Out of the Box

Dedication

2011-11-14T19:39:00.001-08:00

Forty two years ago Mary Imogene Caudle Parrish died tragically when the rear axle of the family's Ford station wagon broke in half while she was traveling back from the Commissary at Fort Ord to the family home in Watsonville, California. One year ago her husband, who had moved back to the place of his birth and hers, had her body exhumed, cremated, and transported back to Northwest Arkansas. He made a box of cedar for her ashes, burying them along with several pages recounting the story of their young love, a romance dating back to his return from the South Pacific at the close of WWII. She now rests beneath the same tree where lie her parents, Charles Eli and Dessie Southern Caudle.

Quartermaster Third Class Oran Oliver Parrish (USN) rests a little easier himself now. It always nagged at him that he has left her behind so far from the Ozark Mountains she roamed in her youth.

On the one hand, I question the whole affair. What difference does it make to the lifeless bones of my departed mother? On the other hand, is it really so difficult to understand? In his aging heart there has always been, always will be, a passion for his first love; the wife of his youth. And though he is far too practical to be buried at her side (turning down the free funeral and burial awaiting him, as a veteran, at Fayetteville National Cemetery) love, honor, dedication demanded: I must bring my bride home. She must be put to rest with her people.

Not far from her grave was another, marked with a stone bearing no names or dates, but a simple, rather intimate verse (as if the particulars of who and when were none of our business, but we are permitted to listen in if we choose on one last exchange). It seems aptly to illustrate, methinks, the sentiments of my father with whom I visited my mother's grave on this fine Autumn day:

Always An Adventure

2011-11-02T11:19:00.000-07:00

Full disclosure: The last few days have not been fun. Right in the middle of three glorious months of remission, about 20 hours after landing in Portland from a four-day Men's Retreat in Tennessee, Meniere's Disease reared its ugly head.

This attack (they are all unique in their way) was constant vertigo, sometimes mild, at turns more severe, for 80 hours. I was able to function much of the time; even legally drive! I made it to the pumpkin patch with my family, to my daughter's volleyball game to take pictures, to church; I even kept some appointments Monday and Tuesday! It all culminated (hopefully) yesterday afternoon when I was bedridden and eventually sea-sick from 4:00 PM until this morning. So it is that in spite of a to-do list that could have really, really used my undivided attention two mornings ago, I am taking it easy on dry toast, Lipton Tea.

Welcome to my thorn in the flesh, my Achilles heel, my personal manifestation--so far--of the limits of growing older in a fallen world. Do you believe in coincidence? My introduction to Meniere's coincides with our move to Sherwood to start a new church. But speaking of growing older...

Nothing else brings more to personal reference a few particular passages of scripture, and a prayer penned by American theologian, Reinhold Niebuhr (1892-1971); a prayer I now pray every morning at the encouragement of one of my dearest friends and colleagues, Dwayne Hilty.

From the Book of James...

Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters,whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. James 1:2-4

From The Apostle Paul...

Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. -1 Corinthians 4:16

Now if we are children, then we are heirs—heirs of God and co-heirs with Christ, if indeed we share in his sufferings in order that we may also share in his glory. I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us. -Romans 8:17-18

From now on, let no one cause me trouble, for I bear on my body the marks of Jesus. -Galatians 6:17

And the prayer of Reinhold Niebuhr...

God, give us grace toaccept with serenity
the things that cannot be changed,
Courage to change the things
which should be changed,
and the Wisdom to distinguish
the one from the other.

Living one day at a time,
Enjoying one moment at a time,
Accepting hardship as a pathway to peace,
Taking, as Jesus did,
This sinful world as it is,
Not as I would have it,
Trusting that You will make all things right,
If I surrender to Your will,
So that I may be reasonably happy in this life,
And supremely happy with You forever in the next.

Amen

Come, Great Pumpkin!

2011-10-28T12:29:00.000-07:00

Justspent 2½ hours on the sofa sipping coffee with my wife: hearing of her week; relating as many stories as I could recall to give her asense of the powerful time just experienced in the hills of Tennessee at Five Star Farm--at the first-ever official Kairos Church Planting Men’s Retreat.

See, fouryears ago we had such meetings of the small band of commandos (pretty much all of whom were serving in the Northwest) in our Executive Director's backyard. The tension of growing pains has beenbuilding as this thing has gone global. Everyone stood upin turn to offer a bit of themselves: Their history…bestpractices…biggest fears…most heart-wrenching struggles…successes... temptations to cynicism...loneliness. I arrived with aguarded heart. Because work like this just…slowly…hardens you without yourealizing it. Suspicions and subtle jealousies creep in about yourorganizational leaders and fellow-workers.

In the Fireside Room with Scott Lambert

Slightly Crazed Aaron Etheridge with Ron Clark

Ileft softened…forgiven and forgiving…reminded of the courage and tenacity andspiritual depth of the steely-eyed-Warriors I humbly fight alongside; the wildly passionate, slightly-crazed men and women ofGod who have taken up this mission; among whom I stand—unworthy;but there you go. I left reminded that we all have the same fears and devastating challenges. We nurse all-too-similar wounds from “friendly fire” and wrestle with thesame inner tension between narcissism and insecurity all rolled into oneridiculous paradox (I owe a planter named Aaron a debt for putting that last one into words).

The kids have early release today. Time to dress and prepare to greet them; hear about volleyball and soccer games; reptiles held and beheld at Cub Scout Pack Meeting. This afternoon we will hit a pumpkin patch--an annual pilgrimage. Pretty sure I am ready to channel my inner Linus again, truly believing it is the most sincere; faithfully anticipating that this year, just maybe....

Seventh Grade

2011-10-17T22:25:00.000-07:00

This may come as a complete shock but sometimes, just occasionally, things get tense around here. So it was that after volleyball games, there I stood, pulling dinner out of cold storage and warming it up, and hoping the same thing was happening upstairs, where the women in my life were behind decisively closed doors, sorting things out. The details don't matter. Suffice it to say that the age-old tension between justice and mercy's got nothin' on parents trying to do right by their precious, fragile, middle school daughter.

When the sloppy Joe meat was simmering, I got on my knees. Please fill this home with your Holy Spirit. Please redeem an evening that is already late, in which homework, not even begun, must be tackled by a girl who puts far too much pressure on herself Please send your Spirit of encouragement... cooperation...humility...obedience..wisdom. Especially wisdom.

Funniest thing: The next thought in my head was Hold your daughter. It didn't take long. Just two minutes before dinner, sitting on the couch, arms wrapped around her, smoothing her hair.

Dinner was...pleasant. The evening, though far too late for my tired girl, was free of disrespectful outbursts followed upon by shocked overreactions. Her Contemporary Christian station even offered up Butterfly Kisses by Bob Carlisle, so I could stare at her and weep pathetically, allowing her, in turn, to poke fun of me.

Thanks, God. We won this one. Just 2,128 more to go.

Alternative Pastas

2011-10-15T00:01:00.000-07:00

Mac'n'cheese (the delicious, homemade way) was hot and ready in case the kids turned their noses up at Kristen's spaghetti recipe. The rest of us were offered the choice of enjoying the rich red sauce regular, or sans-gluten. Followed upon by delicious decaf, popcorn, several rounds of Sequence ®, deeply nourishing conversation.

Six kids of all ages played games and watched the Disney Channel. Six church planters, so very incredibly different one from another, played and laughed and prayed together in the undeniable truth that we could not be more...alike.

Jessica and Ryan of the Grassroots Conspiracy in downtown Vancouver; Julie and Dwayne of Soma in the Edgewater District of West Salem; Kristen and I of Sherwood Community in middle-class suburbia:
Culture says people like the six of us are not supposed to speak the same tongue--much less feel for each other such deep, deep respect; such love--such holy love; such very common purpose and vision; such shared passion.

Only God could do this.

How very gracious of Him.

OH! How They Read!

2011-10-10T13:59:00.000-07:00

Charged with picking up a beloved professor from the airport and conversing alone with him in a car for two hours was a bit nerve-wracking, to say the least. Like most things we worry about, the anticipation--in this case the new experience of one-on-one time with the likes of Tom Olbricht--was the hard part. We actually were much at ease and enjoyed enriching conversation on that ride, now seven years past.

At one point I mentioned to Dr. Olbricht that I had once heard his daughter speak of how much it meant to her that her dad had read Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys right alongside her when she was a teen. I told him how this inspired me as a parent. His reply, "Yes, very good. I am presently reading Harry Potter with my grandchildren."

So for those of you who may be thinking, as you look at the picture above, "Hey! What's a nice pastor like you doing letting your kids read books like this?", allow me to relate a conversation at lunch this past Saturday.

My kids, who are both devouring Riorden's books, were enthusiastically listing for their attentive grandparents (and parents) the gods of ancient Egypt of which they are learning. To which their Dad offered, "Do you remember hearing about 'The Ten Plagues' in Sunday School?" They said they remembered. "Maybe we should take a break in our family Bible study from studying Luke and spend a little time in Exodus. Then you can hear how, in the Ten Plagues, our God is waging war against and dethroning all the major gods of Egypt...."

Eyes wide and mouths agape: "He Does?!!!!"

Eeeeyup. He sure does.

Remotely Ridiculous

2011-10-08T15:30:00.000-07:00

Time to come clean: I have never been a fan of motion-activated paper towel dispensers. Chiefly because the whole notion just begs the question: "Seriously? Can we get any lazier?" Secondly it was just a matter of time. Yesterday that time came.

I was in South Salem attending a two-day training. During a break we all went to attend to...what generally gets attended to on breaks and which decency demands be followed by washing one's hands. Turning to the lovely blue dispenser, I waved at it (how silly!). Nothing happened. It was out of order.

Mind you, you could see a full roll of towels within. You just couldn't get to them for lack of...electricity. In the old days, opposable thumbs and a modicum of energy was deemed adequate to the task of dispensing a paper towel, and "out of order" generally meant "empty."

Just makes you think: All this talk about energy savings and carbon footprints and unplugging-your-cell-phone-charger-when-not-in-use. Imagine how much energy we would save if we just went back to human-powered towel dispensers!

'Nuff said.

Crazy Soccer Hair

2011-10-06T21:49:00.000-07:00

I once knew a firefighter named Chuck, a widower raising his two elementary-school-age girls alone. And what a dad! Bringing them their towels warm, straight from dryer after their baths in the evening was just one example of his over-the-top thoughtfulness. Guys like that inspire me. To wit.

September/October are Cuh-RA-zy busy for the Parrish Tribe. So this past Tuesday when I raced home from a fast-and-furious day to get Boy Parrish to soccer practice, I didn't notice until we arrived that (A) it was raining, (B) it was chilly, and (3) Mr. Crazy Soccer Hair was only wearing his cleats, socks, shorts, and a t-shirt. In that hour-and-a-half of practice, he would get soaked! Maybe even catch cold! Time to get creative. WWCD?

Ninety minutes later when he got in the car, I asked him to take off his soaking-wet shirt. From an ice chest (being used for its opposite purpose) I pulled a towel I had just fluffed in the dryer at home on high heat. After he toweled off I produced a hoodie--also straight from the dryer and kept warm in the insulated ice chest--which he donned enthusiastically. Then out came the also-heated fleece blanket to wrap himself in, followed by two of those grain bags that you heat in the microwave--the ones that stay warm for a good long time. Last of all, a 500 milligram chewable vitamin C--for good measure.

After a few mumbles, moans, and mutterings of pure, unadulterated pleasure from my little striker, things grew contentedly quiet back there. 'Bout halfway home: "Thanks, Dad. I love you."

Pretty sure my heart grew warmer than he was.

Public Servants: A Contrast

2011-10-04T16:20:00.000-07:00


Connie at the "Canteen"

The Third Annual Sherwood Police Department 9/11 Commemorative Blood Drive conducted by the Red Cross on September 9th, was significant for many reasons. Not least of which the 46 who showed up to give, of which 41 were eligible, blowing the doors off our goal of 30 pints!!

Then there was the non-donor volunteerism of Angie, Connie and others who gave generously of their time. Or the local couple who donated a flag featuring the names of all who fell on 9/11. Or how about the local florist, Flowers of Paradise, who brought in a huge bouquet?!

Two people who make the world a better place

Perhaps most significant of all is captured in a photo taken of one of many officers who participated that day with the Red Cross nurse who assisted him. Both of these professionals strive to make the world a better place. One of them accomplishes this by interacting with the most selfish among us--those who have little regard for the privacy and property of others--for the greater good of the community. The other goes to work to assist blood donors, that especially generous lot who are willing to go a pint low--many of them several times a year--for the well-being of others.

One of them clocks out at day's end knowing there are decent people in the world. The other perhaps sometimes wonders. They both keep doing what they are doing, though, and for much the same reason. Don't know about you. But I'm thankful for both of them!

Photo of officer used with his permission

A Hill Worth Dying On

2011-09-29T16:12:00.000-07:00

Meet Youcef Nadarkhani, Pastor in the Gilan Province of Iran, husband, father of two young boys, convicted death row inmate by order of the 11th branch of the Gilan Provincial Court. His crime? Failure to recant his faith.

When the judges asked Pastor Youcef to “repent,” he replied, “Repent means to return. What should I return to? To the blasphemy that I had before my faith in Christ?” The judges said, “To the religion of your ancestors, Islam.” Pastor Youcef then replied, “I can not.” -Voice of the Matyrs www.persecution.com:

Pastor Youcef, in his early thirties, is looking into the eyes of his young wife and into the eyes of his young sons and is still able to say, "Yes! Faith in Jesus Christ is worth this much. I would rather leave this legacy for them than grow old with this woman, and watch these boys come to manhood."

