On My Way Home

Decisions, Decisions

2011-10-18T20:58:00.000-04:00

Decisions come very easy to me, but not necessarily good ones. I am very comfortable making judgments. I find, however, that the consequences of a quick decision is often a long, hard slog toward making things right.

My wife Janice and I were riding bikes in Acadia National Park when we came to a junction of two trails. I had a map in my pack, and I could have easily checked our position and made an informed choice. But the route to the left looked correct in my mind, and it was downhill, so that’s the way we went—downhill.

After a mile of easy coasting in the wrong direction, I admitted my mistake. I had to tell my trusting wife who followed to turn around and take back all the elevation we just descended. Perhaps it goes without saying the ride to the top was difficult, and also very quiet.

I read a book by a neuroscientist who observed through a number of experiments and diagnostic tests something I’ve known since childhood—the more things you have on your mind, the poorer your decisions.

On this vacation, I had a lot on my mind.

My poor decisions actually started weeks before. I found a place to stay online that promised a Swiss-style chalet, quiet surroundings and a private beach. I researched no further. I booked it. It was now one less thing I had to think about.

When my wife (again, so trusting) and I arrived we found a chalet, but our room was in the basement. It was dreary, dated, dirty, and the beach was a quarter-mile away. It turned out to be the most expensive vacation rental ever. As we left to find a better place, the landlord’s “no-refunds” still hanging in the air, I calculated we paid about $400 a minute.

The influence of a crowded mind was tested by some researchers who devised a very simple experiment. They told one group of people to remember three numbers, and then turned them loose on a large buffet of food. The table included healthy food choices like veggies and fruits, and also included cakes, cookies and lots of fatty-fried stuff.

The group with three numbers in their heads socialized at the buffet while they snacked, mostly on the healthier foods.

Then a second group was asked to remember seven numbers and turned loose at the same buffet. They socialized less, and ate mostly sugar and fat. The pattern was repeated in test after test.

The researchers’ conclusion was that humans are more likely to make good decisions if they have fewer thoughts in their heads. That rings true to me.

I teach a Bible study class, and sometimes I choose to teach topics I feel I need to learn. Recently I studied and prepared a couple of lessons on the topic of simplicity. I can’t speak for others in the class, but I did learn something.

What did I learn? I learned you can’t study your way to simplicity. Simplicity in thought and action comes from focusing on less, not more. Whether it be work, prayer, conversation, art, sport, reading, writing or relationships, we do better when we can narrow our focus.

One day Jesus was visiting in the home of Mary and Martha. While Mary sat and talked with Jesus, Martha was preparing dinner. After a while Martha got peeved about Mary’s apparent laziness and indifference. Jesus responded to Martha’s complaint saying, “Martha, Martha, you are worried and bothered about so many things, but only one thing is necessary . . . .”

That one thing is love—to love God and to love others. All the prioritizations of life flow from this one priority.

Ultimately the crowded mind is a selfish mind. It is the mind that withdraws into self and broods quiet for hours. It is the mind that snaps impatiently at someone’s intrusion. It is the mind that makes life just a little harder for everyone else, but excuses itself with, “I’m sorry, but I have a lot on my mind.”

Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is not puffed up and not insistent on its own way. The mind prioritized by genuine love is ordered, sensitive to what is going on around it, and focused on the better outcome

Peeling away the unnecessary and the lesser things is not sloth. In fact, when it does not come naturally, it requires serious work. Like a sculptor cutting away everything he does not see, it is hard to carve away all the extraneous things that get in the way of the essential. And you have to keep doing it moment after moment, thought after thought.

I do not want to be worried and bothered by so many things. I want to choose better. Lord, teach me to love.

Fascination & Mystery

2011-07-02T12:21:00.000-04:00

Janice and I began our special year in Yosemite National Park. We arrived on New Year’s Day to the wonder of fresh snow falling. For three days we explored the magnificent valley, continually looking up at the towering cliffs and waterfalls, watching the choreography of light, cloud, snow, wind and granite.

On our last afternoon there, we walked out to the Ahwahnee Meadow to watch an incredible orange sunset projected on the face of Half Dome. The Ahwahnee Meadow separates the wonderful Ahwahnee Hotel from a village of wood-framed one-level buildings that house park employees and their families. The homes are modest, but their zip code is one of the most spectacular in the world.

As we walked the edge of the meadow, I noticed one of the homes featured a massive picture window designed to take full advantage of this scene we had traveled 2,500 miles to see. Imagine the joy of Half Dome through your window every sunset!

The drapes were open. I looked inside and saw two guys playing Madden football on X-Box. With the Glory of the Lord taking place behind them, they were focused only on their game.

This is a tendency we all have. It does not matter how wonderful the miracles are all around us, we get used to them and eventually they disappear from our focus. Just the other day Janice asked me if I had seen the day lilies in bloom by our driveway. I had not. I was focused on getting the paper.

New Year’s in Yosemite was the launch of a special year because 2011 marks our 40th wedding anniversary. On July 2, 1971 Janice and I looked into each other’s eyes and made the promises to have and hold till death. To be truthful we had no clue what the depth and height of those promises would mean. We were 18 years old.

On my side of the altar, had no idea of the beauty, complexity and mystery of this young woman who had agreed to be my wife. There were days of exploration and discovery ahead of me, days when I would marvel at the wildness and the grandeur of her, and the fascination of observing something new.

And sadly there were also many days when I took the beauty for granted, overlooked the changing landscape, and focused on man-made, cheap and temporary things. I’ve missed a lot of sunsets in my life with Janice, and I am sorry for it.

We live in a time when marriage is devalued. For many, marriage is no longer essential. It is easy to move on. Long-term commitments are sort of quaint. There are times when Janice and I feel part of an exhibit in the Smithsonian.

Marriage should be like two people marooned on an uninhabited island with no chance of escape. You have no alternative but to explore and scavenge and build out a life. You make a shelter, find a food source, fight off the predators. During the peaceful and restful times, you make babies. You populate your new world with children, experiences, mistakes and memories. You pay attention to everything in this wild, adventurous place because anything could turn out to be important.

While I remember our wedding 40 years ago, I have to confess the details are now sketchy. I remember praying but not the prayers, music but not the melodies. My most indelible memory of our wedding day is the moment after we had left the church and were alone for a few seconds in the back of my buddy Leon’s 64 Chevy. Before Leon got in to chauffeur us away, Janice turned and asked me in a voice flavored with equal parts joy, relief, excitement and fear, “Can you believe we did it?”

We did--40 years ago today. It has been an adventure.

I’m looking forward to tomorrow.

Planting Emmie

2011-05-26T01:31:00.000-04:00

Every kid should have a favorite aunt. Every boy should have a favorite aunt like my Aunt Emmie.

Most of the women in a 9-year-old’s life are uniformly mom-like. They wear the comfortable clothes and shoes and favor low-maintenance hair. They drive boxy cars and keep the windows rolled up. They enforce the rules, articulate the cautions and dispense justice. My Aunt Emmie did none of those things.

Emmie was fun, glamorous, adventurous and prone to spoil nephews with stuff like circus tickets and cotton candy. The mom gene pretty much passed Emmie by.

Emmie’s blond hair was wrapped stylishly around her head and pinned high like Tippi Hedren in The Birds. She was single, with the height and build of a model, which she had once been while living in New York. She favored stylish wool suits, high heels, sunglasses, and gloved hands that usually held a cigarette. Her car was an MG convertible with a tiny back seat that popped out of the trunk.

A ride in the MG was always expected when Emmie came around, and she never disappointed. Even on cool days she threw back the top and opened the rumble seat, which my little brother begged to occupy. I preferred the passenger side where I could talk to Emmie and watch her shift the manual transmission.

Aunt Emmie was a presence I couldn’t get my prepubescent mind around. She had an effect on males of all ages. Though at age nine I could not know it, describe it or appreciate it, she had sex appeal.

Emmie also had a Nikon camera--the large single lens reflex style favored by war correspondents in Life magazine. She took pictures of my brother and me at the circus. The grainy black and white prints she produced of the event, my face illuminated by the dizzy, sensuous world around me, are documentation of her power to intoxicate and enchant.

The phone call with news that Emmie had suffered a stroke and would likely die in days or hours hit me unexpected and hard. My first emotion was shame. Why had I let so many opportunities to write, call or visit pass by? I let my favorite aunt become a favored memory. May God forgive me for the waste of it all.

Emmie loved the East Tennessee mountains near where I now live. Her final instructions were that her ashes be spread in The Great Smoky Mountains National Park. She was not a hiker or a naturalist, but she loved the Smokies experience--driving to Clingman’s Dome, visiting the Cherokee decked out for tourists, shopping on the strip in Gatlinburg. Like millions of others with a time on their hands, the Smokies is where Emmie wanted to rest.

So a small group of family gathered near the park to honor Emmie’s request. Her husband Don and his daughter Lynn, my uncle Pat--one of Emmie’s few surviving brothers—and Pat’s wife B.J., my mother and me—we were to see Emmie’s ashes to a final resting place. Having never scattered anyone before. I had no idea what to expect.

The Zip-Loc bags were the first surprise. To pack Emmie on a plane and ease her past airport security, the family decided on the practical approach. They divided her into a couple of quart-sized freezer bags and placed her in a carry-on.

The second surprise was that Emmie had not specified any particular spot in the Smokies as a favorite. The Great Smoky Mountains National Park, the most visited in the country, contains more than 800 square miles of trees, trails and mountain views. Any number of vistas along U.S. 441, which bisects the park could have been a favorite spot, but no one knew for sure.

So Emmie’s husband Don asked me, as the one who knew the Smokies best, to pick the place. He wanted somewhere a little out of the way since it was unclear—another potential surprise—if the National Park Service would take kindly to seven visitors entering the park, but only six coming out.

We stopped at the Sugarlands Visitor Center near the park’s Gatlinburg entrance to make a plan. At Sugarlands there is a large, sculpted relief map that shows all the peaks and valleys of the park to approximate scale. The black line representing 441 South snakes its way from the blue line of the Little River on the Tennessee side, up and around Mt. LeConte and over Newfound Gap toward Cherokee, North Carolina and the blue line marking the Oconaluftee. The map has a border-to-border base coat of deep green paint, but the mountaintops are worn black from decades of visitors touching the summits. No doubt Emmie’s fingers had stroked these mountains at some time past.

My eyes settled on the lesser peaks called the Chimneys. There was no way our aging troupe could hike to the top, but I was familiar with the access trail and knew that it quickly crossed a footbridge and a cascading stream, which should provide some degree of seclusion and solitude. Don accepted the suggestion and we set out.

The Chimney’s are among the finest places in the park. The trail up is steep, but the reward at the top is a point of rock that exhilarates. The safest route to the highest point is through a passage that resembles a chimney, perhaps the last evidence of an active volcano, now many thousands of years cooled. I doubt seriously that Emmie ever climbed the Chimneys or even walked its trail, but she would approve of the choice. If she loved the Smokies, she would have loved the Chimneys and all they surveyed below.

It is simply part of being human that we carry our secret musings with us in every circumstance. As we drove toward the trailhead, I privately laughed at the thought of Emmie, a dedicated smoker of many years, resting at the foot of The Chimneys. I also entertained a poetic vision of us all releasing her ashes into the stream, the middle prong of the Little River, which would carry her along miles of secluded and pristine parkland. I love rushing water, and there are some streams where I would not mind floating through eternity.

