i've got a FEVER...

...99.7 to be exact. I presume it was closer to 102 last evening before I began a regular diet of O.J. and ibuprofen. Convulsing in my bed for hours, I would begin resting soundly, only to be shaken every three hours by aching bones and a sweating forehead.

I make a joke of how rarely I get sick. Everything belonged in my mouth as a preschooler: from quarters to toes to a spilled drink on the table. Enduring a laundry list of infections through elementary school, I suddenly grew healthy. I theorize that our fixation with anti-bacterial products is sentencing today's youth to a lifetime of weak immune systems.

Fevers have become such a rare occurrence that I can remember my last two. In eighth grade, I returned from a bowling outing with my friend's church when I began shaking uncontrollably. In college, a weekend visit to my parents' house was ruined by shivers while watching The Matrix. The circumstances were far from mysterious, but God used both occurrences to speak.

In between chatters, I asked God what He wanted. I've hidden from His presence the past couple months, and replaced Him with an idol. It began innocently enough, but I have recently made intentional efforts to place Him second in my life, and this has given Satan a foothold.

God offered one instruction in response: "Worship me."

My jaw strengthened as I managed the first song that came to mind...

Oh God, you are my God
And I will ever praise you
Oh God, you are my God
And I will ever praise you
I will seek you in the morning
And I will learn to walk in your ways
And step by step you'll lead me
And I will follow you all of my days

I have a confession: I haven't felt much like worshiping for a couple years. I haven't purchased a single volume of inspirational literature, nor have I browsed the worship racks at a Christian bookstore. As God began placing my faith practices on the scales, worship was the last to be evaluated, and now has been the last to be redeemed.

When I first began this journey, I would drive 25 minutes from my apartment in Kansas City to the nearest Family Christian to keep up with the latest tracks. Separated from a functional Body, I visited an alternative church on Sunday evenings for the opportunity to sing, take communion, and shake hands with the person next to me.

I am certain that God deserves our worship, thus if He desired to strip it of its usefulness, He intends to redeem it with something pure. Shortly before leaving KC, I placed my familiar sacrifice before Him, only for Him to inquire if I thought He was hungry (Psalm 50).

God began to redeem my other practices (service, discipleship, prayer, Sabbath, communion...love), but He never gave me worship. I confessed to my church that the words seemed hollow. What was once the lifespring of my faith suffered abandonment. I trusted my brothers and sisters when they were led to worship, but I never initiated it and never requested it. I couldn't figure out how to flip the switch.

This from the guy that revolved his social life around collegiate choir, led worship in multiple ministries and camps, and acted awkwardly humble when others complimented his voice -- even while fighting his flesh not to intentionally impress. The voice of my praise became strangely silent.

It feels as if God will no longer allow my words of praise to be in contradiction with my love for other idols. Perhaps on this occasion, God is less concerned with redeeming a facet of the church, and more interested in calling me to His Lordship. I can scrutinize the corporate experience that Americans hold dear, but this does not rid me of what should be a natural desire to praise. If He would have the format redeemed, that's fully on His shoulders. But aside from this redemption, He would still have me praise with an honest and willing heart.

the final act of consecration

Few believers would purposely resist their identity in Christ. On the contrary, we cling to the hope afforded through our identity and inheritance while enduring the process of consecration. We believe that by ridding our lives of the profane, we will be empowered to walk in this identity to its fullest measure.

This theology is sound, but often we are mistaken in our definition of "profane." Whereas we desire God to remove the portions of our lives that are bad -- according to our own connotation -- God longs to remove everything that is common.

