Unreasonable Joy

The snow started falling at 3:00 pm on Saturday.  A smattering of flakes became a swirling mess.  By the time I woke up at 6:00 am on Sunday, Long Island had been pummeled with 18 inches of snow.  After cancelling church services (definitely the most powerful executive decision I get to make as the Senior Pastor – and I’ve used these executive powers twice in 22 years), I started shoveling our 40 foot long driveway.

The snow was compliant – soft, fluffy, light – until I walked up the street.  Somehow and for some reason the plow had dumped 90% of the wet, heavy, street-chunks onto the odd side of the road.  My side!  My neighbors on the even side of Ingrid Road got off easy.  I couldn’t believe it.  It seemed like yet another vicious example of Oddism, mistreating people based on their street address.  Seriously, I was outraged.  Breaking up and hauling away the chunks took me over an hour.  Afterwards, I went inside, made a huge ham and cheese omelet, built a roaring fire and read some great short stories, but my back still hurt from all the shoveling.

A few hours later I opened my email and read a desperate plea for prayer from my friend Dr. Joe Harvey.  Joe runs a Christian hospital in the Congo, where things are quickly descending into a hell-hole of violence, warfare, and disease (including a Swine Flu epidemic).

Since October over 77,000 refugees have flooded across the Oubangui River into Joe’s region.  Half of his patients desperately need nutritional support and most of them can’t pay.  On Tuesday Joe’s staff had to hide two wounded rebel soldiers from a mob of local vigilantes.  “God knows if things are about to turn around,” Joe concluded, “or descend into complete chaos, but I believe He wants us to be prepared either way.”

Joe put my life in perspective.  Sometimes the things that irk me are utterly ridiculous: an inconvenient snowfall, perceived slights and injustices, a mildly sore back.  And at times my lack of gratitude – for ham and cheese omelets, fresh-fallen snow on evergreen trees, the smell of burning oak logs, a warm and safe house, good books and stories – seems equally ludicrous.

In his typical adolescent sarcasm, my 16 year old son sometimes says, “Gee, dad, that’s too bad.  Why don’t you call the Waaambulance?”  He’s got a point.  Self-pity, resentment and ingratitude can from an emotional Bermuda Triangle, sucking me into a vortex of unhappiness.  Fortunately, simple biblical/spiritual practices – giving thanks to God, receiving the Eucharist, praying for others (like Dr. Joe Harvey), listening to the lonely, serving the poor – not only connect me to Jesus and help others, they also warm my heart with the wine of God’s unreasonable joy.

Killing My Inner Snob

My friend “Bill” (sorry that isn’t him in the picture) used to operate a commercial fishing boat.  He’s a robust man with a fat, glossy face who’s always wearing a crusty, unbuttoned, red flannel shirt.  For most of his life he spent six months at sea catching fish.  I’m not sure what he did the other six months but I have a hunch he drank until he couldn’t see straight.  Now he’s “in recovery.”  After his third marriage failed, something (life or God or common sense – Bill would say all three) knocked him on the head and woke him up.  He remarried his former ex-wife, reconnected with his tribe of children and grandchildren, committed his life to follow Jesus Christ, and started helping other men overcome their addictions.

He’s a nice guy but he’s not exactly part of my normal social circle.  I grew up in a doctor’s family in suburban Minneapolis, got my B.S in Business Management, worked in the corporate world for five years, before completing my Masters in Divinity so I could become a pastor and an author.  I read Polish poets, listen to cello solos, and avidly follow the world soccer scene.  I’ve spent most of my life hanging out with “smart people,” people who sip a Merlot or a Guinness while we discuss novels,  racial reconciliation, and the poetic structure of biblical laments.  Of course I like these people, but a few years ago I wouldn’t know what to say to a guy like Bill.  I wouldn’t despise him; I just wouldn’t talk to him and I certainly wouldn’t learn from him.

Honestly, I never would have admitted it, but I was a royal snob.  Of course that’s the deal with snobbery: we never admit it because we never see it in ourselves.  O, we can sure spot it in other people – those elitist, racist, self-righteous, stuck-up, judgmental jerks!  I’m convinced there’s a little demon of snobbery lurking in almost every human heart.  If you don’t think you have a problem with snobbery, you’re a damned liar.

