See You Soon, Dr. Willard

A long time ago, a friend told me that by reading the Gospels, she had fallen in love with Jesus once again. That sounded good to me - I mean, loving Jesus was a big part of being a Christian, and I wanted to fall in love with him, just like that old Jars of Clay song. So, I set out and read each of the Gospels. I did this dutifully, from Matthew to John, but I was a teenager and lacked the self-awareness to admit that it didn't have the same effect. The Gospels, the Synoptic Gospels especially, were a sort of mysterious, holy terrain, full of riddles and sort-of-familiar stories that I only assumed had a direct application on my life because I knew they were supposed to. I was down with David and Paul, but I felt like I was missing the main point.

This all changed when I read The Divine Conspiracy by Dallas Willard. I may never have learned about the book had it not been assigned reading for my first stint as a campus ministry intern in Freiburg, Germany. It was heady reading for us, and not everyone on my team liked it - I remember one of my colleagues called it "The Divine Confusion" - but for me, it was magic.

The Divine Conspiracy was the first book (or sermon) that took seriously the Kingdom of Heaven. The Synoptic Gospels are full references to it, but it was a phrase I really didn't know how to handle. The Kingdom of Heaven seemed something very different, very separate from the here and now. Of course, as Dr. Willard points out, this isn't the case. Jesus' first message was that the Kingdom of Heaven was something very close. Because of Jesus, God and his own Kingdom, where his will is done, where Love is the law, is something near, if only we repent and belief this Good News.

This is how Dallas Willard explained it, or at least how I understood it. Almost every pastor I've encountered since has stressed that the Kingdom of Heaven is both "now and not yet," meaning that someday Jesus will return and establish the fullness of his Kingdom, but now we get to feel its presence and participate with us, even as we live among a world very much fallen. In The Divine Conspiracy, Willard stresses the "now" part (though the closing chapter is a wondrous reflection of what's to come).  And in his text, following Jesus became an endeavor of delight and urgency. Think of the last project you worked on, be it for work or for school or for whatever, that really felt like it was worth it, like your gifts were being used to create something that, regardless of whatever else was happening, was in and of itself good. That's how Dallas Willard presented the Kingdom of God, and that's how Dallas Willard presented our Lord's opus, the Sermon on the Mount.

The Sermon on the Mount was a particularly hard nut among the Synoptic Gospel mysteries. The understandable critique, a critique that anyone who takes the Sermon seriously has to make, at least once, means: are these even possible? It's beautiful, sure. But it the real world, to rid our lives of anger, contempt, lust, and revenge, not to mention going the extra mile with someone, and all of this without being allowed to show off or worry... well...  It's silly, the way I'm describing it, but it's also honest. It seems a sermon of either ideals or intimidation, rocks that shatter good intentions.

But in a strange way, after reading The Divine Conspiracy, it isn't. To read Dallas Willard means that to follow Jesus in the manner described by his famous sermon is costly, yes, but it's also something rich and rewarding, full of energy without being tiresome. We really can go on the journey rid our lives of these things that suffocate our relationships to our fellow humans - bitter contempt, sexual objectification and revenge fantasies - to live a life where we really love God with all we got and love our neighbors as ourselves. The duty of discipleship became an adventure, a costliness that is worth every ounce of energy expended, for we know that ultimately, it's Christ, his death and Resurrection, that makes the journey possible.

The Kingdom of Heaven is still something mysterious to me, and maybe it's supposed to be. It seems like every pastor or theologian I encounter says something different on the subject, and maybe all of their thoughts fall within a spectrum of truth. But thanks to Dr. Willard, the concept, along with the Synoptic Gospels and the Sermon on the Mount, became something beautiful to me, something that I wanted to enter with all my heart. And with that, Jesus himself, his law, his teaching, his sacrifice and his presence through the Holy Spirit, became more beautiful.

I write this in appreciate and affection for Dr. Willard, who died on May 8th. I am indebted to his life and his teaching, and my highlight-stained copy of The Divine Conspiracy still sits in an open place on my shelf, available for reference.

Phone Home, Elke and Sven, Phone Home

What a powerful, counter-cultural post by Elke Naters and Sven Lager on Zeit Online. What a rare modern, public witness to the radical love of Christianity. What a testimony as to why these poor but sexy Berliners who moved to South Africa and embraced the faith of the "transforming power of love,"' to use their words. Haven't read it yet? Click on the link and read it. Don't know German? Pop that baby into Google Translate and let'er rip. It's worth it.

Naters and Lager moved to South Africa, because, among the rhythms of their Berlin life - "writing books, having kids, going drinking" - they went, comfortably enough, "with any particular pain, but without any particular depth." In contrast, I moved to Western Europe. Growing up in a family who always heard from international people and international places, Western Europe was like a storybook of endless chapters that I could step into. Heck, eventually I married into it. The food, the trains, the culture mish mash, the hoards of bright, artistic people who valued not just producing things but the moments where drinks and walks and bike rides are shared with friends. These things just weren't as abundant in the land of individualism and energetic economy.

That life of drinks and art and conversation - well, I wouldn't have given that up for South African excitement, myself. Maybe that was their storybook place. I read "Cry, the Beloved Country," and believe me, I want to see the country, but I'm not sure if I'd be ready for the pain part. But for Naters and Lager, they needed to taste more life. Something (to paraphrase their words) more radical than punk, communism or whatever isms we stuff in our soul to make the world better and our morals correct. In Africa, they found a land that was not just Christ-haunted, but Christ-bathed, a land of amazing healing, yes, but of even more amazing forgiveness and reconciliation, repentance and belief.

I'm glad they wrote their piece, not in some right-wing rag, but in one of the most respected German-language newspapers. I like that they included conversations over wine with their bewildered Berliner friends. (The title of the piece is, after all, "You actually believe in the Bible?") I like that, judging by the 760 (my last count) comments, many full of snide and bile, that they seemed to hit a nerve, a nerve I'm so often afraid to touch. And, believe me, I hope all of this is a sign that Naters and Lager haven't forgotten where they came from. Not everyone can travel for their spiritual journey, and we desperately need to hear their stories. We need to know what radical forgiveness looks like, lest we think we don't need it. We need to know that God is moving and just, that he loves us, that he hasn't abandoned us. Phone home, you strange, foreign, Bible believers. Tell us more.
...

For what it's worth, I've sat with him here. I sat with in him those comfortable street cafes in Western Europe, between classes or meetings or days off breathing second-hand smoke while nursing a Spanish coffee and the kind of book that melds mind and soul. I held his hand with a tiny band of praying Italians at a Pisa train station, at an Easter morning worship circle in Eastern Germany and with my own child in a church here in Plochingen. And for the many here who do not know him, who keep him at a comfortable distance, I've felt God's dancing love for them, his desire for reconciliation. May we, to quote the old prayer, see Christ more clearly, love him more dearly and follow him more nearly, wherever our journey takes us.

Chocolate Eggs

The moment finally came, the spring equinox, the part of the year where the light begins to overwhelm the darkness in the Northern Hemisphere and all the birds start singing love songs. There was a day a few weeks ago where the cafes first opened their doors and put chairs and tables onto Plochingen's cobblestone market street and every child between the river and the top of the mountain went down to the local park (mine included). I saw new friends, sympathized with fellow parents and found out someone had waxed the slide when my brave daughter landed on her bottom three feet (one meter for all you continental Europeans, one metre if you're the writer of the technical English book I use) in front of it. The sun stayed up later, giving everyone color and smiles. (It's not all fun, of course - right now the trees are taking their revenge on my using them for fuel and shelter and lesson plans by warring against my sinuses)

Next week is Easter, and I intend to bite into a big fat chocolate egg (and finally check my Facebook account - what's new?). Here in Germany, they're usually filled with egg liqueur (the taste makes this American think of the Christmas nog), though I hope to get some good Cadbury egg in the mail. You know, the tasty treats that rot your teeth on contact and taste like love mixed with sugar. In any case, I waive my palm in glad anticipation.

These are the feelings of new life: taste, smell, sound, sight, touch. It's appropriate that Christians confiscated pagan fertility symbols for our Easter parties. We eat the eggs and hug the bunnies and then, still shaking from sugar highs and feasting, we go to church and shout, "The Lord is risen! He is risen indeed!" Life renewed. Resurrection. New birth.

This is good news. No, this is wonderful news. Wonderful in the literal since, and I find it especially grand here in Western Europe where people have told me they love the feeling of wonder but refuse to believe in wonder itself. After all, how could anyone rise from the dead, the way Jesus did, the way his closest followers risked their lives to say he did.

It means that things like death, suffering, injustice and evil, results of the fall, however they got here, don't have the final say. These things, present as they are to our senses and our newspapers, as real as they are to our lives, especially those who face the worst of it, do not lord over us. This is wonderful news.

