A Good Mystery . . . Revisited

One of the CDs I've had on my wish list for almost two years now is Bruce Cockburn's most recent effort, Life Short Call Now. I nearly always have a short wish list of CDs that I eventually want to get my hands on. It would probably be a longer list if I had more time to experiment with music and if I was being exposed to a wider variety than I am right now. But, needless to say, as a busy husband, father, and pastor I don't have the luxury of time and money that I once did as a college student to funnel more financial resources toward entertainment and cultural enterprises. I probably procure two or three CDs a year on average so, yes, I am shamefully behind. So when I saw Cockburn's album for $9.99 yesterday, I couldn't resist.

Now Cockburn is an interesting character. While he likely wouldn't fit any remotely evangelical mold, he has described himself as a Christian or at least as someone who believes in Jesus Christ. Many of his songs are permeated with biblical allusions and imagery. There is a definite and specific spiritual bent to his music, one that forms a more hopeful counter-balance to his often caustic and angry political observations. On Life Short Call Now, as on his last studio effort, You've Never Seen Everything, America's involvement in Iraq and its war on terror provides much fuel for the fire. I don't know that I would necessarily agree with all of his politics, I do resonate with his more spiritual ruminations.

One of the songs on his latest, "Beautiful Creatures," is a meditation on the disappearance of anything resembling goodness in the human species, and sounds like a reflection on the fall of man, lamenting the loss it represents: "Like a dam on a river/My conscience is pressed/By the weight of hard feelings/Piled up in my breast/The callous and vicious things humans display/The beautiful creatures are going away." Despite our innate sinfulness that results in the evil that men do, there is still a flicker of transcendence and mystery for those of us with eyes to see and so it might be better to say that if we are monsters that we are good monsters.

But the song that really struck is the third track on the album, "Mystery." And having heard it makes me wish I had heard it in advance of my previous post (Hence the title of this post). In it Cockburn sings, "You can't tell me there is no mystery/mystery, mystery/You can't tell me there is no mystery/It's everywhere I turn/Infinity always gives me vertigo/vertigo, vertigo/Infinity always gives me vertigo/And fills me up with grace." One gets the definite impression that it's this sense of mystery that keeps him afloat whilst facing a world filled with despair, violence, and greed. Amidst all his sharply barbed political observations (diatribes?), one wonders if these observations are informed and shaped at least in part by the instinct that the world and the way that it is is a violation of this very mystery and the truths to which it points.

Sometimes poets and artists have way of expressing truth that is simply lost on the rest of us. A sharp turn of phrase, the clever use of words, and the power of an infectious melody can sometimes say more than volumes of philosophy. This is especially true of mystery, which tends to elude explanation and definition, and requires revelation and inspiration. Some of the most prophetic voices of Scripture are poetic voices and it needs to be said that a book of the Bible's literary genre is not accidental to the truths they express but is an intrinsic part of it. Admittedly, for those of us more interested and more comfortable with prose, this too is something of a mystery. But thankfully it's a good mystery and thankfully there continue to be artists and poets who give voice to this mystery. Otherwise we might never hear the truth as we are meant to hear it.

A Good Mystery

I'm not much of a fiction reader, so most of my fiction comes from film and television. Yes, I can concede that this might be a poor man's substitute, but, as I already said recently (see my last post), I like watching TV. Enough with that. My point here is that more specifically a lot of the shows I watch are mysteries or serial dramas, ones that end each episode with a cliffhanger or unresolved story and therefore have the ability, to a greater or lesser degree, to hook you. In the best (or worst??) case scenario such shows might be described as addictive. One example of this would be 24. That this show is potentially addictive is not much of a surprise given that every episode occurs in real time and ends at the end of every hour. This, quite possibly, is both a pro and a con when you have the DVD set and are not watching it from week to week--there is no reason to wait for the next episode; you can watch the next one right away! However, this does lead to the occasional late night . . . So such shows are best reserved for occasions when rising early isn't required the next day! The point is that while I don't read mysteries I do like watching them.

Now when I say mystery, I mean something specific too. Take The X-Files, for instance. Here's a show that counted on its stories being unresolved and on having an overarching mythology that often raised more questions than answers. Such a method of telling stories reflected a key belief on the show, that there are mysteries in life, unfathomable phenomena, that escape the explanatory power of science and reason. To resolve every story and answer every question is tantamount to saying that there are no mysteries inherent in life, that there is nothing beyond what science can tell us.

I think what is attractive about such stories is that we love that there is mystery. It's like the poster on Special Agent Fox Mulder's office wall says, "I want to believe." We want to believe that there is more to life than what we can see with our eyes and touch with our hands. Such possibilities, whether it's the possibility of the existence of extraterrestrial life or the possibility of the existence of God (for me, of course, this is more than a possibility even if it remains a mystery in its own way), promise us meaning and purpose, a way to define ourselves beyond the mundane routines of everyday life. It's no wonder that the producers of The X-Files often liken Mulder's search for proof of alien life to the search for God. Both are mysteries that bring life meaning. So no wonder shows like this become so popular in a world where people long for significance and identity, purpose and direction. Or even just a good mystery.

But, you see, the odd thing about shows like The X-Files, Lost, and others, is that the more questions they answer and the more mysteries they resolve the less satisfying they are. That's when the writing begins to show weak spots. While adept at posing the questions and identifying the mysteries, they are often profoundly inept at providing meaning to the mystery and giving answers to the questions (even if they remain entertaining). Once the mystery gives way to explanation, we often find ourselves profoundly dissatisfied.

So as entertaining and well-produced as any TV show might be, no such show can really provide a person's life with meaning. While they serve as a corporate sponsored reminder that there are mysteries in life, they can no more give us purpose than Dr. Phil can dispense sound, life-changing counsel in short segments between commercial breaks. Though people seek meaning there, even if unconsciously. Hence the large number of fans that absorb and analyse the details of such shows in hopes of cracking the code. It takes more than a good mystery to do that. It takes the best mystery, the only one that truly satisfies. That's the mystery we have in the Bible.

In Ephesians the apostle Paul talks about this mystery and how he had been entrusted to make this mystery plain to everyone: "I became a servant of this gospel by the gift of God's grace given me through the working of his power. Although I am less than the least of all the Lord's people, this grace was given to me: to preach to the Gentiles the boundless riches of Christ, and to make plain to everyone the administration of this mystery, which for ages past was kept hidden in God, who created all things." The apostle here refers to the gospel of Jesus Christ as a mystery. He is saying that until the advent of Christ into the world, the mystery of God's plan was a secret, known only to God himself. He says something similar in Romans. And in Colossians Paul comes right out and says that this mystery is Jesus Christ.

Most people want more than they have. Life doesn't provide automatically a deep, satisfying sense of meaning and purpose. Lots of people wander through life feeling the weight of the world and of the ultimate questions without ever really landing on an answer that quells the thirst and satiates the hunger. This, I think, leads to a sense of loss, but without telling us what it is that we've lost. "My heart is restless, oh God, until it finds rest in You," prays Augustine. We enter this world with a gaping hole in our hearts, one that is, unbeknownst to us, God-shaped. So we try with all our might to fill this hole with any number of things, and usually these things only serve to feed the hunger and increase our thirst. At the very least satisfaction is temporary.

The mystery of God, that there can be wholeness and redemption, fullness of meaning and purpose, has been revealed in Jesus. God's plan in Christ is to disclose his means for saving human beings from their sin and brokenness so that we needn't spend any more time wandering and wondering, lost and directionless, like a ship drifting on the sea. That God-shaped hole in our heart can only be filled by Jesus, for in him the fullness of who God is and what he is up to has been made known.

The big difference between the mystery presented in various TV serial dramas and the mystery of the gospel is that while the presentation of the mysteries in such shows is usually more compelling than any answers they can give, the opposite is true of the good news. We spend our lives consciously or unconsciously looking for answers to life's mysteries, wanting to experience the deep satisfaction that comes when we discover meaning and purpose for ourselves, and it is only when we find our heart's true home, in Jesus himself, that we are satisfied. It's the only mystery that, when revealed, is more compelling than the questions we ask and the attempts at seeking meaning we make. That makes our faith in Christ not just a good mystery, but a great one, the only one worth truly being revealed to us.

My Confession . . .

Despite the name of this blog, not a lot of confessing actually takes place here. In fact, I use the term confessions more in the sense of Augustine's Confessions. Not that I'm comparing my meagre reflections to his profound autobiographical treatise! His is a masterpiece of Western religious thought and philosophy. Mine are, well, lucky to be read by a small number of family and friends. But now I'm getting off topic.

So I have a confession to make. I want to admit to something that I almost feel embarrassed about. It's my dark, dirty little secret. It's one of those personal quirks that I tend to hide in the shadows, away from prying, evaluative, judging eyes. So, please, when you hear it--or, rather, read it--don't think that I have conceded to the moral downslide of our culture and indeed have become a willing participant in it.

Here it is: I like TV.

