On Church

Today's Monday, which means many persons around the world spent at least a part of yesterday in a church somewhere. That is a beautiful thing.

And there are enough posts out there right now about why you should be in church on Sundays that I'm not going to add to that resounding echo, although let me say that I firmly agree with what most of these writers say: when you start to miss church for other events, you set your priorities and it's clear that church isn't one of them. That pains me, but it is what it is.

There is one very good reason to go to church on Sundays, however, and it is this: Jesus is there. Jesus went to the Temple rather frequently. Faithfully, you might even say. In addition to attending holy festivals and feasts with His family, we see Him in the Temple as early as age 12 simply for the teaching. For sitting around discussing the Scriptures. For being together with people who were doing the same. For the edification that comes from a holy community. Yes, Jesus went to church. What makes you think you don't need to?

But that was Sunday and today is Monday, and so there is another pressing issue on my mind, and that is this: once you leave the church, you're supposed to be the church. 

Are you being the church today?

Jesus went to the Temple, but He also brought the Temple to the people. He traveled around the region, seeing what people needed, meeting with them, talking Scripture to more than just the religious elite. He didn't care if you knew the Pentateuch; He was going to tell you what Moses said. It didn't matter to Him if you knew Isaiah was a prophet. Maybe you lived next door to an "Isaiah"; He was going to tell you what the prophet said anyway and invite you into His bigger story.

He walked around bringing healing. He cast out demons, restored sight, regenerated limbs, raised the dead, righted the lame. He forgave sins. He even spoke to the things you could not so easily see, the very broken hearts of people. Consider the woman at the well, just trying to escape her own story in the heat of the day. He brought her right back into it and spoke healing. Or a guy like Zacchaeus, trapped in his own corruption, unsure any more where the line even is. Jesus redrew the line for him, quietly, and the tax collector found a new measure of integrity.

He spent much of His time just affirming people. Telling them it was okay to be who they were, and telling them who He was making them to be. Peter is the prime example of this. A regular, run-of-the-mill fisherman who became a fisher of men. A guy who messed up over and over again. Jesus just keeps gently correcting him and telling him who he's going to be, who he's already becoming. 

And He invited people into holy moments. He created sacred spaces. He shared food with them, a nod to the festivals and feasts that were so common in Jewish society.

That's what we're called to do. We are called to be Jesus in this world, to be the place where people find Him in this world. We are called to teach the Word of God, to let people know what the Scriptures say. We are called to heal the infirmities all around us, the ones we can see and the ones that live below the surface. We are called to affirm people, to remind them who they are, who they are becoming. And we are called to create sacred spaces and invite people into them.

Most of us went to church yesterday. And that's important. Please, join us on Sundays.

But are you being the church today? Are you teaching, healing, affirming, and inviting people today? Because that's just as important. It's important not just to be in church, but to be the church and to be Jesus in this world. 

Independence

It's Independence Day in America, and lest you think this day is about burgers and dogs, grilling out, and fireworks, remember how this all began:

With a declaration of freedom.

Most of us don't know how to be free. We don't know what it would be like to live without that hurt we've always had. Or that hesitation. Or that bad habit that keeps us stuck in the same cycles. We don't know how to stop doing what we've always done. We don't know how to do something new, no matter how bad our hearts ache for something to be different, for us to be free.

But that's no reason to reject freedom.

When the founding fathers declared their independence, they didn't know what they were doing. They didn't know how to run a country. They only had the example of the king, which wasn't much of an example because it was everything they didn't want to be any more. They knew what they didn't want but weren't exactly sure what a new nation would look like. So they declared their independence and started working out the bugs as free men.

It's a lesson for all of us.

We think we have to know what's going to be different before we decide to change anything. We think we have to know what we're stepping into, but the lesson of today, if it's anything, is this: we don't. We don't have to know what tomorrow looks like to understand that yesterday isn't working. We don't have to know what "better" is to know that this isn't it. What we have to be willing to do is step forward anyway, shrug off our baggage, set ourselves free from what's broken in our lives and work out the bugs as free men.

It's a learning process; it really is. You don't decide you're not who you were without still seeing your old self in the mirror every now and then. Especially when you're just starting out. You can't just say you're never going to do this or that again, never going to fall for that old trick because by now, it's probably your default. It's probably a bit of a comfort to you because at least you know how this broken place works. You have to commit to taking courageous little steps every day, working your way out of whatever burdened mess you're in and walking toward something new, even if you don't know exactly how that something new works. Even if you don't know exactly what that something new is.

