an unknown grace

Working with adolescent females, our particular brand of secular therapy is designed to teach the girls to step aside from misleading emotions and make a wise decision based on the wider range of possibilities. Drug abusers and self-harmers can be black and white thinkers to a fault. Every lapse in circumstance or judgment is seen as the final straw, as if to prompt them, "Well, if that's the case, I may as well return to rock bottom!" Clearly, not every letdown is nearly so dire. We prepare them to acknowledge the unseen grey so that they can avert those temptations on "the outs."

Which is comical, because I myself am a notoriously black and white thinker. For me, a leap of faith can only be described as a jubilant success or a miserable failure. An element of doubt in my relationships can lead to a resignation of absolute rejection. If I cannot complete an assignment as given, I may as well never try. I have a difficult time accepting praise for doing what is right; my reward in full is that I've managed to avoid what is wrong.

Obviously, this mentality comes into conflict with grace. When I was taking graduate classes, I mismanaged my time on a term paper and didn't finish. A week later, my professor e-mailed me, wondering if I had anything that he could record for a grade. I admitted that since I knew it was late, I didn't bother asking if I could submit it. He asked if it was done; I said, "It can be in an hour."

I received a B for my A work, but it never occurred to me to ask for grace. I had a theological epiphany through this experience -- rather, an experience that matched my previously stated theology.

If we're to be honest, we all hunger for grace like a dog longs for table scraps. We know that we want it, but we don't know quite how to ask, and what exactly to expect. Our contemporary value of tolerance is linked to this desire. By accepting one another's behaviors, we allow for a hallway pass without the honest confrontation before the truly Just: "Lord, I screwed up, and I can't do this on my own."

I melt at the opportunity for this kind of grace. Nothing endears me more than the man who admittedly comes to the end of himself. Of the hundreds of sermons I have given, there is none better than the one that explores the excruciating love we encounter in that place.

My friend Michael and I were talking about the way God apprehends mankind, and I realized that I often get it backwards. Yes, we have the parable where the son comes to awareness of his sin and runs back to the Father for mercy. But we also have Christ meeting Paul on the road to Damascus. We find him calling Zaccheus out of the tree and inviting himself over for dinner. These stories of grace have little to do with man's humility. They didn't ask to be his; he wanted them to be.

I struggle to comprehend yet another characteristic of my God. It is one thing for Him to accept the beggar, he that asks and receives. But that God would offer grace that hasn't been proposed, just because He wants to? This is still a wonder; maybe it always will be.

It must be a remaining snippet of pride that only understands grace as a reaction to a cry for mercy. I realize that being an instrument of reconciliation will require a heart that doesn't need to be stoked to offer grace. I must love man in such a way that I want them for salvation as much as they crave it themselves. Anything less is a "grace" dependent on a law, an expectation from the heart of Jonah.

things i despise

Birth control
Relationship manipulation
Abuse of a minor
Sexual corruption
Gossip and presumption
The phrase: "I'm not trying to be racist, but..."
Reliance on politics to protect Christian culture
Generalized justifications for not helping the poor
Corrupted masculism
Corrupted feminism
Proud "faith"
Demonic lies and intimidation
Loneliness
Being misunderstood by loved ones
Movie dates
Club music
Indigo Girls
Morning DJs
Youtube (yep)
Facebook (wasn't always so)
The mall (wasn't always so)
Cooking for myself
Socks while sleeping
Tucked bed coverings
Folding laundry
Chain coffee
Peas
Carrots
Onions

things i love

My Lord, and His mind-boggling grace
My mom, and her gentleness
My dad, and his loyalty
My church, and their encouragement
Birth and life
Children
Awkward teenagers
Unashamed femininity
Southern hospitality
Romance
Handwritten snail-mail
Nostalgic conversation with old friends
Unexpected camaraderie with new friends
Literature about redemption
God's authority over evil
Holy Spirit "promptings"
Personal sacrifice
Humble leadership
Thunderstorms
Sunsets
Walking
Mom and pop establishments
Hoodies
Driving music
Wikipedia
Documentaries
Baseball
Sweet Tea
2-shot, eight ounce lattes (with a heart on top)
Barbecue chicken pizza
Grilled cheese and tomato soup
Salmon and asparagus
Hummus and cucumber