There it is. There you have it. I haven't completely renounced as subversively evil that dreaded one-eyed monster, that contraption responsible for the bulk of our societal ills, the idiot box, the 20th century invention to end all 20th century inventions, the one that has perhaps shaped our world more than any other: the television.

Why is this a confession, you ask? It's a confession because as a pastor I often hear about people condemning outright anything and everything that is broadcast on television. I hear about the influence TV has on children, young people, and families. I hear church members decry its depiction of moral decay and gratuitous displays of violence and sex. And all the while as I listen to such comments, I think to myself, "You know, there are actually some TV shows I like. And some of them you just might not approve of." So it's a confession insofar as it's something that I don't really say to many people, especially those who know me in my capacity as pastor. Isn't the pastor supposed to be the sort of person who rises above that banal need for mindless and passive entertainment? Apparently not, because I don't.

The odd thing about this, of course, is that while my family and I have a television (a modest widescreen model), we don't actually have television channels. I'm not interested in having either cable TV or a satellite dish, and probably couldn't afford either one of those anyway even if I were. So, you're wondering, without TV channels, how do I watch TV? (Well, if you've gotten this far, you still might not care that much about how I do get to watch TV. Take it as a rhetorical question!) In any case the answer is: TV DVDs.

For the last few years my wife and I have purchased TV DVD boxsets instead of paying for other cable options. We buy shows we want to see, spend less money because we don't have a monthly bill, and pay even less money because sometimes family and friends give them to us as gifts on appropriate holidays. There are pros and cons to doing it this way, but, for right now, the pros outweigh the cons. Still, it's amusing to watch people react when we tell them we have a TV but no TV channels. It's almost the equivalent of what I imagine the reaction would be like if I said to someone that while, yes, the telephone does seem to be a wonderfully useful and convenient piece of technology, we as a family are still rather attached to our carrier pigeon and don't plan, therefore, on upgrading anytime soon.

So isn't this really a silly confession? Well, maybe. It's been awhile since I've posted here and I wanted something to write about! And I find that, strangely, I feel somewhat guilty about enjoying TV. Or I should say some TV. I'm sort of picky in what I choose to watch, especially since I'm (usually) paying for particular TV boxsets (The X-Files, Seinfeld, 24, Fawlty Towers, and a few more). Now as far as whether there's anything redeeming (artistically or spiritually) about anything I watch, that's a topic for another post. It was hard enough owning up to the fact that I actually enjoy watching some TV! For now, time to exit the confessional.

"At least you have your health . . ."

"At least you have your health." How many times do we hear that from people in the course of our lifetime? Last evening I wasn't sure that I was going to have even that. For the better part of the last week I've been looking after my wife and daughter who each ended up with stomach flu--thoroughly unpleasant and awful for them. This is why I haven't posted since last week. I've been taking care of them, suffering from sleep deprivation, and still trying to keep up with everything else. While they're no longer vomiting, they are still hardly %100 better. All through this, I was alternately thanking God that I hadn't and asking God that I wouldn't get sick in the same way. So, for the most part, I could say, "At least I have my health."

Until last night.

Early in the evening I began to experience slight nausea. And I thought, "Uh oh, here I go. My turn." I took a couple of gravol and lay on the couch, since I felt too awful to do much besides watch TV. My body began to ache. I had some chills. All I could think was, "I really don't want to spend an entire day vomiting." You see, I rarely get sick. I can't even remember when I threw up last. I didn't know how I would deal with it. Plus, I'd had the pleasant experience of listening to both my wife and little girl wretch and convulse.

However, thankfully, though I was up several times in the night, it wasn't for vomiting but to get a drink. And I never did vomit. If I did get the same bug as my family, my body managed to fight it off. I tend to have a pretty good immune system.

Anyway, this has been life for the last week or so. Once we're all feeling more or less normal, I'll have an easier time posting more regularly. Until then, at least I have my health.

The Discipline of Devotion

Quite a while back I posted some thoughts on reading our Bibles and in that post I mentioned a new edition of the Bible published by the International Bible Society called The Books of the Bible. It uses the TNIV translation, and my real reason for loving this edition is the format itself: no chapter and verses in the text, single-column, no headings, study notes relegated to end notes, and, though this feature was less compelling to me, the re-ordering of the books of the Bible according to their probable dates of composition, literary style, and theological content.

Right now there are just over 20 people in our church reading through The Books of the Bible in a year. At the website you can find a handful of different reading plans for just this purpose. At the beginning of the new year we had a special service wherein we dedicated these new Bibles and handed them out to those who had signed up to read it in a year. And we are also meeting once a month for prayer and encouragement. Of course, not every one is literally on the same page, as nice as that might be; however, the point is that people are reading. That said, I still tease my wife since she is still behind! But, again, she is reading. And when it comes to the Bible this is the most important thing.

We're not always much for discipline in our churches. And trying to read through the Bible in a year no doubt serves as a reminder of this. I imagine there are some in our church who opted out of even attempting this simply because they couldn't imagine finding 15 - 20 minutes a day to read their Bible, fearing from the outset that they would fail miserably. But even for those who have taken up the challenge, we too are discovering that finding time is not always easy. Hence those who are still reading through Exodus when on the schedule we should all be in Leviticus or Deuteronomy.

I sometimes wonder if the reason we have trouble with discipline regarding spiritual things has to do with more than simply our busy lives; I wonder if it has something to do with our attitude about spiritual matters to begin with. Is it possible that our reticence to engage in spiritual discipline reflects the degree of our devotion? Do we need to repent of a halfhearted love for God? Or is it perhaps a symptom of a culture that wants everything in quick fixes and therefore wants spiritual enlightenment and growth in the same time that it takes to watch a TV sitcom?

Now, I completely understand and can identify with those whose lives are full and who simply find it difficult to squeeze in time for prayer and worship and Bible reading because there are work and family demands that leave us exhausted and drained of motivation at the end of the day. I, too, once the day is done and the evening begins often want nothing more than to sit in front of the TV to enjoy a favourite show. This is especially true if the day has been both busy and stressful. I don't want to think. I'm too tired to be of much value. But I also know that it doesn't necessarily take a great deal more energy to sit and quietly read my Bible rather than watch another episode of The X-Files. So it seems to me that having a busy and full life is no excuse for not taking time out for my relationship with God which, like any relationship, requires deliberate attention.

A part of this is simple habit. What have we habituated ourselves to do when we have free time? Do we allow the hours to be occupied by a lot of what we typically call screen time? This is certainly our cultural habit, one that is ever increasing since screen time can now include TV, computers, cell-phones, video games, etc. What we need, though, are holy habits, ones that do more than simply entertain us and, worse, numb us to the realities of life. In other words, we need to do do much more with our time than indulge in escapism. Rather than habituating ourselves to escape reality, holy habits such as reading Scripture prepare us to face reality but on God's terms.

But, unfortunately, this takes discipline. It takes intentional effort. It takes a willingness to put the things of God before the things of men. And it means doing so regardless of the poorer habits we have formed over time. But such disciplines of devotion are part and parcel of our life of faith and constitute much of our training in holiness. Growing in holiness, or spiritual maturity, is not an overnight process. It takes place in fits and starts. It happens incrementally. It takes place in a world of dirty laundry, crying children, busy schedules, long days at work, and arguments with our spouses. And unlike other, less noble habits, such holy habits actually imbue life with value and meaning and purpose rather than simply anesthetizing us against life's hardships.

Thinking About Prayer: Part 1

Every Sunday morning in church we take prayer requests for the pastoral or congregational prayer, and almost inevitably most requests concern, generally, the same thing: physical well-being. And this is understandable. We have had people in hospital, having surgeries, struggling with various illnesses and health conditions, and so it only makes sense that when we come together to pray that such issues form the bulk of our prayers. Or does it?

It is true that such prayers emerge from the basic sense that God cares for our well-being and that he is intimately involved with the details of our lives. We bring our present life experience--experience often defined by health concerns and other earthly priorities--before God in prayer; and to do this is natural. Our God is Immanuel or God with us. But I do wonder that if in concentrating largely on petitions regarding physical health we are missing much of what God wants us to be praying about. While God is with us, he is so for his own purposes and will and not for ours. While intimately involved in the details of our lives, he is so in order that we might become closer to him, to grow in our knowledge of God. Yet how often do our prayers--personal and corporate--reflect God's concern and God's cause? And are we able to see the details of our lives--at home and at church--in the light of God's plan?

All this has been on my mind because I see a huge contrast between prayer as I experience it personally and corporately and prayer as I see it in Scripture. Looking, for instance, at Paul's prayers, we can observe pretty quickly that much of what occupies our times of prayer doesn't even show up on Paul's radar. All of his letters, except Galatians, mention his prayers for the recipients. For all we know there could be people in those various congregations that have serious health concerns, yet Paul is largely silent on such matters. That's not to say that such concerns were never addressed in prayer--but they were not the first or only prayers on the list.

