The Titanic Swim Team

Running From and On Empty

2012-01-06T11:59:00.000-08:00

I run. I run a lot. I run far, I run frequently. And I often do so sitting on the couch with the remote. Or surfing the Internet. Or sleeping. Sometimes I run by eating. Or spending. Anything to avoid facing the dark side of my self. I distract myself so I don’t have to think. I numb myself to ward off the demons. I fear that if I am still very long that either the dark side will suffocate me in the thick pitch of the tar or God will not meet me in the silence and I will completely alone. There are other times when I run to either deny or assuage the emptiness inside.

So I run. And our culture values and rewards this running. If I run by keeping busy I am applauded for being industrious. “Wow! That guy is so involved in so many wonderful things!” In fact, if we’re not busy beyond belief we are regarded as a slacker. Consequently, this kind of escapist busyness is reinforced by my peers. I find myself embarrassed if I have time on my hands, particularly time that others don’t seem to have. A friend calls to set up a time to get together and when he says, “Let me check my calendar,” and I simultaneously say, “My day is open,” I feel so unsuccessful and rather pathetic. No one else seems to be “free;” why am I?

I run to avoid. The darkness, the emptiness. I have come to realize that my running merely reinforces the power of the darkness and exacerbates the emptiness. I’m like Jackson Browne. Running on empty.

If it’s the darkness that plagues me I need Light to dispel the darkness but my running prevents my receiving of the Light. If it’s the emptiness that haunts me I need filling but my running does not allow me to be still in order to experience the needed filling.

Ironically, to ward off the emptiness I fill myself with that which doesn't matter and thereby deprive myself of that which ultimately matters. A busy, preoccupied man visited a Zen master for tea. The Zen master poured the tea until it overflowed the cup, and still he continued to pour. Agitated, the man cried out, “Master, stop! Why do you keep pouring? The cup is full.” The master replied, “You are like this cup. You are full of yourself—your judgments, your opinions. You must first empty yourself.”

Both counter-culturally and counter intuitively, God beckons in this manner: “Be still, and know that I am God.” (Psalm 46:10) It appears that it is in silence and solitude that the “knowing” is cultivated. It is in stillness that authentic filling can take place.

It is in the quiet, in the being still that the emptying can take place. The question I wrestle with is this:

Will I stop or will I run?

These words are recorded by the Old Testament prophet Isaiah:

This is what the Sovereign Lord, the Holy One of Israel, says:

“In repentance and rest is your salvation, in quietness and trust is your strength, but you would have none of it..” You said, ‘No, we will flee. . . “”

Notice wherein lies salvation and strength. Quietness and rest; silence and being still. And notice their response. “No, we will flee.” That mirrors my typical response. “No, I will run.”

It’s a new year. May God give us grace to resist the running and embrace the resting. May we empty ourselves of the clamor, the distractions, and, in time, receive the Healer and the healing.

Saint and Sinner

2011-12-14T09:57:00.000-08:00

I couldn't resist a memoir that begins like this.

This book is by the one who thought he'd be farther along by now, but he's not.
It is by the inmate who promised the parole board he'd be good, but he wasn't.
It is by the dim-eyed who showed the path to others but kept losing his way.
It is by the wet-brained who believed if a little wine is good for the stomach,
then a lot is great.
It is by the liar, tramp, and thief; otherwise known as the priest, speaker, and author.
It is by the disciple whose cheese slid off his cracker so many times
he said "to hell with cheese 'n crackers."
It is by the young at heart but old of bone who is led these days
in a way he'd rather not go.
But,
This book is also for the gentle ones who've lived among wolves.
It is for those who've broken free of collar
to romp in fields of love and marriage and divorce.
It is for those who mourn, who've been mourning most of their lives,
yet they hang on to shall be comforted.
It is for those who've dreamed of entertaining angels
but found instead a few friends of great price.
It is for the younger and elder prodigals
who've come to their senses
again, and again, and again, and again.
It is for those who strain at pious piffle
because they've been swallowed by Mercy itself.
This book is for myself and those who have been around
the block enough times that we dare to whisper
the ragamuffin's rumor--
all is grace.

Brennan Manning is now in his 70's and is saint and sinner. Decades ago I began reading him (e.g. The Ragamuffin Gospel) and his authenticity, his vulnerability, and his reliance on grace have helped me to keep going.

I was only a few lines into his preface above and was weeping. I, too, often feel like a disappointment, a hypocrite. There is often such a gap between who I really am and who I desire to be. The shame that breeds can be paralyzing. Brennan depends on grace and has always pointed the rest of us who are wounded and wounding, in need of healing yet healers, to that same grace.

In the intro is contained a poem by Leonard Cohen:

Ring the bells that still can ring.
Forget your perfect offering.
There is a crack in everything.
That's how the light gets in.

I was raised to believe that the cracks elicit the darkness of God's judgment. It has been such a buoyant relief to know that the cracks draw the light of God's grace.

Teach me, brother Manning, as I read further.

(Herman) Cain Wasn't Abel

2011-12-03T14:45:00.000-08:00

Today, Herman Cain suspended his campaign in his pursuit of the Presidency of the U.S. claiming that the "false accusations" of four women and a fifth who claimed a 13 year sexual relationship with him served to be too much of a "distraction." All of these allegedly lying women had hurt him and his wife to such a degree and the recent fallout sidetracked him from his mission, so he says, and therefore he is dropping out.

He blamed the "spin" of the media and the "pundits" for their unfair and biased reporting. Mr. Cain, it is that same media that catapulted you from obscurity to being known by millions. I'd be interested in seeing how you fare if you refuse the media any access from here on out, but, of course, you and I know that you won't do that.

I--none of us--knows whether Mr. Cain is being truthful in what he claims as to his innocence. He claims he is "at peace with my God, at peace with my wife, and at peace with myself" --that's either a clear conscience or a seared one--and though I'd like to believe him something just looks and sounds suspicious as to his moral integrity. My reasoning runs like this: If I am on a mission and a number of people trump up ludicrous and absolutely false charges as to my ethics and sexual morality I'm thinking that would motivate me even more to focus on the mission-at-hand rather than quit. I'm thinking I have nothing to hide and these women have no dirt to dig up so I'll let them muck around in their mire and I, in the meantime, will be open and forthcoming--but focused on the mission. Check my cellphone records, my email history, my texts--it's all there for your scrutiny. While you're checking I'll be available for your questions but undeterred from my campaign.

In contrast, Mr. Cain, says these trumped allegations and the spin the media has put on all this has become "too distracting." Again, I can't prove it, but I suspect that what has become ""too distracting" are poor choices he has made with a number of women, none of whom happen to be his wife and those choices have now bitten his beleaguered butt.

He now talks as though he is the victim. These lying, perpetrating women went to the out-to-get-him media and, consequently, all of this has brought upon him unwarranted hurt and distress. In the Old Testament is the story of Cain killing his brother Abel. In this scenario Cain was the perpetrator of the crime; Abel, the victim.

Mr. Cain, you don't appear to be Abel.

Random Reflections about Life Back Home

2011-11-26T15:50:00.000-08:00

We returned from rural, poverty-stricken Honduras two weeks ago. A culture shock to say the least. Here's some of my impressions and observations, most of which are not "pretty."

**We're becoming a bunch of fat slobs. I'm not suggesting that there are no fat slobs in Honduras. Neither am I implying that all people who are overweight are slobs, i.e. lazy couch occupiers whose only calorie burn is the effort it takes to wipe the cake off their face. I know there are genetic and medical and organic (e.g. thyroid) factors for a number of people. But, really?

Maybe it's the diet of the poor in Honduras--typically rice and beans. Maybe it's the small proportions of food available at any given time. Maybe when you eat to live rather than live to eat you tend to have little excess weight.

**I notice the extreme sensory stimulation with which we are bombarded here at home. Non-stop traffic movement. Unending traffic sounds. The decibel level of human voices in most restaurants makes it nearly impossible to have a quiet conversation because you have to talk more loudly than the surrounding clamor so that the person sitting three feet across from you can hear you. Visual overload everywhere. Technological incoming messages abound. Advertising screaming for my attention, whether via billboards, commercials, internet. It's exhausting. When are we ever still? Quiet. Silent. And how?

**I left basically gracious and thankful people only to return to basically in-your-face entitled people. Thank God there are exceptions but that black-hearted woman who pepper-sprayed competing shoppers on Black Friday may be more of a mirror than an anomaly.

The pace here is nerve-wracking. We are in fifth gear, pedal to the metal, and continually. We sprint to a point of exhaustion. In Honduras they know it's not the 100 meter dash--it's a marathon--and they pace themselves accordingly. I'll be honest--their pace drives me nuts, not because their pace is deficient but because I'm wound up tight and it's difficult to downshift once I'm there. Now that I'm back, I'm noticing the intensity with which most of us sprint. I think it's a recipe for burn-out.