Yesterday wasn't working, but today's a brand new day.

And there is no better day than today to start something new. Today is a day when our bellies are full, when we're filled to the brim with fried chicken and burgers and hot dogs and all the fixins, apple pie and cherry pie and a little bit of ice cream. It's a day when our most basic needs are met, and the mood is already celebratory.

Today is a day when we're surrounded by the people who mean the most to us. Our families, our friends...even our communities. Today, we're all together. You can step out of whatever it is you used to know and step into open arms. Even if it's not in your literal backyard, there are people out there today who will embrace you in a way you can't get on an average Friday. Strike up a conversation. Play a round of badminton. Share a picnic. Whatever. There are people all around today, ready to party.

And tonight is the night that when darkness starts to fall, we light it back up. We fill the sky with colors and sounds, with new light in a new season.

There's no better day than today to start something new. There's no better day than today to start walking toward freedom.

It doesn't matter if it's a big thing or a little thing. A little quirk you've always wished was different or a huge burden holding you down. We all have something we'd like to change, and today is the day. 

This Independence Day, set yourself free. You don't have to know how it all turns out; you just have to know it's got to be better than this. And it will be. Take one bold step toward freedom today and celebrate your independence.

Amen

I am not much of a pray-er. When I say that, what I mean is that I count heads at chaplain's fellowship every month because the fifth person in leads the morning prayer, and if I'm number five, well, I might just have to go to the bathroom first. When I say that, what I mean is that when I get up on a Sunday morning to share a Communion thought with my church, I almost always forget (until my last awkward breath) that I am also supposed to pray. When I say that, what I mean is that I spend more time talking to myself in my head than I do talking with God from my heart.

I think prayer is the last great mystery of discipleship for me; it's the last discipline I really need to incorporate in my life to have a more full understanding of what it means to be God's.

It's not that I have anything against prayer; I don't. It's that...well, it's a couple of things. First, I came to the church as a teenager and surrounded by a bunch of teenagers, the only thing I remember noticing during prayer time at church was a bunch of fidgeting. Counting the seconds, and minutes, that passed. Eyes darting around, hands dutifully folded, until it seemed like things were wrapping up. Aside from the man up front, or whoever was leading the prayer, I never really saw anyone pray. I know. That's how it's supposed to be in corporate prayer, but I just got this sense that someone else was praying and I was supposed to be respectful, but not involved.

And this led me to a place where I also started to feel like I was eavesdropping. Talking with God...it's such a personal thing, and here was this man (in those days, always a man) talking to God and I wasn't sure I was supposed to hear the words. So I wasn't really listening.

I think about this sort of thing every time I am asked to pray. (Which is why I'm thinking about it this morning.) If you ever watch me pray, you will probably notice two things. First, I'm fidgeting. I'm really just counting the seconds, wondering when I'm going to be done, wondering if I've prayed long enough for everyone else to fidget. (Yes, this is a standard of prayer.) Second, I'm not really listening to myself.

That's because I know you're listening. I feel like you're eavesdropping. And if you ever knew how I really talk with God....

I don't have a lot of room for reverence. There's not room in my relationship with God for decorum. I'm more of a crying-out spirit. I'm one of those people on the side of the road, screaming at the top of my lungs for God to turn to me in this moment and not simply pass me by. I talk to God the way I talk to myself, the way I talk to my grandmother, the way I talk to my friends. It's not really a model I've seen very much from the men up front, but more and more as time goes by, maybe. I overcompensate when I'm praying in public and start adding the decorum back in, but it hits me right away how fake it all sounds. And I long to pray just the way I pray.

Approved or not.

But here's the thing, and this is what I know. Maybe it's not this way for everyone, but don't blow it for me, okay? I used to listen for the amen. I used to tune my ears to hear only that word, but knowing that I hadn't prayed, knowing that I couldn't say a single word, or even thought, that the pray-er had shared, I hesitated to join when all the people say. In fact, I never said it. It was only when I started listening to the prayer that I started to utter an amen, quietly, softly. Timidly.

I'm still kind of afraid of the amen. But at the very least, it means I was listening.