Theologian and biblical scholar D.A Carson wrote a book a number of years ago called A Call to Spiritual Reformation: Priorities from Paul and His Prayers, and in this book he discusses some of these very same issues. He begins by looking at 2 Thessalonians 1:3 -- 12 and the framework of Paul's actual petitions on behalf of the believers in Thessalonica. Two things, Carson argues, shape Paul's prayers: First, a thankfulness for signs of grace among the believers. In other words, Paul expresses thanks that their faith is growing, that their love for one another is increasing, and that they are persevering under trials. So Paul is not thankful for simply anything; he is thankful that they are living the Christian life more obediently and faithfully and with resilience in the face of opposition. And how often are our prayers--mine included!--shaped by such thanksgiving?

Second, Carson says, Paul's prayers are shaped by the anticipation of Christ's return. The tenor of Paul's prayers are guided by his eschatology, the belief in the world to come with the Second Advent of Jesus--and how this will result in vindication for believers and in retribution and judgement for non-believers. Carson goes on at length discussing this point, especially since some would find the notion of God exacting such judgement distasteful. But he is simply talking about what Paul himself says:

"He will pay back trouble to those who trouble you and give relief to you who are troubled, and to us as well. This will happen when the Lord Jesus is revealed from heaven in blazing fire with his powerful angels. He will punish those who do not know God and do not obey the gospel of our Lord Jesus. They will be punished with everlasting destruction and shut out from the presence of the Lord and from the glory of his might on the day he comes to be glorified in his holy people and to be marveled at among all those who have believed."

And then in the next verse Paul says: "With this in mind, we constantly pray for you . . ." With this in mind . . .

How often do any of us truly pray with such things in mind? If we were to take these foundational elements of prayer--a thankfulness for signs of grace and growth in the Christian life and, as Carson calls it, Paul's "fundamental orientation to the end of the age"--and make them the basis of our prayers, what might our prayers sound like?

I don't think we approach prayer naturally this way. Truth be told, I don't think we approach prayer naturally at all. There is nothing natural about prayer. It is super-natural. It is conversation with God borne of the Spirit of God about the things of God. And we don't know how to do it. This is why the disciples asked Jesus, "Teach us to pray." We need to be taught to pray, as much as we need to be taught to tie our shoes and boil water on the stove. "In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans," Paul writes in Romans 8:26. So we learn to pray from Jesus, and indeed all of Scripture, and we rely on the Spirit to make of our prayers what they never could be on their own. We don't know how to pray and we don't know what to pray for. But God does and, thankfully, he's more than willing to teach us.

There's an old Puritan proverb: "Pray until you pray." Certainly this could mean that we ought to be persistent in our prayers. But it means more, I think. It means practicing prayer, keeping at it until it moves beyond formalism, awkwardness, and religious duty, until it becomes an intimate expression of our relationship with God. The more we pray, honestly and biblically, the more we will learn how to pray. Pray until your prayers become honest expressions of faith before God.

I think this proverb can also mean that we ought to ask God to instill within us certain priorities in prayer--pray until you really pray: pray for God's cause, pray with thankfulness at signs of grace among your fellow brothers and sisters in Christ, and pray with an eternal perspective, that sense of hopeful anticipation of Christ's return. We don't know how to do this, to pray as we ought--Scripture tells us as much--but we are told where to go and learn. This doesn't mean we stop praying that our loved one's cancer is healed but that we also pray they would learn to trust in God's grace even in trials, despite the persistence of illness, hopeful that Christ will restore them upon his return. It means seeing our earthly concerns from a heavenly perspective and allowing a heavenly perspective to shape how see and pray about our earthly concerns. In other words, "Pray until you pray."

Something Extraordinary

I'm about to pack up and go to the office. My wife and daughter are away until later today so I could work at home, but sometimes work requires the feel of an office. It's going to be a busy week, one that involves some rush to get things done. Or so it seems at the moment. My wife is going to an overnight retreat on Friday night which means it'll be my little girl and I until sometime Saturday evening. That means I have to have my sermon done (or at least 90% done) before Friday night. That's not how it usually works. I sort of wish the retreat was last week when, quite unexpectedly, my sermon was done just before lunch on Friday. But I have to trust that the Lord who provided then will provide this time as well. Even for a pastor, or at least this pastor, that's not always easy.

How easily our faith becomes mundane and all too ordinary, especially when we can't even muster enough trust to believe that God will help us get through a week with all its priorities and responsibilities. At our adult Bible study we were looking at Jesus' power over sin and one of the questions was: when have we questioned Jesus' power and authority? Most of us as Christians probably don't question Jesus' power and authority directly, doubting in plain sight that God can do great things. We affirm his greatness. He applaud his power. We verbally attest to our conviction that God has the authority and the power to pull off miracles. We stare in awe, blankfaced at his actions as recorded in Scripture. And then we go on living as though he can do nothing about our everyday circumstances. Our actions, as the saying goes, are more powerful than words.

If I consider that God created all the universe, that in him I live and move and have my being, how can I doubt that he can also provide me with a sermon for Sunday? If I consider that all things are made in, through, and for Christ, how can I doubt that the Lord can enable me to get through this week? How is it that we can read Scripture, with its incredible portrayal of God in all his majesty and glory, and still end up believing only what our eyes will show us? How is it that we can allow our moods and the number of hours we've had for sleep so easily determine the earnestness and persistence of our prayers? When will the scales fall from our eyes? Lord, help us see.

While I completely understand and accept that much of life is ordinary, a shopping list of duties and responsibilities, of chores and errands, must it be the case that our faith is confined by the same boundaries? I know that since much of life is this way, our faith has to make sense of and be relevant to the everydayness of our routines and schedules; but where is the sense of mystery, of transcendence, of our faith, while addressing the ordinary, being about less--or rather more--than the ordinary? Shouldn't there be a levity to faith to match the gravity of life?

I do have those moments when, for some reason, all of life's problems, while still very much there, no longer have the weight I normally assign them. I can't quite describe it, but it's as though the reality of God--though very much unseen--seems more real and powerful than the reality of everything else that I can see. And it's not a forget-your-problems-happy-escapist-sort-of-feeling. Seems to me it's a gift. I can't summon it. I can't worship myself into it. I can't pray myself to it. This makes it even more odd because knowing that I did not and cannot manufacture such a perspective means that faith itself is a gift. I can't force my faith; but I can ask for it to grow.

Now when I get to the office there will be the temptation, a temptation that forever is there, to rush ahead and dash into work. I'll want to make the phone calls I have to make. Plan. Wrack my brain for sermon ideas. Think over music for Sunday's worship. Such an attitude is, in some ways, endemic to our culture. And it's not necessarily unhealthy as far as it goes. But in ministry it can be a problem insofar as it makes it about what I do. And there is a sense in which the less I do the better. To think otherwise, that all of this pastoral work is the fruit of my labours, the result of my gifts and talents, and that if I can't pull it together out of thin air, then there is something wrong with me and I should look into another vocation or career or job, is to neglect the very reality at the heart of ministry, the reason and rationale for ministry in the first place: the reality of God. But that takes faith. And that's something only God can provide. So I have to ask for it. In other words, ministry should, though it doesn't always, begin and end and be immersed in prayer. In neglecting prayer, I allow my ministry, such as it is, to make that downward slide toward the ordinary, where mystery has been replaced by methods, transcendence by technique, and faith by sight. Only a prayerful life informed by the revelation of Scripture can find itself sure that in the midst of doctor's appointments, burnt suppers, coughs and runny noses, late night risings to calm an upset child, and feeble efforts at sermon preparation that the God who called the simplest and grandest elements of creation into being can also grant me life and faith. Only God can help me see and live in the ordinary with a faith that is more than the ordinary. That's something extraordinary.

A Song

A couple of posts ago, I mentioned that I had written a song that I was then planning on playing in church. I did play it in church yesterday, and I received a few encouraging comments. Some even came in on the chorus! And of course that's the intent. It's a song that works well congregationally. Anyway, someone posted a comment asking if I would post the words to the song on my blog. So, here they are.

Walk With Me
Lord, You are here
Regardless of the circumstances
You are here
You are the God of all second chances
Yes, You are here
So let me worship just as David dances

Chorus:
Lord, You walk with me
You’ve been faithful all these years
Lord, You walk with me
Through the pain and through the tears
Lord, You walk with me
When You speak, help me hear
To know You’re near

Sometimes this life
Can really be overwhelming
So shape this heart
To know that of my trust You’re worthy
Though dark the night
May You show forth Your glory

Chorus:
Lord, You walk with me
You won’t forsake those whom You love
Lord, You walk with me
Fill me with strength from above
Lord, You walk with me
You’re here though I find it hard to see
Lord, You walk with me
Lord, You walk with me
You’ve been faithful all these years
Lord, You walk with me
Through the pain and through the tears
Lord, You walk with me
When You speak, help me hear
To know You’re near
To know You’re near

Expectations vs. Reality

Sometimes it seems as though nothing goes according to plan. For instance, after three weeks of having to postpone our daughter's homeschooling (vacation, illness, etc.), my wife was supposed to start it up again this morning. But they're both still asleep after what was a long, not very restful night. Once our little girl came into our bed sometime in the middle of the night, she woke up several times upset and crying, either at still having a cold and feeling stuffed up or because of nightmares. Either way, it means that the plan for today was de-railed even before the sun came up.