It also means that, however messed up we are (and make no mistake, we are) that there's something about us, in our flesh, in our spirit, in our soul and all we are, that God loves and wants to preserve. God sees it, made in his image. He loves us enough to send his Son to die for us, to take the penalty for our sin, and to raise us with him. Jesus' rising means that we will also rise. God wants to renew us and preserve us, for his love, for his unending pleasure.

This holy week, it's worth stepping into a church to observe the worshippers, the smell of spring and new life in their nostrils, celebrate the wild coronation of Palm Sunday, break bread on Maundy Thursday, mourn death on Good Friday and revel in Resurrection on Easter Sunday. If you find you can't believe in wonder, it's a good week to give it a shot. The awakening flowers, the jubilant birds and the chocolate eggs invite us to do so.

Sacred Gummy Bears

My first thought was: "there goes the nap." If you're a parent, you understand. A child's nap is a parents' oasis, the proverbial eye of the storm, the cigarette break on the construction site, a moment where peace reigns once more and you can find yourself finally cleaning the house or doing that extra work or simply ignoring the pile of dirty serial bowls to indulge in reading, music, TV or blogging. To skip the nap is worse than skipping breakfast. To skip the nap is worse than watching your favorite team lose to the last-place team in the division. Not only do you have a cranky kid to contend with, but your chance to ease your day with something soul soothing and life giving has been banished to the bottom of the diaper pale.

Speaking of which, nap killer #1 is what we Americans euphemistically call #2. If a child stinks her diaper after you laid her in the crib, well, forget it. She ain't going back to sleep, and if you don't act fast, you're going to have to send a load of laundry on an emergency wash (followed, perhaps, by an emergency bath, emergency floor scrubbing and an emergency shower).

Nap killer #2 is sugar. It could be fallen nature, it could be genetic disposition or maybe she's just a quick study of her father, but my little girl sucks down sweets faster than a puppies devour a stolen bratwursts. After which, she buzzes around our apartment like a trapped wasp, leaving stuffed animals, crayons and my wife's makeup supplies in her wake. To lay her in the crib after sugar is to risk her kicking through the bars while singing her own medley of "the ABC's" and "The Wheels on the Bus." She ain't gonna sleep. That's why this morning, as my pastor gave each church child a packet of gummy bears (to my daughter's shrieking delight), my first thought was: "there goes the nap."

Today was our special family church service. We met in the morning instead of the evening, and we brought a potluck dinner. The sermon was something applicable for children, and the "children's church" pre-sermon warm up involved a competition for gummy bears. Naturally, all the children, including the adorable two-year olds along for the ride, got their own packet.

I wrote earlier of soul soothing, and I wonder if those gummy bears were good for my daughter's soul. For her, gummy bears are a sweet, joyous occasion, a special treat and a beautiful indulgence. And today, this was associated with church. Church can be an oppressive place for children. A place of uncomfortable shoes, strange chairs and the coercion to sit quietly while an old stranger talks. There is, of course, a place for children to learn to sit quietly and listen - patience is worth learning for any part of life, but there's only so much a little girl can take. Today, I was grateful that my little girl got gummy bears.

In a weird way, these gummy bears reminded me of a deeper, spiritual truth. All sermons, prayers, songs, stand up, sit down, how are you, please be quiets and peace be with you point to something wonderfully sweet. The Gospel, the Good News of Jesus Christ is a wonderful thing, the kind of thing that would cause someone to sell all his possessions so he could have it, the kind of thing that would cause a woman of ill-repute to smash an alabaster glass of perfume at Jesus' feet and perform a bizarre and sensual and public act of worship.

Many (though not all) of those close to Jesus thought he was wonderful. Wonderful enough to leave much behind, wonderful enough to perform these bizarre acts of worship, wonderful enough to run to him the way a two year old runs down the aisle for a packet of gummy bears, uninhibited, unashamed and free. It feels strange for me, two thousand years later to imagine, indeed appreciate this sort of devotion. But devotion to Jesus offers something sweeter than any of the wondrous things present to our senses (though when used properly, these wondrous things point to it). The pastor went on to say that Jesus compared himself and his Kingdom to a mustard tree that gives livelihood and shelter to the birds - he offers us his livelihood and shelter, and he teaches us to give livelihood and shelter to others. He offers forgiveness and reconciliation to our Creator, to him we've sought when we thought we were looking for other things. He offers change in us, that we can learn love each other without ambition, agenda or manipulation, that we can learn love God with all that we are. It's worth running after, reveling in, talking about, thinking about. It's worth tasting.

An update. My daughter ran off her sugar high by following the bigger kids around the church. She went right to sleep at nap time, only to have the moment cut short by nap killer #1.

Nones and Lovers

I've been wanting to write about Eric Weiner's New York Times column on Americans and God since it came out in December, but I've been busy doing other things, like trying to work for a living and thinking up warm-weather holiday songs. And the truth is, I wanted to give it some thought, because I think it's worth responding to as a Christian. Weiner represents a form of non-belief that is probably more prevalent than the faith of convinced atheism. He's undecided, a self-described "None." What's a None? Well, here:

We Nones may not believe in God, but we hope to one day. We have a dog in this hunt. Nones don’t get hung up on whether a religion is “true” or not, and instead subscribe to William James’s maxim that “truth is what works.” If a certain spiritual practice makes us better people — more loving, less angry — then it is necessarily good, and by extension “true.” (We believe that G. K. Chesterton got it right when he said: “It is the test of a good religion whether you can joke about it.”) 

I suspect that Nones number even more than the increasing number of people who check "none" on the surveys. I bet that many who cross "Catholic" or "Protestant" or "Muslim" or whatever belief are practical Nones, the cultural inheritors of a religious faith without significant bearing on their thoughts, decisions or prayers.

Weiner's "Noneness" is more nuanced than the None who just hasn't thought much about the afterlife between work and family and recreation. After a "health scare", this "rationalist" began to explore faith. In doing so, he went on a literal spiritual journey, traveling the world to sample the varieties of religious experience, which he chronicled in his book Man Seeks God: My Flirtation with the Divine. At this point, I should make clear that I haven't read Weiner's book, and answers to the questions and criticisms  I'm about to write may be found there. Nevertheless, his Times column has made a statement about the Nones' view of religion in America, and it's worth addressing.

For starters, let me say "amen" to the None's strong discomfort with the cross-pollination of piety and politics. While there have been times when the church should have done much more (I don't think Weiner would argue with Dr. King here), and I've wrote here before how unimpressed I was by large Christian gatherings using lots of (self-serving?) superlatives in their marketing. It's the sort of thing that would have made me want to clutch Noneness like a life-preserver had I not already been spoken for.

Weiner himself thinks humor is important, and I agree with him (note my heading). He thinks that "precious few of our religious leaders laugh. They shout." Yes, I hear them shouting too. I hear them shouting every time CNN talks to the latest loudmouth to draw a crowd or some doomsday prophet gets much more media attention than they deserve. But I can testify that while every church will have its sour-faced mice, much laughter can be heard between the pews. I grew up in a laughing family, surrounding by laughing people, and all of them thought you could know the Lord personally and would be happy to talk about it. We Christians run the whole gamut of emotions if you take the time to get to know us. In fact, I'm going to go out on a limb and disagree with Weiner's Chesterton quote: "It is the test of a good religion whether you can joke about it." Well, every religion can be joked about, and the best jokes come from within the ranks. Rather, it is the individual's jokes that are the test of his own character. Are they capable of joking? And when they do, is it in the right time and place for the best effect? Or are their jokes there for reasons of poison, to prey on the innocent and to build themselves up at others' expense? As some religious guy wrote somewhere, for everything there is a season. If you're a None genuinely seeking God and you visit a church that seems incapable of humor (and I've been there), give it one more week to make sure that your perceptions aren't clouded by a bias against the kind of people who show up there every Sunday (I have to watch myself there too). But once it's proven that the jokes are either unavailable or inappropriate, run (don't walk) to the exit. Bad humor's a good reason to find another church, but it's be a poor reason to try and put distance between yourself and God.

If Weiner has distance between himself and God, humorless blowhards have contributed to it. He needs a new kind of religious leader. He writes:

The answer, I think, lies in the sort of entrepreneurial spirit that has long defined America, including religious America. 

We need a Steve Jobs of religion. Someone (or ones) who can invent not a new religion but, rather, a new way of being religious. Like Mr. Jobs’s creations, this new way would be straightforward and unencumbered and absolutely intuitive. Most important, it would be highly interactive. I imagine a religious space that celebrates doubt, encourages experimentation and allows one to utter the word God without embarrassment. A religious operating system for the Nones among us. And for all of us.