And you know? I have never prayed a prayer out loud with only my amen. There is always a chorus when I'm done, always others who chime in and add their amen. It's affirming. To me, it means someone was listening. It means someone was either taking my words or using their own words, but they were engaged in this time of prayer. It doesn't necessarily mean to me that I have prayed a brilliant prayer, but it does say to me that I have opened up a time and a space that someone else was able to engage in prayer. And people do. Given the opportunity, I think people pray.

For those that don't, that's where our courage to pray comes in. These are the moments by which we lead them to their own prayer time. This is where we set our example. This is where we show them what it means to pray, and what it means to be a person who believes in prayer. Which means, when I pray, what's more important than anything is that I believe what I'm praying.

I'm getting better at that every day.

There's not really a point to all of this rambling; these are just some thoughts I'm having this morning as I think about prayer, what it means to be a praying person, what it's like to be entrusted to lead others in prayer, and what it means to say amen.

Give It All

No less than half a dozen times in the past ten days, I have come across a comparison of Bible stories. At some point, I can't help but start to notice there's a theme. The stories all center around this: what are you willing to give to God?

It starts, of course, with the rich young ruler. This is a young man who came to God to ask what more he must do to achieve righteousness and the promise of God. He pridefully declares he has already followed the commandments, as if following the Law was such an easy thing for a man like him. And Jesus responds to the man, "Go. Sell everything you have and give the money to the poor. Then, follow me." (Luke 18)

It's a double parting for a wealthy man. Jesus doesn't ask him to give his things directly to the poor, and thus only separate himself from his stuff. No. Jesus tells him to sell his stuff (a departure from things) and then to give all the money away (a departure from means). As if getting rid of everything you have isn't bad enough, get rid of it again. This is the very thing we are afraid of, that we must become destitute to become God's. And most of us, like the rich young ruler, are not willing to make that trade.

The stories I've been reading don't leave me with the rich young ruler, though. They take me next to the story of the corrupt tax collector, Zacchaeus. We all know Zacchaeus for being the enthusiastic Jesus-seeker who climbed a tree to get a better look at the passing Lord. We all know that Jesus then asked to have dinner at the sinner's home, sending shockwaves through the religious elite. What we often forget is how that encounter changed Zacchaeus. At the end of the evening, the corrupt man declares, "I will give away half of my belongings, and whatever I have cheated anyone out of, I will pay back times four!" (Luke 19)

He certainly didn't give everything. He didn't even offer to. He made a tremendous concession, but he also demonstrated that there were things he wanted to hold onto. That he didn't have it in his heart to completely empty himself. At least, that's what he says. (I don't believe him. Keep reading; I'll tell you why.) But Jesus responds favorably to this offer, affirming what Zacchaeus has pledged to do as a very good thing.

In this case, Jesus doesn't require all. He takes what is offered out of faith and devotion and is pleased by it. He does not reject what the tax collector offers just because the man can do more.

And He treasures the gift of a widow who could not possibly do more. 

Jesus was hanging out at the temple because, well, what else is a promised prophet going to do with His time? A widow enters and drops two coins into the offering box. No one else notices what a magnitude this gift is. This widow, having not been asked for anything, is giving everything. She is one of the protected class, one of those that Jesus tells everyone else to take care of. Here she is trusting more than two mites and giving it all away. Jesus receives it, blesses her, and tells her story in His. (Luke 21)

To me, this series of stories is a developing revelation. Although most of us get no further than the rich young ruler, the story does not stop there. God asks for our all, yes, but He blesses our less. 

The rich young ruler couldn't make that sacrifice and chose to walk away. Jesus did not go after him. We don't know what the response would have been if the young man had followed through. I'm not sure it would have been encouraging. He would have found himself in the same place most of us find ourselves - having given up all we could possibly give up and not understanding what the gift of God really is. I think the man would have been discouraged. I think he would have found trial and persecution and such a radically different life that he would have regretted ever asking the question. (This is what happens to us when we jump in too quickly, too fully, expecting an instant perfection and a perfect happiness.) 

But then we see Zacchaeus, who was not willing to give it all and wasn't asked to; he only chose to begin to give. He chose to start sacrificing. He chose to start making things right. He gave everything he thought he could spare, maybe a little more or maybe not, and Jesus commended him for it. And you know what? I think once he started making good on this promise, he probably couldn't stop himself. I think the old corrupt tax collector started giving more than he thought he could spare, gave away more than he anticipated parting with. I think once he started giving, he couldn't stop. Becoming untangled from all we have, even just a little bit, does that to us. The more we give away, the more we realize how wrapped up we are in all we have and we just can't take it any more! It's not so hard any more to give it to a better thing.