**I am neither glamorizing or idealizing the poor but this is my experience of them. Generally, they are thankful for what have and do not speak much about what they lack. They have very little and somehow find joy in the scarcity. We, on the other hand, are driven by consuming and acquiring and do not seem to be grateful for the abundance, but, instead, complain about that which we do not yet have.

.
**I go on these trips to serve and help the poor. The great white missionary goes to impart all he knows and he builds these wonderful houses and he thinks he is such a blessing to them. Invariably, these people who are so poor materially bless the great white missionary who is spiritually bankrupt.

I go with the purpose of giving; I return with the outcome of receiving.

Heaven Invades Hell in Honduras

2011-11-18T16:06:00.000-08:00

She is less than five feet tall but larger than life. Her name is Maria Isabella, mother of eight children. She is the quiet matriarch. There is no patriarch. Her husband, who apparently regarded himself as a mere sperm donor, left after their eighth child was born. She has been sole provider, comforter, teacher, protector for years. She has raised them alone. She works 60 hours a week in a little bakery. The three adult daughters who live with her lament about growing up alone and left to themselves while their mom was making a living in order to provide for them. There are tears as they look back on those early years.
Two of the three each have two little ones of their own. These eight and several other family members have shared existence in this hellhole of a shack for ten years. It's dark, damp, and depressing inside. They burn wood or anything they can find that is combustible in order to cook and heat. The smoke permeates the shack. The upper walls and ceiling are coal black. And their lungs?
There is no room, no space, no privacy. They can't afford dressers or containers, so everything is piled or stacked. A fish-net hammock is hung inside; I look closer. A little baby is lying in it. No room for a bed, even if they could afford one.

They have been on the waiting list of families for whom Mercy International would build a house. It's been two years. Day after week after month--"Maybe today?" Finally, their wait is over.
We arrived at their little father-forsaken but Father-favored shack last Sunday and we began digging trenches to serve as a foundation for the house of their dreams in an open, barren area in front of their shack. 20x24--or as a friend described it--"a garage and a half." To them, though, a mansion. Saturday, we left and in those 7 days we built them a house that will last them for generations. I wish you could have seen the light in their eyes. Their smiles. Their hugs of gratitude. One of the daughters joyfully confessed, “I don't have words." Another, “I wish I could have a big party for all of you." Maria Isabella thanked God and us.
I gathered several from the team and asked the family if we could pray for them. They welcomed our prayers. I asked them what they would like us to pray for. A daughter quietly said, "Food." I was speechless. I'm sixty-two years old and there has never been a single day of my life when I have ever prayed that I would have food. I was humbled by her earnest request. I asked if there was anything else she would like us to pray for. Work so they have income. Peace in their family.
This family now has shelter. Concrete block, concrete floor and metal roof never looked so extravagant.
I visited a family for whom we had built a house this past Spring. Momma looked good and her 16 year old daughter, Kenya, was full of smiles as she held her two year old, Melbie, in her arms and a growing child in her belly. I was surprised at her pregnancy, though she is not the exception, and saddened. We hugged and re-connected. Just a day passed and I was talking with Momma and she was particularly distressed. I inquired and she told me that in the last 24 hours someone had "deceived Kenya" with a the promise of a job and this stranger convinced her to leave her mother and Melbie and travel with her to the capital city, Tegucigalpa, and work there. Tegucigalpa is a city of 1.7 million people, and a 5-6 hour drive away. Momma doesn't own a cell phone and has no idea what is happening to her daughter. What depths of lies or persuasion--coercion?-- could convince Kenya to leave her little boy and mother on a moment's notice? What will become of Melbie? How does a little boy deal with mom abruptly leaving him? Life was hard enough with her family intact; what worry must now consume Momma each day as she wonders if she will ever see her daughter again and if she does will Kenya be dead or alive? Life had been weighing on her enough and now she has sole responsibility for Melbie, also. It's hell.

Yet, I would not be providing an accurate picture if I left it at that. There are moments of heaven as team members hug all these kids who are often discarded. Glimpses of heaven as the kids laugh and frolic with the team. The team gives their undivided attention and unconditional love and for some moments these kids do not have a care in the world. It's heaven.

Today, I ask you to thank God for what you have.
And ask God to provide for them what they don't have.

Did You Think The Titanic Sank?

2011-11-04T13:04:00.000-07:00

I didn't name it The Titanic Swim Team just to be cute. I've been in a slump for some time, some days feeling as though I'm barely keeping the ship afloat. Other days the water may be up to my neck but I'm "Footloose" on deck. I apologize for the drought. If you're still on board I invite you to resume the sail with me.

This will be brief. In one hour my wife and I leave for Honduras, to lead another team from our church to serve the poor. Our goal is to build a house for a family living in and on the dirt. We have 7 days to do it. Over the course of a mere week of work we have the chance to make a difference that will last for generations in the life of this family. Exciting!

Upon our return I will fill you in.

Thanks for your patience and I hope to continue blogging with consistency.

p.s. sorry--no time for a photo

Open Heart, Open Hands : Counterintuitive in a World of Pain

2011-09-19T18:58:00.000-07:00

“A glowing sun-orb fills an August sky the day this story begins, the day I am born, the day I begin to live.

And I fill my mother’s tearing ring of fire with my body emerging, vergin lungs searing with air of this earth and I enter the world like every person born enters the world: with clenched fists.

From the diameter of her fullness, I empty her out—and she bleeds. Vernix-creased and squalling. I am held to the light.

Then they name me.

Could a name be any shorter? Three letters without even the flourish of an “e.” Ann, a trio of curves and lines.

It means “full of grace.”

I haven’t been.

What does it mean to live full of grace? To live fully alive?

They wash my pasty skin and I breathe and I flail.. I flail.

For decades, a life, I continue to flail and strive and come up so seemingly. . . empty. I haven’t lived up to my christening.

Maybe in those first few years my life slowly opened, curled like cupped hands, a receptacle open to the gifts God gives. But of those years I have no memory. They say memory jolts awake with trauma’s electricity. That would be the year I turned four. The year when blood pooled and my sister died and I, all of us, snapped shut to grace.

Standing at the side porch window, watching my parents’ stunned bending, I wonder if my mother had held me in those natal moments of naming like she held my sister in death.

In November light, I see my mother and father sitting on the back porch step rocking her swaddled body in their arms. I press my face to the kitchen window, the cold glass, and watch them, watch their lips move, not with sleep prayers, but with pleas for waking, whole and miraculous. It does not come. The police do. They fill out reports. Blood seeps through that blanket bound. I see that, too, even now.

. . .At the grave’s precipice, our feet scuff dirt, and chunks of the firmament fall away. A clod of dirt hits the casket, shatters. Shatters over my little sister with the white-blonde hair, the little sister who teased me and laughed, her milk-white cheeks dimpled right through with happiness. . . They lay her gravestone flat into the earth, a black granite slab engraved with no dates, only the five letters of her name. Aimee. It means “loved one.” How she was.

We had loved her. And with the laying of her gravestone, the closing up of her deathbed, so closed our lives.

Closed to any notion of grace.” (excerpt from One Thousand Gifts, by Ann Voskamp)

A few of us might be spared tragedy. Some may never be utterly betrayed or violated. Shattered dreams may not visit everyone’s waking hours. But, as Marcus Borg states, “None of us gets out of this alive.” If pain, unspeakable ache, has not yet seared your soul, it likely will.

Such bewildering unfairness raises many “why” questions, and the answers escape us. Of even greater importance than resolving the “why” questions is this: How will I respond?

When tragedy strikes, will I respond with clenched fists –or—open hands? When betrayal lacerates my heart, will that broken heart “snap shut to grace,” or in brokenness remain open to God and goodness?

I have done both. Regrettably, I have spent years with closed fists, angry at God, at life, for gut-goring tragedy in one season of my life, for a broken relationship that nearly buried me in another season.

It seems my life has been a painstakingly slow plodding toward opening my heart, my hands to receive grace, to express gratitude.

My closed heart and clenched fists were how I coped. But it was no way to live. To live a life of the closed fist is to always be looking back, rather than living in the present. It’s a life of reaction; I want to live a life of response. I’m tired of the backward look at the unfairness, the abuse, the tragedy, the plethora of grievances and spending the present moment reacting to it all. I’m not suggesting there is no value in looking back; in fact, I think it’s an essential component of grieving and healing. I need to visit the past, not live in it. If I’m always looking back at the past, I will miss living in the moment.

And there is grace and goodness now that I earnestly desire to savor.

May God give you and Amy Voskamp and me open hearts and hands to, in time, receive healing and wonder and joy.

Life: A Bipolar Experience

2011-09-05T17:30:00.000-07:00

It's Labor Day and the sun is shining. After temps endlessly in the 90's it is a mellow and mild 70. The cicada sing to the waltz of the gentle breeze.   God is great and life is good.

