Redeeming Grace

Is there anything so meaningless as our saying grace before we wolf down a meal. What is this ritual that absolves our consumerism and gluttony? Does it please you to see us bow our heads and repeat meaningless words while thinking of how we will gorge ourselves on sugar and saturated fat and all the deadly, slow-killing things we love?

Teach us, Father, to seek your food, clean and pure. To understand fruits and vegetables and meat as you made them and to enjoy the simple richness of them. Teach us the sactity of savoring and wondering. And when we thank you for this food, may we really thank you. Jesus, after your death and ressurection made you unrecognizable on the Emmas road, you were recognized by the way you thanked the Father for bread. I want to thank you like that.

May my thanks be full of every golden field of grain, every cloud pregnant with rain, of long summer days, and gentle winds. May it shine with the brilliance of the sun and be pure and fresh like the nurturing streams. May they be as wide as the fields that stretch to the horizon and as simple as a seed, packed with all the stuff of life. May my thanks bring me to be present in what you've really given on our table -- much more than could be carried in plastic, cardboard, and styrofoam form a supermarket. Make my thanks as wide and rich as this great green world of goodness that you have gifted to men. Amen. And thanks.

Hope and a Purpose

"I know the plans I have for you. Plans to do you good and not harm. To give you hope and a future." [Jeremiah 29:11]

We live in darkness and fear. My friend was haunted by the darkness of his own thoughts -- racing, taunting, out of control, then slow and black and self-destructive. No amount of ritualized prayer or Bible reading could save him. Not even his medication.

Then he heard about what his life has meant to others. As they've watched him get clean, beat his chains, leave the street, and finally have a home. Social workers without hope believe again. Family members settling for the lousy way things are again willing to take a stand. Friends tearing up as they wonder at this thing you have done. Yes, you have given him a purpose.

And you speak to him. "You are my son." "You will have more in the later days than in the days of your youth." "You cannot imagine the plans I have for your good." And he has hope. Though the gravity of that place where he used to live -- the one under the bridge -- seems so inevitable, so strong, hope is stronger.

Father, wrap us in your mission and hope. Sing to our hearts the song we long for. Only in the trajectory of following you will we escape the gravity of our fallenness.

Closer than a Brother

You know, Lord, that I have walked in desserts where there are no friends. No comrades and yokefellows baring up with me under the load. No brothers to join arms with in the fight. No co-journeyers who have the same knowing in their eyes from the shared road.

I will never go back to that place. I will never again be turned into the untouchable minister, more manchine than flesh-and-blood. I will never again descend into the pit of busyness and self-defensiveness, inauthenticity, and avoidance. I have seen the green lands of knowing and being known. I have breathed in the fresh air of compassion, empathy, and deep fellowship. I have been washed in the rains of grace poured out from your people. I will never go back, so help me God.

Most surpising of all, I have found you, O Lord, to be a friend. What a scandal! That God Almighty the Lord of Hosts would also be my friend, the one that sticks closer than a brother. I am a slave no longer, for you have shown me what you are doing in me and in the world. You have made yourself known to me and you know me like no other.

I have sworn an oath like a blood brother. Like the mixing of blood, I am no longer just myself. I am also my friends. Your are in me, O God my Friend, as I am in you through my Friend, your Son. And in me also are all these friends of yours, my band of brothers. Bind us together in love and unity and peace.

Is There a Normal Way?

Father, you call us to discipleship in your Son, but what should that discipleship look like? I have this conviction that a follower must be radical -- always growing and pushing the limits. Isn't it more than being a learner? Isn't it more than an arrangement for salvation? Isn't it about radical obedience and world changing?

Are we all to be like Paul, militant and bold? Or should some of us live "peaceful and quiet lives" [1 Tim 2:2]? Is it ok if some of us think we are redeemed to be "normal" for Christ? It seems some of my friends and loved ones wish only to be farmers, plodding out their lives on the same patch of ground, depending on you for sun and rain, prosperity and good living. But I thought we were called to be warriors and wanderers, always straining for something over the horizon. Calling on you in desparate and dangerous moments to manifest the Kingdom in the darkness.

There are not many who are this kind of radical. Lord, is that because of gifting, or is there something wrong? Many revolutionaries are married to spouses who don't share their passion and drive. Is that ok? Should everyone be personally wrapped up in your mission, or is ok that some are more about a personal faith that brings help and comfort when its needed.

I worry that if there is such a thing as the normal road this all a game. Like Caedmon's Call says:

Maybe this is all just a game,
My friends and my families all play too
"Harnest the young and give some comfort to the old."

Father, I do not want to push my way on others, but I do not want to call people to another way but yours. Show me what following you looks like, and give me grace to teach others the path.