While attempts are being made to turn this into social or political capital, making it about universal religious freedom, human rights, etc., it is worth noting that, for Pastor Youcef, it is about one thing only: Faith in Jesus Christ. You may not share his conviction, but this is what it is truly about for him--this and nothing more.

Even a Stopped Clock...

2011-09-28T09:32:00.000-07:00

If I had a spell of magic

I would make this enchantment for you.

A burgundy, heart shaped medallion

With a window that you could lookthrough.

So that when all the mirrors are angry

With your faults, and all you must do

You could peek through that heart shapedmedallion

And see you from my point of view.

Speaking of David Wilcox, I have always thought the opening song on his Home Again album (above) sang well as a lullaby.

My daughter is in the seventh grade. Any of you who have navigated those waters know that every day is not..."fair winds and following seas." I wish I could say that every day ends with a "high five" because of our awesome parenting skills, but such is not the case. This very morning I invited my sweet girl to sit with me for a brief snuggle so I could apologize for my harsh words the night before, and re-commit to tenderness. Which brings me back to that lullaby. Which she shared this year with one of her classes as one of her first assignments of the year. Here (republished with her permission) is what she wrote....

The Burgundy Heart Shaped Medallion was sungand spoken to me my entire life by both of my parents, mostly my father. Iwould be in bed and ask him for a song, and when I was about nine it wasrepeatedly the song I’d ask for. I’m going to tell you right now that aroundmany people I am very self-conscious. I am very close to my family, whichincludes my mom, my dad, and my nine year old brother, and around them I’m not very self-conscious. I say pretty much anything I want to,and can get VERY sarcastic.

It was only just recently when I wasextremely sad, self-conscious, etcetera. We’d just been on a motorboat, gone toa beaver game, basically spent two whole days with my cousins, one of whom ismy age and we’ve always been very close. At this age, wewere going through the same ups and downs, and at this point, she was as highup as she could go, and I was looking pretty far down. Let me tell you, my cousin is not the most sensitive person in the whole entire world.

I came home, it was nine ‘o’ clockand I was unhappy. My family quickly noticed, because I can get very grumpysometimes. Then my father came in, we had a little talk, and he spoke the wordsof the song slowly to me. I finally understood. You never see yourself the wayothers see you. It pretty much changed the way I see myself. I spend a lot lesstime “editing” myself, or looking at the little things.

My dad still sings the song to me,but I always take it in differently. Instead of taking it as a little fairytaleof angry mirrors, I take it as a sweet song saying "no, you aren’t what you see.You’re what others who love you see, and I wish you could see the beauty I see in you."

(High five)

And the Food was Good Too!

2011-09-27T10:36:00.000-07:00

It was time for the luncheon speech at the National Association of Foreign Student Advisers (NAFSA) Regional Conference on the beautiful campus of Chapman University (circa 1993). I, braced myself. Perhaps you know the drill: You were in breakout sessions all morning, and you just ate. All the oxygen is headed to the stomach when up to the podium steps...

Cindy Dougherty, Chapman's Vice President for Enrollment and Student Life, to offer something (wait for it) memorable. As in, I have heard countless luncheon speakers and remember what none of them said--except for this one.

"I know," she began, "that your minds and your stomachs are full, so I will be brief and will offer just a few words of advice...." She went on to speak of the importance of our work, and of the tendency to not take care of ourselves. Then, with grace and humor, she gave three words of counsel that I have repeated countless times (to myself and others) for near-upon twenty years:

"The Lone Ranger is off the air" You can't do it alone; don't be reluctant to ask for help.
"Don't own it if it's not yours" People want to make their problems...your problems; their failures...your emergencies. Don't let them. As a friend of mine is fond of reminding me, "Nobody lives in your head for free."
"Decide who gets to vote" ...on your self-esteem/value. Even those closest to you deserve to lose the vote once in a while.

Cindy (may I call you Cindy?), wherever you are, thanks for the advice. It has served me well.

Harry Potter Has Nothin' On June Breninger

2011-09-25T20:22:00.000-07:00

Dr. June Hamby Breninger June 25, 1941 - September 3, 2011

After the memorial service today, several of us laughed at our common experience when it came to June. On your way to spend time with her you would try to make ready; steel yourself; get your game on:

“Not this time. This time she will not get me talking non-stop about myself; this timeit will be about her.” Somewhere after the greeting she would cast the charm.

Hours later, with a sense that you were highly valued and deeply loved and that your life was somehow intensely interesting to one of the people you admire most in all the world, the spell would...dissipate. Even as the truth of those feelings would remain. You would smile. "Well, what do you know? She did it to me again! How does she do that?”

When our family arrived home I walked up our street to the park to sit alone in the waning light of sunset. Tried to get a handle on the afternoon; on the absence from a darkening world such a powerful reflection of the Light of Christ as June. I thought of that Friday before she died. On good authority, she was supposed to have a bit more time. I planned to go to her that next week and sit for one last conversation. Of course, it wasn't necessary. She didn’t invest in me so I couldstay near at hand. I belonged far-flung, passing the blessing along. Speaking of which...

Time to stroll home, reenter the world June helped me discover and live in; do what June helped make possible: Take a genuine interest; make it about them--always about them. Leave them feeling highly valued, deeply loved, intensely interesting. Cast the spell.

You Can PIC Your Friends.... (or "With a Tip of the Homburg to Dale Carnegie")

2011-09-22T15:27:00.000-07:00

Someone of considerable wisdom (but who it was I cannot recall) recently said to me:

"You can make a lot more friends by being interested than you ever will by trying to be interesting."

Wow. What a blow to a guy who has spent years talking more than listening!

Sitting in police cars--as I am privileged to do, and in restaurants, around the dinner table with family, are just three of a million good places to shut up and take interest.

Stan Granberg (who's name I do recall) recently taught me an acronym:

PIC

Start out with a Polite question. See if the answer reveals something the other person is interested in, or something interesting about them. If so, ask another question which shows Interest. Often times this will unlock a concern in their life. So a third question would be--you guessed it--one which demonstrates your genuine Concern.

Not that hard to love others; just PIC! Won't work every time, but often it will, and someone will walk away feeling heard; perhaps even valued.

It's even Biblical! James 1:19 says,

My dear brothers and sisters, take note of this: Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry....

Barriers--social, ethnic, racial, and more--often come down when we just...listen.

Admitting It

2011-09-21T14:35:00.000-07:00

Struck this morning by this phase when reading from the first chapter of John:

¹⁹This is the testimony given by John [the Baptist] when the Jews sent priests and Levites from Jerusalem to ask him, ‘Who are you?’²⁰He confessed and did not deny it, but confessed, ‘I am not the Messiah....’

Confession is a word of nuance. "Admit what you have done wrong" is most common, one would guess. But then there is the call to "confess Christ." More plainly, this is a call to own up to your association with Jesus; openly identify yourself with him. Here we get closer to a confession that is an admission not only of what I believe or affirm, but of who I am.

In that light we find in John the Baptist a subtle-yet-powerful tutorial on confession. While John the Baptist will go on to freely and openly identify himself with (confess) Christ, it is telling to note the first confession he makes in the whole book. For starters, he confesses not who Christ is, or even who he is;
but who he isn't.

Long In Coming

2011-09-17T15:15:00.000-07:00

The Parrishes are enjoying a long-overdue family-only weekend. Last night, in fact, turned into a spontaneousexperience that was truly a gift from the Lord—worthy of boring you with thedetails….

For years I lived on the outskirts of Portlandand never took the time to wander the downtown. We now live in her suburbs and regret this lack of foresight. Yesterday afternoon, after spending most ofmy day off in “class A” uniform attending an academy graduation for one of Sherwood’spolice recruits, I wanted nothing more (and the family agreed with me) than to holeup or the night in our family room. However…

One of our beloved church members and former campus ministrykids (whom I baptized) was graduating art school downtown. So at 4:00 we headed up the near-empty sideof the freeway (against commuters headed home) to the Governor Hotel. While there, Kristen and I whispered to eachother that we were pretty well stuck until the traffic wore off, so what todo? We texted another church member andfriend, Chris, who works at a software company downtown. His wife, it so happens, had dinner plans forher and the kids anyway. So it was that forthree hours he served as our tour guide (paid with Q-Doba burrito, our company, and ride home) aiding our meanderings seeing a few sights, sippingiced Starbuck's decaf (me) and finally landing in Pioneer Courthouse Square wherethey all ate their Q-Doba and I convinced a street vendor to make me afoil-plate-full of the low-sodium aspects of a Philly-cheese-steak (the beefand grilled mushrooms and bell peppers) at a discount price.

Did I mention it was sunny and cool? The kids were having so much fun, that when Isounded retreat based on their complaints at the chill, they (MY kids, now—quitesurprising!) said they would tolerate it longer if Chris would guide us the severalblocks to the Beaver Store where they bought OSU souvenirsand I a coffee container—just enough to earn a stamp validating ourparking.

And now it is Saturday. Bradley won his soccer game (assisted on thewinning goal! They are now 1/2), thekids owe me a lawn-mow, a bill they are presently paying, and we have (wait for it) noplans for the rest of the day.

God is good.

Elsewhere

2011-08-22T09:22:00.000-07:00

Just journeyed into the mind and life of David Wilcox, a folk artist with whom I am acquainted. At least I thought I was. Since the early 90s I have possessed two of his CDs to which I return and take a few gulps a time or two every year. Until this morning, I thought I sort of knew the guy.

Which sent me on a Google search. Which yielded much more information than had been available last time I searched for David Wilcox. He has a website now.

Interesting.... Seems his commune days are behind him...but he's still a free spirit. Married to a healer who would fit in well—perhaps run circles around—the people at Ground Spring healing where I go for acupuncture. But could go, if I was a-mind, for Shiatsu, facial rejuvenation, intuitive readings, or something called Curanderismo. I digress.

I wonder: Have the practitioners at Ground Spring heard of Nance Pettit and David Wilcox? I would scarcely be surprised. I would also not be surprised if Nance, who is a respected purveyor of Eastern ways of healing, grew up in some church and—in need of healing and finding none there—turned east in search of meaning. God have mercy.

Whether or not I just described Nance, I doubtless described a good many people who grew up in earshot of Jesus, were damaged by the church or while in church orbit, who seek elsewhere. Elsewhere for what Jesus is supposed to be all about.

Should I look up to someone like Nance? Or be saddened that she has in many ways found more than I have, but less than I will? Don't dismiss the question too soon--I haven't. It is neither rhetorical nor swiftly settled. At least not for me.

If There Had Been A Bus (Abraham would have Thrown Sarah Under It)

2010-10-12T12:00:00.000-07:00

Friday morning I headed to Target to pick up a prescription. The pharmacy was not open. I checked the posted schedule; sure enough. They were supposed to be. That’s when I noticed the Target Pharmacy Tech standing beside me, likewise vexed and perplexed. We commiserated. He found the store manager. Turns out the pharmacist was a “no show.” Since they can’t open a chemical dispensary without an apothecary (I mean, everybody knows that), I left Target 45 minutes later with no prescription.

I was put out. I was indignant. I was inconvenienced. I considered going back in to lodge a formal complaint that might result in a Target gift card. Because, you see, that is what do we in America. We grouse. We demand our rights and privileges and insist that business keeps their promises; when they don’t, we assume we have a gift card coming. We are entitled to it, after all!

Friday night was Scout Night at Bullwinkle’s Family Fun Center and Bradley and I had a marvelous time. One of the things we enjoyed was collecting tickets so that at the end of the evening Bradley could turn them in for some cheap and worthless plastic toys; or perhaps a whoopee cushion. He already has one. But in Bradley’s world, you just can’t have too many whoopee cushions.

There were several games that did not dispense the tickets they were supposed to. Every time that happened we alerted a Bullwinkle’s employee to this miscarriage of justice. There were also several machines that dispensed more tickets than expected. At which times we, predictably, didn’t utter a peep.

Bradley had enough points at the end of the evening to afford a brand new whoopee cushion with that wonderful new-whoopee-cushion-rubber-smell (mmmmm).

So, as I said last time, injustice is not so much our issue. Injustice which fails to go our way—that’s what really steams us.

Of course, this all makes me think of Genesis, and God. When God promised to bless Abraham (and us through him) an injustice was done! But are we indignant? NO! Because it went our way.

With those stories as a backdrop, it is really easy—even logical—to assume that this Abraham fellow was a pretty good guy. I mean, it would stand to reason, don’t you suppose? God chose him, after all, to be the guy (out of all the people on earth) through whom God would bring about the blessing of restoring all humanity to their intended meaning and purpose of existing in loving relationship with God—with the Divine Person. That is, after all, the destiny of every person: to belong to our Creator in loving relationship through Jesus Christ. So you would think that the guy God chose to get this plan of the ground would be a person of unimpeachable character.

Genesis 12:4-20

4 So Abram went, as the Lord had told him; and Lot went with him. Abram was seventy-five years old when he departed from Haran. ⁵Abram took his wife Sarai and his brother’s son Lot, and all the possessions that they had gathered, and the persons whom they had acquired in Haran; and they set forth to go to the land of Canaan. When they had come to the land of Canaan, ⁶Abram passed through the land to the place at Shechem, to the oak of Moreh. At that time the Canaanites were in the land. ⁷Then the Lord appeared to Abram, and said, ‘To your offspring I will give this land.’ So he built there an altar to the Lord, who had appeared to him. ⁸From there he moved on to the hill country on the east of Bethel, and pitched his tent, with Bethel on the west and Ai on the east; and there he built an altar to the Lord and invoked the name of the Lord. ⁹And Abram journeyed on by stages towards the Negeb.

