The Angel's Happy Dance

Christian Constipation

Salad Spinner Saviour

The World Needs a Good Dripping

Merry Christmas in Munchkinland

Ready, Aim, F...

Another hard hitting guest post by Mike Cala.

The Dumb Mutton Factor

Click here for the latest post, The Dumb Mutton Factor

Blue Collar Christianity

Thanks for checking out The Jesus Society Blog! We have a new site, where you can view the latest post, Blue-Collar Christianity.

Sex, Candy, and the Abundant Life

As a lover of chocolate and peanut butter, the existence of God has never been an issue for me. You see, while these two distinct flavors may have come together as a matter of chance, the fact that together they are AWESOME smacks of the supernatural.

And it isn’t only my sense of taste that has me convinced of the reality of a higher, greater Being. How about the gifts of touch, sight, and others? My wife, with a scary ability to manipulates these senses, can move my consciousness in a heavenly direction at will.

When I ponder these things, it also occurs to me that God must be quite good. After all, it isn’t only that my wife has this God-given ability, but that I like it!

Getting back to chocolate and peanut butter, I have to say that the existence of evil is more than a fairy tale too. The proof is in the fact that my children’s Halloween candy is disappearing at a faster rate than their parents would allow. I know kids will be kids, but I don’t think the kids are the problem. We’ve placed the candy bag in a place that can only be reached by the adults in the house.

It’s time we got it through our thick skulls: God created boobs, sex, laughter, the cocoa bean and peanuts. He said, “Whoa, this is good! I’m going to give it to you. Let’s see what you can do with this stuff! Just use a little self control, okay?”

Then we started stuffing our faces and kneeling before the candy bag in the middle of the night. What did we get for our efforts? Cavities, and souls that are heavy and bloated.

I want more out of life. How about you?

“The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I have come so they can have life. I want them to have it in the fullest possible way.” –Jesus (John 10:10, New International Reader's Version)

Certifiable Sanctificity

I consider myself to be one of the new men. You know: tough and tender and all that jazz. I’ll take a drag on the odd cigar with my buddies, and later on go fearlessly to one of my daughters’ tea parties. I own a motorcycle, and I’ve watched Anne of Green Gables (once…a long time ago). I try to stay balanced.

It was in this spirit of renaissance that I accompanied my wife to a baby fair a number of years ago. She was eight months pregnant, and there was no hiding the fact. If I had poked her with a pin she would have floated around the room like a wounded balloon. I figured that considering her fragile state we’d do a lap of the conference center, she’d go to the bathroom a few times, we’d go out for a nice dinner, she’d check out the ladies room again and we’d be home in time for me to watch reruns of the A-Team.

We got home a lot sooner than that, and me with my head barely attached.

I suspected a problem as soon as we got to the venue: there were absolutely no men in the parking lot. Bill, I cringed to myself, you are getting some serious brownie points for this! Vastly outnumbered but stalwart and brave, I walked around the end of the car to open the door for my wife.

We went inside and right on cue, Karen needed to use the facilities. I didn’t mind waiting- there were some deep leather couches nearby. They were way more comfy than those benches outside the lingerie store at the mall. That was as comfortable as I would get that day.

I knew I was in immediate, serious danger when I noticed the glares I was getting from every third or fourth woman. Mostly they were shot from the eyeballs of what I imagined were the grandmothers-to-be. I tried shrinking, but it wouldn't work. I’ve broken some baby-fair rule, I thought. Maybe this is only supposed to be quality time for mothers and daughters.

I was partly right. Here’s what happened: the dates had been mixed up and apparently I had taken my pregnant “girlfriend” to a bridal fair. Nobody noticed our rings, I guess. I can only imagine what they must have thought about me - finally deciding to marry the woman I had knocked up!

As far as near death experiences go, this ranked right up there with malaria.

My bridal fair fiasco shares some attributes with some churches. Nice venue. Crowded parking. Everyone dressed up.

And the glares. Holy cow.

If something is a little out of the ordinary people can really get crazy. A friend of mine once came to church with ratty sneakers but no socks. Nobody said anything but the message was clear, and that message wasn’t the gospel.

What happened to grace, people? What changed in us that we no longer identify with delinquents? Sadly, it appears that there is a fine line between sanctifiable and certifiable.

"It wasn't so long ago that you were mired in that old stagnant life of sin. You let the world, which doesn't know the first thing about living, tell you how to live. You filled your lungs with polluted unbelief, and then exhaled disobedience. We all did it, all of us doing what we felt like doing, when we felt like doing it, all of us in the same boat. It's a wonder God didn't lose his temper and do away with the whole lot of us. Instead, immense in mercy and with an incredible love, he embraced us. He took our sin-dead lives and made us alive in Christ." (Ephesians 2: 1-5, The Message)

A Father's Love

-guest post by Mike Cala

I have three amazing, wonderful and loving teenagers.

However . . . they drive me crazy! They infuriate me! They have in the past reduced me to a red-faced, spittle flying, near epileptic, quivering mass of speechless astonishment/bewilderment with their antics. I have clutched my chest in near-apoplectic fits on more than one occasion. I have a bald spot on the front of my head from incessantly banging it against the wall!

They bicker.

They complain.

They fight.

They seem to possess an endless and very creative supply of reasons and excuses as to why it is impossible for them to complete the smallest task or chore they were given. And they have been kind enough to inform me that apparently, I don’t know anything. The eye rolls and head shakes I receive from them are proof of that. It seems my working knowledge of life is severely limited and archaic – they on the other hand, have solved all of mankind’s problems and have the answers to all of life’s complex questions and deep mysteries . . . I mean, I know I’m no SuperDad, but really?

But I so love them! I often wonder if they realize just how much they are loved - how much and how often I have sacrificed for them? Do they know that I would do anything for them? That I live for them and that I would die for them? That all I want for them is to be safe, happy and if possible, to live a life that is even better and more successful than mine?

Do they know how much I love them? I often think that they don’t. Or can’t. When I tell them “No, you can’t do that!” or “No way you’re going over there!” it’s because I want them safe. I want them happy. I want them to enjoy their lives. I would rather have my child furious, yelling at me and slamming the bedroom door . . . but safe at home. I’ll even endure a couple of shouts of “I-hate-you!” if it means that my decision will ensure his or her safety and well-being. I set rules to keep them out of bad situations. I deny them so that they will not have to experience the consequences of poor decisions. But they can’t see that – they only see me wrecking their fun, messing up their plans, making them look bad in front of their friends . . . they can’t see the love. They don’t see the heartache I feel when they are forced to deal with the results of a poor or mistaken choice. They don’t know of the silent prayers uttered on their behalf day in and day out. They simply are unable to see the love I hold for them.

Do we see the Father’s love for us? Do we understand how much He has done for us and how much He is willing to do for us? Are we intimate with the Father to the point that we are constantly aware of the endless, all-encompassing flood of love He pours out to us? Or are we like children, focused on what we didn’t get and don’t have, angry at being denied and told “No”?

And I ask Him that with both feet planted firmly on love, you'll be able to take in with all followers of Jesus the extravagant dimensions of Christ's love. Reach out and experience the breadth! Test its length! Plumb the depths! Rise to the heights! Live full lives, full in the fullness of God.
Ephesians 3:17b-19 (The Message)

Holy Toe Jam

I would have liked to have been in the tomb when Jesus finally decided that enough was enough.

