Embracing True Narratives: A Review of The Good and Beautiful God

What stands between you and a deeper spiritual life that makes you more like Jesus? For some, it’s a simple matter of not knowing how to pursue the spiritual life. For many of us, though, it’s the stories we tell ourselves about God and how he’s relating to us. James Bryan Smith explains and tackles this problem in his book, The Good and Beautiful God (IVP, 2009).

Smith is a theology professor, and a regular contributor to Renovaré, which is, in my opinion, one of the best sources today for finding books, events and other equipping resources for pursuing the spiritual life. The Good and Beautiful God is a Renovaré resource, and the first volume in their “Apprentice Series,” a sort of ‘curriculum for Christ-likeness” and means of making time-honored spiritual disciplines accessible to Christians today.

In The Good and Beautiful God, Smith addresses a number of the “false narratives” that we tend to tell ourselves about God. We might convince ourselves that we suffer because God is punishing us for our sins. We assume that the way to earn God’s favor is by doing good things, and if we don’t do enough God won’t bless us. Sometimes we tell ourselves narratives opposite of these but equally problematic – that God doesn’t care about our actions at all. Chapter by chapter, Smith dispels these and other false narratives we may tell ourselves, and replaces them with narratives that present God as the good, beautiful, generous and holy  God that he is. At the end of each chapter, Smith presents a “soul training” exercise for the reader to try out over the course of a week or so. The exercises range from different forms of engagement with Scripture (from lectio divina to reading the Gospel of John straight through) to practices as simple as getting enough sleep. The goal of the exercises is to embed more deeply the true narratives about God, and us that Smith lays out. They’re a way to embrace the true story, and in so doing also embrace the true, good and beautiful God made known to us in Christ.

I would recommend this book to any Christian who’s been hanging around the Church, sitting in a pew on Sunday morning, with little else to say about their faith, but wanting to set out into something deeper. This book provides a helpful introduction to a number of spiritual disciplines to get people started in pursuing the spiritual life. But plenty of books do that. The real genius of this book is that it presents these practices in the context of addressing the false narratives that usually keep us from pursing the spiritual life in the first place. The narratives we tell ourselves, after all, create the reality in which we live.

If you’ve already been practicing spiritual disciplines for some time, this may not be the book for you. You’ll likely read it, nod your head a lot in agreement, maybe find an explanation or illustration helpful, but mostly be thankful that this book exists as a resource for others. You may also wish it was available to you  years ago near the start of your spiritual journey. (I did.)

If you do choose to read this book, take heed to Smith’s advice. Go slowly, and read it in the company of a supportive group of others. Many, perhaps all, of the disciplines that this book will teach you are counter-cultural. They will make you less like the rest of the world even as they make you more like Jesus. That, can be lonely without a supportive community trying the disciplines with you. And when you’re done, don’t stop at the end of the last chapter. Skim the footnotes and make a note of the books Smith cites. There’s a gold mine of good literature to help you continue your journey.

Filling the Water Jars: On Being a Deacon

Upper Room‘s leadership team is beginning the process of appointing deacons. It’s an exciting benchmark for us. It means we’re growing – both numerically and spiritually. It also means we’ll likely see open doors for new ministries in the church. However, it also raises a question for us: What is a deacon, anyway?

I think for many of us, our memories of deacons ministries in our churches could be summed up as: “It must be better than this.” I was ordained as a deacon back when I was a teenager. In my church at that time (though perhaps only in my perception), deacons did five things: 1.) assist the elders and pastor in serving communion, 2.) serve the donuts, punch and coffee during fellowship hour, 3.) take the flowers from the sanctuary on Sunday and deliver them to  shut-ins, 4.) serve on a church committee, and 5.) collect and deliver baskets of food for low-income families around Christmas time.

In retrospect, all of these were actually quite important tasks. Aiding in the performance of sacraments, creating hospitality,  visiting those on the margins of our community, doing the ecclesial work of the church, and  feeding the hungry all really matter. At the time, though, most of it felt mundane. And frankly, it was probably my own fault. Assisting in serving communion seemed like something anyone could do. Serving donuts and coffee felt like a thankless job. As a teenager, I knew nothing about sitting on a committee. I did see the value in delivering flowers to shut-ins and food to the poor. But those tasks seemed less frequent than the other three. How can being a deacon be more about caring for people in real ways? How can we have the eyes to see the  mundane tasks of being a deacon with importance?