That was my idea—the stream--but Don informed me Emmie was terribly frightened by water, so the Little River was out of the question. It humbled me to realize that if I had really known her, I would have known that. I’m just guest here, I acknowledged to myself. Emmie was spoiling me with one final adventure I did not deserve.

Fortunately B.J. and Lynn made a better choice. We gathered near the base of a majestic hemlock, one of the signature trees of the Smokies. Hemlocks can grow to 100 feet or more. This one had attained a girth that would require at least three tree-huggers for a full embrace.

Lynn read from the Psalms and Isaiah, and we recited the Lord’s Prayer. Then B.J. opened the baggies and divided Emmie, a little at a time, into our cupped hands.

What better metaphor for life than the passing of ashes through our fingers? Whether we pour ourselves out for the noble or the ridiculous, the grains of our lives continue to spill out. When we are young and full we barely notice the movement and sound of the tiny pieces of ourselves falling away. Then, eventually, the remaining grains are so few we fixate on them and try to count each one that passes.

I took the last grains of Emmie and placed them at the base of the hemlock, in the folds of the roots. I uttered a prayer that God would let her see that she was, and would always be, my favorite aunt.

Soon I’m planning a return to the Chimney’s and, God willing, I will climb to the top. Yet the highlight won’t be the view from the peak. What I am looking forward to is a giant hemlock. I want to sit by its roots and gaze into its canopy. Like Emmie, I want to rest there awhile.

Rest Stop

2011-03-08T23:13:00.000-05:00

This past Sunday started with me teaching a lesson on the Sabbath and the importance of rest in our lives. Then I came home and spent the afternoon working like a prisoner on a chain gang, trimming crepe myrtles and dragging their bones to the road. The afternoon gave me a lot of time to ponder the words I taught on that very morning:

Observe the Sabbath day, to keep it holy, as the Lord your God commanded you. Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is a Sabbath to the Lord your God. On it you shall not do any work . . . . You shall remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt, and the Lord your God brought you out from there with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm. Therefore the Lord your God commanded you to keep the Sabbath day. (From Deuteronomy 5:12-14)

I do believe in a Sabbath rest. Like most of my fellow 21st century Christians I don’t observe the traditional Jewish Sabbath from sundown Friday to sundown Saturday. I do observe The Lord’s Day, the first day of the week, resurrection day, Sunday.

But just like the Jewish Sabbath, The Lord’s Day is intended for our benefit. It is a gift from God--an opportunity for spiritual renewal and rest before the start of another tough week.

God created us to live to a certain rhythm of life—work, work, work, work, work, work, then a sweet period of rest, reflection and no work at all. You can take your Sabbath rest on a Saturday, a Sunday or a Thursday, just as long as you get into the sublime rhythm the Lord intended.

The Sabbath is a reminder of the liberty God offers his people. It is the one day when we should be free from the tyranny of obligation to anyone other than God himself. So it is a day for worship, whether in church or out. It is also a day to pursue anything that frees our hearts and opens our minds to the reality of God and the blessing of our place in his creation.

Which brings me to the crepe myrtles and the question of whether it is right to do that kind of work on the day of rest.

Unlike the nomadic herders and hardscrabble farmers of old Israel, I work most days in front of a computer. Basically I work with my head and sit on my butt. Acting like a lumberjack for a few hours on a Sunday can be some of the best non-work a white-collar dude can do.

My experience might be compared to a Jewish farmer who, free of obligation in his fields for a day, finds time to sit and compose some poetry.

Probably more important, my cutting those myrtles was a blessing to my wife. She was thrilled that I cut those 10 trees and she didn’t have to. It reminded me of the words of Jesus when he confronted the Pharisees and asked, “Is it lawful on the Sabbath to do good?” (Mark 3:4). Then, of course, he did great good. Doing something for someone else is an excellent form of Sabbath keeping

Most of us get an abundance of leisure. A few hours of television a night, a movie on the weekend, NetFlix, Xbox, e-books, iPods. We get so much leisure it is easy to discount the value of rest. Leisure is not rest. Rest is found in the near total absence of all the stuff we experience the other six days of the week.

Keeping The Lord’s Day, or the Sabbath or whatever you want to call it, requires discipline. In the days of Moses the Jews were told to get ready for the Sabbath by preparing double food the day before. Keeping the spirit of the Sabbath today requires similar forethought and preparation. If we approach it like any other day we will fill it with the same thoughts and actions that wear us down every other day of the week.

Recently the Lord gave me a beautiful picture of why we need a Sabbath rest. I was driving at night through mountainous north Georgia, when I noticed the sky was beautifully clear and brilliant with stars. There were so many stars that I was actually startled. I had to pull to the side of the road to look at them for a while.

Living in the city, I routinely see only a few dozen stars, even on the clearest of nights. I had forgotten how many stars are actually up there. I needed to be reminded of the glory of the heavens.

The Sabbath rest, whenever we take it, is intended as just such a reminder. In the routine of work and world, it is easy to forget who God is, the glory of his creation, and the beauty of all he created us to be. The day of rest is our opportunity to stop, remember, refresh and enjoy.

Think About It

2010-12-13T23:30:00.000-05:00

About some ideas and topics, our culture has what might be called a “lazy mind’s eye” or perhaps “mental myopia.” What I mean is that there are certain ideas that get communicated and repeated so consistently that most people just accept them as facts, without critical examination.

Some of these ideas are stereotypes repeated so often we just roll with them. Oil tycoons are corrupt. Teenagers are out of control. Republicans are mean and hypocritical. Democrats are over-sexed socialists. These ideas are perpetuated in movies and commentary and most people buy in without thinking much.

Some ideas have assumed the stature of history, though they really are not true at all. Just about everyone believes Thomas Edison invented the light bulb, but he didn’t. Edison made it more durable and commercially viable, but the invention was around for decades earlier. The phrase “separation of church and state” is not in the Constitution as most believe. It comes from a letter written by Thomas Jefferson to the Danbury Baptist Association.

Mental myopia has nothing to do with intellect or education. Post-graduates are as likely to be dumb as posts on some things. As Abraham Lincoln said, “You can fool some of the people all of the time” (though, of course, Lincoln never actually said that).

A most prominent concept that is swallowed hook, line and sinker by apparently intelligent people is the idea that all life owes its existence to evolution. Every creature, every plant, every microbe survives only because its strengths were favored by evolutionary forces. This idea is certainly an easy way to explain existence, but does it withstand critical examination?

Here is a classic example of what I mean. Last week I was listening to my favorite NPR station when a reporter interviewed Dr. Jim McClintock, an ecologist from the University of Alabama Birmingham. Dr. McClintock is involved in exciting cancer research focused on an interesting compound extracted from the sea squirt.

Apparently the sea squirt is a basketball-sized bag of goo found on the cold ocean floor of Antarctica. The potential drug comes from a poison the sea squirt excretes to ward off predators.

To quote the reporter, “Dr. McClintock says the theory is that the sea squirt has had millions of years to evolve chemicals to use in defense of predators.” Then Dr. McClintock himself added, “If you are a sea squirt, you can’t get up and run away from something, you don’t have a shell to hide within, so what you do is you produce these toxic distasteful chemicals to protect yourself.”

I am not a professor of polar and marine biology, but I am logician enough to challenge the good doctor’s theory. The idea that any organism, much less an unintelligent one like a sea squirt, can will itself a new and essential attribute seems silly on its face. I’ve been willing myself the ability to dunk a basketball since I was 10 years old, but so far my ability is going in the opposite direction.

Let’s consider the fate of the very first sea squirt, eaten millions of years ago by, oh let’s just say, a prehistoric version of Sponge Bob Square Pants. The non-toxic sea squirt tastes yummy, so Dinosaur Sponge Bob eats more of them, and invites his entire Sponge Bob family over for sea squirt dinners.

As I picture it, the sea squirt, once consumed, is quite dead and therefore no longer able to engage in sea squirt sex and pass his O-M-G-I’m-about-to-be-eaten genetic mutation on to sea squirt progeny.

Since they can’t run—and Dr. McClintock said they could not—those early, tasty sea squirts would not have been able to send out anything like a Paul Revere sea squirt to warn the others that the Sponge Bobs were coming.

Further, since sea squirts are not very good talkers either, they would not have been able to cry out to their sea squirt neighbors, warning them to get toxic before they too become Sponge Bob’s lunch.

So how did these sea squirts succeed in changing themselves? I think believing the millions of years answer requires a bit of blind faith.

The big hole in the evolutionist theory of the sea squirt is this. If the creature really did, over millions of years, gradually with each millennium grow a little more toxic, then why didn’t the squirt’s predators, over the same millions of years, develop a resistance to the toxin?

The millions-of-years idea is a cheap and easy answer to a lot of precious and deep questions. It gets used every day in classrooms, books, magazines, reality TV and cartoons. It is a one-size-fits-all cop-out that merits thoughtful, vigilant challenge.

It also requires faith to believe in a Creator God, which I do. But it does not require deaf-dumb-and-blind faith. The people of God need to sharpen their wits and not be afraid to debate. The word of God is strong enough to withstand the challenge.

Glimpses of Eternity/Video at Eleven

2010-10-23T21:09:00.000-04:00

The news provides us with frequent examples of our fallen condition, of mankind’s propensity for destruction, exploitation and self-adulation. Wonderfully, on rare days, the news gives us a glimpse of the way things were supposed to be.

Moment by moment the dramatic mine rescue in Chile illustrated grace at work in the world. Vivid stories and pictures served up potent metaphor of mankind’s spiritual condition. Trapped in a dark place. Destined to die unless, hope against hope, help comes from above.

As each miner stepped onto the surface of the high Chilean dessert, the scene erupted in celebration and embracing of loved ones long absent. What a wonderful illustration of heaven, a place best described not as geography, but as love and light. How cool that each miner had to wear dark glasses to adapt his eyes to the glory around him.

There was the moment when the first rescuer descended into the mine. A blurry video feed showed his anticipated arrival and then his open-armed greeting to the 33 men. Was this not a picture of Jesus Christ, come to experience life in the darkness of a fallen world, and reveal the path to salvation? I loved how quickly Florencio Avalos, the first miner to the top, stepped forward already dressed in his special jumpsuit and ready to go.

Unable to save themselves, these men were nonetheless saved. They were helpless, but help came. They were lost, but those who loved them spared no effort and no expense to find them. The truth of the gospel is woven throughout the story.

This past week the miner dubbed “Super” Mario Sepulvida for his exuberant celebration after rescue offered some insights into what life in the mine was like in the first days after the collapse. The men bickered. Some wept. Thoughts of eventual cannibalism terrorized them. They hoped and prayed, but the worst nightmares dominated their conscious hours.

Then on the 19th day a 2-inch drill bit poked through the roof of their subterranean shelter and brought the 33 hope. In the light of that small hole they found resolve to live and work together with new unity and purpose.

This seems to me a picture of the church, or at least a version of the church that ought to be. Followers of Jesus Christ, more than anyone else, have reason to hope. And because of that hope we have reason to work and live in peace and purpose until Christ’s full peace and purpose is revealed.