I assumed that by cleansing myself of fear, coarse joking, lustful attitudes, and earthly pursuits that the work would be complete. Granted, this was a necessary start, but we do not become holy vessels through the mere disposal of blatant sin:

Now in a large house there are not only gold and silver vessels, but also vessels of wood and of earthenware, and some to honor and some to dishonor. Therefore, if anyone cleanses himself from these things, he will be a vessel for honor, sanctified, useful to the Master, prepared for every good work. (2 Tim. 2:20-21, NASB)

This isn't an awful translation, but the Greek word translated "dishonor" is ATIMOS, which used in a comparative context implies a subjective indignity. In other words, the "dishonorable" items are not bad in and of themselves, but they are undignified when held against the honorable articles.

The distinction is clear in Paul's metaphor. All of us can see the common usefulness in wood or clay: they serve a multitude of physical purposes, from building to dining to storing. Many of these articles even hold an aesthetic value beyond their practicality, and they fill our homes for this very reason.

Now compare these articles to those made of refined metal. Our best china looks fabulous until graded against a sterling silver plate. A wooden dresser may give the bedroom character, but will not demand our attention if placed next to a solid gold trunk. Paul isn't requesting that we purge our lives of evil; he's suggesting that we cleanse ourselves of anything that lacks a noble purpose for His honorable kingdom.

What does this have to do with identity? I believe that many of us have found freedom over deadly sin, but still lack a certain "usefulness" to our Lord. We want to carry our identity in Christ, but only within the context of our worldly identity. If our greatest use to the world becomes our ability to entertain, our capacity to reason, or our connectivity to modern culture, then our homes will be cluttered with junk compared to the things of Christ!

I struggle with this because I want to relate. I want the lost to know that I listen to cool music, will share an espresso or beer with them, and can produce a witty comeback for their respect. I want women to know that I'm considerate and a good listener. I want men to know that I can explain the appropriate use of a double switch. I want my parents to know that I can take care of myself, and my boss to know that I'm reliable. I want...

It's all clutter. I fear that cleansing myself of my accepted identities will leave me empty and boring. But living according to my identity in Christ requires the death of common things. What eternal reward is there for my earthly reputation? How does my Godly usefulness suffer when I waste time nursing my conflicting identities? What do I truly hold most valuable?

Moreover, they shall teach My people the difference between the holy and the profane, and cause them to discern between the unclean and the clean...and it shall be with regard to an inheritance for them, that I am their inheritance; and you shall give them no possession in Israel -- I am their possession. (Ezekiel 44:23,28)

the dangling conversation

Flattery doesn't travel very far in my life. A 60-year-old woman -- one that has lived an incredibly difficult life -- thinks that I'm the ultimate catch. My sarcastic, auto-piloted response: "Clearly."

Enduring a stormy childhood of sexual abuse and a lifetime of emotionally abusive lovers, she has come to the conclusion that young women have no idea what they need until they've suffered a multitude of wounds. For all the talk of men being the physically-minded gender, she admits that women speak well of their desires verbally, but ultimately pursue the hunky guy that tells them everything they want to hear.

I don't want to paint a sweeping generality: this is her opinion and not mine. But if her analysis proves to be the norm rather than the exception -- unfortunately, my experience as a man and a youth minister support this claim -- then I am due for grave disappointment in my longing for restoration.

Over the past year, God has done a work in my heart concerning my "purity pride," and this passage has rattled incessantly in my brain:

...Do not call anything impure that God has made clean. (Acts 10:13)

But what happens when the restored vessel continues to live according to her perceived impurity? If a woman finds herself of little worth, she will continue to offer herself to the pawn shop owner, regardless of the invaluable stamp the Father has placed on her. Male dumpster divers are more than eager to take advantage of the dire circumstance.

I can tackle lies by the truckload with His truth, but if shattered women perceive a broken man like myself to be beyond their worth, how much more will they run from the grace of God?

No answers today -- only questions.

dude...what's that smell?

Of my five physical senses, one works overtime: my eyes are nearsighted, my hearing is selective, my taste is dulling, and my touch leaves something to be desired. (Ha!)

