Thoughts on “Contribution”

(a conversation between a father and his son)

Son, this contribution thing that we do was one of the first things I remember about church. It was one of the first places I remember getting to participate. The time would come and my mom or dad would pass along a dollar or two to me from their money, sometimes just some change. I would then try my best to place it in the plate as it passed being careful not to drop it. I remember seeing all those folded checks and bills of $1, $5, and even $20’s. Later as I reached my teen years and had a job I began to take part in this weekly ritual and began to put my own money in the plate.
I didn’t really understand what all this (contribution stuff) meant till years later. In fact, I’m still learning and I learn more every year I live.

There are a couple of things I have learned about this collection: You can’t really fake it. (You can sometimes get away with faking it at singing or listening or praying or even talking to friends about God).

Second: Others can’t judge it. Oh, they might have an opinion. Others may join us in holding us accountable, but this is between you and God. Contribution is truly between God and … your heart and your soul. But its weird, we can’t avoid judging it for ourselves (Mom said, “a true judgment of ones character is when … you can’t lie to yourself”). We should really think about our contribution. It says a lot to God about us.

Third: It is our opportunity for joy (not shame) The God who created our blessings allows me to give it back, as a gift. I love giving money to my kids to see what they will do with it … to see what they value … to see where they bless with their gifts.
Jesus taught more said about riches (possessions, money, treasure; things we value, hold dear and strive for) than about any other single subject in the New Testament. He said over and over that how we value our possessions says a lot about our relationship to him. If we value our “stuff” over our relationship with God, they have become our idols. Plain and simple; if it isn’t a sacrifice … it is not a gift and it is not pleasing to God. Giving, without sacrifice, is not what we are called to!

“Ben, I’ve got a question. Sacrifice … what is that?”

He gives a simple answer, “Sacrifice is when you give up something. And it usually hurts, … at least a little.”

I continue, “How much money do you get each week for chores and allowance?” Ben answers, “$5”.

“Who gave you your talents?” His humble voice states the truth, “God did.”

“How much would you need to give each week for it to be a real sacrifice? But don’t need to answer, it’s our decision?”

So, my advice and council on this is to give till it hurts a bit, then give a little more.

The question for each of us is what exactly are we willing to sacrifice for? That newest game for Xbox, fishing pole, new outfit, a new car, new house, $6 popcorn and $5 sodas at sporting events and movies, season tickets to our favorite sporting events? More/better/newer/ STUFF.

Remember … It’s not so much about making the budget (bulletin). That’s important but inarguably secondary. Its about personal sacrifice made from a perspective of what God has given us. If we give sacrificially, the budget is met and there is money to spare. If we all gave, as God gives to us, we’d never need to worry about a budget. The elders and finance committee would have to meet extra times just to figure out where God wanted us to extend these additional blessings.
There will always be stuff we want, trips we plan, and expenses to life, but they should never interfere with what we have dedicated to God as our sacrificial return to the one who gave it all for us.

Your mom and I decided early-on in our marriage that we would set aside, first, what we would contribute. That’s what we are taught in scripture … to give our first fruits, … to give first to what we value most, …, That’s not always easy, but if you move your sacrifice to God anywhere else down the list, it says something about your priorities. If you can move giving back to God, who gave you everything … to anywhere on the list but first, … you’ll have a hard time sacrificially giving to back God at all

So remember, its not about the amount you give … its about the personal sacrifice your giving represents. For you (Ben)… your sacrifice is as pleasing (as valuable) to God as my giving … or frankly, the gift given by any person in this room, even though the amount may be different. God is as pleased with a sacrificial gift from you as he is with the biggest check in the plate (and more so if you have been more sacrificial (remember the story of the widow’s mite?)

He wants your life, (sure) and your sacrifice, just like he wants mine and just like he wants everyone’s. Heart, mind, body, soul … then the treasures will become very easy to give, sacrificially.

PRAYER
Father, Repair our hearts from the selfish, consumptive people the world leads us to be.

Restore the joy of sacrificial giving. May we open our hearts to you and let our gifts flow freely. May our joy over flow as we give.

You have given so much to us, … for us. We can never repay. But we ask that our gifts to you on this day will glorify you, because of our sacrifice, much in the way that your sacrifice saved us.

