Go

Last night I got to watch Jenny’s awesome Dad lead worship, and she and her mother sing harmony at the first ever church service for Living Free Ministries, at the Living Free Recovery Ranch in Yuma, Arizona.

And the service really touched me, and moved me, and upset me, and I really didn’t expect that. It was awesome. It made me think so much.

This is an amazing program whose main purpose is to set people free from the bondage of addiction. It’s led by an anointed servant named Jerry Bunte, who is just on fire for the Lord, and the community of Yuma. And now Living Free is stepping out into the community, and is so much more than just a recovery program.

Last night was really powerful, and the room was almost crackling with the Holy Spirit. The room was small, and hot and crowded. It was what I imagined home churches were like back in the first century.

Jerry said something in his sermon about wanting Jesus to break his heart the way Jesus’ own heart had been broken.

I think that is what will change the world.

If our hearts are broken in that way, then we, the broken, will be able to see people the way Jesus himself did. And we will be consumed by the power of God, rather than the things of earth.

We start by asking God to pour out his spirit on the places that we live, and the people in those places that are lost, and broken, and poor, and hungry. Make no mistake; I do not say this to denigrate in any way the mission field. Missions are something that are powerful, too, and are also of great value.

I just think Michael Jackson had it right when he encouraged us to start with the Man in the Mirror. Or in this case, the community where we live. Jesus did say, “therefore Go, and make disciples of all nations, baptizing in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

It is just my opinion that sometimes we look so far out, that we can’t see that close to us is also hurt, and hunger, and need. And that is every bit as valid. And while it is true that those people–that is, people here in Yuma, in Arizona, in the United States–have at least heard the Gospel while some people across the world have not, it is also true that they need Jesus here just as much as anyone else does.

Last night I was sitting there listening to the sermon and I was suddenly aware that there were people just a few miles away that were preparing to bed down in the 90+ degree streets, or crowd into a room at Crossroads Mission (another anointed place, by the way. We had the privilege to serve there on several occasions). There were people in my own town that have no idea Jesus loves them because they are sleeping in their cars, and can’t think of what they will feed their children.

Like Jerry said last night, Yuma has a 30% unemployment rate. That means for every, say, 10,000 people who have a job, 3000 people do not. It doesn’t help any that the federal government doesn’t seem to know how much money we have as a country, or how much money we owe.

In any case, I believe this is something we can change. We start small, by just loving people who probably haven’t felt loved, or so much as seen by people in a very long time.

We love them. We show the people in Yuma–or wherever you are–that Jesus loves them, because

“by this all men will know you are my disciples if you love one another”

We go out into the community, and we work, and feed, and most importantly, we pray.

This can be done, but it will not be easy. There will be sweat, and tears, and maybe even blood.

But it has to start somewhere. And that “somewhere” is within us.

We change the world by first allowing the Holy Spirit to change us from within. We ask for a “filling” of the spirit all the time in church. But people forget something.

We are already filled.

We just have to allow ourselves to feel that filling.

And to be changed.

One person at a time, starting with ourselves and the people around us. One community at a time. Street by street, house by house, and city by city. And in my opinion, that is how we change the world.

We Go. And we make disciples of all nations, starting with our own.

Three Days

Day 1: September 1st, 2008

We met in the parking lot of Case de Pico, in Grossmont Center.

Jenny and I had been talking on the phone for a little over a week, and the conversations kept getting better and better. We knew we wanted to meet, and soon. She decided one weekend that she needed to get out of town, and it seemed the perfect opportunity for her and David to come to San Diego.

We decided we’d get some breakfast, and then head over to the San Diego Zoo. David would be there, and we wanted our first meeting to be something he’d be interested in, because we wanted him to feel included in whatever was happening with us from the very beginning. At least, as much as he could be.

I told her to message me when they were getting close, and me being me, I got there early. I only lived about ten minutes away at the time, anyway.

I waited in my car and I remember getting more and more nervous. We’d been talking, and getting along awesomely, but what if it wasn’t like that in person?

What if I couldn’t talk, or said something stupid?

What if she didn’t like me once we met?

What if I didn’t like her?

When she pulled up in her car and got out, I remember the first thing I thought was, “well, she really is six feet tall.”

I think I said something like “Hi,” and then gave her a hug. I remember that she smelled good, and that I thought I could look at her smile for weeks.

David got out of the car next, and I remember kneeling down and shaking his hand (at 4, he was actually little then—he’s my big guy, now).

I wondered if he would like me, too.

We all piled back into Jenny’s car and started driving. I know we went to Denny’s for a late breakfast (or early lunch), but I couldn’t tell you what I ate, or a single word I said. I just remember being nervous, and not wanting to sound like a jackass. I am certain I fell victim to my “nervous talking” thing, which is awesome. There are times when my tongue goes completely apestuff, and I can’t shut my mouth to save my life. Maybe Jenny remembers some of the conversation, but I don’t.