10 Now there was a famine in the land. So Abram went down to Egypt to reside there as an alien, for the famine was severe in the land. ¹¹When he was about to enter Egypt, he said to his wife Sarai, ‘I know well that you are a woman beautiful in appearance; ¹²and when the Egyptians see you, they will say, “This is his wife”; then they will kill me, but they will let you live. ¹³Say you are my sister, so that it may go well with me because of you, and that my life may be spared on your account.’ ¹⁴When Abram entered Egypt the Egyptians saw that the woman was very beautiful. ¹⁵When the officials of Pharaoh saw her, they praised her to Pharaoh. And the woman was taken into Pharaoh’s house. ¹⁶And for her sake he dealt well with Abram; and he had sheep, oxen, male donkeys, male and female slaves, female donkeys, and camels.

17 But the Lord afflicted Pharaoh and his house with great plagues because of Sarai, Abram’s wife. ¹⁸So Pharaoh called Abram, and said, ‘What is this you have done to me? Why did you not tell me that she was your wife? ¹⁹Why did you say, “She is my sister”, so that I took her for my wife? Now then, here is your wife; take her, and be gone.’ ²⁰And Pharaoh gave his men orders concerning him; and they set him on the way, with his wife and all that he had.

Help me out. Forgetting that this is Abraham (Abram in this passage), and just pretending you are reading a story about a very revered figure in the Old Testament, what do you think of him after reading 12:10-20? … He lied. But It isn’t just that he lied. He has objectified another person—treated his wife as a sex object. He has put her chastity, her honor, and potentially her life at risk in order to protect himself. We are not even out of the chapter where Abraham is introduced as the conduit of blessings and what do we have? We have the great patriarch of Yahweh-God being subjected to a morality lecture by the (presumably) pagan ruler of Egypt. (Wow.) But wait. There’s more.

What quality does Abraham NOT possess which is the flashpoint of this whole story? (I’ll give you a hint: Think of the lion in The Wizard of Oz.) Courage. He is afraid, and so he throws his wife under the bus to save himself. (“Wow” again.)

Which leads us to the money question: Did God choose the wrong guy? I mean, from the look of things, one would almost think God should have chosen the Pharaoh—he seems to have a much more sensible grasp of morality than Abraham does. And instead of being rewarded for it, Pharaoh gets the punishment that—let’s be honest—Abraham deserves (which kind of brings up some disturbing questions about God, by the way). And Abraham walks away much wealthier than he was when the story began. (“Wow” a third time.)

But maybe this is just one incident in Abraham’s life, right? He learns his lesson, doesn’t he? Apparently not. Because later in his life, in Genesis chapter 20, Abraham pulls the same stunt on Abimelech, the king of Gerar. (“Wow” yet again). And not only that, but Sarah—the objectified person in this story—is going to do the same thing that is done to her to Hagar later in the Genesis story. (ouch.) Seriously! You’ve got to read this stuff!

What are we to make of this story?

1. Whoever wrote Genesis was not interested in white-washing Abraham’s family story. He gives us the straight-up reality on who Abraham was—a person with moral flaws.

2. If you believe in God, then I assume you might agree that God knew what he was getting into when he chose this family. God knew choosing Abraham and Sarah was choosing people with moral flaws.

3. God sticks with Abraham, and God keeps His promises to Abraham for a reason other than “Abraham was a righteous person who had no serious moral flaws.” God chose Abraham, made Abraham a participant in God’s plans, and continued to bless Abraham NOT because of who Abraham was. So why? Why did God choose Sarah and Abraham? That is what we are going to find out. (But I need to be able to blog again, so I’m not giving it all away in one post!)

4. This we can say for sure: God is up to something. And whatever God is up to is not fair.

5. In choosing Abraham, God also chose you. And He knew what He was getting into. He knew you were not/are not perfect. He knows your moral flaws, and He is aware of your fears. And just as surely as He loved Abraham, wanted Abraham, chose Abraham, used Abraham, blessed Abraham, God loves you too. God wants you too.

At Bullwinkle’s Friday night when we were turning in our 168 tickets, there was this lady—a scout mom—who had hit the jackpot. She had played some game that builds up points over time and she just happened to hit it at the right time and she had 5,000 tickets to feed into the ticket eating machine. We were jealous. It didn’t seem fair.

But, see, God wants to give us 5,000 tickets when we don’t deserve it. God wants to do “unfair” that goes your way.

Psalm 103:10

God does not treat us as our sins deserve or

repay us according to our iniquities.

With Gratitude to the Late Great Robert C. Baker

2010-10-06T15:23:00.000-07:00

My kids like chicken nuggets. And they are not picky. They will eat chicken nuggets from McDonald’s, Burger King, Wendy’s—just about anywhere.

My kids are also into fairness. Way into fairness. If I had a dollar for every time one of my kids has come to me to protest that the other kid got something good and they didn’t get anything good and it’s “not fair,” I could pay their way through law school so they could become judges who make the world more fair.

Or just...buy a LOT of chicken nuggets. I digress.

Imagine with me, if you will, that we are at Wendy’s and my kids are about to consume chicken nuggets. Just as they begin one of them notices that their five-piece is short one nugget, but that the other kid’s five-piece has all five nuggets. What do you predict is going to happen next?

If you guessed "demand justice like the very fabric of our civilization is at stake," good for you.

Now imagine with me that instead of being short one nugget, an extra nugget was slipped in by the fine people of the Wendy’s Corporation. Do you think we will go up and protest the injustice that we only paid for five nuggets, and six have been dispensed?! Not on your life. As Bill Cosby once opined, “parents don’t want justice, they want quite!”

So when I say we’re in to fairness, I suppose what I really mean is we are into fairness except at those times when the miscarriage of justice goes our way.

Genesis 12:1-9 reads...

¹ The LORD had said to Abram, "Leave your country, your people and your father's household and go to the land I will show you.

² "I will make you into a great nation
and I will bless you;
I will make your name great,
and you will be a blessing.

³ I will bless those who bless you,
and whoever curses you I will curse;
and all peoples on earth
will be blessed through you."

⁴ So Abram left, as the LORD had told him; and Lot went with him. Abram was seventy-five years old when he set out from Haran. ⁵ He took his wife Sarai, his nephew Lot, all the possessions they had accumulated and the people they had acquired in Haran, and they set out for the land of Canaan, and they arrived there.

⁶ Abram traveled through the land as far as the site of the great tree of Moreh at Shechem. At that time the Canaanites were in the land. ⁷ The LORD appeared to Abram and said, "To your offspring ^[^a^] I will give this land." So he built an altar there to the LORD, who had appeared to him.

⁸ From there he went on toward the hills east of Bethel and pitched his tent, with Bethel on the west and Ai on the east. There he built an altar to the LORD and called on the name of the LORD. ⁹ Then Abram set out and continued toward the Negev.

Way back in the Ancient Near East, something like, 4,000 years ago, an injustice was done. But it went our way.

You see, there was this guy named Abram (which means “Father”) who probably was living somewhere just northwest of the Persian Gulf in modern-day Iraq.

God—the God I happen to worship—called out to him and told him to move. So he did. He started going northwest and traveled in a wide half-circle until he arrived on the eastern shores of the Mediterranean Sea.

Eventually, God changed Abram’s name to Abraham, which means “Father of Nations” and that is most certainly what he turned out to be.

Abraham’s descendants are the Jewish people, and they claim him as their father. Islam also claims him as their father. And since Christianity grew out of the Jewish religion, we Christians also feel a connection to Abraham. As people who follow Jesus Christ, we are, in a spiritual sense, descendants of Abraham.

Did you notice that you are mentioned in this reading from scripture? Yeah. You’re in there.

On the one hand, what we just read is intensely personal. I mean, it is easy to lose count of the number of personal pronouns. God is talking to Abraham about Abraham. No question about it.

On the other hand, this reading from Scripture is far from personal, it is universal. As I said, you are mentioned. Look at the end of verse 3. “through you, [Abraham,] all nations of the world will be blessed.” There you are! Hello!

This reading from scripture is not just an academic study of history, it is your story. You’re in there!

Did you notice that God made a choice? He chose Abraham and his family.

Did you notice that this reading from the Bible gives you no good reason why God chose Abraham? Because it doesn’t. The passage we read from the Bible doesn’t say anything about his character or his likeability or his good looks—nothing. God just chose him.

All of which just begs the question: Why? Why did God choose him? And why did God bless him? And, by extension (since we are part of “all nations”), why did God choose us? And why did God choose to bless us?

God’s Chosen? Really?

Abraham's family had some good qualities, but they also had serious character flaws. Read about them, and you wind up scratching your head and wondering why God chose them—and why God chooses us.

If we were really into fairness, we would be up in arms. "HEY! Why'd you choose me?! I don't deserve it! This isn't fair to all the good people!”

But how silly would that be? I mean, this one went our way!

Umm...Am I Still Welcome Here?

2009-12-12T19:20:00.000-08:00

It has been 369 days since my last post.

I mean, last year at this time I was worried sick about a church that was having its grand opening in late January, and I completely--and I do mean utterly--forgot that I even HAD a blog. Literally, didn't even think about it again until July. And one day in July I popped awake and said, "Omigosh! I haven't blogged in half a year!" Whereupon I fell peacefully back to sleep only to remember again that I was an inactive blogger 'bout three months later.

Way leads on to way. Everyone learned to twitter. Which leads to my two questions--I could really use your informative advice:

1. Is anyone blogging anymore?
2. Should I take it up again, or just...twitter away?

I am...Mystery

2008-12-09T18:31:00.000-08:00

I reflect a great deal on God’s name, Yahweh, given to Moses when they first met--Moses as Moses, God as perpetually burning vegetation.

YAHWEH has been variously translated.

I am

I am who I am

I am what I am

I am that I am

I will be who I will be

I will be what I will be

I will be where I will be

No kidding; you look in enough theology books, you will see everyone of these

One of those renderings above is “I Will Be What I Will Be.”

This morning on my knees I was praying hard for our little church plant. More specifically, I was working my way through the long list of our inadequacies (team’s too small…not enough Strategy Meetings…and so on). After each, I found myself saying, “but there is no sense wishing we had done things differently, Lord. Here we are, today, in need of you. The situation is what it is, Master, and we are what we are.”

Then came the epiphany (or perhaps Theophany):

Because our situation “is what it is” and is insufficient to God’s purpose, and because we are what we are and what we are is inadequate to worship and serve the Divine Presence, God (who “Will Be What God Will Be”) indwells us. Thus we are sufficient. And only thus.

Which is not to say I claim to have unlocked the deep mystery of Yahweh. God is Creative. (I mean, that whole making-an-ever-expanding-universe thing kind of blows the whole "creativity curve" for the rest of us, wouldn't you say?) And in God's unchallenged role as Creative Creator, The Divine One made intimate introduction--even supplied a name. And in doing so, God gave us more questions than answers about the Divine Nature.

Which is pretty much the perfect name for an Infinite and Infinitely Creative God, don't you think?

Of Course You Are....

2008-11-16T13:22:00.001-08:00

Had a Calvin and Hobbes moment with my six-year-old son the other day.

A memorable strip in Calvin and Hobbes is the one in which he is hammering nails into the coffee table. His mother runs up and frantically exclaims, "Calvin! What are you DOing?!"

Calvin looks down, puzzled, looks back up and asks, "Is this a trick question?"

My bookshelves are up and my books are on display. Which means some duplicate books are in a box outside my office to be passed along to someone else. I opened my office door to find the books out of the box, neatly stacked by the wall, and my son seated on the floor, violently and repeatedly stabbing the box with a ballpoint pen.

"Son! What are you doing!?"

Without flinching, without the slightest hint of fear or self-doubt, with--in fact--a sort of eager interest (as if sharing something quite novel) he replied, "I'm making holes in this box with this pen."

Of course he was. And having fun doing so. And doing no real harm. I said the only thing I could say as I proceeded down the hall.

"Enjoy."

That Also Works....

2008-11-03T10:40:00.001-08:00

I was in the van with my kids last week, making them run an errand with daddy.

They were telling me jokes. I saw it as a teachable moment, so I reminded them of a series of four jokes which are sure to make most first-graders, and almost all fourth-graders, laugh hysterically.

Here are the jokes:

How do you get an elephant in a refridgerator?
Open the door, put in the elephant, shut the door.

How do you get a giraffe in the refridgerator?
[first surprise ending] Open the door, take out the elephant, put in the giraffe

All the animals in the jungle are at a jungle animal conference. Who's missing?
[second surprise ending] The giraffe; he's in the fridge.

You have to get across an alligator-infested river in the jungle. There's no bridge, and you have no boat. What do you do?
[third surprise ending] Just swim across. All the alligators are at the conference.

So anyway, I said to my kids, "How do you get an elephant in a refridgerator?"

To which my daughter replied, "You eat most of it first."

Well, obviously.

Welcome Back Cotter!

2008-10-30T11:27:00.000-07:00

Sometimes life is precisely as described by Judith Viorst in Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day (Aladdin Books, MacMillan Publishing, New York, NY, 1972) which begins with this fabulous run-on sentence: "I went to sleep with gum in my mouth and now there's gum in my hair and when I got out of bed this morning I tripped on the skateboard and by mistake I dropped my sweater in the sink while the water was running and I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day."

Here is my version:

"The cotter pin for the trailer hitch broke on Sunday and the key would not go in the pad lock on the trailer tongue and Kristen had to come from home with another set of keys while Joel was on his way with a hacksaw and the alternate key went in and released the lock but that key would not come out and only one visitor showed up for our first Preview Worship Gathering even though four had promised and then our wireless router stopped working on Monday and then on Wednesday while Luke and I were trying (unsuccessfully) to fix it the sink got plugged up in the kitchen and instead of having a nice dinner with our Home Community we all had to gather in the kitchen and work together to put all the kitchen sink pipes back together and when I arrived at Shari's in Newberg this morning at 6:45, my Bible study partners texted me to say their alarm didn't go off and now I am really, really tired and I can tell I am a Church Planter."

