A Wise Wife and a Husband with Too Many Words: Tuesday Week 2 of Advent

It is not the will of your Father in heaven that one of these little ones should be lost. 

—Matthew 18:14

I love books. Books on religion. 

Philosophy. 

Language. 

Novels. 

Psychology. 

Science. 

You name it. 

In the process of all the reading, I get wrapped up in my comfy robe of words, making everything abstract, sophisticated, and theological. In the past couple of years, I've gone through a monumental deconstruction of my faith where I realized I padded my true thoughts and feelings with Bible verses and a vast library of theologians--something my wife never had much interest in. 

She always spoke of a loving God who surpassed everything we could know or fathom. I remember reading an author (who shall remain nameless) and talking to Taylor about how the "road was narrow"--how we would be surprised by how few people would be in heaven. 

Tay is an incredibly compassionate person. She listens like a sponge; there are few things that shock her. When I said this, her face contorted like I'd punched her. She said, 

"I think we'll be surprised by how many people are with us in heaven." 

I wanted desperately to believe her. But I could hear all of those red-faced, white, German, male theologians firing arguments in opposition. I'm sure I said something to argue back, but I don't remember. There was something in her words that struck me deep--like they were laced with the very Spirit of God. 

In hindsight, I think that conversation was one of the first dominoes to fall in the collapse of my old faith. It led to a painful, sometimes excruciating release of values I thought was important to me. But my faith resurrected into a more loving and open view of God, where I can read a verse like Matthew 8:14 and see the deep longings of the Divine and feel the hum of reverence tremble through me, untainted by the endless train of words and ideas meant to illuminate the reality of God, but too often, muddy the truth. 

May we remember that your coming was, is, and will be an act of love where you unite with your children. May we understand that words are just tools--metaphors and systems--a ladder to climb toward your Holy Presence. May we never exalt the words, but only the one the words speak of. 

Come, Lord Jesus. 

p.s. I know I teach English and ended a sentence with a preposition. It's something you need to deal with. 

Isaiah 40:1–11

Matthew 18:12–14

Here are the lyrics of a song by John Mark McMillan called "Death in Reverse". Check it out if the lyrics speak to you and know that if you have a vision or idea of God that isn't working for you any longer, it's ok to change and evolve. People have been doing in for thousands of years. 

You descend upon me like a rolling stone

Like black swan raging on for all that I know

You know it unnerves me when I lose control

And I'm, all out of options

And I'm, out of my head

Then I build my life around

Someone who I thought that I was

But it turns out

All the things I do to feel young

They only make me old

But You raise me

Like a baby

Like a fiery Phoenix bird

Oh, and You lift me up

Like Lazarus

You love me like death in reverse

You unearth me like a vein of gold

With the powers that drive up the flowers from the fold

You cast me, uncursed, unearth my body and my soul

Like fire from my ashes, like fire from my coals

And I build my life around

Someone who I thought that I was

But it turns out

All the things I do to feel young

They only make me old

But You raise me

Like a baby

Like a fiery Phoenix bird

Oh, and You lift me up

Like Lazarus

You love me like death

You love me like death

You love me like death in reverse

And all my life I've been

Fighting for a place I could thrive

But it turns out

All the things I do to survive

They only make me old

But You raise me

Like a baby

Like a fiery Phoenix bird

Oh, and You lift me up

Like Lazarus

You love me like death

You love me like death

You love me like death in reverse

Christ and The Headlines: Monday Week 2 of Advent

There isn't a day that goes by where we don't see a headline (or tweet) that sends us into a sense of

moral outrage. I was talking with some friends the other day about how I'm addicted to twitter because I savor seeing an article that makes me want to rip my shirt apart in a Hulkamania fury. The anger, I think can be good. But my disgruntled and resigned posture is not. But it's difficult to know how to respond when we see:

"59 Die in Las Vegas Attack"

"Act of Evil in San Antonio"

"White Nationalists March on University of Virgina" 

"Weinstein Paid off Harassment Cases for Years" 

The darkness is here. It takes the form of rampant xenophobia, racism, the class divide, mass shootings, and misogyny. Our pressing work, then, is to not to run from the darkness. Richard Rohr says, "Our Christian wisdom is to name the darkness as darkness, and the Light as light, and to learn how to live and work in the Light so that the darkness does not overcome us." We must resist and expose the darkness with the light of Christ. 