Then we went to the Zoo, and I remember driving down Park and having to call my brother-in-law because I couldn’t remember how in heck to get there. My sense of direction has not gotten much better since I moved to Yuma.

But I digress.

We found the zoo, and I remember getting on the tour bus, and driving around the zoo with our arms just barely touching. It was like having my hand on one of those shock things at the nickel arcade at Disneyland. I badly wanted to put my arm around her, but I didn’t want to be THAT guy.

Again, I’m certain we spoke to one another in the few hours we walked around the zoo, but that whole afternoon is lost to me as well. I do know that it felt right walking around with Jenny and David at my side.

We walked around the park for just a little while, and took David on that little train that runs near the zoo. At the time, he was all about Thomas, and all things train-related, so he had a pretty good time.

And then the afternoon was over and we were headed back to Grossmont Center to pick up my car. Neither of us wanted the afternoon to end, so we decided to have an early dinner in Case de Pico before Jenny headed back to Yuma.

I know the conversation just flowed from one thing to another easily, and it was as if we’d always talked. I didn’t feel any of the awkwardness I expected to for a first date, especially one with a kid involved. David was so funny, and energetic, and not afraid to talk at all. We had dinner, and I remember looking at her across the table and just thinking that she was beautiful. What was she doing with this big, bald-headed slob from Santee?

We walked outside when we were done eating, and David climbed into his car seat (he was 4 at the time). We stood looking at each other for a second or two and then I think we both realized that however long it took for us to get together again was going to be too long.

“I’ll come to Yuma next weekend,” I told her.

Then she moved into me and I felt her arms cross behind my neck. I just held her for a minute, and then in the parking lot of Case de Pico, with twilight just creeping into the horizon and a dollop of guacamole drying on the front of my shirt, we shared our first kiss.

It was quick, and fairly chaste, but I realized right away I wanted another one.

Next weekend was an eternity away.

Day 2: October 12, 2008

I can remember the exact moment I “knew” with Jenny. The moment I realized that was it, and I knew there was never going to be anyone else for me.

Jenny had come to see me in San Diego, and we were saying goodbye by her car. We were fairly early on in our relationship, and we wanted to see as much of each other as possible, but our time together was restricted to weekends—and it was tough.

We alternated visiting between Yuma and San Diego, and this particular weekend in October we were in my neck of the woods, because a friend had an extra ticket for the Chargers vs the Patriots, which was a rare opportunity for me—professional football games were expensive.

So we spent as much time together as we could, but eventually, it was time to say goodbye—I had to get on the trolley to Qualcomm Stadium. And for some reason, on this day, my stomach was bothering me. I was fidgeting a fair amount as we stood by her car, because I knew I was going to have to sneak one out eventually.

I didn’t want to hurry the goodbye, but nature is nature, and unless I got back inside my house soon, she was going to experience a part of me I didn’t think I was ready to show her.

And because life is just ridiculous sometimes, there came a moment when we were just standing there, not talking.

And it happened. It came on like a freight train, and I was helpless in its path. It sounded a little bit like when a sailor on one of those old pirate movies jumps from a crow’s nest and stabs his knife into the sail, sliding down to the deck with a loud rrrriiiippp.

I just sort of stood there turning red, and I remember Jenny’s eyes getting really big. Then she just sort of threw her arms around me and started laughing almost uncontrollably.

I love my wife so freaking much.

So here we are now, working on our third year together. It’s been awesome, and such a blessing. And yes, I still let one go every now and again. Except now, it doesn’t embarrass me nearly as much. Who doesn’t like the smell of freshly baked cookies?

Let me also say one thing God has not changed in me over the years is my sense of humor. I still enjoy “bathroom” humor above all other kinds.

And that’s ok. My wife, my best friend, makes me laugh every single day. She gets me like nobody else ever has. She enjoys a good gas joke, too.

Day 3: August 24, 2011

I was thinking about those 2 days this morning when I was getting ready for work. Three years since our first date next week.

I’d done my daily reading and packed my lunch. I realized I’d forgotten the novel I was currently reading on lunch, so I went back into the bedroom to get it. I turned on the bathroom light and in the column of light from the slightly opened door, I watched Jenny sleeping for a second or two, and it blew me away anew that I’d been blessed with a woman like her. It was like that Brad Paisley song, “…and I thought I loved you then…”

Hard to imagine loving her more.

I thought about our baby sleeping in the next room, and David across the hall.

That moment was like a snapshot of perfect happiness. I might have a tough day at work, and a hot ride home, but when I got there, I really was home, with my family around me.

I am so lucky—so blessed.