A Steve Jobs' of religion... sounds nice doesn't it? It sounded nice to me until I began to unpack the analogy. I'm a fan of Apple products, and I am using one to write this blog post. But as sleek, hip and user-friendly as they are, they aren't for everyone, as Microsoft's "I'm a PC" commercial slyly picked up on. Weiner's religious space wouldn't be something for all of us. It would be one more niche in a crowded market. Furthermore, high-technology is effective to the point that it is individualized, that I can sit alone in my computer which is my own electronic kingdom, filled with my apps and my favorites and my bookmarks and social networking sites where I can pay attention and ignore people at my own leisure without fear of boredom, pain or small talk. It's straightforward, unencumbered, intuitive and interactive because it's mine, made in my image and serving my purposes and, for the small price of targeted advertisement, I can be as spiritual and unspiritual as I want, I can experiment, celebrate my doubt or my faith with no book or leader to tell me that I might be in any way off base (and if they do, I can simply delete their comment). I can utter whatever the hell I want, because as far as I'm concerned, I'm alone.

Christianity, to my daily dismay and glory, has a different user experience. It involves other people. I go into a church and I sing songs and say prayers and listen to words with all sorts of people. People with the wrong politics, the wrong interpretations, the wrong family traditions, the wrong styles, the wrong jokes. Their flawed behavior is rarely intuitive and often encumbers me. It's interactive, alright, but the interaction involves me putting aside my desires and agendas to meet other people where they are. It can be very tedious and often takes years to fully feel like part of a Fellowship (and having recently moved, I'm feeling these bruises once again), but it is well worth it. To sing and pray together with someone else in the presence of Almighty God... to have actually done that makes it worth it to come back and drink from the fountain, again and again. Weiner contrasts the private and public nature of religion, but his conclusions are too individualistic. Spirituality is private and public, yes, but knowing God is a communal experience - it's community with Him and with everyone else who has taken the plunge. It's there that we "become more loving" and experience "human grace."

I sympathize with the Nones' desire to remain outside all of this. I sympathize, because I detect something in them that I know in myself: a fear of commitment. Let me explain by way of politics. I confess that I find it difficult to commit to a particular political viewpoint. While living in Washington, I knew people who delighted in this commitment. They had strong politics, and they could argue them so well that I would be convinced until I talked with my next friend who had a different view. Everyone was right, and they could prove it. Moreover, the incivility and ill-humor of our political leaders and the media's appetite for scandal and provocation makes me feel about politics the same way Weiner feels about religion. But at the end of the day, I have to vote. I have to check the box next to the candidate I think is best and which statue or bill sounds the most reasonable. If I don't participate, my voice is completely marginalized and I miss out on the privileges of representative democracy.

Much like politics, religions have their loud blowhards and people who take what I feel is an uncomfortable delight in having strong opinions. But the responsibility for my participation does not rest on them - it rests on me. Commitment to God is less like buying an iPad and more like getting married. It's all encompassing, and we don't get to sever our ties when confronted with suffering, discomfort, other people or the fact that it's often us that needs changing. But the reward, and Christianity's key selling point, if you will, is love. Indeed, the Bible says that God himself is love and that all of God's law is summed up in loving God and loving each other. We're invited into this love through an act of love. Jesus died on a cross 2000 years ago that we may experience God's love through communion and fellowship with him, even when we're humorless blowhards with bad politics. The question then, is not whether we have the right operating system. It's whether we embrace Love or none.

Notes on a Funeral

1. The Deceased

On December 30th at the age of 90, Oma Lore died. My wife's grandmother was the last remaining on either side of the family. Here is what I wrote about her in an email informing my parents' of this significant event.

I wanted to let you know that [my wife's] grandmother (and [my daughter']s Uroma) went to be with the Lord last night. She passed away in the apartment below us while we were fast asleep after our weary travels. She leaves a big hole in all of our lives - she always reminded me of our Granny, sweet and devout, someone who allowed Christianity to work in her heart her entire life so that she truly loved and treated people well, even as she didn't now who they were. This morning, her nurse (who, not knowing the news, came for her usual visit) told [my father-in-law] that she was one of her favorite patients - a breath of fresh air after treating so many people who spend their last moments bitter and resentful. I'll especially remember her for the pure delight with which she received [my daughter]. The two of them were good friends (and sometimes partners in crime when it came to sneaking chips and sweets). She rarely remembered me, but she always remembered [my daughter], and [my daughter] was always happy to see her. At breakfast this morning, I told her that Uroma is "away" and is now with Jesus. I'm not sure how much she understands, but between the emotion that fogged the room and the all the jetlag, she's been both clingy and especially sweet. 

There's sadness, but there's relief and joy in her parting. She was in a lot of pain, and she had often said that she wanted to go home. We had a sense that she was simply waiting for it to end. [My father-in-law] and his sister gave her so much love at the end of her life, taking turns caring for her that she never needed to be sent to a home and making good use of the flexibility both of them have. That being said, I'm also happy for them that this work is complete. She was, of course, a quiet housemate (and she was old enough that she couldn't hear our music or baby crying or whatever), but we would hear her praying every night.  While age had broken down most of her faculties, she never lost the ability to pray. Every night, she would sit in her bed and talk to Jesus, blissfully unashamed that her neighbors could hear her. Now, just like Mary, the sister of Martha, she's sitting at his feet.

She is on the tail-end of the war generation. The scars of the Third Reich and World War II can still be seen and felt in Germany, but those who have lived through it are becoming fewer in number. One of those scars was on her husbands' eyes. He was just twenty when he was called to defend Germany in 1945, and combat with the Allies cost him his eyesight, bringing him into the community of the Kriegsblinde, war blind. Oma Lore was the nurse who would escort him home from the center where he learned to function. He loved her, and was delighted to learn that they were from the same town. His first marriage proposal was rejected, because she was not sure if he was strong enough in his Christian faith. When my family talks about him, he reminds me of GK Chesterton's thankfulness and wonder. Blindness from a war that wasn't his idea to begin with (and killed some family members) could have embittered him, and everyone would have understood. But he remained thankful for life, working as a masseur, growing his garden, reading Tolstoy and searching for wonder (my wife said he was always great for conversation). He's a model to me, the blogwriter who can dwell on failures, bad decisions and bitter pills. Perhaps that's what convinced Oma Lore to become a blind man's wife. Now both of them stand before the Lord in a place with no war or blindness. Their bodies healed.

2. The Organ

I don't get to traditional churches that often - you know, the ones in the middle of most European towns and in American towns in Norman Rockwell paintings with huge, beautiful towers (we go to a more modern church), but the organ and organist at St. Blasius's in Plochingen are lovely. C.S. Lewis, who cut his teeth on Wagner and classical Greek poetry,  had a bias against organ music and hymns, but my tastes are simple enough to delight in the beautiful sounds which played Oma Lore's favorite hymns to bring comfort to my family. In fact, as someone who plays a mere guitar for church, I was a bit envious that one man could make so many sounds and combine them so beautifully. With almost every other instrument, you need the support of others to reach those deep basses and soaring trebles of competing volumes. One organist, his arms, legs, feet and fingers dancing effortlessly across the great machine, filled the church with the sounds of an entire orchestra.

3. The Sermon

The pastor told Oma Lore's story from her perspective (think what I wrote in the email, but as if he were channeling her to tell it in sort of a spoken-word poetry). It wasn't a theological treatise (though I enjoy those on any occasion) nor was it an old time religion alter call (here I'm less of a fan), but her life was a Gospel message. The pastor knew that by simply echoing her years, he was casting seeds at the hearts of all of us in the pews, shivering in the January cold between pieces of art. I hope we listen.

4. The Cemetery

The Cemetery at St. Blasius's is a beautiful record of history of this town. So many names marked, memorials to the war dead to a classmate of my wife's who lost her life to a car accident a long time ago. Oma Lore's family grave is on the front row, right next to the path. But in one of her later acts of charity, she asked that she and her husband be buried a few rows back. Why? Well, the Germans are very good at tending their graves, and there's a special pressure to keep the tombs on the front row spic and span. She felt that pressure herself with the family grave and didn't want to extend it to her descendents. Of course, given her love for everyone and their love for her, not to mention her husband, I trust that this site will remain well-visited and well-flowered.

We lined up in the rain a few rows back. There was a funny moment when the wind turned my large, red umbrella inside out. Everyone else stood in line and waited to scoop dirt into the grave while I hopped around like Charlie Chaplin trying set things right. Though if I made a scene, no one behind me was in the mood to comment on it. I was in the front of the line, because I married into it. There were plenty of people behind me who knew Oma Lore better than I did. One of the mysteries of marriage is that it's a mystic bond, not just to one person, but to her family as well. My umbrella, properly scolded, was now in place and I leaned against my wife as she, with a beautiful expression (this was a sort of sadness that shown through as beauty) dropped her flower into the hole in the ground.