If you've ever read about Alexander, you know his solution is a move to Australia; which, frankly and quite frequently, sounds pretty good to Kristen and I (she's even done mission work there and has lots of friends). At the end of the book aforementioned, Alexander declares, "My mom says some days are like that. Even in Australia."

My version of that succinct ending reads more like, "this morning, when I was exhausted my wife told me that she used her devotional book written just for church planters' wives and that today's devotional was about spiritual warfare and how we are on the front lines where we are vulnerable to hostile fire as well as 'friendly fire' and that 'church planting is bloody and exhausting. So don't be surprised if you are tired.'"

I would probably be just as tired in Australia.

Still, in the midst of this--really--laughable week, I have somehow managed to spend an hour/day on my knees for our team and for our mission, and to be a "non-anxious presence," offering my team the story of Admiral James B. Stockdale, and the assurance that--harsh realities fully acknowledged--we will prevail in our mission.

Plus, I now have a package of four new cotter pins!

To Boldly Go

2008-10-10T22:26:00.000-07:00

If you have any desire to get together for lunch, meet for lunch, "do lunch," or "lunch," (apparently there is an inverse relationship between the length of this term and the sophistication of the potential eating companions), please know that Fridays will be a bit hard to schedule for the foreseeable future.

It is on Fridays at 11:05 that I am graciously received by my daughter and her fourth-grade classmates in the cafeteria at Archer Glen Elementary. After a short break, I return and finish my lunch with my son at 11:35 when the first-graders have their go at noising up the lunchroom.

But last Friday was special. While the kids who did not bring lunch from home were still in line, my son confided in me importantly that today was Tristan's first Hot Lunch. My son, man of the world that he is, has already had Hot Lunch twice, and wanted me to know that this important rite of passage was now bestowed upon Tristan.

We chatted, we ate, others began to arrive and regale me with "Knock-Knock Jokes" (my fault. I started it the first week I was there). Then I heard a voice behind me say, "excuse me...excuse me...excuse me...excuse me....Mr.--Bradley's dad? This is my first day to have Hot Lunch."

I congratulated him with a solemnity appropriate to the situation.

Lunch went on. Knock Knock Jokes became more...spontaneously composed. Only on this day, those jokes were punctuated by numerous, ever-more-creative mentions by Tristan of the deliciousness of his lunch, the substantial portions to which he had been treated, how amazing it was that he was able to go back for seconds, and so on. Matching his passion and enthusiasm for each of these comments seemed the very least I could do. For Tristan was having a first--and one to which he had looked forward for some time.

I got a hug from my son as they all headed off to Lunch Recess. I count those hugs an honor and privilege; for one day he will be embarrassed to show me such affection in the presence of his peers. Tristan, Isaac, and my son walked off together. But I like to think Tristan's was more of a swagger. He had grown up just a little extra that day. He had joined a fraternity of some noble reputation. Bradley and Isaac had been his friends all the year long. But now he shared with them the experience of Hot Lunch.

Well. That's it. I have no brilliant conclusion. Perhaps you could supply it in your comments?

2008-08-21T21:24:00.001-07:00

In an effort to re-enter the blogging world, I humbly submit a letter, written to my friend Howard on July 22 of this year.

Howard,

On the occasion of your 40^th birthday, having already supplied you with a gift (and one for next Christmas), allow me to give you something much more valuable: an orientation to life after 40.

Really, there are only two things you need to remember (which will become increasingly difficult):

Wacky stuff is going to start happening to your body

Nobody cares.

Let me expand upon those.

Wacky stuff...your body.

I don’t just mean that your eyebrows are going to go crazy, and little tiny hairs are going to start to grow in and on your ears. I am talking about your body beginning to betray you in ways you never thought possible. Any condition you had before 40? It is going to go on steroids after 40 (sometimes literally under a doctor’s care); gradually at first, but with increasing tenacity and ferociousness. For example, I have problems with my right inner ear. Occasionally, it feels plugged. Then I feel a little unsteady on my feet for a day or so, then it subsides. Recently, this condition graduated from Eustachean Tube Dysfunction to something called Ménière's Disease. So it was that a few weeks ago the afore-mentioned unsteadiness was full-blown vertigo. Vertigo, Howard. All the way, throwing up, had-to-go-in-for-an-anti-nausea-shot vertigo. There is no comfort in vertigo. Laying down makes it worse; closing one's eyes makes you throw up more. In hell, Howard, everyone will have vertigo. The whole time.

Now you would think this would elicit some sympathy from others. But this brings me to number 2.

Nobody cares.

You tell someone who is not yet 40, and they feign sympathy. But inside, they are thinking, “better you than me, pal. I’m just glad I’m never going to deal with junk like that.” They’re wrong of course, on both counts. But they still think they are going to live forever, and no amount of convincing will disturb this happy illusion. It will be disturbed soon enough without your help; let it go.

You tell someone 40 or older and they pretty much don’t even feign sympathy. Why, you ask? Because wacky stuff is happening to them too (they've got their own number 2 to deal with). I know a guy who had to have hip replacement surgery before his 50^th birthday. You think he’s got any sympathy for me that I’m into wacky-stuffs-ville? Not on your life—which is ebbing away, by the way.

I know you neither fear death nor entertain serious doubts about the general resurrection. So I am not writing this under the erroneous presupposition that anything I say will send you spinning into a midlife crisis. I just wanted you, my dear friend, to know the simple rules—to reiterate, wacky stuff is going to start happening, and no one really cares. The best you can hope for when relating your ills to another person this side of 40 is that they will find it interesting, and regale you with stories of their recent occurrence of kidney stones, or impending knee surgery. Such stories were of no interest to you before 40—you feigned interest at times, like the rest of the poor self-deceived youngsters. But now (and maybe this is the third rule) you actually find them interesting.

I am not sure why these things are suddenly of interest, but I will suggest three possibilities. One is the simple fact of commiseration. For thousands of years, misery has loved company. For reasons which only the fall of mankind can begin to explain, we find comfort in the fact that someone else is suffering as we have. A second possibility is that it is a trade-off. If you are interested in their ills, you find—if for a brief moment—someone to be interested in yours. And that feels good--it's the closest thing you will get to actual sympathy; so enjoy it. Finally, it adds to your database of free medical advice. Whatever you learn about their situation prepares you for the possible, maybe-even-likely eventuality that you will go through it. Maybe the conversation will allow you to recognize the symptoms when they come your way—which is an exponentially higher probability the further you get from 40.

Well, there you have it, my aging friend. I hope this orientation has blessed you—even if it has failed to lighten your spirits--as you begin your descent. Always remember what Paul said, about inwardly wasting away but outwardly being renewed, and never forget: Sixty is the new forty.

Commiseratingly,

Wilson

Finally!

2008-08-05T11:47:00.000-07:00

Just posted at Blogging Luke for your enjoyment.

Hit It With A Shovel!

2008-06-19T11:59:00.000-07:00

Personally, I am usually much more concerned about the rattlesnake; but that’s just me.

Welcome to my life: I am average in almost every category imaginable. Average height, average weight, average-looking. I am needing reading glasses at the standard age that most people need reading glasses. My prescription is…average. I have two children. Said children being of elementary school age, I own a minivan. It is beige.

But in at least one area, I am not at all like most people. I am, for the most part, unafraid to speak, in public, in front of other people.

And, yeah…that’s rare. I looked it up. Daniel J. DeNoon of WebMD News at webmd.com reported on April 20^th of 2006 that the vast majority of people evidence more anxiety about public speaking than to the thought of confronting a rattlesnake. DeNoon quoted a guys named Paul L. Witt, PhD, assistant professor of communication studies at Texas Christian University, Fort Worth, Texas, who said, "The idea of making a presentation in public is the No. 1 fear reported by people in the U.S." The number one fear! Imagine!

And see, I just don’t get that. I mean, so far most of my public speaking encounters have been in front of about 200 people. But a couple of times, it has been ten times that number, and I was fine. Right before getting up in front of over 2,000 college students, someone said, “are you nervous?” and I had to think for a minute what she was talking about—what I had to be nervous about just then.

So that’s why I can’t figure out why I was nervous this past Tuesday evening. Let me ‘splain.

One of the guys on my church planting Launch Team is Tom. Tom works for the City. Before that he worked for the state. Somewhere along the line, Tom was a City Councilman in Albany, Oregon for about a decade. Tom gives me really good advice. He is looking out for me. We had coffee a couple of weeks ago, and Tom advised me to come to the next City Council Meeting. “At the beginning of the meeting,” he explained, “the agenda calls for ‘citizen comments.’ When you come in, sign up to make a comment. Have your remarks prepared. Bring your family, if you can. Introduce yourself and your family; tell them why you moved here and how proud you are to be a part of this community.” (If you want to read what I said, skip over to sccocjournal.blogspot.com.)

And there we were. There was the “this-meeting-is-called-to-order” part, followed by the Roll Call and the Pledge of Allegiance—complete with “under God,” immediately followed by, “We have a ‘Citizen’s Comment’ now by…Wilson Parrish.”

I approached the bench and sat down at the little table in front of the mayor and the council members behind their raised platform. I was asked to speak into the microphone and state my name and address for the record. I was invited to proceed with my comment. Somewhere in the middle of my statement, the Council person to the left of the Mayor said the word, “Order” right out of the blue. I am still not sure why he said that. The Mayor was great. He kept friendly eye-contact with me and smiled and nodded the whole time. He was doing everything he could to put me at ease. The rest of them just seemed to be staring at me.

You know those reading glasses I mentioned? Yeah; that as awkward—trying to make eye-contact and read at the same time. I finally took them off and strained to read my comments so I could look up and smile occasionally. I felt stupid; out of my element. And when I left, I was totally confused. There were probably twenty people in that room, and I ‘bout soiled myself.

Upon reflection, however, I think I know why. I was out of my element. I was on their turf. Tom—incidentally—was sitting in the back of the room with my family, and was so relaxed. See, he’s been to hundreds of council meetings. He knew the drill.

And then it hit me.

How I was feeling—all nervous and unsure where to put my arms? That is exactly how most people feel coming to church—how most of the people in that room two nights ago will feel if they come to our new church. “When do I stand? When do I sit? Where do I sit? What does that phrase mean that that guy just said? I feel totally out of place here. Am I dressed right? Is everyone staring at me?”

And you know what else? Some of them—maybe most, perhaps all of them—appreciate me coming. They respect me for it—my awkwardness with my reading glasses notwithstanding.

And maybe—just maybe—because I was willing to come to their turf—where I did not know when to stand and when to sit and so on—they might be a little more willing to come to mine.

Hopefully they’ll be relieved that there aren’t any rattlesnakes.

Not Even In The Cockpit, My Friend

2008-06-13T11:17:00.000-07:00

It’s funny: most nights I sleep like a baby in this midst of all this uncertainty of church planting. Last night I woke up in a coughing fit and had to use my inhaler. As I lay down on the couch with my head propped up (so Wifey would not have to put up with my hacking), I looked up and said, “God, I need to calm down! I need to clear my head of all these scattered thoughts about all the various things I urgently need to do, and just take this one step at a time!”

This morning as I was toweling off after my shower, my mind was full of thoughts like, “Let go.”…”Let me handle it.”…”Get your desk to a ‘stopping place’ and spend time with your kids today.”…”Loosen up on the reigns and trust me.”...”I am ready to do amazing things.”….

You wonder where those thoughts are coming from. Are you imagining things? Somehow I don’t think so. It is amazing how often a huge breakthrough has come on my day off, when I finally take my hands off the wheel and acknowledge God as the driver-in-fact. …Which brings me to one of my favorite analogies for ministry.

Occasionally, Handsome Son or his Beautiful Older Sister will ask me to let them “drive” one of our vehicles into the driveway or into the garage. You know what that looks like, don’t you? They sit on my lap; I control the foot pedals; I have my hand firmly on the bottom of the steering wheel. And they, with their hands on the top of the wheel, feel so good about themselves: They’re driving!

I have come to recognize that ministry, at its best, is God controlling the pedals and firmly gripping the bottom of the wheel while I sit just in front of God and feel good about myself because I am doing ministry effectively. And, like any parent created by this Divine Parent, God says, "Yes! You were driving ! Good job!"

A dear friend of mine once mockingly quoted the old line, “God is my co-pilot” and retorted, “reality is, I’m just fortunate to be on the plane.”

So expect news of a major breakthrough in our efforts here, because I am clearing the desk and taking the afternoon off. In other words, I am taking my church-planting coach seriously when he says, “don’t forget the vital spiritual discipline of abstinence—of letting go.”

A Hamster By Any Other Name: The Gospel Part 11 …Sort Of

2008-06-05T16:28:00.001-07:00

One week to go. And none too soon.

Due to how late in the year came our transition to Sherwood, Kristen and I decided to let the kids finish school in Philomath (pronounced fuh-LOW-muth). This has meant Daddy living alone for about a month while Mommy and our two adorable non-producing-consumers- of-goods-and-services live out of a suitcase with family and friends. It’s been a real drag on all of us, but reuniting on the weekends has been stellar. Just one week to go (and the peasants rejoiced)!

But my daughter’s ninth birthday was yesterday. And, coincidentally, so was the third-grade “bike field trip” to Avery Park. So we decided I should take the day off midweek and be there to help chaperone the young bike enthusiasts, and to celebrate the day.