Even I didn't get up until around 9am. I went to bed around half-past midnight, but didn't actually fall asleep until after 2am. My mind was wound up, I guess. I was thinking about church stuff. And I was worried that my wife was still up and awake even though she had preschool with our daughter in the morning. Now thankfully, since it's just the two of them, schedules are pretty flexible. And though I slept in, Monday is normally my day off anyway.

Last night while lying in bed, I happened to say to my wife something along the lines that I wish things could go completely right and as planned even for just a few days. And she, though still struggling with depression, was able to say that our life was still pretty good. She's largely right about that. It seems quite a lot has to do with our perspective on things. I find that I'm becoming more self-conscious about my own moods and attitudes, and that a lot of the problem when I see things going astray or just plain wrong is me.

It's all about the difference between expectations and reality. How do I expect our life as a family to be? Or more simply, what do I expect to accomplish this morning? Or what do I expect of my wife this afternoon? And which of these expectations are actually realistic? Do I sometimes have unrealistic expectations for us? I'm guessing yes. Sometimes these expectations are pretty conscious--I know I have them and find myself frustrated when they aren't met. But sometimes expectations can be unconscious. I get frustrated but don't know why. I find myself in a sour mood but can't pinpoint the reason. I get irritated at my wife but am unable locate the source of the irritation. Or even if I think I have, it may turn out to be more than what I thought. So there are conscious and unconscious expectations that may or may not match up with reality.

But there's another kind of expectation that can cause even more difficulty: unspoken expectations. This is when I expect my wife to read my mind and understand what I want from her even if I haven't verbally communicated it. There's a certain self-righteousness that rears its ugly head here. "She should know that I would want this," I think. And then I blame her for lacking psychic abilities. We can all deliberately remain non-communicative about these expectations because we truly do believe that our spouse's ability to understand how we feel without our having to spell it out is part of the point. The hiccup in thinking this way, of course, is that we would never reverse the logic. I know I can't psychically intuit what's going on in my wife's head. Heck, even when she spells it out sometimes I still don't get it! Expectations need to be spoken, at least if you want the other person to know what they are.

Such expectations apply to relationships, and they apply to plans and life in general. I expect things to go this way or that way. Then they don't. I expect my wife to do this or that. And she doesn't. I expect to get this or that accomplished. And then I don't. Life doesn't always go as planned. And sometimes that's because we have unspoken expectations and sometimes it's because of unrealistic expectations. I guess that means I have to do a better job either of communicating my expectations or of measuring them and setting them in such a way that they come closer to reality and take what might happen and what might not happen into account. And that's one thing life is teaching me--through marriage, parenting, and ministry: be realistic.

A Week in Ministry . . .

I can hardly believe it, but by 1pm today my sermon was actually finished. It was nearly 1pm precisely when I completed a practice run in the sanctuary sans congregation (I almost always try to practice preaching my sermon before Sunday). This is very unusual, because normally I'm working on my sermons until sometime late on Saturday afternoon or even late Saturday evening. What makes this especially odd is that I told my wife that I was pretty sure that I would be done at that time. And then I finish, look down at my watch, and voila, I am done! More than unusual, it's also special, because that means I have a Saturday to use at my and my family's disposal (that is, barring any sort of unanticipated congregational emergency or unexpected natural disaster). I'm very much looking forward to tomorrow, especially now that it's a day off.

And overall this has been an encouraging week in ministry. We had a great business meeting on Monday evening where I discovered that one of my deacons had been having very similar thoughts on our worship service that I had been having. Looks like there will be some challenging and exciting changes up ahead. People at the meeting were wonderfully receptive, largely because of the recognition that any church needs to grow and change if it is going to be relevant to an increasingly un-churched yet still needy community.

On Tuesday evening we had our Valentine's Day supper. We planned for a maximum of 50 and had around 40+ attend, including some folks from the community who don't go to our church or haven't in years. The food was terrific, and the fellowship, I think, was even better. So often at these suppers people eat and run, but people that night stayed and chatted. We started at 6:30 and there were still plenty of peopl around more than an hour later. I can only pray that the Lord will use that occasion to encourage some to consider coming on Sunday morning.

And on Wednesday I wrote a song. That was a complete gift from God. I hadn't done this in some time and on this particular day hadn't planned on it either. I just started noodling around. It began with a few words and a chorus, and a few hours later I ended up with a song that I will sing in church on Sunday. It sort of fits the theme of the message. I'm going to try and teach it to the congregation--which is to say, I will invite them to sing along. It is a worship song, and such music usually sounds better with more than one voice.

Tonight is youth group. Unfortunately, this is one of the ministries that is really struggling in our church. No thanks to me, it suffers from a lack of attention and time. But I do find that with everything else on my plate, it is very difficult to plan a great deal. I really want our kids to grow in their faith, but it's hard, too, when half the group are siblings. I can't imagine that that is easy for them. We need more kids involved, and we need one or two people who can really take a youth ministry on. I was told by a pastor friend when we started youth group a year and a half ago: "You can't do it." By this he meant, you can't do it. You need someone else to do it, to be passionate about it, to have the time and energy to put into it. I'm beginning to see his point.

That's church life, I suppose. Areas of strength are matched by areas of weakness (or areas in need of development). But I am grateful that I am beginning to see encouraging signs. And I am grateful that there are others who see the need for the same changes. And I am grateful, right now, that I have tomorrow off before another week of ministry begins.

Weather or Not . . .

Already it's started. If I look outside, I can see the snow coming down. At this point I've lost track of how many snowstorms we've had since December (or earlier?), but it's been several years since we've had so much snow. At first, it was kinda cool. It reminded me of my own childhood. So when we got wolloped around New Year's, it was actually sort of exciting, especially for my little girl.

But then it never stopped.

And what I find the most inconvenient and annoying about it all is that lots of stuff ends up getting cancelled or postponed. Sunday school gets cancelled (actually, considering we were up all night with our daughter, that worked for me -- see previous post), business meetings and church suppers get postponed, and you have to dig yourself out of an avalanche before you can get the car out of the driveway and send your wife and child to their doctor's appointment, because you forgot that your regular plowman is away. That was fun.

So you just can't depend on any plans you've made. That's the biggest problem. Every time you schedule an event or have an appointment, you have to consider a possible snow date. Just in case. The question is always weather or not we'll be able to go forward with whatever is on the calendar.

A couple of days ago at our church business meeting I happened to mention that we were supposed to get lots of snow today (and freezing rain, incidentally). The person to whom I said this gave me a rather cold stare since I was the bearer of obviously bad news--and then she told that I should be praying that God would keep us from getting a storm! Well, I didn't. And now it's snowing. But as I said then, God, in his infinitely wise sovereignty, might have his reasons for sending us even more snow. And besides, I rarely pray about weather unless I'm praying for travelling safety for someone.

So while at the beginning of all this snow, I was gleeful and glad, because I like it when the seasons of the year are actually like the seasons of the year, I'm pretty sure we've had more than our share of winter. I'm now looking forward to the thaw. I'm looking forward to being able to put away the shovel. And I'm looking forward not to have to cancel or postpone things because of the snow. I'm looking forward to spring--to the emergence of new life, longer days, and warmer weather. Weather or not it'll come soon, I guess I just have to wait and see.

The adventure of a night-time . . .

It's been an unusual couple of days.

It all started when I found out that I would have a funeral to do today--Sunday--and that we were also supposed to get a storm on this very day. And we did get some snow, but not nearly as much as they were forecasting. Good for us, since we had some driving to do.

For some reason, I ended up having real trouble working on the message for this funeral. Many of the family are not believers, though the deceased, a wonderful lady from our church, was. That makes knowing what to say and how to say it a little tricky and sensitive. This is especially so since this family have faced a number of similar losses over the last couple of years. Thankfully, the message did come together. I finished around 1am this morning. It wasn't my best sermon, that's for sure, but I was mostly pleased.

The next unusual occurrence happened after I finished this sermon. Like I said, I finished preparing the sermon late last night/early this morning and when I finally settled in our bed it was somewhere in the vicinity of 1:30am. And I had no sooner settled down (for a long winter's nap?) when our three-year old daughter woke up with what sounded like the croup. Poor girl, she sounded absolutely miserable. Exposing her to lots of steam by taking her into the bathroom with the shower water on hot and full didn't seem to break it. Neither did covering her up except for her face and taking her out in the cold. That's when the tele-care nurse suggested we take her to out-patients or emergency just to be safe. So we did. At 2:30am.

What's kind of funny about the story at this point is that once she was in our car, she began to become much more alert and awake, and she began talking up a storm, joking, singing, and generally acting very happy, even with the hoarse cough and raspy voice. Up until we left, she was beside herself with misery and just wanted to be left alone to sleep.