At our business meeting last week, I introduced Upper Room’s leadership team to the office of deacon by first introducing them to three Greek words in the New Testament: diakonos, diakonia, diakoneo. These words could mean, respectively “deacon, the diaconate (or ministry of deacons), and to serve as a deacon.” Altogether, these words appear more than 90 times in the New Testament. But rarely are they translated “deacon.” This, of course, is for good reason, on the one hand. The words have a wide range of meaning, and don’t always refer specifically to the office of deacon as we know it. Sometimes the words refer to the work of servants, attendants, administrators, etc.  However, when the office of deacon was established, the title almost certainly connoted a more full-breadth of the words’ meanings. To understand what a Deacon is supposed to be, we need to have a fuller understanding of these words.

So, being the Greek language geek that I am, I handed my leadership team a list of all of the verses in the New Testament where diakonos, diakonia, and diakoneo appear. I told them to read as many of the verses in context as they could, and then we would share what we learned. We all, myself included, were stretched, even surprised, by what these words meant and what the implications are for being a deacon. We were all amazed at where these words appear and how they’re used. Perhaps I’ll do some followup posts on other verses we talked about. But for now, my absolute favorite appearance of these words comes in John 2, the story of Jesus turning water into wine. Normally diakonos is translated “servants” in this story. Read it below, though with the word “deacons” substituted:

1 On the third day a wedding took place at Cana in Galilee. Jesus’ mother was there, 2 and Jesus and his disciples had also been invited to the wedding. 3 When the wine was gone, Jesus’ mother said to him, “They have no more wine.”
4 “Woman, why do you involve me?” Jesus replied. “My hour has not yet come.”

5 His mother said to the deacons, “Do whatever he tells you.”

6 Nearby stood six stone water jars, the kind used by the Jews for ceremonial washing, each holding from twenty to thirty gallons.

7 Jesus said to the deacons, “Fill the jars with water”; so they filled them to the brim.

8 Then he told them, “Now draw some out and take it to the master of the banquet.”

They did so, 9 and the master of the banquet tasted the water that had been turned into wine. He did not realize where it had come from, though the deacons who had drawn the water knew. Then he called the bridegroom aside 10 and said, “Everyone brings out the choice wine first and then the cheaper wine after the guests have had too much to drink; but you have saved the best till now.”

11 What Jesus did here in Cana of Galilee was the first of the signs through which he revealed his glory; and his disciples believed in him.

Through the lens of this story, being a Deacon is about faithful obedience to Jesus. It’s about witnessing Jesus’ miracles in ways others don’t get to see. It’s about a special place of intimacy with Jesus.

Mary’s instructions to the servants/deacons in the story could make a good charge to newly ordained deacons: “Do whatever [Jesus] tells you.” Be a faithful servant, attending to every word you hear from Jesus. And expect to see miracles. I’ve said before about this chapter of Scripture that the reason the wine tasted so good was that it came from the fruit of obedience. When we do the work that Jesus calls us to do, we can expect Jesus to reveal his power in ways we wouldn’t otherwise witness.

I wish I had this perspective back when I served as a deacon. I may or may not have done anything differently, but I would have approached what I did do with a different attitude. I would have seen myself as one of the servants filling the water jars. I would have served communion knowing that I was doing the physical work that sets up a miracle that Jesus would do in our midst. I would have visited shut-ins with the understanding that Jesus was going to be there too. I would have approached church committee work as an opportunity to listen and discern the voice of Jesus together, wondering what miracle he was going to do next. I would have served donuts, coffee and punch looking for Jesus to show up in the fellowship that was experienced. And, who knows, maybe I would have expected him to spike the punch!

As Upper Room continues to press into this, my prayer is that our whole church, and especially whomever God calls to be our first deacons, will see the ministry with all of the humility, potential, and power that this story calls us to. Who knows what Jesus will do next when we obey?

A Poem for Palm Sunday and Passion Week

This is a poem that I wrote and preached as the Palm/Passion Sunday sermon this past weekend at the Upper Room. A number of people have requested copies of it, so I’m making it available here.

 

What kind of king are you?

 

What kind of king

rides on a donkey

a donkey that might be borrowed,

or might be hijacked?

 

What kind of king

builds a castle

with a wide open door for children to enter

but a needle-eye sized hole for the rich?

 

What kind of king

rides on a donkey

into the city where

his assassins are waiting?

 

What kind of king

enters his assassins’ city

with a ragtag commotion for all to see

and not one security guard?