All it takes is one phone call to send us careening into chaos. "Mr. Harris, this is the Peoria County Sheriff. There has been a terrible car accident. . ."    "Steve? This is Dr. Wahlberg's office. We received the results of your tests. Doctor wants to see you as soon as possible."

All it takes is one poor decision to plummet us to the depths. "Dad, I'm allowed one phone call. I'm calling from jail. . . "

Life is filled with laughter so deep it hurts; life is replete with hurt so deep one doubts she'll ever laugh again. It's still a mystery to me how to navigate such unpredictable waters. One season I can be sailing carefree and not a care in the cosmos; the next season I'm stranded in the middle of the ocean with no land or craft in sight, desperately clinging to a piece of shattered lumber, hoping to stay afloat.

The song of life can be so good that I lift my open hands in thanks and praise, and I have no sooner sung the chorus and a dirge begins and I'm shaking my angry fists at God.

I know I am not alone. Even the great saints and prophets of God have reported a similar experience. Hear the heart of the Old Testament prophet Jeremiah as he bursts into spontaneous joy. "Sing to the Lord! Give praise to God! He rescues the life of the needy from the hands of the wicked." And without skipping a beat he agonizes in lament, "Cursed be the day I was born! May the day my mother bore me not be blessed! Cursed be the man who brought my father the news, who made him very glad,saying, 'A child is born to you. . . !'" (Jeremiah 20:13, 14)

This unpredictability of life teaches me to savor the joyful, the wonder, the beauty without demanding it or allowing those moments to define me. Neither can I allow the hellish and horrific to dictate and determine my state of mind,my outlook. There is One who transcends both the delightful and the decimating; there is One who is above and not circumscribed by the awe-full and the awful.

I need eyes to see and ears to hear the One when there is so much vying for my attention, clamoring so loudly that often all I notice is the immediate, rather than the Ultimate.

“Most of Us Can Read the Writing on the Wall; We Just Assume It's Addressed to Someone Else --Ivern Ball

2011-08-19T15:58:00.000-07:00

Once there was a group of people who surveyed the resources of the world and said to each other, "How can we be sure that we have enough in hard times? We want to survive whatever happens. Let us start collecting food and knowledge so that we are safe and secure when a crisis occurs." So they started hoarding so much and so eagerly that other people protested and said: "You have much more than you need, while we don't have enough to survive. Give us part of your wealth!" But the fearful hoarders said: "No, no, we need to keep this in case of an emergency, in case things go bad for us, too, in case our lives are threatened." But the others said: "We are dying now; please give us food and materials and knowledge to survive. We can't wait; we need it now." Then the fearful hoarders became even more fearful, since they became afraid that the poor and hungry would attack them. So they said to one another: "Let us build walls around our wealth so that no stranger can take it from us." They started erecting walls so high that they could not even see anymore whether there were enemies outside the walls or not! As their fear increased they told each other: "Our enemies have become so numerous that they may be able to tear down our walls. Our walls are not strong enough to keep them away. We need to put explosives and barbed wire on top of the walls so that nobody will dare to even come close gto us." Now instead of feeling safe and secure behind their armed walls they found themselves trapped in the prison they had built with their own fear." --Henri Nouwen

A sobering story. A story that mirrors much. What do you see?

The Ego Makes Sure The Joke's On Me

2011-08-09T10:36:00.000-07:00

The ego is --surprise!--egotistical. It's all about me. The ego, that selfish part of us, hates two things: exposure and change.

The ego will resort to any means to avoid being found out. It will minimize--"It's not as though I robbed a dozen banks; it was just one." It will rationalize--"I needed the money more than the bank did." It will deny--"what bank?"

It will do anything but tell or face the truth because that then would necessitate change. We will cling to what's familiar even though it's killing us and we'll act like it's just another day in paradise. "I'm in the dance band on the Titanic, singing Nearer My God to Thee." The ego thrives on equilibrium; the current status quo may be as dysfunctional as a Big Brother episode, but it's predictable, though possibly lethal.

Decades ago, I was a therapist in a rural county mental health clinic. An adolescent male whom I'll call Sherwin Williams was a substance abuser. Sherwin was into huffing spray paint. One day he showed up for his appointment, walking into my office as nonchalant and ho-hum as could be. He had a large circle of paint around his nose and mouth; walking in naked wouldn't have made him look any more conspicuous. I asked him how he was doing. "Fine." I asked him if he had been huffing lately. "Nope. I'm clean."

Are you kidding me? How stupid do I look? His ego was so entrenched in denial that what was obvious to anyone else was not even factored into the equation. I still shake my head in disbelief when I think of Sherwin.

But then there are those occasions when I look in the mirror--when I am honest with and about myself--and I can't believe it. There's paint all over my face.

Don't worry about me, though. Like Sherwin, I'm fine. I just need to stay away from mirrors.

Am I Looking for the Infinite in the Finite?

2011-08-04T16:41:00.000-07:00

I love to read. I love to read from poets and mystics and theologians and Franciscan monks and men and women who describe their pilgrimage. Reading is the equivalent of eating. I feast upon good books and deep thoughts and touching memoir.

I love to listen to music. If I'm feeling lethargic, music can serve to energize me. The Stones.   Springsteen. Steve Winwood's, "You Gotta Roll With It, Baby." Marshall Tucker's "Can't You See?" Some music soothes and comforts my melancholy. Van Morrison has made me cry. Sarah McLachlan's mournful soul has caressed my own.

I'm always looking for the next book to ground me, to anchor me in my journey. I'm always listening to the next new artist, hoping that, maybe this time , the healing will come, the mood will stabilize, the epiphany will occur.

I think I'm kidding myself. I want to read, but I don't want to be read by the One who truly knows me. I want to continue to expand my mind, hoping that through the vehicle of my mind I will eventually experience that "Aha!" revelation. At other times I feel it is the heart that is the necessary mode of movement. Maybe the next album will usher in a new lasting sense of peace and ease my anxious spirit.

There's a part of me that knows better. Yet, a part continues to pursue down paths that will not lead me to my desired destination.

Don't worry; I'm not about to engage in a frenzied book-burning extravaganza. I'm not going to melt my cd's in a puddle, fueled by misguided repentance.    I'll keep reading, I'll keep listening. Two questions arise. Am I willing to be read? Secondly, am I willing to listen to One who speaks in silence and solitude?

Mick Jagger put it well: I can't get no satisfaction. . . .and I try, and I try, and I try.

Fundamentalism: A Blessing and a Beating

2011-07-23T19:10:00.000-07:00

I am a recovering fundamentalist.   I go to meetings weekly--every Sunday morning at a grace-filled church. Ironically, I am grateful for aspects of my fundamentalist heritage. My childhood fundamentalist church instilled in me a respect for and devotion to the Bible as the revealed Word of God. In those early years I memorized much Scripture. It wasn't that I was devout and preferred the Bible to my comic books; the church instilled and impressed those passages upon my mind. To this day recalling some of those passages in times of turmoil has brought me encouragement. For that I am grateful.

My fundamentalist past taught me the reality of objective Truth. There are anchoring truths--realities--which, indeed, are true, whether or not I choose to acknowledge them.   That, to this day, instilled within me a passionate pursuit of what and Who is Truth.    For that, too, I am thankful.

Unfortunately, virtues pursued to excess become vices--and much of fundamentalism is about extremes, rather than balance. The fundamentalist preoccupation with Word precluded little attention to Spirit. My faith and life was centered on rule-keeping, rather than relationship. It was a life of merely obeying God, devoid of loving God--or having a sense of God loving me. My church instilled a fear-based life of obedience. My obedience was not prompted or fueled by my love for God, but by our fear of falling into the hands of a holy God. I was squeaky clean behaviorally, but shamed and fearful emotionally. It was a terrible world with which to cope.

In our focus on truth, and this is a common trait of fundamentalism, we believed that we alone possessed the Truth.   We were very exclusive, which you would think would appear to us as a contradiction to the life and teachings of Jesus. It wasn't a part of our consciousness then, nor is it among fundamentalists now. If there is a disagreement in beliefs, the other party's stance or belief isn't regarded as different, but as wrong. Consequently, even though many of my friends attended other denominations which held the same basic view of Christ/ the Bible that we did, because they differed from us in other areas of belief we viewed them as either back-sliders or heretical, and it was our mission to "witness" to Methodists, Presbyterians, Lutherans, certainly Catholics, and anyone else who wasn't us.

That way of thinking breeds a self-righteousness (which, in the gospel records, Jesus adamantly rejects) and a sense of moral superiority (which--who would have thought?--in the gospel records, Jesus adamantly rejects.)   We were concerned about the eternal destiny of these "lost souls" but simultaneously looked down upon them, loathing their language and and judging their behavior.