The Depths

One of my SD friends wrote something today, to the effect of she was who God made her to be. A simple statement, certainly, but not so easy to get your mind around. At least, not for me.

I am who God made me to be.

I think the problem I have with that has more to do with my self-perception than anything else. Why would God make me to be…this?

Aren’t I supposed to be a new creation? So much of the time I don’t feel like one.

And if it is true that God is light, and in him there is no darkness at all, then why is it that sometimes when I look into my heart, I see darkness?

Even today, knowing Christ, that is often what I see. It’s true that I’m a new creation, but it doesn’t take much for me to fall into old thought patterns, belief patterns, and even sin patterns. And it is certainly easier to believe negative things about myself than positive ones. It’s easier to believe the worst of God, because it makes more sense.

Grace makes no sense at all. Jesus didn’t die for us when we were at our best, or as we should be. He died for us at our worst, at our farthest from Him, when we needed him most.

Who would do a thing like that? Certainly not me. Who wants to do anything for a person that deliberately rejects them? You can almost understand it for people who are good, who do things for others at great cost for themselves.

That isn’t me. Because at my core, at the innermost depths of my heart, it is much easier to believe I am not a good person.

But is that really true?

Am I a bad person?

There are times when I feel like I am. Maybe I have a tough and stressful day at work, then I come home and snap at my kids or my wife, who are just happy to see me.

Someone who is good, who knows Jesus, would not do a thing like that.

There are times when I don’t give very cheerfully, either. It’s my money, and I earned it. I sweated for it, and lifted heavy things, and stayed up well past my bedtime.

A good person, a good Christian, gives and then gives some more. So why do I hold so tightly to the things of this world?

If I was made new and clean by the blood of Christ, then why do I feel dirty so often?

What does God say about that? I know that when I made my decision for Christ I “put off the old man.”

And was made a “new creation.” And even before that, I believed that God made me.

Didn’t I? And isn’t it true?

So if God made me, and if I am a new creation, then if I think I am a bad person, isn’t that like saying God made me bad? And does God make bad people?

I think that maybe God makes people good, and for whatever their reasons are, people make bad decisions about their lives–I know I did, for a very long time.

So that being said, and with the knowledge that I’ve “put off the old man,” why is it so easy to remember the old man, the one with the heart of stone?

The one with darkness and ugliness at his depths.

Hard question to answer, but I think basically, because it’s hard to totally surrender to God. It’s easy to remember the old me–and to feel like him. That’s what I knew for so long, and that’s why it’s so easy to slide back in that direction.

But because I know Jesus is there, there really isn’t any darkness. In Him there is no darkness at all.
I am in Him.

And there is no darkness–even if it feels that way every once in a while.

I think of the Chris Tomlin song “Indescribable,” and the lyric that sums up Christ’s love for us, his beloved Children.

For me.

“You see the depths of my heart, and you love me the same.”

He loves us the same, even if when we look at ourselves we see darkness. He loves us the same, even if when we look at ourselves, we see ugliness.

He loves us the same.

Because His perception is not ours. He sees us through timeless eyes not colored by lies about ourselves, and about Him.

He died for us while we were dead in our transgressions.

He died for us broken and disgraced.

He sees the depths of our heart and he loves us the same.

Beloved

I wrote this a while back, before Jenny and I were married, but it meant something to me then and it means something to me now. Maybe it will to you, too

I was just thinking that one of the things I love best about God is the feeling of peace that knowing him brings to my life.

Peace. And also being loved, really loved.

I never had it before, or at least, I was not aware of it. I used to always, always worry about stuff. I used to spend so much time wondering what would ever become of my life. Would I ever get a decent job? Would I ever marry, or even be in love, for that matter? Would I ever really be loved?

That was the worst, I think. Wondering about love. I knew my sisters loved me–they’d always taken care of me, and had showing love down to a science. But family love is not the same as other love–it’s almost primal in nature, and in many cases, taken for granted.

But it’s not the same as other kinds of love. It’s not the same as being beloved.

I think that was the main thing for me. I needed to know I was beloved by someone. I think the friends I’ve had in my life–from the time I was a kid until now–were about as close as I’ve come to it. The love of my friends has saved my life more times than I can count.

And it helped me to find God myself.

But even that is not the same.

There’s something about being able to share the hard stuff with someone that makes it less hard. Sometimes life is just….horrible, and frantic, and scary. Sometimes life is colder than an arctic winter. Sometimes so utterly packed with bad circumstance after bad circumstance. It can consume you with business, and worry, and pain, and when that happens, all you want, all I want–is to just have it melt away.

When that happens, I want to step from the autobahn of my life into a valley full of peace. I want to rest, and rest, and rest.

When that happens, I want to be warm, and quiet, and still.