 

What kind of king

lets his subjects treat him like a

military liberator but doesn’t

come with a single sword or weapon?

 

What kind of king

lets his followers send a

public message to the competing powers

with no intent of answering a single challenge?

 

What kind of King are you?

 

What kind of King

can send two followers

to fetch a donkey

and know exactly what they’ll need to say?

 

What kind of king

can tell a blind beggar

“your faith has made you well.”

And actually make him see?

 

What kind of king

can weep at the funeral of his friend

only to say, “Lazarus, come out!”

and watch him come back to life.

 

What kind of king

can sit at the dinner table

with his subjects and be subject to them

and wash their feet?

 

What kind of king

can carry his own cross

can serve his assassin and

help in his own execution?

 

What kind of king

can die

so that his assassins

can live?

 

What kind of King are you?

 

A King who came not to be served

but to serve and to give

his life as a ransom

for many.

 

A King who keeps his promises

A King who I can trust

A King who can save

A King I want to follow

 

And so I come to you, King Jesus

not to be served by you

but to serve you

and to give my life to you.

 

So take my cloak

use it to clothe the naked

or use it for your donkey to step on.

I don’t care

so long as you’re the one taking it.

 

Because you’re the only one who

will give me a new garment in return,

a white robe made of saints righteous deeds,

a garment that fits so well it’ll be

a new self, your self.

 

Use me, King Jesus,

all of me.

As you see fit.

Make me a knight or a bishop or a rook,

or make me an expendable pawn.

I don’t care what piece I am.

So long as yours is the hand that’s moving me.

 

Because yours is

the mighty hand with an outstretched arm.

Yours is the hand that rules with an iron scepter,

and that knit me together in my mother’s womb.

 

So let me follow you,

King Jesus

all the way to Golgotha.

 

Let me walk next to you

and put palm branches at your feet

and shout “Hosanna!” with the children.

 

And if the child in me shouting “Hosanna!”

grows up to an adult shouting “Crucify!”

bring me back to the water where I can be born again.

 

Let me sit at the table with you

and take bread and wine from you hands

and let me lay my head on your chest.

 

And if thirty pieces of the world’s silver

are ever enough to draw me away

Wash my feet and make me clean again

 

Let me pray with you at Gethsemane

and learn from you how to be vulnerable with the Father

let me see your tears and sweat and grief.

 

And if my prayers give way to sleep

wake me again

with the waters of regeneration.

 

Let me walk with you to the cross.

Let me be Simon of Cyrene,

and learn to carry your cross with you.

 

And if my Simon of Cyrene becomes Simon Peter

and I walk away from your cross to deny you

lead me back to these waters where I can still die with you.

 

And live.

 

And all along this long rough road

let my song be:

 

Hosanna!

Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!

Blessed is the coming kingdom of our father David!

Hosanna in the highest!

Serpents and the Cross: Preaching Lent 4B

I’m preaching this Sunday on the passages in the Revised Common Lectionary. I’ll try to update this post throughout the week with some thoughts and observations that I have. Consider all of the notes here brainstorming more than ideas that I’m fully committed to. Feel free to post your own thoughts in the comments!

The texts this week are: Numbers 21:4-9; Psalm 107:1-3, 17-22; Ephesians 2:1-10; John 3:14-21.

What does it mean to be lifted up?

The first thing I noticed about these passages is the connecting point of being “lifted up”. The connection between the passages from Numbers and John is obvious, because Jesus says it explicitly: He is like the bronze serpent (or rather, the bronze serpent points to him). Everyone who looks upon Jesus will receive eternal life. But I’m also thinking about how this relates to the Ephesians 2 passage, especially verse 6: “…and raise us up with him…”.

John’s use of the phrase “lifted up” is interesting. The Greek word is “ups-o-o” (it’s hard to transliterate into English, so just go with it…). Throughout the New Testament, and the Greek translation of the Old, the word is used to refer to Jesus or God being raised up, seated in heaven, or exalted, or to God bestowing honor upon human beings (“Humble yourself in the sight of the Lord, and he will lift you up.”  In fact, in most places in the Bible, the English translations usually render “ups-o-o” as “exalted.” More often than not in the New Testament, it’s used to refer to Jesus’ resurrection and/or ascension. John, however, only uses “ups-o-o” to refer to the crucifixion, to Jesus being ‘lifted up’ on the cross. For John, the exaltation of Jesus begins with the cross. What if we read Ephesians 2:6 through this lens? We are raised up with Jesus, and that begins with the cross. When we allow ourselves to be crucified, those who look upon us will receive eternal life because it will be as though they were looking at Jesus.

