Rob Prince's Blog, page 65
August 28, 2014
A Nutty Week
I usually shy away from all things nutty.
I’m not a fan of nutty donuts at Donna’s.
I have long supported a ban on Pistachio ice cream.
I like my Hersey chocolate sans almonds.
And if you push me for an opinion, I believe only little old ladies should ever eat Coconut Cream Pies.
I didn’t like either Nutty Professor movie (Jerry Lewis or Eddie Murphy).
I’ve never roasted chestnuts on an open fire and don’t know why anyone would.
And the only thing good about Hickory is when their basketball team beat South Bend Central High School for the state championship (This obscure Hoosier movie reference is for my friend Jake who is from Indiana and whose wife just had a baby).
My avoidance of nuts is not a hard and fast rule. It was not written in stone. Nowhere in 2nd Hezekiah does it say, “Thou shalt not have nuts in thy food, neither shalt thy children eat-th nuts; thou shall have neither cashew nor hazelnut; thou shall not consume peanuts or Brazil nuts; pecans and walnuts shall not be partaken until the fourth generation.” It doesn’t say that.
I do not lookdown on my nut-consuming friends. And in a point of confession, I must admit that I’m a little inconsistent in my nut aversion. I hope this does not make me a nut hypocrite. I have been known to order cashew chicken at Chinese restaurants. I even like a handful of mixed nuts from time to time. Although I draw the line at eating Brazil nuts, macadamia nuts, and Filberts and will steadfastly refuse them unless a gun is pointed in my direction. (Point of reference: “Filbert” is a dumb name for a nut. It is the nerd of the nut family and if three nuts are standing in line, you could recognize the Filbert by its pocket protector and white socks with black shoes).
Why reveal my nutty distain?
This week has been a little nutty and I don’t like those types of weeks either.
It’s just been “one of those” weeks. We all have them from time to time. Not everything has been bad, just nutty. My week has included a trip to Illinois to see Ben begin his sophomore year (yeah!); 40 injections in my bean (boo!); another doctor’s visit (it has yet to be determined if that appointment will result in a “yeah” or a “boo”); dealing with some nutty aspects of aging in-laws; and upon my return from “the Land of Lincoln” I’ve had a nutty and crazy busy schedule of appointments, meetings and sermon preparation (Rule of Thumb #247: When away from one’s desk for two days, upon returning there will be 12 days worth of emails, phone messages and things to do. At least it seems that way). All of that adds up to a nutty week.
It’s times like these I need to be reminded of some wonderful verses buried in the Book of Psalms:
I waited patiently for the Lord; he turned to me and heard my cry. He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; he set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand. He put a new song in my mouth, a hymn of praise to our God. (Psalm 40:1-3)
Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth. (Psalm 46:10)
My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. (Psalm 73:26)
And one of my all time favorite psalms:
I lift up my eyes to the mountains— where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth. (Psalm 121:1-2)
Whether your week as been joyous and great or a little bit nutty like mine, be still and know that God is still God and He will be our strength, help and hope!
July 3, 2014
If my church was like the World Cup…
Having been caught up in World Cup fever, I vowed to never eat German chocolate cake following the USA’s loss to Germany in the round robin portion of the tourney. Following the USA’s loss to Belgium in the knock out round, I committed to a lifelong fast of Belgium waffles. Truth be told, I never eat German chocolate cake or waffles so it wasn’t much of a sacrifice on my part. It’s a good thing that the USA never played France because I don’t know that I could have made a similar boycott of French fries or French vanilla ice cream.
With the World Cup mania still kicking around in my head (Did you see what I did there? The World Cup is “kicking” around in my head! Ha!), I am left wondering what church would be like if it was more like the colossal, every four year soccer tournament.
Here are a few of my conclusions. If my church was like the World Cup…
• I would refer to my Sunday preaching apparel as a “kit,’ the lawn in front of the church as “the pitch” and the ushers would forever be known as “linesmen.”
• I’d hand out yellow cards when someone didn’t volunteer for nursery duty or forget to silence their phone before a church service.
• They’d get a red card for bringing a tuna casserole to a church pot-luck.
• I’d use that foam stuff and draw a line at the back of the sanctuary and say you must sit in front of that line.
• If Luis Suarez (the soccer player from Uruguay that bit the player from Chile) ever attended the church I would require him to memorize Ephesians 4:31: Make a clean break with all cutting, backbiting, profane talk. Be gentle with one another, sensitive. Forgive one another as quickly and thoroughly as God in Christ forgave you.
• To discourage excessive flopping… oh wait a minute, I pastor a Nazarene church—we rarely flop in the aisles and we frown on anything that would be described as “excessive.”
