Brandon C. Jones's Blog, page 4
February 18, 2016
On Procreation: No, not that kind of procreation
When I was a kid stocking stuffers meant a handful of little candies. I’m not complaining. What kid doesn’t like candy? But now there is stocking stuffer inflation to the point where there must be something substantive in that overgrown sock, something you cannot simply eat. Recently I encountered a box store’s post-Christmas clearance wall and stared for a while at its unsold stocking stuffers. There were no hard candies, but plenty of crafts, toys, and even musical instruments. In three bins next to each other were harmonicas, kazoos, and slide whistles, all marked down to $1.25 or less per item. Jackpot!
Soon our house sounded like the set of some drifter movie as harmonica solos filled the air. I told the kids they could play it while breathing in and out: a marvel to anyone whose heart isn’t three sizes too small. My youngest began crafting original musical compositions, and (I’m sure I’m biased) they weren’t that bad. Her tunes sounded like the stereotypical ballads grizzled men might play as they sat in an empty train car heading nowhere in particular or gathered round a campfire after a long day on horseback.
The kazoo was also a great find. Any song that my children knew was immediately playable on the kazoo. It turns out kazoos are harder to play than they appear. I’m no good at it. Maybe it has to do with the fact I can’t whistle, either. But my oldest, who is learning how to play the piano, played dozens of songs on his kazoo. He soon came up with the idea to play both the piano and kazoo at the same time. That is, with a little help from his sister holding the kazoo in place for him. Too bad the store didn’t have on clearance one of those harmonica/kazoo neck holder thingies like Bob Dylan uses.
The harmonica and kazoo experience reminded me of the sheer joy of creating music. There are no right or wrong notes. There are no mistakes in rhythm. It’s creation for creation’s sake. It’s pure excess. And as such it taps into one of God’s greatest gifts to humankind—procreation.
Procreation is normally limited to the topic of bringing forth children into the world, but that isn’t the only thing humans generate. When we say we create something, we are really talking of conceiving it (another baby term) or procreating it. We aren’t creating anything ex nihilo. We’re bringing forth something that was inside us, although we didn’t know it until the harmonica touched our lips, the paintbrush spread on the canvass, or the pen scratched the paper.
Technology has made it easy to share what we create. My son can post Star Wars fan fiction for others to see. My wife can share media of what my kids made at school or at home. But this ease of distribution has come at a cost. Due to the newfound competition our imaginations have become truncated and our limits shouted at us by so much great content available. No longer do we have to make music ourselves to listen to it; we can just stream Pandora endlessly. Besides, professional musicians are much better at the whole music thing than we are. We don’t have to come up with our own pictures or stories to share at bedtime with our children or entertain our friends. Instead, we sign-in to Netflix and binge watch the new series everyone is talking about. Besides, professional storytellers are far better at the whole story thing than we are.
And in this exchange of constantly glutting ourselves on the best instead of putting on our aprons to make something average by scratch, we lose a part of what it means to be human. To procreate. To bring forth that which will bring forth even more. To enlarge this circle whose center is everywhere and circumference is nowhere that some might call new life in Christ, partaking of God’s own life by his Spirit.
Don’t wait to be handed a cheap harmonica before you write your own songs again. Turn off the television and share a story from the past with a loved one. Get out a journal and capture some thoughts that have been bouncing around in your head lately. Put down your phone and tablet, endlessly scrolling for something to get upset about, and instead ask curious questions about the person living right with you. Inspire. Create. Live. And Share
You’ll never know the potential God has placed within you unless you tap into it. Really, you are tapping into him in you. What did you think it meant for Jesus to grant abundant life or for his Spirit to be in you? Certainly not to laze around the house all your days consuming what someone else made. Make something all your own and share it. Bonus points if you can share it with the least among you out of love. For that is where your passion and the world’s calling meet. One theologian calls that a vocation. I call it fun.
Soon our house sounded like the set of some drifter movie as harmonica solos filled the air. I told the kids they could play it while breathing in and out: a marvel to anyone whose heart isn’t three sizes too small. My youngest began crafting original musical compositions, and (I’m sure I’m biased) they weren’t that bad. Her tunes sounded like the stereotypical ballads grizzled men might play as they sat in an empty train car heading nowhere in particular or gathered round a campfire after a long day on horseback.
The kazoo was also a great find. Any song that my children knew was immediately playable on the kazoo. It turns out kazoos are harder to play than they appear. I’m no good at it. Maybe it has to do with the fact I can’t whistle, either. But my oldest, who is learning how to play the piano, played dozens of songs on his kazoo. He soon came up with the idea to play both the piano and kazoo at the same time. That is, with a little help from his sister holding the kazoo in place for him. Too bad the store didn’t have on clearance one of those harmonica/kazoo neck holder thingies like Bob Dylan uses.
The harmonica and kazoo experience reminded me of the sheer joy of creating music. There are no right or wrong notes. There are no mistakes in rhythm. It’s creation for creation’s sake. It’s pure excess. And as such it taps into one of God’s greatest gifts to humankind—procreation.
Procreation is normally limited to the topic of bringing forth children into the world, but that isn’t the only thing humans generate. When we say we create something, we are really talking of conceiving it (another baby term) or procreating it. We aren’t creating anything ex nihilo. We’re bringing forth something that was inside us, although we didn’t know it until the harmonica touched our lips, the paintbrush spread on the canvass, or the pen scratched the paper.
Technology has made it easy to share what we create. My son can post Star Wars fan fiction for others to see. My wife can share media of what my kids made at school or at home. But this ease of distribution has come at a cost. Due to the newfound competition our imaginations have become truncated and our limits shouted at us by so much great content available. No longer do we have to make music ourselves to listen to it; we can just stream Pandora endlessly. Besides, professional musicians are much better at the whole music thing than we are. We don’t have to come up with our own pictures or stories to share at bedtime with our children or entertain our friends. Instead, we sign-in to Netflix and binge watch the new series everyone is talking about. Besides, professional storytellers are far better at the whole story thing than we are.
And in this exchange of constantly glutting ourselves on the best instead of putting on our aprons to make something average by scratch, we lose a part of what it means to be human. To procreate. To bring forth that which will bring forth even more. To enlarge this circle whose center is everywhere and circumference is nowhere that some might call new life in Christ, partaking of God’s own life by his Spirit.
Don’t wait to be handed a cheap harmonica before you write your own songs again. Turn off the television and share a story from the past with a loved one. Get out a journal and capture some thoughts that have been bouncing around in your head lately. Put down your phone and tablet, endlessly scrolling for something to get upset about, and instead ask curious questions about the person living right with you. Inspire. Create. Live. And Share
You’ll never know the potential God has placed within you unless you tap into it. Really, you are tapping into him in you. What did you think it meant for Jesus to grant abundant life or for his Spirit to be in you? Certainly not to laze around the house all your days consuming what someone else made. Make something all your own and share it. Bonus points if you can share it with the least among you out of love. For that is where your passion and the world’s calling meet. One theologian calls that a vocation. I call it fun.
February 11, 2016
Every American is religious, and most of us are miserable about it
I’ve entered the doors of one basilica, one abbey, and several cathedrals. Their architecture has one goal: awe. The roofs are impossibly high. The walls nearly endless. The ornate craftsmanship of each detail spares no expense at reminding us of our inheritance handed down through blood, sweat, and tears. These colossal monuments that overshadow their neighbors house humanity’s finest attempts to capture God’s grandeur, even though the heavens declare God’s glory and the natural wonders of the earth reveal his handiwork far better than any arrangement of stones, mortar, and stained glass could ever hope to achieve.
We don’t build cathedrals anymore. Instead, we get taxpayers to fund sports stadiums in which some of the most hallowed events on our soil take place. The faithful make their pilgrimages, wear their vestments, practice their liturgy, observe their rites, and let their imaginations be captured year-round for the high holy days of the annual sports calendar. Some of them must sacrifice their children to the cause.
Other Americans practice a different religion. They deride sportsball. They brag about their lack of interest in that religion, but some of them for old times’ sake may dabble in it on Superbowl Sunday – the equivalent of the Christmas and Easter Christian. Instead of relying on taxpayers, wealthy donors have constructed the cathedrals of their religion: theaters for the arts that host various concerts and transform into the holy of holies a few nights each year for award shows. The awards themselves don’t matter much. Ecstasy is found in the build-up, red carpet procession, and after-party libations.
For a people who killed god, entertainment has taken his place. Whenever an artist dies, there is mourning that touches on the meaning of life for all of us. When a new show or movie is announced, there is worry that it won’t live up to sacred expectations. We want to see ourselves in our entertainment. Our humor. Our smarts. Our values. And our lies. For a moment we can feel good at the expense of others. Isn’t that what religion is all about, whether it’s sportsball, Hollywood, or partisan politics? But that good feeling never seems to last long after the entertaining gets done and we must face our own lives again.
