The Hole in Our Prayer Life

You’ve heard this one before:

A man was late for an important meeting and couldn’t find a parking spot. As he frantically circled the block, the man became so desperate that he began to pray. Looking up to heaven he said:

“Lord, have pity on me. If you find me a parking place, I’ll promise to never miss church again. Not only that, I’ll stop my cussing, my gambling, my drinking and my carousing.”

Miraculously, a parking space appeared.

The guy looked up again and said, “Never mind. I found one.”

Isn’t it convenient that our prayer life expects everything without actually contributing anything? I think it was Flip Wilson who once said,

“I’m gonna pray now; anyone want anything?”

Parents, imagine what it would feel like if the only contact that you had with your children was when they were asking for something (it occurs to me that this may be hitting a little too close to home).

The patterns, motives and content of our prayer lives may reveal something unsavory about the health of our souls. It may be time to consider our vital signs:

-For what do you find yourself praying?
-When and how frequently do you pray for these things?
-Have you noticed a correlation or spike in the frequency of your prayers when you need or desire something?
-What have you offered to God?

I fear that if left unchecked our prayer life will reveal a self-centered attitude with God. Our prayers may just reveal ourselves to be superficial and selfish, dictatorial and presumptive. In the framework of Jesus’s breathtaking prayer at Gethsemane, we pray for our will to be done—and we’re foolishly hopeful that God will change His will to accommodate our own.

Y’all, this is not how the ‘created’ are supposed to talk to their Creator. Repentance, humility and respect for God’s Divine Presence seems to be in order, here.

A holy posture of listening to God could be a good first step in strengthening our relationship with Him. In short, we may just be doing too much talking and not enough listening. ‘Monologuing’ with your spouse or best friend may be cathartic, but it doesn’t reveal a particularly healthy or balanced relationship. Just as we would bristle at a friendship where someone simply talks at us, we would be wise to consider that our relationship with God has got to be more than our litany of needs and concerns.

God wants more from us than our to-do lists.

I suspect, however, that the reason we don’t listen to God is because we don’t want to hear what God may have to say to us. That’s also probably why we no longer read the Bible like we should, or why we get so defensive when someone challenges our way of thinking.

Besides, listening is hard work. To be a good and effective listener, we’ve got to yield to the Other. We’ve got to sacrifice our right to fill the silence. Listening means that we tune out the myriad of other competing voices and claims on us. Listening means choosing to be present. Listening means letting go of our fantasies—past, present and future. Listening means creating space to consider and reconsider.

Gratitude and praise are forms of listening. By acknowledging that for which we are thankful, we are looking and listening for the ways God has been present with us. By praising God, we place him above ourselves and naturally turning our attention to the One who has a claim on us.

If I may be confessional, I will gladly admit that as a pastor listening is the most important thing I do each day and by far the hardest thing I do each day. Why? Listening takes time and the right attitude. It means making myself available to the Spirit of God and to others. In truth, it would be easier to see my tasks and responsibilities as a kind of punch-sheet, and hammer away to achieve that delicious moment of completion and accomplishment. But doing so would mean that my work would be my own. Listening means yielding. And I find that my work is far more effective when it is Spirit-filled and Divinely-inspired. In order for God to be present in my offering of service, I’ve got to first listen to Him.

Mother Teresa, I believe, says it best of all:

“Prayer is not asking. Prayer is putting oneself in the hands of God, at his disposition, and listening to his voice in the depths of our hearts.”

Perhaps we should ask for something when we pray—open ears and hearts to listen to God’s voice. 

Explosive Growth, Extraordinary Impact

It was five years ago this spring that our church began a relationship with an individual who has ultimately helped to change lives and enrich families.

Let me dig into the dim recesses of my memory and try and recall how it all came to be.

As I remember it, our Mission and Fellowship Center was nearing completion and our church was excited about the ministry opportunities that the new facility would help to birth. Our process of discernment was extensive as we sought to hear the church’s hopes and dreams.

One of those hopes and dreams was an after-school ministry. Our community was going to be losing a federal grant to provide care for children and youth after school and our church was concerned for the well-being of the families that we were trying to reach. A small group of us met to research, discuss and pray about what it would look like for First Baptist to become leaders in this field. But we could only go so far. We needed outside help.

Kelly Brown’s name came to me from a trusted source. Kelly was currently serving in campus ministry at WCU and might, the source told me, be a good candidate for us. I met with Kelly to discuss a very limited partnership with our church to develop an after-school ministry, and in doing so I had the kind of experience that many of us have had over the years. That is, I found Kelly to be exceptionally relatable, engaging and sincere. I also found him to be curious and intrigued by what we were trying to do here at First Baptist.

Our first experiment with providing after school care was limited. It involved a small group of sixth grade students from around our county. The parents were responsible for their child’s transportation and the scope of our program was minimal. But, it was a start.

In the coming months, our after school hopes and dreams began to bear fruit. Under Kelly’s leadership, the after school ministry grew. And grew. And grew. As confirmation of our hunch months before, parents in our community clamored to our ministry for help with care for their children after school. To assist in our growth, Kelly developed partnerships with our schools so that he could pick up children with our own church bus. Before long, the number of children interested in our ministry exceeded the number we could pick up. A waiting list emerged and our after school ministry was openly heralded in our community as the best choice for childcare to elementary and middle school children each weekday afternoon.