Imagine the still, dark air.

Silence. As silent as the Grave, they say.

Then Somebody took a deep, deep breath.

This no doubt was followed by a bit of grunting and groaning as He struggled to get those grave clothes loosened. (It’s hard to swing your legs over the side of a bench with your arms pinned to your side and your head all wrapped up.) Did He bend His head to the side and crack His neck? Did He stretch and pop His back? I wonder if He crinkled his nose at the overwhelming fragrance of misplaced potpourri; grinning as He realized that in His improved state it didn’t make Him sneeze with allergies like might have a few days earlier.

“Let there be light!” He said, for the second time in Earth’s history, and there was light as the angels rolled the stone away and let morning’s glow invade.

He took His time. There was no need to rush out - that cave held nothing that would ever give Him the heebie jeebies. It seems he was relaxed. He dutifully folded up the head wrappings, thinking of all the times His mom used to make Him help with the laundry. Mary would be so proud, He grinned to himself!

“You’ve got myrrh between your toes, Lord”, Gabriel quipped. Jesus glanced down and groomed Himself.

Good enough, He must have thought. I didn’t go through the last few days just to be worried about what I look like. So what if the ladies think I’m the gardener instead of the King. I am that I am, and a little holy toe jam won’t change that!


Have you ever found yourself in a time or place that seemed like a sealed grave? Close your eyes then, and be still. Inhale. Remember Jesus' first breath in the tomb. It could be you’re not alone after all!

the Golden Child (aka my sister)

To this day, my brother and I maintain that my sister was the favorite. The evidence is truly overwhelming. What criteria do you want to use? Spankings rendered vs. avoided? Relative size of bedrooms? Education?

Ahhh, education. That’s where it all started, if I remember correctly. I was in my 9th year. It was a year of possibilities… for her. My parents were, by that time, spiraling down into a multi-level marketing induced stupor. They had just purchased their first Cadillac (got to admit the power windows were cool), and we had recently moved into the freshest, glitziest part of town. Our new home was the latest in a string of annual housing upgrades. It had fourteen foot ceilings, a chandelier and a river view. All that was needed to surpass the Jones’ was to enroll us kids in a private school.

Alas, the budget was such that a premium education for all three of us was out of the question. I can only imagine that they figured I already had rugged good looks, and my brother possessed more street smarts than the average 8 year old. Marilyn, being genetically left out in the cold, must have needed the warm blanket of a good education.

I admit that she did very little gloating. Her plaid, pleated skirt and crested blazer did it all for her. Of course it all came with a new set of aloof friends, and extra-curricular options like jazz dance. She became the golden child. To her was given the keys to the family kingdom; her siblings were made subject to her vast aura of superior responsibility. She mastered the dark arts of propaganda, blackmail and fear-mongering; we countered by creating a terrorist cell dedicated to blowing the stuffing out of her plush Papa Smurf.

As for our education, my brother and I were left to slum it out as best we could in the local public system. For after school extras, I managed to convince the cutest new girl in class to smooch me behind the corner-store, and little brother became adept at pilfering coins from every pocket in the house to feed our growing arcade habit. “Classy” is not an adjective often associated with the 1980’s.

We all love one another now, though my sister’s affections for us boys may have been helped along by a healthy dose of self-preservation as we got bigger and more menacing. Papa Smurf, sadly, was never the same.

Lesson for the week:
Sometimes Christians act as if they are God’s favorites. Attending church and reading the Left Behind series has given many of us an arrogance that is quite unbecoming. As our Emerging brothers and sisters grow in wisdom and stature, we should take heed lest we find ourselves defending a plush spirituality that seems more suited to a two dimensional, make-believe world.

Jelly Booger Bitterness

For a good picking you need just the right booger, and the correct booger depends largely on what kind of picking you are anticipating.

I believe that the perfect picking happens without any forethought; it needs to be a spontaneous act born of habit and total personal self-absorption. I’ve found that my faux leather couch is the perfect venue for personal grooming, and Jeff Probst and Ty Pennington are the best companions for this sort of indulgence. They engage you in conversation while tactfully looking the other way.

And then there is the booger itself. I prefer that small dose of adhesive that lets the critter stick to your finger while being instantly flickable or able to be rubbed into oblivion, while leaving no visible residue.

Gross out all you want- we both know that you know what I’m talking about.

I believe boogers are like emotions, especially as they relate to righteous anger and bitterness.

Injustice is a nose that demands a good picking.

Righteous anger is the good picking. It creeps up on you (and sometimes your friends) without any warning. It is inevitable under certain circumstances, and occasionally makes others uncomfortable. It is desperately needed in a world experiencing an acute shortage of the Justice Kleenex.

We have to be careful, though. When you engage the finger of action you never know quite what you’re going to get. Sometimes you get the dreaded jelly booger of bitterness. You yank and pull and stretch and then *whip-ptsh* out it comes.

Bitterness wraps itself around the pinky of our wills. It shames, and rather than pulling us towards action it causes withdrawal and disappointment. We crowd in on ourselves. The best we can hope for in these moments is that we’re in the car alone, and nobody will notice us trying to wipe it off under the seat. Good luck with that, friend.

Jesus told a proverb that relates. He said that you shouldn’t offer to pick your neighbor’s crusties when a jelly booger is hanging down into your mustache… or something like that.

broken bride, broken friend

A naïve young girl fair and fine
Stole the heart of a friend of mine.
I loved her too and did my part-
Thinking she could do nothing wrong
Until the day she broke his heart.

I’m supposed to say something nice,
Be a chum and ignore the vice
Of the woman his only bride.
I’ll admit she’s simply stunning;
This makes the blemish hard to hide.

I’d rather tell of my friend’s love
For the broken he calls his dove
(And a million more cheesy names.)
After mortgages, kids and debt
He’s shown true love that’s more than games.

He’s aware of her darker themes,
Cleans up after her reckless schemes,
Owns her sin like it was his own.
He’s the better man, most wounded
And from whom the most love is shown.

Still his good true friend I would be
For love for her is love for me-
Try to help her love him better,
And helping him mop the messes.
Soft hearts bleed blood that is wetter.

Christian Suicide Bomber

I thought I'd showcase my artistic skills today.

Sometimes Joe Heathen gets mixed messages from us. Which one do you think he's going to pay attention to?

Jesus, and other Unexpected Friends

It was all she could do to control her breathing. Images of an impending doom flashed across her mind like a 1960’s nuclear film, and she wrestled to stay in control.

This was my mom dropping me off for my first day at boarding school.

Anyone who has met my mom knows that she is completely groovy. She is the ‘cool’ mom. One hundred percent real and always ready with an encouraging word or practical joke.

That being said, she is still a mom and is always ready to protect her kids. It was this maternal attribute that she was trying to rein in when she strolled around the corner and walked into my dorm room.

My roommate had already moved in and was in the process of decorating. War photos ripped from the pages of Time lined the walls. A confederate flag was draped over the window, and cast an eerie shade of red over the monochromatic stills of embattled soldiers and trench warfare. Heavy metal music played softly in the background.

I thought it was ridiculously cool. If my roomie didn’t disembowel me before my first REM cycle that night, I knew we’d be fast friends.

The coming year would bring a lot of changes to the landscape of my life. First French kiss. Lost my nerd status. Parents got a divorce. Did my own laundry. Hitchhiked to a nearby city for a crazy weekend that almost got me kicked out of school.