It occurs to me that once the first small connection to the surface was made, the miners' lives went from mostly hidden to fully exposed. Their words and actions became open to observation and instruction from above. It is another picture of the wisdom and protection of God, revealed to us the teachings of Jesus, who watches to see if we are willing to obey.

When the means of rescue arrived, all 33 of the men took their appointed rides to the top. This is where the analogy of their ordeal and salvation breaks down. Tragically, in the larger world, as dark as it may be, there are those who think it is bright enough. As barren of love and comfort as the world may be, there are those who think it is as good as it gets.

Though the path of salvation may be obvious and clear, and there are many who point the way, there are those who respond with, ‘No thank you, I will just poke around down here awhile and see if I can find another path.”

Safe on the surface and released from the hospital, Super Mario made a trip to the ocean with his family. Oblivious to the rolling cameras, he stripped off his clothes and celebrated his rebirth by swimming naked in the waves. Then be fell to his knees in the sand and praised God for the gift of life.

Do not count me as one who would look down on Mario’s bare-bottomed expression of joy. The truth is we are all naked before God. He knows whether we love the light or the darkness,

The eye of the media moves on. The day after the miracle in Chile was over, the lead stories were again political squabbling, war, crime and celebrity. The story changes every few hours. The reality of the fallen, broken world distracts us from the greater reality . . . that our real home is a place of light and love.

C.S. Lewis wrote “miracles are a retelling in small letters of the very same story which is written across the whole world in letters too large for some of us to see.” There are those who look at what happened in Chile and see only an accident with a fortunate conclusion. There are those who do not see the grace of God at work in the world, or if they do see, prefer not to get overly excited about it.

For me the small letter miracle in the Copiapo mine is a reminder that I too was once in a dark place, but the love of Christ moved heaven and earth to offer an escape. That’s the good news worth pondering again and again.

Renaissance Park

2009-10-25T21:34:00.000-04:00

Up the green hill we walk
His four steps
My one
My finger in his grip
My hand holds
Cardboard
That will carry us down
Sliding and
Laughing
Faster there’s no controlling
Rolling rolling
Over
Blue heaven and sunshine
Smile down smile up
Again
Up the green hill we walk
His four steps
My one

Too Educated

2009-09-10T00:20:00.000-04:00

I was talking with a fellow church member--a really nice guy I would like to know better, but don’t yet know that well. He sings in the choir, and before long the topic of church music came up.

He told me he previously attended a church in another state where it was common to sing southern gospel. He said he misses it, and wishes that, just every now and then, the choir could do a little Southern gospel music.

For those of you who didn’t grow up with The Stamps, The Blackwood Brothers or The Happy Goodman Family on your record player, let me explain.

First of all, records were these flat black plastic disks that had a good song on the A side and mediocre song on the B side, and you played them on a contraption that had a spindle, turntable, arm and a needle. You can look records up on Wikipedia.

Southern gospel music was a variation of early rock n’ roll, country and bluegrass. It was like that sinful music, but because the lyrics were about Jesus and getting saved, it could be sung in church and tent revivals. In the days of my youth, southern gospel was performed usually by quartets (if male) or trios (if female), or any number if you happened to all be part of the same family tree. The music was usually up-tempo, often a capella, and with a big emphasis on harmony.

In a men’s quartet there was always a deep-deep bass and a high-pitched tenor. They all four dressed alike, except maybe the front man who did the talking between the songs. If most of the group wore baby blue suits with white shirts and ties, then the front man wore a white suit with baby blue shirt and tie. You get the picture.

The bass was tall and skinny. The tenor was usually as round as a Moon Pie. Finding matching clothes that ranged from a 32 x-tra long to a 54 short meant they shopped in stores and catalogs that really weren’t that stylish. That’s why The Oak Ridge Boys switched from southern gospel to country—to get clothes with sequins. Those of you old enough to know The Oak Ridge Boys will get that humor. And the rest of you--Wikipedia.

In a ladies’ trio there was a soprano, an alto and another songbird to fill in the gaps. What I remember about trios is that they always had terrific posture, big hair, and so much tremolo in their voices they could warble any sinner into submission and rouse a stone-faced deacon to shout ‘MERCY!’

Of course, evangelism and praise are what Southern gospel is all about. You can’t experience Southern gospel for more than few minutes without affect. For many it starts with tapping your toes, then before long you are smiling, then clapping your hands, then maybe moving your hips and shoulders a little. A Southern gospel concert will make you either run for the altar or run for the door, depending on your threshold for joy or pain.

Whether this form of music brings joy or inflicts pain is probably influenced by one of two factors—where you grew up, and how sophisticated you are. If you grew up in the south, then there is a good chance you have an affinity, or at least a tolerance for, good old southern gospel.

That is, unless you happen to be southern, but also sophisticated. If you are sophisticated, then you have no patience at all for southern quartets or trios, unless they happen to be playing violas or woodwinds.

My new friend from the choir knows this is true. When I offered that maybe, just maybe, our new minister of music would serve up some southern gospel from time to time, my friend dashed my attempt at encouragement with, “No, we’re too educated for that.”

He said it with a palpable sigh, which is ok because it is a sad thought. In fact, it is a two-word condemnation of what goes on between the ears of too many of us on a Sunday morning.

The words bounced around in my head for days afterward. Too educated. Too educated to sing that way. Too educated to listen. Too educated to worship the way those people do.

The idea that we are too smart, too sophisticated, too old, too comfortable or too much in love with tradition that we close ourselves off from any experience we don’t already know is at the heart of the worship tensions many churches struggle with, even split over.

Many churches today are programming like multiplex cinemas. In one room starting at 8:15 you’ve got your drums and guitars and the preacher wears a cool tee shirt. In another room at 9:45 you’ve got the piano and hand bells, a choir and a pastor who always reads from the KJV. In room three at 11 there is a praise team, words on a screen and the pastor sits on a stool and relates like Seinfeld.

As churches cluster around affinity groups, coagulate to reach a particular demographic, or congeal around a certain preferred style, how long until we just thicken, harden and die?

One of my favorite Psalms is 33, which says to:

Sing for joy.
Give thanks to the Lord with the lyre.
Sing praises to Him with a harp of ten strings.
Sing a new song.
Play skillfully with a shout of joy.

That psalm says to me that worship is enhanced by variety, by enthusiasm, by skillful artistry, by crudely shouting out and by trying something new or unfamiliar. What we need in our churches is not more segmentation that separates people based on tastes and expectations, but more variety that engages people from all walks of life, expands our shared experiences, and draws us together.

The very essence of education and developing an intellect is a healthy curiosity and an openness to try things that are unfamiliar. The truth is that we are not too educated for any particular style of music, we are too ignorant even to know what we are missing.

I would not want a steady diet of southern gospel at church, but I would love some of it. And I would also love some classical, some bluegrass, some jazzy horns, some Christian rock, some poetry, some dance, some children’s voices and some voices that crack with age.

Wouldn’t it be neat if the only things we were too educated for were complaining, criticism and insisting on our own way?

Little Pieces Of Me

2009-08-15T00:52:00.000-04:00

My desk is a mess. There are Post-It Notes everywhere, loose change, reading glass cases with no reading glasses. Pens and paper. Dust.

Scripture says I am but dust. This desk is littered with little pieces of me.

There are times in life when you are filled with hope and promise and the glory of a day not yet lived. Those are the rich days—days of anticipation with no dread. They are treasure, but you are so busy enjoying them you never notice them slipping away.

Then there are days when you just feel . . . nothing. Those days pass at two speeds. In one sense they move like stale air. At a less than fully conscious level they are fast and chaotic, and when they are over you remember almost nothing about them. No lessons learned. No pilgrim’s progress. Just a faint recollection that something happened, and it turned out to be nothing, except maybe a little more dust.

Sometimes I think about the possibility of my sweet wife cleaning out my clutter when I am gone. The unfinished stories and poems, the calls I never answered, the cards I couldn’t throw away.

All these little pieces of me will have to be cleaned up someday, if not by my wife, then by my children or someone. I wonder—what will she think of this? Will it bring a smile or a tear? Will this embarrass? Anger? Rekindle old frustrations?

This week two old, prominent Americans passed away, and they left some big pieces of themselves behind. Eunice Kennedy Shriver founded the Special Olympics and helped bring the mentally and physically disadvantaged out from behind closed doors and institutional gates. Les Paul invented the solid body electric guitar, pioneered modern recording technologies, and made some great music along the way. I’m sure they leave behind some dust, too, but they will be remembered for great things.

I look across my desk and I see no great things expect my wife, children and grandchild, captured in pictures. Little pieces of me cling to the frames and the glass, stealing some of their brightness.

Lately I’ve been reading the Book of Job, which is probably a bad idea when one is depressed. Job lost everything, and then sat in the dirt and grieved. His friends did not help. Time did not heal. Job just spent each excruciating day asking God for an answer.

I have questions for God too, but He’s already given me the answer, I think. It is similar to the one He gave Job. "Get off your butt. Quit thinking about yourself. I am God and you are not.”

Job said it correctly, “The fear of the Lord, that is wisdom.” God gave me this life. It is a sin to tear it into little pieces.

It’s time to clean the desk. It’s time to dust.

So Much To Do

2009-07-14T22:15:00.001-04:00

While thinking about the difficulty of parenting and some of the self-imposed burdens parents endure, I had a little brainstorm. With apologies to C.S. Lewis, here it is.

The Scene:

Satan is hosting a brainstorming session—doing some long range strategic planning with his executive team. It’s 1960, and he’s planning ahead on how he will attack the first generation of children to grow up in the new millennium—after the year 2000.

Burden, Satan’s Minister of Material Excess is speaking:

“So, we’ll continue to use our old friend television to consume the time and influence the thinking of parents. I believe over 40 years we can totally reorient their thinking. Realign their moral compasses.

“The beauty of television is that we can also make them want lots of stuff. Everything they watch will make their lives seem dreary by comparison, make them dissatisfied with their lives, their jobs, their spouses, their children.

“We’ve got some teams working on new ideas called HGTV and Martha Stewart. Our plan is to make it so that even when they are resting at home, they won’t feel any peace.

“The bottom line is, the more they want, the more they’ll buy. We’ll make them spend more than they make . . . so that both parents have to work all the time. Lot’s of stress. Lot’s of overtime. Second jobs . . .not much time for the kids. When they come home they will be so tired they’ll just want to CRASH . . . . And where will they crash--are you ready for this?--in front of the TV!”

A particularly pale demon with huge dark circles under his eyes spoke up. “The technology division is working on this thing called the Internet. We think it’s going to be huge.

“The Internet will be a little like TV, but they’ll be able to interact with it—look at anything they want, buy anything they want with the click of a button! They won’t even need money—just a credit card number.” He nods to the Minister of Material Excess. “They will buy a lot of stuff on credit. And the opportunities for Theft and Fraud are just a bonus.”

“But won’t the enemy be able to use the Internet too? You know, to spread the Bad News?” The interruption came from Cynicism, one of the oldest.

“Of course, of course . . . they always try. But that will be a drop in the bucket compared to the avalanche of sleaze we will be able to run through it.”

