It's Over

When I was a senior in high school, I had a friend approach me twirling a butterfly knife. As he walked toward me, spinning and flipping it, he explained how I'd never really been his friend, he was angry because I was more popular and he felt betrayed.

He brought up stuff from way back, kept walking closer, flipping that knife. He was big too. I was still trying to figure it all out when he lunged at me.

As I grabbed his hand to stop him, my mind was completely and utterly confused. There was the reflexive move to protect myself, but the rest of my brain was in chaos, plowing through history, trying desperately to understand. Why was he so angry? Why didn't I know it? Is there someway out?

Holding his arm away from me, I looked at the knife. It was plastic.

This stupid high school prank is the only experience I've had which I think gives a glimpse of how Mary felt the day Christ died. And it doesn't even come close.

She knew for certain she was a virgin who had given birth. The same angel who promised her that, also promised her son would,

"... be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over Jacob's descendants forever; his kingdom will never end." 

But it was ending. It had ended. He just said it. 

"It is finished." 

She had been with him when they fled to Egypt. Saw him wow the rabbis in the temple at 12. Watched him turn water into wine.

If she didn't see, she heard about the blind seeing, the lame walking, the hungry fed and the dead returning to life. And she had to have thought, "It's true. Everything the angel said was true."

Except it wasn't. It was finished.

I struggle to think how confused she must have been during all the beatings he took. When they stripped his clothes and put thorns on his head. When they drove nails into his feet and hands. When they hung him there.

She must have wondered, "When will he do something? Say something? Put a stop to this? Isn't there a way out?"

But there was no way out. His last breath. The spear. The tomb.

There are times when I can't understand God and his purposes. I have a hard time understanding the wickedness of man, mine included. I look at the chaos of the world and I'm bewildered. And I'm reminded of Mary.

Everything she knew was true on Thursday was crushed in Friday's finality. Then Saturday's all consuming despair was blown away in Sunday's sudden wonder. When I am overwhelmed with confusion from the weight of my circumstances I need to remember Mary. Because even when it's finished, it's not over.

Spiritual Prozac

A friend of mine was in her Sunday school class when they broke up into small groups to work through some things from the lesson. They were provided with some questions, some of which were personal. And, if you were honest, they required a level of transparency.

My friend made a mistake. She answered honestly.

There are some things going on in her life she's struggling with and she told them. For the rest of the time, the other folks in the group spent their time trying to fix her. She didn't need to be fixed. She needed a safe place to tell her story.

We have a problem in the U.S. church. We don't allow people to deal honestly with pain.

If someone was running a bandsaw and got their finger too close to the blade, we would expect them to say, "OUCH!" We would probably even understand if their words were a little more gritty than we would normally be comfortable with.

But when the bandsaw rips into someone's soul, it's a different story. No matter your struggle, there's no room for gritty, because God works all things for the good of those who love him.

For some reason, when people are dealing with heartbreaking loss and suffering we hand out spiritual Prozac. It's hard to sit with them in it, so we quote some scriptural happy pills and move on.

The problem is it's not remotely scriptural. Christ was called a man of sorrows, acquainted with the deepest grief. There's a whole book called Lamentations. We're told to weep with those who weep.

It's hard. It will cost us something. And it is beautiful. It's one of the things the church has been called to do. Because no one should carry their burdens alone. And no one should be made to feel lesser because of the burdens they carry.

David was allowed to ask why God had forsaken him. Jesus was allowed to quote him. I don't think anyone ever wondered why they didn't have more faith. Why do we require more from each other?

Moonshine and Foxholes

I spent four years in the army. Before you pass along what seems to be the obligatory, "thank you for your service," let me explain, I was much more like Beetle Bailey than G.I. Joe.

We were walking back to camp late one night after some training. The moon was full and brilliantly lit up the meadow we were hiking through. Like good little soldiers we were spread out across the field as we walked, but the moon was so bright I could see each one. As we approached the woodline, someone asked if I needed a flashlight. With the moon, I obviously didn't need one, so I declined.

That was mistake number one.

The minute I hit the trees I realized my mistake. The full moon is great at illuminating an open field, but penetrating the canopy of a Virginia forest in the Spring... not so much.

I knew the general direction of my shelter-half. (Apparently the Army could only afford to give me half a tent. If I was Air Force, we would have been staying in a hotel will a fully stocked mini-bar, but that's a blog for another occasion). Since I knew which way to go, I decided to shuffle along until I found it.

That was mistake number two.

What I failed to remember was,we dug foxholes earlier in the day... yeah. The thing about foxholes is, you dig them armpit deep to the shortest man. The one I "found" was dug by two dudes who were about 6'5.

I'm convinced I could have gotten out of that hole by myself, if I hadn't torqued my ankle so badly.

It's kind of embarrassing to yell for help after you've fallen in an empty foxhole, especially when it's happened because of your own foolish choices. What you find though is people respond with concern. They help pull you out, carry you to rest and even take you to a medical professional if you need one.

We've all fallen in foxholes from time to time. It's OK if you're stuck in one. Just remember, there are people who care more about you than the spot you're in or how you got there. Help is available. You don't have to sleep down there. 

The Hidden Price of Missions

I've been in a member care roll for our missionary staff for about five years now. It's been a gift to walk with our people through celebration and pain. I expected that. We'd been in "the business" long enough to know missionaries are people. And people have issues.

But something happened I didn't expect. I got calls from retirees. Some needed help. Some needed to talk. Some needed to inform us of the death of a spouse. All of them, still felt connected to the organization.