Converted to church .... or ... converted to Christ

Church is messy. A friend of mine (Eddie Sharp) said that years ago. He humbly denies being the originator of the statement, but said it none the less. I guess I'm wallowing through some of that ... mess.

Around this church and around churches across my experience I am confronted with an unanswered question; are people converted to church or converted to Christ. I do not believe the phrases are synonymous. Actually, I believe in this present age, they are antonymous*.

*an⋅to⋅nym   [an-tuh-nim] –noun
a word opposite in meaning to another. Fast is an antonym of slow.
antonymous - adjective
of words: having opposite meanings [ant: synonymous]

Not that I believe Jesus intended it that way, but in the sense of conversion I believe they are very different.

I look around and watch as we protect our churches, our boundaries, our differences, our addresses, and our membership numbers while giving less attention to protecting Jesus' teachings, ways, examples, and lifestyle I am smitten with irrefutable evidence.

And its no surprise, then, when those within the walls of our buildings have become (are becoming) blind to the transformation from Jesus followers to church followers. We demand our songs (my songs), my style of preaching, my length of a service, and my ... (you get the picture).

This is a real question, worthy of our very real contemplation. Would we let Jesus, the King himself, preach in our pulpits? Would he be too radical? Would he run off our most influential members? Would he care? What if attacked some of our most sacred holdings; our building, our ministries, our ministers, our missions, our YOUR most precious spiritual connection. Would you be ready to escort him to the door so that we could continue to protect what we have and continue in OUR (not his) direction? What if he told us to give up what we have for the poor, what then? Oh, wait, ... he already did.

What will it take for the church to be His, again? His instead of belonging to ourselves, a hideous misrepresentation of what He died to start and lives until He returns to see bringing him glory.

I used to listen to and sing a song by Keith Green every week before I would preach or teach. It would not take long before I was reduced to tears. It seemed to transform me from whatever I had thought I might have created, into a being charged and moved my the Spirit of God. I hope I will begin to listen to the song again as I speak, teach, and worship.

Under the Stars - Renew Your Glory

Friday night I will go with a crew of dads and their kids to a pecan orchard south of Lubbock. There wil be the common boat load of details, I'm sure. In the midst of it all I hope to recapture the glory of God in the sky. In the cold night air I hope to see a clear sky filled with stars and spend time just recapturing the glory of God in creation.

Home

I hear people talk about home. Most talk of obviously flawed places of a combination of peaceful familiarity and predictable conflict. It must be true. Houses filled with flawed people, must inherently be flawed.

But my earthly realities don't keep me from longing for the place of warmth, the place of peace, and the place of belonging to which my thoughts climb. For me, the idea of home brings to mind, not those broken or thwarted memories, but a magical place filled with joy, true joy. Heck, no! Its not real. But a guy can dream, can't he.

I'll dream that my kids always agree with me. Heck I'll believe they even think I'm smart, all the time. I'll believe there's always enough of everything I need and to spare. I'll dream that the church is the perfect embodiment of Jesus ... and when it isn't it falls to its knees.

Wow, some days the thought of heaven on the horizon sounds good to me. Take me home!

Homeless in Lubbock

Broadway and the entire Lubbock community are banding together to bring awareness to the breadth of the homeless dilemma in Lubbock.

Join us if you can.



www.innercitylubbock.org

This is a reminder and an update on the movement to provide shelter for our homeless friends in Lubbock, TX this winter.

Reminder: Prayer Vigil for the Homeless this Saturday, Oct. 18th from 8-9pm at the Mahon Library downtown (1306 9th St). Participants are also invited to spend the night on the sidewalk alongside the homeless.

The Point: Together we will ask God to provide shelter for the homeless of Lubbock, TX this winter and in the future.