Is God Overreacting a Bit?

It also seems like it would be tempting when reading Numbers 21 to think that God is overreacting to the Israelite’s complaints. The people speak against God and Moses. God responds by sending fiery serpents among the people. Sounds a bit harsh. As I was working with the Hebrew text, I noticed something. The preposition is the same in both actions (even though we translate them differently in English). The people speak against God and Moses. God sends fiery serpents against the people. (this is usually translated “among the people”). Perhaps rather than questioning the justice of God’s decision, we would do better to begin with the assumption that God is just, and that this punishment fits the crime. Perhaps the bite of a fiery serpent really is the equivalent of being spoken against. The potential lesson: our words are powerful, and can do more damage than we think.

What do you think? What strikes you in these passages? If you were (or are) preaching any of these passages, what would you focus on? (I’ll try to keep updating this through the week…)

Deeper Gratitude = Wider Mission

I recently started working my way through the book, The Good and Beautiful God by James Bryan Smith. It’s a spiritual formation book (one of Renovare’s), and after each chapter, Smyth suggests a “Soul Training Exercise.” At the end of the chapter I read today, the exercise was titled “Counting Your Blessings.” It’s a cliche phrase. All I could think about was the cheesy hymn with the chorus: Count your blessings, name them one by one, Count your blessings, see what God hath done! Count your blessings, name them one by one, And it will surprise you what the Lord hath done. I almost turned the page to skip right over the exercise and move on to the next chapter. I’m glad I didn’t.

The exercise was simple. Make a list of good things God has blessed you with for which you ought to be thankful. Try to make a list of 100 blessings. So, I pulled out my macbook, opened the word processor, and started my numbered list. The first few things on  my list were easy to think of because they were either obvious, very simple, or in my immediately memory: the beautiful, clear blue sky I got to look at while running yesterday afternoon; an encouraging message I received from a friend; a funny joke that made me laugh; my icon of Jesus that helps me focus when I pray; etc.  But then the exercise got a little challenging. Not because God isn’t good, but because making a list of 100 anything becomes daunting after the first 10 items or so.

I tried to keep growing my list by looking at what I had already included and identifying other blessings connected to them. My friend who sent the encouraging message is also a loving, compassionate person in general. The person who told the funny joke has a gift for adding humor to situations that would other wise be less pleasant. My icon was painted by an iconographer whose work has helped thousands of others worship Christ more intimately.

Then it occurred to me: Making this list of blessings was forcing me to go deeper with my gratitude, and the deeper I went the more outwardly focused I became. The first things on my list of blessings had to do almost exclusively with myself. I was thankful for the blue sky because I got to see it. My friend’s message encouraged me. The joke made me laugh. The icon helps me pray. But my deeper expressions of gratitude reflected things and people who are blessings to others. The beauty of creation is a gift God is always giving to everyone. My friend has a gift for encouraging a lot of people, and it’s a gift that God uses in her to build up our church. My joke-telling friend makes a lot of people laugh and diffuses a lot of tense situations for a lot of people. My icon is actually a reprint of an older, larger icon that’s been seen and used by many in the Church.

The deeper we go in our gratitude, the broader our outlook becomes. If we want our churches, or our own lives to be missional, outward-focused expressions of God’s love for the world, then we need to practice the discipline of gratitude. Count your blessings. You’ll be surprised what the Lord will do.

A Poem For Christ the King

This past Sunday, I preached another sermon in the style of spoken word poetry. A few people asked me for the text, which is below. Once the audio is posted on the Upper Room website, I’ll link it here. The Scripture texts are Ezekiel 34:1-11, Psalm 95, and Matthew 25:31-46 (with some added help from Mother Teresa of Calcutta).

For this is what the Sovereign LORD says: I myself will search for my sheep and look after them.

-Ezekiel 34:11

The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’

-Matthew 25:40

Today, if only you would hear his voice, Do not harden your hearts…

-Psalm 95:7b-8a

Can you hear him?

Can you hear the voice of the Shepherd?

Can you hear His call to eternal life?

Can you hear Him, scattered flock?

 

Listen!

Beyond the noise of chit chat…

Beyond the noise of iPods and radios

Beyond the noise of engines and horns

 

The Shepherd is calling.

Can you hear him?

Do you recognize his voice?