my favorite morning

While American Christians gear up for pancake breakfasts, and little boys are forced into uncomfortable new garments, I intend to squeeze in a few hours of sleep before dining with my parents. Before I do, I found it fitting to share...

This is my favorite morning of the year.

I'm typically not one for holidays. I enjoy the "feel" of Christmas to a certain extent, but it's lost a bit of luster since my grandmother's physical death. Thanksgiving is okay for the company, but I'm one of those strange cats that doesn't like turkey; by the end of the day I feel more lazy than rested.

Easter morning feels like "life," if that's an adequate word for a mystery so eternal. Giving it a day on the calendar only makes it a celebration, but its significance is the foundation of my faith. If Christ is merely a good man who was martyred for me, Christmas falls on par with MLK day. But the resurrection of Jesus is the single greatest hope that has ever been known to man. Take a moment to consider that.

I was driving home from work this past hour, and shuffled my CD changer. I found one of the few contemporary Christian songs that can bring me to tears of simultaneous confusion and joy. I'm confused that God would go to such measures to redeem me for His own. I'm joyful that I can live the rest of my days with this promise:

Joseph took his wife and his child
And they went to Africa
To escape the rage of a deadly king
There along the banks of the Nile
Jesus listened to the song
That the captive children used to sing
They were singin':

My deliverer is coming
My deliverer is standing by
My deliverer is coming
My deliverer is standing by

Through a dry and thirsty land
Water from the Kenyon heights
Pours out itself out of Lake Sangra's broken heart
There in the Sahara winds
Jesus heard the whole earth cry
For the healing that would flow from his own scars
The world was singin':

My deliverer is coming
My deliverer is standing by
My deliverer is coming
My deliverer is standing by

He will never break His promise
He has written it upon the sky!
My deliverer is coming
My deliverer is standing by

My deliverer is coming
My deliverer is standing by
My deliverer is coming
My deliverer is standing by

I will never doubt His promise
Though I doubt my heart, I doubt my eyes!
My deliverer is coming
My deliverer is standing by

My deliverer is coming
My delievrer is standing by
My deliverer is coming
My deliverer is standing by

He will never break His promise
Though the stars should break faith with the sky!
My deliverer is coming
My deliverer is standing by

From The Jesus Record, appropriately a posthumous release from Rich Mullins, who longed for his Creator.

where I will not dress myself

He intends to defame my Lord's glory. And this should be reason enough to hate him. But I don't. Not nearly enough. Not yet.

When I was nine, I liked most everybody, and most everybody liked me. That year, I discovered that remaining likable required that I not like certain other people. What a hard lesson. Soon my words were full of filth and conceit. This should be reason enough to hate him. But I don't. Not nearly enough. Not yet.

When I was thirteen, I was innocent and naive, and had just developed my first junior high crush. It was sickening and wonderful: I would write sappy love notes that I knew I would never send. That summer, I was tagging along with my older brother and his friends. They got bored, and the teen with a house to himself suggested watching a pornographic movie. Nobody moved or disagreed. Nobody yelled, "Go home Anthony, you're too little." I froze, and I knew within minutes that there weren't any do-overs. This should be reason enough to hate him. But I don't. Not nearly enough. Not yet.

When I was twenty-three, I was in love with a young woman that was beautiful beyond my wildest imagination. We wrote each other letters, gave each other gifts, and largely affirmed how our relationship was spurring one another towards Christ. She went home to visit her parents, and had some issues from her past brought to the surface. She returned quiet and afraid -- afraid that our relationship was no different than with the other boys who had manipulated her. She broke my heart. God faithfully brought me through the recovery process, but the long and painful journey left its residue of lies. Even this should be reason enough to hate him. But I don't. Not nearly enough. Not yet.