Suffer Us An Answer

Today I am thinking about Tom, Lord, and Amy. What pain he must feel to see his wife go through this -- changed from his partner to his daughter -- and her painful loss of herself. When I think about the sheer hours or prayer delivered with rivers of tears, I wonder why you don't answer from heaven. What possible purpose could this have if it ends in death? But if it ends in healing, it will be for your glory and your renoun.

Do you wager with our lives? Is this suffering a bet with Satan like the suffering of Job? You allowed his children killed to make a point. They were not possessions. We could understand destroying his wealth. But his children? They were people. Please say we are not chips on the table in some cosmic poker match -- some testosterone-driven game for bragging rights in the heavenlies. If you are playing with us, what makes you better than the pagan gods with all their pettiness and using men as pawns? For their manipulation, we call them demons.

The answer of Job gives little comfort. Sure, Elihu is academically right: we should justify you rather than ourselves. We should always trust that you are right. But although we may force our minds to this conclusion, our hearts still worry that your inaction is a sign of our expendability or cheapness in your eyes. And if you remind us that we are ignorant, not understanding the why and hows of your universe, we will admit it. But we've never liked it when our father's told us, "because I said so" or "I'll tell you when your older." That has always seemed to us a bully tactic and a cop-out.

So all these questions hang in the air unanswered. They could easily become a reason for resentment and unbelief. They would likely steal my faith, except for this one thing. In all the pain and suffering, beyond our threshold to bear, in the misery of life -- true you do not often relieve us. But Jesus, you enter the mess and suffer with us. Master, Brother, I wonder: is a God who suffers with us -- who has the compassion to enter our pain -- greater than a God who eliminates such pain from the world? If the purpose of life is a conversation, what does that say about you, and about us?

Audible Father

You are the God who spoke, and the world was created. You are the God who speaks to your people. You are the Word made flesh, who dwelt among us. Never let me forget, Father, that you are a God who speaks. The universe is a poem; a song sung to our souls. And all life is a dialogue, the first verses spoken by you. How will we answer as we live in this reality which is the conversation of humanity and its Maker?

Once you told me, through a woman who could see hidden things, that there was a cup within me that could be offered for to many thirsty and hurting people. So it is my destiny to be forever poured out into the lives of others, just as you pour yourself into me. Now, through the mouth of another, you remind me again, that Solomon was given much more than he asked because he requested wisdom to rule your people. So would you be pleased if I asked for wisdom and strength to serve your people, to feed your sheep? Would you give me more than I ask for?

Since you have spoken this to me, how will I answer? What will be the reply to what you have told me? May it be that I serve your children, always filling my cup from eternal springs and passing it on to the thirsty.

You spoke also to my sister. She was tied and tormented by the thought of another's suffering. For long -- too long -- she has labored in prayer and though for this friend, but nothing came of it. So she begged to have this woman banished from her mind and heart. But instead, you brought to her mind your word:

Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines, though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will be joyful in God my Savior. The Sovereign Lord is my strength; he makes my feet like the feet of a deer, he enables me to go on the heights. (Hab. 3:17-19 NIV)

Although this came to mind, she did not know its meaning. But you showed it to her during the day as the long lost and wandering friend unexpectedly came seeking her, and again as you spoke through unexpected sources. The meaning was this: regardless of the fruit the tree produces, we sow to you, so we can always have joy regardless to the results. If we do so, you will be the strength that carries us above ingratitude and anxiety.

May we never forget what you have said to us. Write it on our minds and in our hearts. And teach us to be diligent and faithful to your word as you are faithful to it. Amen.

Israel

We are the new Israel -- the new people "who wrestle with God." Remind me of this, O God, so I will not be surprised when faith is not easy. When we pray and pray but see no answer. When all those we love and feel compassion for receive no help and fall. When believing is not reasonable and not even desirable. When you seem vengeful, or angry, or inflexible, or far away.

Remind us that your own Son even wrestled with your will in the Garden before the cross. He was not so divine that he did not struggle to find wisdom in your plan or power in your ways. And yet he was not so human as to give up in that dark hour. It was the wrestling that both humbled him and brought him into your glory.

So teach me Jesus, to wrestle with the Father. Teach me to wrestle with trusting him and seeing him. Teach me to wrestle for my family, my community, and the city. And though I may walk with a limp afterwards, I will be changed, for all who hold on to God refusing to let go until they receive their blessing find it. Amen.

Invisible God

Upon reading Colossians 1 >>

He is the image of the invisible God...

Like peacocks, the gods of this world -- those made by humans and those of darker origins -- strut and parade and attempt to convince us of their existence by their visibility. Money flashes and shines like a pimp while sex stretches out its legs like a hooker to draw us in. Along with all the visible, tangible gods, they say, "now here is a god you can hold in your hand. A god that will do you some good, that's made of something real."