His sheep know his voice

 

Can you hear his voice?

calling from a distant land

around the world

the voice of a child,

malnourished and hungry.

The King who once

put on human flesh

now hidden…

in frail, naked bodies

with starved, bloated stomachs.

 

Can you hear his voice?

calling from a distant land

across the street

the voice of a man

begging for change.

The hands that formed

the depths of the earth

now hidden

in cracked, dirty hands

that hold a beggar’s cup.

 

Can you hear him?

Can you hear the Shepherd’s voice?

He’s calling for you.

He’s seeking his sheep.

He’s seeking us out.

 

But we are scattered.

We’ve wandered off into

clouds and darkness

blinded by green-hewed clouds

with presidential faces.

blinded by darkness that glows off of

flat-screens in high resolution

 

And we fall

into crevices of

to-do lists and

consumer debt and

desires for power

so the Shepherd

calls out our name

but we

 

Can’t hear his voice

because our hearts…. are hard.

 

We long to touch the hem of his garment

but his garment is disguised

as an orange jumpsuit

as a hospital gown

as a soiled overcoat

as the unused sweater

stuffed in a our dresser

but longing to embrace the shivering stranger.

 

But we can’t find the hem of his garment

because we think it’s hidden

on a Macy’s rack

or a

Parisian runway.

We look in the wrong places

because our hearts

are hard.

 

We long for the comfort of his rod and staff

but his rod and staff are disguised

as an empty cup

as iv needles

plunged into skin

as a cardboard sign

and a grocery cart

filled with things that we dare not touch.

 

But we can’t find his rod or his staff

because we think they’re hidden

in a 401k

or a

better credit score.

We look in the wrong places

because our hearts

are hard.

 

We long to hear his voice

and he calls out to us

the Shepherds voice rings out

out of dark prison cells

out from lonely hospital beds

out of kitchens lined with empty cupboards

and filled with hungry families.

 

But we can’t hear his voice

because we think his voice is calling

from a corner office

or in

friends’ flattery.

We listen to the wrong voices

because our hearts

are hard.

 

Our hearts are hard

and with

every rationalization and

selfish decision our

frozen hearts get even colder

until we’re blind and deaf

to the Shepherd’s search and call.

 

So we don’t see the Shepherd

when we walk by

the lonely homeless man

begging for change.

We don’t hear the shepherd

in the silent cries

of the poor woman

with no other income than

her own body.

 

The Shepherd calls out

cries out

SHOUTS OUT

for our attention

in the voice of

every “least of these.”

And we miss out

because our hearts

are hard.

Rock hard.

Stone-cold hard.

Frozen solid.

 

But the Shepherd

calls from

one more place.

 

The Shepherd calls

from a loaf of bread

and cup of wine

set on a table

prepared for us in

the presence of

our enemies.

In the presence of

our hard hearts.

 

We eat this bread and

our frozen hearts

begin to melt away in

the warmth of his own body.

 

We drink this cup and

our thawed-out hearts

begin to beat and pump

the Shepherd’s own blood.

 

And slowly

our eyes open

our ears unplug and

we hear and see the Shepherd in

all who hunger and thirst, and shiver and

we see that the “least of these”

are brothers and sisters.

 

And finally we hear the Shepherd’s call

“Come, you who are blessed by my Father.”

And we are led back to still waters

and back to the Shepherd’s house

where we will dwell

forever.

Two Tea Drinkers and a Pilgrim

I recently started reading The Way of a Pilgrim – the memoirs of an anonymous Russian peasant chronicling his quest to fulfill Scripture’s command to “pray without ceasing.” The Pilgrim eventually learns from a spiritual director to pray the Jesus Prayer constantly, making it one with his breathing. His unceasing prayer leads him into mystical and miraculous experiences. After his spiritual director dies, he still receives instruction from him in dreams. At one point, he encounters a big wolf jumping at him, but the wolf is fended off by… his rosary. (I won’t even try to explain concisely how that happened…)

I picked up The Way of the Pilgrim again today to read more. Reading a book by a wandering peasant in the comfort of my own home didn’t seem right. So I walked down the street to my favorite place to drink tea – Te Cafe. I ordered a pot of the green tea of the day, and sat down in the big comfy chair in the corner to read more of the Pilgrim’s journey. Shortly into my reading, I across this: “As I came inside the [inn], I saw two distinguished-looking men, one elderly and the other middle-aged and rather stout; they were sitting at a table in the far corner of the room drinking tea.”