• I’d whistle the greeters for being offsides if they miss saying hello to a parishioner entering a door.
• Before a different pastor could stand to receive the offering, make the announcements or pass the peace, I would require a digital board being held by guy on the edge of the platform silently announcing their entrance into the service.
• There would be stoppage time at the end of the worship hour (various times could be added depending on how fast the ushers “ush” and the singers sing) giving me a few extra minutes for sermonizing.
• There would be a non-stop drone of shouting, whistling and noise making throughout the service, while it may hinder the proclamation of the Gospel such crowd racket would also drown out the noise of babies crying, cellphones ringing or the snoring that occasionally occurs in those less than riveting sermons.
• Instead of seventeen verses of “Just as I am,” to indicate that we are done, a referee could blow a whistle a couple of times and waves his arms above his head and we’d all shake hands and wish one another well until we meet again.
• And at the end of every service there would be orange slices and Capri Sun for everyone (Were the moms of the players at the World Cup passing out treats like they used to when my boys were little kickers?).
OK, it’s painfully obvious there is not a lot of cross over between the World Cup action and the church I pastor. Still I would hope we are as passionate about Jesus as people are cheering for their country and team. I would hope that we realize while we may not be playing for a golden cup, but we are in a race toward a prize. Paul said it this way: I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus. (Philippians 3:14)
Our favorite team may lose the World Cup but let’s not lose out on the prize that matter’s most.
June 26, 2014
Naming the Boy
When my son #1 was born, Karla and I had a very difficult time naming the boy. Truth be told, he didn’t have a name until he was five days old. On day #5, a somewhat perturbed nurse burst into Karla’s room at the Bay Medical Center (in beautiful Bay City Michigan) and informed us that we had to name the baby. Looking at us like we had committed some hideous crime, Nurse Meany of the Maternity Ward glared and sneered, “You have to name the child!”
It wasn’t my fault the boy had no name. I had plenty of names. Great names. But Karla did not approve my suggestions. I don’t know why. My favorites were Foot, Finger or Blue.
In my thinking, if our child became a star beach volleyball player what better name could he have than “Foot” Prince? Imagine the endorsements for a star beach volleyball player named “Foot Prince.” If we spelled our name “Prints” instead of “Prince” it would have made more sense, but if you say “Prince” quick enough it works.
If our offspring became a famous police detective, wouldn’t “Finger” (Prince) be an awesome name for a super crime fighter?
An aspiring architect could not have a better name than “Blue” (Prince), could he? Karla said, “No!”
When Karla failed to see the wisdom of those choices, I suggested that we could give our boy a “normal” first name on the condition that his middle name was “Isa.” Of course, his official name would have been something like Harold “isa” Prince. Again she said, “No.”
Karla had names too. Mostly dumb names. She liked the name “Austin.” Austin? Why would any parent want to name their precious child after the home city of the University of Texas Longhorns? Are you kidding me? I vowed to call him some other Texan city, anything but “Austin.” “Come here, El Paso, it’s time for supper,” I threatened to say. My goodness, if we were going to name him after a college town, wouldn’t it had been better to name him Ann Arbor? Unfortunately, as all Johnny Cash fans know, naming him “Ann Arbor” would have been akin to having a boy “Sue.” That’s probably not a good thing. A boy named “Ann” might have a problem or two on elementary school playgrounds.
Finally with the prodding of Nurse Meany, we decided to name our young Prince, “Alexander.” It’s been a good regal name. It doesn’t have the same pizzazz as “Foot,” but Alex is selling insurance these days not spiking volleyballs on a California beach.
Why the walk down memory lane with you on this June morning?
Parents we have a responsibility to our kids. Giving a name that won’t cause bodily harm on the playground is only the beginning. We have a responsibility to show them the love of Christ. We have a responsibility to point them to the things of God and keep them from the things that will hinder their walk with God. I don’t know any perfect parents. We all make mistakes. Still we should strive to model before our kids Christ-likeness in our words and actions.
The Bible says, “You must love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, and all your strength. And you must commit yourselves wholeheartedly to these commands… Repeat them again and again to your children. Talk about them when you are at home and when you are on the road, when you are going to bed and when you are getting up.” (Deut. 6:5-8). Moms and dads, let’s tell and retell our kids of the great the love of God. It’s a never-ending, 24-hour job, but you can do it!
June 5, 2014
Improving Pentecost– a few ideas
If I were starting a new religious movement, I don’t think I would pick as my primary mouth piece a guy who just a few days earlier had denied me three times. At best, the three-time, before the rooster-cock-a-doodle-dooed denier would get a two-year probationary period where his cowardly naysaying couldn’t infect anyone (especially servant girls by fire pits).