In a country where nothing is transcendent, everything tries to become transcendent. Every album. Every television show. Every movie. Every sporting event. And every individual person. A country full of people who wish to transcend their own creaturely nature have received the religions they deserve: empty ones. Being buried in a sports jersey or having your favorite musician’s song played at your funeral won’t do very much. Binge-watching that new series will only distract for hours, not years. Your favorite politician will let you down. Your team winning the championship didn’t actually make you a better person than the fan of the loser team after all. Transcendence can only be witnessed, not manufactured.
These American folk religions have no origin myths, no moral compasses, and no redemption. They’re too busy telling us we'll be better once that outgroup of people over there that we’re supposed to hate finally gets their act together and becomes just like us. Then everything will be okay, until our religious leaders point us toward a new outgroup to shame. And we will. We’ll be sure to attend rallies and post things on social media that tell everyone in our ingroup how outraged we should be because, “that outgrouper over there did this ougroupy thing, can you believe it?” American folk religions focus so much on their respective outgroups, because they don’t offer anything of substance to their ingroups. We’re all just supposed to think we receive a void canvass at birth that gets painted on in life and then tossed away with all the others upon death.
No amount of marketing, awards, elections, or trophies will make something so transient transcendent. They won’t save us. Society, even one we shape and mold to our liking, won’t save us. And we found out long ago we cannot save ourselves.
Whenever someone wakes up from an empty American folk religion, the old Christian cathedrals will be there for them to enter. That is, if they haven’t all been closed or turned into restaurants by then. But enough of this talk about religion, when is the next big game, the next award show, and the next presidential primary?
We don’t build cathedrals anymore. Instead, we get taxpayers to fund sports stadiums in which some of the most hallowed events on our soil take place. The faithful make their pilgrimages, wear their vestments, practice their liturgy, observe their rites, and let their imaginations be captured year-round for the high holy days of the annual sports calendar. Some of them must sacrifice their children to the cause.
Other Americans practice a different religion. They deride sportsball. They brag about their lack of interest in that religion, but some of them for old times’ sake may dabble in it on Superbowl Sunday – the equivalent of the Christmas and Easter Christian. Instead of relying on taxpayers, wealthy donors have constructed the cathedrals of their religion: theaters for the arts that host various concerts and transform into the holy of holies a few nights each year for award shows. The awards themselves don’t matter much. Ecstasy is found in the build-up, red carpet procession, and after-party libations.
For a people who killed god, entertainment has taken his place. Whenever an artist dies, there is mourning that touches on the meaning of life for all of us. When a new show or movie is announced, there is worry that it won’t live up to sacred expectations. We want to see ourselves in our entertainment. Our humor. Our smarts. Our values. And our lies. For a moment we can feel good at the expense of others. Isn’t that what religion is all about, whether it’s sportsball, Hollywood, or partisan politics? But that good feeling never seems to last long after the entertaining gets done and we must face our own lives again.
In a country where nothing is transcendent, everything tries to become transcendent. Every album. Every television show. Every movie. Every sporting event. And every individual person. A country full of people who wish to transcend their own creaturely nature have received the religions they deserve: empty ones. Being buried in a sports jersey or having your favorite musician’s song played at your funeral won’t do very much. Binge-watching that new series will only distract for hours, not years. Your favorite politician will let you down. Your team winning the championship didn’t actually make you a better person than the fan of the loser team after all. Transcendence can only be witnessed, not manufactured.
These American folk religions have no origin myths, no moral compasses, and no redemption. They’re too busy telling us we'll be better once that outgroup of people over there that we’re supposed to hate finally gets their act together and becomes just like us. Then everything will be okay, until our religious leaders point us toward a new outgroup to shame. And we will. We’ll be sure to attend rallies and post things on social media that tell everyone in our ingroup how outraged we should be because, “that outgrouper over there did this ougroupy thing, can you believe it?” American folk religions focus so much on their respective outgroups, because they don’t offer anything of substance to their ingroups. We’re all just supposed to think we receive a void canvass at birth that gets painted on in life and then tossed away with all the others upon death.
No amount of marketing, awards, elections, or trophies will make something so transient transcendent. They won’t save us. Society, even one we shape and mold to our liking, won’t save us. And we found out long ago we cannot save ourselves.
Whenever someone wakes up from an empty American folk religion, the old Christian cathedrals will be there for them to enter. That is, if they haven’t all been closed or turned into restaurants by then. But enough of this talk about religion, when is the next big game, the next award show, and the next presidential primary?
February 4, 2016
Beatitudes for the Friends of the Aged: On the dual blessing of befriending the dying
Beatitude means blessed, and to be blessed is to see God at work. This past Sunday afternoon I was blessed in a place few people visit, where no one wishes to stay.
The Good Samaritan Society runs several skilled nursing homes and assisted living facilities in our region. Their motto says, “In Christ’s love, everyone is someone.” Every handful of weeks I am invited to conduct a worship service at one of their local facilities.
It’s a privilege to come. Most of the people attending the service grew up on a farm decades ago. They raised their families. They worked their bodies to the bones. They sustained loss after loss after loss after loss. And yet here they are entering a sacred space to sing praises to God, while wearing their best and brightest clothes. They are my teachers, and I their student.
As a dozen residents or so shuffle and wheel in, there are often new faces to greet. After everyone who is coming makes their seat in our little chapel, I often notice a person or two who didn’t make it this time. Their health might have taken a turn for the worse, keeping them in their room, or they might have died since my last visit.
Nursing homes are constant reminders of death, which is why the rest of us seek to avoid them at all costs. Employee turnover is high. Family visits are infrequent. Most residents’ friends have died. When you consider all the losses, pain, and heartache within them, these homes are downright depressing. Visiting them reminds me of what the preacher in Ecclesiastes says, “It is better to go to a house of mourning than to go to a house of feasting, for death is the destiny of everyone; the living should take this to heart” (7:2).
There is more than one way to go to a house of mourning. We could go with a perfunctory attitude to make our appearance and get out quickly. We could go and complain about the food. This Sunday, when I asked one of the new residents what it’s been like to live there, she whispered to me across the table in the dining area, “The food is awful. I know I shouldn’t say that, but it is.” She proudly ran the local grocery store with her husband for years. He died a while back. Now she can’t live at home anymore. I replied that I understand about the food, and that I was sorry. We could go and focus of the smells, most of which are unpleasant. We could go and complain about the lack of lively conversation or downer talks as people file through their aches, pains, and losses. Or we could go expecting to be blessed and to be a blessing to others.
The Christian faith centers on life, death, and new life, so give each step its due. Jesus often talks about his own death in the Gospel of John, noting how through it he will nourish many others and grant them life. Arthur McGill, building on what John says, reflects on this meaning of death: “This death is entailed in the giving of life to those who help and nourish, to those who are in need. Here there is nothing evil at all; on the contrary, this death is a meal. This death is a festivity. It is not final because God’s nourishing activity continues beyond the event of death. Under this [. . .] meaning there is a sense in which the death of any person can be seen and affirmed in the perspective of love.”
Jesus gave himself to nourish others. He taught us to give ourselves and to nourish others too. But Jesus also received. He became needy. He was nourished. And he told us not only to wash someone else’s feet, but to allow someone to wash ours as well. There are blessings to be had in both living and dying and in being around those who are living and dying.
It was a blessing this Sunday to be with the dying, or as they were once called in this region “the aged.” Esther Mary Walker, while caring for her elderly mother, took Jesus’ beatitudes from Matthew’s Gospel and reworked them for those who are friends of the Aged. She writes:Blessed are they who understand my faltering steps and shaking hand.Blessed are they who know that my ears today must strain to catch the words they say.Blessed are they who seem to know that my eyes are dim and my reactions slow.Blessed are they who look away when my coffee gets spilled during the day.Blessed are they with a cheery smile who stop to chat with me for a while.Blessed are they who never say , “You’ve told that story twice today.”Blessed are they who know the ways to bring back lovely yesterdays.Blessed are they who make it known that I am loved, respected and not alone.Blessed are they who know the loss of strength I need to bear the cross.Blessed are they who ease the days of my journey home in loving ways.On our way out of the home we walked down a hallway and passed by a framed picture that held Walker’s words within it. I’d passed it several times before, but never stopped to read it, but I did that day.
It’s time we American Christians stop avoiding death and dying at all costs. There are blessings to claim and blessings to give, especially in overlooked places full of overlooked people. God may use us to ease the way of the dying, but, if we’re being honest, our own way is also eased by being with them.