“Oooo! Oooo!” A young member of the Communications Legion seemed about to burst. “We can use technology like that to create waves and waves of entertainment. Movies, videos, on-demand TV. Instead just good old ABC, NBC and CBS, they will have thousands of options to fill up their time. They’ll be able to access anything their weak little hearts want to watch.”

“The best part,” said Burden, “is that all this new entertainment, the new technology, wlll cost them more and more. They think they will have to have it, so they’ll work more and more. TV, the Internet, entertainment—these will be the primary sources of guidance for the children. Just imagine it . . . parents supplanted by content. And, of course, we know who will generate most of the content.”

Some in the group clapped enthusiastically, but most held back, knowing the boss was not one to waste time or energy.

“How’s our Guilt Initiative coming along? “ Satan asked.

Whittle, the project leader spoke nervously, talking very fast. “Oh, it’s going very well. As parents are more and more distracted, they always compensate by giving their children more and more stuff. And when they see other parents buying their kids stuff, they will have to get even more stuff. Which of course will guarantee they will get deeper in debt, and have to work even more, and then grow more guilty . . . it’s what the guys down in marketing call a “’delicious cycle.’”

“It sounds like a competition!” one called out.

“Oh it will be,“ said Whittle. “Parents will feel so much pressure just to keep up, just to put on the good show, it will consume a lot of them.”

Fated, who was observing his 3500th anniversary as Director of Intended Consequences had an idea. “You know what we need to go along with that? Kid’s sports. Lot’s of them—baseball, soccer, basketball, football, swimming, cheerleading—we can make it a year-round thing. We’ll fill their lives with it. When they’re not working, they will be at some field somewhere, focusing what energy they have left cheering at games. It worked in Rome.”

Fester, a junior member of Fated’s team, was eager for the boss to notice him. “So instead of parents actually spending time with their kids, they’ll encourage their kids to spend time with virtual strangers? That’s brilliant, sir!”

“We’ll actually make them feel guilty if they don’t!” Whittle added. “I like it.”

“There’s more,” Fated continued. “We can add—drum roll please—all-stars and select teams to burn up even more family time and fuel that competitive pride.” Fated paused and struck a pose that only a demon of his stature would dare in the presence of the great master, “I can envision parents buying outrageously expensive baseball bats--using their credit cards, of course, Burden--and expensive uniforms, and painting their kids names all over their mini-vans.”

“Huh . . . what’s a mini-van?” said Ignorance, who was always a little slow.

“I’ll explain later,” said Fated. “It’s something our Exxon division is working on.”

Estima, from the Pride Consortium weighed in. “I’ll see to it that some of those kids will get so full of themselves that by the time they’re teenagers they will be absolutely insufferable”

“That’s perfectly devilish! “ said Fated.

“Why, thank you!”

Gilded, the Vice President of Religious Development, rose on his six feet and raised his five hands to quiet the room. He waited for stillness. Gilded always expected complete attention when he spoke. Although Gilded never really had an idea of his own, but only adapted the ideas of others to take them as his own, he believed his ideas were the most compelling.

“These are fine ideas, brothers, but what we need is to undermine the churches. I think we need to bring into the churches the over-commitment of time, the expectations of a good show--anything that will add to the stress. We must keep people working on priorities that keeps them so busy, but do not really change anything.

“And competition. We will bring the competition thing into the church as well, so that some people feel they are better than others, and some feel they will never fit in.

“And the guilt thing—we want people to feel guilty all the time, so that even when they’re worshiping the Enemy, they won’t feel good about it. They’ll grow to detest church. By 2010 I see families staying away from churches in droves.”

Satan, who had been listening thoughtfully, said “Gentle creatures, this is excellent work. Great thinking, all of you.”

Then Doubt said something timidly. “But . . . but doesn’t the Bible warn them about all of this? Doesn’t it teach them to be aware of these things and live differently?

Satan replied, “I wouldn’t worry too much about that. We’ll have them so busy, so stressed out, so distracted, so en-ter-tained they won’t have time to read the Bible very much.”

With that Satan stood up to go. “I hate to break this up, but it is the 60’s after all and I’ve got a lot to do. I’ve got my sexual revolution task force at 9 . . . and the My Body My Choice team is stopping by at 10.”

Satan pulled out his iPhone and scrolled the calendar. “The remedial racism class is at 11:00.”

Turning to his assistant Satan said, “We need to push that nuclear propagation meeting so I can have lunch with the AIDS team from research and development . . . . And the World Poverty and Ignorance Sustainability Conference will be here before we know it.

“So much to do. So much to do.”

In Spite Of Myself

2009-06-25T23:09:00.000-04:00

My son Whit got married last weekend. He married a lovely woman named Sarah. The ceremony was very meaningful and beautiful. The reception was a blast, but it ended far too quickly. I was Best Man--a titular honor only.

All of the people I love the most were a part of the wedding. In addition to Whit and Sarah, there was the lovely Janice, my wife, as well as my daughter Lesley and her husband Daniel, who were both part of the wedding party. And then there was Sam, too young to be a ring bearer, but a ring bearer nonetheless.

Sam's big moment, as far as I'm concerned, is when he and I got to dance together at the reception. That's one of the pictures I'm showing here--me and Sam dancing. What a good time.

Then on Sunday it was Father's Day, and I have to say it was one of the best Father's Days of my life. I didn't see my son, of course. And I only talked to my daughter a moment. But I had time on that day after the wedding to think about all the blessings God has allowed me to know. He is the provider of all good gifts, and this past weekend, with the great loves of my life all around me, was a most precious gift. I don't deserve it . . . I never will, but the Lord blessed me in spite of myself.

My prayer for my son and for my son in law is that they will get to experience the rich joy I felt this past weekend. It doesn't last long. If you don't pause and clue in you miss it. Thank you, Lord Jesus, that I did not miss it.

Tunnels of Babel

2009-04-17T11:20:00.000-04:00

Scripture tells us about a sophisticated culture that decided to show off its accomplishments by building a tower to reach the heavens. God humbled them by tearing down the tower and complicating their efforts to communicate.

I keep wondering when a God-sized dose of humility is going to crash down on our current culture. We are so skilled, so accomplished, so confident in our abilities that we believe we can do anything.

We’re so confident, in fact, that we no longer need to build a tower to God—we’ve considered the divine, and determined that it must be us.

The problem with replacing God with ourselves is, the minute we begin to think we can do anything, it is a short jump to thinking we should—even must—push the envelope of the human experience. We owe it to ourselves, owe it to the human race, to explore every discipline and indulgence, whether they ennoble or debase us.

You can see this in the debate over experimentation with embryonic stem cells. We must allow this scientific inquiry because we can, and it will surely lead to longer and better lives for some of us. This is, we believe, the elevation and advancement of the human race.

At the same time we say we will draw the line at human cloning, genetic engineering, designer children and growing life simply for the harvesting of fresh organs. We say we will stop short of these fantastic, horrendous ideas—and President Obama gave this assurance--but we will not. Eventually, if God does not intervene to stop it, humans will do all these things. Why? Because we can, so we should--in fact we must.

We see this human escalator theory in play all over the place, although there are applications where the moving staircase is undeniably travelling down.

We build more effective, destructive weapons of war, precisely targeted to kill selected humans, so other humans are free to keep on moving onward and upward. We can, so we should . . . we must!

Of course, those being targeted develop their own weapons and targeting strategies. They can, they should, they must.

We see it in our culture’s orgiastic preoccupation with sex. Sex is human, therefore it is god-like. If it is god-like, it can do anything it wants. Any time, Anywhere. With anyone. With anything. There are no limits to the human sexual experience. It’s all good.

Since we think we look at god in the mirror every day, there’s no need to build towers to reach him. There is really no need to build anything at all. We just need to explore. Explore what? Explore ourselves.

We don’t erect towers to explore ourselves--we dig tunnels instead. We need only dig deeper inward. Within--that is where reality, truth, the way, must ultimately be found.

Probably the greatest evidence that we are not really gods is that when we look in the mirror, we are often bored or disappointed with what we see. Eventually we come to the knowledge that no matter how wonderful we were, no matter how creative, how powerful, how happy, how fulfilled, how in control we once believed ourselves to be, we are really falling apart and are powerless to do anything about it.

That’s when the urge comes to dig more tunnels, and dig them deeper. If knowledge once made us feel god-like, then its time to buy some more self-help books. If youth made us feel invincible, then it is time to visit the cosmetic surgeon. If sex made us feel divine, then we need to pursue new sex, new experiences, new partners. If we drew our strength once from money and possessions, then we just need more.

These are tunnels that leave our souls increasingly weaker and emptier, and ultimately they bring us down. We dig deeper and deeper into the darkness, and further and further from the light of real truth and the life.

I’ve been wondering when and how God might humble us. It occurs to us He is doing it now, our own desperate shovels the tools of our destruction.

Unity

2008-10-19T11:34:00.000-04:00

Something very moving happened at our church recently. The congregation voted on a new pastor—a secret written ballot—and when the votes were tabulated the result was unanimous. 509 to 0. Not one dissenting vote.

Some might say—to quote one of the more memorable Dick Cheney lines—"So?" But to me it seems something to celebrate.

I’ve been going to this Baptist church for almost 30 years, and I remember when 20% of the congregation voted against a previous pastor because he had a beard, wore cowboy boots and like to wear a wooden cross around his neck. That man never overcame his one-fifth of opposition, and the church was in turmoil for years.

Our previous pastor was a great guy—dynamic preacher and strong leader with a spotless track record of ministry. But almost 10 percent of the congregation found some reason to vote against him.

This new pastor, the one we called 509 to zero, grew up in a Catholic home. He only became a Christian six years ago when God called him out of a drug-addicted lifestyle. He had an Apostle Paul like encounter with Jesus Christ, left his old life behind and began preparing himself to preach. He read the Bible, chose to become a Baptist. enrolled in seminary and assumed a pastorate of a church of 70. He is now 32 years old.

Let’s check the scoreboard--this man who generated no dissention in a Baptist church is a former Catholic, drug addict, Christian only six years, new seminary graduate, age 32, with experience leading only a small church (which grew to more than 300 while he was there).

Some might call this unimportant. Some might call it interesting. I call it a miracle—tangible evidence of God working in our lives.

Unity is such a rare thing. We live in a red state-blue state culture. We are divided in so many ways. We clash with our neighbors on abortion, gay marriage, immigration and war.

Even when there appears to be consensus, deep division remains. Should either Barack Obama or John McCain win the presidency in an electoral “landslide” a few weeks from now, at least 40% of the nation will remain bitterly opposed to the winner’s leadership. We’ve lowered the bar on unity, measuring it in approval ratings and confidence levels, which change week by week. E Pluribus Unum—Out of Many, One--is a great slogan that is very rarely true.

With unity so hard to find in our government and our culture, wouldn’t it be wonderful if it were dominant in our churches and in our Christian families? When a weary world, tired of bitterness and division looks for some alternative, wouldn’t be wonderful if they found singularity and peace among the followers of Jesus?

Jesus said, “By this all men will know you are my disciples—that you love one another.” The Apostle Paul encouraged the early Christians to be of “one mind” and to “encourage one another.” These should be the marks of all true followers of Christ.