Apparently, that’s not the way God thinks or acts. He gives out second chances.
God must not pay attention to career day recommendations from the guidance counselors at Capernaum High School either. How else do you explain using a fisherman, industrial arts type of guy serving as your press secretary and chief spokesman?
And as you might expect the fisherman’s first sermon had a few flaws. For instance,
1) His delivery was all wrong. It was so bad the listeners thought he was drunk! “They must have had too much wine.” (Acts 2:13) If the crowd thinks you’re popping the top of an Ernest and Gallo or two before stepping into the pulpit that’s a pretty good indicator that you either A) need to work on your preaching skills; and/or B) are not preaching in a Nazarene church.
2) The sermon was too short. Porky Pig could have read the whole thing in less than three minutes from start to finish. How can you persuade anybody to do anything in less time than it takes to make an omelet? Maybe Peter could have told a funny story or two or at the very least tell some kind of fish story. I thought all fishermen could tell an interesting tale of “the one that got away” when given the opportunity. Maybe it wouldn’t have been pertained to the message, but he wouldn’t be the first preacher to slip in a good story just to keep everybody listening.
3) Where are the three points? Every beginning homiletics student knows a good sermon must have three points. Not two points. Not four points. Three point sermons are a must—and it is highly recommended to have a tearjerker of an ending or you can kiss the altar call good-bye! Wait a minute. There was no altar! Moreover, there was not an organist playing “Just as I am?” either? How many mistakes can a guy make in a sermon?
As you might know, the only thing that resulted following the too short and too poorly constructed sermon by a guy who never should have been preaching in the first place was a measly 3000 people converted! I guess that’s not too bad for a fisherman preaching his first sermon. I didn’t count the converts after my first sermon back in 1983, but I think it’s fair to estimate that there were significantly less than 3000 converted. My first sermon was in Alanson, Michigan (total population 741). So if everyone in the whole town came to hear me preach (they did not) and if everyone in the whole town converted (A Jonah and Nineveh-like revival it was not), the conversion tally still would have fallen 2, 259 people short. But who’s counting? I had three points in my sermon—you can count that wiseguy!!
All this to say, God knows what he is doing!
He did then.
He does now.
Pentecost didn’t need improving. God took a rag tag group of 120 followers on the Day of Pentecost and had a guy preaching his first sermon who just a few short weeks earlier could not stand before a slave girl without denying Jesus; and as these newly empowered believers poured onto the streets proclaiming the good news of Jesus their number quickly became 3120!
The movement hasn’t looked back since!
Transforming the world isn’t about fancy words, glitzy entertainment, manipulating crowds or man-made methods of attraction. The only hope for our world is transformation through the power of the Holy Spirit. The same Spirit that was at work in Jerusalem infilling those early believers on Pentecost can be at work in us. The same power that moved as a mighty rushing wind can blow through Flint! The same God who lit the fires of revival back then has told us to pray that God’s kingdom would come to Flint as it is in heaven! Pentecost can happen in the land flowing with Vernors and Koegels!
Let’s pray for a modern Pentecost to happen to us!
May 8, 2014
A rubber rat, a pet turtle and Mother’s Day
My brother went to New York City when I was in the third grade and brought back a rubber rat as a souvenir for me.
I loved the rat. It was the perfect gift. My mom hated it.
There is something you should know about my sweet dearly departed mother. While from time to time she may have sung slightly off key the great hymn “All creatures of our God and King…” she didn’t mean it. The truth is she hated God’s critters.
She hated mice.
She hated lice.
She hated rats.
She hated bats.
She hated snakes.
She hated bugs.
She hates things
that hide under rugs. (I feel like Dr. Seuss).
Knowing this fact did not prevent me from strategically placing my New York souvenir throughout the house. For instance, I would put my rat in the cheese tray of our refrigerator (a perfectly legitimate storage place for a rubber rodent), and then I would wait for my mom to get some shredded cheddar. At the moment of discovery, my mom would let loose a scream that would make the producers of any cheap horror flick proud. No matter where I was in the city, I knew my rat had been found. The woman could holler. My mom knew the rat was rubber, still she would scream every time as if she encountered a living and breathing cousin of Chuck E. Cheese.
One day my rubber rat went “a missing,” and while my mom never claimed responsibility for the disappearance, looking back now I do recall a hint of a smile whenever I inquired on the whereabouts of my rubbery friend.