Still, our ministry grew. After school care was a significant concern for parents, but it had a kissing cousin in the name of summer care. Our summer explorers camp experience was birthed from the collective prayers and idea-swapping that was generated on a church-wide mission trip to a church in Washington, DC. Kelly saw what was being implemented to children there and worked with us here to provide a comprehensive camp experience to children in the summer.

The ministry that began humbly now had its own name and logo. 1st Explorers Ministry at First Baptist Church was now a mission initiative that provided care and ministry to preschoolers, to school-age children after school, and to children throughout the summer. Staffed by eager college students and young adults, our director provided creative and nimble leadership to help our church care for families in our community.

Today, our 1st Explorers Ministry enables us to minister to children 6 days out of 7. Our ministry has provided part-time employment to scores of college students. Our ministry has allowed us to share the Good News of Jesus Christ most every day of the year to children that we would not ordinarily have exposure to. Our 1st Explorers Ministry has helped to care for strung-out, cash-starved parents in our community who, without our ministry, had no other choice but to let their second grader stay home alone. And throughout our community, people know our church as the church that loves children and that allows them to play on their playground.

The fruit that our ministry has born is significant, also. Children and families have come to know Jesus and be baptized in his name because of our 1st Explorers Ministry. Children and families, as well as their neighbors, their grandparents, co-workers and friends, have come to know our church and to join us in worship, fellowship and membership. 1st Explorers is one of the many ways that we are doing justice and loving kindness. And we know that because of the gratitude, smiles and hugs that Kelly receives from children, parents and grandparents each and every day he serves alongside us.

First Baptist Church, thank you for your relentless commitment to this still-growing and ever-expanding ministry. Thank you for your patience as we have had to make course-corrections and strive to learn from our mistakes along the way. And above all, thank you for helping to bless our community by investing in our 1st Explorers Ministry Director, Kelly Brown.

On behalf of all of us, Kelly, let me convey our deep appreciation for your commitment to our church and to our community these last five years. We are proud of you, and the work that you help to lead and coordinate. Please know of our love and support for you as we continue to work together to serve, to love and to grow.

May you continue to lead us, Kelly, as we seek to do justice, love kindness, and to walk humbly with our God.

Marked Sheep

“I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. The hired hand, who is not the shepherd and does not own the sheep, sees the wolf coming and leaves the sheep and runs away—and the wolf snatches them and scatters them. The hired hand runs away because a hired hand does not care for the sheep. I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me, just as the Father knows me and I know the Father. And I lay down my life for the sheep.”
John 10:11-15
 
I stumbled upon an unexpected sight when I was hiking in Ireland last month.
 
I was taking a break from a steep ascent and noticed two sheep on a craggy meadow not far from the trail. They were a bit grubby. The recent snow and mud had made the critters more barn-like than cuddly-cute. But that’s not what got my attention. The sheep had been painted. Their white wool had been painted with a bright splotch of red paint.
 
The sheep had been marked. Their owner had branded the sheep as his or her own property. It was clear to everyone who could spot the sheep on the mountain. The sheep were not stragglers or orphans. They belonged to someone who had claimed them. And by the looks of the stone fences that carved up the landscape, they had made arrangements to care for their sheep.
 
As I caught my breath and sipped from my water bottle, it occurred to me that I found these marked sheep to be an encouraging reminder that I am cared for, as well.
 
Christ is the Good Shepherd. He knows his flock and they know him. The Good Shepherd will not desert his sheep in their time of need. His love and commitment for his sheep is extraordinary and unusual. The Good Shepherd will lay down his life for his sheep.
 
Which is absurd, of course. They’re sheep. No shepherd in their right mind would sacrifice their own life for their sheep. Yes, sheep are a valuable commodity. And yes, they represent an investment on behalf of their owner. But to sacrifice one’s self for livestock? Laughable.
 
Well, not to Jesus.
 
Jesus used this pastoral metaphor to help his hearers to understand the depth of God’s love and provision for His own. The farmers and shepherds, hired hands and rural, migrant workers would have understood this imagery. They would have understood that a hired hand would have faced the temptation to flee if predators descended upon the flock. Jesus, however, is clear. He is no hired hand. He is the owner of the sheep. He cares for them. His love for them will prompt sacrifice when needed. Jesus is the Good Shepherd and he’s not laughing at the prospect of laying down his life for them.   
 
Once I had caught my breath and renewed my hike, I found myself relieved that I have a Good Shepherd. Although I don’t have a splash of red paint on my back to signal my owner’s identity, I can claim my baptism as the mark of my maker. Christ’s love for me in sacrifice helps me to feel the assuring presence of the Good Shepherd.
 
“I am the good shepherd,” Jesus states. “I know my own and my own know me.”
 
But it doesn’t always feel that way. In fact, I frequently forget the fact that I belong to someone else. Jesus tells us that he knows his own, and I believe that wholeheartedly. In my better moments, I can confess that I know my owner. When I fail to recall that I do not belong to myself, I make poor decisions and fall victim to feelings of isolation, vulnerability and anxiety. When I don’t know that I belong to the Good Shepherd, I feel the threat of predators too numerous to count. Christ knows that I belong to him. It’s me that forgets about him.
 