5. Coffee and Cake

After the ceremony and burial, the family and the guests met at a local restaurant for traditional coffee and cake. This included delicious buttered pretzels and yeast buns with raisins. My 2-year-old daughter, who took her nap during the ceremony, rejoined us. After devouring rolls and pretzels (please, please don't give her coffee!!! I don't think anyone did...) she ran around the restaurant. I followed her, watchfully. Once again, I told her that Uroma was with Jesus. It's still hard to tell if she notices the loss of her good friend, the one who would sneak her potato chips while her health-conscience parents weren't looking, the one who she last saw being carried out of the house by medics. She ran around the restaurant like she would run Oma Lore's apartment, delighting in good food and the attention from older relatives. Having already been through a huge move and a couple of long family visits, she is indeed aware that large parts of her life (like the American side of the family) are not here, but they are elsewhere and can be seen in pictures and skype conversations. At the restaurant, she tested the different steps and doors and tried to sneak into the kitchen. How does a two-year-old feel the absence caused by another kind of distance? The mood at the restaurant was light, all things considered. This was not the funeral of a life cut short, but of a life well lived and loved.

6. Should we mourn?

Sometimes, we Christians become concerned when we find ourselves doing something natural. Often, it's in our pleasure - can we enjoy good food and drink, for example? (Yes, if we do so well) But there's also the question if we should mourn at a funeral. There was a charismatic guy at our high school who would lead prayer meetings at the flagpole. He once said he wanted his funeral to be a big, wild party (and presumably, no frowns). Then he would go on to prophecy about his future children. Less flamboyantly, Oma Lore herself once told my wife not to cry at her funeral. She would be in a better place, and I believe that she is. I wonder if, on her last day, Oma Lore saw a vision of Jesus, scars and all, telling her, "today you will be with me in paradise." 

But mourning has precedent. We know it does, and we ache with the loss of people we know and even some of those we don't know. In the Bible, Paul writes to the Philippians that had his friend Epaphroditus not survived his horrible illness, he would have experienced "sorrow upon sorrow." Jesus himself wept at the funeral of a man he would call back to life only moments later. (C.S. Lewis beautifully pictures this at the end of The Silver Chair in the Narnia series, with the lion/Christ-figure Aslan crying over the death of King Caspian. I wanted to quote it, but it seems my copy of the book is on a different continent.) Death is a final reminder what the fall hath wrought, that this world, full of sin and separation from God, is not as it should be. Death reminds us that it took a death to be reconciled to God, and though death is defeated, though Paul mocks it by asking, "where, o death is your sting?" we cannot help but be sad. There is nothing contradictory in a crying Christian, but our tears lead us to our Comforter. A Christian funeral is a bitter drink of mourning and hope, of sorrow and joy, of cross and Resurrection. We cry, yes, we mourn deeply (it's ok to!), but we are comforted.

The 1% and the Wee Little Man

Aside from breaking my solemn vow never to learn anything practical, a fun part of my venture in Frankfurt was the opportunity to see the "Occupy" or "99%" protesters up close. I love a good protest - the best ones are colorful, diverse and peaceful, and Occupy Frankfurt (from what I saw) has been all of these things (though giving Frankfurt's current significance, I expected it to be bigger, but maybe I'm just spoiled after living in DC during the Spring of 2003).

It won't surprise you that my attention has been focused by the worldwide movement's scattered references to Jesus (which I saw in pictures - especially from London - but did not witness in Frankfurt). Most of them refer to how Jesus drove money changers out of the temple, identifying the Lord with the protesters against the rich and powerful 1%.

There's much to this. God's economics are different than those of the world, and story after story, proverb after proverb, shows how unimpressed our Lord is with storing up treasure on earth. Jesus was often found with the poor and the marginalized and was often criticized for hanging with the wrong crowd, and scripture reminds us how God "brings down the rulers from their thrones but has lifted up the humble." Personally, whatever economic good they may achieve, I find the confidence, the slick suits, the making money from money, the pace and the goals of the financial industry foreign and uncomfortable, and all the more so for whatever complicity they have in the economic crisis. So put Jesus and me in the tents in Frankfurt, New York or London.

Except this. You see, all the prophetic language about the rich and powerful who ruin our lives got me thinking about a sermon I heard last February by a certain injury-prone Washington pastor (listen to the sermon - if anything I write is sloppy, inaccurate or just plain wrong, blame the blogger and listen to the preacher for your edification). It's about Jesus' confrontation with a character as slimy, if not more so, than the worst Wall Street or Washington has to offer. If you went to Sunday school, you've probably heard of him. His name is Zacchaeus, and we Sunday school kids used to sing "Zacchaeus was a wee little man, a wee little man was he!" Yes, he was little. And he was rich for all the wrong reasons. He collected unjust taxes from his fellow Jews on behalf of occupying powers, then exhorted plenty of extra for himself. He prospered while his neighbors suffered. He was the 1% in the town of Jericho.

As for Jesus, he was stopping by Jericho on his way to Jerusalem for the climax of the Gospel story, telling people about the Kingdom of Heaven along the way. Throughout his journey, he had mentioned that the poor were blessed, told the story of a rich farmer who died with his wealth after refusing to share it and had just pointed out that it's easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than it is for the rich to come into his Kingdom. When the Gospel of Luke introduces us to Zacchaeus, the little man who preyed on the rest of the town, we'd be forgiven for expecting little Z to finally get what's coming to him.

That's not what happened. Zacchaeus was so desperate to see Jesus that the wee little man climbed up a tree - expensive digs and all - just to get a better look. But it was Jesus who looked at him. He called him by name. "Zacchaeus, hurry and come down, for I'm staying at your house today!" A sign of honor and fellowship - Jesus would break bread with this stooge, this crook, this greedy slime ball. The good folks of Jericho, little Z's victims among them, understandably grumbled. I know I would have. Jesus was going to occupy Zacchaeus' house for all the wrong reasons.

That's the problem with Jesus. We line up to demand justice from those who ruin us: the 1%, corporations, political parties, presidents, slum lords, druggies, moral degenerates, academics, bureaucrats, foreigners, locals, family members and whoever else. And maybe we're right - everyone was sure right about Zacchaeus. Then suddenly, we find Jesus crossing the battle lines to have lunch with the very people whose head we want. This is painful. Real crimes have real victims - tragic ones at that.

And yet, look what happens to Zacchaeus. He joyfully receives Jesus, converts and gives justice plus interest. He says, "half my goods I give to the poor, and if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I restore it fourfold!"

This is good news, not just for Zacchaeus or his suddenly prosperous victims. A couple chapters earlier, after a rich young man was unable to do what little Z did (bringing about this "camel through the eye of the needle" remark from Jesus) the disciples ask a good question. "Then who can be saved?" Dietrich Bonhoeffer points out that they "regarded the case of the rich young man not as in any way exceptional, but typical... for every person, even the disciples themselves, belongs to those rich ones for whom it is so difficult to enter the Kingdom of Heaven." This isn't a problem of the 1%; it's a problem of the 100%. Jesus' answer? "What's impossible with men is possible with God."

Jesus' Kingdom is something very near, so close to us by his grace. He's willing to visit our houses, to eat with us and to be with us. All we have to do is something we can't do without his help - let go of all our idols, i.e. repent and believe this Good News. It might mean giving up wealth, family or ambition. It might mean loving the enemies, the very people against whom we protest. But if we joyfully receive his grace, we learn to give grace to others and maybe, just maybe, an excellent sort of justice will follow - kind of like 2000 years ago in Jericho.

Do Not Hinder Them

We ran some errands in downtown Plochingen today. We walked downtown – the weather was too beautiful not to do so. The sun, already autumn gold, warmed the ever-enchanting view of my wife and daughter ahead of me on the sidewalks. They looked like icons from an ancient Eastern Church.

After a few checks off the to-do list, our company parted. My wife would run to the little discount grocery store to buy a Knoedel for today’s lunch, and my daughter and I would stay in Plochingen’s pedestrian zone. The plan was to free my daughter from the confines of her stroller and let her little legs run up and down the street, as she had done in the past. But she wanted to go somewhere else. “Jesus!” she cried, pointing at the downtown chapel.

We were at the chapel the Sunday before. There was a children’s church service put on by the Protestant church. They sang wonderful little songs and learned about how, when Jesus was twelve, he stayed at his Father’s house. There were paintings of Jesus on the wall, medieval-style sketches from his life and death and life. At the front, like so many other European churches, there’s a statue of Jesus on the cross. (The comic highlight of the morning was when she pointed out that the Crucified One was “naked.”)

“Jesus!” she said again, matter-of-factly, still pointing at the chapel. At first I did not want to go in. Why go into a stuffy room with Europeanized Jesus pictures when we could still enjoy Germany’s September sun? “Jesus!” she insisted. Nervously, I looked at the stern sign on the chapel door warning people to be quiet and reverential while in the building. “Jesus!” she said. Then I remembered something Jesus himself once said: “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them.” I opened the door and we went in.