It wasn’t until I knew God that I knew any of that. Until the noise in my heart was quieted a little. Until the emptiness was filled.

Brennan Manning spoke at my Church once, and he told a story about a woman he met at a leper colony–Yolanda. She was young, only 37, and prior to her leprosy, had been stunningly beautiful. She had long, dark hair, a perfect body, and a perfect face. When she began to lose her perfection, her husband left her–the leprosy was too much for him to live with.

The leprosy took her beauty, little by little. He nose and lips became twisted. She lost fingers. The only part of her untouched was her eyes–they remained a beautiful and shining brown. One day, Brennan had just gotten to the colony when they called him to pray with Yolanda–she was dying. It was a dark day–cloudy and cold, with rain on the way.

He went to her room, and was preparing to pray. He faced away from her, near a window, and as he began to take his vestments and oil from his bag, he felt warmth on his face, as if the sun had broken through the clouds. He briefly that God for the sunshine, and thought that Yolanda would enjoy it.

But then he looked up, and there was no sunshine. He turned to Yolanda, and saw that the light was coming from her–her face, once beautiful, was shining, and it was beautiful again.

She told Brennan that she was happy.

Why, he asked.

She told him that Jesus was going to take her home that day. He’d spoken to her.

Manning asked her what Jesus had said.

Yolanda said that Jesus had reached out to her and said, “Come now, my love, my lovely one, come. For you, the winter is past. The rain is gone. The flowers appear on the ground. The cooing of turtledoves is heard in the land…”

Brennan recognized the above as from the Song of Songs, and assumed that she’d heard it or read it before. He prayed for her a few minutes, put his things away, and left. Later that day, Yolanda went home.

The next day, Brennan was speaking to a nun, and found out that not only had Yolanda been illiterate, but she had very little familiarity with scripture. Yet Jesus had reached out and spoken to her, to his beloved.

I was thinking about that this morning when I started to write this. I was thinking of how much different my life is now. I still have amazing friends, and family. And I’ve finally met the woman God always intended for me to meet, and am beloved on earth. But even more than that, I know that someday (hopefully not for a long time), my body will begin to wither. I might be sick, and scared, and in pain, and it might be too much to handle.

But I will still be beloved, and I hope to rest with the knowledge that my Abba is calling me home.

And then, like Yolanda in Brennan Manning’s story, I hope to fill a room with light.

from the Song of Songs, Chapter 2:

10 My lover spoke and said to me,
“Arise, my darling,
my beautiful one, and come with me.

11 See! The winter is past;
the rains are over and gone.

12 Flowers appear on the earth;
the season of singing has come,
the cooing of doves
is heard in our land.

13 The fig tree forms its early fruit;
the blossoming vines spread their fragrance.
Arise, come, my darling;
my beautiful one, come with me.”

I think also of a snatch of an old hymn–at least I think it’s a hymn. Something about Christ being the lover of our souls.

The lover of our souls.

And we, the beloved.

45s

One of the first things I remember is that my oldest sister’s first husband went to Viet Nam when I was four or five. I’m not sure. Jerry was lucky in one sense, in that he didn’t have to fight. I’m fairly certain he brought home some things from the war, though, that likely didn’t make things easier for him and my sister.

If I remember correctly, he was a clerk of some kind, or a driver, much like Radar on M*A*S*H. The only reason I remember it, I think, is that before he left, he gave my older brother Tim a box of 45rpm singles in a battered cardboard box that was secured by a chrome clip. I remember how shiny the clip was, and it seemed not to fit with the box, which had a black top, and some random pattern of colored squiggles on the sides.

The singles were all oldies, ranging from 50’s artists like Ricky Nelson, Richie Valens, Buddy Holly, Chuck Berry (I used to know all the words to his masterwork of innuendo, “My ding-a-ling”), and many others, to early 60’s music, like Dion and the Belmonts, and Tommy James and the Shondells. The original version of the song “Last Kiss,” by the Cavaliers that Pearl Jam would later cover was in there, too, along with another car crash anthem “Tell Laura I love her.”

My brother would play them for hours on end, and I grew up with the sound of oldies in my ears, along with the country my mom would play (it wasn’t until much later I would be introduced to rock by my older sisters). Yet while I heard these types of music it would be pretty fair to say they went in one ear, and out the other, without making much of an impact. At least at first. They were just pleasant noise.

I’ve mentioned on several occasions the difficulties I’ve had over the course of my childhood with my brother, but in all fairness, he’s pretty much responsible for helping me through one of the toughest times of my life, as well, and I’m fairly certain he doesn’t even know he did it.

What happened was that I was always a scared kid, jumping at shadows, and almost anything else. I would watch the tamest cartoons you could imagine–mostly because they were funny, but also because they weren’t scary. I knew there were darker, more adult forms on entertainment out there, but I was most definately not interested, at least not until a little before my ninth birthday.