My poor mother endured much more than the “old hidden rubber rat trick.” There were trips to emergency rooms (my brother found himself there more than the rest of us); refereeing sibling arguments (after one disagreement, she made my sister and brother hold hands and smile at each other. Talk about cruel and unusual punishment!); there were meals to prepare (her specialty: stuffed cabbage); sporting events and concerts to attend; cleaning, laundry and all the other household duties; and while not loving the critters she still welcomed into our family dogs, hamsters, turtles, fish and a salamander named Sam. (One lesson learned: Don’t attempt to teach your pet turtle how to fetch in the driveway, at the same moment that your mom is returning home from the grocery store. That story does not have a happy ending—especially for the turtle. Let’s just say, he never learned to fetch.). All this to say my mom earned each and every white hair on her head.
This Sunday is Mother’s Day! It’s a day to honor all our moms (white haired and otherwise) and to tell them thanks for all they have done. So take time to say “Thanks”– even if your mom accidentally squished your pet turtle or in some other way was less than perfect. Don’t let Mother’s Day pass without thinking of and/or praying for the lady that brought you into the world and in most cases did so much more. Or if you are like me, and your mom is no longer on planet earth— remember the happy times, let go of the bad times and rejoice that God is Lord of all!
April 17, 2014
Holy Week and Tax Day
In Matthew 22:21 when questioned about paying taxes Jesus said, “So give back to Caesar what is Caesar’s, and to God what is God’s.” (You would have thought the chapter and verse in Matthew’s gospel would have been 10:40, but I digress.)
Every year about this time, I wish Jesus had said something like, “forget paying your stinking taxes” or even “if the government is corrupt or full of hot air or in some other way messed up then you get a pass.” Remember Jesus died on a Roman cross, you’d have thought he might have taken issue with an unjust government. But He didn’t say such things. What he did say was “Pay Caesar.” Jesus also said (in the same sentence no less) to also afford to God what is God’s. It seems that most law-abiding citizens grudgingly abide with the former, “Like death and taxes… everybody’s got to pay up;” but they tend to be a tad forgetful about the latter.
What does “giving God what is God’s” look like?
The fact is I owe God everything. I wouldn’t be here with out His divine intervention in my life. (You probably wouldn’t be here either). So I think “giving to God what is God’s” looks a lot like giving him first place in our lives; first place in our hearts; and first place in our priorities.
As frequently happens, Tax Day (April 15—or as it is known around our house, “Blood from a Turnip“ Day) and Holy Week fall in the same week. Maybe that’s the way it should be. We rendering to Caesar (or Uncle Sam) during the week and remember the journey of Jesus the rest of the week. When I focus on the price that was paid for my salvation, I am left to conclude as the old song proclaims: “All to Jesus I surrender, all to Him I freely give.” And in the end that’s what “rendering to God what is God’s” means. It’s giving him myself, not just what is on the bottom line of an IRS form.
March 27, 2014
Almost Home (but not yet home)
After nearly five months of looking on-line at hundreds of houses, visiting in person over 30 different domiciles, and putting an offer on two places (the first one had a little mold problem), tomorrow (finally oh so finally) we will gain possession of our home.
In the last five months, we have sold our home in Kansas; moved across the country leaving behind a great church, many friends and our son; put most of our earthly possessions in a storage facility; lived for over four months in a borrowed condo of a former letter earner in two sports at Michigan State University and a week in the basement of another MSU fan (Sparties are good people, but I’m ready to wake up and holler, “This is Wolverine Country!”); endured with the rest of the brave and hardiest Michiganders the worst (or next to worst) winter on record; officiated at my own mother’s funeral and also said “Rest in Peace” to our dog; involved in a fender bender (not my fault) and possibly hit a stop sign (my fault); dealt with health issues of Karla’s folks and released, Chronic Pain, my first book on my own health issues; all the while I have tried to learn the ropes, the faces and the rhythms of a brand new church.
I think it is safe to say we are ready to be settled in our own home. In fact, I can’t wait. I’m anxious, nervous, expectant, and hope-filled. Every morning I’ve been counting down the days (even hours) until we can call 6415 Wailea Court “home.”
I think in some ways that’s how the Apostle Paul felt about heaven. He couldn’t wait. Anxious. Nervous. Expectant. Hope-filled—Paul wrote: For we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands. Meanwhile we groan, longing to be clothed instead with our heavenly dwelling (2 Corinthians 5:1-2).
Sometimes I groan for that too. The last words of the Bible express my heart on many days, “Come, Lord Jesus come!” (Revelation 22:20)
I long for Jesus’ return.
I long for the day when all things will be made new.