From the time I was a toddler, my nose picked up everything. My mom first took my brother and I for swim lessons at the age of four. My body has always been suspicious of the physics behind human buoyancy, so while I enjoyed the water, this was not my finest hour. Approaching the end of one particularly grueling session, my nose began to pick up the scent of the nearby molasses factory. Having already drained my emotional reservoir on the lesson, I began to blubber on account of the scent’s intensity. What began as a solid cry quickly transitioned to an unsightly weep when the adults didn’t believe me. They thought I had made it up to be removed from the pool. Where’s mom when you need her?

Ten years ago, I had innocently attended a dinner party, when a fresh face sat next to me on the couch. She fell asleep while we watched a DVD, and unknowingly rested her head upon my shoulder. The newly released scent that transferred to my clothing outlasted the season of dating, falling in love, and heartbreak that followed. A decade later, I curse the day I first encountered Love Spell.

[Ladies and gentlemen, if you purchase a product that markets itself as a means to charm, do not feign surprise when it serves as such. CBS CARES.]

Just this evening I was lounging at my parents’ house when my nose picked out a fruity sensation. I began rummaging around the living room and inhaling near the open screen door for the source. My pup-like nostrils led me to kitchen, where my mom was finishing the dishes. I asked if she smelled something, and she offered, “The dishwater?” I leaned toward the dirty pool, which disclosed a sensory array of apples and cherry blossoms. That’s right…I’m just that good.

While I may demonstrate more obsession than others, mankind has been created with the mental capacity to attach scent to circumstance. These particular neural firings tell us when something is burning, when it is about to rain, or when your good friend Liz has entered the room. Since our synapses transfer this information quicker than we reason how we should feel about the information, instinct takes over. We respond according to our association with the scent.

Paul uses this wonderful analogy to describe our interactions with the world. Many of us would like to portray an image of Christianity to our own liking, which usually means to others’ own liking. Paul does not assume this liberty:

But thanks be to God, who always leads us in triumphal procession in Christ and through us spreads everywhere the fragrance of the knowledge of him. For we are to God the aroma of Christ among those who are being saved and those who are perishing. To the one we are the smell of death; to the other, the fragrance of life. And who is equal to such a task? Unlike so many, we do not peddle the word of God for profit. On the contrary, in Christ we speak before God with sincerity, like men sent from God. (2 Cor. 2:14-17, emphasis added)

I’ve heard a lot of discussion about what “we” should call ourselves. Many believe that the term “Christian” has lost its luster, and that an association with this term is a detriment to our ministry. I try not to concern myself with such matters. If someone covers an onion with a solid orange peel, they will not fool me for long. It would not require the peeling of the skin for me to identify the bitter sting of the onion.

We give humanity's “sense of scent” too little credit. Yes, there are plenty masquerading a false message or lifestyle in the name of Christ, and they provide due injustice to our name. But I have to presume that people -- whether Christian or not -- own a brain.

Those who carry the aroma of Christ cannot be concerned with the acceptance of their scent. To those living in His grace, we are like my mom’s pool of dishwater -- perhaps something short of physical perfection, but nonetheless wafting a message of hope to those being lured by Jesus. I have met many unbelievers that have cringed at the name of Christianity, but are drawn to the authentic aroma of His truth because it cannot be fabricated by the hypocrites.

Likewise, those bent on living in darkness -- whether Christian or not -- will loathe the fragrance, but we cannot concern ourselves with this. Our aim is to represent the aroma’s source, “like men sent from God,” so that the perishing might know the presence of Life.

vacation

Steps to a successful vacation

1) Read a new book
2) Get outdoors for some yardwork
3) Schedule an eye appointment and reframe my face
4) Take a daily stroll downtown
5) Sleep normal hours
6) Enjoy happy hour and a Sox game
7) Discover a new coffee joint and drink a double short
8) Call an old friend
9) Find furniture for the living room
10) Thrift shop for used CDs and DVDs
11) Work on my writing (dispose poor habits)
12) Read and interact with a bajillion blogs

Any other ideas? I'm open to persuasion.