Sometimes my sister’s would spend the night at my house–mostly for holidays like Christmas and Thanksgiving. One time they were there, and watching a movie on TV in the living room–a rebroadcast of The Exorcist. I remember walking into the room just as the camera zoomed in on Linda Blair’s dessicated-looking face and yellow, demonic eyes.

It scared the crap out of me, but it was also somehow fascinating. I think that was my first look at anything in the horror genre, which to this day both repels and excites me. It wasn’t long after that I got hold of my sister’s copy of Stephen King’s Night Shift and read a short story called “The Boogeyman,” which terrified me to the extent that I could no longer go to sleep at night without first inspecting my closet for demonic, child-killing monsters. And then I couldn’t close my door. Like the people in the story, I had to leave it open–just a crack.

I began to read other stories along the same vein, and they were all scary, but it was The Boogeyman that stuck with me the most, and very soon I began to develop a very serious case of insomnia. What happened was that every time I would begin to fall asleep, I would see (or think I saw), my closet door begin to swing open, and a slimy, clawed hand scratch its talons along the surface. The first couple nights, I just lay there, too afraid to sleep.

The third night, I crept into the kitchen, figuring that I could find something with which I would be able to defend myself from the claws–somehow, a kitchen knife seemed like just the thing–hey, I was a kid!

So while I stood in the kitchen, searching the silverware drawer for a weapon, I heard my brother’s voice curse softly from the garage (his main hobby when I was little was buying junk cars, fixing them up, and selling them. He did this from when I was 8, until I turned 18). Then another curse, and silence. A few seconds after that, Del Shannon’s Runaway began playing on the record player’s single, battered speaker.

I found a chef’s knife that looked reasonably well-edged, and sat in the chair by the door to the garage. I listened to Runaway, and then Chuck Berry came on after a couple seconds more cursing (those little adapters for the 45’s were a bitch) by Tim. I ended up sitting there listening to music, and my brother’s swearing at various car parts for the better part of an hour, and eventually went back to bed, falling asleep softly humming Ricky Nelson’s Garden Party to myself.

The next night, I crept into the kitchen again, and took up my position in the chair, listening for about an hour, and eventually going back to bed, singing softly to myself, and once again falling asleep. And again the next night. And the next.

After about a little less than a week, I was able to procure a small transistor radio from my dad’s collection of junk that I would play quietly next to my bed when I hit the sack, and after only a night or two, I didn’t even look at the closet anymore.

But it all started with those old records in the garage, and listening to my brother’s cornucopia of profanity. I didn’t even know I liked music before that. And while I will always have some degree of difficulty with my brother, I will also always be grateful to him for helping me find music, and stop worrying about the boogeyman.

Ecce Homo

This is a remix of something I posted a while back. Got led back to it again–reposted, slightly revised:

I always thought I’d have to be perfect for God, or perhaps more accurately–that I would have to be perfect to know Him. That’s what it seemed like, anyway. The Christian people I knew growing up certainly presented themselves that way; it didn’t look to me like they ever struggled, or doubted, or had any family or relationship troubles.

One the surface they were perfect people, with perfect lives. I don’t know about anything deeper than that, because it was too hard to get past the plastic smiles.

The young man who led the youth group I went to for a while as a teenager was a little like that. Not that he ever said he was perfect—he was just this tower of faith, and love, and patience for the handful of obnoxious teenagers in his charge. It never seemed like he so much as had a bad day. He was an amazing guy, but I wonder what kind of affect he would have had on us had he been a little more transparent—had he let us know then we could expect things to get rough sometimes.

Then there were the “others.” The people that I met through the church my brother went to for a while.
These men and women did all they could to draw attention to the wonderful Christian lives they were leading. They made sure everyone could see how they obeyed the “rules” set forth by God. That is, when they weren’t picketing places and telling people nearly everything they did was wrong, and would be sending them to hell, eventually.

Observe my faith, and be awed. See how much I care about the virtue of my children, and how willing I am to protect it at any cost. If they’d been around during Jesus’ time they would have been standing on street corners tearing their robes and crying.

It was all about them, not Jesus. They spent so much time being “super-Christians” that I knew I could never meet that sort of standard. I would never be able to serve a God who demanded such things, because I would never be perfect. And if I tried to be, the person I was now would always, always undermine any potential I might have for the future.

That person was far from perfect.

That person was flawed, and broken, and wounded.

That person–that man, was a liar.

That man lusted, drank to complete excess, and blasphemed.

That man stole, and coveted, and was full of self-pity and entitlement.

That man indulged in relationships empty of all but sin.

That man did not honor his mother and father, even when they were alive.

That man felt he was such a bad friend that he helped drive someone to a bullet.