Fundamentalism tends to breed a negation of life, rather than an affirmation of our existence. Growing up I knew what was wrong, what I couldn't and shouldn't do, but I had no clue what I was meant and designed to do. Thou-shalt-nots prevailed.    That negation is all-encompassing; it is a mindset, the Weltanschaaung --the worldview, the way they perceive reality. Typically, if a fundamentalist encounters a different belief or theological concept, the initial and, usually, the settled response is, "I know what is true and I know I am right; there is something spurious about this person's belief. Be wary!!" Seldom is there an openness to the possibility that I might learn from this other person, that maybe they have something to offer me that might enrich or expand my existing faith. Instead, "they are wrong and it's up to me to refute them." It's a negation of anything incoming that does not arise from their own closed system.

I cannot adequately communicate the depth of relief I feel in God having extricated me from that system decades ago. It was oppressive, the dead legalism suffocating. To be transported and transformed from a life of fearful obedience to a life that is loving response is a beautiful thing. To move from being saved by God to being loved by God is, as they say, priceless.

I feel a heaviness lately, birthed on two fronts. On an individual level, I am feeling unfairly judged. Someone I love very much is a fundamentalist and they are rejecting much of what and who I read--my mentors--and is the next step a rejection of me? That would be terribly painful. On a corporate level, our church is facing judgment and rejection by certain fundamentalist believers. I love our church and so that pain is also felt by me.

I need grace. My initial impulse is not one of a loving response. It makes me angry; I want to fight back. I want to tell them how unlike Jesus they are in their condemnation, in their exclusivity. I want to tell them that the Ultimate Judgment will not focus on whether or not we give mental assent to a certain number of theological propositions about Jesus. We will be judged not on the basis if I held all the right beliefs about Jesus, but if I lived and loved like Jesus.

But if I resort to that, then I am no different than these individuals who seem so judgmental. I need grace. I want to love when condemned. I need to bless when seemingly cursed. I want to bestow the love of Christ when hammered by the letter of the law.

I have a long way to go. I don't want my first reactive response to be one of regarding them as "freakin' fundies," but as my brothers and sisters. And I want to love these brothers and sisters in God's family who would question my own belonging to that same family.

I need grace.

(I apologize for the drought in my blogging. We were out of the country the past 2 weeks, preceded by a 3 month hitch in Honduras. I hope to re-establish some consistency in writing. Thanks for your patience.)

A Sign of the Times

2011-06-30T10:10:00.000-07:00

I have a friend who has been in the construction trade for decades. He has headed up projects constructing entire subdivisions, as well as road and bridge construction. He is now nearing retirement and for whatever reasons the company to whom he has given his life is now treating him badly before he exits. He has been demoted from his multi-faceted responsibilities and lately they have him working as a “flagger.” I should say, standing around and being bored out of his freakin’ mind as a flagger. No offense to any flaggers, but a chimpanzee—on an off day—could perform the job. (If you can earn that kind of income--read further-- doing what you do, more power to you.)

I didn’t realize this but apparently the state regards “flagging” so difficult that certification is required. Flagging 101. “Class, we will devote the entire morning to the intricacies of turning the sign. Write this down: turn it to the side that says GO when traffic can resume; turn it to the side that says STOP when you want traffic to, uh, stop. Now, in groups of two’s practice this maneuver with each other until you can do so without notes.”

He feels humiliated that he may very well finish his career in this capacity. Maybe that’s the whole purpose of the company doing this. One of my favorite sites for sarcasm—despair.com—offers this “demotivator:”

I think that’s their attitude--dead wrong, but thoroughly convinced.

It gets absurdly funny. He tells me that a flagger will start out at around $28 an hour, some of them working 14-16 hours a day, time and a half on Sat., and double-time on Sun. Here’s the “welcome to America” moment. At some of the bridge or RR crossing construction sites flaggers are standing at attention with their signs for 8-16 hours but, get this--the road is completely barricaded, closed to all traffic. There are no “flagees,” only a solitary flagger. I think this is absolutely brilliant. Only in America

Maybe there’s a metaphor here. Am I “flagging” a non-existent crowd? Do I get on any one of my personal soapboxes and provide answers to questions people aren’t asking? Am I intersecting with the traffic of humanity around me or am I off in my own little world waving irrelevant signs? Am I on roads no one is traveling, not because I'm so advanced but because I'm clueless?

And why am I waving an abrasive sign in someone's face, anyway?

Disdained in Life, Discarded in Death

2011-06-24T09:43:00.000-07:00

He was a loner, but likeable. John was a very intelligent homeless man who stayed in one of the local shelters at night, and fended for himself during the day. His yellow-tinted glasses gave color to his weary eyes.

I first met him a year or so ago. Our church operated out of a small storefront and served breakfast to the homeless early each Sunday morning. We would pack 60, sometime 70, homeless men and women into our narrow quarters. John was anxious around crowds. He would arrive late, and linger outside. He seldom asked for a meal, but always asked for coffee. I struck up conversation with him, and it became a near-weekly ritual. I looked forward to seeing him.

He would miss a week or two but always managed to reappear. I left for 3 months to work with the poor in Honduras. I got back about a month ago. I didn't see John for a couple weeks and asked a street person who was a buddy of John's. He told me John had died months ago. I was shocked.

Nobody on our "team" had heard anything. The grapevine of the homeless network was quiet; John was aloof enough that his brothers of the street apparently either didn't know or didn't care.

How does someone die without anyone noticing? How does a man created in imago Dei--the image of God--die and get discarded like a cigarette butt tossed out the window? How can you become so lost, so invisible that no one notices you dying?

I don't know. I do know this: I miss John. John, I wish I had known your health had been significantly deteriorating. Maybe I could have been there with you so you wouldn't have died alone. Maybe some family member broke out of their comfort zone and re-established contact with you and held your hand and uttered comforting words and provided loving presence as you died. Maybe. I hope so.

No one should die alone.

Another Angle About Our Return Home

2011-06-09T13:39:00.000-07:00

We have returned home. The return trip home was not without a delayed flight, a cancelled flight, the beloved airlines losing ¾ of our checked baggage, and the bus breaking down between Chicago and home. “Other than that. . . how was the play, Mrs. Lincoln?”

It is quite an adjustment to life back home. There is so much sensory stimulation here in contrast to rural Honduras. Noise, movement, traffic, bombardment by TV, schedule deadlines. I forgot how difficult it is to relax here due to the constant stimulation of all our senses. Another difference is the pace. I’ll put it in driving terminology. Here I feel I’m always in 5^th gear—hurry, you’re running late, ya snooze ya lose. In Honduras life is done in 2nd or 3rd gear. As the director of the Mercy International, our mission base, said about a scheduled hike into the mountains, “We would like to leave at 9:00; we will leave when we are ready.” People tend to take priority over projects. In Honduras, time is to be enjoyed, not monitored. As a friend put it, “You have the watch; we have the time.” If only I could learn to down-shift. . . I can already feel myself tensing up now that we’re back.

I’ll share a realization or two with you. We take the ordinary for granted. We assume the routine and the people in our lives are a given. In going to Honduras we left EVERYTHING and EVERYONE that had been familiar to us. We were transported to a culture where we knew less than 10 people in the entire country. We know very little Spanish and the vast majority of Hondurans knew absolutely no English. We uprooted from our entire support system—family, friends, community of faith—and I wasn’t prepared for the gaping hole that created. Being home now and being able to call anyone anytime, being able to laugh together and embrace and hold and hug—all that I had taken for granted—I now regard as a gift to be cherished. The ordinary is a gift. Cherish it. On one of our walks through the Honduras countryside Les took a picture that I regarded at the time as a waste of time and camera space. My thoughts were, it's a stupid cow. What's the big deal?

Now I get it.

I also realize how spoiled and fortunate and blessed I am even when life is at its worst. I knew about the poverty there but living in it for 3 months moved it from my head to my heart. I’ll give just one example. One of Mercy International’s missions is to build houses/shelter for the poorest of the poor who reside In the mountains. These people are the furthest removed from accessing resources, medical care, and supplies. We took a U. S. team up to a mountain village, requiring a 2 hour fifteen minute drive over an unpaved mountain road and then a 3 hour hike to get to this area. Each evening our team would fire up the Coleman gas stoves and cook dinner. During every meal the Honduran children are standing around us watching us eat. We can’t give our food away because we need the carbs/energy for the difficult physical labor we’re engaging in. So, you learn to eat, in spite of these kids staring at you and your plate of food. One night, we had food left over—rice, actually. So we asked the kids if they would like the remaining rice. It broke my heart as they grabbed rice by the fistful.

I knew these children don’t have much, but had no idea they were “grab it by the handfuls” hungry.

There is much more to share at another time. We wanted let you know we’re back and we thank you for your support, your encouragement, your friendship.

We now face a most significant decision—do we return/relocate to Honduras and serve full-time, or do we consider other avenues of serving?? Honestly, we do not have a clear sense of direction at this point. We have allotted two months in which to make that decision. Any insight or direction you might offer will be appreciated. We will appreciate your prayers, as well, regarding this decision.

I’ll end with several reasons we loved the people we served.