Banning a group of people from entering our nation because of their religion is darkness. 

Police brutality and our corrupt prison systems are darkness.

Wealth inequality is darkness. 

Violence is darkness. 

"Sexual misconduct" is darkness. 

May we not let our political affiliations or the tendency to throw up our hands in resignation keep us from understanding we live in a world of darkness. May we have the wisdom to bring light to where it isn't. Let "The wilderness and the dry land... be glad, the desert... rejoice and blossom," as we bring Christ to the desert. 

Come, Lord Jesus. 

Isaiah 35:1–10

Luke 5:17–26

Christ and Caesar: Sunday Week 2 of Advent

The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God. As it is written in the prophet Isaiah, "See, I am sending my messenger ahead of you, who will prepare your way; the voice of one crying out in the wilderness: 'Prepare the Way of the Lord, make his paths straight.'" 

-Mark 1:1-3

In the context of the Roman Empire, Mark's audience would have understood "the good news of Jesus Christ, the anointed king of Israel," as a subversive claim against what was called "the gospel" or good news of Caesar, also called the "Savior" who brought peace to the world. Giving Jesus titles like this makes the opening passage of Mark's gospel something political, controversial, and revolutionary, a declaration that those who follow this new savior have chosen to turn their backs on the rule and authority of the old king: Caesar. 

For us who choose to follow Christ, this means a new savior has come who hears our voices crying in the wilderness. He is a God who has begun the new exodus in or hearts, liberating us from the prison of sin and performance. But to enjoy the Good News or Gospel, we have to let go of the other lords who want to claim the seat of our hearts. We must rip out our allegiances to the Republican party, the Democrat party, our country, or any other system that serves as the cornerstone of our identity.

May we see the Good News: God has liberated us from a system of points. The Divine doesn't judge us by our good and bad deeds like some cosmic scale in the heavens. This gospel and our loyalty to it surpasses all forms of political empire or nationalism in its ability to bring life, peace, and joy. You are with us, have been with us, and will be with us. 

Come, Lord Jesus. 

Compassion for the Oppressed: Saturday Week 1 of Advent

"When he saw the crowds, he had compassion for them because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. Then he said to his disciples, "The harvest it plentiful, but the laborers are few; therefore ask the Lord of the harvest to send out laborers..."

Matthew 9:36-38

I've got respect for street-corner preachers. I can't imagine how uncomfortable it is to confront people time and time again about an issue that is, to say the least, sensitive.  Sometimes, there's just something admirable about a belief becoming visible.

For me, the issue lies within the focus of the ministry. When I read Matthew 9, I see Jesus filled with compassion when he sees the harassed and helpless, the sick and needy, the ones who need a shepherd to lead them to greener pastures. What's profound to me is Jesus's response to those around him: he treats their physical needs. He tells the twelve that the kingdom is near, which means they are to cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the leper, cast out demons--the work that reveals the kingdom is at hand, not just an ethereal destination in the distant future.  

The kingdom in these verses isn't about a transaction that stamps someone's passport into heaven or an impassioned plea to turn or burn. It's about seeing those who are in need, standing up for those who suffer beneath the boot of poverty, racism, sexism, homophobia--anything that transforms another human into "the other"--an unspoken label that keeps the poor, the LGBTQ community, people of color, Muslims, and immigrants neatly tucked away behind the blinding walls of our privilege, where we neither have to see nor deal with their oppression.

May we assume our place in the body of the cosmic Christ, see as Jesus does, be moved to compassion for "the other," and meet the needs of the sheep here and now.

Come, Lord Jesus.