Logistics:
From 8-9pm we will have a focused time of prayer during which several community leaders as well as some of our homeless and formerly homeless friends will lead prayers asking God to hear our cries and respond.
There will be access to toilets.
The ground is concrete and will be cold and hard! Participants are invited to make this experience as real as they like (e.g., sleep on cardboard, newspaper, etc.), but if you need sleeping pads they are also welcome.
During the night participants are invited to sleep, pray and get to know each other. But please be aware of those who need to sleep! Those wanting to pray or talk are asked to do so in the parking lot west of the Library.
Safety: Come in peace and expect to stand (or lie down) alongside our friends. There is no reason to fear this community or the idea of spending the night. There will be plenty of people around, we will have Police proximity and the area is well lit. But please be wise about how you participate. Here are a few tips to ensure safety:
Please stay in groups and do not go anywhere with people you do not know.
PLEASE DO NOT GO ANYWHERE ALONE WITH SOMEONE OF THE OPPOSITE SEX.
Please keep track of your valuables! Do not leave purses, cell phones or other items unattended.
If you are spending the night, try to sleep next to a few people you know.
Please do not give cash to the people on the streets; if there is a need you want to meet please try and meet the need directly (i.e., if they're hungry, give them food or a gift card)
Creativity: Most of us will be guests to the Library which has served as a "home" to many homeless people over the years. As guests we want to be a positive presence. Feel free to bring food, bottled water, hot chocolate, breakfast burritos! or anything else to share with those in need.

Shelter: Currently we do not have a facility to use as a shelter this winter! This is our main concern this winter: finding a facility with floor space, toilets and a heater. For information concerning a facility, property or donation for a shelter facility please contact Dale Milhauser at 1745@suddenlink.net or (806)368-7334.

Backup: Carpenter's church has decided to continue the prayer vigil on a nightly basis starting Nov. 1st through March 15th. We will continue to ask God to provide shelter for the homeless and we will invite our homeless friends to join us in prayer each night from 8pm to 8am until that happens. All of those who are interest in volunteering to be on a rotation for prayer and supervision please contact volunteers@innercitylubbock.org or call Chad Wheeler at (806)543-0526.

Standing together with God we can do anything! Let us stand together with the marginalized and forgotten of our society and we will house the homeless!

Check out this video produced by Aldersgate about homelessness in Lubbock: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z8CeCoj-kP0

Let me know if you have any questions and see you Saturday night!

Chad Wheeler
Carpenter's Church
chadwheeler@innercitylubbock.org
(806)543-0526

One line blog updates

Often, especially recently, I find I must make a difficult choice. My heart finds incessant opportunities for ministry. Truth be known the opportunities are beyond incessant, they are overwhelming. But the choice in the balance is to be engaged in these ministry opportunities or to take the time away from the ministries to report, blog, reflect, and share what these experiences are doing for me, to me, and around me.

I even feel guilty writing this, but felt my heart would explode if I did not vent just a bit.

How about you? Does your involvement in ministry preclude your opportunity to tell the stories?

Lord, show me balance, give me strength.

Come walk with me.

Sunday I arrived a little later than usual to the building. As I hurried to my last minute preparations for my class I was interrupted by a sweet lady who with a man twice her size in tow was coming down the hall toward me. "This guy needs to talk to a minister, or somebody" she spouted as she released his arm like a child learning to ride a bike. Indeed his momentum carried him a few feet more and I was face to face with my interruption. I said, "come walk with me". We went into my office and the very large, very angry, very-tattoed, self admitting colors toting CRIPS gang member told me through his tears that he had nearly been killed my his wife (baby-mama) the night before, and nearly killed her in the same moment, that he had considered going back to prison an easier path, wanted to just go "rob somethin" and did not know if he could stay clean till his parole was up.

Ok, how do you do anything worth while with an intake that starts with such ferocity? I sat quietly trying to look smart. The mammoth tattooed man sat crying through one tissue at a time. He's got a huge marijuana leaf tattooed on the top of his bald head, several chinese symbols around his neck, a few crude prison "tats" here and there. His monochromatic blue shirt and pants bespeak his gang affiliation. His hands are cut and scabbed from combat during the night and his right eye is swollen nearly shut. He's not completely sober from a night of sleeping and drinking in the streets of Lubbock. He smells of bad booze and poor hygiene. Frankly, I'm a little scared. If he gets angry I have no escape.

I offered comfort and hope in a package that I wasn't sure would even work for this troubled man, at least not very quickly. He humbly thanked me for listening. He really didn't expect me to fix it, but thanked me for my time and even apologized for his unannounced arrival. Through the time of our conversation he apologized over and over for his semi-drunken state, for his occasionally colorful language, his actions toward his wife, and twenty other of his crimes. This man was broken.