Grade eleven. Good times.

Oh, and I got the Shanghai Flu. Nasty little bug. I don’t remember much about it, so I won’t embellish, but I want to tell you more about my roommate. I was lying in bed sick when he came back to the room after school. I did not want to talk. I did not want to move. So I pretended to be asleep. Maybe he’d just leave and go to the dining hall or something.

He did leave.

Then he came back two minutes later, and with me still pretending to sleep he took a cool damp cloth and gently wiped my feverish forehead.

What kind of self-respecting adolescent tough guy does a thing like that?

Answer: the best kind.

He and I are still friends, as are our wives. I go to church a bit more than he does. He has more tattoos than I do. You could say that the Christian establishment has left a bad aftertaste in his mouth.

But I have hope for him, because when I was a sick, scrawny kid he reminded me of Jesus: often showing up with love and true friendship in dark, unexpected places.

Worm Resuscitation

My daughter Alyssa, like many preschoolers, has made a habit of demonstrating to us the vastness of her intellect.

It has astounded me at times. You can get lost in there, thus it is not territory that one approaches with frivolity. In fact, like her mother’s purse, my daughter’s brain is a place that I explore only when absolutely necessary.

Just the other day we let her go by herself to the end of our cul-de-sac to get the mail. Watching her from our front window, Karen saw her suddenly stop and bend down. The mail was all but forgotten as Alyssa skipped back to the house cradling a dead, dried worm in her little palm.

“Look Mommy! A dead worm!” she called from the porch. Then she carefully backed up a couple steps and as gently as she was able laid her immobile friend on our parking pad. The desiccated fish bait broke in half. “I’ll just put it here so that when the rain comes the water will make it alive again.”

I told you, didn’t I?!

Astounding.

My other daughter Kaitlyn just started grade one, and takes her role as the more educated sibling very seriously. Noticing that the shriveled Lumbricus terrestris hadn’t moved due to days of hot, dry weather, she decided to take matters into her own hands.

This is where the water hose comes into the story.

Kaitlyn gave that little worm… well… let’s call it a healthy squirt, and it disintegrated.

They both shrugged and walked into the house for a snack.

Lesson for this week:

I come across a lot of people who, like Alyssa and Kaitlyn, seem to have the mysteries of the universe all figured out. Their Bibles are nothing less than fifty pound cosmic text books, and their creeds are immobile massifs of ancient meditation.

I’m not saying that we shouldn’t be sure of some things, or that Truth is all subjective. Not at all.

What I am saying is that the most important subjects should be approached with the greatest dose of humility. We can only breathe and think and love according to what we know today, but the hues of tomorrow’s light might paint a clearer picture.

I’m creeping up on 40 years old. After roughly another forty years I plan on graduating from this preschool. All of us do, eventually. I believe that’s when the real learning begins.

Sharon Irving at Willow Creek

Well... life happens... and this week it happened without me sitting down to write about it. So instead of my ramblings, today I've decided to post this video. I found it unique and profound. See you next week!

Pants-Around-the-Ankles Vulnerability

It hits the fan.

She needs to get hers together.

His doesn’t stink.

You’re full of it.

It happens.

When one is being ushered through “It’s a Small World” at Disneyland you never hear about it, but what really brings us together is what we produce about 15 hours after we take a bite out of an apple (more time for pizza, less for prunes?). The president of the United States of America may use more T.P. than the average Alaskan, but the fact is that they both have daily moments of pants-around-the-ankles vulnerability.

As do you and I.

There are other things we have in common too. There are dirty little secrets and lost opportunities. We share times in life when we have to pass through spaces way to small for our hardened hearts, and we come out pinched and squeezed only to be flushed down the pipes of eternity.

I wish there was a more sanitary metaphor for life, but there isn’t. Life is a nasty business.

But what if there is hope? What would it look like? Could we find some? Who sells it? Do they have a monopoly; is it a pyramid scheme?

Help me out here. There are a lot of us looking for answers that we haven't found in the lastest edition of 101 Easy Answers by Joe Church.

Let me know what you've found.

Water and Other Things Jesus Stepped In.

To the tune of the children's song Jesus Loves Me.

Jesus loves both me and you,

'cause the Bible told Him to.

I fear if He had a choice,

He'd just scream and lose His voice.

Would Jesus love me?
Could Jesus love me?
Or am I really
just lost and all alone.

Everyone knows that Jesus walked on water, but is this the only behavior that we’ve come to expect from the Son of God? Ten minutes of research in a coffee shop can uncover the fact that many view the Christian God as lofty, squeaky clean, and personally inaccessible- a God who carries hand sanitizer in His pocket. This is not an accurate portrait of the historic Jesus.  It’s time to get reacquainted with the God who saw the world for what it was, knew that it really stunk, and jumped right in up to His nose-hairs.

Yes friend, Jesus loves you. He understands that your life is a steaming pile, but He's totally prepared for that. Try to remember that He was born in a barn.

There's Still Work To Do

William Wallace vs Bill the Ass

In Junior High school a teacher told us that we should sign our work using our proper names and middle initials. The advice stuck, so I recently found myself signing "William R. Scarrott" to a book proposal I’m putting together.

My wife is my first editor, and she pointed at the hoity-toity signature and raised an eyebrow. “Is that how you want it?” she asked. It was very diplomatic of her, and unearthed some nagging doubts that I had been trying to bury alive.

I’m proud of my name. You’ve certainly heard of William Wallace. Well, I’m Scottish too. And we mustn’t forget William the Conqueror, William Tell, Prince William and the illustrious William Shatner. Yes, I stand a little straighter in the company of such men.

What caused my wife confusion is the fact that she knows me. (It’s a common, though not universal problem with marriage.)

It’s not that I don’t possess some good qualities. Let me get Karen over here to fill in some blanks…

…Hi. This is Karen. For the record, Bill is a great kisser, an amusing freestyle dancer, a thorough and passionate lover and has a rockin’ manscape. Oh ya, did I mention his great muscles? Hmmm ya…

Okay, Bill here again, and for the record that is the last time Karen gets on this computer. Goodness gracious, honey, we're trying to keep it in the vicinity of PG-13. I’m moving to the friggin’ basement.

ANYWAY, what I would like to point out is that she called me Bill, not William, as is the case with anyone who really knows me. This fact was not lost on my friend Troy when he first read The Lord of The Rings. He gleefully pointed out to me a little known character in J.R. Tolkien’s manuscript who went by the moniker of Bill the Ass. If the shoe fits, right?!

The lesson here is that we need to quit trying to be who we’re not. People need to see Jesus before He puts on His stage makeup.

Bill the Ass? Fine- at least he was a donkey for the good guys. He carried his friend’s burdens. I can only hope for such a legacy when my chapter ends.

Final Score: 25-0

A guest post by Mike Cala

I couldn’t believe it. I had just had my butt handed to me by my 12 year old son. 25 – 0? How did he beat me so easily? Granted, I hadn’t gone into the game thinking I could actually beat him, but I had hoped to make it close . . . sorta, maybe, kinda.

He had played the game before, I hadn’t. He does have ninja-like reflexes and some mad game skills; I’m more senior-citizen-like in my reflexes and am still trying to figure out which button does what when I play any HALO game.