My daughter pointed to one of the paintings. “Jesus!” she said again. This time she was not insisting but acknowledging. She hurried down the center aisle to the statue of Jesus on the cross. “Jesus!” she said. “Cross!” she said, pointing. I had never heard her say the word “cross” before. My daughter excels at pointing and acknowledging. Perhaps, in this case, it was her own way of worshiping.

In some ways, I find it strange that a child finds Jesus so interesting. When I was a child, I knew Jesus was good, but I had to grow into him. I preferred more adventurous Sunday school stories, like David fighting a giant or Samson’s action-hero invincibility. It was only later that I realized how Jesus, in his ministry of reconciliation, was so much stronger than either. I don’t know if my daughter’s child-wisdom will remain. Maybe, with age and other distractions, her interests will go elsewhere.

What I do know is that one of my responsibilities as a father is to show Jesus to her - to tell her about Him and to teach her what he said. I am to model Jesus for her. For this task, I am insufficient; we both need grace. One day, she will decide for herself if she will live up to her Baptism, if she will live up to this moment in Plochingen’s downtown chapel, if she will abide in Jesus and participate in his ministry of reconciliation. One more thing I know: if she is truly interested in Jesus, at any point, the worst thing I could possibly do is hinder her.

A Mighty Fortress

I lived in Germany for two years, and it's been several months since I moved back here from Washington, D.C. But a couple weeks ago, I had an essential German experience for the first time. I was privileged to sing Martin Luther's majestic hymn, "A Might Fortress is Our God" in the original German with a German congregation. Not only that, but I was on worship team duties, so I got to be a part of the creating and leading process.

I had never before heard the German version in its entirety (unlike some other famous German hymns like "Praise to the Lord the Almighty," sung in English and German at our wedding, or "Fairest Lord Jesus"), but it was a divine experience. The good news for English speakers is that Fredric Henry Hedge's translation is an excellent piece of work - near word for word perfection. Hedge added a couple of notes and syllables to the original to work it out, but it's very well done. (I was previously unaware of the other translations - I grew up singing Hedge's versions, but I hope I am speaking as someone who knows both languages well rather than as a sentimentalist when I say that the other translations I've read don't capture Luther's text nearly as well)

"A Mighty Fortress is Our God" is nicknamed the "Battle Hymn of the Reformation," but paradoxically, I find it a hymn of great comfort. It's a very familiar hymn for many of us who grew up in a Protestant church, and because of it, it's easy to miss the intricacies. Look at it again. It concisely outlines our weakness against the devil's schemes but then celebrates our Advocate, "the Man of God's own choosing." In light of our Lord Saboath's triumph, this Christ-centered hymn ends in a glorious call to repentance:

Let good and kindred go; this mortal life also

The body they may kill; God's truth abideth still

His Kingdom is forever

The best hymns and songs manage to confront the various emotions of Christianity. Luther's hymn goes through fear, faith, comfort, triumph and conversion. Because of this, whether singing or leading the congregation, there are two modern tendencies worth avoiding. The first tendency would be to skip a verse or two. We do this with most hymns to accommodate the modern attention span (myself included), and it's a trade-off that all of us make (especially with those 17-stanza marches in the hymnals). We always lose something when we do this, but verse skipping ruins the flow and scheme of "A Mighty Fortress." This is one of those songs where the whole is more than the sum of its parts. Besides, it's only four verses, so hang in there. Sing the whole thing.

The second modern tendency is more in a personal level. The combination of the hymn's familiarity and the hymn's unblushing reference to spiritual warfare can tempt us to remain "above the fray", so to speak, as we sing it. It's easy to mouth the ancient words without letting them penetrate mind, heart or will. Read it again. See for yourself why that would be a shame.

How Then Shall We Enjoy?

Kevin DeYoung offers Christians some good advice about confronting the continuing problem of binge drinking on College campuses. Read the whole thing for introduction and explanation, but his five step program is: 1) Know your enemy (i.E. debauchery poses more of a threat to young Christians than anti-Christian arguments), 2) Have a mature attitude towards alcohol 3) Be boldly Biblical 4) Show tough love 5) Remind Christians who they are.

Good list, but I think something's missing. I know what binge drinking look like. I went to a big state school where the T-shirts read "a drinking town with a football problem." My freshman year, we were the #1 party school and the #1 football team. I've seen wasted students do stupid, disgusting things, and I've read about worse. I mourn, not because they partied, but because they failed to party properly.

We serve a Lord who turned (a lot of) water into (a lot of) wine. During his time on earth, he went to a lot of parties, to the point where his enemies not only accused him of hanging out with the wrong crowd, but of being a drunkard and a glutton. But Jesus was neither.

We're not to be drunkards, and DeYoung is right that we should make that clear. Nor should we be gluttons. But I think "mature attitudes towards alcohol" should go more into how Christians should drink. Or, for that matter, how Christians should feast, tell jokes and have fun in general. This should all be in the context of a larger theology of pleasure, where pleasured is affirmed but not worshiped. Without such affirmation, Christian warnings about pleasurable things give the impression that we'd prefer to avoid fun all together. I've seen plenty of college testimonials that went something like this: "I used to party, but then I found Christ, so now I don't." Wow, count me in.

Instead, Christians should learn excellence in pleasure and not hide it. We should show how humor can be hilarious without engaging in cheap obscenities or destructive sarcasm. We should show how we cook, eat and enjoy exquisite foods without making a god of our stomachs. And we should show, especially to those who are still too young to partake, how good drink can enhance flavor, camaraderie, conversation and romance, and that those who settle for the over-consumption of cheap booze are missing out on something far greater. Of course, excellence in pleasure should clearly show that there are times not to partake - that there are seasons of feasting and fasting, and that there are times to be serious and that our happiness does not rely on drink. Excellence in pleasure includes knowing when to stop and when to say no, how to recognize and and give deference to our weaker brothers and sisters.

That's why this passage from DeYoung's post isn't very helpful:

On the other hand, the Christians that recognize the good gift of wine or beer need to grow up at times. Christian upperclassmen (and other adults) who can drink legally should be careful with alcohol consumption around underage believers. They should not talk about beer like it’s the coolest thing since Sufjan Stevens. Christian liberty is no reason for social life and conversation to revolve around the conspicuous consumption of alcohol.

Often, beer is better than Sufjan, Bon Iver, Tupac or whatever else is in your iPad. To not say so would be dishonest. Our social lives shouldn't worship alcohol, but neither should we treat pleasure in alcohol as some sort of embarrassing thing we have to hide. Alcohol is more likely to be a dangerous, forbidden fruit if we treat it like one. Moreover, if Christian youth do not have good models of excellence in pleasure, especially the pleasure of drink, then the alternatives offered by peers and media will be much more tempting.

Theology, Sensibility and Meeting John Stott

My one visit to London (so far) was to tag along with my father on a conference for the evangelistic organization now known as Cru (though it was and still is called Agape in the UK). Dad worked for Agape/Cru, but he was also studying for the pastorate at Reformed Theological Seminary in Orlando, Florida. Thus, he was excited to take his oily 16-year-old son and his cute 12-year-old daughter to a church called All Souls, where their pastor emeritus, John Stott, was scheduled to preach.

I found the music a bit stodgy and the building beautiful, but it was the white-haired pastor-theologian successfully captured the attention of my teenage self. I confess, I am fuzzy on the details, points and applications, but his sermon showed me something: the possibility of confronting a miraculous, challenging and all around chewy corner of scripture and remaining human, sensible and pastoral, intelligently and graciously leading the listeners back to God. This was the point all along. He preached on the mysterious prophecies in the book of Daniel, a book that I had rarely heard covered, save the felt sunday school story boards about the Lion's Den. I had also been to excitable conferences on biblical prophecy that seemed to lead more to culture war than to knowing and loving God (my youth pastor at the time offered some helpful correctives). He had the gift to combine wit and grace, and in that he parsed other interpretations, offered his own and pointed to the hope of the Gospel.

I now own a couple of John Stott's commentaries and have used others to for personal and communal Bible study. He is, in many respects, a reliable theologian of first resort whenever I need a better understanding of any part of scripture. But his gracious and reasonable presence that Sunday in London impacted me more. This attitude has been particularly helpful when faced with difficult questions from non-Christians; when I'm at my best, I imitate it (not always the case, sadly).

John Stott died today. His hope his seen, his faith is realized and, with Christ Jesus in paradise, his love is complete. His impact on the church can't be understated, nor his impact on the clergy who follow in his footsteps (see this moving post from one of the pastors at my old church in Washington), my father included. That day, he rallied us to have a picture taken with wise pastor, who graciously conceded. The picture is one of Dad's treasures. He often reminds me that there's a picture of me with John Stott. I consider it an act of God's grace that I met him and heard him that day.