The Good Samaritan Society runs several skilled nursing homes and assisted living facilities in our region. Their motto says, “In Christ’s love, everyone is someone.” Every handful of weeks I am invited to conduct a worship service at one of their local facilities.
It’s a privilege to come. Most of the people attending the service grew up on a farm decades ago. They raised their families. They worked their bodies to the bones. They sustained loss after loss after loss after loss. And yet here they are entering a sacred space to sing praises to God, while wearing their best and brightest clothes. They are my teachers, and I their student.
As a dozen residents or so shuffle and wheel in, there are often new faces to greet. After everyone who is coming makes their seat in our little chapel, I often notice a person or two who didn’t make it this time. Their health might have taken a turn for the worse, keeping them in their room, or they might have died since my last visit.
Nursing homes are constant reminders of death, which is why the rest of us seek to avoid them at all costs. Employee turnover is high. Family visits are infrequent. Most residents’ friends have died. When you consider all the losses, pain, and heartache within them, these homes are downright depressing. Visiting them reminds me of what the preacher in Ecclesiastes says, “It is better to go to a house of mourning than to go to a house of feasting, for death is the destiny of everyone; the living should take this to heart” (7:2).
There is more than one way to go to a house of mourning. We could go with a perfunctory attitude to make our appearance and get out quickly. We could go and complain about the food. This Sunday, when I asked one of the new residents what it’s been like to live there, she whispered to me across the table in the dining area, “The food is awful. I know I shouldn’t say that, but it is.” She proudly ran the local grocery store with her husband for years. He died a while back. Now she can’t live at home anymore. I replied that I understand about the food, and that I was sorry. We could go and focus of the smells, most of which are unpleasant. We could go and complain about the lack of lively conversation or downer talks as people file through their aches, pains, and losses. Or we could go expecting to be blessed and to be a blessing to others.
The Christian faith centers on life, death, and new life, so give each step its due. Jesus often talks about his own death in the Gospel of John, noting how through it he will nourish many others and grant them life. Arthur McGill, building on what John says, reflects on this meaning of death: “This death is entailed in the giving of life to those who help and nourish, to those who are in need. Here there is nothing evil at all; on the contrary, this death is a meal. This death is a festivity. It is not final because God’s nourishing activity continues beyond the event of death. Under this [. . .] meaning there is a sense in which the death of any person can be seen and affirmed in the perspective of love.”
Jesus gave himself to nourish others. He taught us to give ourselves and to nourish others too. But Jesus also received. He became needy. He was nourished. And he told us not only to wash someone else’s feet, but to allow someone to wash ours as well. There are blessings to be had in both living and dying and in being around those who are living and dying.
It was a blessing this Sunday to be with the dying, or as they were once called in this region “the aged.” Esther Mary Walker, while caring for her elderly mother, took Jesus’ beatitudes from Matthew’s Gospel and reworked them for those who are friends of the Aged. She writes:Blessed are they who understand my faltering steps and shaking hand.Blessed are they who know that my ears today must strain to catch the words they say.Blessed are they who seem to know that my eyes are dim and my reactions slow.Blessed are they who look away when my coffee gets spilled during the day.Blessed are they with a cheery smile who stop to chat with me for a while.Blessed are they who never say , “You’ve told that story twice today.”Blessed are they who know the ways to bring back lovely yesterdays.Blessed are they who make it known that I am loved, respected and not alone.Blessed are they who know the loss of strength I need to bear the cross.Blessed are they who ease the days of my journey home in loving ways.On our way out of the home we walked down a hallway and passed by a framed picture that held Walker’s words within it. I’d passed it several times before, but never stopped to read it, but I did that day.
It’s time we American Christians stop avoiding death and dying at all costs. There are blessings to claim and blessings to give, especially in overlooked places full of overlooked people. God may use us to ease the way of the dying, but, if we’re being honest, our own way is also eased by being with them.
January 28, 2016
Wouldn’t It Be Nice?
“Wouldn’t it be nice,” I said to my wife, “if there was a business out there that cooked good food that you could pickup at their place nearby or would even deliver it to your house?”
“Why, yes,” she replied, “that sounds like a great idea.”
“A million dollar idea.”
And after day dreaming on a snowy winter’s afternoon for a few minutes, we returned to figuring out what to cook for supper for our family of five.
Officially, anyone who lives in a city of 50,000 people or fewer resides in a small-town. Our town has around 450 people, which means we could grow more than 100 times our population and still be considered a small town.
Likewise, anyone who lives miles away from a metro urban area lives in a rural setting. It would be one thing if we were a small town near a major population center, but only 26,000 people live within a fifty-mile radius. To put that in perspective, some 18 million people live within a fifty-mile radius of New York City. But that’s far away. Even if we covered a fifty-mile radius area around the largest city in our state, Sioux Falls, there’d still be more than ten times the amount of people in that circle than live around here.
It is no surprise that because we have so fewer people than other parts of the country, we have few businesses among us. I once visited a church member who grew up here and lived in Chicago for a while as an adult. She said she missed dry cleaning the most. Me? I miss gathering places. We have a bar in town, and it’s busy on a lot of evenings. We have a sale barn too, and it’s really busy on Friday. Its café has some regulars each morning and afternoon. We also have a small coffee shop in a pharmacy with its own regulars in the afternoons. Groups of insiders frequent such places, but as an outsider it’s hard to feel welcome. Of course, many people feel that way about any church here, at least as it goes for being a Sunday-morning gathering place.
I miss having somewhere to go where there are sights, sounds, flavors, and company. I miss being able to pick up food when I’m too lazy to cook, or, even better, have it delivered to me, especially when the weather stinks. I miss people-watching at the mall, browsing a used book store just to see what’s new, and taking walks up and down shops and sidewalks. Given my wardrobe, I’ve never once missed dry cleaning.
As a winter storm swept across more populated parts of our country last week, I was introduced to news stories about people shoveling or not shoveling drives, sidewalks, and parking spaces. One sign in Philadelphia warned that whoever would park in a spot cleared off of snow would have its windows broken in by the shoveler. A sign posted at a parking spot in Washington D.C. read like an act of congress, but pretty much made the same point. One bank in New York became a national story as its customers complained that it refused to shovel its sidewalk and entrance. That’s not to mention stories about multi-car crashes, people creating igloos in their yard and listing them on Air BnB (surely, that’s a joke, right?), and homeless people freezing to death.
Snow happens in our town too. Outside my office I spy on the ever-growing mound that will soon have my children, and sometimes me, sledding down it or having lightsaber duels on it like we were on Hoth. I hear and see my neighbors clearing off their walks too. I join them. In big storms someone will come with a Bobcat and clear our driveway, which is great since gravel and shovels do not mix. The snow comes and goes, and while we may not have anyone to deliver us food while snowed in, we do have neighbors who serve and care for each other. Wouldn’t it be nice to live where no one has to worry about their car windows being broken in just for parking their car?
Life in a small town in rural America is not perfect. We have an underbelly too, with illegal drugs, chaotic homes, and lonely people of all ages hanging on in quiet desperation. But there are also strengths. We learn how to make our own favorite restaurant-quality dishes. We invite people over to our house to gather with them, instead of relying on some neutral space. We people watch our family, friends, and neighbors regularly, while some of us can’t resist speculating what they are up to. We learn the needs of our neighbors and rise up to help them, whether that’s with a shovel, a food basket, or a lawnmower.
I've read countless articles that say the church in America needs Christians to neighbor well again. We have a leg up on that in rural, small-town America. Wouldn’t it be nice if we’d become bold enough to open our eyes to where God is at work in our midst, witness what only he can do, and proclaim his good news of his kingdom to those same neighbors? May it start with me! May it spread with you!
“Why, yes,” she replied, “that sounds like a great idea.”
“A million dollar idea.”
And after day dreaming on a snowy winter’s afternoon for a few minutes, we returned to figuring out what to cook for supper for our family of five.
Officially, anyone who lives in a city of 50,000 people or fewer resides in a small-town. Our town has around 450 people, which means we could grow more than 100 times our population and still be considered a small town.
Likewise, anyone who lives miles away from a metro urban area lives in a rural setting. It would be one thing if we were a small town near a major population center, but only 26,000 people live within a fifty-mile radius. To put that in perspective, some 18 million people live within a fifty-mile radius of New York City. But that’s far away. Even if we covered a fifty-mile radius area around the largest city in our state, Sioux Falls, there’d still be more than ten times the amount of people in that circle than live around here.
It is no surprise that because we have so fewer people than other parts of the country, we have few businesses among us. I once visited a church member who grew up here and lived in Chicago for a while as an adult. She said she missed dry cleaning the most. Me? I miss gathering places. We have a bar in town, and it’s busy on a lot of evenings. We have a sale barn too, and it’s really busy on Friday. Its café has some regulars each morning and afternoon. We also have a small coffee shop in a pharmacy with its own regulars in the afternoons. Groups of insiders frequent such places, but as an outsider it’s hard to feel welcome. Of course, many people feel that way about any church here, at least as it goes for being a Sunday-morning gathering place.