I smiled at the connection between me and the book, and kind of wished I would have ordered a pot of Russian Caravan to make the connection even more obvious. I felt a spur of inspiration to imagine myself as one of the men drinking tea and encountering the pilgrim. “Which man am I?” I wondered, “Does it even matter?” As I continued to read, I learned that it matters a lot.

The two men, I read on to learn, were a school teacher and a court clerk. The clerk was immediately sarcastic with the Pilgrim. Upon hearing about the Pilgrim’s encounter with the wolf and how his rosary fended off the wolf, the clerk replied with a smile, “Really? Do wolves pray?” As the pilgrim shared the details of the story, the clerk disregards any sense of the miraculous. He only sees an animal getting frightened by a blunt object being thrown at it.

I wondered to myself, “Is that me? Am I the clerk? Am I only reading the story of a man on an earnest -even admirable – quest but failing to see the depths of mystery, wisdom and holiness at work in the Pilgrim’s story?”

The teacher, on the other hand, saw the miracle, even in ways that the Pilgrim had not yet seen. The teacher saw in wolf’s being tamed by the rosary evidence of the owner’s holiness. The teacher recalls that the animals submitted themselves before Adam, and Adam exercised God-given authority over the animals as he named them. Holiness, the teacher explains is a return to the innocence of Adam in the garden, and that nature still recognizes that innocence and responds as the wolf did.

“Is that me? Am I the teacher? Am I experiencing the depths of mystery, wisdom and holiness in the Pilgrim’s story?”

I know which character I want to be. And the truth is that I’m probably somewhere on a spectrum between the two. I haven’t yet responded to the Pilgrim with the sarcasm of the clerk. But I also haven’t had nearly the depth of insight that the teacher displayed. What I am finding is that I’m falling in love with the God of the Pilgrim. I want to learn from the Pilgrim how to experience God as deeply as he does.

And that’s why we need to look at the Pilgrim’s story – and the whole world – with the same eyes as the teacher. The Pilgrim responds to the teacher’s interpretation of his story by giving him encouragement and instruction in the faith. The Pilgrim disciples him. We can’t learn from the Pilgrim, or any other spiritual master, if we aren’t willing to receive their lives as examples of communion with Jesus Christ.

Lord, Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on us, that we would have the eyes of faith to see the fruits of holiness in your saints.

My 2011 Lenten Disciplines

I’m about a week late in posting them, but here are my disciplines for Lent this year:

1.) Pray daily for two friends. This is a communal discipline that we’re doing at Upper Room. We’re all committing ourselves to two people who don’t yet know Jesus. There are two particular people I’m praying for. Since I don’t want to break any confidentialities, I won’t post their names here. Along with praying for them, I’m planning on taking intentional steps at deepening our friendships.

2.) Meditate daily on a passage from Mark the Ascetic. This is also a communal discipline that I”m doing with folks from the House of St. Michael the Archangel.

3.) Full fasts starting after dinner Thursday evening and ending at dinner Friday evening. This one’s pretty much self-explanatory, though I will say that I’m terrible at fasting. There have been multiple times in the past when I’ve remembered that I was fasting while placing a handful of potato chips in my mouth. With my marathon training schedule, Friday is really the only day I can fast, and even then I’ll need to eat dinner that night before going to bed since I’ll be running 5 miles every Saturday morning. At one point, I seriously considered just letting my marathon training be my Lenten discipline, but that felt like a copout.

4.) I anticipate that this will be the hardest one. It’s kind of complicated, and maybe more of an experiment than a discipline, but here it is: I’m giving up driving alone for distances less than 5 miles. About 2 or 3 months ago, I had the idea of giving up my car altogether for Lent after reading Shane Claiborne’s suggestion in Common Prayer to try going “fuel free” for 1 week. However, I soon decided that was unreasonable. I had completely forgotten about the idea until last week on Ash Wednesday when, due to some poor planning on my end, I found myself without a car at Quiet Storm in Garfield and needing to get to CMU and then back home. I didn’t have exact change for bus fare, so I had to walk. So, I decided maybe this was God’s way of telling me to take up this discipline. Here are the rules I’ve set:

- If I’m going somewhere that is less than 5 miles from my house, I have to either walk, bike or take public transportation.

- I’m allowed drive within that distance if I’m providing a ride to somebody else.

- I’m allowed to drive by myself if going somewhere more than 5 miles away. (I call this the “public transportation in Pittsburgh if awful” clause.)