But often when the world looks at the Church it sees more the same. We Christians can fight over interpretations of scripture, music, worship styles, the roles of women, who should lead, who’s not following and who is a real Christian. Christian unity does not mean that we agree on every thing every time, but it does mean that we agree on the most important things, and we never let the less important divide us.

Whether the spirit of unity surrounding the confirmation of our new pastor remains at our church is uncertain, of course. Continuing in one mind can be difficult. Within the body of the church there are so many individual minds that can be turned by preference, self-interest and pride.

But for the moment, unity prevails. It sure feels right.

Somebody Is Lying

2008-09-30T12:42:00.000-04:00

I spent much of my day today in the car, listening to the radio as I traveled. The big news of the day was about the meltdown on Wall Street and the failure of our government to produce a $700 billion dollar rescue.

The President said emergency action is needed because Mom and Pop America needs to have access to credit. The presidential candidates said emergency action is needed, because without it, average Joes won’t be able to get the credit they need to care for their families and grow their businesses. Interviews with financial experts said without emergency action, the little guy will suffer because his access to credit will dry up. John McCain said this money is not for Wall Street, but Main Street.

Then I got home and found six credit card applications in my mailbox. Altogether, I’m pre-approved for about 50 large in new credit. Somebody is lying to me.

The other day I saw a news blurb about cell phone safety. Some researchers in Sweden reported that radiation from cell phones elevates the risk of brain cancer. The same report said numerous American studies, however, show the opposite—that cell phones pose no threat to our brains at all.

But then a few moments later the same report said men should not put cell phones in their pockets because the radiation can reduce sperm count. Sooooo . . . radiation is bad below the waist, but innocuous above it? Somebody is lying.

Two opposing concepts cannot be true at the same time. A room can’t be light and dark. A bowl of soup can’t be simultaneously hot and cold. A bank account can’t be both flush and bankrupt. Yet when it comes to news, media and politics, contradictory realities are everyday’s business.

Sarah Palin stopped the “Bride to Nowhere,” but she supports building a bridge to the airport in Ketchikan. The same bridge. Barack Obama fondly recalls the influence of Jeremiah Wright on this life, but can’t remember a thing his preacher ever said.

Somebody’s lying.

We’ve become very comfortable with lies. We think nothing of buying fat-free foods that have fat in them and sugar-free drinks that contain sugar. We buy cars with big stickers that promise good gas mileage, all the while knowing they will be far less efficient in real world conditions. We buy products that promise to make us younger, healthier, sexier, happier, but when we look in the mirror, we see the same plain person staring back.

It can be argued that we love lies, that we need them to cope with the burdens and complexities of life. In trouble meeting a deadline at work? A little lie will buy some time. Somebody wants you to do something you don’t want to do? A lie will get you out of it. Trying to get customer service to refund your money? Bending the truth will help you get your way.

Lies. Where do they all come from?

Jesus taught that Satan is the father of lies. If that is so, then every time we tell a big one (or a little one), embrace a lie, tolerate lies, rationalize them and pass them on, then we must be—as they used to say about fathers and children—chips off the old block.

Jesus called himself the exact opposite. He described himself as the truth. He also said that the truth will set us free.

In our efforts to plot our way in this world and make decisions that improve our lives, bless our children and honor our God, it is critical to remember that truth brings us liberty, while lies weigh us down. Truth emancipates. Lies turn us into slaves.

Listening to the news and analysis of the proposed $700 billion cure for Wall Street’s hangover, I’ve learned that the tab for each American family will be about $23,000, maybe a lot more. We’re told the total cost burden, including interest on our national debts, will be a lot more.

We’re also told the $700 billion is not really a debt, but an investment. We’re told it won’t be a burden to pay back. We’re told we are really buying assets that will someday have greater value and be resold. We’re told the cost of doing nothing will be much more painful.

Somebody is lying. I’m sick of it.

Jesus Genes

2008-08-16T17:49:00.000-04:00

A few weeks ago my wife and I made our first trip to Toys R Us in probably 15 years. With our 11-month old grandson in my arms, we strolled the aisles until we found the object of our quest—a bright red riding toy.

It’s a cool toy, shaped like a car with steering wheel, dashboard and seatbelt. But the real safety feature is a sturdy three-foot handle on the back that an adult uses to push, steer and stop. Sam loved it immediately. He held the steering wheel while I pushed him through the store making motor noises.

We had only had the toy car a few days when something interesting happened. Sam rode the “car” to the pool, and while he was playing in the water he noticed another little boy sitting on his toy. He started fussing and grunting. He can’t talk yet, but if he could he would certainly have cried out, “MINE!”

Where does that come from? What is it about our human nature that, before we even know how to walk and talk, we know selfishness? Evolutionists would call it a survival instinct, but that seems superficial. There is no fear or flight at work here, no feast or famine. It’s just a plastic car, one Sam experienced having in his life for a cumulative period of maybe 45 minutes.

Theologians call it original sin—the idea that the seeds of our destruction are planted in us all, even before we are born. Like brown eyes, frizzy hair and the ability to curl our tongues, we are programmed for pride, greed and anger.

We are also programmed to do good. Sam is a chronically happy child, but in the nursery when he sees a child crying, he cries too. It’s called empathy, and we all have it to varying degrees. We feel better when those around us are doing well. When we see someone struggling, we feel an innate desire to take some helpful action.

It is like we are designed with this bent to do bad and desire to do good. We go through life day by day juggling the two and hoping for the best.

A few days after buying the toy I was listening to an NPR interview of Michael Gazzaniga, a neuroscientist at the University of California-Santa Barbara and a pioneer in split-brain research. He wrote a book called The Ethical Brain, and has just published a new one called Human: The Science Behind What Makes Us Unique.

Dr. Gazzaniga is no theologian. In fact, after listening to him for close to an hour (he is brilliant and engaging man), I would conclude that he does not have a religious synapse at work in either the left or right side of his brain. But he does have some interesting ideas about goodness. He says our innate desire to wish someone a good day, to help someone out, or be kind to a stranger is uniquely human--something that does not exist in the larger animal kingdom.

Dr. Gazzaniga said in the interview that if the human race suddenly started from scratch, just suddenly came into existence with no past history or memories of traditions, religious practices or deities, that we would invent God in less than a month. In other words, our brains are wired to look for God.

For the scientist who rejects the idea of God, there must be an animalistic, natural or scientific explanation for this. Gazzaniga puts his faith in science. I put my faith elsewhere.

Let’s review--we have in us an innate selfishness, and also an innate desire to do good. And we also have an innate desire to find and know God. To me, this is powerful evidence of a grand, purposeful design.

Scripture tells us we are created in the image of God—God the omnipotent, God who can do anything he wants. As chips off that block, we have in us the same desire—to do anything we want—but limited human ability to pull it off.

I’m no theologian either, but I think it works like this: God is the creator, so all of us--made after his image--have in us the desire to create as well. But we have limitations. We can’t create everything. God is the healer, so in us there is the capacity to heal also, but we can’t cure everything. God is all knowing, and so we are capable of great knowledge, but we can’t know it all. God is love, so we love too, but imperfectly.

God created us to know him, and in a sense we all do—even the atheist and evolutionary biologist. He created us with the capacity to know him and love him, reject him, or simply substitute something in his place.

While writing this I am listening to Bob Dylan’s Oh Mercy!, some of which deserves a place in our worship hymnals. As I write this paragraph, I’m listening to You Gotta Serve Somebody. It’s so true. It may the devil, or it may be the Lord. It may be self or science, treasure or pleasure, but you gotta serve somebody. We’re wired to do it.

You might say my grandson Sam is programmed with the Jesus gene. We all are. We are fully human, with all the limitations and self-preserving instincts that go with being the one animal that God chose to make in his image, but an animal nonetheless. But what sets us above all other animals is that we also have in us the divine nature to pursue God, and to do good along the way.

Jesus did it perfectly. We do it in fits and starts, sometimes distracted by little red cars.

Little Fish

2008-06-22T13:51:00.000-04:00

While on my way home from a business trip, I decided to take a few hours and explore some new trout water with my fly rod. Near Hayesville, North Carolina the Hiwassee River spills out from Lake Chatuge and starts its run to the Tennessee about 60 miles west.

I’d spied out this section of river on previous trips, and I was looking forward to something new. I often fish a lower section of the Hiwassee below the Appalachia Powerhouse near Reliance, Tennessee. There the river is wide, and when TVA is making money releasing water for power, the wading is perilously swift and deep.

This upper section looked inviting and approachable as I pulled my car onto a wide dirt shoulder riverside. It was hot as I pulled off my tie, shirt and pleated pants and put on shorts, wading shoes and fishing vest. I worked quickly, in part because I did not want to surprise some passing motorist in my underwear, and because I could not wait to get into the cool water.

I saw no hatches—no insects rising off the water—so I pulled a nymph from my fly box. A nymph is a construction of fuzz and thread designed to look like a bug in the birthing stage. I decided on a favorite strategy of mine—to tie the nymph below a larger dry fly. The floating dry fly, which imitates a mature caddis drying its wings in the sun just before first flight, serves as an indicator of what’s happening to the unseen nymph below. An added benefit is that if the caddis really begin to hatch as they usually do on summer afternoons, then I would be rigged and ready.

I stood in the knee-deep water, tied all my little knots, then began to explore the deeper pockets of water, letting my line float along with the current.

The first half-hour brought no action, but after awhile I worked down river about a quarter mile below a little waterfall. I cast my flies into one of the closest runs of darker water and—bang—my floating caddis disappeared below the surface. I set the hook and pulled in a pretty little rainbow, about 8 inches long. I admired his radiant neon skin for a few moments, then removed the barbless hook and set him free.

A few minutes later, there was another take and another fish. It too was small, and although it was every bit as pretty as the first, I did not admire it very long.

Over the next 30-minutes there were four more little fish, all the same. I began to flip them off my hook without so much as a glance. Clones, I thought. Identical fish raised in some hatchery and released into this water when they all reached the same identical size.

It is one of the dirty little secrets of American trout fishing that a great many of the trout we catch are products of hatcheries, scattered government fish factories that exist to make sure there are plenty of fish for people to catch. The hatcheries help us overlook the natural fish habitat we’ve lost through dams, development and declining water quality. Thanks to hatcheries we can still go our trout streams, and buy our permits, graphite rods and Gore-Tex waders with the expectation of catching something. But the romance of it all is tainted by the idea that the fish on the end of your line got there via truck.

The next day at home I was reading in one of my trout guides about the stretch of river I fished the day before, and what I read surprised me. According to the book, the state of North Carolina operates no hatcheries in that area and all the trout in the Hiwassee there are naturals. Where they first came from generations ago no one knows, but they have survived through the decades, doing what God intended fish to do.

If I had taken the time to truly look at my six little fish, I probably could have figured out for myself they did not start life in a hatchery. Hatchery fish have a tell-tale clipped fin, the result of endless days of rubbing the bottom of the concrete troughs were they spend their early weeks of life. Hatchery fish are also less colorful than natural fish.

If I had taken the time to truly appreciate these little creations of God, I would have seen their genuine value. Instead I made some cursory assumptions, got bored with them all, and failed to appreciate their beauty and their rightful place in the world.

It hit me later that I treat some people exactly the same way.