Emergency proved fruitless. After an hour and a half of waiting with no visible end in sight, we decided to take her back home. This was around 4:30am, and our decision was in part prompted by another young woman who let us know that she had been waiting since 9pm! Yikes! At that rate, we would have been there until sometime late morning. So we left for home and arrived, after a sleepy drive during which my wife diligently made sure I stayed awake, at around 5:30am. And then we crashed, pretty sure that if the storm didn't result in a cancelled Sunday school that we would not be going. But there was snow--and so we didn't have to make that choice.

The strangeness of the day didn't fully end there. I left my wife and little girl home while I trudged tiredly off to church to preach, and when I got there found out that my pianist would not be coming either because of the roads. Understandably so, since they were very messy. Our hymns, therefore, were improvised and sung a cappella. It more or less worked, but with the frame of mind I was in, it left an odd tint on the service. My mind was not entirely present to the proceedings.

And as a result of the snow, a church dinner was also postponed.

I did the funeral. My wife sang at the funeral. Ultimately, all went fine. Except for such glitches as forgetting the hard copy of some hymn lyrics, which my wife had to then sing by memory, and my knocking the TV power cord from the socket during the deceased's video tribute while slipping a note to the organist (which sounds rather clandestine, doesn't it?). Oddly, that caused little disturbance. One of the deceased's daughters more than graciously accepted my quick but sincere apology.

All in all, it just felt like an odd couple of days. A little left of normal. And after all was said and done, we just felt--unsurprisingly--very tired. We came home and basically did not do much of anything. I plan on doing much the same tomorrow. Well, not completely.

Through it all, I hope and pray that God was still at work, even though my ministry was performed through layers of exhaustion. Oddly enough, despite my lack of complete satisfaction with my own "performance," people who attended the funeral seemed genuinely appreciative of our ministry. That certainly says something about how God can use despite ourselves, especially after the adventure of a night-time when you're awake into the early hours with your sick little girl.

We are not alone . . .

Though I don't read anywhere near enough, I do try to plant my nose solidly in a book as much as possible. And usually I have one or more books on the go. Both as a pastor and even simply as a follower of Jesus, I read in part to know I'm not alone, to be reassured that my own experiences, frustrations, failings, hopes, and aspirations don't completely mark me off as an oddity among my brothers and sisters in the faith. Thankfully, I often discover that I am not alone.

One of my favourite writers at the moment is Mark Buchanan, a pastor and writer from BC. His reflections and explorations of the Christian life have a way of penetrating mind and heart. And I think this is so because while he is a pastor he freely admits to his own failings (though not necessarily specific sins) and places himself among the body of Christ rather than above it. He writes on the Christian life as a means of dissecting the issues that he himself has faced as a disciple of Jesus--and in so doing he manages to unearth truths from Scripture, distilled through his experience, that reverberate and echo in my heart as well. Though often we feel alone in our struggles as believers, we are usually not the first to feel what we feel and to face the problems we face.

This is especially comforting to me as a pastor, because sometimes, wrong or not, I can feel as though I need to have it more together than everyone else in church. It's though what makes a pastor effective is that he (or she) is immune to the daily toils and troubles that assault the rest of Jesus' followers. We have to exist and live somewhere between the clouds of heaven and the dirt of the earth. But this isn't true at all. And it may not even be what people in the pews think. I hope that it isn't. All I know is that I do not feel immune nor do I have the ability to don angels' wings and view matters from above. I am here just like everyone else. And, wonderfully, so is our God. He who is heaven also was on earth in Jesus; and he continues to be present here by his Spirit for those who trust him.

So I read. I read to know that I'm not alone. I read for other reasons too but that's not a bad place to begin. I'm currently reading Buchanan's book Your God is Too Safe. And this past Christmas someone gave me his book Hidden in Plain Sight. That one I've already devoured. I've also read The Rest of God and The Holy Wild. I heartily recommend any or all of them. Maybe as you follow Jesus, you'll discover in reading that you too are not alone.

In these earthly vessels

I just got a phone call letting me know that someone related to one of our church families has passed away. It was not wholly unexpected, but even so is still difficult and sad. And I had already received a phone call earlier today that a lady from our church who had been in hospital recovering from a stroke passed away late last night. Again, this was not a surprise, but that doesn't make it any easier. In addition to this, there are others in our church who have recently had surgery and others with serious health concerns. All serve as a reminder that our bodies are not always our friends. I'm only 35 and it's easy to think that I have a long life ahead of me. But when I see a young man 15 years younger than me going through chemotherapy and surgery, a long life is not something I can assume will be mine. We never know when our limbs, organs, bones, and flesh may betray us. We are frail creatures, living in earthen vessels.

So many people in this world live only for this life. They put all their eggs in the same earthly basket. Considering how unreliable most things in this life are, including our own bodies, that's a scary thought. I know that when I look at all the people around me who are sick, it can almost overwhelming. It can be discouraging. Sickness, disease, illness, injury, and, ultimately, death. None of it seems natural to me. It seems, instead, profoundly wrong.

I think of those Jesus healed, of the throngs of disease and demon ridden people who swarmed him: "When Jesus heard what had happened, he withdrew by boat privately to a solitary place. Hearing of this, the crowds followed him on foot from the towns. When Jesus landed and saw a large crowd, he had compassion on them and healed their sick (Matt. 14:13, 14)." Even Jesus couldn't get away from it. Yet he had compassion. Well, he was the Son of God; he is compassion in bodily form. Jesus, too, it seems, recognized the profound incongruity between God's intent for creation and creation as it was: fallen, broken, misshapen, and in need of redemption.

I don't usually go about my days with a profound sense of my own mortality. I'm not sick. I feel mostly well. I have no major health problems. My physical body faces few limitations beyond those common to most. But I never really know. I could find myself facing MRIs and frightening diagnoses at any time. The funny thing is, I'm not sure why it seems to take something life-threatening to make us realize how frail we actually are. With rare exception, we live as though we are immortal, as if nothing we do to our bodies will ultimately bring us harm. No wonder those occasions when death is staring us straight in the face, whether in the mirror or through the eyes of a loved one, we find ourselves so much more vulnerable. And open. Open to the fact that God has something better in mind for us. Between creation and new creation there is a great groaning, a waiting for God to renew and remake, remold and reshape, to bring his purposes to completion. Paul speaks of this: "We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption, the redemption of our bodies (Romans 8:23)." And so the only way that I can see to put up with all this groaning--the pain, trials, illnesses, frailty, physical sufferings, diseases--is to trust that God, through Christ, will indeed redeem these earthen vessels in which we live. It's also the only way to deal with the groanings of those around, those whom we love, who in reminding us of our mortality also point the way to our hope, and "if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently."

Things Beside the Point . . .

One of the most conspicuous features of Mark's Gospel is its pace. Things happen quickly. Amongst the four evangelists, Mark's work is akin to an action movie. Not a moment is wasted. There is little actual teaching in Mark. We see more of Jesus doing and moving than Jesus saying. He's heading toward Jerusalem, and more specifically, the cross. We learn this as readers in Mark 8:31: "Then he began to teach them that the Son of Man must undergo great suffering . . ." This occurs roughly midway through the narrative. No wonder many scholars refer to Mark as a passion narrative with an extended introduction. Jesus has a destination and proceeds toward it--and please pardon the pun--with a relentless passion. It seems, then, that Jesus is very goal-minded. The whole point of his ministry is to reach Jerusalem, the cross, and the destiny that he came to fulfill for us all.

Some of his disciples, it would seem, were also very goal-minded. They too were looking to the future and to what they thought the point of Jesus' ministry ought to be. In Mark 10 James and John, Jesus' second pair of converts, approach Jesus with a request: "Grant us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory." Jesus' response, though oblique, proves that they had no idea who Jesus really is and what it will take for them to sit with him in his glory. They wanted power, influence, authority. A certain greed was rearing its ugly head. No surprise, then, that the rest of the apostles were angry with them once they found out. And as usual, the dull-headedness of the disciples provides Jesus with significant opportunity to teach them what service truly means. He ties his mission and identity directly to what he expects of them: "Whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all. For the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve . . ."

What specific difference does this make? Look at Mark 10. In one story his disciples tried to prevent little children from approaching him. Jesus, they think, has more important things to do. "Don't disturb the Master," they say, "with such insignificant people!" Children had no status in Jesus' day. They were people beside the point. But precisely for this reason, Jesus admonished his disciples sternly and let them know that this children were precisely the point. A little later in the same chapter, a blind man cries out to Jesus for mercy. Many there try and shut him up. We don't know for sure if the disciples were among them. Whatever the case, the man just cries out louder. And Jesus stops. Jesus shows mercy. Jesus stops at the side of the road to heal a blind man crying out desperately for his touch. And then we are told that after he regained his sight he "followed him on his way."

People that many thought were incidental, distracting to the real work at hand, unimportant, and beside the point, Jesus treated as worthy of attention, time, and energy. Jesus often treated what people considered beside the point as the point. Yes, Jesus had an agenda. This agenda, this mission, meant proceeding towards the cross. But not at the expense of people; in fact, he proceeded toward the cross--a destination even his closest disciples did not yet understand--precisely for these very people. "The Son of Man came not to be served but to serve . . ."