- I’m not allowed to ask others for a ride if it takes them out of their way. But if they offer, I can accept.

My original purpose behind the discipline was environmental stewardship. Now that I’m a week into it, though, I’m discovering that the real blessing I’m experiencing behind it is a slower pace. Having to walk or take a bus means that I can’t rush from one meeting to another (as I’m prone to doing). Taking the time to walk or sit on the bus is giving me space to think, process conversations, let ideas digest, and pray. Several times now, I’ve found myself praying the Jesus Prayer while walking, modifying it to pray blessings on the people/places I see. (“Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on ________”) On Sunday evening, I took a prayer book with me and prayed evening vespers as I walked.

I’ll try to post more about these disciplines as Lent continues. God grant us all a Holy Lent!

My Poem/Sermon on Romans 5:12-19

Yesterday at Upper Room, I preached a sermon on Romans 5:12-19 and Genesis 3:1-7. Early on, I decided that I should write this sermon in a unique. So, I wrote a poem. Or at least something resembling a poem. Reading poetry, especially my own, was a new experience for me, and I found it very different from preaching. I felt much more exposed and vulnerable.

The sermon/poem was well-received – maybe just because it was significantly shorter than most of my sermons, but hopefully because it spoke to people’s hearts. The text of the sermon is below, but I suggest reading the Romans and Genesis passages first so that it makes sense.

 

You made us… for a garden.

Soil and clay fashioned by divine hands and Spirit-breathed into life,

Made to cultivate and till with the Gardener.

Made to be fruitful and multiply

Made to fill and subdue.

Made not to be alone, but together.

Made to hear your footsteps in the cool of the day,

and come running to meet You,

arms open and nothing to hide,

swooped up in your love and laughing in shared delight.

Made to enjoy Your garden together.

Made for satisfaction.

Made for life.

 

But we chose death.

 

Adam and Eve reached for that fruit

grasping for equality with you.

The trees that you gave us were not enough

we wanted more.

Being who we are wasn’t enough

we had to be like You.

Life wasn’t enough

we wanted life and knowledge of good and evil…

… and we lost them both.

 

We chose death.

The garden where once we delighted in love

became a place for hiding and fear.

Your presence ceased to be our delight

Your presence became our dread.

 

And we spiraled down.

One disobedience leading to others.

Brother kills brother.

Brother steals brother’s birthright.

Brothers sell brother into slavery and traffic brother to Egypt.

 

And death reigned.

 

And death reigns.

 

Death reigns over children robbed of childhood,

toys pried from their fingers and replaced with guns,

forced to kill for the sake of a man they do not know

and a movement they did not start.

 

Death reigns over women and girls locked up in brothels

forced to do whatever men please,

men who are prisoners themselves -

captive to death disguised as desire.

 

Death reigns over the child in the sweatshop -

fingers-worn and soul-wearied,

Just so we can afford to keep up with the fashions

and pretend to look like our silver-screen gods.

 

Death reigns over the girls and boys

who worship these silver-screen gods -

air-brushed idols who demand lives,

starving their followers of food and self-esteem.

 

Death reigns over the woman abused by her husband,

hiding her bruises and fears from the world around her

and trying to keep an illusion of perfection,

hoping vainly that things will change by remaining the same.

 

Death reigns over the consumer

coming home from the store with shopping bags

filled with high-fructose poison

that slowly turns our own cells against us.

 

Death reigns over suburbia -

neighborhoods of half-furnished mansions

freshly mowed and pristine on the outside,

hiding the debt and threats of foreclosure within.

 

Death reigns over our relationships.

We desire connection without vulnerability.

So we give up on people

and seek community on a computer screen.

 

Death reigns over our love.

Wanting control, we kill those we love

through actions and words, withholding affection

and, without knowing it, denying love for ourselves.

Our murderous plans become a suicide.

 

Death reigns

leaving us alone in a self-dug grave

of guilt, emptiness and despair;

life-sapped and soul-drained.

 

Death reigns

leaving us in a graveyard of doubt

afraid to pray

afraid to love

 

Death reigns like an oppressive regime

Mocking their captors into hopeless skepticism

Doing all that they can to rob us of hope,

convincing us that the truest realities are doubt and depression

 

How can this regime be defeated?

Who will free us from this oppressor?

Can an enemy this strong be defeated by anything

but an army of strength and force?

 

We longed for You.

And You came.

But you didn’t send an army.

You sent Christ into this world

not with gun or sword in his hand,

but with a free gift.