By remembering our baptism, we can recall that the Holy Spirit has been sealed upon our hearts and upon our lives. We belong to the God who has saved us, and whose love for us is beyond our comprehension. We may feel like sheep, but the One to whom we belong is the one who defines our true value. When Christ laid down his life for us, we could see firsthand the depth and measure of God’s love.
 
Brothers, sisters and fellow sheep, we are valuable beyond belief. We are God’s flock and we belong to Him. He surrounds us with love and encloses us with his warm embrace. God is our Good Shepherd. What should we fear?
 
Not one thing.
 
As we reflect on the reality that we belong to the Good Shepherd, please join me in praying this verse from an ancient Celtic prayer:
 
By Christ this day my strong protector,
Against poison and burning,
Against drowning and wounding,
Through reward wide and plenty…
Christ beside me,
Christ before me,
Christ behind me,
Christ within me,
Christ beneath me,
Christ above me,
Christ toright of me,
Christ toleft of me;
Christ in my lying, my sitting, my rising;
Christ in heart of all who know me,
Christ ontongue of all who meet me,
Christ ineye of all who see me,
Christ inear of all who hear me. Amen.

The Way of Sorrows

I was a child when the Shroud of Turin exhibit came to Atlanta. My family had made plans to go downtown and to experience an in-depth exposition on Jesus’s burial cloth. It was the Saturday before Easter, I believe.

In the mid-fourteenth century, a long cloth was discovered in Europe that had the faint image of a man imprinted upon it. The fabric appeared to be the kind of cloth that would be used to wrap a body in for burial. Tradition holds that the person whose image had been mysteriously reproduced on the cloth is Jesus of Nazareth. The likeness--and the details that suggest an individual’s violent end—was uncanny in its similarity to the crucified Christ. Kept in a sealed case in a cathedral in Turin, Italy,  many faithful Christians have regarded it as a genuine relic from Jesus’s grave.

Studies, investigations and well-regarded research have, however, made its authenticity unclear. The exhibit that my family attended in Atlanta so many years ago revealed the differing theories and ideas behind the shroud’s history.

The exhibit, with its high walls, massive images, and displayed artifacts, wound through a cavernous convention center. The path through the exhibit was like a labyrinth. The lighting increasingly dimmed—so as to prepare the visitor for the illuminated images that had been reproduced—and eerie music filled the hall. Along the way, the exhibit told the story of Jesus’s final hours. It described the crucifixion in starkly gruesome terms. It told about Jewish burial customs. It was fascinating. My attention was rapt. I was also terrified.

As a child, and up to that trip to the Shroud of Turin exhibit, I could testify that I was very familiar with Jesus’s violent death and his subsequent resurrection. But I was unprepared that day to see the unique horror that Jesus must have experienced that Good Friday. With each step that I took along the path to Jesus’s final breath in the exhibit’s storytelling, a feeling of inescapable dread washed over me. I remember that I wanted to retrace my steps and to retreat from the reality in which I had been immersed. I wanted to erase the feeling of dread and sorrow that I felt. I wanted to run and hide from a world that crucified God.

These many years later I still want to escape the reality of Jesus’s terrible death on the cross. The story of Jesus’s Passion feels too hard to handle, and certainly too heavy to bear. I don’t want to hear the details of Jesus’s crucifixion. I don’t want to see and touch a thorny crown, nor consider the nail-scarred hands. The image of Jesus on the cross still haunts and frightens me.

So, I can certainly empathize with followers of Jesus who wish to leapfrog over Jesus’s passion to a celebration of the resurrection on Easter Sunday. Why spend any more time on the road with Jesus to the cross when we know that’s not how the story ends? Since Jesus overcame death on the cross, perhaps we can omit that dark chapter from the broader story that we tell.

Protestants do not typically have crosses that depict the crucified Jesus. The crosses that we have in our own sanctuary are a case in point. Jesus is not on our crosses. Our Catholic brothers and sisters, though, have crucifixes that reveal the crucified Christ. These differences in tradition mean something. Catholics tend to emphasize the salvific power of Christ’s suffering—that is, his Passion—whereas Protestants place more emphasis on the empty tomb. And since an empty tomb is hard to symbolize, an empty cross usually suffices.

Neither tradition has it right or wrong. And yet, our starting place in our thinking about Jesus’s death and resurrection can have both strengths and liabilities. For protestants, we may prefer to sanitize the story of Jesus’s death in an attempt to quickly reach Easter Sunday morning. This is certainly revealed in my own experience and thinking about Jesus’s death.

I don’t want to dwell long in Jesus’s final hours. It hurts too much.

But Jesus calls his followers to take up their cross and to follow him. Since Jesus walked the Way of Sorrows out of obedience to the Father and out of love for us, we cannot allow our own sorrows to become barriers to journeying alongside Christ to his death. We remember Jesus’s brokenness because he has commanded us to do so. We follow in Jesus’s footsteps because that is what a disciple does. We become an observer with Jesus in Jerusalem on that Good Friday out of a desire to be in solidarity with our Lord and to bear witness alongside other faithful followers some 21 centuries in the making.

Early on, followers of Jesus went on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem to walk the Way of the Cross. But as travel to the Holy Land became more and more difficult, if not impossible, churches in Europe began to offer their own pilgrimages on church grounds. A path, then, was laid out in sanctuaries and cathedrals where the faithful could go station to station remembering Jesus’s final steps on the way to the cross.