It seemed strange to me. Folks who retire from the government, GM or Walmart don't do that stuff, do they? If someone retires from Boeing at 65, would she still call the front office 20 years later and expect the folks there to know who she is? 

There are a number of reasons for this, but I think the key issue is an inability to truly reengage with their home culture. Lots of folks transition when they retire. They pack up and head to Florida or Arizona. So why can't missionaries make the leap? 

Well, because 30 years outside your home country makes you... um... weird. After 30 years, the country has moved on, the culture has moved on, friends have moved on and they just can't connect. They feel like  I did in my father in law's barn. 

They don't have a job where they can engage. They're pushing 70 so they don't have the energy they used to. They try to engage at church but, to them, many folks seem shallow. And the folks at the church don't know what they're capable of. 

Like the hobbits return to the Shire after an unexplainable adventure, some are like Sam, who can can reengage and can move on. Others, like Frodo, have gone too far. 

This is the price you'll probably never hear about from your missionary friends. Missing home, missing family, missing friends, raising your kids in a strange place are all things you'll probably hear and understand. 

But home isn't home anymore. It never will be, especially for those who have spent the better part of their lives outside in overseas ministry. Like Frodo, they have to wait for the final trip home, our true home where we will all feel like we belong. 

Do The Superman

I came across this video the other day. It's of Braylon Beam, a young cancer patient, dancing after a game with the Carolina Panthers. I think I've watched it at least 15 times since then.

You can watch more of Braylon's story here. Something about this video moves me. It took me a while to figure out why. I've seen these stories before and sure they're touching, but as a dude, they're not supposed to bring you to tears, right? (The sheer ridiculousness of that last statement, what it says about me and our society in general is something for another blog)

As I thought through it, I decided it's everything. I love all of it.

You have the vulnerability of a young boy surrounded by the safety of large strong men. He's a little white kid who really can't dance, being celebrated by black men with moves, race and culture aren't issues.

Then there's Braylon's final pose. It's what Amy Cuddy calls a "power pose" in this Ted talk. It's celebratory, victorious, triumphant. He's Superman.

Then it finally hit me. The video crushes me, because I think about Mom.

Alzheimer's has taken her. Her mind is gone. Her body is bound. She's been defeated. But some day, God willing someday soon, that won't be true anymore.

She'll be safe from disease. Free to dance again. And as all of heaven welcomes a saint who lived life well, I'd like to think Jesus will say, "Come on Jeannette... let me see your Superman."

Headwind

One morning, my friend Tara lead our morning chapel time here at Reach Beyond. She made us all go outside and form a line, shoulder to shoulder, in the parking lot. Then she said:

Growing up...
If you had your own room, take a step forward.
If you ever went to bed hungry, take a step backwards.
If you had family traditions, take a step forward. 

If you believed law enforcement was the enemy, take a step backwards.

If you felt protected by your care givers step forward.

If you were ever abused, step backwards. 

She went on and on with her list as we moved forward or backwards in relationship to each other. When she finished, the office staff was scattered around the parking lot, some of us way forwards, others way behind.

Tara asked us to look around and see where we were in relationship with each other. Because, while everyone worked in the same building, we didn't all have the same journey. She explained, some of us have experienced a lot more "headwind" in our lives. Obstacles to success.

Looking at the distance that divided the person in front and the person in back was a powerful and painful illustration.

As we engage with the people around us, we need to realize that. There are people still struggling against the headwind of their past. We all have different levels of it in our present. It is probably something you can't see, so don't judge too quickly. And always try to get their backstory.

I won the game. Well, Tara says it's not something you can win, but I won anyway. I had moved farthest forward. That doesn't say anything about me. It says everything about my parents and the privilege they provided me.

What I also noticed was, the three of us at the front of the group all had something in common; a generational faith. We all came from families with rich faith traditions.

There's a lot of criticism of Christians and of the church. A lot of it is valid. What's also true is there is something about a life lived well, that impacts future generations. When you grow  up in the home with parents who are authentic followers of Christ... there's a lot less headwind. 

Grand Canyon

Nancy and I got to visit the Grand Canyon recently. As we walked and drove along the south rim, we started talking about just how grand it actually is. It's vastness is so overwhelming, it's hard for your brain to process all that your eyes are absorbing.

So we started trying to come up with words to describe it. We decided "big," "really big" and "really, really big" didn't quite do it. At one particular overlook, there was just one other couple when we walked up. As usual, as we got to the edge, a reflexive "Wow" fell out of our mouths.

"Yes," said the lady. "It's inexhaustible."

I was so impressed with her wordsmithing and frustrated mine had been bested by this little old lady. The word that suits the Grand Canyon is inexhaustible.

Except it isn't. It's not even the biggest canyon in our solar system.

This awe-inspiring geologic wonder makes us feel so small and insignificant, we begin to ponder life, creation and God. And it's not even noticeable when we begin to look at the universe. The earth is minuscule compared to the sun, which is a measly little star.

Somehow, I think David understood this. I think, one night, watching sheep, laying on a hilltop outside Bethlehem, he drank in the stars from horizon to horizon, was consumed by wonder and said, "What is man that you are mindful of him? The son of man that you care for him?"

What I love about his words is they speak two fundamental truths. We seem to be frightfully insignificant. God loves us anyway.

The universe is filled with incomprehensible wonders. You are the one God sees. You are the relationship he longs to redeem. You are the one he loves, with a love that is truly inexhaustible. You.