I miss having somewhere to go where there are sights, sounds, flavors, and company. I miss being able to pick up food when I’m too lazy to cook, or, even better, have it delivered to me, especially when the weather stinks. I miss people-watching at the mall, browsing a used book store just to see what’s new, and taking walks up and down shops and sidewalks. Given my wardrobe, I’ve never once missed dry cleaning.
As a winter storm swept across more populated parts of our country last week, I was introduced to news stories about people shoveling or not shoveling drives, sidewalks, and parking spaces. One sign in Philadelphia warned that whoever would park in a spot cleared off of snow would have its windows broken in by the shoveler. A sign posted at a parking spot in Washington D.C. read like an act of congress, but pretty much made the same point. One bank in New York became a national story as its customers complained that it refused to shovel its sidewalk and entrance. That’s not to mention stories about multi-car crashes, people creating igloos in their yard and listing them on Air BnB (surely, that’s a joke, right?), and homeless people freezing to death.
Snow happens in our town too. Outside my office I spy on the ever-growing mound that will soon have my children, and sometimes me, sledding down it or having lightsaber duels on it like we were on Hoth. I hear and see my neighbors clearing off their walks too. I join them. In big storms someone will come with a Bobcat and clear our driveway, which is great since gravel and shovels do not mix. The snow comes and goes, and while we may not have anyone to deliver us food while snowed in, we do have neighbors who serve and care for each other. Wouldn’t it be nice to live where no one has to worry about their car windows being broken in just for parking their car?
Life in a small town in rural America is not perfect. We have an underbelly too, with illegal drugs, chaotic homes, and lonely people of all ages hanging on in quiet desperation. But there are also strengths. We learn how to make our own favorite restaurant-quality dishes. We invite people over to our house to gather with them, instead of relying on some neutral space. We people watch our family, friends, and neighbors regularly, while some of us can’t resist speculating what they are up to. We learn the needs of our neighbors and rise up to help them, whether that’s with a shovel, a food basket, or a lawnmower.
I've read countless articles that say the church in America needs Christians to neighbor well again. We have a leg up on that in rural, small-town America. Wouldn’t it be nice if we’d become bold enough to open our eyes to where God is at work in our midst, witness what only he can do, and proclaim his good news of his kingdom to those same neighbors? May it start with me! May it spread with you!
January 21, 2016
Hazardous Conditions: What driving can teach us about life
This time of year roads can turn dangerous within hours, even minutes. Commutes can take ten times as long as the roads become slushy, icy, and snowy. On highways people drive normally in abnormal conditions and run off the road. It happens every winter, and yet we don’t seem to learn by it. Why is that?
Everyone else has the problem
I’ve yet to meet someone who openly claims they are terrible at driving. George Carlin once joked that everyone who drives slower than you is an idiot and anyone who drives faster than you is a maniac. Winter conditions intensify our feelings toward the so-called idiots and maniacs around us. As we pass by cars in the ditch we presume they were driven by incredibly stupid people. As we get passed by others we think they have death wishes. But when we are the ones doing the passing, we can’t wait to rid ourselves of all the idiots who were once in front of us driving much too slow. The problem is with everyone else, not us. Who likes to consider themselves part of the problem?
I didn’t plan for this
A lot of us keep razor-thin margins for reaching places at the right time. One of the shocks I had moving from a big city to a small town is how people arrive just before the start time or later to events. It didn’t take me long to find out why: there’s no traffic. Other than high school graduation, weddings, and funerals, people don’t show up early for anything. When we presume normalcy in our schedules, anything abnormal will throw us off. We get nervous. We get impatient. We take risks. And we treat others worse than we usually do. It’s not their fault. It’s ours. But who likes to blame themselves for their problems?
I’m smarter than you
I once worked several miles from my home with no obvious commute path that was the best one. There were an infinite combination of side streets and occasional freeways to get me from point A to B, and I tried dozens of them for variety’s sake alone. That was my norm. When hazardous weather comes not all options are created equal. Some roads are plowed and trampled on better than others. Some roads are more hilly, curvy, and dangerous than others. The smartest thing is to stick with the most basic course and have the patience to allow for all the extra people on the road with you to travel slowly with you together. But we like to outsmart them and outsmart ourselves. We rashly make poor decisions that can get us stuck on the wrong street, sliding toward a parked car, or colliding with someone else on the road. When hazards come the dumbest thing to do is make a rash decision that takes you into unfamiliar territory, but who likes to admit that their best idea is exactly the same as everyone else’s?
Hazards of Life
Some times life can become hazardous for us. A call into the boss’s office has us without work in only a couple of weeks’ time. A text from a loved one says, “we need to talk,” and the news isn’t good. The doctor’s office calls and wants to go over test results in-person. Months later your loved one is dead. In our fallen world there is no shortage of hazardous conditions we must navigate, even if we plan our lives by presuming normalcy. Unlike our vehicles, time has no reverse gear.
People tend to drive in hazardous conditions no differently than normal conditions, and that’s a problem. Different conditions call for different driving, and so it is with life. When a time of crisis, stress, and grief comes, stop and think about your response. The easy thing to do is merely react, blame everyone else, let our inward troubles seep into our outward lives, and make horrible decisions in the heat of the moment. A response calls for patience, discovering the role we have in the problem, and accepting that a solution (if there even can be one) will take some time and patience along the way. We cannot outsmart grief. There is no alternate root for lament. Anger will not lead us down the right path, but it may cause plenty more damage along its way.
Job Chapters 1 and 2 cover a span of days during which Job lost everything. His livelihood. His property. His children. Even his health. No one knew why. In fact, we the readers are told that Job lost everything for no reason at all. It was merely a test, like a crude science experiment. Instead of reacting, Job lamented in worship. His wife thought him to be a fool. She sarcastically told him to get on with blessing God and dying. Life seemed hopeless, but Job knew better.
The rest of the book plays out Job’s continued response, interaction with friends, and eventual resolution. In some ways he came off better at the end than before, but in other ways there were scars that would always remain. Children cannot be replaced. Health, though restored, is still compromised after a body is on the brink of death. And just like anyone in a car accident will tell you, it’s easy to be spooked the next time you get behind the wheel, as if a crash were immanent. Who knows how well Job lived after the fateful day he lost everything? Trust recovers slowly and in stages.
No matter what you are going through this winter, take the time to respond rather than react. When told to bless God and die, Job replied to his wife, “should we accept good from God and not trouble”? The conditions in our fallen world will not always be sunny and clear. The rains, sleet, ice, and snow will come. And when they do, be ready to respond.
Everyone else has the problem
I’ve yet to meet someone who openly claims they are terrible at driving. George Carlin once joked that everyone who drives slower than you is an idiot and anyone who drives faster than you is a maniac. Winter conditions intensify our feelings toward the so-called idiots and maniacs around us. As we pass by cars in the ditch we presume they were driven by incredibly stupid people. As we get passed by others we think they have death wishes. But when we are the ones doing the passing, we can’t wait to rid ourselves of all the idiots who were once in front of us driving much too slow. The problem is with everyone else, not us. Who likes to consider themselves part of the problem?
I didn’t plan for this
A lot of us keep razor-thin margins for reaching places at the right time. One of the shocks I had moving from a big city to a small town is how people arrive just before the start time or later to events. It didn’t take me long to find out why: there’s no traffic. Other than high school graduation, weddings, and funerals, people don’t show up early for anything. When we presume normalcy in our schedules, anything abnormal will throw us off. We get nervous. We get impatient. We take risks. And we treat others worse than we usually do. It’s not their fault. It’s ours. But who likes to blame themselves for their problems?
I’m smarter than you
I once worked several miles from my home with no obvious commute path that was the best one. There were an infinite combination of side streets and occasional freeways to get me from point A to B, and I tried dozens of them for variety’s sake alone. That was my norm. When hazardous weather comes not all options are created equal. Some roads are plowed and trampled on better than others. Some roads are more hilly, curvy, and dangerous than others. The smartest thing is to stick with the most basic course and have the patience to allow for all the extra people on the road with you to travel slowly with you together. But we like to outsmart them and outsmart ourselves. We rashly make poor decisions that can get us stuck on the wrong street, sliding toward a parked car, or colliding with someone else on the road. When hazards come the dumbest thing to do is make a rash decision that takes you into unfamiliar territory, but who likes to admit that their best idea is exactly the same as everyone else’s?