This Good Friday, I invite you to our church sanctuary to experience a solemn pilgrimage to the cross with Jesus. It will not be easy, and you may be inclined to quit the journey before it is completed. Just the same, I pray that you will choose to accept this challenge and to recall Jesus’s final hours even in its difficulty. The path, though ghastly, is also filled with grace and with mercy. We see an obedient Christ, full of love and full of strength, seeking to bring about the salvation of the world. I pray that you will say yes to the invitation to journey the last few steps with Jesus to the cross.

The church sanctuary will be open to you from 9 AM until 5 PM on Friday, March 29th. Upon arriving at the sanctuary doors—whether from the hallway in the back, or from the foyer off of Main Street—you will find a guide with directions for your journey. It reveals that the Stations of the Cross experience is a self-guided trek that you may take at your own pace. Beginning in the foyer and up the stairs to the balcony, you will be guided sequentially through the 11 stations of the cross. You will read a passage from the Passion narratives in the Gospel at each station. Additionally, you will have the chance to be silent and to consider what it must have felt like for Jesus and for his disciples that Good Friday so many years ago. Some stations will invite you to hold a particular question, and to touch sharp thorns, and to feel the weight of a hammer, and to physically trace the arc of Jesus’s life and ministry. The experiential journey is appropriate for your family—especially for children ages 8 and up.

I know. It’s a heartrending trail. There are many other things you could be doing with your time. The story of Jesus’s death is scary, and it is terrible.

But it’s also the Path to our own Redemption.

A Hard Thing

“So Jesus got up from the meal, took off his outer clothing, and wrapped a towel around his waist. After that, he poured water into a basin and began to wash his disciples’ feet, drying them with the towel that was wrapped around him.” John 13:4-5
 
The mere mention of this text raises our anxiety.
 
We are humbled and in awe at Jesus’s expression of servanthood. The story is unambiguous in meaning. Jesus takes on the role of a servant and offers a physical expression of his love, affection and commitment to his closest followers. He washes their feet.
 
And every fiber of our being screams out in unison, “Oh dear Lord. Don’t make us do this.”
 
No, I am not going to make you wash one another’s feet during our Maundy Thursday service. I’m not that daft—no one would show up. I am however, going to invite you to consider washing one another’s feet. There will be no mandate. But you will have the chance if the Spirit moves you.
 
Now. You can breathe again.
 
I understand. Truly, I do. Foot washing feels alien to us. It feels deeply personal. There is an intimacy that accompanies this ordinance that many of us find terrifying. We are all well-aware that our bare feet are mangled, gnarly, knobby and crusty. They smell. They are misshapen and hairy. For most of us, they represent the least appealing parts of our bodies. We don’t want others to see them, let alone touch them. And certainly, not wash them.
 
So, let’s just wash one another’s hands, right? Some churches choose to have their cake and eat it too. These churches’ pastors acknowledge the power of this passage and desperately want to be faithful to Christ’s command that we wash one another’s feet. But they clearly have no intention of actually doing so. Washing feet seems distasteful and not appropriate for worship. Hands, therefore, become a suitable alternative. It feels like a gentle and far less invasive experience of anointing.
 
Although I respect this move and understand the motives behind it (we pastors actually want people to attend our church’s services), I feel like it misses the mark. It’s supposed to be hard. That’s why Jesus commands us to do it.
 
We have good company in our adamant refusal to participate: Peter said to Jesus, “You will never wash my feet.” (John 13:8)
 
Jesus answered, “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.” (John 13:8)
 
So there. Unless Jesus models for his disciples what service to others looks like, they cannot be one with him. Solidarity with Christ hinges on our willingness to do the hard thing.
 
And washing feet is a hard thing, because it’s far more than just washing feet, of course.
 
It’s hard because we don’t want to make ourselves that vulnerable. We desire Christian fellowship with others, but we’re not keen on the accountability that fellowship demands. We want to be church, but we want it on our terms. We want to have a robust offering of services to our church and our community, but we’re not willing to actually do the work of service. We are, in truth, one collective mass of contradictions.
 
“Can’t we just wash one another’s hands?”

Jesus: “No.”
 
“So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you.” (John 13:14-15)
 
Maundy Thursday, during Holy Week, is a time set aside for us to remember Christ as he prepares to give his life for us at Calvary on Good Friday. The word Maundy comes from the Latin word Maundantum, which means commandment. It refers to Jesus’s instructions to his followers the night before he died.
 
Just on the heels (pun intended) of his foot washing, Jesus says: “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” (John 13:34-35)
 
Jesus demonstrates firsthand what love looks like. God’s love for us in Jesus is about sacrifice and service, vulnerability and humility. And this love is no easy thing.
 
On Thursday night, March 29, we will remember in worship at 6:30 PM that Jesus asks us to do a hard thing—love. We will recall that final night he had with his disciples. We will remember that Jesus calls them his friends. We will share the Lord’s Supper together, and you will have the chance to observe and, or, participate in a foot washing experience. It’s a hard thing. I know. But I think you’re up to the challenge, First Baptist.
 