Activities to avoid

1) Staying up all night
2) Setting unrealistic expectations
3) Wearing socks
4) Posting new blog entries

The Ledger will feature new material on the 18th. See you then!

different than me, yet always the same

It's funny where I find the greatest conversation...

I shared third shift with a young black woman: a single mother, a product of a single mother, surviving as a refugee in suburbia so that her elementary school daughter has a chance to succeed. I asked her how the school system treats her daughter. She says that her daughter quietly keeps to herself, but she's received the treatment: from peers calling her the n-word to her bus driver throwing her off the bus for a disciplinary matter (an event caught on camera).

We talked about black and white, men and women. Black women are expected to dress presentably for their man -- serve as a trophy. I once experienced this first hand. A resident asked me how she looked. I told her she looked fine for a volleyball game. We entered the gym and her campus boyfriend said, "Damn girl! Why don't you do something with yourself?" She looked at me like I should have known.

In contrast, I find it comical that white women dress up for themselves (and for other white women). Rarely are white men concerned with the public status of their significant other; a white man is more likely to become jealous if their girlfriend attracts too much attention from other men or at the expense of their own pride. It reminded me of the Cedar Point phenomenon: girls dressed in their summer nothings, and the dude can't keep his hands off, as if he's worried about losing his possession.

White men play dibs with women; black men keep it real. Same sin, different manifestation.

I tentatively approached spirituality last evening, but I gave it one shot. I shared a true story told by another co-worker, a Wiccan by confession. Apparently, her 6-year-old daughter returned from first grade and told her the real meaning of Christmas. Blast those public school educators! My junior high teacher only tried to convert us to communism. A first grader sharing Jesus with her Wiccan mom? Rebellion takes on redeemable forms.

BOOM -- I was in! The strong woman before me was appalled at the unclean spirits that our co-worker would bring into her household. We agreed that this is the kind of stuff one doesn't invite. Another point of emphasis: I told her that white people are generally skeptical of things they haven't seen for themselves. They might accept Wicca or Masonry almost on a lark. This was mind-blowing to her. You won't find too many black men and women (or Hispanic for that matter) that deny the existence of spirits. Remember that we often build our God around our beliefs.

I'll spare the details, but here's the conclusion: white people deny the existence of Satan's minions, Latinos are deathly afraid or superstitious concerning them, and African-Americans acknowledge their spiritual authority, but often market it for personal gain. Same source of deception, different manifestation.

Despite the cultural differences, we realize that we are two children of the same God, battling the same enemy, through the same authority of the Holy Spirit. I relish this unity and discovery of truth, even at 4:36 in the morning.

spiritual amnesia

Hi. My name is Anthony, and I'm struggling with faith.

This may not seem tragic. I know many who have distrusted God and lived to tell about the redemption. I know I've had many doubts before, but they've always been accompanied by a vicious pursuit towards obedience. Even when following with resistance, I have always done so, because He has always shown Himself to be worthy of my trust. My life has been a running history of "God came through" kind of moments. So faith has traditionally been the least of my struggles.

It's my apathy that concerns me. I've never been one to coast. But now, a part of me is ready to give up.

Byron and I met for Bible study today, and the common theme was thanksgiving. We sorted through some Psalms, and Byron was taken by the number of times the writer recounts the history of God's redemption. He was there in Egypt. He was there before entering Canaan. He fought off the Philistines. The Israelites had a way of forgetting where they had come from, and who brought them to their current place. Giving thanks in recounting God's previous redemption gave them courage in active despair.

This has been missing in my life. I've forgotten where I've come from, and who brought me here. I haven't thanked Him for my salvation, for years of ministry that has produced righteous men and women, or for the way He provided a body when I was laboring solo...twice.

Thanks to God for His wondrous work in my life! Thanks to Him for rescuing me from my shame! Thanks for abundant life! Thanks for a family tree of spiritual descendants!

Thank you Jesus, for your love and healing arms of comfort :)