Which is how we come to the story of the widow. She had hardly anything at all, but she was also in a place to realize she didn't need it. God had an explicit promise that His people were to take care of her and even if she couldn't trust people (just look at our prior examples in this post - who can trust a rich man or a tax collector?), she could trust God. And she did. And that's what we think about when we think about her story. It didn't look like much. Two simple cents. But it was literally everything she had.

That's what God does to us.

He tells us it will cost us everything, but He doesn't bind us to give. Instead, He blesses whatever we offer. He affirms our starting point. He rejoices because we have decided to give. He lets us believe we're doing something good and leaves it to our hearts to figure out the little bit we offer is not enough. He leaves it to our spirit to start understanding how little our little bit is, and how heavy our remaining burden. Before we know it, we are graciously offering everything. Giving all we have to God.

And it's not so bad, really. It's actually pretty incredible.

Because we finally get to decide what we're holding onto...and what's been holding onto us.

Close the Door

And this is precisely what makes choosing Jesus so hard. 

If you haven't been following along, on Friday I said that the narrow road is choosing Jesus again and again amid all your options, like picking one door of thousands at every juncture. Yesterday, I added that the problem with most of these doors is that they lock themselves behind you so you can't just go back and choose again; you can't just backtrack and make things right.

The problem with Jesus is every time you choose Him, He leaves the door open for you to go back. He doesn't lock you into your choice. Ever. You can be twenty paces or twenty years into one decision you've made for God and take it back in a heartbeat. You can second-guess because you have that second chance. It's always right there for the taking.

Which means it's not so simple as choosing God at this point and choosing Him again at that one. When you decide to choose the narrow road, you have to keep choosing it over and over, every second, every breath...because it's far too easy to go back.

We've seen this in our churches. We've seen this in our communities. We've seen this in our culture. We've seen this in ourselves. The narrow road is rarely the easy road and sometimes, it's easy to say that something is clearly what Jesus wants us to do, but the longer we try to stay true to that, the harder it is and we realize there was an easier, if less holy, way.

Jesus says to save your marriage. To hold your vows. To make every effort to reconcile your relationship. But counseling is hard. Honesty is tough. Putting something so tender as love back together isn't easy and it's taking longer than you ever could have imagined. Some days, it doesn't seem you're getting anywhere at all. At least if you had filed for divorce, you could be moving on already. You could be getting somewhere new, with someone new, and it's hard to understand why you're putting yourself through this torture any more just because it seemed like the right thing to do.

Jesus says to give Him the first fruits. Ten percent. And you start out faithfully tithing, which doesn't seem like a big deal at all. Until those unexpected bills start piling up and it doesn't look like the 90 percent you've got leftover is going to stretch far enough to make it. You start to wonder how you can afford to pay your mortgage when you suddenly realize, Jesus already has a church. He's got that big beautiful building and it's taken care of (or so it seems) so it's okay to take care of your needs first for awhile. Then suddenly it's been years since you gave a dime. Because it's so much easier to work with your full salary than the leftover fraction after God gets His. (And seriously, He's doing fine. Right?)

All these things, you start out on the right road but the right road - the narrow road - is hard. If it was easy, everyone would do it. And because Jesus never locks you into your decisions the way this world does, it's far too easy to go back. Easier, it seems, that going forward. 

So what is the answer? Isn't there anything you can do to make discipleship even a little easier?

Absolutely. Close the door.

When you make a decision for God, close the door behind you. Board it up. Lock it up. Throw away the key. Stand firm in your decision and further decide that going back is not an option. Changing your mind is not an option. You've made your choice. Fix your eyes forward and keep walking; if you've made a faithful error, God will bring it back around for you and give you another chance. Not the same chance, but a new one.

Decide that your word is your word. That it means what you say it means. That Truth does not change for circumstances. Decide that God doesn't make you do anything, that He doesn't box you into your decisions but that you do that. Decide that you make your choices and live by them, even when you have no seeming obligation to do so.

Choose Jesus. Choose Him again and again and again. Walk through every open door God gives you. Just remember to close those doors behind you so you're not tempted. 

Whatever whispers you hear from the places you've already left are not the voice of God; the God who calls you dwells in front of you, ever calling you closer to Him.