Learning to Walk

My daughter is a walker. It took her a little while, right up to the year and a half "start-worrying-says-the-doctor" deadline. It's been a fun process, letting her little hands grasp my pointer finger as she, with escalating confidence, moves her chubby little legs across the living room floor. She's naturally cautious, but she's recently realized the utility of staying on two legs, and loves the opportunity to take off down the street or explore the garden with her Oma (credit where credit is due: my father-in-law bought her some shoes that, unlike her other shoes, were clearly made for walkin').

Do you know of anyone who remembers learning to walk in their childhood? I know I don't, and I doubt my daughter will either. But these small steps for baby will grow in to adult steps that will carry her a world over. This is a cause for thankfulness, as Chesterton famously pointed out when he wrote: "As children, we were grateful for those who filled our stockings at Christmastime. Why not be grateful to God for filling our stockings with legs." Worth thinking for any of us who can easily tackle a staircase or hike a trail through the forest. Working limbs for the glory of God.

My daughter won't remember the lesson, yet she'll remember to walk. God designed her legs for this purpose and, Lord willing, these legs will carry her well through the years. This could serve as a bit of encouragement for anyone finding him- or herself in the position of teaching, among them pastors and parents. It's almost a running joke among Christians, where, week after week God's word is preached to us. I often find myself thinking, "wonderful sermon last week! I felt so invigorated as I sat in the pews! Now, what did he talk about again?"

Sometimes, perhaps even often, we remember those moments where a seed, faithfully thrown, hits our hearts and begin to take root, causing positive change and enlightened understanding, even when we're quite young. But as I've been writing (and indeed reading) more, I've become aware of an unaccounted for inventory of knowledge, particularly spiritual knowledge. I'll read about a concept (this week it's been Christ-like service as espoused in Philippians 2-3, which is as beautiful to think about as it is difficult to apply) that will awaken dormant thoughts and teachings, waiting in my mind to be breathed upon. Where did I learn them? A sermon? A conversation with my father? A book? A blog post? A song my mother sang to me as a baby? Some combination of the previously mentioned?

Sometimes, I'll remember; sometimes I won't. I like to remember. I like to remember who to thank, who was important to my journey. But the point is that I remember, and that I put it into practice, that I don't forget my face the moment I walk away from the mirror. That's why I think that, even when we can't immediately regurgitate the relevant facts like Will Hunting, even when we've forgotten last week's sermon or a proverb from our granddad, there's still hope. We're laying down the bricks in a house we can't understand. We're adding seasoning to the mix of every soul. We're teaching each other to walk, tentative step by tentative step until we learn to walk to new heights. Something worth remembering, even if you never remember having read it here.

Closed for Corpus Christi, or The Farming Practices of Protestants

Anywhere you live, you can see how the customs, culture and holidays of any land is bathed in their history. This is, of course, true in Germany, and one of the interesting things about being here is observing the remaining residue of the Reformation and the ensuing conflicts in produced. Many towns, including my own, have a large Protestant and a larger Catholic church, for example. Some areas still find a strong religious identity that defines their area, such as the proudly Catholic Bavaria. And of course, the States with enough Catholic citizens and influence have Catholic Holiday off.

So, my new home state of Baden-Wuerttemberg is closed for business today for the feast of Fronleichnam, or Corpus Christi. B-W is traditionally Catholic and Protestant and was historically divided by not just religion, but by tribe, fiefdom, economics and much else until Napoleon conquered the whole area and put it under one administrative unit (which no one bothered to change after Napoleon's defeat). We didn't growing up staying home for such religious holidays in the States, so not being Catholic (or high-church Anglican, for that matter), I couldn't tell you when the feast was or how it came about (but for the full story, you can read all about it on Wikipedia or talk to your Catholic friends).

I've since learned that Germany's Protestants had their own Corpus Christi tradition. Martin Luther called the day un-biblical and "the most damaging of all feasts," as Corpus Christi celebrates the Catholic view of the Holy Eucharist. As a provocation, Protestant farmers in Germany would always plan to fertilize their fields on Corpus Christi, creating a pungent smell for the Catholic processions. Patriotic Protestant that I am, I have neither fields nor fertilizer, and besides, there's not much of a movement to stick it to the Catholics anymore. Practicing Catholics still march in the Corpus Christi processions, while Protestants, and pretty much everyone else, enjoy the day off.

Are You Ready for the Apocalypse?

By now, we've all had fun with Harold Camping's looney toon proclamation that May 21 is (was?) Judgment Day. One of my favorites: A friend joked on Facebook about leaving a post-rapture pile of clothes at the front door. I also liked PETA's admonishment to make your last supper vegan, which I saw pictured in the NYTimes. My own joke, after one of my German friends made sure to point out Camping's nationality, was: "no one knows the hour or the day, except the Americans." Yes, rest of the world: We're that good! Of course, Jesus explicitly said that no one knows the hour or the date, which leads us to this billboard.

We should joke about it. Yes, there are things here that are deadly serious, particularly those in Camping's group who left jobs, family and everything else that helps them through this world, because they thought the next would start over the weekend. May God be with them in this time and provide for their needs. But, humor, rightly used, is a balm and an alarm clock. It helps us process the absurdities native to this fallen world.

Yet, once the giggling has subsided, Camping leaves us with a very real question: Are we ready for the apocalypse? Yup, there's funny word. Funny enough for DC residents to dub last year's record-breaking snowstorm, "Snow-pocalypse," though I doubt a northern city such as St. Paul would have been intimidated. In spite of the humor, my favorite part of the Anglican liturgy is when we all shout, "Christ has died! Christ is risen! Christ will come again!" It's a proclamation, growing in controversy with each sentence, that pops out like a firework in the middle of the church service. No one disputes the first, and the second sentence aligns us with all Christians throughout history. But the third - that "Christ will come again" part - does match us with the loonies?

No one knows the date, and anyone who claims they do should be treated with suspicious, correction and, if necessary, laughter. Nonetheless, the hope of Christianity is that Christ really will come again and set things right. Do you long for justice and fairness? Christ will come again to judge the living and the dead. Do you want an end to war, conflict and violence? Christ will come again with a peace much deeper than we can ask or imagine. Do you wish someone would undo the violence we've done to creation? Christ, the creator and new creator, will come again. Do long for your body, your heart or your mind to be healed? Christ, the healer, will come again.

In the meantime, those who follow Christ are to engage in His work, united as one body, in preparation. That's why such talk about a second coming should never be an excuse to avoid working for the good - the good of ourselves, each other and this world. The more we grow in love for each other, the more we make peace with each other, the more we strive to do justly, love mercy and walk humbly in our God, the more we long for Christ to return and bring all of these things into completion.

We also realize something else. You see, that last sentence, "Christ will come again" is only good news because of the first two: "Christ has died, Christ is risen." You see, we all fall short. There is something in us that leads us to be unjust and unfair. There's part of all of us that is fallen into division, into a sort of "unpeace" - with each other and with God. We all need to be created anew. In his death and Resurrection, Christ bore our guilt and brings us new life. That means that injustice, disaster, even death does not have the final word. This good news is news of freedom. This news is like the way fresh water tastes after not drinking for three days. The well is deep, and we're invited.

How, then, do we respond? We turn away from any injustice, greed, selfish-ambition or any other sin so natural to us, and believe this good news. Paul writes that if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation - the old is gone, the new has come. It is in such hope that we can wait with joy and, yes, expectation that Christ will come again.

That's why, with all the absurdity, arrogance and blindness in a doomsday prophecy, there's something beautiful there as well. CNN managed to interview Tom Evans, the only one of Camping's followers to take questions the morning after (according to the article, Evans served as a spokesman for Camping's radio ministry). The others were, understandably, lying low. Evans said,

"When you as a person believe God is coming back, and you believe the evidence is very clear that he's coming back, that is something every child of God longs for. In a moment, we'd be changed and spend eternity with God. I'm not ashamed of that at all. I'm not ashamed of wanting and hoping for it."

Whatever the problems of pride, theology or pure silliness, the hope that "Christ will come again" is a hope we share.

Are you ready for the Apocalypse? There will be an end. For the majority of us, that end comes in the form of death. Death will be a personal apocalypses, but the wonderful news of the Resurrection is that death does not have the final say. At some point, Christ will come again to judge the living and the dead. He will make all things new. I dare not say when, and I dare not describe what it will be like. No one can. But as we go about our lives, cracking jokes to help us with life's absurdities, let's remember that this theme is worth serious reflection.

My Contribution, Part 2

Here is my second posting to the Lenten devotional.

In the 10th Commandment, God prohibits “inordinate” desires. Why? Because, as we saw yesterday, God loves us so much that he wants for us to be at peace, not only with one another, but also in our hearts. Consequently, God’s prohibition against covetousness is simultaneously a commandment to contentment. We are to be so satisfied in the Lord that, instead of resenting God or neighbor for what we do not have, we remember what we do have and give thanks. A covetous heart makes it impossible for us to experience God’s peace. That’s why this commandment comes at the end of God’s list of ten. Covetousness makes us much more likely to break the other nine commandments, as theft, adultery, idolatry and the rest are often rooted in it. A content heart, however...