Hazards of Life
Some times life can become hazardous for us. A call into the boss’s office has us without work in only a couple of weeks’ time. A text from a loved one says, “we need to talk,” and the news isn’t good. The doctor’s office calls and wants to go over test results in-person. Months later your loved one is dead. In our fallen world there is no shortage of hazardous conditions we must navigate, even if we plan our lives by presuming normalcy. Unlike our vehicles, time has no reverse gear.
People tend to drive in hazardous conditions no differently than normal conditions, and that’s a problem. Different conditions call for different driving, and so it is with life. When a time of crisis, stress, and grief comes, stop and think about your response. The easy thing to do is merely react, blame everyone else, let our inward troubles seep into our outward lives, and make horrible decisions in the heat of the moment. A response calls for patience, discovering the role we have in the problem, and accepting that a solution (if there even can be one) will take some time and patience along the way. We cannot outsmart grief. There is no alternate root for lament. Anger will not lead us down the right path, but it may cause plenty more damage along its way.
Job Chapters 1 and 2 cover a span of days during which Job lost everything. His livelihood. His property. His children. Even his health. No one knew why. In fact, we the readers are told that Job lost everything for no reason at all. It was merely a test, like a crude science experiment. Instead of reacting, Job lamented in worship. His wife thought him to be a fool. She sarcastically told him to get on with blessing God and dying. Life seemed hopeless, but Job knew better.
The rest of the book plays out Job’s continued response, interaction with friends, and eventual resolution. In some ways he came off better at the end than before, but in other ways there were scars that would always remain. Children cannot be replaced. Health, though restored, is still compromised after a body is on the brink of death. And just like anyone in a car accident will tell you, it’s easy to be spooked the next time you get behind the wheel, as if a crash were immanent. Who knows how well Job lived after the fateful day he lost everything? Trust recovers slowly and in stages.
No matter what you are going through this winter, take the time to respond rather than react. When told to bless God and die, Job replied to his wife, “should we accept good from God and not trouble”? The conditions in our fallen world will not always be sunny and clear. The rains, sleet, ice, and snow will come. And when they do, be ready to respond.
January 14, 2016
Surely God Is with Us
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit”– Psalm 34:18.
Out my window facing east, hues of red and pink break above the tree-line, marking a new dawn. In mere minutes an explosion of light transforms the dark landscape, illuminating everything. Possibilities appear endless. My energy is full and rearing to be unleashed. Surely God is with us.
The sun also sets. Some nights the moon is new and clouds obscure the stars. Darkness can become suffocating. People turn cold. Life appears hopeless and depression sets in. Is God still with us?
On those dark lonely nights it doesn’t feel that way. Sometimes the darkness comes from without: grief over a loss that can never be fixed or calamity no one saw coming. More often darkness coughs up from within through a careless word, a selfish action, or an icy indifference to someone in need. I turn further inward only to think nothing is there, nothing but me.
“God,” we say, “wouldn’t have any part in this.” We’ve been led to believe God loves winners. He always gets mentioned by winning athletes, but never losers. Some preachers on television talk of God blessing those he loves in terms of more money, better health, and easier living. They say that when life is hard God is distant and waiting for us to do better. When my heart is broken by pain I’ve caused and my spirit crushed under the weight of calamity, I’m conditioned to think God has fled the scene. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t approve. Had he been with me, none of this would have happened.
If I’m not careful I’ll default to worshipping the hapless idol god of the unbelieving world. That god only lets people down. That god is a killjoy. It is impotent to stop all the bad things. It is evil for not making the world to our liking. That god is never with anyone when they need it, so why need that god at all?
In one sense the unbelievers are right. Who does need that god? But the God who speaks and made himself known through the prophets and through Jesus Christ is not like that god at all. The true God says he is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. The true God promises he will not break a bruised reed or snuff out a smoldering wick. As the Puritan theologian Richard Sibbes reminds us we Christians are not called towering oaks or flaming torches for good reason. We are fragile, frail creatures subjected to forces in this fallen world that collide with us until we crack. Leonard Cohen is no Puritan, but there is much truth to his phrase: “There is a crack, a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.”
When God became human in Jesus Christ he cracked. Not in the sense that he was any less God than before. God was already for us, but now he is with us. After Christ’s death and resurrection, he sent his Spirit to be in us and work through us.
The Gospels each paint a picture of what Jesus’ death was like. It was preluded with hatred, jealousy, betrayal, bargaining, torture, and gambling. It culminated in darkness, storms, loud cries, hunger, thirst, and streams of blood. Nothing about the scene reminds me of a sunrise. It was more like a mid-day sunset: earth’s darkest hour. And here is how those closest to the scene responded: “When the centurion and those with him who were guarding Jesus saw the earthquake and all that had happened, they were terrified, and exclaimed, ‘Surely he was the Son of God!” (Matt 27:54). God is near the brokenhearted and delivers those who are crushed in spirit because his heart too has been broken and his spirit crushed. Just read the accounts of the crucifixion. It’s all there.
When I survey God’s beauty in creation I know he is near. And when life deals its inevitable blows I tell myself, God is with me. He’s with you too. He promises to be with us always, even to the end of the age.
Surely God is with us.
Out my window facing east, hues of red and pink break above the tree-line, marking a new dawn. In mere minutes an explosion of light transforms the dark landscape, illuminating everything. Possibilities appear endless. My energy is full and rearing to be unleashed. Surely God is with us.
The sun also sets. Some nights the moon is new and clouds obscure the stars. Darkness can become suffocating. People turn cold. Life appears hopeless and depression sets in. Is God still with us?
On those dark lonely nights it doesn’t feel that way. Sometimes the darkness comes from without: grief over a loss that can never be fixed or calamity no one saw coming. More often darkness coughs up from within through a careless word, a selfish action, or an icy indifference to someone in need. I turn further inward only to think nothing is there, nothing but me.
“God,” we say, “wouldn’t have any part in this.” We’ve been led to believe God loves winners. He always gets mentioned by winning athletes, but never losers. Some preachers on television talk of God blessing those he loves in terms of more money, better health, and easier living. They say that when life is hard God is distant and waiting for us to do better. When my heart is broken by pain I’ve caused and my spirit crushed under the weight of calamity, I’m conditioned to think God has fled the scene. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t approve. Had he been with me, none of this would have happened.
If I’m not careful I’ll default to worshipping the hapless idol god of the unbelieving world. That god only lets people down. That god is a killjoy. It is impotent to stop all the bad things. It is evil for not making the world to our liking. That god is never with anyone when they need it, so why need that god at all?
In one sense the unbelievers are right. Who does need that god? But the God who speaks and made himself known through the prophets and through Jesus Christ is not like that god at all. The true God says he is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. The true God promises he will not break a bruised reed or snuff out a smoldering wick. As the Puritan theologian Richard Sibbes reminds us we Christians are not called towering oaks or flaming torches for good reason. We are fragile, frail creatures subjected to forces in this fallen world that collide with us until we crack. Leonard Cohen is no Puritan, but there is much truth to his phrase: “There is a crack, a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.”
When God became human in Jesus Christ he cracked. Not in the sense that he was any less God than before. God was already for us, but now he is with us. After Christ’s death and resurrection, he sent his Spirit to be in us and work through us.
The Gospels each paint a picture of what Jesus’ death was like. It was preluded with hatred, jealousy, betrayal, bargaining, torture, and gambling. It culminated in darkness, storms, loud cries, hunger, thirst, and streams of blood. Nothing about the scene reminds me of a sunrise. It was more like a mid-day sunset: earth’s darkest hour. And here is how those closest to the scene responded: “When the centurion and those with him who were guarding Jesus saw the earthquake and all that had happened, they were terrified, and exclaimed, ‘Surely he was the Son of God!” (Matt 27:54). God is near the brokenhearted and delivers those who are crushed in spirit because his heart too has been broken and his spirit crushed. Just read the accounts of the crucifixion. It’s all there.
When I survey God’s beauty in creation I know he is near. And when life deals its inevitable blows I tell myself, God is with me. He’s with you too. He promises to be with us always, even to the end of the age.
Surely God is with us.
January 7, 2016
Where the Heart Is
Starting our family’s van a couple weeks back, the dashboard promptly told me the engine’s oil needed changing, and so went the start of our 3,000 mile journey. In one day the weather turned from blizzard snow and ice to torrential down-pouring rain. The temperatures rose from below freezing to about 80 degrees as we descended from the northern plains to the south.
Our path took us to new places, for a little while. We traveled on somewhat familiar places for a little longer. And then there was the most familiar stretch of all: passing through my hometown of Kansas City. Twice.
Our electronic map urged us to bypass the city altogether. We were supposed to drive on rural highways and rejoin the Interstate after city traffic cleared. But my heart doesn’t lie in Cameron or Chillicothe, Missouri, even if the latter is the boastful home of sliced bread. My heart lies in Kansas City.