BUT 25 – 0?!!! I believe I was actually down 20 to -1 at one point . . . I didn’t even know -1 is a score you can get!

I looked over to my son, who was grinning from ear to ear, face flush with the beat-down he had given me, somehow gloating and beaming a cherubic smile at the same time. He walked over, patted me on the arm and said quite sincerely, “Good try Dad!”

My gut reaction was - That’s it, you’re going down little man!!! I had to defend my status as the alpha male! I had to show him that Dad was still the biggest, the baddest, the best at all pursuits and things manly! There was no way I was gonna go out like that  . . . but then I saw the look of pure pleasure and joy he had on his face. He had beat Dad at something. Sure it was just a video game, but to him it meant everything.  He and his father had spent some time together doing something he really enjoyed and . . . he had come out on top! It just doesn’t get any better than that for a young boy. So I pushed down my manly pride and and simply said, “Yeah, you kicked my butt”. I think his grin got even wider at that point. 

I lost, but I also won. And won big.

Stuck Like a Pig In ____, and the Christians Just Want Bacon?

Sometimes I think I’m all alone; that all the other bad people found a great hiding spot when the religious people were busy reading the Left Behind series. Then I come across people like you, and I’m just so relieved!

Please don’t be embarrassed. Don’t go away. People like you and I need to stick together. There are a lot of perfect people out there who want our souls but will settle for our heads. You’ve probably met your fair share along the way, haven’t you? We both know that we’re nothing but a couple of screw-ups. The last thing we need is for someone to come along and try to beat it into us with a consecrated wiffle bat.

It’s hard for me to admit how depraved I am, and that I’d just like to be clean again. I feel like a pig in a pen. If I tell another pig that we’re dirty, I’ll either get a shrug of the shoulders or a mud pie right in the kisser. The Christians are on the other side of the fence all squeaky clean and smiling. I’ve seen that smile before though; if I remember correctly, it was in the line at a local breakfast buffet before a pan of fresh bacon.

Now it’s time for CHOOSE YOUR OWN BLOG ENDING! If you’re feeling fairly virtuous or have a sudden craving for ham, go to ending option 1. If you sense that your life or your soul is less than tidy, go to ending option 2).

ENDING OPTION 1

Why are you looking at me like that?

Perhaps I should have made you aware that I’m trying to write for people who need grace and forgiveness. Evil people like me. If you have made nasty faces at your computer screen then it may be that you are good, and perhaps you don’t belong here… yet.

I’m sorry I offended you, and I hope you leave a comment, go away, and come back again when you can relate.

ENDING OPTION 2

The fact remains that it would feel real good to wash some of this crud off. To think that some people pay money for this and call it a beauty treatment! Yuck.

Did you know that there is a story in the Bible just for you and me? It’s the one where Jesus died. He’s gets executed in a somewhat painful and humiliating way, but before he dies he forgives someone just like us who was hanging on a cross right beside him! Then after three days of being dead and buried he comes back to life to show us that He loves us, He’s in charge now, and we get to start over!

This is good news!

I should have known all along that water fresh from the source is the purest. Check out this music video:

Blessings: Scrambled or Over-Easy?

There are times in life when a story squeezes a dollop of your heart out of your chest and carries it like a freshly laid egg into God's kitchen to be fried on the griddle of Truth. You always get your heart back, but it never looks the same. Often the only decision left to make is scrambled or over-easy.

Aubrey Sampson is a friend of mine who has agreed to share such a story with us. I’m not ashamed to say that my eyes were sweating half way through this story.

Grab a Kleenex and be blessed.

(Note: This video was originally prepared for a writing and speaking course that both Aubrey and I are enrolled in.)

Sloppy Ice Cream Offerings

The slumping, squishy remnants of my daughter’s ice cream cone perched precariously on the tips of my thumb and two fingers. A combination of summer heat, soft serve, and capacious amounts of saliva had conspired to reduce this work of culinary and engineering art into a mass of goo that could barely support its own weight.

It takes a real man to eat something like that.

I shoved that half eaten glob of lukewarm sweetness into my mouth, and some primitive synapse in the back of my head undoubtedly fired off a message to my gag reflex. I am a father though, and the highly evolved electrical superhighways that make up my paternal neural pathways steered that erroneous communication into a place from whence it shall never return.

That means I liked it.

There is something special about ice cream that was never meant to be mine, especially if it is offered to me freely by a certain charming, chubby cheeked preschooler.

Having said all that, here is the lesson for today:

You currently sit on God’s thumb and two fingers, right about at eye level. He’s big enough that if you glance sheepishly His way all that you’re going to see are His eyes. He is fully aware that your past is a half digested mess, your dreams have wilted in the heat of life, and parts inside of you that were meant to hold you up are bowing under the strain of… well…you.

In spite of all you are and are not, take a look at Him again. Do you see the lines at the corners of His eyes? They are laugh lines. They are there because He is happy just to have you. If you would only allow Him to consume you, you would finally understand why you are here.

You were made to make Him smile.

Cowboys and Jesus

When I grew up I wanted to be more than a cowboy; I wanted to be a rancher. My days would begin with a bowl of steaming oatmeal and a scalding cup of coffee, black as sin. (Truth be told I probably enjoyed fruit loops and hot chocolate more, but I knew I’d have to change my ways if I was going to earn my spurs.) I made my mom shop for my clothes at the local cowboy store. I begged for her to buy me a lasso when she was paying for my Wranglers, but she was harder to move than a Baptist mule (sorry mom). My favorite shirt was baby blue. It had a horse’s head framed by a star stitched onto each breast pocket. Ooooh ya, it was hotter than a can of campfire beans.

I needed a poster for my room to complete my western motif, and found one the next time I visited the nearest Christian bookstore. Like all good boys, I picked one that had a quaint saying on it that went something like, In God’s Pasture You Can Run Free. It pictured a horse with his mane flowing, the background blurred with the effort of matching the camera to his excessive speed.

I was really happy about the way I’d spent my parent’s money. For about a day.

The next morning I lay in bed still pining for that lasso. I could have negotiated better, I thought. I could have managed without those new jeans. I would’ve gone to school in nothing but my tighty whities if only I could’ve had that rope in my hands.

It was the poster though, that really chapped my rawhide. I didn’t know what exactly was wrong with it, only that there was something about it that sat like a burr against my tender western tush.

It was only years later that I had the insight to understand what the issue was. Right behind that stallion was stationed a fence. A sturdy, white picket wall against the wilderness. The supposedly Christian side was all manicured and safe. On the other side was… evil?

Okay, I’ll buy that. On the other side was evil. Sure. What I will no longer stand for is the idea that evil gets the wild real estate, or that the powers of darkness get a monopoly on the adventure and excitement.

The Bible has the more correct picture. Adam and Eve were living in paradise. I think the guy who wrote the story was a gardener, hence the reference to a garden of some sort. Having lived in Africa I think it was more than a few rows of carrots and beets, and more likely resembled a remote tropical shoreline.

They had the world, and settled for one stinking tree.

Do you want paradise back? Are you looking for the untamed life? I think what you’re missing is the Kingdom of Grace. Let me introduce you to my friend Jesus.

Poker and Jesus

My stack of poker chips sat there in front of me, scowling. I had disappointed them, I think, using them like a holiday trailer full of cheap harlots- to be enjoyed, yes, then quickly disposed of. I’m under no illusions that they left for any other reason. I had behaved shamefully and treated them poorly.