What his disciples didn't get in their immature and hungry grab for power was that power was not on Jesus' "to do" list. They were only concerned for themselves. James and John, in vying for positions alongside Jesus, missed the point entirely. The little children were the point. The blind man crying out desperately for mercy and for his sight was the point. Jesus was giving up his life for "the least of these."

How often do I do the same thing? How often do I overlook and shove aside that which Christ wants front and center? How often do I do that because I am more interested in personal gain and self-interest than I am in the needs of those around me? We can make fun of those disciples (duh-ciples!) all we want, but we are more often like them than Jesus. Do I have an agenda that pushes away the least of these or do I allow my agenda to be shaped by the least of these? Jesus' passion and mission was restoring fellowship between God and anyone interested in that restoration, and this meant treating with respect, dignity, and a fierce love many that we normally see as beside the point when we're preoccupied with ourselves and our own self-important agendas. May we be more like Jesus, willing to stop at the road side to assist those crying out, knowing full well that doing so is a part of the journey along the road in the first place.

Getting into the Scriptures (or getting the Scriptures into us!)

One of the things I've been thinking about a great deal lately is Scripture. This is the narrative of our God's dealings with us. It tells us the story of our creation, our sin and disobedience, and our redemption through Jesus and the ultimate victory promised to those who remain faithful to him. It is our source of wisdom, divine instruction, practical advice on how to conduct ourselves as the people of God, and it is, supposedly, our authority in all matters of faith and practice. And yet.

And yet we don't read our Bibles enough. We neglect them. We are not soaked in them. We don't follow Peterson's (and John's and Ezekiel's) admonition to "eat this book." Instead, we are often culture-soaked, enveloped and engulfed by the messages we receive from the internet and television, music and the movies. Despite the fact that I'm a pastor, this is still something that I continue to learn as well. And so our Bibles sit on mantles, in hotel drawers, on coffee tables, night-stands, etc., conspicuously unread.

But that's not entirely true, nor is it entirely fair. The Bible is not the most friendly, accessible book. It can be intimidating. It can be unwieldy. It can be discouraging to read a verse, a chapter, or even a large chunk of one of its 66 books and realize that you have no idea what it all means. There is narrative. There is poetry. There is apocalyptic literature. There are letters. There are gospels. There are prophets denouncing God's people and announcing imminent doom and destruction. There are odd customs. There is holy war. There is what some might call ethnic cleansing. There are long lists of names (geneaologies). There are lists upon lists of arcane rules that appear to have no relevance for the nineteenth-century, much less the twenty-first! There are culture gaps of thousands of years and miles that separate us from the events and people in the Bible. Is it any wonder that it's hard to get into (and even more difficult to get it into us)?

That's why I'm very excited about the newest addition of the Bible the International Bible Society is releasing this August called The Books of the Bible. What excites me most about this--and if you follow the link, you'll see for yourself--is that they are doing whatever they can to make the Bible more accessible and readable while still maintaining its integrity. All the books are still there, even if re-arranged into their probable historical order and in relation to other books of a similar theme, thrust, or style. Gone is the two-column format which makes our Bibles look more like a phone book than something we may want to read. Gone are the in-text chapter and verse divisions. Gone are the headings. And relegated to the back of each book are the study notes. The effect is that the Bible now looks like a book we might actually read.

Granted, it is still the Bible. All of the books are in tact. Obviously. But this format restores the text. It removes it, hopefully, from our tendency to proof-text and atomize our Scriptures. And while it may prove more difficult to use this edition to memorize specific verses or passages, it hopefully will encourage a fuller reading--one that doesn't stop because of numbers which separate. "What God has joined together, let not man put asunder." I know, that's a poor example of proof-texting my point, but you get the picture. Those chapter and verse divisions are not original to the Bible, and as helpful as they are, they also prevent us sometimes from experiencing the Scriptures as one ongoing narrative, as a collection of whole books that reveal to us God at work in history and the world.

In my opinion, I am very appreciative of whatever will get us into our Bibles more easily. There are enough inherent barriers to good Bible reading that we need to overcome through study and homework, but the very manner of how our Bibles have traditionally been published and printed are themselves barriers to even cracking the spine. Eugene Peterson's The Message already had used a single column format without chapter and verse divisions; and it meant that we could pick up our Bibles like any other book, that is, in a format that was welcoming. I think of kids who inherit King James Bibles from their grandparents and can't understand a word of it. And given the offense and scandal of the biblical message, which makes it both bitter and sweet, whatever we can do to get the Scriptures into us is great news. In fact, it is good news. And isn't that what the Bible is all about in the first place?

Books and Pastors

I find that at the moment, books have become my pastors. The pastoral life can be confusing, isolating, bewildering, exhilirating, joyful, and frustrating. It all depends on the day of the week sometimes. And in the midst of all the challenges that that are likely inevitable, I too need people who can show me the way and ground me responsibly in my calling, both as a follower of Jesus and as a pastor. Such help often shows up in people who write books about this life in Christ that we find ourselves thrown into by the mysterious yet faithful grace of God.

Yesterday, I was wishing I had something helpful and encouraging to read. I started scanning my bookshelves--on which there is no lack of books!--and my eyes landed providentially on a book I purchased nearly a year ago but had barely touched: David Hansen's The Art of Pastoring: Ministry Without All the Answers. Already I've read a good chunk of this book and have been encouraged and challenged, not only in my pastoral calling but in my Christian walk in general. The chapters on temptation and eschatology are so far the ones that have challenged my thinking the most. I read something like this and I realize how much we misunderstand ministry and the Christian life. We try to boost ourselves and our churches up by employing management-style programs--which means we are ultimately trying to manage ourselves and our churches without recourse to God, who is our life and end goal. Reading Hansen reminds me that the life of a pastor is nothing short of being a "parable of Jesus," and that the pastor is but a concentrated example of what every follower of Christ is called to be. I will be processing the truths of this book for a long time.

I've also just started reading a book by Eugene Peterson and Marva Dawn, The Unnecessary Pastor: Rediscovering the Call. So far, so good. But almost every page Peterson graces with his pen rings with truths you felt but could never express or dared not imagine. And this book also makes me want to pick up more stuff by Marva Dawn. Another great book is Peterson's The Jesus Way. This, along with Christ Plays in Ten Thousand Places and Eat This Book, represent Peterson's first three volumes of a projected five-volume opus on spiritual theology. Worth ten times their weight in gold, these books speak more than hundred of volumes on Church strategy, management, growth, and health.

I've realized that I tend toward books that tell me the truth rather than books that just give me good ideas or ideas the author proposes are good or are based on sound social science research or business techniques. I agree with Hansen, when he says, "I discovered that spending a day reading thirty pages of Karl Barth's Dogmatics helped me more in my pastoral work than a hundred pages of how-to literature." While I haven't read much Barth lately, I resonate with these words. I want depth. I constantly want to feed my identity in Christ. I want authors who will tell the truth, which may include being told things I don't want to hear. I want to read authors on the spiritual and pastoral life whose words are a prescription against the seemingly unwavering tendency I have to take shortcuts, avoid prayer, avoid loving people, and to do whatever I can except what I ought to be doing. I want authors who do more than quote Scripture when convenient for their purposes; I want authors steeped in the salvation-narrative of Scripture, the grand story of redemption given to us through the Father, Son, and Spirit. I want authors and books that remind me of the truth, because even if the truth sometimes hurts, it is still what sets us free.

A little something for Father's Day

Well, tomorrow is Father's Day. And below is my sermon for that very occasion. Although since not every man in our church is in fact a father, I'm addressing it to all the men of the church. Hope you enjoy!

"Men After God's Own Heart"
1 Samuel 16: 1 -- 13; Acts 13: 22

Introduction—“The Lord looks on the heart”
(David and his brothers—1 Samuel 16: 7)

What is the measure of a man? I’m sure if we were to take a survey some of the following things would appear: physical strength, physical appearance, money, success, power and position. Maybe more positive things would also make the list. But in general our culture has a superficial view of what makes a man a man.

And this was no different in David’s day. God told Samuel to go Bethlehem, the home of Jesse, to have a church service and to invite Jesse and his boys. God was going to choose a new man to lead his people. So once Samuel got there Jesse paraded all of his sons before him. And with the appearance of the first son Samuel thought, “Well, God, this guy looks pretty impressive. This must be the one.” But God let Samuel in on an important little secret: “The Lord does not see as mortals see; they look on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.”

All of David’s brothers were probably impressive by outward standards—but none of them passed muster. What’s funny is that Jesse didn’t even think David worthy enough to invite to the party. So after Samuel had gone through the list, and God had vetoed each of Jesse’s sons as potential kings, Samuel sheepishly asked, “Are all your sons here?” In other words, Samuel thought, “Maybe this Jesse guy is holding back.” Jesse, maybe a little embarrassed, sent for David. When he arrived God told Samuel, “This is the one.” And as God told Samuel, “The Lord looks on the heart.”