Besides, if we’re not willing to wash the feet of our brothers and sisters in Christ, then how in the world do we expect to do the other hard things that Jesus requires of us? If we can’t wash one another’s feet, how can we ever begin to love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us?
 
It’s hard, this life of faith. But it’s the way of the cross. It’s the way of Jesus.
 
And he thinks we’re up to the challenge. 

Reflections from 35,000 Feet

I am in row 26, seat C. It’s an aisle seat and I cannot see outside the window. I wish that I could. I travel better when I can see where I’m going.

At present, we are somewhere over the North Atlantic. I think.

A week ago, on our connection from London Heathrow to Dublin, I got more than a bit queasy as we took off. Flying typically doesn’t turn my stomach, but this flight certainly did. I’m not entirely sure what triggered the telltale signs of motion sickness. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation. Perhaps it was the fact that I didn’t have anything on my stomach. Who knows? But I know this: I had an aisle seat and didn’t have access to a window. If I could have seen the world down below, my head could have become better acclimated to the movement—the shimmying, the bumping, the rattling—that my body was experiencing.

But as it was, I couldn’t see where we were going. And I didn’t like that feeling one bit.

Life becomes most difficult when we can’t see the path before us. The uncertainty is disorienting. The over-abundance of possibilities, endless. The potential for disaster feels omnipresent.

“If I could just see where I’m going, my head and my heart could get in sync and the journey wouldn’t feel so hard,” we muse.

And yet, sight may be overrated.

An old saying suggests that there is a blessing in having a limited horizon. If we were sailing, we might not be willing to leave port if we could see what lay ahead. We may just be paralyzed by fear if we knew the dangers that were on the other side of the horizon.

Some of us are at our best when we can’t see what lies ahead. Many of our fellow pilgrims thrive when the way forward does not seem clear. I am not one of them.

Faithful monks in Ireland once placed themselves on a journey where they could not see. These zealous Christians would get into a boat and push off toward the open water with no idea where the currents might take them. They proceeded on this journey with the firm belief that God would lead them to where God wanted them. These pilgrims were proud that they were trusting God with their destination, and God most always directed them to distant lands with people who did not know the saving power of Jesus Christ. Without these fearless travelers, much of England and Western Europe would not have known about the Gospel.

So, I for one am thankful for these Irish Christians who trusted God with their journeys, even—and especially when—it would have made me more than a bit queasy.

There’s a lesson to be learned here.

Faith means trusting God with the journey. Faith means not panicking when we cannot see the way. Faith means being grounded in God’s presence when the undulating waves poison our souls with nausea.

I wish that I could see more clearly. I wish that I had a clear view from the window seat on my life’s path. I wish that I could have the assurance that comes from the radiant light that comes when you emerge from a cloud deck.  

And yet, this is not always the case. I know that I must trust the fact that God knows the way forward even when I don’t. I know this. It’s just hard, at times, and the unease that I feel has the power to affect my whole being.

So, when the plane began to bank, and my stomach began to churn, I asked for help. I looked behind me to the flight attendants who were braving the gravity-questionable-reality without the security of a seat belt.

“I’m not feeling well,” I told them.

They responded with alacrity (for good reason) and without annoyance (apparently, they knew how this felt). They knelt beside me. They got me medicine from my carry-on bag. They provided me cashews, ginger ale and a hospitality that I was most-assuredly grateful for. It was comforting to know that when the journey became too much, there were those around me who could care for me and help me.

This, I thought in an instant, is what church looks like at its best.

No, the trip itself didn’t miraculously get better. There were no false assurances of what might, or might not, happen next. But the people around me were gracious and kind. They provided nourishment and consolation when the motion got too much. And when I left the plane and told the two flight attendants thank you, they grinned and said, “We’ve all been there.”

Indeed, we have, which is why we are all the better for it when we choose to be present with one another along the way. Our collective experience, perspective, and insight—even when we ourselves cannot see well—are invaluable gifts to those with whom we journey.

God knows where we are going, and it is frightening that we do not know the way ourselves. But we can rejoice and be glad that Christ has promised to always be with us!

And if we’re lucky, he’ll be bringing us a can of ginger ale.

Jesus Is the Right Answer

I suspect that you are familiar with the Sunday School Cop-Out. It typically occurs on drizzly Sunday mornings when the conversation in class drags and the lesson isn’t landing its usual punch. The coffee hasn’t kicked in yet and we’re more interested in doing mental planning or daydreaming than we are in diving deep into the scriptures.

Perhaps I’m the only one who has ever felt this way.

But I doubt it.

In these moments, we tend to settle on a pat ‘Sunday School answer’ for the queries that our teachers pitch at us. These responses are often trite, plainly obvious and void of depth and complexity. They are also usually right.

A wise teenager once leaned over in class one Sunday to tell me this Sunday School hack when I was a youngster: “Always answer with, ‘Jesus.’ He’s always the right answer to every question.”

True. Who is going to argue with that? Jesus is always the right answer to our questions. And yet, this answer also proves to be unsatisfactory because it doesn’t take seriously our own responsibility in the circumstances that we face.

The question that we have been holding these last couple of weeks has centered on our ability to be One in the Spirit when our differences are many. Yes, Jesus is the right answer, but we can’t stop there. For us to truly be One, as Christ and God are One, we’ve got to actually do something to work for love and unity.