Troy spoke from far away behind his own stack, his eyes just visible over the top of the largest denominations. They aren’t scowling, he said, they’re smiling. I looked at him quizzically. Because they’re coming home to daddy, he answered, and his eyes got that twinkle.

I chuckled way down deep in my heart, and wanted to punch him in the face.

Playing cards with the boys during our annual motorbike trip is cheap fun, and for entertainment purposes only. (Troy will be able to entertain his wife and son to a half dozen donuts thanks to me.) I tend to play loose and reckless, trusting a gut feeling that often has more to do with an assortment of snacks and beverages than the cards on the table.

So anyway, there I sat financing my friends’ fun, and I thought of how often I use the very same strategy in real life. The stakes are higher of course, but I tend not to dwell on that. My opponent is wiser, understands the odds, and knows when I’m bluffing. I still play loose and reckless. It’s rarely turns out well for yours truly.

Whatever lessons I’ve learned from poker, what amazes me is how long I spent thinking I was playing against God. He was there to destroy me, I thought. I felt like I was losing everything and it was all still just a game to him. Hand after hand, my debts piled up at just about the same rate as my desperation.

But it was never God I was playing against. God is the one who paid everything he owned to buy into the very game I was so proficiently losing.

Don’t forget it: Jesus sat down at your table and played your losing hand so that you could walk away. If you knew what it cost him, you wouldn’t be walking around trying to find another game.

The Fleas of a Thousand Camels

“May the fleas of a thousand camels infest your armpits.”

It was with these words of affectionate harassment texted from my uncle to my brother that our British Columbia fishing adventure began. My brother, dad and I were waiting patiently for our flight at the Calgary International Airport. My uncle being the more intrepid traveler, or perhaps a general sucker for punishment, had decided to drive with a friend the 1357 kilometers to Prince Rupert. His poetic little rant was no doubt in response to… well… I can’t recall! It certainly wouldn’t have been because of any disrespectful, unwarranted comments on my brother’s part.

We all finally made it to Prince Rupert and settled into our rooms at the Moby Dick Hotel. No, I’m not kidding- that’s what it was called. It was a nice place. Yup, nice. They had beds, televisions, and other things you might expect to find in hotels in Canada. Things such as a Tim Horton’s just a block away. I’m telling you, it’s all about location!

Our fishing guide, who was born in P.R. and had lived there all his life, said that in all his years he had never seen July weather as bad as this last weekend. The fish we baited must have agreed with him and decided to stay home instead of eating out. You might think this was discouraging for us, but it was actually to our benefit. We only had one cooler of fish to pay extra baggage fees for when we returned home to our [very supportive] wives. Some hotshot group of guys who dubbed themselves the wolf pack (ooo, aahhh, very manly!) must’ve paid a fortune for the eight coolers they had to haul around! Dang overachievers… gripe grumble grouse.

We didn’t reel in much fish, it’s true. What we did catch, however, will stay with us a little longer than a few fillets. We caught a glimpse of the histories that make us brothers, sons, and fathers.

The victories won and the losses endured.

The snoring that begs to be smothered, and the alarms set to the wrong time zones.

The honesty that exposes our vulnerabilities and the grace that guards our backsides.

I have to admit that I was a bit jealous of the wolf pack (you may not have caught on to that earlier). It is a cool name- wolf pack. I wish we could’ve had a groovy name, but when I think of the guys I spent this last long weekend with only one word comes to mind:

Men.

Tortoises and Tire Trouble- the Tale of Herbert the Unswift

Herbert the Tortoise died a gruesome death under the wheels of a truck, on a hot African afternoon.

When I first met Herbert (or Herb for short) his untimely demise was not a part of my plan for him. Nor, I think, was it in his plans for himself. I don’t suspect he had grandiose visions of a dramatic martyrdom. Like many tortoises of his age and disposition, I believe he wanted to live out his life frustrating the appetites of weak-jawed carnivores and making slow, slow, slow love to a Mrs. Herb, if he had been so lucky as to woo one.

Alas, Herb the Tort was never given the chance.

As tortoises go Herb was fairly average, which is to say, Herb was slow in word and deed. This accounts for his being captured by a poor African farmer, his inability to talk himself out of slavery, and his subsequent sale to yours truly, the passing missionary.

Yes, and Herb mourned his loss of freedom. I know this because in spite of an unending supply of food and water, Herb was always trying to make his way out of the safe haven I had provided for him. Adventurous little bugger that he was, he tired quickly of city life and longed for the wilds of the West African bush. His stout heart was ready to brave the snakes and general African nastiness for a chance to find a young reptile of like species with a sexy little mini-shell.

It came as no surprise then, when one day Herb was seen slowly making his way to the gate of the compound we called home. He had placed himself in the perfect position for a hasty escape.

And “hasty” is exactly where his strategy fell short of genius. He was a tortoise after all. As those gates swung open the first thought that entered into his tiny little head might have been “Freedom!”, but the last thing he saw was rubber.

Oh Herb, you were such a good friend, and even now in your death you give us a nugget of eternal wisdom.

Friends, we too are often slow. Slow to forgive. Slow to sacrifice. Slow to love. We want our freedom, and if it isn’t delivered just how and when we want it, we’ll go take it. It doesn’t matter that life will lead us into trouble by default- we feel the need to add our poor choices and selfishness to the mix.

But pause now, and watch Herb in his last few moments of life. Gaze into his eyes as he turns his knobby little head towards you, the realization of imminent doom looming large in his pleading expression. I made a mistake, he says. I was brought here so that I wouldn’t be made into soup, and now it’s too late for me. Go back. Trust Someone bigger. Put your life in the hands of Someone swifter. Go back.

I Call You Lord, But...

guest post by Mike Cala

I call you Lord and I dedicated my life to you . . .
I call you my Lord and I told You that all I have and all I am are Yours . . .
I call you Lord, pray that Your will be done and sing “I surrender all . . .”

BUT . . .

When you ask me to sponsor a foster child I say, “But Lord, I’m just making it paycheque to paycheque” – then go have a $4 latte or ice cap . . .

When You ask me to spend time with my neighbour who’s marriage is crumbling and teenage children are drifting away I say, “But Lord, I’m so busy with my family and church obligations already” – then go spend hours in front of the TV, checking emails or surfing on Facebook . . .

When You ask me to give $100 so that a family of 8 can have clean, safe water in the third world I say, “But Lord, I don’t have that much money at hand to give away on short notice” – then go fill up the tanks on my RV, quads, motorcycle or second car . . .

When You ask me to give back a tithe of all I earn in thanks and obedience I say, “Yes Lord” – but grudgingly make sure it’s a tenth and not a cent more . . .

When You ask me to spend time with You in Word and prayer I say, “But Lord, it’s so late and I’m tired. Tomorrow is a big day” – then go pop in a DVD or play a little Xbox until bedtime . . .

When You ask me to give up my desires and dreams for Your plans I say, “But Lord, You promised me the desires of my heart if I followed you!” – forgetting that You gave up everything for me before I even knew You.

So how can I call You Lord?