Isaiah 30:19-21, 23-26
Matthew 9:35-10:1, 5a, 6-8

The Solar System of Life: Friday Week 1 of Advent

There is a sense in which Christ is already "come." Jesus taught that the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand"; it's here now. But why don't we see it? Why don't we experience the reign of Christ today? Why is it always a lofty, golden future that shows up after we've tucked ourselves behind our desks in a fluorescent-lit cubicle for seventy years? 

I think it's because we invite other kingdoms into our lives that reign with a sense of jealousy: the god of a new house, a better job, political ideals, a promotion. Whatever it is we worship with our behaviors and minds becomes the sun of our own unique solar system. Each aspect of our complicated existence: a spouse, job, kids, hobbies, finances--they all revolve around the god we've chosen to enthrone. 

When the centerpiece isn't the Divine, the gravity that keeps our life in proper alignment is wonky. Balance is gone and we spend the finite currency of our days chasing things and ideas that lead us to crippling anxiety and profound discontentment.  This is what it feels like when the Kingdom of God is not present--when Christ isn't come. A small disclaimer: orienting our lives around the Kingdom of God isn't a promise of receiving everything we want, but a renewed mind that can approach life with a sense of contentment, peace, and love--a state of being where we can savor the rule of a coming and already present Christ as life stays balanced in its proper orbit. 

May we learn to see out of the gloom and darkness--that our blind eyes would see the eternal life Christ offers is both to come and already present.

Come, Lord Jesus. 

Isaiah 29:17-24

Matthew 9:27-31

Jesus and the Refugee at the Well: Thursday Week 1 of Advent

Advent is the season for God's people to cry "Come!"--the very bedrock of how Jesus taught us to pray: "Your kingdom come. Your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven." I think this means to bring glimpses of heaven to earth: helping the least of these, fighting for those who struggle beneath the boot of oppression, easing the crushing weight of poverty. 

Jesus demonstrated the ushering in of this Kingdom by committing political suicide over and over again. In John 4, Jesus takes time to minister to the Samaritan woman at the well. Verse 9 says "Jews (like Jesus) do not share things... with Samaritans." Verse 27 also highlights another controversial aspect of the conversation: Jesus takes time to speak with a Samaritan woman, compounding the taboos to what would have been a fevered pitch to Jewish audiences. This woman was at the intersection of two oppressive barriers: racial bigotry and sexism, making her the epitome of a marginalized character. 

As shocking as it might seem, I think it might be more poignant in 2017 America if we imagine that Christ took time to be with a transgendered black refugee. Such a person would, like the Samaritan woman at the well, experience the suffocating burden of a nation's judgment day in and out, feeling out of place, broken, pushed aside. Jesus, however, was determined to make God's Kingdom come, humanizing society's most "untouchable" people by acknowledging their presence in a nation that would rather turn a blind eye, despite the political and religious biases of his own tribe. 

God, may we build our house of faith upon the bedrock of your words, trusting that a deep longing for the arrival of this wild, upside-down kingdom of yours, which lays low the lofty city and loves the marginalized, is a true mark of Your reign in our hearts.  

Come, Lord Jesus. 

Isaiah 21:1-6

Matthew 7:21, 24-27

The Feast of Christ: Wednesday Week 1 of Advent

Too frequently, I think of the arrival of Jesus as a cosmic event that proves my profound rightness. As if all the thoughts and fist-shaking arguments that play out during my articulate diatribes while I marinate in a hot shower will suddenly become embodied in a war-like savior that tells off my boss for making me work overtime, a coworker for never cleaning the hardened cheese out the microwave, or a crazy cousin I see once a year with political ideas that make my blood boil. The coming of Jesus, in this form, is about stewing in this poisonous broth, transforming us into a person of hatred instead of the Body of Christ that ushers in the acceptance and love of God.  