Romans 12 provides a fitting response to this question. In his letter to the church in Rome, Paul gets specific. He becomes directive. He employs strong verbs like honor, share, bless, rejoice, and live. Undoubtedly and without question, Paul’s writings are spot-on. They are the right answers to the question about how we are to live in unity together.

But what is it that we’re supposed to do next? What does the next step look like for the church of the 21st century? What does it look like today to practice these instructions?

In Romans 12, Paul writes:

Love must be sincere.

Translation: Love is not a feeling. Love is an action that we do to one another. Our acts of love must be genuine and fully expressed.

Hate what is evil; cling to what is good.

Translation: Double-check your definition of evil. Consider that what you think is evil may just exempt you from being guilty of practicing evil, yourself. Look to Christ as your measure to determine what is good and evil.

Be devoted to one another in love.

Translation: Make a commitment to one another. Stay connected to those who irritate you, annoy you, and who hurt your feelings. Practice resiliency and don’t check out on relationships when they don’t go your way.

Honor one another above yourselves.

Translation: De-centralize yourself. Resist the effort to act solely out of your own self-interest.

Never be lacking in zeal, but keep your spiritual fervor, serving the Lord.

Translation: Serve God with the passion and enthusiasm that is due Him. We serve God when we serve others.

Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer.

Translation: Anticipate God’s power to redeem the dark moments we experience. Remind yourself that it will not always feel the way it does when you feel under assault. Take on the characteristics of the persistent widow that Jesus references in praying without ceasing.

Share with the Lord’s people who are in need. Practice hospitality.

Translation: Be generous. Check yourself when your head tells you, “They don’t deserve help. They haven’t earned our investment. They won’t help themselves—why should we help them?”

Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse.

Translation: Do acts of loving kindness to those who hurt you. Pray for their well-being. Refrain from damning those who stand for the things you oppose. Instead, demonstrate your love for them in tangible ways.

Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.

Translation: Allow yourself to rejoice in the good news of others. Have open eyes to see the ‘least of these’ in our community and do acts of loving kindness for them. Be present with them. Take their hurts and pain seriously.

Live in harmony with one another.

Translation: Stop posting inflammatory political messages on social media. The one-upmanship inflames passions and distorts truth. But most importantly, it does not encourage healthy dialogue or unity. It only fosters discord. We need to have good and rich conversation about any number of difficult items. Social media, as we are learning, does not help accomplish this kind of discourse. When in doubt, post pictures of your grandchildren. Or your cats.

Do not be proud, but be willing to associate with people of low position. Do not be conceited.

Translation: Strive to see Christ in everyone that you see and meet.

Do not repay anyone evil for evil. Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everyone.

Translation: When someone hurts you, refuse to succumb to the temptation to hurt them back. Recognize that we oftentimes respond to evil and pain with disengagement, anger, pouting, passive-aggressive actions, plotting, and by inciting discord. Do not do these things in response to evil or hurt.

If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.

Translation: Do not gossip. Have the right conversation with the right person at the right time. Listen to people’s reflections about themselves, not other people. Respond to vitriol about another person with the response: “I think you should talk to _________.” Encourage individuals to connect with one another. Do not try and mediate on their behalf behind closed doors.

Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is written: “It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” says the Lord.

Translation: Remember the words of Billy Graham who said: “It is the Holy Spirit's job to convict, God's job to judge and my job to love.”

On the contrary: “If your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him something to drink. In doing this, you will heap burning coals on his head.”

Translation: We love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us because Christ commands us to, not in order that they will feel pain through our passive-aggressive activity. Read Billy Graham’s quote again.

Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.

Translation: The ends do not justify the means. Doing evil to overcome evil is evil. Period. Diffuse wrong with right.

In summary: Look like Jesus in all things and in all ways.

Because Jesus is the right answer. 

One in the Spirit?

“We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord. We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord. And we pray that our unity will one day be restored. And they’ll know we are Christians by our love, by our love. Yes, they’ll know we are Christians by our love.”
 
In the dim recesses of my mind, I can still hear my friends singing this song.
 
It must have been in the mid-1990s. I was a student leader in the Baptist Student Union at NC State. My role on our leadership council was to lead and direct our weekly programming events.
 
We called it, Monday Night Live, I believe. Yes, the name of our evening programming was shamelessly stolen. To the best of my awareness, though, no one from NBC ever called us to ‘cease and desist.’
 
Our hour-long program involved the following elements: a welcome, an ice-breaker, some singing, a prayer, some kind of content or guest speaker, and at least 15 minutes of announcements (yes, this sounds strikingly similar to our modern-day worship hour at church).
 
But our evening needed some kind of closing element that would help us to feel like the group that we were hoping to become. So, we alighted on the familiar song, “We Are One in the Spirit.” All 50 of us would circle up, hold hands and sing the song that Jesus, himself, prayed to the Father: “I ask… that they may all be one. As you, Father, are in me and I am in you (John 17:20-21).”
 
In truth, it was not a throw-away element. It was an earnest plea for unity…because our campus ministry group was a mess. And by ‘mess,’ I mean a disaster.
 
Oh, we were a jolly bunch (at times). We got things accomplished on campus and in the community (mostly). And we grew in our relationship with Christ (occasionally).
 