Read the rest.

My Contribution

I am privileged to be a contributor for my church's online Lenten devotional. The devotional goes through the Ten Commandments, and I wrote two articles on the 10th Commandment, the first of which was posted this morning. The entire series has been excellent, so if you have not read them yet, by all means start from the beginning. My post is below. My pastor made some good edits to what I originally wrote, including smoothing out the syntax and adding the sign post analogy to emphasize the 10th Commandment's connection to the previous nine.

I once read an article in which an atheist ridiculed the 10th Commandment, because, unlike the other nine, it commanded inner thoughts and desires rather than actions. What he didn’t understand was that the first nine commandments share the same problem. As we have already seen in previous posts, outward sins like murder and adultery begin in the heart too. There’s nothing new about the starting point of the 10th Commandment. Rather, it’s like a sign warning that the bridge is out. The sin that pours forth from within our hearts has washed out any way ahead paved by our own external moral righteousness. The 10th Commandment is one last barrier erected across the road, warning that peril awaits all those who continue on ahead unimpeded. But what does it mean to blow through the barrier of the 10th Commandment? It can’t mean the prohibition of all desires. There are, of course, healthy desires... Read the rest.

Presuming to Blog

Among fatherhood's pleasures, I especially enjoy the role of teacher. It could be gratifying because I have a desire to be listened to and appreciated, or it could be a genuine bi-product of our created role as parents. Either way, from the morning diaper change to evening prayers, I am an expert on the alphabet, a scholar of stair climbing and a genuine professor of potty. Less encouragingly, my increasingly-perceptive daughter observes how I treat her mother, how I take care of our possessions and how I respond stress, conflict and chores. I am a conscious and unconscious teacher.

Often, this is a joy, but it is also a weighty responsibility. God has given to me enormous spiritual influence over this child, and Jesus has some strong words for those who abuse this. The Bible recognizes the pleasure and the power of teaching, and I for one love that role - I love the moment when someone who previously did not understand a concept, especially if it is a lovely concept, grasps it - their eyes open like a blooming flower and the muscles in their face relax. This is a joy and a privilege, and it is often very Godly. When I was a missionary in Germany, I remember sitting in a pub discussing the Gospel over beers with a good friend (hey, somebody has to do it). I got to show him that astounding truth Paul writes in 2nd Corinthians 5, that Jesus died and rose again that we may be reconciled to God. For my friend it was a new way of seeing Christianity, and life in general, and it was a moment to cherish, hopefully for both of us.

Yet, remember how much harm we can do through our speech. James writes: "Not many of you should become teachers, my brothers, for you know that we who teach will be judged with greater strictness." With this verse in mind, along with the digital flair up over Rob Bell's new book, John Dyer writes in Christianity today that not many of us should presume to be bloggers. It's good practice to imagine what James would say to the digital age, and Dyer he argues that social media does not encourage the self-control he describes:

"In fact, they encourage an opposing value system. Social media relentlessly asks us to publish our personal opinions on anything and everything that happens. There is no time for reflection in prayer, no place for discussion with other flesh and blood image bearers, and no incentive to remain silent.

You must declare your position, and you must declare it now."

It is sobering to remember that we will be held accountable for our words, and perhaps more so the words that we so unaccountably scrawl on the internet for the world to see. This, I suspect, is an increasing pastoral problem (and parenting - I often wonder when we will allow our daughter to start a Facebook account. Parents, what's your household internet policy?) - how do we act like Christians on the Internet? I note that Dyer himself is blogging about the question, and his forthcoming book From the Garden to the City: The Redeeming and Corrupting Power of Technology will presumably provided this much-needed service. I certainly echo Dyer's call for restraint, reflection and wisdom, and I can probably point the finger to myself as well.

There are, however, two points in the article that concern me. First, in citing the Rob Bell hubbub, he avoids talking about online behavior of Christian leaders. He has some good analysis elsewhere, but he concludes that "best-selling authors, major authors or public theologians" have a different responsibility. That much, is indeed true, but shouldn't good Christian behavior on the internet start at the top? I don't think many of the Christian sheep bleating their opinions on universalism into cyberspace were being particularly original. Were not a majority just following, and retweeting their shepherds? I agree, many of us need to slow down and think before hitting that publish button, but in the larger discussion of online Christianity should include its uses for Christian leaders (incidentally, I have been edified by our own church's internet use, including the blogs my pastors contribute to, as well as our current online Lenten devotional).

Second, what kind of technological use is Dyer advocating? He concludes with

"I say, let the teachers teach and let them be judged more strictly.

As for the rest of the priesthood of believers, let's believe what we believe and then, as James advised, "show it by [our] good life," sharing our beliefs with those embodied souls in our immediate vicinity—just like Christians before 2004 used to do."

Well, yes, let's be cautious about our postings, particularly if we are trying to punch above our theological weight limit. And yes, we will better glorify God by showing these things through our good lives, and yes, one of the dangers of any technology is that it isolates us from our neighbors. I worry though, that Dyer leans to far in the other direction, towards an unhealthy disengagement by lay-Christians from a new part of reality. Like it or not, we are in a post-2004 world. For better or worse, much of our world is now online, and part of showing a good life, of letting our lives shine before others, means doing so online. Yes, there are dangers. And no, an online life should not replace a real life among family, friends, neighbors and co-workers. But the internet provides new opportunity and new ways of love, encouragement, prayer and edification. We are to be salt and light in all spheres, including the digital one.

That's why I don't think all of the high-tech idealism is unfounded. Dyer points out the danger of Facebook constantly asking "what's on your mind" or Twitter asking "what's happening" every time we log on - it can be an invitation to exhibitionism and a bane to self-control. There is danger there. On the other side of the coin, these questions are an invitation for users to join a greater conversation, a conversation that will only be as sinful as we make it. I like using Facebook to photostalk friends and share articles that I think are interesting - two pleasures I did not have pre-2004. I also use it to better understand the lives of missionaries we support and receive prayer from a woman in Chicago who has a social-media propelled praying ministry.

And, while Blogspot and Wordpress may give way to a lot of hot air, I for one am grateful to some of the lay Christian bloggers out there. Joshua's Spiritual Klutz blog, is regular, practical Christian wisdom, and I'm glad he is willing to put it out there. He's a trained writer and a good communicator, and a blog is a good place for him to serve with these gifts. The question, then, goes beyond whether or not a lay-Christian should blog (though that is a good one to prayerfully ask) to how can that blog edifying? This will be true for any Christian who writes, sings, paints or plays an instrument, all with varying levels of notoriety.

In many ways, that is why I presume to blog. Yes, God will hold me accountable words, and perhaps more so for words that anyone with a smart phone can find. I hope that this blog is an outlet for my thoughtful, creative side - a side that I don't get to use much these days, but a side I wish to use for God's glory. I'll be the first to say how short of that I fall. I try to avoid going beyond my pay-grade on any subject, and, while I presume to blog, I don't presume to be an expert, espousing my carefully researched ideas to my followers. I hope these are thoughtful responses and reflections, in all, part of that greater conversation.

If this is a conversation, then I hope for some feedback. How should the Christian engage social media? How do we read James 3 in light of Facebook, Twitter and blogs? How can we be salt and light online? How do leaders - from pastors to parents - teach their pupils about the internet? Think carefully before you hit publish, but I hope I'm not leading you into darkness when I ask, what's on your mind?

Mourning Songs

I am the beneficiary of a generational revival of Lent. My fellow X and Millennial Christians, tired of consumerism and anti-intellectualism, embrace the art, beauty and rhythm of church liturgy and calendar. Of course, our parents rebelled against the spiritual deadness and old-school stodginess of tired liturgical churches. It makes me wonder what we're doing that my daughter will deconstruct to form her own spirituality.

In any case, the rhythm and art of liturgy is sweet worship for me, and this season of Lent touches it even deeper. I see why so many Christians, through space and time, celebrate and have celebrated our Three-Personal God through seasons, stages and processes, weekly, daily and yearly. My role as worship leader underscores this even more, because I have regular responsibilities in song selections. During Lent, we avoid songs with the word "Hallelujah" (or its variations). More importantly, as Lent is a time to mortify our sins, we sing some beautiful songs of mourning.

There are two types of mourning songs. The first type wrestles with the problem of evil. Songs such as Matt Redman's "Blessed Be Your Name," or Tim Hughes' "Whole World in His Hands" and "When the Silence Falls." These songs are powerful, and it is appropriate that they are so popular. In this fallen world of tragedy both public and personal (the earthquake in Japan being our most recent reminder), we need these songs, as much as Job, as much as the Psalmists.