That man did anything and everything he could to run willfully from God.

That man resisted salvation with every fiber of his being.

That man thought that since God made his life difficult, then he would damn well stay away from Him.
It was not that I doubted God’s existence. I just doubted God’s benevolence, and His “perfect” will for my life. While I had seen things that convinced me God was real, and cared, it only seemed to be for those people who led perfect and flawless lives.

I knew that wasn’t me. So in my mind, that meant he could not care less about me.

There was no way the man I was then would give up his own will for the will of another, even God. I just didn’t want anything to do with Him, or what He had to offer, which was subjugation.

Conformity.

No sense of self.

The man I was had no concept of anything but self.

That man did not care about anything, or anyone, because it seemed that no one cared about him.

Why would God want anything at all to do with that man? And since that was the man I was, what would be the point of approaching God with any sort of entreaty? He wouldn’t listen to me anyway.

But then something happened.

I met a series of people that either told me about Jesus, or showed me his love in a very practical way. They demanded nothing of me, and painted a picture of a very different sort of Jesus than I was accustomed to.

This Jesus just loved.

He was less concerned with a litany of rules, and more concerned with gathering lost sheep.

This Jesus cared about that man, just as he was.

Not as he should be.

This God was in the business of healing, not condemnation.

This Jesus was a physician, a carpenter, and a Father.

I began to develop a different sort of awareness, and sought more and more knowledge.

I began to hunger and thirst for righteousness. I began to heal.

And I began to realize in my heart that perfection was not required. I didn’t have to observe a strict set of rules to know God, and to be his child.

The Jesus that I learned about loved me in my state of disgrace, right then.

Long, long before I ever sought him.

He loved me enough to endure the whip, the crown of thorns, and the cross. Enough to walk a steep path with a heavy piece of wood balanced on his bloody shoulders.

Sometimes now I think about Pilate bringing Jesus before the crowd after his flogging and telling them “behold the man…”

I see myself in that crowd.

I’m standing there with everyone, looking up at a bloody, battered, and silent man.

I see myself calling for his death. He looks at me then. He is far away, but he sees me there.

And he goes to the cross for me, even then.

Even then.

When I accepted him as Lord, it was not simply an “aha” moment, where all things suddenly were wiped off my slate (though it was that, too). When I accepted His life, I also accepted his death, and entered into it.

I had to—it was for me.

And when I did that, the man I had been began to change. A little at first, but then more and more.
With the awareness of God’s love and acceptance, rather than judgment and condemnation, I began to grow, and I began to heal, and I began to care.

This man could treat people the way he wanted to be treated.

This man had genuine friendships.

This man could love, and be loved.

This man saw beyond himself.

This man longed to conform to his Father’s will for his life.

This man learned about life beyond short-term gratification,

This man saw the only cure possible for what ailed him.

This man began to put away childish things.

With the knowledge I’ve gleaned over the past few years, I have learned that only when I sought God’s vision for my life could I even begin to become anything approaching the person I had been designed to be, even before I was born.

What I had been doing for most of my life was trying to navigate the world without any real sense of direction. It was really something wonderful the first time I wondered which way I should go, and heard my Father say, “This way…”

I remember the man I used to be. But I am no longer him, though he is still a part of me.

I am a new creation, a new man. I am not perfect, and I never will be. I still struggle, and I still sin, and I still need to be forgiven.

But I am on a different path now.

I am walking toward God instead of away from him. I’m a husband, and a father of two boys who are just amazing examples of the wonder of God.

I am a new man. Not always the easiest thing to remember, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

A new man.

Verses of the day…

Originally posted last July…but I can’t get enough of these verses. And I love the Message translation…

“When he was still a long way off, his father saw him. His heart pounding, he ran out, embraced him, and kissed him. The son started his speech: ‘Father, I’ve sinned against God, I’ve sinned before you; I don’t deserve to be called your son ever again.’

22-24“But the father wasn’t listening. He was calling to the servants, ‘Quick. Bring a clean set of clothes and dress him. Put the family ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. Then get a grain-fed heifer and roast it. We’re going to feast! We’re going to have a wonderful time! My son is here—given up for dead and now alive! Given up for lost and now found!’ And they began to have a wonderful time.

Luke 15:20-24, From The Message

Funny how you just find stuff sometimes.

Heaven on a Bun

I had this monstrosity for dinner Saturday night after church. We took Ken and Linda out for dinner after church, and thought we’d go homestyle. Not that mom ever made anything like this…

I can’t say I actually felt my arteries hardening as I ate it, but it wouldn’t surprise me if it happened. Anyway, it was pretty darn tasty…albeit loaded with everything bad. But what isn’t, really?