Matthew 7:21-23
“Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only the one who does the will of my Father who is in heaven. Many will say to me on that day, ‘Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in your name and in your name drive out demons and in your name perform many miracles?’ Then I will tell them plainly, ‘I never knew you. Away from me, you evildoers!’”

today she's for rent, but NOT TOMORROW

When I was six years old I was collecting an allowance, simply because my parents were gracious. In Sierra Leone nine year old boys are fortunate to go to work breaking rocks in a quarry, because then they may be able to eat.

When I was nine years old I would lay in bed pretending to fly in outer space, saving the galaxy. In Sierra Leone nine year old girls are in danger of being rented out by their family members.

You may remember Sierra Leone as the country whose civil war inspired such films as Blood Diamond and Tears of the Sun. There is a scene in Blood Diamond where prisoners are wallowing in a swamp, churning and turning the mud with feet and hands under the glare of their rebel masters. Death is a breath away. In those days evil had descended upon that small nation like a horde of West African mosquitoes.

I remember Sierra Leone as the place where I almost lost my life to malaria and typhoid. For me, it is where the romance of travel and missionary life soured like milk under the scorching heat of human waste and wasted humanity.

Eight years later Sierra Leone remains to me a shining star of hope for the world, for exactly the reasons I mentioned above. If I’ve confused you please read my previous post Where Hope and Mushrooms Grow. You have to understand that if Jesus brings hope anywhere, He must bring it to Sierra Leone.

Regular readers of this blog will know by now that I support an organization called The Raining Season. The purpose of my writing is not to endorse them (though I do). I just get so excited when I see someone doing what God asks them to!

That little boy breaking rocks? His story is a Raining Season story, and you can watch it here.

The little girl being rented out by her uncle? They are praying and working to rescue her this week.

The Raining Season is in the business of mining for children. They are rescuing these diamonds of life out of the mud of poverty and abuse, but it isn’t under the stares of a malevolent taskmaster. They strive alongside the tear-streaked face of Jesus, who said, “Let the little children come…”

The Dark Side of Father's Day

Happy Father’s Day?

Each year around this time I see grown up children at the local drugstore. They stoop over the rows of Father’s Day cards trying not to dry-heave, their backs and spirits bending under the pressure of finding that one card that is just pleasant enough to be believable.

Abuse.
Neglect.
Abandonment.

When childhood is marked by these demons, where is Hallmark then? What kind of emotional Heimlich maneuver are you going to offer to someone choking on a past that refuses to be dislodged?

God help us.

Help us remember we are not alone.

Help us remember that you have not forgotten us.

Help me remember that You know my real name.

Today remember that when God calls you, He’s going to call you something good.

“Whoever has ears, let them hear what the Spirit says to the churches. To the one who is victorious, I will give… a white stone with a new name written on it, known only to the one who receives it.” -God, quoted in the Bible, New International Version (NIV), Revelation 2:17

Father's Day Video

Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there. Enjoy this video by Church on the Move.

Where Hope and Mushrooms Grow

True hope stinks because it is always given birth in… less than sterile environments.

I would love to offer you some hope today, but I don’t know if you’re ready for it. I’m afraid you may be like many people I meet in church; the people who want their hope just like their mushrooms: picked, washed and canned. Maybe even sautéed and piled high on a steak sandwich.

It’s not going to happen.

It’s not that hope can’t be found in church, or among those who attend. Like I said in my last post, one of the things that I appreciate most about Christian recording artists like Cindy Palin, Red and Picking Violets is that they aren’t afraid to face reality. While longing for the day when they meet God face to face, they radiate a conviction that faith is useless unless it brings hope now.

You need to know that whatever else True Christianity is, it’s organic. Don’t be fooled by those prepackaged deals that offer all the taste and none of the mess. Ever since the first Christmas morning it has been easier to find Jesus in places that smell more like manure than incense. It’s what he’s used to, I suppose. Hope and mushrooms grow up in the same place.

Some people say they have hope, but the cynic wonders. I speak of those who offer you a ray of light after they drive up in a Land Rover, acting and smelling like a tornado going through the fragrance isle of the Bay. They leave you with the feeling hope springs from a fountain at the annual Amway convention.

I say ka-ka.

That’s right, hope grows in poop. Just like mushrooms.

Hope can be found in churches, but it isn’t grown there. It’s planted in bankruptcy, cancer wards, divorce court, and abortion clinics. It’s watered with tears through sleepless nights. It sprouts in the cellar of guilt, and on Roman crosses. It’s harvested in empty tombs. It’s meant to be picked, not bought.

So yes, I’d like to offer you hope today, but it’s going to be hard to uncover some if you don’t know what it’s like to find yourself standing in a pile of crap.

Change the Channel!

I was sure that I had done something wrong. Please God, I prayed, let me have made a mistake. To be sure, this isn’t a normal Christian prayer, but these were extreme circumstances.

I was listening to the radio while driving to work when a boy band from the nineties came across the airwaves. This particular group has seen a recent resurgence in their popularity, but let me assure you it is in one very narrow demographic to which I DO NOT belong. Suddenly feeling an overwhelming surge of spiritual maturity, I switched my car’s radio to the local Christian station.

I could have sworn the same band was playing there as well. I started to sweat. I got the shakes. Maybe the world had ended, and I was left behind. Or worse yet, I was in hell where a bunch of squeaky-voiced posers played over the loudspeakers, time without end. The only difference between the two songs was the lyrics. ‘Rock yer something’ was replaced by half baked, tired Christian platitudes.

‘Git yer soouuulllll saved…”

‘Poooot yer hands in da aaiiirrrr, oooo yaaa!”

It appears, friends, that I have reached the age where I begin to disparage the younger generation’s choice of music. The date on my driver’s license has apparently given me permission to become close-minded and cynical.

Maybe.

Or maybe the Christian music industry’s primary concern is making money, and they know that the average consumer will buy watered down clichés that take no effort to produce as long as they mimic their more successful secular counterparts.(The author concedes that it may be a combination of these and other factors, which cause his fits of hysteria).

Thankfully, there are exceptions. I would like to recommend to you Picking Violets- a country/pop duo interested in more than just going platinum. (Full disclosure: I sponsor a child from Sierra Leone through their organization The Raining Season).

Can you recommend some music that won’t go stale faster than bubbliscious? It doesn't have to be Christian, per se, but let it have a message that is worth hearing. Let me know!

Lifting the Virgin's Veil

As soon as my jeans touch the sun-warmed leather of my motorbike seat, my heart rate usually slows. The world doesn’t turn quite as fast, and everything seems to be put together just right. I own a cruiser- the bike for those who just want to get on the road and go. No need for outrageous speeding tickets or clouds of rubber smoke; just give me some asphalt and the rumble of a v-twin. Motor biking is my portal to peace and well-being.

Usually.

There was one trip a couple years ago when my restless spirit would not be silenced. Discontent hitched a ride as I rode away from town toward the Rocky Mountains. As prairie gave way to foothills, and foothills became peaks, my hope was that the majesty of the Rockies would overwhelm the incessant voices in my head. I needed some clarity. What I wanted was to hear God’s voice again.

I eventually left the highway, rode through the town of Canmore and wound my way up a mountain road to a small lake. Here, I thought, I could find some solitude. At least a hundred other people had the exact same idea that day, so it was in a spirit of frustration with my thoughts arrayed like radio static that I penned the words of The Wild.

Is there an untamed place
Where mortals have no roads?
I’d like to find it if it’s there
Behind our concrete codes.