During my ministry years, God introduced me to a number of young people in need of healing. Some had been subject to abuse, and others were products of a lifetime of rejection. I encouraged them to work through the pain, sharing that God intended our pain to be redeemed as a testimony for His Glory. More often than not, these loved ones determined that is was a much better thing to push aside the past than to hurt and be redeemed. In the end, what have I accomplished? This should be reason enough to hate him. But I don't. Not nearly enough. Not yet.

As God builds His church, the fear and pride of men have masked a holy unity. We preach community as a value, until it requires our personal discomfort. We grieve the Holy Spirit with our own sacred practices, and ask God to bless the fruit that we have sown with our own hands. We spend more time defending our positions and politics than being His hands and feet. And this should be reason enough for us to hate him. But we don't. Not nearly enough. Not yet.

Holiness appears to come at a premium. The enemy offers me the world: my wants, my comforts, and the love of mankind, and he doesn't ask any questions. Since I was a little boy, this world has been for the taking. I seize it for the joy of the moment, and reject the blood that makes me clean. God has never offered me any of these things. Instead, He provides an unadulterated, authentic version of everything I've ever needed. And it costs me my life. Satan offers the streetside knockoff, and it doesn't require an ounce of patience, stewardship, or gratitude.

I will not spit on the feet of a trusted friend, nor do I cherish the gift that I despise. As much as I'd like to reject my sin, I recognize a deeper conflict at work. It is not enough to hate the corruption of glory, if I do not love the Creator of all things good. And I do not love Him. Not nearly enough. Not yet.

The third time he said to him, "Simon son of John, do you love me?"

Peter was hurt because Jesus asked him the third time, "Do you love me?" He said, "Lord, you know all things; you know that I love you."

Jesus said, "Feed my sheep. Very truly I tell you, when you were younger you dressed yourself and went where you wanted; but when you are old you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will dress you and lead you where you do not want to go." (John 21:17-18)

shedding the internal approach

For those that haven't heard this part of my story, I share for the sake of context:

In October of 2007, after a year of "fasting" from church, I joined Missionary Church leaders in Omaha, NE to discuss a missionary approach for church growth and discipleship. Following a week of confession, scriptural overload, and prophetic teaching, our trainer presented a word from 1 Chronicles:

King David rose to his feet and said: "Listen to me, my fellow Israelites, my people. I had it in my heart to build a house as a place of rest for the ark of the covenant of the LORD, for the footstool of our God, and I made plans to build it. But God said to me, 'You are not to build a house for my Name, because you are a warrior and have shed blood.'

"Yet the LORD, the God of Israel, chose me from my whole family to be king over Israel forever. He chose Judah as leader, and from the tribe of Judah he chose my family, and from my father's sons he was pleased to make me king over all Israel. Of all my sons -- and the LORD has given me many -- he has chosen my son Solomon to sit on the throne of the kingdom of the LORD over Israel. He said to me: 'Solomon your son is the one who will build my house and my courts, for I have chosen him to be my son, and I will be his father. I will establish his kingdom forever if he is unswerving in carrying out my commands and laws, as is being done at this time.'

"So now I charge you in the sight of all Israel and of the assembly of the LORD, and in the hearing of our God: Be careful to follow all the commands of the LORD your God, that you may possess this good land and pass it on as an inheritance to your descendants forever.

"And you, my son Solomon, acknowledge the God of your father, and serve him with wholehearted devotion and with a willing mind, for the LORD searches every heart and understands every desire and every thought. If you seek him, he will be found by you; but if you forsake him, he will reject you forever. Consider now, for the LORD has chosen you to build a house as the sanctuary. Be strong and do the work"

...David also said to Solomon his son, "Be strong and courageous, and do the work. Do not be afraid or discouraged, for the LORD God, my God, is with you. He will not fail you or forsake you until all the work for the service of the temple of the LORD is finished. The divisions of the priests and Levites are ready for all the work on the temple of God, and every willing person skilled in any craft will help you in all the work. The officials and all the people will obey your every command."