I get so tired of the current cultural wars that exist in and outside of the church. I am increasingly finding myself on the opposite side of popular opinion. I find myself more and more labeled a hater when, in fact, I want to known as simply a follow the One who called us to love our neighbor. I’ve grown weary of being characterized as intolerant (at best) and ignorant (at worst) because I refuse to rationalize what I believe are godly biblical standards. I want to be fighting for the things I am “for” not known for what I am “against.” I want to be an authentically hope-filled person who exemplifies what theologian Jurgen Moltman described: “Genuine hope is not blind optimism. It is hope with open eyes, which sees the suffering and yet believes in the future.” As I see it– our hope-filled future is in the one and only God who can make all things new.
And so like I’ve been counting the days to get in my home, I’m counting the days for Jesus to re-create us and do a beautiful work through us. I’m anxious, nervous, expectant and hope-filled for that day! I can’t wait to see His Kingdom come in Flint as it is in Heaven.
Come Lord Jesus, come!
March 17, 2014
March 6, 2014
NO NAME THURSDAY
Fat Tuesday was two days ago. It is the day before the season of Lent begins. In Michigan on Fat Tuesday we eat Pazcki (a polish jelly donut—twice the fat, twice the calories, and twice the yumminess of a regular donut). In New Orleans Fat Tuesday is the end of Marti Gras and the end of the hedonistic revelry that has consumed that city for weeks. Wherever you live, Fat Tuesday is supposed to be the end of our self-focused outlook on life (read: FAT chance).
Ash Wednesday was yesterday and is the first day in the season of Lent. Many people attend services where the imposition of ashes is to remind the worshippers of the words from Genesis 3:19: “For you were made from dust, and to dust you will return.” It’s the beginning of the time of preparation for the journey to the cross and eventually to Easter morning celebrations. Ash Wednesday marks the beginning of a Christ-focused outlook.
There is no special adjective for today—the Thursday after Fat Tuesday and Ash Wednesday. So I will offer these choice describers for this day:
WASH YOUR FOREHEAD THURSDAY
If you attended a service where Ashes were imposed– it’s a good day to wipe clean your forehead or tomorrow may be known as ZIT FILLED FRIDAY. But don’t wipe clean the memories of commitments and sacrifices you have promised to keep for the next 40 days.
FIND-A-BOOK-TO-READ-THROUGH-LENT THURSDAY
This is not a shameless plug for the new, hot off the presses must-read book Chronic Pain by a certain handsome author (OK that was a shameless plug. I apologize). Rather choose a book that will help you keep your focus on what it means to be a follower of Jesus. Recent books like Francis Chan’s Crazy Love or the Nazarene Publishing House’s Ashes to Fire or an oldie but still a goodie, Dietrich Bonheoffer’s The Cost of Discipleship are all good reads for the Season of Lent.
DON’T-FORGET-YOUR-COMMITMENT THURSDAY
Many people have decided to fast something during the season of Lent to help remind them of the sacrifice that Jesus made on their behalf. Chocolate, coffee, Facebook and soda pop seem to be the favorite choices of most folks I know. All those are fine choices, if every day they remind you of what Jesus did on the cross for you and if you didn’t choose to fast them because you “needed to lose a little weight anyway.” Remember why you are fasting whatever it is you are fasting.
HELP-A-NEIGHBOR THURSDAY
Do you remember God’s words to the people during the prophet Amos’ day who were into showy worship and all the pomp and circumstance of offering sacrifices to God while at the same time they were oppressing the poor?
So God bluntly told them:
“I hate, I despise your religious festivals; your assemblies are a stench to me. Even though you bring me burnt offerings and grain offerings, I will not accept them. Though you bring choice fellowship offerings, I will have no regard for them. Away with the noise of your songs! I will not listen to the music of your harpBut let justice roll on like a river, righteousness like a never-failing stream. (Amos 5:21-24)
The Warning: Don’t just fast something during Lent so you can tell your friends what a wonderful Christian you are because you gave up chocolate for seven weeks—make a difference by letting justice and righteousness rule your day. Look around and notice the hurting and the troubled and decide to help a neighbor. I seriously doubt that one homeless person is going to care if you decided to stop paying four bucks for a Starbucks coffee for the next 40 days, but they might be blessed if you used your that same four bucks to help end their suffering.
These are just a few suggestions for today. Bottom line—let today (and every day) be known as LIVING-FOR-JESUS THURSDAY.
February 22, 2014
“Seasoned” means “old”
The bio on the back cover of my book says, “Rob Prince is a seasoned pastor…” I think “seasoned” means “old.” Talk about Chronic Pain… that one really hurts!