No matter how tired of driving I was, and 3,000 miles in 10 days is a most tiring affair, I perked up when I got to Kansas City. Our route took us past the iconic stadiums, where the newly minted world champion Royals play. We slowed down on the east side of town through both the Benton and Jackson curves, unfolding out of the downtown loop. My kids were amazed at the size of buildings and at the “real cop” who passed us by on the left with lights flashing. And just days later we got to do it all over again: past the stadiums, through downtown and so on. We crossed the Missouri River for the last time, a steady close companion for over half of our trip, and then proceeded through the suburbs of the northland, capped off by the airport with its jumbo jets coming and going. The last signs that one is in a big city.
About an hour north of the airport my wife took over the driving. She played a newly purchased live worship album from Casting Crowns on the car stereo. I stared out the window at the bluffs to my right. They rule over the flood plain with stately houses here and there that overlook abandoned farmsteads. In winter the trees that dominate the space between bluff and plain grow bare with branches flinging all over in a mixture of rest and praise. I cried.
“It’s my Dad’s birthday,” I said to my wife. “We didn’t even go by his grave today. The route just didn’t make sense.”
“We could have,” she replied.
“I know.”
There was a pause in conversation for some time as the miles continued to pass beneath our van. She reached over the armrest to clinch my hand.
“I still miss Kansas City; it’s always been home,” I admitted, although no one listening knew it was a secret.
“Home is where the heart is,” she replied as she kept driving. The praise music continued to play. I stared out the window some more.
On our trip we drove, even hydroplaned, through Appalachia. Rich Mullins has a song about road trips in America in which he says he went to Appalachia, for his father was born there. He saw the mountains one morning, and his soul was with them there in that moment.
My Dad was born in Los Angeles, but lived and died in Kansas City. Part of my soul will always be there too, and merely driving through its highways pulls at it once more like an ex-girlfriend sending a random text. I still follow up on Kansas City news, root for the local sports teams, crave to recreate my favorite eats, and never tire telling my wife which people in Hollywood are from Kansas City. She’s tired of that plenty. My soul is with Kansas City, and it was bittersweet driving through it the second time, not knowing when I would see it again.
In that same song Mullins also says, “I am home anywhere, if you [God] are where I am.” And so it is with me. God is everywhere. The ground of all being. The true. The good. The beautiful. He is in the sunshine passing through the car window on a cold winter’s drive. He is in each breath I intake, sometimes quickly and other times slowly, giving me sustenance through life’s highs and lows. He is in the laughs of my children, the cries of my family, and the faces of each person I meet. No matter where I get my mail, and it’s been several places so far in my adulthood, my heart is home. For God is also there, reminding me that no place in this life, even Kansas City with all its fountains, boulevards, and barbecue, will ever satisfy like his coming kingdom. That’s home, and I can get a taste of it in worship, at the Lord’s Table, in prayer, and in quiet time.
I could even taste it sitting in a car toward the end of a 3,000 mile journey, looking out at the bluffs as my wife continued to drive us away from home and yet toward home. There was no turning back. How could there be?
T. S. Eliot once wrote, “And the end of our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.” Due to a water leak we came home after our long journey to an uninhabitable house. We didn’t even unpack the van. Being at home would have to wait.
And yet it really was home, and that night it felt as if I’d passed under its threshold for the first time.
Our path took us to new places, for a little while. We traveled on somewhat familiar places for a little longer. And then there was the most familiar stretch of all: passing through my hometown of Kansas City. Twice.
Our electronic map urged us to bypass the city altogether. We were supposed to drive on rural highways and rejoin the Interstate after city traffic cleared. But my heart doesn’t lie in Cameron or Chillicothe, Missouri, even if the latter is the boastful home of sliced bread. My heart lies in Kansas City.
No matter how tired of driving I was, and 3,000 miles in 10 days is a most tiring affair, I perked up when I got to Kansas City. Our route took us past the iconic stadiums, where the newly minted world champion Royals play. We slowed down on the east side of town through both the Benton and Jackson curves, unfolding out of the downtown loop. My kids were amazed at the size of buildings and at the “real cop” who passed us by on the left with lights flashing. And just days later we got to do it all over again: past the stadiums, through downtown and so on. We crossed the Missouri River for the last time, a steady close companion for over half of our trip, and then proceeded through the suburbs of the northland, capped off by the airport with its jumbo jets coming and going. The last signs that one is in a big city.
About an hour north of the airport my wife took over the driving. She played a newly purchased live worship album from Casting Crowns on the car stereo. I stared out the window at the bluffs to my right. They rule over the flood plain with stately houses here and there that overlook abandoned farmsteads. In winter the trees that dominate the space between bluff and plain grow bare with branches flinging all over in a mixture of rest and praise. I cried.
“It’s my Dad’s birthday,” I said to my wife. “We didn’t even go by his grave today. The route just didn’t make sense.”
“We could have,” she replied.
“I know.”
There was a pause in conversation for some time as the miles continued to pass beneath our van. She reached over the armrest to clinch my hand.
“I still miss Kansas City; it’s always been home,” I admitted, although no one listening knew it was a secret.
“Home is where the heart is,” she replied as she kept driving. The praise music continued to play. I stared out the window some more.
On our trip we drove, even hydroplaned, through Appalachia. Rich Mullins has a song about road trips in America in which he says he went to Appalachia, for his father was born there. He saw the mountains one morning, and his soul was with them there in that moment.
My Dad was born in Los Angeles, but lived and died in Kansas City. Part of my soul will always be there too, and merely driving through its highways pulls at it once more like an ex-girlfriend sending a random text. I still follow up on Kansas City news, root for the local sports teams, crave to recreate my favorite eats, and never tire telling my wife which people in Hollywood are from Kansas City. She’s tired of that plenty. My soul is with Kansas City, and it was bittersweet driving through it the second time, not knowing when I would see it again.
In that same song Mullins also says, “I am home anywhere, if you [God] are where I am.” And so it is with me. God is everywhere. The ground of all being. The true. The good. The beautiful. He is in the sunshine passing through the car window on a cold winter’s drive. He is in each breath I intake, sometimes quickly and other times slowly, giving me sustenance through life’s highs and lows. He is in the laughs of my children, the cries of my family, and the faces of each person I meet. No matter where I get my mail, and it’s been several places so far in my adulthood, my heart is home. For God is also there, reminding me that no place in this life, even Kansas City with all its fountains, boulevards, and barbecue, will ever satisfy like his coming kingdom. That’s home, and I can get a taste of it in worship, at the Lord’s Table, in prayer, and in quiet time.
I could even taste it sitting in a car toward the end of a 3,000 mile journey, looking out at the bluffs as my wife continued to drive us away from home and yet toward home. There was no turning back. How could there be?
T. S. Eliot once wrote, “And the end of our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.” Due to a water leak we came home after our long journey to an uninhabitable house. We didn’t even unpack the van. Being at home would have to wait.
And yet it really was home, and that night it felt as if I’d passed under its threshold for the first time.
December 17, 2015
2015 Favorites
New posts will return on January 7th, 2016, so to end this year I wanted to include my personal favorites to write. I chose two from each quarter.
First Quarter
Limitless Feasting and Self-Forgiveness: The time between the holiday season and Lent is a fitting one to consider the rhythms of feasting and fasting. In this piece I tie fasting to confession, which are two practices many American Christians, myself included, neglect.
We Used to Pray: Prayer has sadly become an isolated practice, and that's cause for lament, especially when you consider that a church that no longer prayers together is often a declining and/or dying church.
Second Quarter
Nightsinging - Growing Young at Camp: I love how this one opens and closes. The middle isn't bad either.
Death Itself - At the Movie about Roger Ebert: Reading is one of my favorite hobbies, and Ebert was a short-form writer extraordinaire. This was a personal piece because being human is being gifted to experience so many sublime things, and Ebert knew that. But he didn't think he knew God, which is always a puzzle to me when I can tell that someone else "gets it."
Third Quarter
On Broken Families and Prodigals - What I've Learned as a Foster Paren't: It can be tiring to hear, "I could never do that," whenever we have foster kids at home. Most of the time the answer is, "trust me, I'm not sure I can either."
Remembering Rich Mullins: His Liturgy and Legacy 18 Years after Death: If you ever want to see me cry without waiting through Field of Dreams to end, just put on a Rich Mullins album. I'll tear up in minutes. Part of that is the beauty of his music mixed with the depth of his poetry, but it's mostly because it remains the soundtrack of my faith journey.
Fourth Quarter
The Scale Don't Lie - How Practices Shape Our Bodies and Our Souls: More than just about anything I wish every member of our church got this. Were I more honest, though, I suppose I need to get it too.