This morning I want to look at David as an example of a man after God’s own heart and to say that this is how God measures the man: the heart. Acts 13: 22 says: “I have found David, son of Jesse, to be a man after my heart, who will carry out all my wishes.” David’s life is evidence for all of us that men who make a habit of God will grow a heart for God. So this morning I want to look at four stories from David’s life that marked him out as a man after God’s own heart.

Having confidence in God—“The battle is the Lord’s”
(David and Goliath—1 Samuel 17: 47)

In our first story, young David, still a shepherd, later on found himself delivering provisions to his three eldest brothers, for they were part of the Israelite army and were on the front lines facing off against the Philistines. Unknown to him, the Israelites had already been challenged by the Philistine’s prize-fighter, Goliath. Every time this ten-foot warrior stepped out into the light, the Israelite army fled to the shadows, terrified.

So David shows up with food for his brothers, and while chatting with them out walks Goliath, insulting the Israelite army. David, the runt of the litter, can’t believe that no one is willing to take on Goliath. He says as much: “For who is this uncircumcised Philistine that he should defy the armies of the living God?”

And when he said this, his brothers even got ticked off at him and told him to mind his own business—what did he know about war and battle and what it meant, well, to be a real man? Of course, all of this came from a bunch of guys who cowered in the corner every time Goliath showed his ugly face! Even Saul didn’t think much of David. “For you are just a boy,” observes Saul. Failing to see David’s heart—and therefore the Lord’s—all he sees is the outward appearance.

David gathers five smooth rocks from a brook and then moves in to square off against Goliath. Already he’s been ignored and insulted by his brothers and Saul, so now the armoured behemoth chimes in: “Am I a dog, that you come to me with sticks?”

David makes sure that Goliath and everyone else knows how he can stand up to an enemy of such might and stature: “You come to me with sword . . . but I come to in the name of the Lord . . . the Lord will deliver you into my hand . . . so that all the earth may know that the Lord does not save by sword . . . for the battle is the Lord’s.” How many times does David refer to the Lord? And then David slung one of those stones through the air and it landed smack in the middle of Goliath’s forehead—the story says it “sank into his forehead”—and he fell to the ground dead.

Everyone else only believed what they saw with their eyes. Tall giant. Young kid. No chance. But that’s not what David saw. He saw a God that had already rescued him from bears and lions. He saw a God who was a living God, who was present and active. David’s confidence was in the Lord.

David called God the living God—this is not a god of museum and memory, trapped in the past, but a living God, available, reliable, stable, present, and personal. This was God—the living God—and he was worthy of David’s confidence and trust. When David faced Goliath, he wasn’t doing so alone—“the battle is the Lord’s,” he said.

As a man after God’s own heart, he had confidence and trust in the living God. If we are to be men after God’s own heart, we too need to be confident in God, the living God. Having confidence means more than believing in God. When I am confident that someone I know will do something or act a certain way, that’s the sort of confidence we’re talking about here. Our confidence is in God, not ourselves.

Being present to the living God—“O Lord God, you are God”
(David and God—2 Samuel 7: 28)

The second story isn’t a story; it’s a prayer. And it’s more than one prayer; it’s a book of prayers. I’m talking about the book of Psalms. David’s life was a prayed life; he lived in the presence of the living God. Having confidence in the living God doesn’t happen just by accident; it happens when we talk to this God, when we speak to him, and when we listen to him. If David was anything, despite his sins and failures, it was this: he was pretty consistently present to the living God.

To take one example, listen to Psalm 27. “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? When evildoers assail me to devour my flesh—my adversaries and foes—they shall stumble and fall.” David had fought plenty of enemies, but when I hear these words, I think of his confrontation with Goliath—“the battle is the Lord’s.”

And here is another, Psalm 56: “Be gracious to me, O God, for people trample on me; all day long foes oppress me; my enemies trample on me all day long, for many fight against me. O Most High, when I am afraid, I put my trust in you. In God whose word I praise, in God I trust; I am not afraid; what can flesh do to me?” Being present to the living God, being confident in him, doesn’t mean we never fear what’s going on. Even David knew fear. But being present to God means turning to him when we’re afraid just as David did.

If we men want to learn what it means to be men of prayer, we can turn to David and to the Psalms—he is our teacher and they are our school. David didn’t allow the reality of his enemies to define him; he lived a God-defined life. God was at the center, not the circumference. You know why coming together on Sundays to worship is important? It’s not because God is confined to this time and this place, but because our tendency to neglect him, as Eugene Peterson says, “is so relentless that if we don’t deliberately interrupt ourselves regularly, we have no chance of attending to him at all at other times and in other places.”

Being present to God—through regular worship, prayer, and reading Scripture—will be what helps us to have confidence in the living God. Like David, we are called to be men who cry out to our God, like in his prayer in 2 Samuel 7, “O Lord God, you are God, and your words are true.”

Cultivating friendships from God—“He loved him as he loved his own life”
(David and Jonathan—1 Samuel 20: 17)

But we can’t do this alone. If we want to be present to and have confidence in the living God, there is no such thing as rugged individualism. There is no such thing as lone ranger Christianity. No man is an island. Insert your macho cliché here. None fit what it means to be man after God’s own heart.

David, you see, eventually earned an enemy in Saul. Because of his success against Goliath, Saul decided to put him in charge of the army. And when David began racking up victory after victory, the comparisons started: “Saul has killed his thousands, and David his ten thousands.” Saul was not impressed by the comparison. He soon became David’s enemy. “I will pin David to the wall,” said Saul. And Saul attempted this on more than one occasion.

But David was not alone. There was Jonathan, Saul’s son, of whom it says in 1 Samuel 18, “was bound to the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul.” Jonathan and David were as committed to one another as two friends could be. You can see their friendship unfold in 1 Samuel 18 – 20. One part of the story goes like this. Jonathan had already convinced his father once—or so he thought—to leave David alone. Jonathan saved David’s life. So later when David told Jonathan that Saul was still out to get him, Jonathan didn’t want to believe it. So David cooked up a scheme to prove to Jonathan that he wasn’t just being paranoid.

Once when David was supposed to join Saul for dinner, he and Jonathan concocted a cover story to explain why David was a no-show. David instead had to go and join a religious celebration with his family. If Saul had no intentions to murder David, then all would be fine. But if he had planned on using this chance to murder David, he’d be angry. And this is exactly what happened. Jonathan fed his father the story about David having to visit his family and Saul was furious.

So Jonathan realized David’s fears were well-founded. And Saul also figured out that David and Jonathan were in cohoots. This put Jonathan’s life in danger, and Saul attached him too. Saul “threw his spear at him to strike him.” He saved David’s life again.

That’s a friend. And David needed such a friend. Jonathan “loved him as he loved his own life.” Jonathan’s friendship with David revealed a deep, Christ-like love, one willing to go more than the extra mile. “No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friend,” said Jesus to his disciples. “The Lord shall be between you and me,” says Jonathan to David.

So much of life is anti-God and anti-Christ. And it seems so often that life is out to get us. This is why we need friendships. To be men after God’s own heart, we need friendships with other men who are after God’s own heart. Such friendships help us remain confident in God even when life tells us it’s senseless to do so and helps us remain present to God even when life does everything possible to distract us from prayer and worship. Such friends may even save our lives.

Recognizing our sin before God—“I have sinned against the Lord”
(David and Bathsheba—2 Samuel 12: 13)

But after all of this, there remains one more story to tell. Sometimes the men who pursue God with the fiercest devotion, men like David, can fall into the deepest traps. For all of his accomplishments and victories, David was not invulnerable to temptation and sin.

Our last story, in 2 Samuel 11, begins like this: “In the spring of the year, the time when kings go out to battle . . .” When kings go out to battle. But what does David do? David sent Joab his commander to lead the battle and stayed behind. David the king is acting, it seems, decidedly un-kingly. Here we have an older David, one who is perhaps weary of fighting.

The man who once as a boy squared off against Goliath and escaped the clutches of Saul, who prayed as a refugee in the wilderness, who fought victories and won by the help of the Lord, now remains comfortably behind in his palace. And what happens as a result?

With nothing else to occupy his attention, David is lazily strolling about on the roof of his palace. From there he spies a beautiful woman. Liking what he sees, he finds out who she is and has her brought to him and sleeps with her. Her name is Bathsheba and she was married. But of course, she likely did not have much a choice in this lurid transaction—how much of a willing participant could she be? After all, David was the king! And David, thinking he’s more or less gotten away with it, sends her home after he’s gotten what he wanted. This is bad enough, but that’s not the worst of it.

Bathsheba sends David a message. She’s pregnant, and there’s no way this is her husband’s child because he’s in the field fighting. “Uh-oh,” David thinks, “This isn’t good. Now what do I do?” He sends for Uriah, Bathsheba’s husband, ostensibly to get a report on the battle. This is all a ploy. David figures he can get Uriah to go to bed with his wife while home. Uriah says, “All my fellow soldiers are still fighting and so there’s no way I can enjoy my home and be with my wife. It wouldn’t be right.” Uriah is the honourable one. So David instructs Joab to make sure that in the next melee Uriah gets in the line of fire. And so it happens. Uriah is killed. David literally gets away with murder. That is, until the prophet Nathan, at the prompting of the Lord, pays David a visit.