I offered that he could stay by my side through class and church. That would be awkward and uncomfortable. Not only for him, but even for well meaning folks. I offered the comfort of our "outreach church" called Carpenter's Church, but then remembered they now meet in the afternoon. Then I told him about a soup kitchen we run across the street and asked if he wanted to go there. He said he would. I also said that if he would come back at 11:30 I would gladly take him to lunch. He said he'd like that. I proceeded to class where we prayed for my new friend and then to worship where I sat in the back looking at our congregation wondering what that assembly would have felt like for him. I was sad.

After church I took another family to help me translate and to help share conversation with this new friend to lunch. It was pleasant and awkward in equal amounts. Afterwards I knew that I might not ever really see this guy again. As we talked about his plan to ride a bus back to South Central LA I told him, "take hope, my brother. You're just the kind of guy that God can use." (I'm thanking Eddie Sharp for that line)

Today I have wondered where my friend is. Supposedly he boarded a bus and headed off with all he owns in two small duffles for a place where he believes he may find his mom, some peace, a new job and I pray as he said he would, find Jesus. So now he's busted his parole, left his girlfried and his son behind, and looking for a fresh start. He said he'd call me in a few weeks. I pray he does.

Remembering while I can (Final)

At a quarter of noon the announcement interrupted the talk in the waiting room. It was a temporary hold on the scheduled noon visitation. Everyone was silent. The intensive care waiting room veterans looked around the room, knowing the inevitable outcome for some family was potentially, an outcome of loss.

With the announcement neither mom nor I said a word. I don’t even remember looking her in the eye. I reached out, as did she, and our hands were joined looking toward the entrance of the ICU area. Mom and I knew the end was very likely near. We had tried to talk about how we disliked seeing dad suffer. We were weary of his suffering. He was weary. We knew this visit would be even more difficult than the 8 o’clock visit.

A nurse’s voice came from behind us, “ Mrs. Mills?” We both spun around. “Would you come with us?”

One of dad’s doctors stood a few feet away beside a consultation room near the ICU hallway. We arose as the nurse held my mom’s arm and ushered us respectfully into the comfortable, but small room. As the nurse closed the door the doctor relayed what we knew, already. Dad had been very, very sick. The cancer was not one that could be treated effectively. He had valiantly fought the fight for a month. He lost the battle a few moments ago. I’m sorry.

I remember a few tears. My lips were pressed together in an effort to squelch some of my emotion. I held my mom’s hand. She asked a few more questions. I wondered what the loss of my father at 24 years old would mean for me. I wondered how many children of mine, he would not ever hold, or laugh with. I had so wanted him to see me fully recover from my adolescence. (I still remember the day I told him I was going to study ministry. I thought he was either going to laugh, because he thought it was a joke, or reprimand me for not thinking through my decision.)

After a few moments we were invited back to the ICU where the flesh that once held the spirit of my father lay, now in peace. IV’s removed, still like a sleeping child, the body of my dad. We cried … as I do even today.

No set of days in my life have shaped me as those in the three months of February to April of 1980. My father surely shaped me all of my life and even today, some 28 years after he left his body behind.

Thanks dad! I love you!

Remembering while I can (part 4)

At 7:45 a.m. on April 15 my mom and I had readied ourselves for our visit. I remember us both taking deliberate deep breaths as we prepared to go for a visit. We knew this visit would be difficult. As the doors opened we made our way through the now familiar white hallways leading to the ICU. A center island of nurses stations, computers, doctors making notes, and IV carts were unaffected by our entry. It was business as usual. All around this square room were cubicles of rooms with glass fronts and sliding glass doors facing the center nurses station (dad’s room was on the south, fourth room on our left).