When the school day was over, and following a soothing shower for daddy, we all went to birthday dinner, whereupon food was ordered, and then presents were opened. The theme this year is hermit crab. As in mommy and daddy gave her a plastic aquarium and a “hermit crab starter kit,” containing all accoutrements required for setting up a habitation, and her little brother gave her a “hermit crab habitat accessory.” All that’s missing—a situation soon to be remedied—is the thing itself.

For the rest of meal and all the way to bed time we were treated with excited conversation about the now-heightened desire to be the proud guardian of said hermit crab, imaginings of what it will be like to enjoy one as a pet, the obvious superiority of a hermit crab for a pet vis. a vis., say, a green anole. (It’s a long story.) Eventually, inevitably, attention turned to the task of naming a hermit crab.

That’s when I realized one of pet peeves (pun intended)—yay, e’en perhaps the very bane of my existence: What children name their pets when left to themselves.

I once met a kitten in the home of some friends. This little feline’s coat was the deepest gray I had ever seen on any domesticated creature, with eyes a yet deeper shade. Even as a kitten she was haunting, almost intimidating. Striking creature as she was—and I’m not terribly fond of cats, mind you—this little lady just begged to be given a name dark and elusive. Smoke. It would be an injustice, thought I, to name this cat anything other than…Smoke. And the more I suggested this, the more firm in their resolve became the children, who were being permitted to name their new kitty-cat at their whim, to name her Tinkerbell.

My stomach tensed. I even bribed them to no avail.

Here, again, having learned nothing from my encounter with…Tinkerbell, I now engaged my daughter on the most appropriate name for a hermit crab. “Horatio,” I offered with delight. “See, honey, there are some stories that you might read one day about a sea captain and his name is Horatio Hornblower—isn’t that a funny name? Hornblower?—and I was thinking that since hermit crabs live hear the sea, and Horatio was a sea captain, and both names start with an H—”

“Hermie.”

“What?”

“I like the name Hermie. Hermie-The-Hermit-Crab.”

“Yeah!” chimed her little brother. That would be a great name!”

I should have stopped right there. In fact, I should have stopped before I began. It was over, you see, long before. The only thing worthwhile about not ceasing my protestations, was the joy my children derived from repeating the name over and over again once they knew how much daddy loathed it.

There are certain things in life that are a given.

Children should have pets.

Children should be left alone to name their pets.

Daddys, however clever they might think themselves, should not interfere.

In a small way, I laid aside my personal preference last evening. And in a week-or-so, I shall welcome into our happy home another member who, though largely unaware of us, and certainly little concerned for us, will be dependent upon us, and will produce—as do my children—much joy.

And his name shall be called Hermie.

Caught In the Webb

2008-06-02T12:51:00.001-07:00

Well, I fell off the wagon last night.

I ate too much. Sugar, mostly.

The let’s-let-the-kids-finish-the-school-year-in-Philomath (pronounced fuh-LOW-muth) Plan is nearly at an end, with just twelve days to go before my tiny-little-blonde-family joins me in Sherwood full-time (instead of just on the weekends). So they left at 6:30 sharp for the 80 mile drive south.

An hour later, the last of our Church Plant Launch Team departed. We meet every Sunday afternoon presently for worship, which includes a common meal. I tidied up and looked at my watch. 7:00 P.M. The whole evening ahead of me.

I had begged Joel to take all the cookies he and LaNae had brought for dessert. And he took most of them. But he insisted on leaving a few (as in almost a whole row) of Double-Stuffed Oreos ® and also a few (as in a sizable handful) of Mothers ® Circus Animal Cookies. I should mention I have a particular weakness for Oreos and Circus Animal Cookies.

There they were, just sitting there in those quart-size re-closable bags. And there I was, feeling all lonely without my wife and kids.

There I also was, I should point out, weighing about fifteen pounds less than I did two months ago. There I further was, I should further make known, intensely interested in losing another fifteen. My goal: to be “gutless” in the literal (though certainly not figurative) sense of the word.

…Which just intensifies my wrong-doing in not only making a serious dent in this stash as the evening progressed, but also succumbing to the ice cream freezer (mmmm…ice cream…mmmm) at Blockbuster ® when I went to pick up a movie.

And so, to repeat, I fell off the wagon last night.

But I also did not fall off the wagon. To wit.

Absent the extra messes the kids create and without Kristen there with whom to talk while mutually cleaning up those messes, I was off to the aforementioned Blockbuster.

But with some reluctance.

Have you been to video store lately? Every other movie is just…smutty. Herein lies the paradox: Alone with family out of town I have the rare opportunity to hit the video store. Lonely with family out of town the video store is not a good place for a guy to be. ‘Nuff said.

As I parked in front of the video store, I looked up the numbers for the guys on my Church Plant Launch Team.

…Chris just raced home to spell his wife with their newborn…

…Joel’s phone went to voice mail. He’s good about calling back, but… …Ryan answered on the first ring.

“Ryan, this is Wilson. And I’m calling because I want to be ‘super accountable’ right now.”

“OK,” Ryan responded, a note of curiosity in his voice.

I told him where I was and where I was about to go. “And so tomorrow, I want you to ask me what movie I rented, OK?”

He chuckled a little. I could feel him smiling. “I know exactly what you mean; and I will ask you—you can count on it.”

“Thanks, bro.”

“No problem. Love you; good night.”

You know, it’s hard to even pick up the boxes of the R-rated smut when you’ve just talked to a good friend and exchanged a promise like that. And he was better than his word. He called an hour later. I paused the movie, answered the phone, and without preamble simply said, “The Bourne Ultimatum.”

“Good job,” he said. “Action flick; no sexual content!”

We had a good-but-brief chat, and I got back to my movie about the lonely Jason Bourne, trying to find himself in a world so set against him. Too bad he doesn’t have a wife, and a couple of kids who make messes. Too bad he doesn’t have friends willing to keep him accountable—willing to live the Gospel for him and with him.

Gotta go take some ibuprofen. I’m still nursing that “sugar hangover.”

I Like What You’ve Done With The Place: The Gospel Part 9

2008-05-29T16:43:00.000-07:00

The first night, there was just no use even trying. As the last few of a smaller-than-we-really-had-needed crew brought in the last box from the “I-thought-it-was-going-to-be-larger-than-we-needed-but- hey!-We-filled-it!” U-Haul truck and collapsed around the dining room table, two of them—LaNae and Joel—convinced me to just grab my toothbrush and sleep in their guest room. Since the place was a mess, it was not a hard-sell. Thus was my first night in Sherwood: I slept in Newberg.

Where were the wife and kids, you ask? Still in Philomath. Why, you ask? Because it was the best of a less-than-ideal situation. Weighing—on behalf of our children—between missing Daddy temporarily and missing out on all the fun of the last few weeks of school, we chose Door #1. Kristen and our offspring are thus living out of a suitcase at various friends’ houses so the kids can finish up life in a small town properly, and say their goodbyes less traumatically. As I write this, we are down to just two more weeks. It is agonizing. It’ll be over soon. I digress.

Anyway, the apartment. It was all disarray and disorder. But we had a plan. The next day—and the day after—my wife would get the kids to school, and race up here with her visiting parents (thirteen-year defending champions: Best In-Laws In The World, Feather Weight Division). They would arrive at about 10:00 and stay till 3:30, for the sole purpose of transforming chaos into order. And that is what we did. Boxes were unloaded and broken down; dishes were put away; decisions were made; things were put in storage; other things were brought out of storage; plants were distributed and watered and so on. In two days, it was done. There was literally nothing more to do. The apartment was home, with all the rights, privileges, and responsibilities thereunto appertaining.

Norm and Mary would be headed back to Bakersfield the next day, so goodbyes were said and hugs were exchanged. Coats were put on, and out the door the three of them went at 3:30 precisely on that second afternoon. And as they walked out the door, mother-in-law Mary took one more look around, and said, “yeah…this is good.”

And I thought of God. To wit.

If you are westerner—and you probably are—and don’t know a whole heap about what life was like in the ancient near east—and you probably don’t—then you may not know what fascinated those ancient people (who were alive when the Old Testament was written) about the whole notion of creation.

See, for us 21^st century westerners, the thing that we find most fascinating about the creation of this universe—provided one even accepts the notion of a creator—is the “something from nothing” thing. There was nothing. Then there was substance. That’s amazing. Or implausible, depending on who you are talking to. So, if you follow (and you no doubt do) we tend to fixate on the first sentence in the Bible, “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth….”

To the peoples of the ancient near east, however, the “something from nothing” was no stretch. What amazed them at least as much, if not more, was the “order from chaos” part. Again, if you follow, they were more prone to fixate on the next sentence, “And the earth was without form; and void and darkness was upon the face of the deep….” The fact that it was all in disarray, and God came along and completely organized it—that was amazing to them. That was the cool, miraculous part.

Furthermore, if you’ve ever read Genesis chapters 1-2, you will quickly notice that every time something that was out of order gets put right, God declares that it is “good.”

I have never had a clearer picture of what that declaration by the Divine Creator must have looked like until that afternoon when my amazing mother-in-law made her similar declaration. Two days before she had walked into bedlam. Two days later she was walking out of a well-appointed home; and it was good.

Thanks, Mary; I’m glad you think so. And thanks God; I’m really glad you think so.

Was it Alice or Pooh?

2008-05-28T22:11:00.000-07:00

This is just me talking, but when I hear a someone say, “How can there be a God with all this hate in the world?” I often respond, “How can there not be a God if there is an ounce of love in the world?” And when I hear another somebody say “God isn’t fair,” I have been known to respond, “But who gets to define ‘fair?’ Fair by whose standard of fairness?”

The love, so seems to go the assumption, is just supposed to be here, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for two cavepersons, fighting for very survival, to develop an affinity one for another. The hate, on the other hand—well, someone’s responsible for it, and no mistake. And it’s someone bigger than me, that’s for sure!

“curiouser and curiouser.”

Did Pooh say that?

Or was it Alice?

Well, I’m sayin’ it now.

What's a 'Moisture Farmer,' Anyway? The Gospel Part 8

2008-05-27T14:28:00.001-07:00

I promised in “The Gospel Part Seven” to approach the subject of “how this works” by approaching The Bible as “universal story,” containing all five elements of a good yarn:

Situation
Conflict
Solution
Climax
Resolution

The “situation” in a story is the part where everything is normal—whatever normal happens to be. So, if you follow—and you no doubt do—normal often has to be defined for purposes of the story. It is also that jumping-off-place of any good story at which point there will be no story if no “conflict” happens to upset the status quo—to upset “commonplace.” Status quo, after all—good status or unhealthy status—doesn’t make much of a story. Change makes the story. Stars Wars Episode IV wouldn’t have made it to the box office if it was just Uncle- Owen-the-moisture-farmer buying droids from funny little hooded creatures, and grousing after young Luke to do the farm chores. ‘Nuff said.

In the Bible, the “situation” is Genesis chapters one and two. Maybe you’ve read it. If you haven’t, don’t wait for the movie.

In an effort to add as little ink as possible to the oceans that have been afore-spilled commenting upon these two chapters (and I strongly recommend any and all ink spilled by a fellow named C.S. Lewis), I will limit myself to one point per blog post, and a maximum three posts on the Genesis 1-2 subject.

As I afore-said, every story-situation has a slightly different twist on normal. So what’s normal about a God creating a universe? So glad you asked. The “norm” is the relationship. As in this God has one with God’s creation. And humankind, being the self-aware creature among them, is the creature-representative of that loving relationship.

And this God really does love these people. Evidenced by the fact that, when it comes to God’s creation, God has a very biased definition of the word “fair.” To wit.

Let’s say I’m God, and I lovingly create. Now, paradoxically, I love enough to give my creatures a choice as to whether they will love me. Even though I know something they don’t know: I know they need me. And I know that, in their refusal to love me they will become creators themselves. But, whereas all that I have created is “good,” what they will be creating in their refusal to love me will be…not good. In refusing to love me, they will—unlike me—create a world where there is the possibility for love not to exist. In refusing to be under my direct control they will create a world out of control. In refusing good, they will create…evil.

What a paradox! I love them so much I do not want them to even know about that! But I also love them so much that I cannot accept their love if their love is not freely given. And for their love to be freely given, they have to have the…choice…to not love me.

Now, if I were God, with my fallen-human sense of what is fair, I might have split it right down the middle, right? Big Garden; half the trees are “access granted,” the other half are off limits. Give’m a 50/50 chance.

Nahsomatch!

This God we are talking about stacks the deck in their favor! Acres and acres, I presume—perhaps square miles upon square miles—of produce-bearing plants and beautiful vegetation. “and it’s all yours” says God “I just need you to stay away from this one tree….”

What a world! You literally stumble over the right thing to do—you can do what is good for you and healthy for all concerned by accident—without even trying. To blow it, and screw up your life, you have to search out and locate the one wrong thing to do—and you might need someone to help you. Little did they know that indulging themselves was going to create the exact opposite condition: In our present condition—as for me, anyway—I can blow it effortlessly. At any given moment there are numerous opportunities to utterly screw myself over. I can practically do it by accident. Also at any given moment there is one right thing to do and dozens of opportunities to permanently destroy my life. And I often need help to do the right thing. Wow!

This story—as in the Bible—begins with a powerful vision of “typical” and “ordinary” that is so different from our status quo. Ordinary in the Bible—the “situation” before the “conflict” to speak in the language of story—is a world where doing what’s good for me, and that which contributes to wholesome and long life is…commonplace. This is the world God intended for us.

“What’s all this talk about salvation?! What do I need to be saved from, anyway?!” How about a world where good requires discipline and evil is so effortless?