But the table is already set for a feast. A feast of rich food and well-aged wines, where God will destroy the shroud that is cast over all peoples, the sheet that is spread over all nations, wiping away the tears from our faces. With the shroud gone, we can see our boss as Melanie, our coworker as David, our cousin as Stephanie. They are no longer the object of our wrath and frustration, but people who Christ welcomes to His Holy Mountain. But we, like the disciples in Matthew 15, must become the participants in this transformation. The hungry are present, the food is multiplied, and the Christ turns to us to “feed his sheep.” 

God, may the radical inclusiveness of your Holy Mountain burn brightly within us as we strive not only to stay awake for your coming but to provoke your arrival in the world around us, offering the loaves and fish of our hearts and bodies. 

Come, Lord Jesus. 

Isaiah 25:6–10a

Matthew 15:29–37

For the record at this point in life, I have awesome bosses and coworkers, and I don’t have any cousins with wacko political ideas that drive me crazy. No feelings were hurt in the process or publishing of this blog. 

Christ and History: Tuesday Week 1 of Advent

"The celebration of Christmas is not a sentimental waiting for a baby to be born, but much more an asking for history to be born!"

-Richard Rohr

In America, we are often driven by a sense of improvement, which can be great. We work hard and build careers and lives that make us beam with pride—great sterling edifices that prove our innovation and accomplishment. The problem, though, lies in how we place ourselves, in the midst of our towers of accomplishment, as the protagonist of the entire human narrative, whether we would acknowledge such an idea or not. Consequently, Christmas and the arrival of the Christ becomes distorted: Our focus on the self drives us to interpret the arrival of Christ, through the lens of our own bias and personal history. We see the birth of the Christ child solely as an event that has affected ME: MY salvation, MY liberation, or MY improved sense of community and belonging. 

But the coming of Christ, the root of Jesse, is an event the Body of Christ must strive to enact daily. We must work to bend the arc of history toward it’s destination of justice, creating a world where “the wolf shall live with the lamb,” the leopard with the kid, calf with lion, cow with bear, lion with ox. The coming of Christ is a sweeping movement in history that invites the people of God to cooperate and participate in the work of the Divine, loving all we encounter, especially the “least of these.” The Christ is the focus, the protagonist, the narrator, and we are swept into the folds of HIS story of beauty and reconciliation. 

Come, Lord Jesus.     

Isaiah 11:1–10

Luke 10:21–24

A Threenager and a Warm Cup of Milk: Monday Week 1 of Advent

Every morning, my daughter, Molly, asks me for a cup of milk. Sometimes I think back to the day before and remember her acute threenagery. Teeth brushing temper tantrums, the insistence that picking up the My Little Ponies littered over every inch of our cheerio-encrusted carpet is an excruciating form of injustice, screaming at her 1-year-old brother for having the audacity of handling and throwing her Barbies with impunity, and her utter refusal to put anything green and leafy within a two-foot radius of her mouth. I recall this behavior as I hand her a cup of milk in her My Little Pony cup, heated to just the right temperature (warm, not hot) and give her a kiss on top of her silky, brown hair—it smells just like her mom’s.

What I love about Molly is that she doesn’t let a sense of worth interfere with how she lives. She expects and knows she will get a cup of milk, not because she has earned it. In fact, she has behaved in a way that would restrict a gift if I was in the business calculating her behavior on a system of points. I give her a cup of milk not because of what she has done, but because of who she is.

May we see that God is not in the business of points. May we understand that like the centurion, our unworthiness does not inhibit our ability “to speak the word,” asking God for a warm (not hot) cup of milk. Our gifts from God are not bestowed within a system of merit, but within our inescapable identity as a child of God—making us of infinite worth. May our striving to earn God cease so that our warring for approval would transform into a fertile landscape of peace and contentment.

Come, Lord Jesus.

Amen.

Isaiah 2:1–5

Matthew 8:5–11

Growing Up

I was a gangly, mop-headed 13-year-old during the 2000 presidential election. And in between local news stories touting apocalyptic rhetoric, because the next president would ultimately determine the existence of humanity as we know it (as they always seem to), I remember seeing images of balding white men in suits accusing the Democrat nominee, John Kerry, of being a “Flip-Flop.” This was, of course, deemed Breaking News by cable news networks, and my (barely) teenage mind was convinced it was a big deal. How could someone ever change their mind about something as important as their position on a war?