We entered to see a very tired man infused with oxygen through that dreaded ventilator and his trecheotomy. He could not speak. At first his eyes barely gave indication that we were present. After mom had checked on his comfort and carried her smile as far as she could carry it, she stepped back and urged me to the front so she could gather herself. I gently held my father’s swollen left hand. I wanted to squeeze it to indicate my concern and love, but didn’t dare in his fragile and pain filled state. I let the strength of his squeeze determine mine. His right hand came across his torso. He turned my hand face up in his. Then with his right hand he made a sign, then another. Two simple signs. At first two fingers and then three fingers. He repeated the signs gently landing the back of his hand into mine. My brow wrinkled as I tried to figure out what he was trying to communicate to us. Over and over as my mother looked on he continued. Knowing that my dad knew a little sign language I thought “VW”, but that made no sense. Maybe 2 plus 3, that made no sense, either. He could have just said “5” with a full hand of fingers. Was he hallucinating? Then my mom with great clarity asked my dad, “Lester, do you want him to read the 23rd Psalm?” Immediately, he squeezed my hand and then relaxed but did not let go. My mom asked me to read the psalm. Obviously I wasn’t carrying a Bible. And at that moment I wasn’t capable of quoting Mk 11:32 (“Jesus wept.”) My mother prompted me with, “The Lord is my shepherd … and I took it from there. I know it wasn’t perfect but with all I had I worked my way through those words. My shirt soaked with the tears of what was now my Psalm, I finished. My dad released his gentle grip and turned his hand over mine, as to comfort me. You see, I thought I was reciting it for him, but now I’m sure he had me recite it for mom and me. The visit was soon over. The little bell gently tolled for us to return to the waiting room. Mom and I told dad that we loved him. He responded with a small squeeze. With tear filled eyes we retreated until on next appointed time.

Remembering while I can (part 3)

I grew up a lot in those three weeks. I was the baby, afterall. What did I know? For years I had tried to grow up, to gain influence and maturity with marginal success. Now I sat with my mother making what were possibly life and death decisions concerning my father’s health. After each discussion she and I would attempt to communicate al we knew to both my brother and sister over the phone. It was incomplete at best. I tried to be strong for mom and attempted to appear mature for my siblings. Inside I was shaking like a leaf.

The vigil wore on. Once dad was moved from a regular room to ICU the levels of care for him and our concern about him both increased. In those days family visited the ICU on 4 hour intervals for a 15 minute visit each interval. Each day on an 8, 12, and 4 o’clock round the clock rotation we would visit. In an ICU waiting room a family evolves. They are strangers thrown together by their need for the highest level of medical care. You get to know one another very quickly in that place. A new family arrives and takes an open seat and immediately they are asking about the way things work in this sanitized city of couches, blankets, and soft lighting. You become accustomed to the faces of happiness as a family packs up to move to a “regular room” and also to the faces of silence as a family walks out of the hospital forever without the company of the one they brought in for care. It was a holy place. Mom and I would plan our time with dad carefully. She would always check to see if he needed anything. We would confirm what he had heard from doctors and he would confirm what we had heard from outside the ICU about his condition.

Fifteen minutes before each visit to the ICU they would quietly announce the upcoming opportunity. People would begin to gather belongings, use the restroom, sanitize their hands, and scurry about in quiet activity before being allowed to enter the ICU. From time to time there would be a much different announcement. If as the time for visiting came and there was difficulty with a patient or a “code blue” the visitation would be postponed and in rare cases cancelled until the next appointed time. Those were silent times, filled with prayer. No one knew whose family was to be touched by the delay, but we shared the time in prayer knowing it was one of “us”.

One of the most difficult decisions my mom and I wrestled with was about a ventilator. Even in the offer to place my dad on a ventilator was the inference that he would likely not ever come off of it. His lungs were filling with fluid. His breathing was labored. He would soon either die or have to recover, if we did not consent. He was drowning. To this day I question our decision. With each visit the hope in his eyes was waning. His strength was diminishing. It became obvious that he was holding on for our benefit.

Remembering while I can (part 2)

Over the next four weekends mom and dad traveled a little and otherwise worked at getting their house in order for the stay at the hospital. They talked about all the things they wanted to do now that dad was retired. He wanted an RV. One he could drive from coast to coast. A buddy of his in California had one and he thought it was just the thing. My dad loved to travel, especially my car.

The family all made plans to gather pre-surgery to rally hope and push optimistically through the difficult silences. We wanted mom to feel our support and to show our father that we had learned well from his most important lessons on family responsibility. My siblings and I spent the night together at the hospital-run motel. We told stories and stayed up way too late. Not sure if we couldn’t sleep or just realized how behind we were in catching up on one another’s lives. I don’t remember much of the day of the surgery, just taking turns staying and leaving. I remember the optimism we all regained when dad came through the surgery and was walking, albeit gently, up and down the hall with mom at his side, IV pole in tow. For seven days he seemed to improve. Siblings returned home, as did I. Our lives were all busy and dad appeared to be on the road to recovery.

