Jon Acuff's Blog, page 68

Happy 4th of July!

I hope you have a great holiday!

Stuff Christians Like will return on Monday, July 8th!

Jon

Thinking God will run out of welcome home banners.

It’s summer and that always reminds me of the story of me and Michael Jordan that I’ve shared before. No, it’s not that time I dunked on him. I had to sign a whole lot of confidentiality agreements about that. This story is different.

I met Jordan one summer while he was golfing at a country club in Pinehurst, North Carolina. My uncle and his family lived on the golf course, and I was spending a few weeks there before I started the eighth grade.

When word spread that Jordan and a gang of other important people were in the clubhouse that morning, we all went down to get a closer look. This was before Jordan became human. Before the gambling and the baseball experiment and the tabloid fodder. Jordan was a god at the time, and I had a Nike swoosh mark shaved into the back of my head to prove it. I told everyone in Pinehurst that summer that I had my haircut that way as a tribute to a friend in Boston who had been shot and killed for a pair of Air Jordans.

I’m not sure why I lied like that. None of that was true. Maybe I’m like Samson, razors bring out the worst in me, but Michael Jordan didn’t know any of that. Neither did Dean Smith, the legendary coach of UNC, or Dr. J, who were both with Jordan that day.

They all signed the back of my shirt with a big marker. Later that afternoon, with the autographed shirt safely tucked in a drawer, I went back down to the clubhouse. It had been 3 or 4 hours and I wanted to see if I could get Jordan’s autograph on a piece of paper I could frame.

The party had already finished golfing, and all the fans had gone home. I saw Jordan walking to his car in the parking lot. I ran out after him as fast as my little seventh grade legs would carry me and said, “Excuse me Mr. Jordan, can I please have your autograph?”

He stopped in his tracks and turned, a golf bag resting high on shoulders that towered over me. With a look that froze opponents on basketball courts across the planet he said, “Didn’t I already sign you kid?”

Life is Limited

In the real world, in parking lots in Pinehurst, North Carolina, life is limited. Your hero turns to you and tells you that he’s not going to give you another autograph. Your hero tells you he remembers you and that you’re not getting a second signature, the only thing you want that day. That stupid summer, with a lopsided swoosh mark growing in the back of your head, and a mouth full of lies.

Sometimes I think God is like that. Bothered by me, tired of my requests for His time, even if it’s just 3 seconds for Him to sign off on some prayer I’m saying or need I’m sure I can’t live without.

He’s on His way somewhere important after a round of golf with Moses and Elijah or Elisha, whichever one plays. I’m chasing Him down in the parking lot. He turns with His big God golf clubs, and He looks down at me. And He says in that massive voice of His “Didn’t I already forgive you kid?”

Forgiveness is the thing I ask for the most. In my head, maybe I know that God’s forgiveness is eternal and inexhaustible, but in my heart I feel like He’s going to run out of it. That He’s got a limited supply. And I’m burning them up, one by one, sin by sin.

The Day After The Party

I’ve read the story about the prodigal son more than anything else in the Bible. If you’ve messed up life like I have, then it’s a pretty good read. When you get arrested, they should read that to you right after the Miranda rights. That’d be a nice way to take a little sting out of going to jail.

Part of the reason I’ve read that story so many times, though, is that I think there’s something missing. I feel like there’s some verse or passage that I must have skipped that makes the whole thing make sense. It seems too good to be true. The prodigal son takes his inheritance, blows it on fast living, ends up in a pig pen, and then gets a party thrown for him when he returns home. I’ve always wondered what the day after the party was like:

The first rays of sunshine crept across the floor and landed on a pile of party favors being swept up by a servant. A welcome home banner was being taken down and across the house the sounds of morning reverberated.

In his old bedroom, the prodigal son rolls over and opens his eyes. He’d dreamt it so often, dreamt of this place so often, he didn’t believe it was real. Those nights in the dark, curled under a bush or beside the barn when his money was gone and his hope with it, he’d wondered if he’d ever know safety again. He sat up, surprised to find himself there, laughing at the memories of the night before. The feast, the party, the ridiculousness of it all.

His family who celebrated his return, as if his absence had increased their love for him, amplified it. None of it made any sense. There was a knock on the door. He had a door again. That was something he had missed.

The head of a servant peered in:
“Sir, your father is waiting for you in the kitchen.” This servant didn’t go to seminary either and didn’t seem that concerned that in biblical times “kitchen” was definitely the wrong word to use in that context.

With a yawn and a scratch of his head, the prodigal son got up. He put on his clothes and made his way to the kitchen. There, at a small table, sat his father.

“Sit down son.” He said, motioning to a chair across from him.

“Thank you for the party father. I never expected that and …”

“Son, we need to go over the list.” His father said, interrupting him.

“The list?”