Then King David said to the whole assembly: "My son Solomon, the one whom God has chosen, is young and inexperienced. The task is great, because this palatial structure is not for man but for the LORD God..."

(1 Chronicles 28:2-10; 28:20-29:1)

The older leaders were encouraged to pass the torch to the inexperienced, recognizing that God had work for the next generation that the older leaders were not anointed to complete. As with David, it requires the elders to step aside to allow this work, but their blessing and resources are awaited to enable it.

As a statement before God, our district leader anointed a college student with oil. I was also brought forward, as an intermediary bridge between the two generations. I was charged with the task of leading "Solomon" into God's next work. As we were gathering to leave, the trainer made a passing statement to me in private: "This is yours to lead...no pressure."

***************************

As much as I miss the endless options of living in the city, my greatest loss has been the seeming abandonment of my people. Like most 20-somethings during my youth pastoring years, I scoped the church for a demographic camaraderie. The small number of singles that were still present were more interested in solving their "disadvantage."

We can read the myriad of Barna reports, but it doesn't require hard statistics to conclude that post-college singles are not common in the church. But even if we receive the message with appropriate alarm, it rarely incites us to ask the important question: Where are they?

For the past fifteen years, the church has done its best to address the problem internally, thought being that a more age-specific presentation would attract more young people. Like a game of sardines, the gradual collection of singles was expected to draw the mother load, and one day we'd peer out over the congregation and proudly exclaim, "Oh, there you are!"

Granted, churches with larger budgets have seen modest success utilizing this strategy. However, each "alternative" service I attended consisted of the transferred fragments of those already churched. So the remaining few are finding each other, but what of the millions exiled? What presentation could possibly be compelling enough to collect them at 10am Sunday, on the corner of [____] and [____]?

If anyone knew, we'd already be doing it.

The internal approach has been weighed, measured, and found wanting. The church has spent its resources to retrieve and retain, and yet the trend remains daunting. They're not coming back. Will we go to them?

My current struggle is in attempting to duplicate the fruit I had in the city within my present context; I've come to the harsh reality that it doesn't fit. Whereas every city coffeehouse and happy hour presented an open opportunity for the dialogue, I think my home has done itself a disservice by establishing a Christian alternative of every such environment, as if to employ the internal approach even when we're not in a church building.

I worked at a couple such establishments, so I acknowledge that their operators have good hearts and appropriate intentions. My Christian friends want me to be encouraged by the alternative subculture, regularly presenting the argument that something broken is better than nothing at all. I want to buy in, but a ministry lacking reproduction doesn't seem much better than nothing. It is only more expensive.

I'm of the opinion that a community lacking a secular avenue for sharing the gospel must be more intentional about interacting with the exiles. Invite them for dinner or games. Engage in community-sponsored events. Get to know them on their terms, and get over your personal discomfort. Share the gospel and allow its counter-cultural message to create its own intrigue. It never needed our bells anyway.

Trust me, this is a challenge for me as well; it became easy to rely on the gathering places to build community with unbelievers. But five years after my initial recognition of the problem, I am no more impressed by the internal approach. It is my personal responsibility to call the exiles back to God. It is His to build His church.

No pressure.

which is worse?

My walls are still uncovered. My living room still needs furniture. I have clothes waiting to be folded, and my sink is full of dishes. And rather than getting off my lazy butt to do something about it, I sit in my recliner and type. With the dangerous progression of my mind, it was only a matter of time before I was led to a more depressing question. Which is worse: to be lazy, or to know that I can be, because nobody depends on me not to be?