Kudos to Nancy

2008-04-22T10:42:00.000-07:00

I was talking with Nancy and Mark Johnson this past Sunday and I told them I had referenced Donald Miller's book in my recent post. I knew Nancy and Mark have read Blue Like Jazz, and that it has been a blessing and a positive mind-opener for them.

I told them I was uneasy, because I had not been lazy. I had not taken the time to re-scan the book and give proper page numbers to the part of Miller's book from which I had borrowed.

That is when Nancy said, "It's in chapter three; the chapter on 'Magic.'"

So, kudos to Nancy for contributing to the honesty and integrity of this blog. Please see chapter three, and specifically pages 31-33, of aforementioned 2003 Nelson publication, Blue Like Jazz, for Miller's specific cogitations afore-referenced.

Red, White & Blue Like Country Western: The Gospel Part 7

2008-04-17T16:40:00.000-07:00

Greetings from Oregon. I say that because for the month of March I was not, in fact, in Oregon. Me and the family spent the month of March with the church that has agreed to sponsor us in our church planting plans—the Cordova Church of Christ in Rancho Cordova, California—getting to know them and letting them get to know us. It was fun, it was affirming, and it was exhausting. And now we are home, and I am going to try once again to take up blogging on a more-or-less regular basis.

I wish I could say that was my only excuse for not posting in so long. Truth be told, I was also a little intimidated. To wit.

Months ago, when I wrote “The Gospel Part 5,” capnwatsisname got excited. He commented,

Me too! Me too! Who will rescue me from this body of death? How does it work? I'm getting excited. . .

See? All atwitter. It’s just never enough for some people. I give and I give.

So I have been pondering. How to explain the Gospel? And then it came to me: Steal a concept from someone else!

This will no doubt be physically painful for some of you. And, hey! I am as embarrassed to admit that I read anything popular and trendy as the next arrogant pseudo-sophisticate, but let’s face it: Donald Miller had a few worthwhile things to say in Blue Like Jazz. I’ll give you a minute to groan. Done? Marvelous. Let’s move forward. To minimize your pain, I will make my reference vague and then make my own use of it.

Somewhere in this provocative published-blog-of-a-book on Christian spirituality, Miller, on his way to someplace else, rapidly makes reference to the fact that the Bible is narrative. No big surprise here. Indeed, the Bible is story. God was smart that way. But then Miller goes on to suggest that, as narrative, the Bible has all the elements of, and is organized like, a good and stimulating story. As I understand story form, it has five elements:

Situation

Conflict

Solution

Climax

Resolution

Miller goes yet further to suggest that maybe—just maybe—the reason that basic story form varies so little from epoch to epoch and from culture to culture throughout history, is because the universal story—the narrative of scripture—is sort of the Grand Paradigm for all human narrative.

(It is more than possible that this idea does not originate with Donald Miller, was thought up by some monk or well-known professor, and that Miller gives credit where credit is due. If this is indeed the case, then I have revealed how unsophisticated and not-well-read I am, and rely upon the reader to correct, inform, and castigate me forthwith.)

Now that got me thinking, and, frankly, makes a whole heap of sense to me. Got a Bible handy? If not go to biblegateway.com or devotions.net/bible and you will, in fact, have a Bible handy.

Situation

o Genesis 1-2

o A loving God creates and all is good

Conflict

o Genesis 3-11

o As Steve Delamarter (Old Testament Professor at George Fox Evangelical Seminary) once opined, “you can practically hear the toilet flush over and over again.”

Solution

o Genesis 12 to the Cross of Christ

o See, the Gospel really starts in Genesis 12…if not before.

Climax

o The death and resurrection of Christ

Resolution

o The rest of the Bible

So, capnwatsisname (and anyone else who is still with me after all this time), for my next few Gospel posts, I will comment on each of these five elements of story form as I believe they present themselves in scripture. Stay tuned! It might be interesting, and is almost guaranteed to be neither popular nor trendy.

On Obeying My Wife

2008-03-06T09:12:00.000-08:00

So...I wrote that post about Bradley and Sophie and then my wife entered the cave.

Cave (kāv): windowless attic office which has been my
place of business since August 1, 2007.

She read the post and looked none too pleased. I read her face and looked not a little perplexed.

"Are you sure you are supposed to mention names? Is this appropriate?"

This is where I could have blown her off. I mean--it's my blog, right?! I can do whatever I want! She's not the boss of me!

...Not that I've ever done that--blow her off. I digress.

Instead, I said, "you are concerned because I am writing about someone else's child without permission."

That was it.

So I dutifully directed my computer to whitepages.com, looked up Sophie's parents' home number, and left a message. Mrs. Sophie's-mom called back about an hour later to say this was not a problem.

At this point I could have given my wife the I-told-you-so treatment. Not that I've ever done that. But, in the end, listening to my wife and responding to her instincts had two great results:

1. She--my wife--had peace of mind about it.

2. Mrs. Sophie's-mom read the blog, and directed me to the Sophie's Run website. And then, apparently, Mrs. Sophie's-mom told some of her friends throughout the country about the post. So far four people--two moms and two grandmas--of children with WS have posted really gracious comments, talking about how Erik, Abi, and Ava are lighting up their lives (and Mrs. Sophie's-mom sent a private e-mail). Please check out the comments and take the time to meet Erik at his mom's blog. He's a pretty cool cat who, like every other child his age, enjoys forgetting to use his hands while eating. Been known to do that myself from time to time. I digress.

Wisdom Comes To Kindergarten (And Someone Takes Good Care Of Her) The Gospel Part 6

2008-03-04T08:45:00.000-08:00

One of the ~~three~~ four or five of you who read my blog (Umm…hi, Nindafunky. Are you…a real person?) asked a deep, philosophical question. To wit.

Dude, will you ever blog again?

Although working against another deadline today, I will, in fact, blog again.

Michael Scott of The Office once opined:

Wikipedia is the best thing ever. Anyone in the world can write anything they want about any subject. So you know you are getting the best possible information.

Wikipedia on the name Sophie:

Sophie is the French form of Sophia. In English speaking countries, Sophie has often been regarded as a diminutive of "Sophia", but it has also frequently been given as a name in its own right, especially in the United Kingdom where it has been constantly popular since the 1960s. Like Sophia, it originates from the Greek, meaning 'wisdom'. Sophie is sometimes spelled "Sofi".

See? Best thing ever!

I met Sophie the other day when I took my son to Kindergarten.

For several days prior, Bradley had been sharing with me, “I have a desk now. Dada…Dada…Dada…I was at a table? But now? I sit at a desk.” See, most of the kids sit at little tables, but—perhaps due to a shortage of tables and an overage of little desks—a few of them sit at desks that are arranged to face each other…like a table. And Bradley, for reasons I assumed only a Kindergartner in Miss K’s morning kindergarten class could fully comprehend, considered the move from table to desk a badge of some considerable honor. So I was excited with and for him. That’s my job, right? Anyway, I met Sophie.

Sophie is a person with “special needs” who has been “mainstreamed” into regular classrooms with the rest of the population. A good idea, by the way; I wish they had been doing that when I was a kid. I have noticed that my kids are much more comfortable around children with special needs than I was at their age. I digress (but I’m glad I did).

Sophie is a person who faces bravely the challenge of Williams Syndrome. I looked it up at http://www.williams-syndrome.org/forparents/whatiswilliams.html. This is what I found:

Williams syndrome is a rare genetic condition (estimated to occur in 1/7,500 births) which causes medical and developmental problems.

Williams syndrome was first recognized as a distinct entity in 1961. It is present at birth, and affects males and females equally. It can occur in all ethnic groups and has been identified in countries throughout the world.

Common features of Williams syndrome

· Characteristic facial appearance

· Heart and blood vessel problems

· Hypercalcemia (elevated blood calcium levels)

· Low birth-weight / low weight gain

· Feeding problems

· Irritability (colic during infancy)

· Dental abnormalities

· Kidney abnormalities

· Hernias

· Hyperacusis (sensitive hearing)

· Musculoskeletal problems

· Overly friendly (excessively social) personality

· Developmental delay, learning disabilities and attention deficit

(Italics added)

OH! Was Sophie excited to be there! And OH! How thrilled she was that today she was wearing new pants with buttons going down the sides! And OH! How she relished every task in the morning routine—the hand-washing-when-you-first-come-in-the-door-habit…the putting-your-drink-container-with-your-name-on-it-into-the-plastic-bin-custom…followed by the move-the-clothespin-with-your-name-on-it-from-the-“absent”-side-of-the-poster-to-the-“in school”-side-of-the-poster-procedure. Nothing routine was routine! It was all a special joy for this wonderful little person.

Then, having decidedly made my day and improved my perspective generally, and after showing the buttons on her cool new pants to Miss K, and saying a warm, smily hello to a few more of us, Sophie did the get-your-coloring-folder-and-go-to-your-desk-ritual. There she went, to the desk part of the room (not the table part of the room), and sat down. Right next to Bradley.

Noticing my observations as Bradley smiled at Sophie and nodded attentively as Sophie showed him the buttons, Miss K sidled over to me and said, “I moved Bradley next to Sophie because he is so good with her; he takes really good care of her.”

I…managed to get back to the minivan and drive away before the tears welled up.

Here I am, blah blah blogging about Gospel. And there is my son, from 8:15 – 10:50 A.M., Monday – Friday, living it.

A wise child, don’t you think? Yeah...both of them.

P.S. To learn more about Sophie, visit sophiesrun.com

“Hyou Keep Husing That Hwerd:” The Gospel Part 5

2008-02-11T11:57:00.000-08:00

One of the ~~two~~ three of you (hi, Zack from Texas! Welcome!) who read my blog asked a potent question. To wit.

Hello, neighbor. Not to messy up your margins here, but I'd like some more ice, and I have a question. Could you expand a bit on the "by this gospel you are saved" part? I would like to hear about what needs saving, from what and to what. That's the part where a lot of the neighbors I know start squinting. I'd enjoy your take on it.

Working against a deadline last Friday, I simply replied…

…My immediate response is "I don't know. What do YOU think you need saving from? What would you like to be saved TO?"

And now, on this peaceful Monday morning, with that deadline met and my cold easing up on me considerably, I will ‘splain. There is much time, so I will not sum up.

...Actually, I will sum up. Because there are a whole heap o' things I'D like to be saved from, and I'm only going to cover the first four or five here. Feel free to add some of your own

Have you ever met a political/economic system you didn’t loathe? I mean, seriously. Every political system works…on paper. Then it goes to the lab—you know: the big round lab covered with water and people—where human hubris and human greed just start to gum up the works. Incrementally at first, but with ever increasing vigor and enthusiasm and a whole heap of smoke and mirrors. The next thing you know that political system—from communism to democracy; socialism to capitalism—is writing checks it ~~can’t~~ won’t cash and there’s a whole HERD of elephants in the proverbial room that everybody knows are there, and nobody’s allowed to talk about.

Have you ever met a justice system that meted out actual justice? How did we get to a place where everybody in the room—and out of the room—can know a person is guilty—like, maybe because there was a confession, or irrefutable evidence—and the “justice” system prevents conviction because somebody forgot to read somebody the rights they are more than aware of, or someone acquired the evidence a day sooner than they “should” have?

…or maybe you are a person who is more concerned with the innocent incarcerated than the liberated guilty. Take your pick; there are plenty of both in this world. There is not a single system of justice—not least of all the religious ones—that has not failed either in actually meting out justice or in showing appropriate mercy.

Have a read at the Book of Amos and you will find two things:

1. It’s a really depressing book because someone has finally pushed God too far. And they sort of ought to win an award because that is hard to do with a God who is, frankly, easy to please and slow to become angry.

2. It is abundantly clear that God’s two core values are justice and mercy.

…which is something I heard emphatically at George Fox Evangelical Seminary, sitting at the feet of Dr. Steve Delamarter…who is a rock star (actually, he’s an Old Testament scholar, but—trust me—he’s a rock star.)

How am I doing so far?

Ever wonder why locks and passwords even exist? (You may as well call on me; I’m just going to keep raising my hand…. Thank you.) Because you do not have to strip to your skivvies and have someone drop you in the jungle unarmed to be in an unsafe place. Nor do you have to be paranoid or a cynic to recognize that a lot of people are out to get you. Anybody besides me want to be saved from that? (Am I the only one raising my hand this time?) I, for one, got up twice last night to go upstairs and check on my kids because I had this awful dream about something horrible happening to them. And I live in a relatively safe community in one of the safest countries in the world. (shiver!)

Do you exercise enough to please you? Don’t you just love it that practically everything that tastes good is bad for you and vice versa? And tell me if this isn’t true (I read it on my 52-year-old sister’s fridge): “Inside every old person is a young person wondering what happened.”

The Bible starts out with none of these concerns. And within three chapters, humankind has asserted and declared independence from That Incredible Goodness, unleashing an evil which has been running downhill ever since. Turn just one page and that evil has already morphed into jealousy and murder. Since then it has found its terrible way into every aspect of life, all the way up to global corruption and right down to the sub-atomic level.

I want to be saved. OH! How I want to be saved!

It’s Such A Happy Feeling: The Gospel Part 4

2008-02-07T17:13:00.000-08:00

Still in my living room, still drinking iced tea. Almost done with our first study.

Ok, Neighbor. I want to make you a promise.

From now on and for as long as we know each other, I promise that any time you ask me a question or seek my advise about anything substantive, whether it’s about…

· Why we do stuff the way we do stuff at our church, or

· How to get along with someone in your life with whom you are having a conflict, or

· What you should do with the rest of your life, or

· The next step for you in becoming a more devoted Christ-Follower,

· AND cetera…

I am going to do my level-best to frame my answer in the Gospel. I am going to try and always answer from the perspective of the “first importance” of the death, burial, and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

And the reason I am going to do that, Neighbor, is because of my conviction that the Gospel is the absolute truth, and is supposed to be the framework for every aspect of our lives, including all of our relationships. And I don't just believe this in theory; I believe it is supposed to be lived out--in those places where we really live.