Now, as anyone familiar with American politics can tell you, you’re nothing if not consistent. I mean, we look at decades of voting history in order to ensure that our candidates are rock solid representatives of their party’s platform, voting consistently since the Civil Rights Movement, despite the ebbs and flows of our unpredictable cultural climate. But for some reason, once you’re old enough to grab a six-pack of Keystone from 7-11 and pay with stolen money from your dad’s sock drawer, you’re expected to have a cemented position on issues that range from when life begins to the fundamental nature of our sexuality as a species.

No problem.

I mean, let’s think about this for a second: When I was around 18-21 years old, my entire mind was driven by calculating the next time I would be able to make out with my girlfriend, TCU’s ranking in the (corrupt) BCS football poll, and whether or not I should skip class to play Super Smash Brothers with my roommates.

I was a kid—I don’t think anyone would fault me for the aforementioned behavior. But “When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me.”

I got a job. I got married. I had kids. I stopped playing (as many) video games.I stopped eating hot dog buns with mustard for a meal. But for some reason, our expectation of humanity seems to stop there. We see maturity as something that affects our ability to get shit done like taking on a mortgage, going into credit card debt, and having a job we don’t like, but not our fundamental understanding of the world.

The unwritten rule engraved in the hearts of our communities is that we can’t shift our views about…

Abortion.

LGBTQ rights.

Guns.

The death penalty.

The Bible

or God.

We can’t change. We are forbidden to progress.

Somehow, those psychological states are grounded in millions of metric tons of concrete, sealed until the white, laughing Jesus with flowing, straight locks returns to save us from the Muslims and their gay agendas, who want to cap carbon emissions and take away our AR-15s.

But we flip-flop, shift, change…

Progress.

When I was 10, I was obsessed with Texas Rangers. I could tell you the starting line up, the backups for each position and the batting averages of the guys slotted to pinch hit. And in the tiny part of my mind that wasn’t occupied with sports, I saw God as a disgruntled bearded man that waited with baited breath for me to say His name in vain or use taboo words like butt, crap, or freak whenever my brother would piss me off by not letting me onto AOL instant messenger. I thought like a child.

When I was 20, I was fed up with the Rangers for their impressive inability to pick up quality relief pitching. God became more sophisticated. He loved me because of my faith in Him. I was part of a special group, protected from God’s wrath unlike the rest of humanity who couldn’t work up the correct psychological states in their brains to pass God’s salvation test. You were either right like us or wrong like them. I reasoned like a child.

Then somewhere in this decade… I think I started to become a man.

I turned 30. I started to accept that all my teams would break my heart if I let them—I started thinking an idea that would make me foam at the mouth years earlier: it’s just a game. I made friends and met people that weren’t like us, but them. And ever-so-slowly I came to the realization that there is only us. God became unknowable. She became something beyond my comprehension. It, the Divine, is something that loves all people. He is someone who is profoundly for each and every one of us, regardless of our race, sexuality, gender, class—despite our positions on abortion, guns, and even the Bible.

I’m not 40 yet, but I can imagine that I will see God differently then, too. I think the process of continually putting childish things away is something that takes a lifetime. Hopefully, by then, I’ll stop throwing a fit when the Rangers have a strikeout with runners in scoring position. We are human beings established in a beautiful trajectory of progress—a long arm that bends toward justice, love, and peace—a vision I want to embrace fully even if my politics and faith shift away from my family, even if I see the Bible differently than my community, even if God has now grown into a cosmic force beyond anything metaphors or words could articulate.

Call me a Flip-flop if you want.

But change,

evolution,

progress…

These are all fundamental aspects of a healthy, growing organism. So unlike the way I thought when I was 13, I’ll happily label myself as a person willing to change his mind, to put away the childish things of the past, and submit to a growing, living understanding of a dynamic humanity, an ever-changing culture, and an infinite God.