But my lasting recollection of my time in the BSU was that we were divided. We were an odd mix of insiders and outsiders, social misfits and intellectual snobs, attractive and repugnant. We came from different church backgrounds and brought with us a host of flashpoints and disagreements. We argued, fussed and fumed. We debated headlines, championed our points of view, and retreated into tribes that would wage social war with one another.
 
One thing I must give us credit for: we were resilient. We fought and made up, we argued, and we laughed at ourselves. We would vilify one another on any particular issue, but we’d still lead Bible studies together. We were becoming adults together and campus ministry was an important part of our social and emotional development.
 
Our ending song, then, was a plea that in the midst of our disagreements and divisions, we could still be ‘One in the Spirit.’ And truly, God answered our prayers.
 
In light of our current socio-political, and socio-theological realities, 1995 feels quaint.
 
At best, our differences are fault lines that lie quietly beneath the Church’s surface, only occasionally splintering the Body of Christ. At worst, Christians are so divided that we demonize any hint of ‘otherness’ and shade the world into right/ wrong, black/ white, good/ evil. Fundamentalism—that is, the idea that our worldview is absolutely right, and that all others should be damned—is prevalent on both the right and on the left.
 
For over a century, our own particular church has prided itself on being a church that eschews fundamentalism and values the fact that we are not all of the same mind. We are a faithful bunch that populates most every station on the continuum from anarchy to communism. And while our church’s tolerance for a variety of opinions and beliefs is what helps to define us as followers of Christ in the Baptist tradition, we also must concede that our way of being church is no longer normative in our day and age. The friction from the movement of tectonic plates that litter our Facebook feeds causes us to increasingly not want to have anything to do with one another.
 
I find a strange comfort in the reminder that none of this is particularly new in the span of human history. No, we have always been a wily, tribally-loyal mishmash of a people throughout the ages. But we shouldn’t get too comfortable knowing that we are not alone in our toxic and broken reality. History teaches us that fundamentalism (I’m right, you’re wrong!) and the inherent discord that it sows results in horrific violence, civil strife, and genocide. Much of this was done in the name of Jesus, so we’d best tread carefully.
 
A judicious reading of the Gospels reveals that the disciples were just as divided as my campus ministry buddies were—arguably even more so. The disciples hailed from different backgrounds. There were people who were intimately related to one another, and others who were strangers, sinners and social outcasts. Some were power-hungry. Others were vengeful and mean-spirited. There were revolutionaries and blue-collar workers. They were ambitious. They were naïve. They were liberal. They were conservative.
 
Upon a final analysis, the only thing holding them together was Jesus.
 
And even that had a limited shelf-life.
 
The only way for us to be One in the Spirit when our differences are many is Jesus. If Christ is at the center, and if we are all facing him, a circle will form. So long as we’re all facing Christ, we will find ourselves side by side with those we might ordinarily dismiss. This, I believe, is the only way we can experience unity in the Spirit.
 
To that end, consider Paul’s practical suggestions for maintaining unity in Christ during tumultuous times. Romans 12:9-21 provides us with a template for how we are to be One in Christ’s Name.
 
Romans 12
9 Love must be sincere. Hate what is evil; cling to what is good.
10 Be devoted to one another in love. Honor one another above yourselves.
11 Never be lacking in zeal, but keep your spiritual fervor, serving the Lord.
12 Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer.
13 Share with the Lord’s people who are in need. Practice hospitality.
14 Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse.
15 Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.
16 Live in harmony with one another. Do not be proud, but be willing to associate with people of low position. Do not be conceited.
17 Do not repay anyone evil for evil. Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everyone.
18 If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.
19 Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is written: “It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” says the Lord.
20 On the contrary:
“If your enemy is hungry, feed him;
if he is thirsty, give him something to drink.
In doing this, you will heap burning coals on his head.”
21 Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.
 
Brothers and Sisters in Christ, this is who God is calling us to be.
 
Jesus is telling us: “You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid…In the same way, you must let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to our Father in heaven.”
 
Our Father. Yes, Our Father.
 

Dust Worth Dying For

“Remember that you are from dust, and to dust you shall return.”
-Genesis 3:19

Remember.

Ash Wednesday marks the first day of our journey to the cross. We do not travel alone, and we are not leading the way. We follow in the footsteps of Jesus as he makes his way to Jerusalem. The journey will take us some 40-odd days. But when we arrive at the destination of the cross, we will see firsthand what love truly looks like.

Our faith is based on remembrance. Our communion table is etched with Jesus’s own words: “Do this in remembrance of me.” When our church gathers together, we rightly remember Christ’s words, his ministry, his miracles, his sacrifice and his love.

But we are called to remember far more than that.

We are to remember our ancestors of faith in God’s Chosen People—the nation of Israel. We are to recall their struggles. We are to remember their triumphs. We are to remember that like them, we too were once slaves in captivity. We remember God’s liberating power. We remember His promises to the patriarchs and matriarchs, the prophets and the judges. We remember that God is Creator, Sustainer, Redeemer and King.

Although this sounds like a comprehensive list of remembrances, there is but one more significant thing to recall:

“Remember. You are from dust. And to dust you shall return.”

It is a familiar trope in literature, folklore and film. The child leaves home with the well-intentioned admonition from a parent:

“Remember who you are, son. Remember your family name.”

“Don’t forget where you are from, daughter. Don’t fail to recall the people who shaped your life.”