Be thankful for what and who you have.

Grace and Peace, Steve and Leslie

We're Back in the States Where Technology Makes Life Run Smoothly

2011-06-07T07:06:00.000-07:00

Well, we've been back home for over a week. I apologize for the delay in getting back to my blog. We're back in spite of the particular airlines we used. Our morning of departure we got up at 4 a.m. to depart Honduras. The flight to Miami was without incident or food. The flight from Miami to Chicago was delayed, which I feared would set in motion a chain reaction of disasters in making our connecting flight from Chicago to home. I don't know why I was worrying so much; the connecting flight was cancelled completely. It was a special moment. By now it's @ 5 p.m. and it's been a long day. The same particular airline informed us that they lost 3/4 of our checked baggage and had no idea where our cargo might be. Because our flight was cancelled they offered to toss us on a bus (or was it under the bus?) from Chicago to home, another 4 hours or so. I asked if they would include a meal while we were waiting for the bus, but they informed me they "couldn't do that." Another special moment. At 7 pm. we boarded a bus and while sitting there idling, the engine died. But not to worry, the after a couple minutes the driver got it running again. About 3 hours into the ride home, the engine died and the driver pulled off the interstate and there we sat in the dark. Now would be the time to worry. He called the dispatcher of Vern's Bus and Bait Shop and eventually the dispatcher sent out another bus to meet us and pick us up and transport us the rest of the way home. We got in at midnight and were completely surprised by some of our family and friends welcoming us off the bus.

Soon I hope to fill you in on my reflections as I look back on our 3 months in Honduras. We are now adjusting to re-entry into mid-upper class IL. By the way, we did get all our luggage two days after we got home. But I still carry an attitude about the whole affair. I guess you carry your baggage whether or not you lose your luggage. Know what I mean?

I hope to hear from you as I get back in my blogging routine. If you have questions to which you'd like me to respond, let me know.

Be thankful for what and who you have.

Harris Honduras Update: Time is Flying By

2011-05-11T13:53:00.000-07:00

Two weeks and we return home. Can’t believe it! It seems like it was only yesterday that upon our arrival here American Airlines lost half our luggage for five days—but I’m over it and don’t begrudge them in the least. Right.

A team of good ole boys from Texas came down and with some help from a mason and his crew we built two concrete block houses, start to finish, in four days. Don’t anybody mess with Texas! Hard workers who laugh a lot. Each evening we would return to the mission base for dinner and they’d chow down and while still at the table pull out their pouches of Red Man and chew a wad. I got a kick out of it, but I certainly would never sit downwind of them at a picnic.

They were immediately followed by a team of @ 20 guys from Cincinnati. We tackled a work project up into the mountains. The typical 2 & a half hour drive on a rough unpaved mountain road and then a three or so hour hike to a little village, Agua Calliente. We were able to pour a concrete floor for the village church and also put on a roof for a family who resides there. There was a gap between the roof trusses and the existing adobe blocks so we needed to mix some mud as filler. Here’s a pic of the man’s wife mixing the mud with her bare feet. Few “princesses” in Honduras.

I had a day off a couple weeks ago and went hiking/exploring further out in the country and met this family out in the sticks. Three generations living together.

I regard Honduras as the Beauty and the Beast. In my updates I know I tend to focus on the beastly nature of the country; here are a couple pics of the beauty.

When I take pics I am still drawn to the children. This is Michelle, who lives between our apartment and the mission base. One of the most beautiful Honduran children I have met.

A few more pics of precious people. When you look at their pic, please pray for them and, in turn, go out of your way to do something for someone you know who may be in distress.

Last and totally unrelated, the following is a pic of the inside of the back door of the bus we took from the base into town. I guess Jesus is many things to many people.

As always, be thankful for what and who you have.

A Brief Introspective Honduras Update: The Look in the Mirror

2011-04-23T09:44:00.000-07:00

We don't have a team down here this week and Easter week is typically a week of diminished activity at the base. This has allowed for more time to think and ponder, whether wanting to or not. Some random thoughts and perceptions:

Living in community sounds Thoreau-like but often plays out more WWIII than Walden. Don't get me wrong--Mercy International is not characterized by cat-fights and brawling. It's just that living in community is always difficult, regardless of the context. Les and I have lived in community on two prior occasions. Those prior occasions brought to the surface and caused me to confront my own judgmental attitude and my selfishness. This occasion is no different. I need grace to bestow grace.

Living in this harsher environment as also accentuated the strengths in our marriage, but simultaneously has brought to the surface the flaws and deficiencies. It's like a crucible. Great things are being ground out in our relationship; we have laughed more the past two months than we have in a long time. We have felt a sense of accomplishment in working together on some projects. The crucible is also making obvious and grinding out some impurities. That look in the mirror has made me see that there are times when I am more loving toward a poor Honduran than I am toward my wife. I won't unleash on one of them what I will spew upon her. I am very thankful for her patience and graciousness in living with and loving me.

I'm somewhat of a germaphobe. So here I am in rural Honduras. Go figure. For years I was very hesitant to "get dirty," meaning I hedged on touching dirty and, at times, smelly children. I am embarrassed to say this. I now experience a much greater comfortability in holding and hugging them. (I still will not share a water bottle with anyone, so if you ever come down here, bring your own.)

Though not appearing in this update, due to all my pics being on my laptop and my laptop having no Internet connection this week and therefore I am using a computer in the office-- I love taking pics. I find myself taking pics of the children predominantly more than that of the scenery or other elements of the country. I'm discovering that it's the children that capture my heart. And the Honduran women who struggle to survive.

One last introspective glance: the tension between DOING and BEING has become magnified while here. I can DO loving things without necessarily BEING loving. e.g. I can build a house for a poor family (plenty of DOING) while grumbling, complaining about the poor quality of the lumber and the lack of help (scarcity of BEING.) I trust that God will continue to diminish the seemingly expansive gap between the two and that some day I will truly BE loving and also Do loving things.

Until then I'm thankful for my wife and some close friends who love me in spite of the gap.

Be thankful for what and who you have.

Honduras Update: A Week at the Base and Home

2011-04-16T15:47:00.000-07:00

Greetings from the two of us! (A rare photo which includes my shy and beautiful wife)

This week we didn’t have a team come down from the States, so other than hauling gravel from town to the base we worked at the base itself. We also dug a foundation in order to begin the next house when another team comes in next week.

Another program of Mercy International is an attempt to keep kids in school. Education is a primary key to breaking the cycle of poverty. So many of the girls become pregnant and drop out and so many of the boys become apathetic and quit. Once either sex makes that choice their fate is typically sealed. Many of the kids are raised in poor families and the father or mother cannot afford to send their children to primary school, much less college. MI provides scholarships to kids who demonstrate a significant need as well as motivation and determination. The program is called Hope and a Future, directed by Cindy Lowman. People in the states sponsor a child for a school year. (For more info you can go to http://www.beyondmercy.com/index_files/Page391.html).

The last team interviewed some of the girls who are now going to school because of gracious individuals who have provided them scholarships. Here is a photo of the interview and then some excerpts: (I represents the interviewer; S, a student)

I: What would you tell your mom if she were sitting here?

S: I’d give her a kiss and tell her I love her because she never had an opportunity like I have. She gives me the strength to go after my dream.

I: (to another student) How is your life different than your mom’s?

S: The last baby my mom had was very difficult for me. This is very personal. My mother made a big mistake and she had a baby from a married man, and I saw that another child has come and I was afraid of what people would say. People have always told me I’m going to be just like my mom. I can show them NOW that I am different. NOW my goal is to graduate and have work.

I: If you girls someday have a little girl what will you say to her?

S: Be careful with the boys. Keep your zipper up all the time.

I: Why keep your zipper up?

S: We have a goal, a dream and if we get pregnant this dream will be worth nothing.

I: How different would your life be if you weren’t in school?

S: If I hadn’t gotten a scholarship I’d probably have children now. I wouldn’t be a Christian. My brothers and sisters wouldn’t be motivated because they now see me as an example. I give thanks to God to have a different opportunity than my family.

I will use the rest of this space to provide you a slice of life where we live, since we’ve been at the base and home all week. Here's me at the mission base. (Les always prefers to take a photo rather than being in one.)

Life here is full of contrast. You can see a kid with a whip in one hand as he mans an ox-cart, and a cell phone is his other hand. Go figure. (Unrelated, this is the road we walk from the base to our apartment.)

The outdoor markets are lush with the freshest strawberries, pineapples, watermelon, apples, blackberries—and we can’t touch it without first bleaching all fresh fruit and vegetables. It can drive a guy like me—who hates to delay gratification—absolutely over the edge.

The tap water is not safe to drink; we’ve also been instructed to keep our mouth shut when showering. Speaking of the shower in our apartment, apparently the plumbers in Honduras missed Water and Electricity 101. Notice the exposed electrical wiring running into our showerhead so that we have hot showers. I am now very anxious when I shower and have developed a nervous tic. One raised hand to wash an armpit and I could be fried.