Nathan tells David a story about a man who has all kinds of sheep. He’s a rich man, one of the wealthiest in town, but when a house guest is on the way this arrogant rich man decides to take a sheep from the poorest man in town—the only sheep he had!—to prepare a meal for his guest rather than use one of his own. David, thinking this story to be literally true, is incensed. And he wants justice. “The man who has done this deserves to die,” says David. Then Nathan’s punchline nails David squarely on the jaw: “You are the man!” The truth comes out. David is found out. And David, cut to the heart, laments, “I have sinned against the Lord.”

We’re going to sin. That’s a given. David’s sin had come home to roost. He had exploited and demeaned Bathsheba, and he had deceived and killed Uriah. Worst of all, he had “sinned against the Lord.” This man, upon whose heart God had looked with favour all those years ago, who had shown his confidence in God before a Philistine giant, and enjoyed a friendship given to him by God, and who had spent his life being present before God in worship and prayer, had now violated this relationship to end all relationships: he had taken God from the center and put himself first. The result is a violated woman and a dead soldier. And the child born to Bathsheba also dies, despite David’s tears, prayers, and fasting. Sin leads to death—not David’s, but he is left to deal with the aftermath, to contend with the consequences.

David’s response to his sin is a lesson for all of us. He worshipped. We see this response in Psalm 51. “Create in me a clean heart,” David cries. “Do not cast me away from your presence,” he pleads. “My sin is ever before me,” he confesses. “Wash me thoroughly,” he prays. And when we sin, David’s prayers become ours. Having confidence in God—being present to him—includes how we deal with our sin. We recognize our sin before God. We let him deal with our sin. We confess. We cry out. We plead. We pray. Listen to what David says in Psalm 32:

“While I kept silence, my body wasted away through my groaning all day long. For day and night your hand was heavy upon me.” But, thankfully, the Psalm doesn’t end there. David continues, “Then I acknowledged my sin to you, and I did not hide my iniquity; I said, ‘I will confess my transgressions to the Lord,’ and you forgave the guilt of my sin.” Like I said, when we mess up, David’s prayers become ours.

Conclusion—“A man after my heart”
(David and us—Acts 13: 22)

So, what makes a real man? Instead of asking that question today, let’s ask whether we are men after God’s own heart. Let’s ask ourselves these questions:

First, do I have confidence in God? Do I believe that “the battle is the Lord’s” like David? Do I believe that God will act faithfully? Do I believe that God is who he says he is?

Second, am I praying regularly, reading my Bible regularly, worshipping regularly, attending church regularly? Am I attending to the reality of God in my life? Do I make sure that I deliberately set time aside to worship, to be present to God?

Third, am I cultivating friendships from God? Do I have godly friends who encourage me to read my Bible, pray, and go to church to worship? Do I encourage other men to do this? Who has God placed in my life to help me be a man after his heart?

And last, do I recognize my sin for what it is? Do I openly confess before God when I try to go my own way rather than his way? Am I willing to fess up to my wrongs? Do I open myself up to the forgiveness God offers?

I mentioned at the start today God’s description of David from Acts 13: 22: “I have found David, son of Jesse, to be a man after my heart, who will carry out all my wishes.” Men who make a habit of God will grow a heart for God. What kind of men do we want to be? Do we want to spend our lives trying to get our own way or would we rather live for God and do what he wants to do?

Being a man after God’s own heart means wanting his will accomplished in our lives rather than our own. It means having a heart of confident in God. It means having a heart of loyalty and friendship, a heart that finds life and joy in worship, fellowship with God in prayer, and one willing to admit when we’ve screwed up big time and we’ve got no one to blame but ourselves. In the end, having a heart for God means being able to say along with David, “You show me the path of life. In your presence there is fullness of joy; in your right hand are pleasures forevermore.” Because whatever we see, or what we think others see, it is what the Lord sees that matters, and “the Lord looks on the heart.”

The myth of having it all together

I admit it, I like having all of my ducks in a row. I like it when things are more or less neat and tidy, whether we're talking about the house or life in general. I remember someone saying to me once that outer order was an indicator of inner order. And so I must confess that for a long time, I really bought into that. Such a belief would manifest itself--and still does occasionally--in the need to straighten up my office, say, before I begin working in it. And I don't just mean the desk I'm going to work at; I mean the whole office. The same happens at home. There are moments when there's lots of housework to do and until it's done, I find it hard to feel comfortable in my own home. Now, of course, I would argue that this is ok and reasonable to some extent. If I'm going to work at my desk, I should clear it off first; and if I want to read in a chair at home, I can't do so if a bunch of my daughter's toys are piled on it. Not many of us prefer to live and work in squalor! Not that our house is ever rife with squalor, but you get my meaning. And, unsurprisingly, this need for outer order really rears its ugly head when we know we have houseguests or visitors coming--there's that mad impulse to get everything done in time, to sweep up all the dust bunnies, rid the rooms of clutter, and, for goodness sake, make sure the bathroom is shiny and bright! It often, for us, takes the form of a whirlwind of cleaning the night before. There are many of us who suffer from such chaos or "can't-have-anybody-over-syndrome." I'm sure we all know what that's like.

And again, I'm not saying that keeping our house is a bad thing. Surely not. Heck, there's almost nothing I enjoy more than a house that has recently been cleaned and tidied! We recently had some Spring-cleaning days here at our church, and it felt very good to do here what most of do at home: get rid of clutter, junk, dust, and hopefully make things feel a little more welcoming, both for ourselves and also for anyone else who happens to drop by. Doing all this is a sign of hospitality.

But . . .

I occasionally wonder if the impulse to impose this sort of outer order on our lives and circumstances is a form of perfectionism borne of the often unexpressed feeling that we have to have it all together. And that we ought to be ashamed if we don't have it all together. Because we all know that the reason we want to have everything clean and in its rightful place when visitors come is that we're worried they'll think less of us if we don't. And along with this worry we assume that everyone else must have it all together. "No one else lets this much dust gather under their end-tables, do they? Of course not!"

But we don't have it altogether; none of us does. That's true in all of life's facets, whether family life, marriage, work, ministry or whatever. We are forever missing the mark. The funny thing, though, is that we guilt-trip ourselves because we think we should have it all together. We lay an extra burden on ourselves (and sometimes those around us, mostly those whom we love and live with). When engaged couples are going through pre-marital counseling, an important thing for them to talk about is the gap between expectations versus reality. And this is important for all of us, married or not. We are constantly experiencing the gap that exists between expectations and reality, because so often our expectations are not realistic. So we don't have it all together. And this is true, by the way, even if you're able to maintain outer order and look as though you have it all together. You're just hiding behind appearances that much more effectively. A clean house is no indicator of having it all together on the inside.

In Genesis 1, God creates order out of chaos. Out of the soupy nothingness of the primordial mess of pre-creation, God brings shape and form into being. Only God has it all together; and only God can bring it all together. This is true of the wide expanse of all the cosmos, from every star and nebula to every insect and microbe, and it's also true of us. The entire narrative of salvation, given to us in Scripture, is a testimony that only God can take the mess and chaos of our lives and relationships, places of work and worship, and make them into what they should be. In every single instance where we have attempted to go it on our own and impose order on the world we have gone off the rails badly. Look at Eden. And look at Babel. Take a close look at the history of Israel. Clearly we don't do well when we try and run our own lives. Our attempts at ordering the chaos more often than not results in more chaos; we are forever mucking things up and causing trouble. And so, God. Only he can bring order out of chaos. Only he can knit the various threads of our lives into a meaningful and redemptive pattern. Only he can untangle the knots we have made of ourselves and our circumstances.

But we persist. We continue to feel as though we have to have it all together. We're afraid that someone may, so to speak, catch us with our pants down, unprepared and completely in disarray. The impulse to clean completely before company arrives is almost a sign of inner disorder, the fact that we think we have to be the ones to create meaning and give our lives their form. And we think that others will think poorly of us because our lives don't give the appearance of order. We worry that our outer disorder will be taken as a sign of inner disorder. But maybe the opposite is true. Letting that dirty laundry fester in the basement (nice image, eh?) or allowing the dirty dishes to sit in the sink for another hour or two might be the thing to do if it means taking the time to laugh and play with my daughter or spend an evening with my wife. Do I live that way, however? Of course not. At least not always. I'm just as obsessed with outer order as anyone. But I hope that I am gradually learning to recover from this.

And how do we recover? We do so by praying the words of Genesis, and indeed the whole of Scripture, into our lives, by asking God to free us from the very impulse to do that which only he can accomplish. We need to stop playing at God and let God be God. Salvation includes more than our heavenly reward; salvation is also about the here and now, about how we allow our lives to be ordered by God. It means that the next time you find yourself obsessing over housework, remember that dusty floors and dirty laundry say almost nothing about the sort of order that really matters. And it means remembering, therefore, that only God can create the order that truly does matter. As it says in Genesis, "And God said . . . And it was so."