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.

Kick the Devil in the Brimstones

All I remember of my thirteenth year is isolation and teeth-gnashing frustration. In my young mind I was spiritually mature beyond my years. My social and emotional struggles were an obvious parallel to what Jesus experienced in the Garden of Gethsemane.

Alas, this wasn’t true.

The seeds of that year were planted far in advance by Saturday morning cartoons and flannel graph Jesus dolls. Each week I’d grab a bowl of cereal, and watch as some two-dimensional character struggled with a moral decision on the television set. Two spirits would show up to perch on his shoulders: the tough devil belching baritone, and the weak-kneed angel with long lashes and no spine. You probably remember, or can guess, who won those fights. Then Sunday I’d wash behind my ears, put on some shiny shoes and go to church, where I’d learn about “Gentle Jesus Meek and Mild” and turning the other cheek.

Somewhere along the line I learned more about being a pansy than anything else- a lesson that didn’t serve me well when my brother introduced me to the game of ‘Two for Flinching’. Most of my male readers will probably know how to play, but for anyone that doesn’t it goes like this: You hit somebody, and then pretend like you’re going to hit them again. If they flinch you get to hit them twice. It’s a great contest and easy to win, because if the person doesn’t flinch you hit them again anyway.

I don’t think I lost all those bouts of TFF because of my steadfast integrity. Moral courage couldn’t have condoned the injustice. I lost because I was afraid.

The devil has his version of TFF. It’s called ‘Hide for Shaming’. It’s a simple game too. He tempts you to sin and then ~SLAP~ he gives you the backhand of shame! He keeps you playing through fear, embarrassment and self-loathing.

I didn’t care if I ever won ‘Two for Flinching’. I just wanted the game to stop. I was humiliated and beat down. My parents said to just walk away, but my brother had legs too and simply hounded me.

Then one day I hit back. Things gradually changed after that.

Are you tired of playing the devil’s little shame game? Then it’s time to hit him where it counts. Kick him in his tender little brimstones. It’ll take a little courage, but there’s grace for that.

Use the boots of Confession and Repentance.