On what I remember to be the seventh morning mom arrived to my dad’s room to a very different picture. Several doctors had been called in. His thin weathered skin had turned red. His face had begun to swell. Mom called me (I was the closest geographically) and I returned to Little Rock mid-day. The doctors relayed that they weren’t sure what was happening but there would be a battery of tests to discern the origin of this new anomaly. It was not long before the gravity of the diagnosis required a call to both siblings and a quick return to Baptist Medical Center for them.

The next three weeks are a blur. The cancer had moved to his blood stream. Medical professionals fell short of answers. There were optimistic hopes, but no ideas for healing. In my mind the ups and downs of my father’s physical demise are uncharted. As the days turned to week’s we shared the role of being optimistic. Alone, it was more than any one of us could bear. I remember one poignant call from my brother as he talked of this dilemma of time off. He was pressed to decide whether he would potentially come and see dad again, now, or save his few remaining days for the looming potential of a funeral service. I still remember the silence after those words were first spoken.

Remembering, while I can (part 1)

I guess April 15 will always loom vividly and large in my memory. I keep waiting for the year when it will pass without turbulence. I also dread the day the significance wanes enough to allow that date to be unnoticed. Each year, as the day grows nigh, I begin to recall stories from my past. Some make me smile, while others remind me of regret and sorrow. Each recurrent memory brings additional clarity for my life.

I have to back up a little.

My mother called me one morning in early February of 1980. Odd because my dad was usually the one who called. I don't remember her words, just that dad had been diagnosed with a lung tumor that would require surgery and the prognosis for that potential surgery and his recovery was not good. I could tell that she had told me all she knew. I did not ask for more.

She encouraged me to come and see him ... soon. I remember the urgency in her voice. For the first time in my life I realized my father was a mere mortal. That one day I would lose him. It hit me like a brick. I tried to "be a man about it" and suck it up, but I had no context on which to lean for this experience. I began to make plans to go see my dad. It started with a phone call to him later that same day. I often called my dad. Now, I realize how often I was asking for something when I called. This time I asked that we just get together and hang out, do whatever he wanted. "Heck, why don't we go fishing". I had NEVER said those words. I hated fishing. Still do. 

Early February in north Arkansas is not typically ideal fishing weather. My dad saw through my words, giggled under his breath and said sure. Also, note that if its not fishing weather, its most likely not motorcycle weather, either. But off I went on a sub-30° Saturday morning on a 100 mile ride. I remember seeing thick frost on the car's windshield as I backed my bike out of the carport. The ride was brutally cold. At one point I stopped at a country store in  Strawberry, Arkansas to stand next to a potbelly stove to encourage my blood to move again. The flannel and overall crowd at the store was amused at my idiocy. I got to my family home about 8:30 a.m. to find my dad ready to talk me out of my fishing plan, due to the weather. But for all the times he had asked me, and I had turned him down, I felt a deep yearning and obligation to be on the water with my dad on this day. After a brief discussion we loaded the car, pulling the familiar red and white 14 ft Alumicraft boat (dad had customized the boat over the years with many personalized featured) and we headed off for a nearby lake (Lake Hogue, south of Jonesboro and near Wiener, Arkansas) with the frigid winter wind howling. Dad asked me to drive. The two tone blue cadillac hummed down the road in style. Conversation was sparse, but extremely cordial. I think we were both nervous about today meant for us.

At the lake, dad didn't have to ask me to jump out and ready the boat for launching. Not this time, anyway. I braved the cold and helped nurture the boat into the choppy water. Neither did he criticize of try to improve upon my ineptitude. Shortly, we were on the water. Bundled up like eskimos we tied off to a big tree and through a line into the fog resting atop the water. Plop. Now, only the sound of the wind was breaking the silence. We made several attempts to make small talk. It wasn't working. My dad offered more than once to head back to the shelter of the shore and the heater in the car. I was saddened and even a bit angry that my ill-fated plans were disintegrating before my watering eyes. I gave in. My dad chuckled (quietly and respectfully) as we headed back across the waves to the shore. The ride home was filled with laughter punctuated with silence. Several times I apologized for the foolishness of my winter fishing expedition idea. I also found places to interject apologies for some of my greater sins and disrespect from my adolescence. He was more than gracious to receive my confessions and apologies. I thanked him for going with me. He thanked me for asking. We laughed about the weather. I felt childish and innocent. I welcomed the comfort of my father's acceptance. It had been a long time since I had allowed myself to experience his warmth. Once we were home I quickly began to transition for the cold and lonely ride home on the bike. 