Nonetheless, life is good here and the people are beautiful.

Be thankful for what and who you have.

Harris Honduras Update: Stories of Brokenness, Futures with Hope

2011-04-11T05:40:00.000-07:00

One of the objectives and ministries of Mercy International is to nurture and empower women. Many of the males in Honduras (not that it is unique to Honduras only) are, quite frankly, pigs. “Love ‘em & leave ‘em.” Many women live with either abusive or unfaithful husbands. Typically, the men provide the income and therefore have the leverage—“What are you going to do about it? Leave me? You can’t survive without me.” If anything, the husband will leave his wife, because he wants less responsibility and more casual sex with a number of women.

Consequently, many of the women are left destitute and terrified of the prospects of providing for their children. Mercy International teaches women several different trades that generate income and now a number of women can provide for their families and have hope for the future. Here are two skills that are being taught to local women who come to the mission-base and apply their newly-learned skills.

Women are taught to make beautiful baskets out of a natural resource—pine needles. Honduras is covered with pine trees. The needles drop, and these women gather these needles, form a “stalk,’ tightly wrap thread around that stalk and join another stalk to it and form a continuous stream of needles to create different baskets, etc. They make their baskets, bring them to Mercy, and Mercy pays them for their work, and the mission, in turn, sells these baskets to people in the States.

Yesterday we interviewed several of the women involved in this project. One woman stated, “I have 9 children and my husband left me. I had no way of providing for my family until I heard about Henry and Cindy Lowman (the directors of MI.) Now I have hope for my family.”

Another trade that is being taught is the craft of making fly-fishing jigs (if you’re not into fishing, think “lures.” Mercy purchased some basic equipment and now teach women how to make these jigs that are then marketed in the states. Upon learning either of these skills the women gain a sense of confidence and also become empowered to break out of the victim mode. Prostitution no longer has to be option; now they can provide for their families.

In the process of learning a new marketable skill and meeting Christ-followers who are women of integrity many of these same women also become women of faith and in nearly every one of their stories gratitude is expressed to God for his love and for bringing people into their lives who have given them hope.

As I listened to their stories I silently wept. Tears of sadness about their hard life, tears of thankfulness that they have a future.

And they're providing little guys like this the possibility of a hopeful future, too.

Be thankful for what and who you have.

Honduras Update; Focusing on Shelter and Medical Needs

2011-04-03T15:24:00.000-07:00

The previous update I mentioned that I had become ill in the mountains and halfway through the return hike I had to ride a pack-mule back out. I want to thank a number of friends for their emails of empathy as they told me there’s gotta be a joke about an ass in there somewhere. :>)

Actually, when we got back I was feeling so depleted I had some lab work done and discovered I contracted a stomach bacteria, H. pylori. It’s common in Third World countries and often asymptomatic. Unfortunately, mine was fully symptomatic--the “just shoot me” strain. I’m on 3 meds for 3 months to counter it. I’m already feeling exponentially better and doing well.

A team from PA has come down and we’ve accomplished several important objectives this past week. We have begun building a house in an area called “The Invasion” on the outskirts of La Esperanza, about a thirty minute drive. My understanding is that 7-8 years ago this area was flooded and a number of people lost everything. There is no government infrastructure here; if a disaster hits this area you’re basically your own. If you are fortunate enough to have resources and a network of people around you, you can rebuild. If you are poor, which the majority are, you rebuild with nothing. These families basically “squatted” on a little parcel of land and scavenged around looking for anything that would help to form a wall. They’d find a single rough piece of scrap lumber, a square of sheet metal, plastic sheeting, anything they could gather and they put up these shacks in order to survive, initially. Sadly, these families had little or nothing before the flood and their status hasn’t changed and so they have lived in these houses of sticks all these years. No floors, no electricity, no running water for many. They cook over a fire in their “kitchen” and the interior of the shack is coated in black soot due to the smoke filling the living area. I have no idea what respiratory problems will develop in these children.

One of Mercy International’s driving purposes is to build houses for people who reside in The Invasion. This week we began another house. We dug a 20 ft. x 24 ft. perimeter trench and constructed a foundation and then poured a concrete floor two days ago. We also constructed trusses upon which the roof will go. The walls have gone up, and we should have the house finished in a couple days. I am getting to know the family. The mother, Maria, has four children living with her. Her 16 year old daughter, Kenya, has a one year old boy, as well. The first day we showed up on the site, I was trying to get to know Maria, and I asked if I could see her house of sticks. She took me inside and then pointed to her knees. She explained that because the shack is on low ground the back half of their living quarters will be covered with water up to her knees. You can imagine how excited she is at the prospect of a house (which we elevated) made of concrete block that will protect her family and last for generations.

We also held a medical clinic in neighboring village yesterday. A local doctor and a dentist donated their time to provide medical care and we assisted them. Hair was de-liced and washed, antibiotics and varying meds supplied, and teeth were extracted. A very primitive setting—an open air structure. Scrawny dogs wandering in and out. I chose to assist the dentist and, at times, had to do some deep-breathing to maintain a standing position. A school chair was used for the patient to sit in, and a Hefty trash bag draped over the back of the chair for the person to spit in after their tooth was extracted. I served to shine a flashlight into the patient’s mouth so the dentist could see wherein the pain was located. Upon successfully pulling a person’s tooth she had me then clean her instruments in some solution, dry them with a towel, and proceed to the next awaiting patient.

My wife, Leslie, worked the “pharmacy,” meds donated by people in the States. Everyone who filed through the clinic needed and received meds.

After an individual or a family received treatment several team members would then pray for them, after which the children were given clothes, flip-flops, and a beanie-baby to cuddle.

Everyone waiting in line in the hot sun was patient, humbly waiting their turn throughout the day. One of the team members commented, “I came down here to give to these who have so little; I feel like they have given me more than I have provided them.”

It’s true. Though poor and often destitute, they have a gracious and kind spirit that is rare in affluent America. May we, indeed, learn and receive from them.

Be thankful for what and who you have.

Grace and peace to you.

Honduras Update: Leave It All On The Mountain

2011-03-27T09:09:00.000-07:00

A few years ago when I was down here a U.S. team came and I hooked up with them. They had a very charismatic, full-bore Rambo-like team leader. He would lead us in a cheer.

Leader: What are we gonna do?

Team: Leave it all!!!

Leader: Where we gonna leave it?!?

Team: ON THE MOUNTAIN!!

And he would then lead us through the cheer 2 or 3 more times, each time increasing in passion. This past Monday our staff led a team of young women from Arkansas up into the mountains. They were accompanied by a pediatrician and his wife, and then a Honduran physician and a dentist joined us later in the week. The trip had 3 purposes: construction, building relationships and playing with the kids, and hosting an outdoor medical clinic.

Here’s some of my impressions:

**Leaving it all on the mountain is certainly an inspirational concept. The problem with it is that you then have nothing left for hiking back out of the mountains. The last day a fourth of the team were sick, and during the night I became ill and woke up to a day of hiking out of the mountains. An hour and a half into the hike I had no reserves left and couldn’t go any further. I had to ride a pack-mule the rest of the way back. Embarrassing and an assault on my male ego, but I had nothing left. (I was concerned about my wife, Leslie, handling the rigors of the hike and, fortunately, she avoided all sickness and managed the hike.)

**Les, Dr. David, and Tiffany (one of the Arkansas women) provided a medical clinic in a little mountain village, Las Crucitas, “the crosses.” My understanding is that no one had ever done so in recent memory. In light of time restraints and the difficulty in getting there the 3 rode mules in and out. (Out of curiosity, I googled Las Crucitas, and was informed that “nearby accommodations” were in Tegucigalpa at the Hotel Excelsior. Tegicigalpa is a 3-4 hour drive from the mission-base, and then it’s a two hour and 15 minute drive on an unpaved road from the base to Monte Verde, followed by 3 to 4 hour hike, and then a mule ride to get to Las Crucitas. Thanks for the hot tip.) Regardless, they provided medical care to a number of children and adults and were received with much gratitude.

**Many of the women become pregnant at an appalling early age. Very disheartening and typically sealing their fate and future. While they were in Las Crucitas a woman proudly told them that she is 49 and just celebrated her 38^th anniversary. You do the math. At our base camp in the mountains I met a young mother with three children. She is seventeen; her oldest son is 7. We met a thirteen year old mother. Many of these women have lost their childhood, their adolescence, and, without some intervention, have forfeited their future and dreams. It makes me very sad.

**Reg. the construction, we completed a house by constructing the trusses, putting on the roof and white-washing the adobe brick walls. The family was so eager to get out of their shack that they began moving in before we were even finished. They now have a shelter that will protect them and last them for generations.