“Yes” he replied, touching a large pile of blank paper with his hand. “We need to make a list of all the money you spent, all the mistakes you made, and all the people you hurt. Then we need to figure out how you start repaying your debt,” the father said.

“I had a plan, father. I had a plan when I was walking home, but when I saw you running I didn’t think I’d need it. At the party, I forget what my plan was,” the son said, with a voice of shame and sorrow that had taken but a brief hiatus during the previous night’s celebration.

“Well, you’ve got the rest of your life for it to come back to you,” the father said, taking out a pen and writing “family inheritance” at the top of the list.

For most of my life, this is how I would have written the second part of that story, the directors cut if you will, an alternative ending that was too harsh for the version they released in the Bible.
 The father’s anxious sprint toward the lost son doesn’t make any sense. That’s not how life works. People pay for their mistakes. They don’t get a party for them. When you return home from wasting your inheritance on the world, your father says “Didn’t I already bless you kid?” End of story.

Forgiveness

I don’t understand forgiveness, and it’s always depressing to me when I read a book that tells me that’s the first step of the Christian walk, believing that God forgives you. If I can’t get past that first step, then the rest of it, all the rest of it, remains completely closed to me.

It’s not that I think I don’t need forgiveness. I just don’t understand how it’s possible.

If I can’t earn it, then it’s out of my control and I’m powerless.

I heard a minister once say that His forgiveness, God’s grace, is given wastefully. He pours it out on us in such abundance that it’s almost wasteful.

I think that’s true, but sometimes it’s not easy to believe.

I have to confess that some days I still think there’s a list God will ask me to work through the day after He throws me that Welcome Home party. I have a hard time understanding how something can be true and illogical at the same time. And so much of God is that way.
 But some days, when I least expect it, in ways I can’t control, I believe a different story about God’s forgiveness.

The first rays of sunshine creep across a dusty road and grate against the eyelids of the prodigal son trying to sleep uncomfortably on a bed of gravel. His teeth felt dirty, his mouth and hands stained with the red of cheap wine. A long scratch ran across his cheek, a shoe was angled beneath his head for a pillow.

“How many times did this make?” he thought from the part inside him that still remembered returning home. He was doing so well, things were so happy but his “never agains” always seemed to fail him in the end. How long would he be gone this time?

Miles away, a concerned father stood by the front window of his house as a servant approached with a message.

“Sir, I checked his bedroom and the barn. His things are missing. He’s left again.”

“I know,” the father said with sad eyes.

 And then, with slow steps, he walked to a large closet and motioned to the servant.

“Help me with this Welcome Home banner,” he said pulling one from a pile of ten thousand.

“Today could be the day my child returns.”

Getting wrecked.

Wrecked, not wasted, that’s a completely different post.

If you’re a Christian and you find some degree of enjoyment in something, it is best to say that said something “wrecked” you.

If you say, “I liked it,” you are a horrible monster of a human who doesn’t know how to properly compliment a Christian CD.

If you say, “That book was great!” I will assume you did not read the book and may in fact be in a cult.

If you say, “That sermon was fantastic,” you probably hate the pastor and sweet baby Jesus too.

No, my friend, it’s wrecked or it’s nothing.

Bonus points if you cry as you tell someone it wrecked you or add the phrase, “I pray that God will break my heart for the things that break his.”

It’s true, next Sunday listen for this word.

When a pastor “kills” a sermon, our verb of choice even if the sermon is about turning the other cheek, you must use the word “wrecked.”

I recently did an article about Christian words for Relevant Magazine and this word kept coming up in my research.

To be quite honest, that article is going to wreck you.

 

How do I know I live in the south?

Because I just saw this sign.

The Trials and Tribulations of the Christian Wingman

(It’s guest post Friday! Here’s one from Guy Logan, a screenwriter in London. You can follow him on Twitter here or help him find a flatmate here . If you want to write a guest post for SCL, here’s how! )

The Trials and Tribulations of the Christian Wingman

On face value, it’s fair to say that being a Christian wingman should be one of the easiest jobs on earth, ranking somewhere between hotel critic and quality control for Skittles.

After all, there are nearly twice as many single women as single men at church–it’s akin to shooting fish in a barrel. With a shotgun. And the fish are Swedish.

Yep–on face value, Christian wingmanning is straight forward. 1) Help your brother pull the log out of his eye. 2) Assist in the Wife Candidate Selection Process. 3) Run interference on competitors. 4) Coach him during the turbulent dating process. 5) Provide ample High Five Support when he moves to “it’s serious.”

But while we’re taking things like Phil Collins, it’s important to remember that it’s never this simple. Against all odds, many eligible Christian men can remain unwed for years.

Sure, there can be many reasons for this. Maybe their King David-esque facial hair looks more John the Baptist (or Robin Williams)? Maybe they’re approaching 40 and more set in their ways than Clint Eastwood in pretty much any movie since 1990?