It's an interesting theory for my laziness. Everywhere I've worked, I've gained a reputation for working hard. While at Picasso's and Main Street, I had to convince others not to feel bad while I did all of the dishes. I enjoyed it. And I'm pretty sure that I would enjoy doing anyone else's dishes as well.

My own kitchen has a different effect. My sink is full of dishes that I dirtied. Half of them are storage containers, since cooking for myself always leaves leftovers. My dishes are one giant reminder that I dine alone, and I despise them.

Since I'm the only one that has to look at my dirty dishes, it makes it that much easier to justify leaving them. If a livelihood flowed from within these walls, I would certainly scrub, wipe, and sweep, if only to share the space with those that expected it of me.

I feel a great loss in being the man who has never known the love of his own children. I know that parenting is the toughest kind of work, but as many disinterested fathers as there are in this country, you'd think I would be given the opportunity?

Last Sunday, one of the kids at work was reading a book when I arrived. I calmly told her that she had 15 minutes, and she would have to try and sleep since it was a school night. When her time was up, she cooperated with my request. Five minutes later, I checked on her unexpectedly, and she hurriedly threw the book on the end table, knowing that she was caught in the act.

This time, I asked her for the book, which she gave up with a little teenage attitude. As she slipped into the bathroom before retiring, my co-worker looked at me and mocked: "But daaaaaad!"

Truth is, I never enjoy getting after the girls. However, despite my co-worker's teasing, I do relish the idea of being a father. I was given this weekend off, and while I do not desire to be at work, I wish I could put my own kids to bed. People talk about the maternal instinct, and men are often portrayed as followers, only going along with the parenting plan because its part of the deal. Well, there's nothing motherly about my parenting style, but I know that I'm overdue for fatherhood.

a chasing of the wind

At what point do I just accept that certain blessings aren't for me, and move forward with my life?

opening day

I know that there isn't a single person in my life as interested in baseball as I am. Nobody is rude enough to tell me that they don't care, so I bore them anyway. Should it bother me that I can't share this interest? Perhaps. I will buy at least one pair of Sox tickets this year, and be running around at the last minute looking for a companion. Which has me wondering: why does it mean anything to me? I've experienced being the fan of a "world champion," and it was predictably hollow. I do not follow the game to live vicariously through millionaires or to channel repressed passion.

Rather, I am most intrigued by the depth of its strategy. Yes, it can be as simple as one man throwing a ball as fast as he can past another, with eight other men ready to respond to contact. That's the stuff even a little leaguer can comprehend. But at its finest, each batter must perfect his swing, manage his concentration, and make split-second decisions. The pitcher cannot rely on speed alone, but must construct the perfect grip, arm position, and release to simultaneously create velocity, accuracy, and deception. And this doesn't even consider the variables of each hitter and pitcher adjusting for one another.

The hours of physical and mental preparation is mind-boggling. When a player's career is finished, he will be considered a great hitter if he failed 7 out of every 10 attempts, and a legendary hitter in failing only 17 of every 25. And though the odds are always against the hitter, the best will succeed when the team needs it most.

I see similarities with the frustration of the spiritual battle. The game happens to be a matter of life and death, but it seems more often than not, I stumble. Shortly after I prepare and adjust to build my confidence, I swing through yet another curveball. I grow impatient and lose my concentration. The crowd expects me to lead the team to victory, but my thoughts are fixed to my failure.

I forget the point of the battle. While I worry that every flail and mishap will undermine the integrity of the Gospel, God must continually remind me that the outcome is predetermined. It is by His magnificent grace that I am allowed to take the field and participate in His victory. He will be glorified, and it only speaks more greatly of His love that He allows me to share in the celebration.

God is asking me to step up to the plate. He wants me to look beyond my weakness and rely on His strength. In my doubt, I fully expect to fall flat on my face, disappointing the crowd. In His presence, I am only concerned that He is pleased with my attempt.