**the kids. The team brought coloring books, some soccer balls, balloons, bubble-blowing stuff and provided unbelievable care and individual attention. They arranged a “salon” and washed the kids’ hair. The physical touch and tender stroking of their hair was moving. More than hair was cleansed; something on the level of the soul was touched, as well.

**When the three returned from Las Crucitas, we then hosted a major medical clinic where we were stationed, Santa Maria. We held it in open air “pavilion.” People stood in line for hours, waiting until they could be seen by the doctor or dentist. The team had brought a massive supply of antibiotics and other pharmaceuticals. The dentist pulled a lot of teeth, team members washing the instruments each time and then proceeding to the next patient.

**It’s all about personal contact—one on one. The team leader, Linda, would take several of her team and hike to the individual shacks that housed each family, befriending them. They came to one mother’s house and she was very moved by their personal interest in her. She told them, “I had heard you people were here in the area; but you came to me.” It’s one thing to talk the faith; walking it is what it’s all about. This team did both. As Christ-followers we represent God; we are to mirror Christ’s love. God comes to us; we don’t have to figure our way through the maze, and we, in turn, go to others. Way to pay it forward, team!

**I can’t dance. When I do, onlookers usually think I need medical attention and fear I’m having a seizure. I was in a mother’s “house of sticks”—the mother for whom we finished her new house. She’s 56 y.o., a grieving woman whose husband had died recently. She had a little portable radio that could pick up a signal and was playing some music. I began dancing and she began laughing and it was a beautiful thing to see, even for a moment, light in her saddened eyes. Laughter on her grief-ridden face.

We will have a few days back here at the Mercy International base and then another team comes in Wednesday. We will be building in the local area this week. Thank you for your prayers and for your encouragement.

Be thankful for what and who you have.

Grace and Peace, Steve and Les

Two Weeks in Honduras Is Like a Year Anywhere Else: The Glory and The Gory

2011-03-12T05:46:00.000-08:00

As of today, we've been here two weeks. Here's some snapshots:

**We've rented a little 2 room"apartment" in Yamaranguila, a town of maybe a thousand people. We narrowed our selection down to this one primarily because it was the only one. No stove, no frig. We did buy a hot-plate in order to heat up some food. Still no frig, and may not get one. We will be eating our meals at the mission base and may forgo the luxury of a refrigerator. Our landlord lives in a house adjoining our apartment. He has a housekeeper who for some reason precisely between 5:30-6:00 a.m. daily chops wood on the concrete sidewalk fifteen feet outside our bedroom window. An unsolicited alarm clock. Our landlord has has 3 roosters in a pen about 30 feet away form our window. One of them is apparently neurologically deficient and crows around 3:00 a.m. and the rest begin about 5:30--just in case we were to sleep through the wood-chopping.

**The mission base, Mercy International, builds houses both locally and up in the mountains where the poorest of the poor reside. I just returned from our first hike up into the mountains. (Les did not accompany due to some strained neck muscles from an accident about a week before we arrived here. She hopes to accompany me on the next hike next week.) First, it is a two hour plus drive on a very rough, unpaved mountain road, and then we abandon the vehicles and hike a minimum of 3 hours up into the mountains to get to this little mountain village, Santa Maria. We hosted a team from Florida State University, a number of them on the football team. They all concurred that the hike was beyond what their conditioning involves. We divided into 2 teams, one team to pour a concrete floor for a mother and her children, the other to complete a house by adding trusses and a roof. Ironically, the family for whom my team built a roof is the same family for whom I poured a concrete floor this past Nov., and it was a great pleasure to meet them again and re-establish our relationship. I went to the other site and met the mother for whom we were to construct a floor. She's 56 y.o. She has lived in what I call this "house of sticks" for 25 years. No floor, no running water, no electricity. Literally, sticks packed with mud for walls. She cried as I asked her about her life. Her husband had died in January and she has no idea how she will provide for her family. I would ask her about other matters but she would resume talking about her husband whom she misses dearly. She is filled with grief, both recent and old. She told me she had 14 children and 6 of them have died. Hopefully, a concrete floor will serve as a metaphor for something of substance for her to stand on as she regroups and faces an even more difficult life ahead.

**These are a humble people. When we built the trusses and added a tin roof to "my" family's house we asked if we could gather around them and pray for them. They were very appreciative and wanted us to. When we finished praying for them the father, Melbis, asked if he could pray for us. You who have so little have so much compassion that you want to pray for US? We gratefully received his prayer.

**The hike out of the mountains was in the rain, and the mud was slippery and many of us slipped and fell but only our pride was injured. As we drove back on the mountain road, the van was slipping in the the mud. We had two trucks leading the way for the van. As we were descending, I noticed a full-sized school bus ascending the approaching mountain curve, but then stopped. We couldn't see what was going on. All of us left our vehicles to discover that the bus had lost traction in the mud and had begun to slide back down the hill. The bus driver had hit the brakes, got it to at least stop, and had someone attach a rope to the bumper and there were about 15 Honduran adults and children attempting to pull this full-sized school bus up the mud-soaked mountain incline. We all ran over and joined them in the mud and somehow pulled this bus up the hill to a level place where once again the driver could get traction. The bus driver proceeded to shake our hands in fervent appreciation. It was a joyful feeling joining these Hondurans as a team, agonizing in pulling this bus up the hill. What a wild ride!

Well, those are a few slices of life thus far. Please keep us in your thoughts and prayers. And be grateful for what and who you have.

(Sorry, no photo; problems loading and want to post before I lose everything.)

Safe Arrival in Honduras

2011-02-27T13:12:00.000-08:00

Random thoughts and impressions:

--Thankful for a safe trip, and reminded again of the beauty of Honduras.

--Exasperated with the incompetence of the airlines which will remain nameless, other than to say it is the last word in U.S.A. and add an "n." We arrived at San Pedro Sula airport and two of our 5 checked bags did not arrive. Two large durable plastic trunks with many supplies. The airlines put our baggage on 2 different flights. Go figure. We are to receive the trunks in 2-3 days.

--Thankful for twentysomethings. I was amazed at the number of different teams of twentysomethings on our flight, coming down for the purpose of serving the poor. This disavowal of a life of total consumption and, instead, desiring to give, encourages me immensely. You rock.

--This is such a country of contrasts. San Pedro Sula is urban, high-tech. Mercedez dealerships. Malls that compare to ours. A "latino sexuality" particularly in women's attire, flaunting cleavage, lot of bling. A short drive and people in rags, dogs with ribs protruding, no running water or electricity.

--I'm spoiled. A middle-upperclass baby. Our 2 room "apartment" in which we we spent our first night has no stove, no frig. Can't drink the tap water--too risky. The front door lock doesn't work. The mattress has strands of wire running through it. The shower head has an electrical unit on it that you switch on to create hot water and to apparently shorten your life if you happen to be standing in any water. It's fondly called "the widow-maker." And there are millions of people who are begging to have such a life of luxury.

--Grateful for my wife who embraces the simple life with acceptance and thankfulness, while I whine.

--Excited about what these next three months might hold. Excited about opportunities to serve, help, befriend, embrace, build. Excited about the potential changes within us as we step out into unchartered territory.

--I want to savor each moment and have no regrets at the end of each day. I don't want to hold back and then at end of day to lament, "if only. . . "

--And that's my hope for you, as well.

Adios for a While

2011-02-24T21:08:00.000-08:00

We leave Friday, 2/25, for our 3 months in Honduras, serving the poor. The electricity there is unpredictable and Internet unreliable. My intent is to blog while down there. I hope my good intentions translate into action.

This is a new chapter in the story of our life, new terrain yet to be explored on our journey.

I am grateful for your reading of my blogs and the interaction thus far. I will appreciate your patience as we get acclimated. Once settled in, I will post a blog.

We're still packing and have a lot to do in the next 15 hours before departure. I'd better get to it.

Grace and peace to each of you.

A Heads Up Before We Head Out

2011-02-16T20:02:00.000-08:00

In 9 days my wife and I will be flying to Honduras and living there in an impoverished area for three months. We will be working with Mercy International, constructing houses for the poor and possibly helping kids in the school system. There is a lot up in the air so late in the game. We just now secured a 2-room apartment that supposedly has a bed init--the condition and cleanliness of the bed unknown.   We do not have cellphone arrangements worked out and may have to wait until we get there to do so. These and more create high anxiety for me. My wife is much calmer about it than I. That's fortunate; we'd be getting nothing done if both of us were tucked in a fetal position. I think I'm regressing; I don't recall sucking my thumb prior to making this monumental decision. Of course, at my age recalling my DOB requires a post-it note.

I'm anxious about immaterial matters, such as not being able to get a deep tan. I love the sun and have for decades. Apparently, the sun doesn't share a similar fondness for me. In recent years a dermatologist has made me aware of numerous sites of skin cancer, basal cell carcinoma. I have been having them removed 2 or 3 at a time. I have vowed that I will now protect myself with sunscreen. The thought of being lily white after three months in Central America is not appealing. However, the thought of possibly no more surgeries requiring staples and stitches to close the sites is very appealing.   My vanity will take a hit.