Will I have to walk some desert?
Or cross a mountain stream?
Can it be found in some dark hole?
A nightmare, or a dream?

Your kingdom unmapped remains;
Your heart opened, unchained.
If I spent a moment there
I would not live half dead again.

So please take away my blinders
Whether stained glass or sin-black.
I want to see you once more clearly,
I want the wild back.

Sometimes the noise of our lives makes it difficult to think clearly. We’ve weaved the threads of our bad choices and circumstances into a blindfold that can hide the joy of a thousand radiant mornings. Our ears have been plugged so long with the gunk of religion that we no longer recognize the music of life’s Composer.

There was a time when I suspected that something Beautiful was passing me by, and I’d have reached out and grabbed it if only I hadn’t been so weary and beaten and blind. Then it came around again. I’ve sensed its Presence in the crashing waves of Oregon coast, and in the silent sandstone deserts of the Middle East. I caught a glimpse of it when I read of Jesus touching the untouchable people and covering up the naked adulterer.

Maybe it’s coming around for you. I know you have something to do and somewhere to go, but why don’t you take just a moment? Stop and listen?

It may very well be that despite all we’ve seen and heard, heaven is free and Life can begin sooner than we think. Is it difficult to believe? May today be the day when our frustrated longings begin to lift like the veil of a virgin bride.

The Christian Requiem

I tried to be a good Christian this week. I didn’t laugh too loudly at my workmates vile jokes, and I avoided the seedier parts of the internet. There were probably other churchy type people just like me, shielding their self-saved souls as best they could from the exact same things. Did they feel - as I did- a bit grungy by the time Sunday rolled around?

Thus another week passes by for those trudging joyfully through the slime of humanity on their way to the Pearly Gates. I wish everything was going to be alright in the end- that I could approach that day knowing that I had done my best, and that doing my best actually counted for something. I fear that isn’t the case.

This kind of Christianity makes me wonder if Jesus isn’t building a mansion made out of itchy pink fiberglass insulation; that I get to spend eternity wearing spotless robes with too much starch while scratching out a tune on a harp. I don’t even want to know how to play a harp, for goodness sake!

I keep running into people who think that Christianity is basically about what you can and cannot do on your way to heaven. Where the hell did they get that idea? Oh… I think I just answered my own question.

I suppose a lot of us Christians have confused them too. God once promised to exchange our hearts of stone with ones that could actually beat, but it’s easier for us to remember the rules if we can chisel them into something solid.

This is my lament. A dirge for what we once called the hope for all mankind. The Christian religion.

Now if it would only lie down and die so that something… or Someone… could rise up in its place.

There's Nothing I Can Do- Part 2

This is the follow-up to Mike Cala's first post.

If my efforts to become “more” or “better” are useless, is there any reason to try? If my weakness and failures mean nothing in the face of Christ’s love and forgiveness, do I need to strive for anything? The answer may seem a resounding and obvious “Yes!” – but why?

My decisions and actions can do nothing to move me closer or farther away from Christ – He holds me fast. However, my decisions and actions have an immense effect on my moment by moment intimacy with my Lord and Saviour. Let me use the gift of marriage as an explanation.

When a man and women decide to commit themselves to each other for a lifetime, they marry. Once the act of marriage is completed, they are considered "married"– set aside for each other. Neither of them can do anything to become “more” married or “less” married. A couple is either married or they are not. However, each day brings the opportunity for them to make decisions that will either increase or decrease their feelings of love and intimacy. Someone says a harsh word, feelings are hurt – intimacy lessens. Someone ignores helping out the other person – resentment and anger erodes any feelings of closeness. These poor choices don’t make them “less” married however. In contrast, if one of the couple surprises the other with a special meal or a meaningful gift – they are brought closer together with these displays of love and affection, but they are in no manner “more” married.

Now once you are married, you don’t get handed a hundred page “how-to” book detailing all the things you have to do and all those things you can’t do anymore. You love this person you married and you know that certain things will please the other person and make the two of you closer . . . likewise; you know certain things will destroy any intimacy and deeply hurt the other person. So you do those things that will bring closeness and increase love in the relationship.

Now, the comparison of a relationship between two imperfect people is not the same as the relationship between a redeemed child of God and his Lord, but I think it makes the point. If we have given ourselves to Jesus and asked Him to be Lord and Saviour, we don’t suddenly become burdened with a thousand new rules and expectations as to how to be in relationship with Jesus. The gift of the Scriptures lays out a roadmap for how intimacy and closeness can be developed, but it’s not meant to be a rulebook that results in penalizing us if we fail to do everything in it . . . Jesus came to release us from the rule of law and replaced it with His rule of love and sacrifice.

Do we need to have a daily devotional? Yes, but not because it’s something we “need to” or “should” do. We do it because in our love for Him we want to spend time with Him, to learn more of whom He is and how we can make decisions that please Him. Do we need to spend time in prayer? Yes, but not because we’re supposed to pray in the morning when we get up, at mealtimes and before bed. We spend time in prayer because we long to hear His voice and wish to be still in His presence. Do we need to go to church on Sunday? Yes, but not because it’s the right thing to do and everyone else does. It. We gather with fellow believers to hear God’s Word spoken out loud and to worship as the body of Christ. We do all these things and more not out of a fear of breaking the rules or doing wrong, but as acts of love and gifts of ourselves to our Lord Jesus.

Nothing can be done to change our salvation in Jesus, but our moment by moment decisions and actions can diminish or flourish our experience of the extravagant love and grace of Jesus.

There's Nothing I Can Do- Part 1

The following post was written by Mike Cala. Mike is a man's man. He likes to throw knives and watch MMA. His focus on God's grace has encouraged me countless times, and I pray will encourage you too.

“There is nothing you can do to get closer to God”. The pastor’s words echoed in my heart and mind. The truth exposed in that simple statement summed up the thoughts and prayers that had lain in my heart for some time now . . . nothing I do brings me one single step closer, makes me one single bit “more saved” or a “better Christian”. I came to Jesus through His grace and mercy alone; I remain in Jesus solely through that same grace and mercy (Ephesians 2:1-5, 8-9). That eternity-wide gap that kept me from salvation and knowing Jesus could not be breached by anything I could do – my efforts would have been less than nothing.

Now that I am forgiven and live in relationship with Jesus, why do I continue to try to become something I will never achieve by my effort? Attending church will not make me more of a Christian. Prayer will not make me more “saved”. Reading the Scriptures daily will not move me one millimetre closer to the throne of God. Neither will what I wear, eat, drink, read, listen to, how much I tithe, what missions I give to or who I have as friends . . . Doing the “right” thing is not what it means to be saved (Galatians 2:16; 3:1-6).

I am as close as any created being could possibly be – kneeling at the foot of the throne of the Living God, held in the scarred arms of my Saviour and Lord. I am there in the shadow of the cross, fully dependant on His redeeming love and the relentless flow of mercy and grace that comes from His sacrifice.

There is awesome freedom in this! My inability to come any closer to God also means that my failures cannot move me one single inch away from Him! If I have not prayed for I couple of days . . . I am in the same place! If I have neglected my devotions . . . I am still secure! If I have failed or sinned in any way . . . the redeeming blood of Jesus holds me fast!