Whatever the case, it’s up to guys like me to change that. Even if my brothers have the gift of singleness and are actually quite content. Even if they have no problem meeting women.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from Jane Austen’s Emma (required reading to enter the UK), it’s that everyone forgives you if your heart’s in the right place. Plus Jesus says I’ve got 77 chances before people can stop forgiving me for trying to set them up. Or something like that. (Maybe the Bible should be required reading here too.)

But despite the apparent simplicity, setting up blokes who don’t want to be set up is just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to Christian wingman problems.

Another conundrum is when the Intended has plans of her own. Maybe she’s in love with the metrosexual worship leader or has her heart set on becoming a nun. Whatever it is, your goal as a Christian wingman is to subvert those plans and set up your boy as the next most eligible bachelor since Timmy T.

Harsh? Was Jacob wrong to steal the inheritance from his brother? Did Jesus condemn the shrewd manager for his dodgy dealing? Whether you’re prayer shot-blocking or just guiding the worship leader in a different direction to make the Intended’s decision more straightforward, the Christian wingman walks a fine line.

But the biggest problem that can stop a Christian wingman in his tracks is the Own Goal. No matter how subtle his moves, sometimes even the best wingman gives the wrong impression. The girl, or one of her friends, gets the wrong impression.

When this happens, all bets are off. Any aim of helping two star-crossed lovers unite in holy matrimony is placed on hold as you pull a Jonah and jump ship. Bide your time in the belly of a whale and pray there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.

Attempts to ride out the storm or redirect misplaced affection can backfire worse than a Jesus Juke instead of a tip. And a bad review can ruin a Christian wingman’s entire career.

There you have it–some of the greatest challenges faced by Christian wingmen. What other problems are there?

Question of the week.

On a scale of 1 to become an atheist, how mad will you be if we don’t get to regularly ride unicorns in heaven?

 

Oh, you’re a Christian.

A few months ago, I had a conversation with a woman on a plane.

Thirty minutes into our talk, I mentioned something about faith.

Taken aback, she said, “Oh, you’re a Christian?”

I said, “Yes, why?”

Her response surprised me.

She said, “You don’t seem judgmental enough to be a Christian.”

My hope is that our generation will be the one that rewires that.

My hope is that our generation will be the one that encourages people who don’t know Jesus to say,

“Oh, you’re a Christian?”

“That makes sense. You seemed really gracious.”

“You seemed like you understood how much you’ve been forgiven.”

“You seemed like you know what it means to be given a second and a third and a thousandth chance.”

Someday on a plane, I hope that’s what I hear about our faith.

The greatest Jesus Juke ever?

A Jesus Juke is when you’re having a normal situation and someone tries to juke in some Jesus out of nowhere. For instance, if you tweet “I am so excited about the Super Bowl” and your friend responds with “Don’t you wish we were this excited about church on Sunday?” that’s a Jesus Juke. Being excited about the Super Bowl and church are not mutually exclusive.

So today, a woman (@thatpatti) accidentally hit someone’s car door with her car door.

This is the note they left her.

Juke of the year.

Kanye collaborates with God.

On his new album, Kanye West lists one person he collaborated with.

Jermaine Dupri? El Debarge? Lil’ Pant Droopy? (I made up that last one.)

Nope, Kanye collaborated with God.

Here’s the track listing from iTunes:

Track number 3 is the one God apparently contributed to.

Please insert your own cowbell joke right here.

In perhaps the greatest, “Booty, God, Booty,” moment of the last year, track number 5 is called “Hold my liquor.” I haven’t listened to the album so it’s possible that song is about the time Jesus turned water into wine. I could be wrong though.

Fortunately, the lead singer of Stryper commented on the situation, which only amplified my desire to turn this into an SCL post.

Here’s my question for you though, what do you think God did on that track? Vocals? Rap? The Dougie?

 

That time I stole food from an African Children’s Choir.

I am not going to look great in this story.

Not even a little bit, but it’s not as bad as it seems.

Last week, I was speaking at an amazing camp called “BigStuf.”

At dinner time, I was walking through the halls of the hotel when I saw a BigStuf intern carrying six pizzas. Being the jester I am, I said, “That’s a lot of pizza for one person!”

The intern laughed and said, “Ha! It’s not all for me. Do you want a piece?”

Knowing that some nights I eat dinner with the interns, I thought, “Sure, why not?”

I walked to my room and ate the pizza. A few minutes later, I saw this tweet from the African Children’s Choir that was performing later that night.

Whoops.

They also had a photo.

Wow, Jon Acuff, stealing food from African Children’s Choirs.

What could I do?

I had no option but to tweet this:

At the end of the day, it’s about the kids.

I believe that children are the future.

But I also believe that free hallway pizza should never be turned down.

So I believe you can see the dilemma I was in last week.

Tough call. Tough call indeed.