 

Christ came to undo what Adam did

by not doing what Adam did.

Christ didn’t grasp for equality with You.

Christ made himself nothing.

 

Christ hangs on the cross

arms open and nothing to hide

swooping us up again in his love,

taking our sin, our doubt and despair.

 

Christ hangs on the cross

And we hang with him.

Christ dies.

And we die with him.

 

Our guilt

Our doubt

Our despair

Ourselves

All dead with Christ

 

Death thinks that it’s won

Death thinks that it reigns

But death died on the cross, too.

 

Death is dead and Christ is alive

The free gift is an empty tomb.

The free gift is a new relationship.

The free gift is new possibilities

 

The free gift has a message attached:

“Death does not reign.”

Christ reigns.

Hope reigns.

Life reigns.

 

Life reigns and sends the Spirit

breathing fresh breath into dry, weary souls.

Redeeming our love and raising our spirits

 

Hope reigns and sends Christ’s light,

piercing itself into dark rooms and cells.

Undoing shackles and revealing true beauty.

 

Christ reigns and stands among us

Next to the griever, the patient, the victim.

Next to the buried, calling them up.

 

Life reigns. And brings freedom.

Freedom to pray

Freedom to love

Freedom to return to the place we belong.

 

Life reigns.

But life is not like death.

Life is not an oppressor.

Life is a free gift.

 

Christ reigns and stands among us,

extending to us in nail-pierced hands

the free gift.

Himself. Life.

 

Life is for us to choose.

And to take it,

all we have to do is die.

 

Christ, we choose life.

Amen. Amen. Amen.

 

Continuing the Relay

I like to run races. In any race, it’s a lot easier to run when people are cheering for you. When running in the Pittsburgh Marathon last year, by mile 22 or so I was completely spent and sore all over. But as soon as a complete stranger would yell out my bib number and cheer me on, I was immediately running a bit faster.

The most significant crowd support I’ve ever received in a race, though, happened when I was running the Spirit of Pittsburgh Half Marathon. It came from my friend and co-pastor, Chris. As I approached the finish line, I heard him shout “Go Mike!” and I immediately sprinted to the finish line faster than I have in any other race. It wasn’t that Chris said anything profound. It wasn’t even that the encouragement was coming from a friend as opposed to a stranger. The significance was that the race was a relay, and Chris was my partner. Chris had run the first 6.5 miles of the race, tagged me, and I was running the second half. Knowing that the person who started my race was watching made me want even more to end it well. Because my finish was his finish too.

I recalled this experience this afternoon while reading the lectionary’s New Testament reading – Hebrews 11:32-12:2. Hebrews 11 recounts the faithful people of God we read about throughout the Old Testament – Abel, Enoch, Noah, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Joseph, Moses, the whole nation of Israel crossing the Red Sea and circling Jericho, and Rahab, and more too many to recall. The writer of Hebrews describes how their faith was embodied in actions – and often times stranger actions. Building an ark. Offering his son to God. Giving up privilege. Harboring spies. And as Hebrews sums up, “conquered kingdoms, enforced justice, obtained promises, stopped the mouths of lions, quenched the power of fire…”

The people listed in Hebrews 11 are some of the greatest examples of lived-out faith ever. Yet how does Hebrews 11 conclude? Verse 39 says,

And all these, though commended through their faith, did not receive what was promised…

As great as their faith was. It was for all of them a faith with out an ending. A race without a finish line. But then comes the real surprise. Verse 40:

…since God had provided something better for us, that apart from us they should not be made perfect.

The story of God’s faithful is continued in us. We are the continuation of their story. Apart from us, the stories of Abraham, Moses and all of the prophets are stories without endings, a race without a finish.

It’s in light of this that we hear the well-known words that open Hebrews 12:

Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight… and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us…

The witnesses that surround us, all of the faithful named in Hebrews 11, aren’t merely spectators that came out to watch a race. They aren’t even faster runners who have already finished and are now watching the other participants. They’re our relay partners, watching the finish of the race we’ve started. They aren’t merely watching with curiosity, but with great interest, wanting to see how the race they’ve started will finish.

For Abraham, Moses and the prophets, the finish line was not in sight. Christ had not been revealed. In Christ, though, we can see the end the story when every knee will bow and every tongue confess. We can see the finish line, and our relay partners who started the race are watching and cheering us on. And so, let us run – no, sprint! – toward the finish line – Jesus himself, the author and perfecter of our faith!