I guess it’s just that Denny’s, in its own way, is sort of “our place.” We went there for a late breakfast/brunch the first time we went out. We had dinner somewhere nicer, but Denny’s is the first place we ate together. It’s also the place where I told her parents I wanted to marry her, if they were cool with it.

They were.

Anyway, it’s been a pretty awesome two years. Though I suppose I won’t have too many “Slamburgers.” Not if I want to keep on trucking for another few decades, anyway…

But for now, let me just say thanks to Denny’s…you make good breakfast!

Bad Disciple, Part V

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come!” 2 Corinthians 5:17

I’ve read second Corinthians lots of times–next to Romans, I probably read it the most out of everything in the New Testament after the synoptics (the four Gospels). It’s a beautiful book, and teaches volumes about healing. And every time I read it, I have to stop and think about the above passage for a good long while. The thing is, even aware of my salvation as I am, most days I don’t feel like a new creation. Most days I feel all crudded up by life, and by my own inclination to sin.

For me, part of becoming a Christian—maybe even the largest part—was being made aware of my sin. I remember that being the toughest thing about that night at the river—feeling the weight of my sin fall onto my shoulders. And when I felt its subsequent removal, it convinced me once and for all time that Jesus was real, and was the only way I could ever be made whole, and clean.

Prior to that awareness, I thought I was golden because I was a pretty good guy. I was nice to old people and animals. I should be good, shouldn’t I? Nothing to worry about?

I remember people used to testify all the time at the first church I attended. One time I heard the testimony of a young man who’d been to Bosnia during the war there. He told of shooting his weapon at what he thought was the enemy, and had been haunted by whether or not he’d hit or killed the person ever since. It was the only time he’d shot at anyone during his deployment.

He’d been punishing himself for that day, even though he did not know the ultimate outcome of his shot. It took a number of years, and a ton of pain before he finally surrendered his heart to God.

And began to heal.

Another man told about how he’d stolen from his children to get money for drugs. He hadn’t come to Christ until he’d literally lost everything and had been living in a park.

A woman had been a prostitute for nearly ten years, also a slave to drugs, and had come to Jesus in a detox center.

There were countless stories like this, and I didn’t feel like I could relate to any of them. Still, they made me feel better about myself because I never did anything even remotely like these people—these sinners. I acknowledged my need for a savior, but felt that I had lots of time (and much less work to do to get one) because I was a good and decent guy. God would not condemn someone who was nice, now would he?

For years I thought along those lines.

Yet when I had that experience at the river, when I became aware that I had in fact been (and remained) a sinner, when I asked Jesus to take that burden from me, I was still aware of the person I had been before, even though I wasn’t entirely him anymore.

So even though I knew in my head I was made new, I did not necessarily feel that way. I still don’t. How can I be new when I feel so old? How can I be clean when it takes steel wool to scrub off my sin?

Here’s the thing I’ve been trying to think about, and remember.

You see, at just the right time, when we were still powerless, Christ died for the ungodly. Very rarely will anyone die for a righteous man, though for a good man someone might possibly dare to die. But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us (Romans 5: 6-8).

So even before I knew him, while I was still wallowing in my filth, while I consoled myself with huge quantities of food, or alcohol, or empty relationships, God loved me just as much in that state of disgrace as he does now in a state of grace, having been forgiven.

Before I existed, He died for me.

He could have simply pardoned me, like a governor sparing a convict on death row. He didn’t do that. He assumed the punishment for my guilt, and paid it himself. He walked the green mile for me. And whether I like it or not, whether I accept it or not, I am a new creation. I found myself, finally, in Him.

The old has gone, the new has come.

I was listening to this Brennan Manning sermon the other day, and he made a really great point. He said that until we can accept acceptance, we aren’t really a believer.

I think part of my problem is that very thing: it’s hard for me to be accepted; and to acknowledge my acceptance. I would convince myself that either my friends did not really accept me as I was, or if they did, once they found out the real me, they would bail like everyone else did. I thought the same thing about Jenny, even after we’d shared our hearts with one another. I just could not get past those feelings for the longest time.

It was much the same with God. I have always had difficulty accepting His acceptance, and His love. No, I don’t deserve it.

The wages of sin is death.

I have it anyway–I have his acceptance. And even if I had not ever seen Him as he desires to be seen, and accepted Him as abba, I would still have his love.

But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.

He died for us.

He died for us.

He died for me.

I am not worthy of Him, and nothing I could do on earth will make me worthier.

Yet I am loved, and because of Jesus, have a place in his kingdom. He is the bridge between me and His Father.

Imagine that.

I try to think of it in terms of a picture—or series of pictures—I saw once in a dream, just before I left San Diego for good and came here to Arizona.

Imagine a pearl, lying in a freshly opened oyster, or whatever mollusk pearls come from. The pearl doesn’t look precious at all. It’s covered with sediment, and filth, and layers of built up junk.
A pair of hands come into the “picture,” the hands of a carpenter; rough, strong, but also incredibly gentle and sure.