For the past few months I’ve been hanging out with Bill and I truly enjoy his friendship.  He doesn’t read Polish poets or drink Merlot (he used to get drunk on cheap Scotch), but he sure knows how to treat his wife, stay sober, love his grandchildren, admit his powerlessness, make amends on a daily basis, live an honest life, and appreciate every minute that he’s still alive.  I want to sit at his feet and say, “Teach me, Master Bill, how to become really smart.”

I never realized how much snobbery reeks.  No wonder the Apostle Paul encouraged everyone in an early Christian community to “be willing to associate with people of lowly position; do not be conceited” (Romans 12:16).  A few centuries later the recovering snobaholic, St. Augustine, blasted some elitists who were whining about impure elements in the church: “How will you eliminate those who are not perfect (or who aren’t in your social class)?”  Augustine pointed out an important truth: the furnace of life will equally expose all of our “cracks.”  That’s for sure.  For all of our differences, Bill and I are just two cracked guys searching for wholeness.  And thanks to guys like Bill, God is finally making me really smart.

Loving and Fighting for Something

A few months ago I was asked to pray the invocation for the annual banquet at a local university’s varsity football team.  Before the prayer we were invited to stand and sing the National Anthem.  So we all dutifully stood up – about 500 young men, family members, girlfriends, cheerleaders, coaches, administrators, boosters, and fans.  As we started to sing my eyes wandered around the room, like I normally do when I sing the National Anthem.  Suddenly, for some reason, the scene shocked and angered me. Everyone was standing around dazed, inattentive, casually chatting.

It’s never bothered me when people don’t salute the flag.  But on this night I was offended by the lack of respect and dignity.  I’m not sure why.  Perhaps I thought about all the American veterans I’ve known.  Men and women who have risked their lives and shed their blood so we could stand in this beautiful banquet hall and celebrate the success of a college football team.  I thought about veterans who watched their buddies get blown to bits or shot in the head.  I’ve thought about traumatized soldiers who descended into madness or an addiction.

It doesn’t mean that I like war or that I think every war is justified just because America fights it.  Certainly not.  And as a follower of the Prince of Peace I firmly believe that war is our last option.  After all, Jesus gave us the “ministry of reconciliation” not the “ministry of violence.”  But I guess that night I started to realize that loving God and loving life also implies loving particular finite, imperfect things like people and nations and churches and communities.  It means feeling passion for particular things.  And passion implies a willingness to fight for certain things, even to the point of laying down my life for those things.  Would I die for my country, if I truly believed my country was fighting for what is right and just?  Would I die for my family?  Would I die for my friends?  Would I lay down my life for Jesus if I had to?  I hope so.

At times I’ve resisted putting my hand on my heart as I sing the National Anthem.  It seems to border on idolatry.  But that night, as a few hundred people blithely chattered during the song, I placed my hand over my heart.  I couldn’t resist: some things are worth fighting for.

Jesus, Save Us from Your Followers

Every time I think the culture is giving us a bad rap (a reverse judgmental spirit), I hear another horror story about our very un-salty behavior.  After Harvard Professor Kay Redfield Jamison courageously described her struggle with mental illness, she received thousands of letters.  Most of the disturbing letters came from “fundamentalist Christians” berating her for turning her back on God.  According to Jamison, “Others thought my illness just deserts for not having truly accepted Jesus Christ into my heart, or for not having prayed sincerely enough.  I had left my heart open to Satan, and he had entered in.  Madness and despair were precisely what I deserved and would have in this world and the next … One woman, who included a prayer card with excerpts from the Bible, wrote that it was a good thing I hadn’t had children as I had at lead ‘spared the world of one more crazy manic-depressive.  (See Kay Redfield Jamison, Nothing Was the Same, pages 43-44).

If we get persecuted for this kind of behavior, we deserve it.  This is just plain stupid, and so unlike Jesus.  Jesus was without sin and yet sinners flocked to him.  He even called sinners to repent – not exactly a church growth strategy – but broken people felt his compassion, not terror.  As my friend and author Denis Haack notes, “Our message is the Gospel of Christ, and since he is attractive, shouldn’t our proclamation (and our lives!) be attractive as well?” (See ransomfellowship.org).