Good Christian Manners: What to Do about the Mosaic Law and the Jewishness of the Christian Faith: There is a convergence of diverse factors, from global academic Paul studies to odd turns in Pentecostal dispensationalism in southern America, that have led many Christians to reconsider what the role of the Law is for Christ's church. It was a good exercise to think through such things myself as the issue is not as black and white as the silly canard that Christmas and Easter are obviously pagan holidays (they're not).
Thanks for reading this year, and here's to bright hopes for what God has in store for us in 2016.
First Quarter
Limitless Feasting and Self-Forgiveness: The time between the holiday season and Lent is a fitting one to consider the rhythms of feasting and fasting. In this piece I tie fasting to confession, which are two practices many American Christians, myself included, neglect.
We Used to Pray: Prayer has sadly become an isolated practice, and that's cause for lament, especially when you consider that a church that no longer prayers together is often a declining and/or dying church.
Second Quarter
Nightsinging - Growing Young at Camp: I love how this one opens and closes. The middle isn't bad either.
Death Itself - At the Movie about Roger Ebert: Reading is one of my favorite hobbies, and Ebert was a short-form writer extraordinaire. This was a personal piece because being human is being gifted to experience so many sublime things, and Ebert knew that. But he didn't think he knew God, which is always a puzzle to me when I can tell that someone else "gets it."
Third Quarter
On Broken Families and Prodigals - What I've Learned as a Foster Paren't: It can be tiring to hear, "I could never do that," whenever we have foster kids at home. Most of the time the answer is, "trust me, I'm not sure I can either."
Remembering Rich Mullins: His Liturgy and Legacy 18 Years after Death: If you ever want to see me cry without waiting through Field of Dreams to end, just put on a Rich Mullins album. I'll tear up in minutes. Part of that is the beauty of his music mixed with the depth of his poetry, but it's mostly because it remains the soundtrack of my faith journey.
Fourth Quarter
The Scale Don't Lie - How Practices Shape Our Bodies and Our Souls: More than just about anything I wish every member of our church got this. Were I more honest, though, I suppose I need to get it too.
Good Christian Manners: What to Do about the Mosaic Law and the Jewishness of the Christian Faith: There is a convergence of diverse factors, from global academic Paul studies to odd turns in Pentecostal dispensationalism in southern America, that have led many Christians to reconsider what the role of the Law is for Christ's church. It was a good exercise to think through such things myself as the issue is not as black and white as the silly canard that Christmas and Easter are obviously pagan holidays (they're not).
Thanks for reading this year, and here's to bright hopes for what God has in store for us in 2016.
December 10, 2015
Four Years a Pastor: Four Things I’ve Heard Along the Way
On December 11, 2011 I preached my first sermon as pastor of Herreid Baptist Church. Some 200 sermons later, here are four things I’ve heard along the way:
Pastor, you’re not a bad preacher, but you still need to learn how to be a pastor: It’s true I devote more time in a given week toward preaching than other responsibilities. With all that God says about his Word, I strive to proclaim it well. I must wrestle with the text and stand under it myself during the week before coming up with a way to share it with our specific family on a specific Sunday morning. The process takes some time.
Being a pastor, though, is about much more than getting up on a stage and talking at a group of people. It’s being a witness to your family going through life’s darkest days. It’s being an active listener to family members voicing their innermost fears. It’s smiling and welcoming children who file in for our afterschool Bible club and are happy to see me in the school hallways, and still smiling when their older siblings file in much more quietly and reserved on a Sunday morning. It’s praying for people, specifically, passionately, and often anonymously throughout the week.
Above all, being a pastor is a privilege. Part of me knows I have a long way to go to learn how to be a pastor, but another part of me hopes that I never feel confident that I’ve got it all down. The moment I start relying on my own strength instead of Christ’s, I should find something else to do for a living and soon.
What do I do, pastor?: This is always a tough question to hear. Sometimes I hear it over the phone and other times in person. Sure, there are glib responses that can fit on an Internet meme, such as Let Go and Let God or God Won’t Give You More Than You Can Handle. But I can’t stand those responses, especially when I’m the one who is hurting.
Thankfully, I’ve learned that being a pastor doesn’t mean taking on the form of self-help guru, despite what Joel Osteen advertises. One thing I cherish about the Christian faith is that God answers every question we have about living in this fallen world with the sending of his Son to take on our human nature in Jesus Christ. I often cannot tell people exactly what to do, but I can point people to Christ. I can witness their heartache as a listener. I can pray for their comfort. Sure, I can also help them think about the situation and their role within it, but shame on me if I don’t also point them to Christ. I’m no mere therapist.
Thank you pastor: When I take the time to travel to a hospital room, a nursing home, a funeral parlor, or even a living room, I often hear gratitude from those I see. Sometimes I hear it after a sermon too. Other times I read it in an encouraging card. It feels good to be a conduit of grace and healing, and I know that it’s not my doing but God’s Spirit at work. That’s not limited to just to us pastors, either. I’ve certainly been on the receiving end of God’s grace expressed through family countless times, and I’m thankful for it. I try to say so as well.
You’re replaceable, pastor: Amen! You bet I am. I wouldn’t want it any other way. Ministries that are little more than cults of personality do not end well, whether they are in Seattle, Washington or Lehr, North Dakota. But Christ’s kingdom has no end. He is the only one irreplaceable in his church as its head. He is the only one who is perfect. He is the only one who will never leave us nor forsake us. As long as we as a church and I as a pastor focus on Christ, proclaiming him in Word and in sacrament, we will be just fine. Sure, we could bear his image more closely with our words and actions, but we will rightly be his church and belong to no one else, including the pastor.
Pastor, you’re not a bad preacher, but you still need to learn how to be a pastor: It’s true I devote more time in a given week toward preaching than other responsibilities. With all that God says about his Word, I strive to proclaim it well. I must wrestle with the text and stand under it myself during the week before coming up with a way to share it with our specific family on a specific Sunday morning. The process takes some time.
Being a pastor, though, is about much more than getting up on a stage and talking at a group of people. It’s being a witness to your family going through life’s darkest days. It’s being an active listener to family members voicing their innermost fears. It’s smiling and welcoming children who file in for our afterschool Bible club and are happy to see me in the school hallways, and still smiling when their older siblings file in much more quietly and reserved on a Sunday morning. It’s praying for people, specifically, passionately, and often anonymously throughout the week.
Above all, being a pastor is a privilege. Part of me knows I have a long way to go to learn how to be a pastor, but another part of me hopes that I never feel confident that I’ve got it all down. The moment I start relying on my own strength instead of Christ’s, I should find something else to do for a living and soon.
What do I do, pastor?: This is always a tough question to hear. Sometimes I hear it over the phone and other times in person. Sure, there are glib responses that can fit on an Internet meme, such as Let Go and Let God or God Won’t Give You More Than You Can Handle. But I can’t stand those responses, especially when I’m the one who is hurting.
Thankfully, I’ve learned that being a pastor doesn’t mean taking on the form of self-help guru, despite what Joel Osteen advertises. One thing I cherish about the Christian faith is that God answers every question we have about living in this fallen world with the sending of his Son to take on our human nature in Jesus Christ. I often cannot tell people exactly what to do, but I can point people to Christ. I can witness their heartache as a listener. I can pray for their comfort. Sure, I can also help them think about the situation and their role within it, but shame on me if I don’t also point them to Christ. I’m no mere therapist.
Thank you pastor: When I take the time to travel to a hospital room, a nursing home, a funeral parlor, or even a living room, I often hear gratitude from those I see. Sometimes I hear it after a sermon too. Other times I read it in an encouraging card. It feels good to be a conduit of grace and healing, and I know that it’s not my doing but God’s Spirit at work. That’s not limited to just to us pastors, either. I’ve certainly been on the receiving end of God’s grace expressed through family countless times, and I’m thankful for it. I try to say so as well.
You’re replaceable, pastor: Amen! You bet I am. I wouldn’t want it any other way. Ministries that are little more than cults of personality do not end well, whether they are in Seattle, Washington or Lehr, North Dakota. But Christ’s kingdom has no end. He is the only one irreplaceable in his church as its head. He is the only one who is perfect. He is the only one who will never leave us nor forsake us. As long as we as a church and I as a pastor focus on Christ, proclaiming him in Word and in sacrament, we will be just fine. Sure, we could bear his image more closely with our words and actions, but we will rightly be his church and belong to no one else, including the pastor.
December 3, 2015
On Compassion: Jesus’ and Ours
Compassion is not an American virtue, but it is a Christian one. If your life as an American Christian lacks compassion, consider which of those two labels, American or Christian, claims more of your heart.