The Lenten songs of mourning don't climb charts like the others do, but they are equally powerful and equally necessary. I'll admit, many of them are not especially satisfying, and in that, they serve the purpose of Lent - self examination, confession and repentance. It is never a comfortable or (in a way) particularly refreshing for these songs to turn the tables on us. With the "problem of evil" songs, we raise our arms and cry to God, "why?" With the Lenten songs, we examine the uncomfortable fact that we are at least part of the answer, that there is evil within us that requires light and cleansing. The other day, one of my fellow worship leaders and I practiced "Before Thy Throne, O God, We Kneel," where we ask, in catchy tune and clever verse, for "a ready mind to understand/the meaning of thy chastening hand/whate'er the pain and shame may be/bring us, O Father, nearer thee."

Other Lenten mourning songs include: "By Thy Mercy," "Psalm 51: God Be Merciful To Me" (based on David's psalm of repentance), "Psalm 130: From the Depths of Woe" (a Martin Luther hymn that understands our dependence on God's grace) and "Poor Sinner Dejected with Fear" (how's that for a cheery title?). As these songs, often painfully, soften our heart for repentance, it is good to realize that Lent should prepare us for Easter (please note: this link is to the first of my church's home-grown Lenten devotional. I highly recommend subscribing to it). In forty days' time, we go before the cross and then celebrate the Resurrection. Then, we will sing the songs of cross and Resurrection. They are beautiful, and I look forward drinking them deeply. But how much more beautiful are they when we come before God unshackled from sin? How much more beautiful is this song under the lightness of forgiveness?

Until then, we continue to sing:

"Let the fierce fires which burn and try
Our inmost spirits purify
consume the ill; purge out the shame
O God, be with us in the flame!
A newborn people may we rise
more pure, more true, more nobly wise"

The Old Yellow Booklet

One of my roommates commended to me an Austin Farrer sermon called "The Old Rosewood Desk." In thinking about his old desk full of youthful treasures, the Oxford pastor, theologian and friend of famous Christians like C.S. Lewis, he reflects on childhood statements of faith, such as a confirmation certificate. Through this, he reminds those of us who have turned to Christ, however, long ago, that a constant factor in our ever-changing lives is fidelity: Our own fidelity to God and God's fidelity to us. The former only being possible through the ladder.

In sum, preaches Farrer:

"Man, knowing that without faithfulness he cannot be anything, looks for a loyalty to which his whole existence, and not part of it only, can be pledged. And who deserves this measureless, this all-embracing faithfulness, except the faithful God? Those childish undertakings, those writings on cards, confirmation professions, have grown dim and somewhat unreal. It is now that we must make up our minds, and pledge our obedience to the faithfulness of God. If we do so, we shall bring our former resolves to life by our new decisions. We shall, indeed, bring to life something older than our youthful resolutions - that is, the grace of our baptism, when the resolution was not yet ours, but our parents'; and we shall bring to life something older even than our baptism - Christ's will for our salvation when he died on the cross; and older than that, the everlating faithfulness of god on which the world was built.

Religion is not self-improvement, or decent conduct or emotional worship. Religion is fidelity. 'Promise unto the Lord your God and keep it,' says the psalm. But the fidelity which is the soul of religion is not our fidelity, it is God's. We give ourselves to him in no reliance on our own trustworthiness. Experience has taught us what we are. Our Confidence is that god's faithfulness will prevail over our faithlessness, that he will recall us, that he will not let us go."

It is appropriate that I quote and write on my mother's birthday. I believe I was five years old when I made a childish promise of my own. When I write "childish", I don't mean in a negative or demeaning sense, but I use the word because I was a child when I made the promise. We lived in a Richmond, Virginia townhouse that had a counter that separated the small kitchen from a carpeted dining room. I sat on one of the three comfortably-padded bar stools on the dining room side, and my mother stood in the kitchen, leaning on the counter with her elbows.

It was there that she shared the Gospel with me. Her tool was the Four Spiritual Laws booklet, designed and used by CCCI, the large para-church organization my parents worked for (and for which I would later work in Germany and New Orleans). If memory serves me, it was the classic mustard-yellow booklet that probably looked cool in the mid-eighties. The color, judging by a pair of pants my middle sister owns, seems to be making a comeback.

It's a simple Gospel presentation - God's love, plan and purpose; our sin and separation; Jesus, the cross, the Resurrection, the way; our repentance. And a few thoughts on what to do next, including further reflection and finding a church. My little mind, in some way, understood enough of this to claim commitment to Jesus Christ as the only hope of my salvation, conduced by a loving mother and a Little Yellow booklet.

I echo Farrer. However much I change, however much I seek to define myself, however much changes of countries, cities, technologies, jobs, churches and friends will alter my malleable body, mind and soul, fidelity remains something constant. This is not because I am good and being faithful. Whenever I stand in my church and confess the Creeds, I am not touting my ability to be true to the three-personal God it affirms. Rather, I am trusting in his fidelity, patient through the eons and the minutes.

It has not made my life easier or more successful. Indeed, I often wonder if I should have chosen more ambition instead of a sort of faithfulness. But to be the beneficiary of a love deep and divine beyond our understanding, to have a hope in a grand and renewed creation, to have genuine intimacy with creator and sustainer of all things, is worth more than anything else I've been offered.

In this post-modern world, fidelity to anything is viewed as suspect. This is for two reasons. From marriage to country to religion, human beings are historically bad at fidelity. I know a man who refuses to marry, because he does not have an example of a faithful marriage in his own family. Second, many who are good at fidelity are faithful to the wrong thing. A suicide-bomber is a hideous example of someone faithful to the end.

Fidelity to Jesus, as Farrer points out, relies on His fidelity, not ours, and in that we can have great comfort. Even better, we are faithful to Love and Justice, Grace and Holiness, God incarnate. We are right to suspect worldly fidelity, but God's fidelity leads to human flourishing. For these two reasons, if you have read this far and have not committed your life to Jesus, why not start now? My mother and the yellow booklet put me on this path. Join me.

A Place for Everyone

I resonate with Makoto Fujimura.

When I meet someone on a plane and I tell them I am an artist, I almost always have to go into “explaining mode” to answer the same common questions: “What kind of art do you make?” “Why do you do it?” “Can you make a living?”

If I said I was an electrical engineer, explaining would not be necessary. But tell people, particularly Christians, that I am an artist and I am immediately regarded with suspicion and thoughtless dismissal: “You don’t paint nudes, do you?” “I don’t understand modern art.” “You make that weird stuff that my kids could paint and then call it ‘art,’ don’t you?”

No wonder artist types sit in the back of the church and leave as soon as the music ends, if they come to church at all. Church is for successful people, for respectable folks with real jobs.

Now, I am not an artist, I have a "real job" and sometimes I am good at playing the respectable insider at church. But I have an artist's leaning and an artist's sympathies, and among my regrets is the wish I had patiently nurtured these inclinations, particularly in high school and college. I attempt to do this now. This blog is an outlet for my creative and thoughtful side, and I take particular joy in leading worship at my church, because I get to be play a creative role in genuine Kingdom work. Thus, I am encouraged when Fujimura goes on to describe how blissfully artistic God and many of his chosen people are. Like the typical artist in the back of the church he describes, I have often felt left out in church settings where the artist's gifts and sensibilities are unappreciated.

This train of thought reminded me, however, of a post by John Mark Reynolds in First Things' Evangel blog. Reynolds reminds us that, whatever her flaws as an artist or a philosopher, Ayn Rand sticks up for the businessman. I would argue with anyone who treats productivity as the highest virtue, but it is a virtue, and so much of what's good about our country was built on the back the business folk who produced things, with efficiency, in an effort to maximize potential. Rand stands out, Reynolds notes, because so much art and entertainment treats business types with contempt. But it is these types who create wealth, jobs and prosperity, and make a real contribution to art and flourishing.

So, both the artist and the businessman feel under attack. Anyone else? Perhaps the traveler, or the domestic? The lawyer? The politician? The athlete? The un-athletic? The academic? The less educated? A particular class? Gender? Race? Background? Interest? Political persuasion? Personality type?

The good news is, the church has a place for you. John writes in Revelations that every tongue, tribe and nation will be represented. He might have added that every occupation and Myers-Briggs letter combination will be there as well. Strange, isn't it, in light of our continued sad divisions? Strange as well, even in churches where the people seem relatively uniform, we can feel isolated in our interests and inclinations. Perhaps an artist can sit next to a businessperson in the pew, both wondering if they are judged, if they are among the left out?

I don't think the answer is more niche-market churches - we will spend an eternity together (which will indeed be heaven and not hell), so we should learn to make everyone feel welcome. We certainly need the likes of Fujimura and Reynolds to remind us how our types, strengths and indeed our very diversity reflect our Creator. When we go to church, we need to find those who are like us, who understand us and who we understand. They will be water for our souls. We also need to find those who are different, and learn from them. If done well, with genuine love, honesty and openness, they will strengthen us. They will point us in the right direction to make the church as it should be. As it will be.