In these moments, the listener is reminded that our identity is shaped by our past. The truth about our beginnings is the True North that will keep us focused and centered when we venture away from the familiar.

It is significant, then, that we remember who we are in the grand scheme of things. We remember the truth about ourselves so that we can be clear about where our power and redemption come from. We are the created. God is the Creator.

Lent is a season that confronts us with this truth. We are not our own gods. We cannot save ourselves. The One True God has made a promise with us and we have willfully broken the covenant through disobedience and unfaithfulness.

Remembering our sin during the season of Lent does figure prominently, but not in the way we might assume. The purpose of remembering our sin is not to flog ourselves, but to remind us of our absolute need for Jesus.

John the Evangelist says it well:

This is the message we have heard from him and proclaim to you, that God is light and in him there is no darkness at all. If we say that we have fellowship with him while we are walking in darkness, we lie and do not do what is true; but if we walk in the light as he himself is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus his Son cleanses us from all sin. If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins, he who is faithful and just will forgive us our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness. If we say that we have not sinned, we make him a liar, and his word is not in us.
-1 John 1:5-10

When we remember faithfully who we are, what we’ve become, and who God is calling us to be, God provides us with the gift of perspective. When we accept the ashes and begin our pilgrimage with Christ to the cross, the way in which we see ourselves can be reoriented. We do not belong to ourselves. We belong to the One who has created us. And because of the saving love of Christ Jesus, we belong to the One who has bought and redeemed us.

We may be dust. But during Lent, we are able to remember that we are dust worth dying for.

The Light Grows and We Are Called to Go Deeper

February is the shortest month of the year. And that’s a good thing, because it tends to be a rough few weeks.
 
Not to belabor the point, but February is not the brightest of seasons. Our weather teeters between dismal and abysmal most days. Winter has outlived its charm. A rampant cold and flu season has made us suspicious of one another, and we’re reluctant to venture out more than we have to. St. Valentine’s Day can be bitter sweet, and the life and vitality of spring seems far away.
 
If that were not enough, February begins the church’s season of Lent. Although its name—from Latin—hints at the lengthening of days because of added sunlight, it is typically experienced as a Holy season of somber contemplation on Jesus’s 40 days in the wilderness. It is a time when we declare our humanity while we are reminded of the ancient, sacred words: “Remember that you are from dust, and to dust you shall return.” We are mindful of our true nature as we walk in solidarity with Christ to the Cross. Jesus is the Way through suffering, to death and ultimately to resurrection. Ash Wednesday, on February 14th, begins this journey.
 
I doubt that I am alone when I state that this feels cumbersome and heavy.
 
The season of Lent—that is, the 6-week period of preparation for Christ’s Passion and the Resurrection at Easter—was the church’s first ‘holiday.’ To early Christians, this period was more important than the other ‘markers’ of the faith because it demanded a penitent heart, and a willingness to walk humbly with God.
 
While the sleet and freezing rain poured down on our mountains this past Sunday, Kelly read from Psalm 51 in worship. Verse 17 captures well the purpose of Lent:
 
The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit;
a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.
 
Yes, in order for God to “create in us a clean heart and to put a new and right spirit within us,” we must come to God without guile and with transparency.
 
Even though the timing of this season of preparation for the cross compounds the darkness and shadow that we experience in late winter, a greater communion with God does not require solemnity and sorrow at all times. Instead of throwing ourselves into the grey, angst-filled corridors of repentance to experience God’s presence, we can envision that God wants to use these coming weeks as a time where our relationship with Him can be deepened. By allowing ourselves to be stilled like a ripple-free pond in a glen, God can reach deep within our souls to fill us with the strength of his presence and to truly be our God.  
 
While disciplines of sacrifice, fasting and abstinence are hallmarks of Lent, consider the following life-giving ways to deepen your relationship with God during the next weeks:
 
1.) Attend worship even when you are inclined to remain in the sanctuary of your home. As a people of the resurrection, Sunday will always be a feast day—that is, a day of celebration. Join your church family as we worship together with praise and thanksgiving on our lips and in our hearts. Being with your church family will do your soul some good.
 
2.) Get outside in nature. Admire the power of God’s creation in the swollen rivers and gushing waterfalls. See the life that God grants creation in the rich evergreens. Notice how they are vibrant, even in the dark of winter.
 
3.) Practice kindness to a stranger. Buy the coffee of the person behind you in line. Return someone’s grocery cart for them. Volunteer at the animal shelter and thank the staff. Give notes of encouragement for those who work in healthcare.
 
4.) Choose to have a prayer time each day that is not connected with meal or bedtime. Pray with your eyes open, or while listening to music. Pray that God grants you a clean heart while you wash your hands.
 
5.) Read a passage of scripture each week and allow your imagination to embody what you’re processing by sketching, painting or molding your response to it.
 
6.) Call, write or text an old friend or family member that you haven’t had contact with in a long time.
 
7.) Go for a brisk walk and feel the life that God has given you swell and pulse, and be thankful.
 
Walking humbly with God during the season of Lent does not have to be a dark, sorrowful experience. For each step of the way points toward wholeness, health, redemption and joy. Lent can be the time when God’s joy is extended like the lengthening of the day and fuels our hope for what lies ahead.
 
The light grows and we are called to go deeper.