What Compassion Means
Passion rarely means today what it used to mean. It used to speak of suffering, often of the physical sort, which is why some churches refer to the week leading up to Easter as passion week. Jesus’ passion was not just his intense love and desire for the lost, but also his suffering before and on the cross.
Compassion as a word and concept has also fallen on hard times. As passion used to mean suffering, compassion used to mean suffering with. It was direct, invasive, and deeply personal. Today it is rarely more than detached pity, and as our world becomes smaller with technology that detachment has grown. We pity few, and suffer with no one. But we give our opinions on lots of stuff with contempt, glib answers, unsolicited advice, and head shaking—none of which are Christian virtues.
Jesus’ Compassion
Regarding the travesty that compassion has become these days, I shouldn’t just say “we,” because I do it too. I struggle with compassion, because it asks me to enter into my own pain. And I don’t like to do that. Few people do. When we suffer with someone as a witness to their pain, we must enter into our pain as well. It is a package deal, but one that Jesus compels us to do repeatedly, leading us by example. Compassion motivated Jesus to feed large crowds, resuscitate a good friend back to life, and cure the diseases of countless people he had just met. Compassion led him to weep over the very city that would demand his death only days later. I have much to learn from Jesus’s example.
Jesus was with the suffering. In order to suffer with someone else, I must be with them in the first place. That, Jesus did. He didn’t hole up in an office, stay among his nuclear family, or befriend people who were just like him. He was constantly with the suffering, so he was constantly suffering with them.
Jesus was generous. He was not just a witness to the pain of those suffering; he was generous in helping them. He fed. He healed. He listened. He encouraged. He proclaimed the good news of God’s kingdom. And he loved. Jesus calls us to go and do likewise, meaning that we too are to be generous with those who are suffering near us. We can feed. We can pray for healing and help provide medical care for healing. We can listen. We can encourage. We can proclaim the good news of God’s kingdom through Christ. And we can love. Jesus’ example is no mystery or impossible ideal. It is quite simple, really, but often untried.
Jesus was resourceful. Paul sums up Jesus’ example perfectly when he says “that though he [Jesus] was rich, yet for your sake he became poor, so that you through his poverty might become rich” (2 Cor 8:9). His resourcefulness was obvious when he spat in the ground to heal eyesight, and when he took someone’s lunch to multiply and feed thousands. He touched some to heal, while merely speaking to others. He often used tools, resources, and other people around him to accomplish his mission. And we can too. Two tools to highlight here are the local church and Christian charities.
How We Can Be Compassionate
The Local Church – When it comes to helping those in your immediate community, there is no better resource than being an active member of a local church. The local church is the body of Christ, acting as his hands and feet in the world. The local church is the convergence of worship, discipleship, and outreach right in your own backyard. Chances are a church in your area is already reaching out to those in need around them, and they would love your help.
Charities – There is no shortage of charities in the world, and not all are created equal. I prefer charities that cultivate long-term relationships between those who give and those who receive. As a Christian, I also prefer charities that present the full gospel, and by that I mean physical and spiritual help to others. One that I will highlight here is Compassion International. This is a Christian charity that encourages people to set aside only $38 per month (yes, it’s less than the price of a cup of coffee a day) to sponsor a child living in poverty across the world. Compassion works with local ministries, offering educational, emotional, and spiritual support not just to the sponsored child, but to their family as well.
Earlier this year our family adopted a young boy who lives in the Philippines. We can upload pictures and type out brief letters to share about ourselves and ask about him. In return we receive in the mail updates from his family about what he does day-to-day and what his family is up to.
My heart often sinks when I receive a letter from my sponsor family. They are beautiful. They are encouraging. They are full of gratitude, joy, and discovery. But I feel weird inside after reading each one, and I know why. I could be doing more, and I know it. I’m still oh so detached. My compassion is still lacking. In the spirit of anti-Christ, “though I am already wealthy, yet for my sake I hoard my wealth, so that through my own efforts I might become even wealthier.” It’s the American dream, but it too is not a Christian one.
I’m not where I should be, but I’ve at least started to learn compassion. On top of our involvement through our church and support of charities, we have opened our home as foster parents, partnered with a mission on a nearby Indian Reservation, and provided hospitality, meals, money, and gifts to countless people right here at home who are either passing through or moving into town with few resources. God is at work everywhere, and he invites us to join him. I’m thankful Christ spared no compassion with us. When will we stop sparing ours with others?
What Compassion Means
Passion rarely means today what it used to mean. It used to speak of suffering, often of the physical sort, which is why some churches refer to the week leading up to Easter as passion week. Jesus’ passion was not just his intense love and desire for the lost, but also his suffering before and on the cross.
Compassion as a word and concept has also fallen on hard times. As passion used to mean suffering, compassion used to mean suffering with. It was direct, invasive, and deeply personal. Today it is rarely more than detached pity, and as our world becomes smaller with technology that detachment has grown. We pity few, and suffer with no one. But we give our opinions on lots of stuff with contempt, glib answers, unsolicited advice, and head shaking—none of which are Christian virtues.
Jesus’ Compassion
Regarding the travesty that compassion has become these days, I shouldn’t just say “we,” because I do it too. I struggle with compassion, because it asks me to enter into my own pain. And I don’t like to do that. Few people do. When we suffer with someone as a witness to their pain, we must enter into our pain as well. It is a package deal, but one that Jesus compels us to do repeatedly, leading us by example. Compassion motivated Jesus to feed large crowds, resuscitate a good friend back to life, and cure the diseases of countless people he had just met. Compassion led him to weep over the very city that would demand his death only days later. I have much to learn from Jesus’s example.
Jesus was with the suffering. In order to suffer with someone else, I must be with them in the first place. That, Jesus did. He didn’t hole up in an office, stay among his nuclear family, or befriend people who were just like him. He was constantly with the suffering, so he was constantly suffering with them.
Jesus was generous. He was not just a witness to the pain of those suffering; he was generous in helping them. He fed. He healed. He listened. He encouraged. He proclaimed the good news of God’s kingdom. And he loved. Jesus calls us to go and do likewise, meaning that we too are to be generous with those who are suffering near us. We can feed. We can pray for healing and help provide medical care for healing. We can listen. We can encourage. We can proclaim the good news of God’s kingdom through Christ. And we can love. Jesus’ example is no mystery or impossible ideal. It is quite simple, really, but often untried.
Jesus was resourceful. Paul sums up Jesus’ example perfectly when he says “that though he [Jesus] was rich, yet for your sake he became poor, so that you through his poverty might become rich” (2 Cor 8:9). His resourcefulness was obvious when he spat in the ground to heal eyesight, and when he took someone’s lunch to multiply and feed thousands. He touched some to heal, while merely speaking to others. He often used tools, resources, and other people around him to accomplish his mission. And we can too. Two tools to highlight here are the local church and Christian charities.
How We Can Be Compassionate
The Local Church – When it comes to helping those in your immediate community, there is no better resource than being an active member of a local church. The local church is the body of Christ, acting as his hands and feet in the world. The local church is the convergence of worship, discipleship, and outreach right in your own backyard. Chances are a church in your area is already reaching out to those in need around them, and they would love your help.
Charities – There is no shortage of charities in the world, and not all are created equal. I prefer charities that cultivate long-term relationships between those who give and those who receive. As a Christian, I also prefer charities that present the full gospel, and by that I mean physical and spiritual help to others. One that I will highlight here is Compassion International. This is a Christian charity that encourages people to set aside only $38 per month (yes, it’s less than the price of a cup of coffee a day) to sponsor a child living in poverty across the world. Compassion works with local ministries, offering educational, emotional, and spiritual support not just to the sponsored child, but to their family as well.
Earlier this year our family adopted a young boy who lives in the Philippines. We can upload pictures and type out brief letters to share about ourselves and ask about him. In return we receive in the mail updates from his family about what he does day-to-day and what his family is up to.
My heart often sinks when I receive a letter from my sponsor family. They are beautiful. They are encouraging. They are full of gratitude, joy, and discovery. But I feel weird inside after reading each one, and I know why. I could be doing more, and I know it. I’m still oh so detached. My compassion is still lacking. In the spirit of anti-Christ, “though I am already wealthy, yet for my sake I hoard my wealth, so that through my own efforts I might become even wealthier.” It’s the American dream, but it too is not a Christian one.
I’m not where I should be, but I’ve at least started to learn compassion. On top of our involvement through our church and support of charities, we have opened our home as foster parents, partnered with a mission on a nearby Indian Reservation, and provided hospitality, meals, money, and gifts to countless people right here at home who are either passing through or moving into town with few resources. God is at work everywhere, and he invites us to join him. I’m thankful Christ spared no compassion with us. When will we stop sparing ours with others?