But you, Father are an invisible God. And there is more truth to that than all these showy impostures. We do not see a god of any kind. That is our experience. There is at no time a way for us to say, "there he was." We assume you, guess at you, theorize about you like gravity. But we do not see you. But these so called "gods," who are very visible, fail us in our time of need, and though we see them they are shown to contain neither real power nor divinity. But a God we must struggle to believe in (for again these impostures are so easy to believe in), that is a God of the real world that often seams as empty and alone as dark, cold space.

So our faith is a faith that can handle doubting, perplexity, mystery, and skepticism. Of all the faiths of the world, this is the one that says, "come all you who struggle in seeing God; all who are honest enough to admit his invisibility." Our faith admits he is invisible, that we have to choose to see you. We are neither embarassed by, nor do we need to explain away why you can't be seen. And that is the best thing for us. For if you were as visible as the sun, all of who we are -- our individuality and freedom -- would be burnt up in your evident glory.

But for those of us who choose to see, we are not left guessing. Rather you have sent us messages from the behind the curtain. You are self-revelatory. The Word is your image, through which the entire universe exists and continues to live. From burning engines of galaxies to the least cell in my body, by the Word they all live and move and have their being. And what is much more, the Word became flesh -- the only true sighting of you -- and dwelt among us. And some beheld his glory, full of grace and truth, such that it fills the world with both.

And though in this present age I hear only rumors of this man, I find reason to believe. First, because he too could admit that we could not see you, only he had ever seen you. And so he was honest about the human experience. And second, because I choose to see him in my life, and when I do, you are more real to me than I am to myself.

May the world see you, invisible Father and Friend. (I saw you today in the working of divine appointments that built faith and saved a life precious to you.)

seal of apostleship

Upon reading 1 Corinthians 9 >>

I am free, because you have set me free. There is no cage that will ever hold me again, save your arms. Even in chains, I am not restrained because in you there is no limit to how far and wide I may roam.

I am an apostle, because you have sent me. And I have seen you, Friend, Brother, Master. How I long to look upon you with my waking eyes, face to face as with a friend. But for now my soul sees you in everything, and that is enough for me until that day, here or there. I remember, blessed are those who have not seen, yet have believed. There are many who would consider me no apostle, and they are right. But to the ones you have sent me, I am. And they are the seal set on my identity. But they are just the seal, not the identity itself. Just as a ring makes no marriage, nor a badge a hero, the seal is not who I am. Rather, it is a confirmation of authenticity. Sent by you is who I am, if I am faithful to the trust placed upon me. What results is only a confirmation of that reality.

If there is a danger to my soul, it is this hunger for my own fruit. For results and success. But my fruit is not for me. It is for the weary traveler, the child, the stranger, and the alien. Only a twisted and wicked tree consumes it's own fruit. No, a tree must drink from deeper streams. It must nourish itself from the soil where it is planted, weaving wind and rain and sun into strength and sweetness.

Though I have rights, I am not freed so I can demand them fulfilled or upheld. I am free to be your slave. Death is better than to loose this one boast: to know I have not, by my own demands or desires, stood in the way of the Kingdom coming into the life of the least of these.

Woe, to me if I do not proclaim this good news! I am compelled to speak it. I was made to cry out, like every stone and bird and tree. If I hold it in, it poisons me like pent up breath. It makes me sick and turns my strenght into bitterness and anger. Oh my soul, breath in deeply the Spirit, but exhale praise and proclaimation of what God has done.

This is great freedom: to know you and be so secure as your son, a co-heir with Christ, that I can make myself a slave to all humanity. If I am in you and you are in me, there is no rich nor poor, clean nor unclean, beautiful or base, strong nor weak whom I cannot wrap a towel around my waste and kneel before. But all this is simply to earn the right to speak your name to them, so I may enjoy the blessing of seeing you blossom in the soil of a life.

Teach me, Rabbi, how to run this race. Train me for I would be no shadow-boxer full of wind and impressive display, but no punch. This body must become a slave to my soul, and my soul a servant of my spirit, and my spirit, a friend and companion of yours. There are more than enough talking heads. I want to be a doer not merely a hearer of your words.

Amen.

No Escape

Where can I go to escape you?
From the depths of the earth itself to the edge of the universe,
Where could I go to hide from your gaze?
Who could I be that you would not know me?
Is there any place where you cannot find me?

There was a time when I could descend into this black heart of mine.
But you have removed my heart of stone,
And replaced it with flesh.
Now you dwell there, always waiting for me.
Even there in my inner most parts you find me.

You are inescapable.
There is no place where I cannot face you, living God.
And there are times when I would rather not know you.
There are parts of my that cannot withstand your scrutiny.
In intamacy I am vulnerable and ashamed.
So what comfort do I have?

Just this:
From now on I am never alone.