That very evening, I met a small fish named Tim. He was standing on a street corner. He said he and his wife were homeless, and he needed some money to get a room in a cheap motel nearby. While I dug in my pocket for the right denomination, he was telling me his life story—I didn’t want to hear it. When I gave him the money he put out his hand—I didn’t want to shake it.

As I walked away he called out “God bless you,” but I realized then that any blessing I might have received had already been spoiled and squandered by my hard heart.

As I think about it all now, I realize Tim was not a small man, but just a man like me. He stands on street corners, tells his story, and asks for money. I stand in conference rooms, tell my story and ask for money. It is only by the grace of God that either one of us has a place to rest our heads.

One of the most interesting passages in all the Gospels can be found in Matthew 15, when a woman called out to Jesus to heal her daughter. The woman was not a Jew, and Jesus’ disciples urged him to send her away. Jesus said to the woman the most alarming of words: “It’s not right to take bread out of the children’s mouths and throw it to the dogs.”

She answered, “Yes, Lord, but even the dogs feed on the crumbs that fall from their master’s table.”

Of course Jesus healed her daughter, and he commended the woman for having great faith, but I’ve wondered for years why he chose to speak to her initially in such seemingly hurtful words.

I’ve come to believe it was to expose the hardness in the hearts of his followers. The disciples were telling the unwanted Canaanite woman to go away. The text doesn’t confirm this, but perhaps some of the disciples uttered or thought the very words Jesus spoke out loud—dog, not worthy, little fish. Then when Jesus gave voice to their words and thoughts, they were shocked and embarrassed. That Jesus honored the woman’s request and praised her faith tells me he had no desire to hurt her, but he used the situation to make a powerful point.

The woman was right. We are all dogs under the table, just waiting to feed. Some of us get more than others, and we think we are better because of it.

In Philippians 2:3 Paul writes, “Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves.” That is the heart that I want. Lord, forgive me that I am far from it.

Memory

2008-05-27T11:59:00.000-04:00

On Memorial Day a curious thing occurred in my head. I was watching a old war movie that featured, among others, the late British actor Anthony Quayle. When I saw the then-young actor I remembered that in 1973 he took a post as artist in residence at the University of Tennessee, and that my wife Janice and I drove to Knoxville to meet up with friends Roger and Chicki Booker to see Quayle perform the title role in Rip Van Winkle at the Clarence Brown Theater. It was a Saturday night. When the show was over we ate pizza.

So much detail! So much memory of trivial stuff! All this going on in the head of a guy who has trouble remembering to enter a check.

Perhaps it is because I am now old enough to qualify for senior movie tickets that I notice lots of info in the media about memory. Aging baby boomers like me are encouraged to buy supplements, engage in mental exercise or develop new skills to stave off those annoying senior moments. There are 10 sure-fire steps to a better memory, but I forgot seven of them.

I do wish I could remember more, especially the important things. I wish I could remember the fresh touch of Janice's first kiss. I wish I could remember the moment my children called me "daddy." I wish I could remember the sound of my daughter's laugh as she took off with no training wheels, or my son's smile the first time he smacked a baseball not on a tee. These are things I want to remember in every nuance, but I can't. I know they all happened, but the details escape my memory.

There is so much junk I can recall--all the words to Octopuses Garden, the starting line-up of the 1968 Detroit Tigers, the exact words of the very first girl to make me cry.

Memory gives us insight into our twisted priorities--the places where we allow our minds to dwell and roll around in the mud. The objects of our repeated attention and revisitation sink in and stick. The things that are sweet and light rush on, leaving only fingerprints on the windows and walls.

So the self-pity in which we bathe, the hurtful words and actions that offended long ago, the overwrought glitz and glamor of heroes real and imagined--these things never leave us. We don't want to remember them necessarily, but we do. And the tender moments, the joy of first times, the blessings of the perfect moments--the intensity of these memories fade.

I'm struck by how often the scripture tells us to remember the important. We are to remember the sacrifice of Jesus and recall his words. We are to remember the poor, and the suffering of others. We are to remember to grace and mercy of God, and every time he shows us the reality of his faithfulness.

The Bible tells us about things we can do to help us remember what is truly valuable . In Deuteronomy we are told to hang God's word from our foreheads and to write it on our walls. We can stack some stones like Joshua did after crossing into the promised land. We can eat the bread of Christ's body and drink the wine of his blood. We're instructed to observe special days and feasts together with other believers, and to number our days--filling our hearts with the wisdom of all we have learned.

Recalling the blessings of God is even more difficult than the flesh and blood variety. I can look at photos of my children or the early years of my marriage, and piece together some enhanced recollection. But the rich reality of the fullness of God and all he has done for me and for those I love rushes past like so much wind and rain. I can't really get my mind around it, but I have to try.

The Bible, as it does in so many areas of living, reveals to us the real secrets to boosting memory. Rather than ginko extract or piano lessons, a better memory requires prayer and meditation, reading and re-reading God's word, special observances, ceremony, the stories and perspectives of others, and the discipline to write things down.

Simple Worship

2008-04-29T11:19:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I get worn out by worship. It is not my desire to whine or be cynical or critical of any worship style or leader--the fault is my own. I just confess that worship at times can become a mindless exercise to me, another 30 minutes on the spiritual treadmill.

I've never heard of someone being diagnosed with ADSD (Attention Deficit Spiritual Disorder), but I think I have it. I feel the continual need to turn my spiritual attention in some new direction. Like an antsy kid in the classroom I'm always anticipating recess when I can get outside and run. I love my church, but I also love the breaks.

Recess this past weekend led me to the Iron Horse Motorcycle Campground in the mountains of western North Carolina. Campgrounds like the Iron Horse dot popular motorcycle routes all across the country, and they are usually a treat. Bikers congregate there every afternoon as the sun lowers. Dinner and breakfast are always available, as well as a hot shower, campfire and a whole lot of BS from likable bikers of all shapes and backgrounds.

The Iron Horse is more upscale than most other camps. It offers some nice cabins, popular among couples who ride together, and has a large, comfortable dining room and social hall. There is Internet access there, and a huge projection television that usually flips between SpeedVision and The Weather Channel.

A few years ago I was at the Iron Horse on a Sunday morning and playing on the big screen during breakfast was video from stand-up comedian Ron White. I remember feeling awkward, embarrassed and assaulted by White's profanity laced "humor" at such an early Sunday hour. It was the antithesis of worship. It was more like rolling around in mud. Who put the tape on, I don't know.

The owners of the Iron Horse are Christians, and a wonderful couple. I'm betting they didn't care for the Ron White video either.

This most recent trip was different. While eating breakfast (and glancing at The Weather Channel for news about imminent rain) I noticed one of the Iron Horse staff, a woman named Jo, setting up a music stand and guitar. When I asked what she was preparing for, she answered cheerfully--"Church!"

My riding buddy Raymond and I were in our seats at 9:30 when church began. We were part of a small group, only about 10 of us, but what we lacked in numbers was more than compensated by an overflow of enthusiasm and sincerity.

Jo played guitar and led the singing--mostly selections of Southern Gospel from the 19th Century. The mostly monotone men in the congregation sang out, using lyric sheets Jo prepared.

It was clear Jo was a student of old hymns. She told the story behind each song, when it was written, and for what purpose. She wasn't the greatest singer herself, or a great guitarist, but she was a great worship leader. Her joy, her passion, her love of God filled up the room along with her soft, sweet voice.

We sang Leaning On The Everlasting Arms, which Jo told us was penned by a minister in 1887 to comfort two friends whose wives had died. It was provocative to think about these reassuring words, reaching out to us over the centuries:

What have I to dread, what have I to fear
Leaning on the everlasting arms?
I have blessed peace with my Lord so near,
Leaning on the everlasting arms.

The usual pastor, an older gentlemen named Loy, prayed a beautiful prayer, and a guest speaker--a biker from Cartersville--talked about the daily choices we make to follow Christ or follow self. Loy closed us with a blessing for safety on the roads, and then Jo sent us out into the rain with a lively rendition of Uncloudy Day.

They tell me of a home far beyond the skies
And they tell me of a home far away
They tell me of a home where no storm clouds rise
They tell me of an unclouded day

I walked out of this rag-tag church service lifted up, encouraged and thoroughly focused on the reality of Jesus Christ in our world and in our lives. Among strangers, in the simplest of settings and with the most basic of instruments I participated in worship and felt totally energized by the process.

It is so wonderful to be reminded we are in God's family, and that there are no limits to it. His word tells us that where two or more are gathered, He is there. His word also tells us that He inhabits the praises of this people. My Sunday at the Iron Horse reminded me that His people are everywhere.

While they are wonderful to have, a worship center or cathedral, organ or choir, seminary graduate or evangelist or even a Sunday morning are not required to worship the Lord. Sometimes our expectations or familiarity with the trappings of worship can even get in the way. Worship is simply about us focusing all our attention on the Lord.

This special Sunday at the Iron Horse I did just that, and it seemed effortless.

Who's Sorry Now? Apparently No One.

2008-04-21T14:24:00.000-04:00

There was some minor, but meaningful news from the presidential campaign recently. A congressman from Kentucky--Jeff Davis--delivered an apology to Barack Obama after referring to him in a speech as "that boy." The meaningful part of the story is that the apology was quickly offered, seemed totally sincere and humbly asked for forgiveness. Here is an excerpt:

“My poor choice of words is regrettable and was in no way meant to impugn you or your integrity. I offer my sincere apology to you and ask for your forgiveness.”

I'm thinking Rep. Davis should write a book, or at least post a video on YouTube, on the art of the apology. He knows how to do it, and so many people don't.

The other day I was sitting in a hotel lobby when a woman drinking a diet soda walked behind me to throw her empty soda can into a waste basket. As she reached for the basket, she poured soda down my back. I know she knows she did it because I heard her little gasp as the liquid hit my shirt. But she said nothing. She just walked away as if she had done nothing at all.

Later that same day at a wedding reception another woman dropped a glass in the middle of a crowded dance floor. The shards went everywhere. She just turned away and ignored it, leaving others to scramble for a broom.

I could cite more personal examples, but I don't want to come off as a whiner. So let's shift to the public arena, where a favorite tactic is the non-apology apology. The tell-tale line is, "If I did wrong, then I regret."

Obama himself used a version of this after his notorious comments about the bitterness small-town, small-minded America. He said, "If I worded things in a way that made people offended, I deeply regret that." Listen the next time a public figure screws up and you'll probably hear something similar.

In his letter to the Philipians, the Apostle Paul wrote, "Do nothing from selfishness or empty conceit, but with humility of mind regard one another as more important than yourselves."

It seems to me that's what an apology is--an antidote to conceit that regards another person, at least for the moment, as more important. An earnest, thorough apology can restore broken relationships, rekindle love, promote healing and even make things better than they were before. We all need to be reminded of the power of apology.

Several years ago a client who I felt particularly close to did something that really made me angry. I intended to discuss it with him, but before doing so I made a few phone calls to some third parties, trying to shore up my facts and give me some more ammunition for my argument. The client got word of my inquiries and came directly to me with his anger over my actions. He was right. I was dead wrong. With my whole heart I apologized as fully as I could. I also followed up my verbal apology with a letter, apologizing again and resigning the account.