Confused? Me too. You see, I am still learning what I mean by making this promise. I learn more every time I try and apply it to real lives--my own as well as the lives of others. And I am inviting you to be just one more of those people learning with me--learning with us--as part of our faith community.

One more post on this subject. It’ll be about how this promise has played itself out in actual conversations with some of my favorite…neighbors.

To Know You’re Alive: The Gospel Part 3

2008-02-06T11:38:00.000-08:00

Hello again, Neighbor. Ready for another Trolley ride?

Neighbor, I’m going to go through this text again and comment on some things if that’s OK with you.

Now, brothers,

I know it’s not politically correct to refer to everyone in the room, regardless of gender, as brothers, but this was a different time. Rest assured, Paul is talking to everyone.

…I want to remind you…

Obviously important—worth reminding people about.

…of the gospel…

Literally means “Glad tidings” or “Good news.” It’s from old English.

…I preached to you, which you received and on which you have taken your stand.

Taking a stand. You know what that means, right? It’s deciding which things you can compromise, and which hills you are willing to die on.

If you are like me, you’ve met a lot of Christians who take their stand on a lot of things—maybe you’ve even been a Christians who has taken your stand in various places. What we’re trying to be are Christ-Followers who take our stand on our conviction that the Gospel is absolute truth.

For example, I’m not interested in making you a “literal six day creationist” Christian. I am simply interested in making you a Christ-Follower who takes your stand on the Gospel.

By this gospel you are saved,...

Nuf said.

…if you hold firmly to the word I preached to you. Otherwise, you have believed in vain.

Watch these words “Preach” and “believe.” They are “framing words.” They will come up again in verse 11 (at the end). Since Ancient Greek didn’t indent or skip a line for paragraphs, or use bullets or the like, that’s how we know Paul’s done with this thought and is moving on—he

frames it with a couple of key words—in this case “preach” and “believe.”

For what I received I passed on to you as of first importance:

Ahh, there it is, Neighbor. The Gospel is the Bible’s highest priority—the Bible’s most important message. That’s why we take our stand here—and pretty much nowhere else.

…that Christ died for our sins according to the Scriptures, that he was buried, that he was raised on the third day according to the Scriptures, ...

That’s it, Neighbor. The most important, highest priority message of the whole Bible, the thing about Christianity that matters the very, very most, is the death, burial, and physical resurrection of Jesus Christ. But wait. There’s more…

…and that he appeared to Peter, and then to the Twelve. After that, he appeared to more than five hundred of the brothers at the same time, most of whom are still living, though some have fallen asleep. Then he appeared to James, then to all the apostles, and last of all he appeared to me also,…

There’s a difference between a blind leap of faith and an educated leap of faith. These people Paul is talking to have eye-witnesses still around, who saw Jesus alive, saw Jesus die, saw Jesus get buried, and then saw Jesus walking around again. Paul sort of dares (or at least challenges) his readers to seek these people out and ask’m about it!

Obviously, we do not have that luxury. So we are not like Paul’s original readers. Then again, we are exactly like them: They did not witness the resurrection for themselves; they had to trust others who did. For them, and for us, the absolute truth of the Gospel cannot be proved beyond a shadow of a doubt (wouldn’t be faith anymore) . But it can be “proved” beyond a reasonable doubt.

I’m sorry: did someone tell you faith and reason have nothing to do with one another? They were wrong; faith and reason go hand in hand. And it is just as true of science as it is of religion. But that’s another conversation.

…as to one abnormally born.

Born late in the family—like all your siblings are a lot older than you, and then you came along.

For I am the least of the apostles and do not even deserve to be called an apostle, because I persecuted the church of God. But by the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace to me was not without effect. No, I worked harder than all of them—yet not I, but the grace of God that was with me. Whether, then, it was I or they, this is what we preach, and this is what you believed.

Paul’s not done telling us the Gospel until he tells us how it has impacted him personally.

To end our study, I make you a promise:

…Which I will save, and post tomorrow.

It’s A Great Feeling: The Gospel Part 2 (See December 4, 2007 post for Part 1)

2008-02-05T11:37:00.000-08:00

Climb on the Trolley; let’s make believe.

I’m not keyboarding and you’re not staring at a monitor. We’re sitting in my living room, me stationed comfortably in my favorite corner of the couch (where I am sitting right now, actually) next to my wife, and you in the matching chair making relaxing use of the also-matching ottoman. You would like this furniture, over-sized and overstuffed; they kind of swallow you when you sit in them. I digress.

We make a lot of unsweetened iced tea at our house. Four bags decaf pekoe cut black, one bag decaf green with lemon grass. Good flavor! We’re all drinking some, and we all have Bibles in our laps. It’s our first study.

Not knowing your gender (though I assume you have one) I will call you Neighbor—in that friendly, inviting Mr. Rogers kind of way.

..I thought about calling you Tony…or Shannon…or perhaps alternating between Carla and Carl, but…let’s just settle on Neighbor.

Assume we’ve talked for a while, and Kristen and I have told you some about ourselves. Mostly, though, we have asked you what brings you to this moment. If we brought our “A” Game, we’ve listened to you a whole lot. Now, at last, our Bibles are open to 1^st Corinthians 15:1-11.

"Neighbor, I almost always start a Bible study relationship in 1^st Corinthians 15:1-11. Doesn’t matter to me if we will be studying Job, Luke, Revelation, or just taking your questions as they come up, I always try to start in just this way. S’that OK with you? Do you feel comfortable reading out loud"?

Now, brothers, I want to remind you of the gospel I preached to you, which you received and on which you have taken your stand. By this gospel you are saved, if you hold firmly to the word I preached to you. Otherwise, you have believed in vain.

For what I received I passed on to you as of first importance: that Christ died for our sins according to the Scriptures, that he was buried, that he was raised on the third day according to the Scriptures, and that he appeared to Peter, and then to the Twelve. After that, he appeared to more than five hundred of the brothers at the same time, most of whom are still living, though some have fallen asleep. Then he appeared to James, then to all the apostles, and last of all he appeared to me also, as to one abnormally born.

I ask you if you have any questions, or if anything stood out for you and we talk about that for a while. We talk about the author, Paul, and how he was an “Apostle” of Jesus. We talk about how this is a letter—just like you or I would write a letter, only longer, and longer ago.

Anyway, we talk, and then we probably take a potty break or refresh our iced tea. So I’ll take this opportunity to keep this post to a bite-size chunk, and offer you more tomorrow. Yes, I really will this time. I know I’m not always good for my blog promises, but this time I really mean it. Cut me some slack already!

Level With Me, Theodore

2008-01-07T20:36:00.000-08:00

I know, I know. This will make my second post since I promised that "my next post" was going to be more about the Gospel. I'll get to it--I promise! But for now...

Today I was thinking about Theodore Geisel. Nice guy, but, the thing is (and here's the thing)...

The older you get the more you suspect that Ted wasn't on the level. I mean, what are the chances that the elephant who heard a Who would be named Horton?

A Child is Bourne

2007-12-26T09:27:00.000-08:00

It is the day after Christmas. After a VERY much needed (and just as rare) nine uninterrupted hours of sleep, my wife and I just woke. Woke, in point of fact, to sun breaks. Sun breaks which are not uncommon this time of year, before the sun climbs behind the winter cloud cover for anything from “occasional showers” to “blizzard conditions” (If you don’t like the Western Oregon winter weather, wait ten minutes….). There is even a light dusting of snow on the ground to greet us this fine morning.

After coffee (from beans just ground last night which were roasted in a fire roaster right here in our little town by a pleasant small-business-owner named Dave) and personal devotions (sitting up in bed sipping aforementioned coffee while perusing prayer cards and reading our Bibles) my wife is in various stages of getting about the day.

Two kids (who, in the words of Dave Barry, were made right here in our home with things we already had around the house) are entertaining themselves with more cartoons and shows in one day than they are normally permitted to watch in a week. All the while sipping juice and eating the local off-brand knock-off of Honey Nut Cheerios ® dry, so as not to soil the comfy couch of their present repose with any homogenized, 1% milk-fat dairy product.

I should further mention that I am wearing my new fleece bathrobe, the sleeves of which come all the way to my wrists, the collar of which is generous, having enough real estate to cover my neck, and the front of which stays closed upon my chest all the way up to my Adam’s Apple. (What was with the designers of those terry cloth bathrobes, anyway--with the ¾ length sleeves, the low neck, and the Enrico Suave open-chest look? Sheesh!)

And I am just hoping that your one-day-past-the-most-blessed-of-days is equally peaceful, having completed the flurry of gift-buying, gift-wrapping, and (if you have any little ones to buy for) having faithfully endured once again the ever-present moral dilemma at maintaining for another year “The Santa Claus Deception” (a good title for a Ludlum novel, God rest him) with whatever traditions come to your home every 24^th of December. At our house it includes carrots for the reindeer, complete with the greens attached, which are then ground up in the garbage disposal—except for a small portion, which is finely chopped and broadcast where the carrots were, with the greens likewise strewn messily about. All this is to give the impression of reindeer who enjoyed them but did not have good table manners in doing so.

I should further mention that, just last night, I completed my personal tradition of reading annually all five "staves" of Charles Dickens immortal classic--the one about a spiritual intervention which resulted in a life transformed.

Upon that note, then, I repeat once again my hope that your “after-Christmas” rivals my own, being equally peaceful, at least as promising of things to come, likewise reflective of the blessing of Divine Intervention, and every bit as hopeful in anticipation of His power to further transform your life.

Stand By For NEWS! The Gospel Part 1

2007-12-04T14:12:00.001-08:00

Some would say that the year-opening “OSU ‘where It’s @’ Vendor Fair,” is a great venue for introducing freshman and transfers to the larger community, and the services and opportunities the university provides. Others would say it is a great way to acquire free stuff.

Our campus ministry had reserved space at the Fair, splitting a table with the OSU chapter of the Mortar Board Honor Society. Obviously, we were both invested in the importance of representing our meaningful contribution to the university community. We also made a great team in the quest for pizza, candy bars, and cool pens. In fact, the challenge united us.

At the end of the day, as we helped Mortar Board Kori (pseudonym) box things up, my inner voice prompted me to say something that would invite “the God conversation.” Searching out the most brilliant, least threatening and most caring way to initiate spiritual dialogue, all I could come up with was, “Kori, are you involved in a church or a campus ministry?” At least it was out there.

“I used to be,” she replied, “but I’m not anymore.”

(Which just begs the question) “Why not?”

And that is when she started crying.

Crying!

‘Bout a thousand wrong ways to respond (not least of all Jimmy Dugan’s example). We stood there for an eternal moment; one of the campus ministry women put an arm around her. “Kori,” I finally heard myself saying, “I want to be helpful; I also want to respect your boundaries. Would be willing to give me your e-mail address? I’ll write you in a day-or-two. Maybe we can talk about why my question made you cry. Would that be OK?” A nod. I offered her pen and paper; an e-mail address.

The following day I started my e-mail by thanking her for trusting me with her address, and assured her that all she had to do was say the word if she ever wished to terminate our conversation. Then I brought up the promised question. This is what she said.

Dear Wilson,

I hope this doesn’t shake your faith. I used to be a leader in a campus ministry on campus. I led Bible studies and had several people I was discipling. I thought God was really working through us.

Then one day I realized: All the times I thought I heard God’s voice guiding me? It was just me talking to myself. And all the “mini-miracles” I thought I was seeing and experiencing? They were just coincidence.

I just got really angry, and I gave it all up—just like that.

Anyway, like I said, I hope this doesn’t shake your faith.

Kori

Somebody told me an anecdote about a Q&A session with Alister McGrath , author of a really great book called Intellectuals Don’t Need God And Other Modern Myths. “If you had one hour to spend with a non-Christian, what would you say?” His response, as it was reported to me, was “I would listen for at least the first 55 minutes.”

If I had been thinking about that or had read that book prior to the moment I now relate, I might have simply asked her to tell me more. I mean, while it is certainly possible that this was all there was to it, it is vastly more plausible that there was a “the rest…of…the story” just beneath the surface. Perhaps there had been a betrayal, a bad break up, a personal tragedy, or a traumatic event kept secret. And the thing that eats at me right now is that she may have—albeit perhaps unconsciously—wanted me to ask; wanted me to listen.

As it turns out, my first response was short. I thanked her, told her not to worry about me, and told her I would be thinking about how to respond. Then I prayed about it for a week, conferred considerably with smarter people, and finally composed the following:

Dear Kori,

Thanks for your honesty and concern. You are very gracious to look after how your story will impact my own faith. But please be at ease. You have not shaken my faith.

Kori, I hope I do not offend you by saying this but the reason you have not shaken my faith is that my faith is not based upon my experience. I have had experiences which have confirmed my faith; I have also had numerous experiences which could easily have destroyed my faith.

My faith remains because my faith is based upon my decision to trust that the Gospel is the truth—regardless of my experiences.

If you want me to explain that further, let me know.

Wilson

When Kori wrote back she was polite, but defensive (wouldn’t you be?). She opened with the assertion that her faith had not been based upon her experiences either. This was, however, followed by a description of a faith based solely upon experience.

I don’t say that to poke fun at Kori. I should have listened more. And as pure as my motives were, there is just no way to hear what I had said without feeling belittled, and accused of being shallow. The more I reflect upon this story, the greater grows my surprise that she even dignified my e-mail with a response. I am so glad she did. Apparently, God is not the only giver of grace.

