend the board meetings and speak out when non-essential aspects of the church become changed (anyone in my church can attest to this when the choir director resigned unexpectedly). On the surface, they may tithe better than the new Christians coming in to listen to the band and read the words from the jumbotron. But will that always be the case?

Just how should a church change with its congregants? A friend told me that the churches that survive over time are the ones that will be truly diverse. When we quibble over the different types of services, are we really just saying that one is better than the other? A proactive church changes with the audience. Just because I prefer not to kneel, bow and sleep through service does not mean that my need for entertainment overrides my need for strong Biblical teaching. What we should all be worried about is why churches still have openings to volunteer within its walls. There should be waiting lists at every church, where its members cannot wait to serve one another and their communities. Let's be the church on other days than Sunday.

I want to get into so much more. I'm going to try and tackle the "relationship v religion" topic next week. I'm thankful for the wealth of articles and topics that come across my way. I'm thankful too to have a forum for my thoughts. I pray that my own hang-ups and differences will not cause my brother to pause and wonder why they don't see Jesus in me.