He accepted my resignation, but I am pleased to say that years later this man is still a client--and a friend. We could have become distant, unpleasant memories to each other, but the power of apology helped keep us connected.

Asking for and receiving forgiveness is a critical human skill that needs to be developed, or it will disappear. As we experience forgiveness, we learn of its value and are more likely to extend it to others. When we fail to ask for forgiveness, after a while we begin to think we really don't need it. Eventually we begin to live as if forgiveness does not exist at all. There will be only offense, which we will feel whenever anyone encroaches on our sense of selfish entitlement. In our resentment we will demand--not forgiveness--but justice, revenge, punishment. Thus we escalate the heat in all our relationships.

We hear alot about what a hard, self-absorbed culture we live in. Learning why and when and how to apologize could go a long way toward softening us up.

Oh, and to that woman who poured soda down my back--I forgive you. I really do.

My Fair Lady

2008-01-16T14:55:00.000-05:00

Recently my sweet wife did something very surprising and very funny. We were in one of those hip little bookstores with gourmet coffee and jazz on the Muzak when we noticed that the non-fiction section was filled with books bashing the Bush administration.

There were 5 different books, all focused on the case for impeachment and promising to chronicle his litany of lies. There were all on prominent display in little plastic stands.

My wife looked around to see if there were any books on sale written from a different political perspective. She couldn't find any, except for a stack of Bill O'Rielly's Culture Warrior.

To my open-mouthed amazement, my shy, soft-spoken, kind-hearted, non-political bride removed the 5 books from their displays, hid them in the stacks, and replaced them all with Bill O'Reilly. When she had finished, she turned to me with her eyes full of mischief and said, "Let's go."

We had a big laugh about it. As we walked down the street she explained that she did not mind the Bush-bashing books, but for there to be nothing available from the other side "just wasn't fair."

In this political season, I find myself thinking about fairness more and more. When NPR or Fox presents a story, I think, "was that fair?" How did they decide to air that sound bite or present that expert perspective, and not another?

Fairness is a big deal in our culture. Political broadcast rules are influenced by something called The Fairness Doctrine. As kids we are admonished to play fair. We want judges, referees, teachers and bosses to be fair.

The call for fairness is so prevalent there is tendency to view fairness as a more noble than it actually is. Fairness is not really one of the high virtues. The desire for fairness is actually grounded in self. When I say, "Be fair," usually I am really saying, "give me what I believe I am due."

This is very different than Jesus' demand that we love our neighbor as ourselves. It is different than his admonishment that we do to others as we would have them do to us. Living out these two teachings requires sacrifice, not merely equal time.

Being fair to my neighbor means I get his mail when he is out of town because he always gets mine when I travel. Loving my neighbor as myself means I get his mail and rake his leaves and take a pot of soup when he is sick, because I understand how important that would be to me if I were sick.

Someone with a reputation for fairness is really someone skilled at keeping conflicting expectations in balance. Everyone gets a lick off the lollipop, even if the act of communal licking diminishes the quality of the lollipop experience.

It's been said many times that life is not fair, and it was not meant to be. If life were always fair--if we always got what our rational thinking determines is our equal share, equal time, equal attention--would we ever feel the need for a savior?

Jesus said that we should look at unfairness as a blessing. When people shove us around, call us names, take the best places at the party, and speak to us with contempt because we love and follow him, then we are blessed. We are on the right track. We will be elevated in heaven in a way we can't begin to merit.

And that won't be fair either. But it will be wonderful.

My Gift

2007-12-15T00:17:00.000-05:00

A while back I got to thinking about what had to be going on in the mind of Joseph at the time Jesus Christ was born. My thoughts led me to a poem. Merry Christmas to all.

The stable was a dirty place,
When the couple came inside,
Though Mary did not notice much,
She was weary from the ride.

Joseph tried to clean up some,
He swept the cold, hard ground,
And spread about some fresher straw,
And laid a blanket down,

And chased away the pesky hens,
And tethered up the mule,
And put the cow into a pen,
And found himself a stool.

I can’t believe, tired Joseph thought,
As he surveyed the scene,
The child of God, Immanuel,
Can’t have someplace that’s clean.

Mary lay upon the ground,
And moaned with every pain,
And also wondered how a king,
Could come from one so plain.

But come he would, this very night,
The labor pains came faster,
Joseph prayed it would go well,
But he expected a disaster.

No bed, no nurse, no medicine,
No midwife or physician,
How could they parent any child,
From so bankrupt a position?

The moment came and Mary pushed,
And Joseph stretched his hand,
And pulled the slippery Son of God,
Into the world of man.

The doubt returned from time to time,
And fear would stab their hearts,
But faith would yield a greater strength
So they could do their parts,

Of nurturing the Way, the Truth
The Life and Light of Men,
Who opened up the door of grace
And freed us from all sin.

That God so loved the world at all
Is mystery unsurpassing,
That He loved enough to die,
Is a gift that’s everlasting.

And that He trusted simple men,
And peasant teenage Mary,
To hear and know and understand
Is most extraordinary.

And He trusts us to hear and know,
And follow Him together,
And do His work and share His love,
And dwell with Him forever.

A Solution To The Worship Wars

2007-11-12T15:34:00.000-05:00

Christian performers Shane & Shane were in concert, and getting enthusiastic response from the mostly teen and college-age audience. The music was good. loud, up tempo and heavy on the guitars and drums--just the kind of music a youthful audience craves, right?

And then something interesting happened. The band totally down-shifted and one of the Shanes began to lead the crowd in a series of old hymns sung a cappella. By old hymns, I mean Baptist Hymnal old. (If you don't remember the Baptist Hymnal, don't feel bad. Quite a few Baptist worship leaders have forgotten it, too.)

The interesting part was that most in the audience knew the songs. They sang words with great passion and solemnity, many with open hands swaying slowly in the air. They left no doubt that as much as they were into new music, they were moved by the old. The moment was very powerful.

For quite awhile now churches, including my own, have been trying to bridge the generation gap through blended worship. I'm sure many worship leaders would say that in their own way they are doing what Shane and Shane were doing--attaching something old to something new in an effort to appeal to every age group, every individual taste, every expectation.

But that is not it. The key to the power we all experienced at the Shane & Shane concert was not the blending, it was the variety, offered up with sincerity and excellence.

The very idea of blended worship seems a contradiction and a mistake to me. What is worship? It is selfless offering of love and praise up to God. But the concept of blending injects self to the center of the worship process. Blended worship becomes politically correct worship, an effort to touch all the demographic and cultural bases so that everyone goes home a little less put off. The focus shifts off God and on people.

Blended worship has another negative side effect--it is formulaic and boring. Every worship experience becomes one part new, one part old, one part choir, one part soloist and pre-recorded band. That's the routine--keep it constant, keep it safe. When you need to inject a little enthusiasm, just turn up the volume.

It is interesting that in the Psalms there is an emphasis on variety in worship. Some Psalms call for stringed instruments and some for a single lyre. Some call for a flute. Some are intended to be sung and some spoken. Some are intended as musical chant, apparently to be sung by boys with high voices. In some there are pauses for reflection and meditation.

The opening verses of the Gospel of John reminds that through Jesus Christ all things came into being, including life and light. That means the God we serve, revealed to us in Jesus Christ, is the creative genius behind everything--from stars to starfish, from June bugs to juniper trees, from wetlands to wet kisses. His creative energy boggles the mind.

So why do we use so few tools in the worship toolbox? Choirs are great, but do we need a choir every Sunday? An organ or an orchestra is great, but do we need a them every service? What would be the impact of a bluegrass band on occasion? How about nothing but a harp? What about an all a cappella service, or all acoustic, or bongos, a single piano, a jazz approach or simply, every now and then, poetry?

What if the flavor of every worship service were a surprise, led by sincere worship leaders who are not motivated to show off, but to honor and reflect the creativity of God through their own God-given creative abilities? What if the only constant was a dependable focus on the Lord, and offering up worship to him?

Variety, sincerity, creativity, excellence and unwavering focus on Christ--those are the solutions for the worship wars. We don't need a blended worship service. We need a blended worship life, filled with anticipation about what is going to happen next.

New Life

2007-09-21T15:20:00.000-04:00

There are milestones in our lives when we make room for things. When we fall in love we make room for another person. When we step out into the world we make room for a job, responsibilities and expectations. When we learn a new, big idea, we make room for a fresh perspective. Even with the deaths of people we know, we make room for their memories and the shadowy spaces they occupy in our minds.

Most of the time we simply adjust to the new power or presence in our lives without a lot of planning and conscious decision-making. We just do it. We just see, sense and react. The way we once were is now over. The way we are now is the new reality.

There is a new reality in my life named Sam. He is my first grandchild, born to my daughter, born into a clan of admiring relatives, and all our lives are changed because of him. Within moments of the news of his impending arrival, we all subconsciously and happily made room for Sam.

Labor Day weekend will never be the same again, because it will forever be the weekend of Sam’s birthday. Christmas will never be same, either. In fact, all nights and weekends forevermore will be flavored by the knowledge that Sam is out there somewhere—on the phone, playing a ballgame, learning lines for a school play, learning to drive, living the ups and downs of his life—always there.

Skeptics of the Christian life have long questioned the idea of an all-knowing, all-loving God--a heavenly Father who cares for us all. Becoming a grandfather provides me with evidence anew that God is real, and his mind is never away from us.

As we arrive in this world, in fact from the moment of conception, God simply makes room. He does not have to think about it. He just does it. We are continually in his heart and mind, because we exist in his creation. He does it easily, just like we do, only on a grander scale.

It is comforting that, just as I made room for Sam, so did God. I am so looking forward to watching the ways that God will reveal himself to Sam, and the ways that Sam will awaken to the knowledge of God. I pray for the day that Sam will recognize that there is a space in his soul that only God can occupy, and he will invite him in to fill it.

Of course there are times when we don't make room in our lives. There are times when we reject, when we elbow people away, and simply refuse to acknowledge their presence. Most of our problems with anger, prejudice, violence and greed come from times when our sense of self is simply too large to make room for anyone or anything else. No room is an anti-God state of mind.

But making room--it’s the meaning life.

God's Garden

2007-08-21T12:17:00.000-04:00

There are not a lot of trees in the Lower 9th Ward of New Orleans. There aren't many people, either. There are a lot of very tall weeds on vacant plots, a lot of empty, ruined houses, and a lot of reminders of Hurricane Katrina's floodwaters two years ago.

Recently I had a chance to spend time in New Orleans as part of a mission team working with Habitat for Humanity in the nearby Upper 9th Ward. Our crew built on the work of others--framing, roofing, setting windows--and then departed to let some new team pick up the progress.

The Upper 9th is so different than the Lower 9th, a difference that can probably be linked to a few more feet of elevation. The flood waters in the Upper 9th were considerably less than in the Lower 9th, and as a result people are rebuilding with greater confidence. Many abandoned homes certainly remain in the Upper 9th, also many FEMA trailers parked awkwardly beside gutted houses on tiny lots, yet normal life is regenerating there.

But the Lower 9th is a contradiction--mostly ghost town, but with a brand new elementary school. A long series of traffic lights, but very few cars to stop and go. Stores with no customers. Signs with no messages. Churches with no services.