So often we find ourselves feeling that our failure or weakness has moved us “away” from God. We then have to “make up” for that by being extra diligent in our behaviour or spending more time reading the Bible or doing whatever . . . don’t believe the lie! Jesus is always right there with us, holding out His arms, dying for us to simply turn to Him and be with Him. Nothing to repay, nothing to make up for, nothing to set right. Because there is nothing we can do. It’s all in Him.

(Apologies if my beginning quote is misphrased, the pastor assured me it’s pretty close)

Comfort and Fatality

I think the temperature of our relationships is best taken when the thermometer of life is taken… not orally. You do know, I’m sure, that we don’t always get to choose which end we take our medicine from. Circumstances can conspire against us, and we feel fine just sucking on a couple lozenges of encouragement and a pat on the back. Then there are moments of utter disaster, when we wake up not knowing where we are or how we got there, and someone has stuck uncomfortable things in places where nothing should ever be stuck. Machines go beep-beep, trying to tell us we’re still alive but really only stressing us out as we wait for the long note of fatality.

This can happen in any area of our lives. It’s in those moments when you can look around to see if anyone is there for you, and discern what kind of friend you’ve been. It happened once in my marriage, I’ve seen it in the lives of my friends, and I know Jesus experienced it at least once.

It’s hard to say which aspect of the crucifixion scandal would have been the most difficult for Jesus to endure. I wonder if the bite of the whip was worse than the sting of Judas’ kiss. Could the agony of his broken hands and feet have been enough to cover the shame of his nakedness? It’s hard to imagine.

What is even more difficult to comprehend is the fact that his loyal followers were for the most part nowhere to be found. At first glance, one must wonder exactly what kind of relationships Jesus had been investing his time and energy in!

But wait…

Take a step closer with me. Let the loss of blood and wrenching heartache run its course, and wait in silence until the shock of that last loud cry announces the end of the life of Jesus of Nazareth.

Two men had been watching Jesus over the course of his ministry. Seeking him out at night; intrigued by him but not wanting to be associated with a rebellious prophet. Over time Jesus captured their hearts. And now, when his corpse comes down from the cross to be claimed, they are there.

I have a friend right now who is being hung on a cross of pain. It’s hard to watch. I can’t do much for him, and I don’t know at the end whether his faith will live or die. But his story has captured my heart. It’s a tale of courage, love and strength.

I want to be there at the end. Because somehow I know that he is hanging there for me, just like Jesus was.

“…just as the sufferings of Christ flow over into our lives, so also through Christ our comfort overflows.” 2 Corinthians 1:3

Jack and Jill and Bruised Butts

I clearly remember the first time I ever heard about divorce. I was in grade 6, and a classmate of mine couldn’t stop crying at recess. When asked, he explained that he had just found out his parents were splitting up. I was bewildered. My young mind could hardly fathom such an event. Up until then my biggest worries included which of the dozens of TV’s in my dad’s shop I would watch after school. Life was naturally about play and friends and birthday parties and summer holidays. For the first time I realized that things meant to last forever could be broken.

I was grateful that my parents were Christians, because I knew that going to church was a guarantee against such things happening to me personally. Heartache could be left on the playground each day when classes were over. I was a Christian too, and thus from a young age I learned that my role was to help people see that if they would only ask Jesus into their hearts, life would be so much better. After all, nothing tragic ever befell anyone who attended First Baptist Church.

At thirteen years of age circumstances, church culture, and youthful ignorance were already weaving together the fabric of my first stained-glass blindfold. Unable or unwilling to see the truth, I started fabricating for myself a religious worldview that best fit an increasingly uncomfortable reality.

It doesn’t matter whether or not you call yourself a Christian- you probably have images or words that immediately come to mind when someone presents the idea of church or Christianity. The life experiences that planted those images could be a number of things that together with mine would create a list too long to analyze here.

What your blindfold is made of isn’t the matter in question. The issue is that your blindfold, my friend, is coming off. The only questions are when, and how.

Hey Jack, do you think the church is made up of a bunch of hypocrites? Something will begin to slip when you meet someone who is the real deal.

Hey Jill, are you feeling pretty comfy in your padded pew? Wait until a loved one commits suicide or your marriage ends or the doctor gives you some really bad news or you go on a mission trip to a place half a block from hell.

Jack and Jill went up the hill,
with two homemade GPS’s.
When the batteries died, they did collide,
And gained clarity and bruised... butts.

Not What You Would Expect

I love books, but not for all the noble reasons. It’s not because I enjoy learning, although I do. A good fiction with a cup of cocoa on a cold winter’s night is fine, but that’s not the reason either.

I love to own books. I want people to come to my house and admire the shelves of hardcover classics and provocative, postmodern authors.

When I was single and childless I threw anything I owned onto the bookshelf. I have to be a bit more selective now. Cinderella and the Backyardigans have taken over the shelf that used to be laden with the weightiness of my Bible College textbooks. Nine piece puzzles and a plastic school bus abide where once rested epic tales of swashbuckling adventure. Bulky photo albums of all sizes and colors have squeezed out books I’d never read but were ancient and weathered (and thus very chic). N.T. Wright’s theological musings now share the prime real estate of my last remaining shelf with Bill Watterson’s timeless ‘Calvin and Hobbes’.

This lack of concern for the written manifestation of my masculine ego has recently become a serious problem. I’m taking an online course now that requires the digestion of at least 23 books over the next year. I’ve haphazardly given a nod to my wife’s totally reasonable request to use the library or borrow the books from friends- but c’mon! I need man-space!

So I recently visited an online book retailer, deciding that the next best thing to books on a shelf would be books strewn wantonly throughout the house. I was looking for one book in particular. Softcover- $11.99; hardcover- $16.99. Then I saw a hardcover edition for $6.99! I couldn’t believe it! I rubbed my eyes. I pinched myself. A little voice told me it wasn’t what it seemed, but I squashed that thought like the first mosquito of summer and ordered my new trophy.

This is what came in the mail:

I’m sure there’s a lesson in this somewhere. Something about God giving us exactly what we want in a size that fits into the clutter of our lives. Maybe you can figure it out for me- I've got some reading to do.

Now where did I put my glasses?

Parable of the Daughter

On the bookshelf of human history, sandwiched somewhere between a pyramid and a wild-haired plastic troll, sat a single dusty cross.

Ages passed and still it remained, until one day an apocalypse of darkness and blood shook the people’s little self-made shrine and sent their trinkets crashing down. Then that single dusty cross started to grow.

Its reach soon extended past every idea of men, until at last it covered the Earth, overflowed the seas, and ruled the heavens with justice. It spoke then, and called out in a loud voice.

Every soul heard and answered the call. Taking up the icons of their humanity, they came to stand before the One Mighty Cross, and there they were judged.

Many were found who did not know the One Mighty Cross, and who in turn were not known. Among these were those who bore the symbol of the crescent moon. Some clutched the eye of Ra. Many brought no emblem at all, which was a sign in itself. Finally those came who, with backs straight, proudly carried the Word of God, but even these remained unnamed.

The Cross cried out in anguish, “Are there none who know me?”

Then a child was brought before the Throne. In one hand she tenderly held the picture of an orphan. “Sir,” she said, “I would like to enter your kingdom, but please accept my friend too.” She reached out and presented the photograph to the One Mighty Cross.

In the silence they looked into each other’s eyes.
And smiled.


Jesus once said that not everyone who called him Lord would enter the kingdom of heaven. You can read about it in the Bible- Matthew chapter 7.