---

The Beauty and Power of “thereness”

There’s a stray line from a novel called The Book Thief. One of the main characters, Hans Hubermann, is sitting with his foster daughter after she’s just arrived at Hans’ house.  The narrator says, “The first couple of times (Hans) simply stayed – a stranger to kill the aloneness … Trust was accumulated quickly, due primarily to the brute strength of the man’s gentleness, his thereness.”

I love that phrase: “the brute strength of the man’s gentleness, his thereness.”  Sometimes I’m saddened by the ways I’ve practiced somewhere-else-ness or someone-else-ness.  Of course regrets don’t help me practice thereness.  So here’s my goal these days: to practice thereness, to be fully present to God and others, to have the real me show up and pay attention to the real you.  Jesus, help me to be there.

Weeping at the movies: A Scene from Crash

There’s a scene in the movie Crash in which a disgruntled store owner tracks down a repairman.  The store owner follows the repairman to his home and accosts him in the driveway.  He waves a gun in the air as he screams his displeasure.  Meanwhile the repairman’s daughter sees her daddy in the driveway and she runs out the front door to greet him.  The store owner shoots wildly and accidentally hits the little girl, dropping her to the ground, dead.

Recently my oldest son and his wife were watching that scene and I knew what was coming.  I watched the store owner wave the gun and the repairman beg for mercy.  I saw the little girl run out the door and … I couldn’t watch it.  Instead, I bolted out of the room, ran upstairs, sat on the kitchen floor, alone, in the dark, and wept.

Honestly, I don’t know why I wept.  I’ve seen the movie three times.  I know it’s just a movie with a fictitious script and paid actors.  So why did I run out of the room and weep?  Did I weep for all the racism and hatred on this sad planet?  Did I weep for all the regrets and wounds in my own life?  Did I weep for all the little girls who will drop dead tonight or be abused or tormented or raped?  Did I weep for all the disappointments and betrayals that I can’t heal or fix?

I really don’t know.  Maybe, just maybe, I wept because Jesus is in me.  Maybe Jesus and I know a little secret: Little girls should run to their daddies and kiss their necks.  They shouldn’t drop dead, but they do.  Ethnic groups shouldn’t hate and kill each other, but they do.  Ah, the resurrection will come, but it isn’t here yet.  Not in fullness.  So we wait and we groan and we weep.  Jesus weeps too.  And sometimes all I can do is sit beside him at my kitchen table and cry with him over this broken world.  At least I’m not numb anymore.  I’m slowly learning to feel with Jesus, weeping with Jesus and working with Jesus until little girls don’t get shot in their daddy’s arms.

Little Traces of Heaven

My friend Bill told me the following story: at one point in his life, his two daughters were both addicted to heroin and the dual addictions were destroying his family.  As Bill walked into his house all hell was breaking loose.  His oldest daughter disconnected from everyone and stared out the window.  In her typical frantic anxiety; Bill’s younger daughter paced around the living room.  His wife clung to thread of sanity, but she still found the energy to spray everyone with her rage.  The entire house was filled with hostility, stress and despair.

Bill wanted to flee the scene, but instead he clearly heard the Lord say to him, “Go into the living room, gently hug your daughters and your wife and tell them that they are deeply loved.”  So he did it.  With quiet authority he walked up to each family member, tenderly touched them as he looked them in the eye and said, “I love you and it will be alright.”

According to Bill all the negativity, rage and anxiety left the room.  It was like they were breathing in pollution, but then someone extracted all of the poison from the air.  They could breathe deeply again.  Bill’s slowly learning to walk in that quiet, strong, deep redemptive authority and gentleness, but he hasn’t been able to duplicate anything like that scene.

I have a hunch that God likes to give us these little traces of heaven.  In the midst of Bill’s broken life, God let Bill see his new, Christ-like, fully redeemed self.  God provided a vision of the end goal, or as Bill calls it “previews of coming attractions.”

I used to think that these traces of heaven were just flukes, like an awful golfer bouncing his tee-shot off a tree, hitting a seagull in the head and somehow getting a hole in one.  I don’t believe Bill’s experience was a fluke.  Instead, I think God interrupted his life and said, “This is who you will be, Bill.  You’re not there yet, but stay with me and I will change you into a strong and tender man who walks into broken situations with my love and authority.”

So I’ll keep hanging around Jesus, letting him into my broken places, trusting and finding little traces of heaven in my life too.