A comeback for the Lower 9th is impeded by large economic obstacles. Before Katrina the area was populated by lower income families in houses of modest value. Even for those with insurance coverage, a check covering the value of the lost home would be too small to pay for reconstruction. Because the land is below water level, and the potential clientele poor, developers are reluctant to step in and speculate, the risks are too high.

So the Lower 9th sits largely unchanged since the flood dried up. A few families have ventured home, but too few.

A friend on mine said that God is taking care of the Lower 9th--he's turning it into a park. That may be so, but if it is, I can't imagine anyone making a recreational visit. But who knows? People buy tee shirts and postcards in Death Valley, after all.

Rather than a park, I think God may be turning the Lower 9th into a garden, sort of an Eden, but long, long after the fall. It is a fertile garden, but it grows mainly weeds. It's a garden in need of gardeners--men and women to till the cursed ground, plant seeds, harvest fruit.

There are some who believe the Lower 9th should be abandoned--its too low, too vulnerable, too expensive to protect from the next storm. Just give it back to God, some might say.

But it's too late for that. God already gave it to us. He said take care of it, be fruitful and multiply. The Lower 9th is waiting for God's people to come and go to work.

A famous, albeit mythical resident of New Orleans once said she was dependent on the kindness of strangers. That seems a motto for the Lower 9th today. It is a fallen place, a garden in need of gardeners.

Under Attack

2007-08-02T12:43:00.000-04:00

There's terrible stuff going on in my neighborhood right now. Several homes and cars have been broken into in recent days. Reports of suspcious looking "blacks" have been circulating. Emails are zipping between neighbors about sightings, fears, police responses and ideas for increased security.

There is genuine reason for concern. Yesterday a teenager--indeed black--was arrested in the neighborhood and charged with burglary. It was reported he was wearing a ring found while ransacking one home. At another house, someone broke in while a child was home alone. The child hid in a closet while the thief swiped a laptop.

It seems we are under attack from two sources. The first is--obviously--the theives themselves. Whoever they are--it is unlikely the one teen arrested is working alone--they are targeting our neighborhood during this vacation season when so many houses are empty.

The second source of attack stems from our own fear, and the paranoia and racism it reveals. It causes us to look at suspicion at every black male we see. It encourages us throw up barriers from our neighbors.

My neighborhood is nice. The homes are spacious. The families who live in them--mostly white, but not all--are upper middle class, educated, engaged in community, caring.

Around our nice neighborhood are some homes that are not so big, not quite as nice, and occupied by families that are not quite as blessed economically.

It concerns me that in recent weeks there has been a lot of talk about ways to section off our homes from these others. I've heard the surrounding neighborhood described as a "ghetto" and some of those who reside there labeled "riffraff." I am confident that most of these neighbors, in truth, love their homes as much as we do, and also live in fear of crime.

We live in a troubled, fallen world. All over the globe people live in daily fear of a car bomb, a thief in the night, a drive-by shooting, a rapist wearing the uniform of a soldier, a missle from the sky. For those of us in the U.S. these are second-hand fears. We are for the most part insulated from the realities of evil imposed on our routines.

Yet I am seeing a little glimpse of what an up-close and personal threat can do to our--my--sense of charity, community and love of neighbor. When defenses go up, it seems love goes down. It is no wonder violence and hatred escalate in places like Iraq, Sudan and elsewhere.

It makes me marvel all the more at the love of Christ for those who brutally, angrily, riotously stripped him naked and took his life on the cross. When the attack was most intense he could yet say, "Father, forgive them."

There is terrible stuff going on in our neighborhood right now. Though our circumstances pale in comparison to other people and places, we feel under attack, and it is changing us.

Father forgive them. Father forgive me.

My $54 Million Dollar Pants

2007-06-25T00:09:00.000-04:00

By now we've all heard of the so-called judge who sued a family-owned laundry to the verge of bankruptcy because he was dissatisfied with the alterations on his pants. He went to court recently demanding $54 million in damages for the pain and suffering of unwanted cuffs on his trousers.

If there is any justice this man will not only lose his case, he will lose his judgeship and law license. As an officer of the court he is supposed to honor the law, the purpose of which is to promote fairness, justice and safety in a civilized culture. This man abused the law to flout fairness and justice, and to inflict harm on a hard-working family. He did it because he could. He had the law degree, he had the knowledge and he had a me-first at all cost mentality that seeks to destroy all objects of it's scorn.

I know this man's personality because I've seen it in others. I've seen it in me.

The reality is that we all have a pair of pants that, given the right chemistry of pride, greed, expediency and disdain for others, could turn into the $54 million variety.

The other day I was traveling at about 70 on the Interstate (in the slow lane, of course) when I noticed in my mirror a Jeep Cherokee approaching at an incredible speed. The car was straddling the line, half in the passing lane and half in mine. I could clearly see the driver's profile, which meant he was looking for something on the seat beside him and not at the road. I veered to the shoulder to make room just as he blew by, oblivious to me and the peril he was causing. He was obviously in a hurry, obviously busy--too busy to give a rip about anybody else who might be using the same road.

Sometimes a $54 million pair of pants looks like a Jeep Cherokee.

I heard about a teacher, a charismatic sort of religious guru, who had sex with his students and even exposed some of them to AIDS.

Sometimes a $54 million pair of pants looks like predation, packaged as enlightenment.

There was a man in the news this past week who abducted a woman and shot her in the face. He was angry because the woman's sister had not been adequately appreciative of some favor the man had performed. Sometimes a $54 million pair of pants looks like a favor performed only to get something in return.

A soldier returns home in a flag-draped casket, and scores of leather-clad bikers show up on their Harleys to lead the funeral procession, while nearby church people carry signs protesting homosexuality. Sometimes $54 million pants look like grief and empathy, but only if they attract some attention.

We see examples all the time--in lines at the store, in a busy restaurant, in a church business meeting, at work when the boss is looking for someone to blame or praise, at a family reunion. Self-loving, others-loathing behavior can show up anywhere. The results may not be as extreme as bankruptcy, AIDS infection or murder, but they are always ugly.

I have to fight it in myself. When my focus becomes what I want and only what I want and nothing or no one else is of any consequence or importance, I am just an opportunity away from putting on my $54 million pants and taking a stroll down the catwalk.

The Bible says in Micah 6:8, "He has told you O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?" This is the cure for the $54 million pants and all these other selfish and destructive acts--doing justice, loving kindness and walking humbly. This is a message that we all need desperately.

Here's an idea. You know how some retailers sell pants with words printed across the bottom or down the leg? Instead of "Old Navy" or "Adidas" though, we could market versions that read "Justice" and "Kindness" and "Walk Humbly." We could charge $19.95 for them, but they would be worth a whole lot more.

Faith In The Spotlight

2007-06-13T10:53:00.000-04:00

For the past 27 years my hometown has put on a nine-day party called the Riverbend Festival. If you like a variety of music, deep fried carbs, fireworks and hot, sweaty multitudes, the Riverbend Festival is the place for you. I like most of those things, so most years it is a place for me, too.

Until a few years ago, Tuesday night of the festival was an off night--a chance to vendors and organizers to rest a bit. Then someone had the idea, a good idea I think, to turn Tuesday into Faith & Family Night. It became an evening where the music was Christian, the beer tents were closed and the admission was discounted. Each year special passes are put on sale to allow families to attend just this one night, but none of the eight others. There is nothing wrong with this.

Many churches target Tuesdays as their night to make a presence at Riverbend. They set up booths for the one night, circulate within the mostly Christian crowd, and hand out tracts. There is nothing wrong with this either.

My only problem with Faith and Family Night is that we followers of Christ are called to be witnesses in every place on every day. A special night for Christians to come out of hiding seems just another example of evangelicals segregating themselves from everybody else. We have a tendency to embrace Paul's admonition to be apart from the world to a level that trumps Christ's instruction to be salt and light in a culture that desperately needs the flavor and illumination of the Gospel.

Let me tell you about another faith and family experience at Riverbend. A few years ago my wife and friends and I were sitting in the crowd listening to Doyle Dykes tear it up on guitar. It was a Friday night, and the crowd was into the music. People danced with beers in their hands. Dykes, who is a master of many guitar styles, accommodated their tastes by providing a surprisingly up-tempo, rock-infused set.

It was about 45 minutes into the performance when Dykes told the audience he was glad he could be there, that his appearance was cast into doubt by the sudden hospitalization of his father. With a casual sincerity that let every ear know he was speaking from the heart and without contrivance, he asked that we all pray for his father, who was seriously ill. And then he told everyone of his confidence that Jesus Christ loves us, hears us and is there to meet any of us in our hours of need.

That seemed like salt and light to me. His words touched the ears of thousands. I can't help but wonder how many from that crowd who would not easily call themselves Christians remembered Dykes' words and called out to Jesus when they next found their lives in a crisis.

There is nothing wrong with gathering with like-minded brothers and sisters in the comfort of a family-friendly venue. Yet genuine faith shines forth anywhere, anytime, for anyone to see.

Out Of The Worship Box

2007-05-30T16:49:00.000-04:00

The band opened with a cover of the Doobie Brothers' "Listen To The Music." Adults old enough to remember the original on the radio sang along. Teenage girls danced barefoot in the grass. Nearby, kids in Gap shorts and Tevas stood in a long line waiting for hot dogs along with homeless men dressed in their four-season ensembles--winter coats and knit caps. A shorter line was beside it waiting for free Coke.

The scene was one church's efforts to do Memorial Day 2007. The band was made up of church members and staff who had practiced for months for this open-air concert in a riverside park. After setting the tone with the Doobies, they entertained the crowd of about 500 with songs from the Beach Boys, Beatles, Johnny Cash, Elvis and a wide variety of current pop and country fare.

What they did not play were hymns, or Christian pop, or even any of the ubiquitous Christian praise choruses that seem requisite when churches try to break out of their traditional boxes. There were no sermons, no public prayers, no tracts, no signs, no calls to repentance and no counseling tents.

The event was just a church--and a conservative Presbyterian church at that--having fun in the public square and inviting anyone and everyone to join them.

Few churches I know would dare sink staff time and money into a public event and leave out the expected evangelical hooks. Several years ago my own church held a summer concert in this very same park. The Christian rock and praise music was good, but it was interrupted for a short Gospel presentation. Teen volunteers worked the crowd passing out literature and invitations to visit the church. The venue was the same, but the events were very different.

Another difference was the size of the crowd. This 2007 event seemed to draw people, whether they were affiliated with the church or not. The band from my church drew quite a small crowd, and those who came close enough to hear tended to keep moving lest they be approached by a proselytizer.

I don't know that either event changed anyone's mind, attracted anyone to the church or increased their awareness of Christ. But I do know which of the two events left participants feeling the most elevated, joyful and satisfied.

In Colossians 3 the Apostle Paul encourages Christians to teach and admonish and to sing psalms and spiritual songs. Yet he also writes that whatever we do in word and deed, do it all in the name of Jesus.

It is important to bring the Gospel to the public square, but surely there is nothing wrong with simply having a good time in the name of Jesus. I can't help thinking that many who are outside the church might be encouraged to take a peek inside if they saw more Christians with smiles on their faces, dancing barefoot in the grass.