Jesus removes the impure jewel from its shell, resplendent in its rough beauty, dripping with water, tendrils of slime leading back to the shell. He holds it in his hand, ignoring the slime, and layer by layer, peels away the filth, grime, and sediment, until the thing in his hand is no longer rough, but shining.

A pearl of great price.

30 Days

A while back I saw episode of 30 Days on FX (catch it on Netflix streaming if you can, it’s really interesting) about a straight man living with a gay roommate for a month. It did much to dispell some of this man’s preconceived notions about the gay community, but it also raised some interesting questions about the straight community, and that of the church’s position and views (some churches, anyway) regarding homosexuality.

The show really made me think about some things.

That was always one of the toughest things about “the church” for me to deal with–the sometimes violent reaction that homosexuality provokes within it, from many people one would not normally expect to have that type of reaction. You see people who look like soccer moms, and schoolteachers, and just…regular people picketing places known to have gay patrons, or guests, or even just some places they (the picketers) can draw attention to themselves.

The “church” Which Shall Not Be Named seems to be the chief offender but certainly not the only one—just watch any news coverage of a gay pride parade and you’ll see the people I’m talking about (I am not naming that particular institution because they don’t deserve to be named—hate speech has nothing to do with Jesus) .

When I see those people were standing there with their sandwich board signs proclaiming “God hates fags” and things of that nature, it makes me feel sad more than anything else. For goodness’ sake, sometimes you’ll even see small children holding signs and yelling!

That just isn’t right, not to me at least.

These people spent a lot of time citing the various scriptures that refer to homosexuality as proof that God does indeed “hate” gays.

I disagree.

I believe God hates the devil, and the sin that he “inspires” in God’s people, but God does not hate his children.

These men and women say they take the bible literally. OK. Fine. Take it literally. It’s true. But if it is, and they believe all of it, then where do they get the idea that it’s OK to hate someone because of who they sleep with (or who they don’t)?

The message of Jesus is one of love, not condemnation. These kind of people just don’t get that. I believe the bible is just really one long love story–about God loving his creations through the messiness of their lives, all of them. Not just any one denomination, or cultural sub-group.

He loved us when he made us, through our sin, in spite of our sin, and he will continue to do so even if we never repent, and even if we never come to know Him and never realize that He loves US, he still will. I think of John 3:16. Romans 8:38-39. Nowhere does the either the bible or God say to hate a person because of the person’s sexuality or any other reason (that I know of).

Jesus did get angry at people—like the money changers who made the temple into a den of thieves, or the Pharisees who just didn’t get it, either. Come to that, these sign-holders are sort of modern-day Pharisees themselves, aren’t they?

But anyway.

Do I believe that homosexuality is a sin? Yes, because I believe the bible is true. But I don’t hate gays, or really their sin, either, to tell you the truth. It isn’t for me, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to hate anyone. And while I’m rolling on that topic, I don’t feel that two men or women being able to legally marry threatens the sanctity of mine or anyone else’s marriage, either.

I will be just as married whether or not two men are able to do the chicken dance at their reception. What I can do, what I should do regarding these men and women is show them the love of Jesus, and not color it with my personal hangups or ideas about what is and isn’t right.

I know a lot of people think that a person chooses to be gay–that it’s a preference. I’m not so sure I agree with that, either. Why would anyone choose to be hated, or persecuted?

But with that said, all I can really do is pray for them. The thing is, the gay people I’ve known in my life have all been pretty much cool, and in the case of a girl I used to work with, someone I liked very much. Someone I could (and plan to) be friends with.

I knew a gay man named Michael, who was another story because he embodied all the stereotypes people cite when they talk about gays; he was very promiscuous, he used drugs, he was flamboyant (though not particularly stylish. He could dance, though). But even he was pretty cool.

The thing I have noticed about gays and lesbians is that they seem far more accepting of people as they are, and not who they think they should be. And the support they offer one another within their community is extraordinary. Maybe we straight folks could all learn a thing or two about that. Maybe it comes from having to draw together as a group, and accept each other when no one else will accept you. I don’t know. Anyway, it’s a tough issue, and one that I probably won’t figure out anytime soon.

I guess for now, I’ll just have to accept that gay people are going to be gay whether I or anyone else wants them to be. I’ll continue to think their lifestyle is a sin, because I believe the bible is fundamentally true, and that’s what it tells me. Romans uses the term “unnatural lust” to describe it. But I will not hate homosexuals because of their lifestyle. I will do my best to love them as people, to accept them as people like I would accept anyone else. I’m not going to be condemning anyone because of their sexual proclivities as consenting adults.

It’s for God to condemn, not me.