How I achieved ignorance about race relations

I’ve been having long conversations with my friend John P. a robust black man who serves as my mentor for black-white relationships.  A few months ago I met with John’s pastor and shared my plans to get our mens’ groups together for fellowship and Bible Studies.  I thought it would be fun – just a bunch of black brothers in Christ and white brothers in Christ hanging out, sipping Starbucks, pondering Bible passages, growing “deeper in Christ.”  My black pastor friend was rather cool to the whole idea.  Why wouldn’t he want to meet and improve relationships across racial lines?

When I complained to my friend John P. about his pastor’s response, he bellowed, “Well, what do you expect?  I mean, here you’re the great big, rich white church and you approach the little black church for ‘mutual fellowship.’  Do you know anything about our world?  Do you know what it’s like to be black in America?  Do you know anything about our history?  So here’s what you do: forget your Bible study and just start coming to our events. We do a fish fry every year.  Come and eat fish with us.  We do a Harvest Festival in the fall.  Come and eat turkey and rutabagas with us.  In two months we’ll have our annual MLK, Jr. celebration for the community.  Come and sing with us.  Read our history.  Just get to know us.”

So I did.  I started showing up for their events.  I ate the turkey and rutabagas and fried fish.  For the first time I noticed that my bookshelves, filled with hundreds of books, did not have a single book by an African-American author.  So I started by reading my college-aged son’s tattered copy of the Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass.  It was the first time I had read a first-hand account on the brutality of slavery.  I was stunned – by black history and by my own ignorance.  After a few weeks I finally confessed to John P., “I know almost nothing about what it means to be black in America.  I’m not ready to join you guys for a nice Bible study.”  John P. smiled and said, “Now you’re getting somewhere, brother.  Now there’s hope for you.  I think we’re going to be good friends. “

Prayer as Desperation

True prayer, isn’t mere private piety; it changes us and it changes the world around us.  As a community, when we learn to cry out to God, it trains our hearts and ears to listen for the outcries around us.  Desperate, messy, ragged people (the Bartimaeus people of the world) no longer shock us or repulse us because we know what it’s like to be in need.  We know how to cry out for help.  And as a result, God softens our heart towards others, especially the poor, the abused and the oppressed.  As we pray, we learn to pay attention to this quiet suffering as well.

My friend Saul loves to tell the story that propelled him to his ministry with the poorest of the poor in Mexico City (see Armonia Ministries).  Although he grew up in Mexico, he had never seen the desperate poverty on the edge of the city.  But one calm Sunday afternoon an acquaintance drove him up a winding hill that overlooked a massive dump.  This enormous, man-made crater contained tons of garbage.  A dark brown river of raw sewage gurgled through the piles of garbage.  As he gazed into the bottom of the pit, Saul realized that there were actually people scurrying around on the steep slopes that dropped into the dump.  By scavenging for food and scraps of junk to sell, they tried to eke out a living in the shacks built on the edge of the dump.

Initially, Saul was stunned and outraged.  He muttered, “Human beings should not live like this!  This is a crime and something must be done.”  As turned from staring into the dump, still fuming and muttering, he noticed a small boy only a few yards away.  The boy was digging into a mound of garbage at the top of the hill.   that descended into the dump.  After a frantic search, the boy pulled out a few scraps of a wilted, dirt-covered orange peel, sat down on the pile of garbage and proceeded to devour his “meal.”  Saul’s heart broke with compassion.  For the next twenty years (and it’s still going) Saul and his wife Pilar would dedicate their lives to working among the desperately poor in Mexico City and Oaxaca.

Prayer as desperation does that to us.  It changes our hearts.  It trains us to see, to smell, to hear un-decent, broken, poor, crying-out people around us. We can’t ignore them anymore.  We can’t hide from them anymore. For the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ hears the cries of the afflicted and the desperate. If we come to God, he will tune our ears to the cries of the world around us.

(Adapted from The Folly of Prayer)

On Beginning Again … and again and again

“We are ever but beginning … the most perfect Christian is to himself but a beginner, a penitent prodigal” (John Henry Newman).

“We do not want to be beginners.  But let us be convinced of the fact that we will never be anything but beginners, all our life!”  (Thomas Merton)

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”  (Jesus).