She ended by inviting me to tell her more about what I meant about the Gospel; which—in case you haven’t guessed—is exactly what I had hoped she would do.

That discussion went on for a few more exchanges. Eventually—and, again, very graciously—Kori thanked me for conversing with her, said I had given her much to think about, and indicated that she was ready to terminate our conversation. I thanked her in kind and indicated my availability if she decided to revisit the conversation. I have not heard from her since. I do not know if she ever took up faith again, or if she remains tearfully disillusioned. What I do know is that, for my part, I owe Kori a lot.

In my exchange with Kori I did the right thing, even while I was doing the wrong thing. Reflecting upon that has centered my attention upon the incredible importance of focusing ministry upon the Gospel Message of the Cross. Which means at least two things: First, it means being an agent of the Gospel by being what people need—and they need to be heard. Second, it means leading with the message of the Gospel.

Faith, and presentation of faith to others, has to find foundation here. Emotions can turn on whether or not you’ve had enough coffee—seriously!—not to mention the real traumas of life. Just ask the next New Orleans resident you happen to see. Like all others, emotions associated with a life of faith come and go. Feeling good about God is a truly wonderful thing; it just doesn’t make for a very stable “faith foundation.”

These days—because of Kori—I try to start every Bible study relationship with two things: a listening ear, and a clear and simple telling of the Gospel. People tell me they find that helpful.

So, loyal readers, next time I will offer both of you a clear and simple telling of the Gospel, just as I offer it in all those Bible studies. Isn’t it great to have something to look forward to?

In Memory of Alfred (1899 - 1993)

2007-11-13T22:18:00.000-08:00

As promised, I will now answer a most intriguing question. What do Scrabble ® and ministry have in common? More specifically, what do winning at Scrabble® and doing ministry effectively have in common?

Unlike my longtime friend, Kevin Burbridge, who plays Scrabble ® competitively, I am a casual, and very occasional, player of Scrabble ®. …And now that I have done that ® thingy four times, I think you get the point and I’m NOT doing it again. I digress. As I was saying, casual and occasional.

Recently, I came to the realization that there are two ways to play Scrabble: playing to impress, and playing to win.

When you play to impress, you wrack your brain over your seven tiles, trying to think up the biggest, most impressive word possible which will dazzle everyone and make you look really intelligent. Upside is, it’s stimulating to the brain, can be fun, and people might actually be impressed. Downside? You will probably lose. For two reasons. One is that long, complicated words—you know, with all those letters—provide your opponents multiple opportunities to place their words. Nice of you to help them! See the problem here? The second is that your focus is on making a big impression…anywhere on the board. And anywhere on the board is not where you should be playing—if you want to win.

Playing to win goes more like this: Instead of looking at your tiles first, you look at the board. For opportunities. You are looking for those bonus squares that give you double or triple points for your letters or your words. Then—and only then—you look at your tiles, and find a way to put your high scoring tiles like X (worth 8 points) or Q or Z (worth 10 points each) on a “triple letter score.” In so doing, a word like “ox” can get you 25 or 27 points, where a word like “enforce” might only get you 12 points. Get the idea?

So you have to make a decision as the board is being set up and the tiles are being randomly picked out: Impress? Or win? Sure you might win by playing to impress; and you might impress by playing to win. Not the point. The point is your focus—your main motivation. And let’s bear in mind that, ultimately, winners are more impressive than people who are playing to impress.

Have you made the leap to ministry yet?

Ministry to impress is big events. They look good, and church leaders are impressed—they think you are doing something and earning your money and blah, blah, blah. But at the end of the day, when you are folding the chairs after that concert you hosted for the teens or taking the helium tank back to the rental place after the carnival, what have you really accomplished?

Ministry to win (read “be effective”) looks for opportunities—as in that college sophomore who is teachable, and willing to set aside a couple of hours a week out of his busy academic schedule to be discipled, or that young father in your church who is crying out to be mentored by somebody—anybody—who can help him be a better, more spiritually focused husband and father.

Ministry to impress may amount to job security, might look good on resumes, and will certainly make an impression right away.

Ministry to be effective, on the other hand, is more tedious and doesn’t allow you to utilize as many exciting fonts and eye-catching colors on that monthly calendar you turn in to the elders. But over the long haul it raises up real disciples. Some of them may even become ministers and missionaries themselves.

And that, mi amigo, is what winning at Scrabble and doing ministry effectively have in common.

Now…What’ll it be? Play to impress? Or play to win?

Hats Off to Chuck!

2007-11-01T10:52:00.000-07:00

I know I said my next post was going to be about Scrabble...and ministry. And I'll get to that. Meantime...

We have a treadmill in our garage that actually gets used. For it's intended purpose. And also as a drying rack for clothes that can't go in the dryer. I digress.

Suspended over this treadmill and representing the reason it actually gets used for its intended purpose is a television set, hooked up to cable, complete with a DVD/VCR combo. Ni-i-ice.

For the past month my work-outs have been appropriately distracted by re-runs of Dharma And Greg, a great show about the clash of cultures within culture as a woman named Dharma who was home-schooled by her seriously-stuck-in-the-late-sixties, organic-granola-munching, birkenstock-wearing parents and a guy named Greg who is from a rich-and-influential, "Oh-dear-not-THOSE-people, Greg!", well-connected family and who went into law because it was expected of him get married (within 24 hours of meeting one another).

Pretty funny.

At the end of each show, right at the very end of the credits, just for just a split second, a page flashes up with the heading "Chuck Lorre Productions." The page looks type-written and looks like, well, a blog--and potentially a pretty funny one. At least, you think so. You don't have time to read it. But you get the distinct impression you'd like to. You also have just enough time to note that it's different every time. Curiouser and curiouser.

So, today? While printing something that was several pages and needed to be punched with three holes and put in a binder? I Googled "Chuck Lorre" and (lo and behold) there is a page dedicated to all those pages.

I have only read two of them (so this is not an endorsement) but you might want to check them out. They are pretty funny! They may even be where Blogs came from!

http://www.chucklorre.com/

With Due Respect to The Pirate and His Parrotheads

2007-10-19T22:37:00.000-07:00

So there I was, a Campus Minister. It was January of 1995 and, having just departed the shores of Malibu and the halls of Pepperdine University with my Masters in Ministry, I was…cold. And wet. Depends on how you look at it, I guess: Less blue (as in sky—certainly) but more green (as in foliage). And did I mention the cold? I digress.

There I was—as I said—a Campus Minister, sitting at my desk, metaphorically sharpening pencils, wondering what to do with myself. Two things:

Firstly, I was perhaps the most self-deceived person breathing. Because, though I had been pursuing a degree in ministry and interning in Campus Ministry for almost four years, I genuinely didn’t believe I would ever actually be—as in earn my living working as—a minister.

Secondly, in my previous job prior to grad school, as a recruiter for a small religious college, I had interacted with ministers constantly, forming a couple of strong opinions in the process:

I would leave a lunch appointment with a minister who had just told me about his daily routine, stunned at what was not habitually included in his day. And I would say—out loud, to myself (I…do that a lot), in the car—“Wow. If I’m ever a minister—and I never will be—I’m going to pray, substantially, every day that I come to work.” Because I was encountering a whole heap o’ ministers who just weren’t doing that. Astounding (in a sad sort of way).

I would drive away from meeting a minister for a cup o’ joe and a long chit chat mumbling, “OK. Wow. That guy just confided in me that he’s a Youth Minister who would be intimidated to sit down—like he and I just sat down—over a soft drink, one on one, with...any of the teens in his youth group. Boy, if I’m ever a minister—not that I never will be—I’m going to disciple people. I am not going to be all about programs and paperwork; I am going to spend time with people!”

Fast-forward five years, and there I was—as I may have already said, right smack dab in the middle of Neverwillbeville, Oregon, at the corner of Bigtalker boulevard and Moneywhereyourmouthis Way, thinking to myself how being there is a whole lot different than pontificating and prognosticating about it.

But…

I am happy to report (and this is your first dose of that mentoring I referred to in my last post) that this story has a happy middle. (I…haven’t reached the end yet.) To wit.

Being a person who is dedicated to the proposition that the highest form of discipline is creativity, I have never confined prayer to bowing silently with my fingers braided. I discovered that I tap a keyboard at about the same speed as I think. So I…typed my prayers. For over ten years, with very few exceptions, every time I came to work, at some point during the day, I would open Microsoft Word and fill at least one page (Times New Roman, font size 12, single spaced) with a prayer about my campus ministry. I think it made all the difference.

And talk about people! I started making a promise to college students: “I don’t care,” I would say,” whether you have gone to church all your life, or have never been to church, if you want an hour/week of my time for Bible study, we’ll make it happen.” As the ministry grew that was modified to “an hour/week of somebody’s time” meaning ministry interns/apprentices and student leaders.

I made a third promise to the women in the campus ministry. The office had three windows to the outdoors, and one window to the interior of the building. I kept a promise for all those years that, when they were in my office for conversation or Bible study, all those blinds would be open, and the door would never be fully closed.

Those Bible study hours left plenty of time for just talking—getting to know each other. Before long I arranged my office so there was plenty of comfy furniture and the door was usually open for drop-ins. If we weren’t having Bible studies, we were just talking. Well…there were the Nerf® guns, too. Bad idea to attempt campus ministry without keeping some Nerf® guns at the ready.

Bottom line is, after the initial shock at finding myself anything-but-wasting-away, again, in Neverwillbeville, ministry for me became about praying and about discipling people, not so much about programs. Ah…programs… But that’s a story for another time. Remind me if I forget: Next I want to tell you what winning at Scrabble® and doing ministry effectively have in common.

With Apologies to Mr. Cash and The Entire Carter Family

2007-10-09T10:02:00.001-07:00

If I am really going to be a “blogger,” I first have to remind you—or perhaps tell you—something enormously important.

There is a very fine line between bragging and mentoring.

On the one hand, Jesus said, “don’t let your left hand know what your right hand is doing” and “do not do your deeds of kindness to be seen by others” (Ask me for the Biblical references if you’re interested). On the other hand, He got up from the meal this one time (maybe lots of times) and assumed the role of the humblest slave in the house who had to do the most disgusting job—wash everybody’s feet. And when He was done, He said, “Did you see what I just did? Now that I have washed your feet, you ought to wash each other’s feet.” So, clearly, He did this deed of kindness not for the purpose of being seen, but knowing that He would be seen, for the purpose of mentoring.

Furthermore, Jesus also prayed this one time (he no doubt prayed lots of times), and He started the prayer by saying, “Father, I thank you that you hear me. I know that you hear me. I say this for the benefit of those who are within earshot, that they will know that you hear me.” He wasn’t praying for the purpose of being heard, but He was talking to more people than God as He opened that prayer. He was teaching—mentoring, discipling—even as He prayed.

So which is it? Hide all your good deeds, or let them be seen by others? Yes. It goes to motive. Don’t display what’s good and right about yourself so people will exalt you. But do display what’s good and right about you so people will imitate what’s good and right.

Hopefully, in future posts, I am, on occasion, going to tell you what’s good about me. Sometimes, I am going to tell you what’s not so good about me too. But I am not going to shy away from telling you what’s good about me. My motive (and…it’s up to you if you want to believe this or not) is not to make you think highly of me. My motive is to (A) make you think highly of the God who alone is responsible for my good behavior and (B) motivate you to do those good things too. There is a fine line between mentoring and bragging. I try to…walk the line.

Now It's Paid For

2007-10-03T16:52:00.000-07:00

Stay with me; this may take a while to type. That would be because I cut my finger. Which is why I'm finally blogging for the first time. Let me 'splain...

My friend and fellow church planter, Jason Campbell, set this up for me so I would start blogging. That was months ago. Since then he has been bugging me to get started. One of his oft repeated arguments to get me off the dime was "get mad about something and then blog about it." Well, I'm mad; and I'm blogging. And bleeding, incidentally.

Everybody can relax. I know where all the sadistic creeps in the world have gathered. You may have noticed a shortage of sadistic creeps...or maybe not...I digress. Anyway, I found them. They are in charge of packaging. Everything.

Now that I am a wanna-be church planter, my office is in my house, and I had to buy certain office supplies. Sure; I could have pilfered them. But don't you think ministers ought to be leading the way in NOT pilfering office supplies when they change posts? Me too. And that's why I just picked up my new paper-cutter. Every office needs a paper-cutter.

Now, apparently--and you may have noticed this--those who package things (see "sadistic creeps" above) are under the impression that you just want to look at whatever you have purchased through the ever-so-clear, unnecessarily thick, nearly impenetrable, plastic packaging material. Also apparently, it is assumed by those who package that everything worth packaging is worth packaging as if the contents are sterile, and might just be opened in an operating room during a particular sensitive surgical procedure (you can never be too careful). That is the only explanation I can come up with for why something like a paper cutter is heat-sealed, creating a kind of "plastic weld" at every corner and on every side of the ever-so-clear, unnecessarily thick, nearly impenetrable plastic packaging material.

Or maybe that's not why at all (see "sadistic creeps" above).

So there I sat, with my pocket knife, slowly, painstakingly perforating, when the knife closed on the back of my right middle finger, just south of my fingernail. As I was applying pressure and holding my bleeding digit up in the air, I asked myself, "why? What the junk is wrong with these people? Sweet cracker sandwich! Everything in this world, unbreakable or not, is packaged with the same ever-so-clear, unnecessarily thick, nearly impenetrable plastic! Even my Dilbert desk calendar came to me that way this year Why?! When does it stop?!

...And when does this blog stop? How does one end these things, anyway?

I gotta go; I have to change bandaids--it's still bleeding.