While the chill in the air numbed my toes on the way home, the ride proved to be cathartic. I longed for the warmth of my home and my father. The scream and chatter of the two-stroke engine revving up and down provided an uninterrupted backdrop for my thoughts as I negotiated the hills and corners of rural Arkansas. I remember nothing of the ride home except a patch of ice encountered in a shaded spot as I crested a knoll. I had thirty more days before the surgery would take place. The silence of somber consideration would be my companion till then. (more tomorrow)

Running after Jesus and my desire to dance for him.

I find myself running after Jesus and marveling at those who never seem to run after him at all, but finding him, all the same. They find him so brilliantly, so vividly. And I strain and stretch, run and fret. I want to be Mary at his feet but find myself Martha sweating the details in the kitchen. One of my goals in this move to Lubbock was to recapture some of the calm. It all worked for a while, but now my struggle has returned. Why does seeking God with my whole heart seem so frenzied, so chaotic. Are my internal mechanisms that messy. I love the quiet of the mountains, the peace of a star-lit sky, and I feel the presence of God and even feel that I hear his voice more clearly in the stillness.

Why is that simplicity, silence, solitude and solemnity are so hard to achieve. (Where did all those "s"-es come from?) Achieve? Attain? Acquire? Seems those very active words are even counter to my goal. They all involve me doing something, maybe even something more, not less. Those four elusive ladies of spiritual peace dance ever beyond by grasp. I try to learn the steps of the intimate dance of deepening communion with my God, but find my earthly coordination leaves me short of mastering a dance I love to watch but can not emulate. Seems the harder I try the more practice remains before I will master the dance.

I know, I know. Quit fretting. Slow down. But I want to dance a dance of joy before him. A beautiful, slow, unhurried, glorious dance, before Him. I feel that my dance is not very pretty, neither handsome nor smooth. I trip a lot, I fear. I pray he sees me differently. I really can't see him watching me dance at all. But maybe, I will rest in the hope that he always helps my dance bring honor to his name. 

So I dance ..., and try not to run.

I was pointed to a beautiful peaceful place by Nan Camp and Amy Cary, who serve as our co-children's ministers. I have found yet another pilgrim who has found our Savior in a quiet place. http://aholyexperience.com (do not do a google search for it, just copy this link, trust me. Some days I hate the internet more than others) 

Lord, I want to dance. Dance for you. Dance in your presence, dance with all who seek you... Dance to the song you sing... Dance to the music of heaven... Dance beneath and between the angels... Dance at the song that brings us into your eternal presence and your glory. Lord let me dance for you. 

What are you doing next week

If you know me, you can see me drool about tis kind of a trip. Pack my bags ... I'm outta here. (I wish)

Worship

We've been in a study of Micah 6 for a while at Broadway. It has blessed me.

Micah 6:8
He has showed you, O man, what is good.
And what does the LORD require of you?
To act justly and to love mercy
and to walk humbly with your God.

The part that still stirs me and still is not completely absorbed are the deeper meanings we have discovered behind these simple and powerful words.

Acting justly is a demand for advocacy. Helping those who can not help themselves. Using our influence, gifts, time, resources, and whatever else we have to help others have a more equitable life.

Loving mercy is acting out in the faithful loving kindness of God. Remembering who we are, what we have been redeemed from. It requires forgiving others as we hope to be forgiven. (this is not about justice, at all)

Walking humbly is a strange piece. this is the only place this word appears in the Hebrew. It seems to say that we are to live in understanding of God's role and our role in life itself.

Josh Haynes said it well today at lunch, "Its always about worship (being constantly awed by God and expressing that sentiment".

I fopund a great video that talks about worship. Enjoy!