I'm anxious about important matters. I have friends and family that are terribly struggling with life. I don't believe that staying home would make a difference in their life. That's not the issue. The issue is that being here gives me a sense of security in that at least I am available and can see and talk with them and do something for them if they requested. I will feel helpless living so far away.

I can feel the sadness slowly mounting as the reality of our departure draws closer. This past Sunday was the last time we will see our friends in our community of faith.   I know I won't be able to embrace and say good-bye to everyone that I care about. We won't get to see everyone before we leave, and words will be left unspoken and hugs withheld.

Yet, in all of this I am nonetheless excited. The day we arrive there will also be a team from the U.S. flying in to do construction work. I can't wait. If possible I want to start building with them or hiking up into the mountains with them to build a shelter up there.   My adrenalin is pumped; I don't want to gradually tiptoe into this adventure. I want to plunge in.

I am excited about the prospects of making an impact on families--an impact lasting for generations.
I'm excited about how all of this will impact ourselves. I have a feeling that the intensity of this work and the harshness of the environment will serve to purge our marriage and make it stronger. I'm not looking forward to the stress it may place on our relationship, but I view the stress as a means to a beautiful end.

I realize I am rambling and for that I apologize. I'm not feeling real linear and sequential right now. I also apoligize for the long delay in posting this blog. I'm very distracted.

I hope to post one more blog before we leave on 2/25. Electricity and the Internet down there are not particulary reliable. Consequently, I don't know how frequently I will be blogging. Also, we could be up in the mountains working for a week at a time with no access to computer. I appreciate your patience in all this.

I intend to chronicle these coming three months and share with you our experiences. I appreciate your reading and following thus far; I hope you'll stick with me.

Procrastination: Trains stop at train stations; Buses stop at bus stations; On my desk is a workstation.

2011-02-05T17:50:00.000-08:00

If I were Catholic I would be crowned the Pope of Procrastination. If I worked the casinos I would be the Dealer of Distraction. If I were a snow-covered peak I would be the Avalanche of Avoidance. You get the idea.

(I alert you I'm also the Ally of Alliteration-- but I digress, I do.)

It's very frustrating and adds to my stress but I persist in putting off tasks/projects until the last minute. I've analyzed it.. There are a number of reasons why I procrastinate. Sometimes, I fear the magnitude of a task and simultaneously question my ability to manage it. I will then delay my perceived forthcoming failure as long as possible. There are times when the task or responsibility is distasteful or undesirable; consequently I avoid the unpleasant issue as long as possible. Other times I invest a task with more difficulty than it actually contains--I blow its magnitude out of proportion--and avoid facing it until absolutely necessary. At times, quite frankly, I would rather play than work and I choose to play now and work later. Much later.

Unfortunately, analyzing it--as I have just done--does not necessarily change it. In fact, too much mere thinking about it could prolong my avoidance as I succumb to the paralysis of analysis. Maybe Nike was right--just do it.

The Scriptures in which I attempt to ground my life certainly do not support my procrastinating. The sacred text contains phrases like "THIS day choose. . . " and "THIS is the day. . . " Not tomorrow, later or whenever.

I'm trying, I think. On the one hand, I grimace at the realization that I have procrastinated in sitting down and blogging about my tendency to procrastinate That's a sorry look in the mirror. On the other hand, I did do it THIS day and I detect a slight smile as I take a second look.

The Best Things In Life Aren't Things

2011-02-02T14:00:00.000-08:00

Some of you know, some don't. I'll share in more detail soon. In a little over 3 weeks my wife and I are leaving our family and friends and for 3 months will serve the poor in Honduras. I will miss a lot.

I will miss all the conveniences currently at my disposal, but I'll adjust.
I will miss the easy access to stores, but I'll survive and simplify.
I will miss instantaneous Internet, but will learn to delay gratification.
I will miss fb on demand, but will hopefully interact with my wife more and everyone else less.
I will miss my friends and my community of faith, but I know I will cope with their absence.
I will miss going to a movie, but will learn to enjoy a sunset, instead.
I will miss my big house, but will soon appreciate any space available.

And I will miss my family and I do not have a clue how life will go on without them. This morning one of our daughters sent me this photo of her two boys, which translates into my two grandboys. I cried. I cried because I love them so much, I cried because I know I will miss them so much.

Yeh, I know. There's Skype, etc etc etc etc. I can take photos with us. All sorts of options. All of that will help, but the painful truth is-- a photo in your hand doesn't compare to a child in your arms.

Thanks for allowing me a melancholy moment.

Would I Be Willing to Kiss Someone I'd Rather Kill?

2011-01-30T16:09:00.000-08:00

(Here's a brief but poignant post from Greg Boyd. His words and the following photo capture my heart.)

A Revolutionary Kiss

Posted: 29 Jan 2011 10:40 AM PST

Amidst the violent protests calling for a revolution in Egypt we find a reminder of the utterly unique kind of revolution Jesus calls us to. Love, bless, pray for, do good to — and yes, even KISS — our enemies (Lk 6:27-38).

(An Egyptian anti-government activist kisses a riot police officer following clashes in Cairo, Egypt, Friday, Jan. 28, 2011.MSNBC.COM)

Peace
Greg

Stay Sick--or--Get Well: Not an Obvious Choice

2011-01-29T13:16:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time ( a true story) during the reign of Caesar Augustus there was in Jerusalem a pool that reportedly had mystical powers of healing. The gospel of John, chapter 5, tells us that "a large number of disabled people used to lie around its perimeter--the blind, the lame, the paralyzed." One rendition states that God would cause the waters to stir and the first individual into the pool after each disturbance would be healed. On one occasion Jesus finds this pool and sees a man lying close to the pool. This man has been an invalid for 38 hellish years. Think about the despondency, the resignation generated by being incapacitated for 38 years. Jesus sees this man lying there and having been made aware of his decades-long suffering I would have thought that Christ's heart of compassion would have prompted him to immediately provide a healing touch to this man. I'd have thought that Jesus would restore this man's body to health and turn that which had become bent and crooked into that which could stand tall and erect.

Instead, Jesus asks him a question which, on the surface, comes off as either stupid or very insensitive. Jesus asks the man, "Do you want to get well?" "Do you want to be healed?" That's one of those questions you and I might impulsively answer with, "Duh." Stupid question, don't ya think? If not stupid, then insensitive. This poor man has been incapacitated for 38-and-counting years, incapable of even the smallest of tasks, likely the object of disdain by those with their nose up in the air, and Jesus, you have to ask if he wants to get well? Isn't it obvious? No, not at all. And that's why Jesus asked him the question.

You have to know there are perks in staying sick. There are pay-offs in not getting well. The clinical term is secondary gains. The gains, the pay-offs are not obvious but nonetheless part of the package of perks that come with staying sick. "John" was an alcoholic before he and "Mary" met and married 25 years ago. He has never addressed his alcoholism and Mary and the kids have learned to live with it. He misses work and she calls in for him, coming up with some viable excuse. John's a mean drunk and the kids have learned to tiptoe around Dad and avoid him, not rocking the boat. Mary has taken on another part-time job to make up for the loss of income due to John's absenteeism and to cover the cost of the booze he downs. Jesus asks,"Do you want to get well, John?" You see, if John begins recovery work he will have to take responsibility for himself. He'd have to step up to the plate. He'd have to man-up. He would have to change, rather than his kids adapting their behavior. Yes, John, your alcoholism is killing you and destroying your family, but Jesus, who knows us inside and out, asks a very penetrating question--do you want to get well?

There are pay-offs if you and I remain depressed. Until a couple of years ago "Sally" was thriving and successful, as was her husband "Jim." Both had become distracted by their respective career pursuits and own individual interests, and their connection with each other was now ignored. Jim was too busy to stop and pay attention to her. On those rare occasions when he would 'hop off the treadmill" he was too preoccupied to listen to her and was in his own little world. The loneliness was taking a toll on her and despondency wrapped its tentacles around her spirit. Six months ago she took an overdose while he was away on a business trip. He rushed home and stayed by her bedside at the hospital. It got his attention. Since then, Jim has cut back on his 70 hour work-week and spends more time with Sally. He asks how she's feeling. He listens to her bleak lament. He has even taken her on several overnights since this storm of depression assailed her. Jesus asks, do you want to get well, Sally? Are you sure, Sally? Being depressed, you are receiving more love and caring attention from Jim than you ever got when you were on top of your game.

I think that getting well can be terrifying for some of us. If I get well, then there go all my excuses. I can no longer fall back on what has served to keep me in my crippled comfort zone all this time. If I were to truly seek healing from God, what grand and noble purposes might he have in mind for me? I'm just a lowly self-loathing worm and surely, God. you're not calling me to ascend to new heights of freedom, unparalleled adventure, and heroic engagement in these hard times. I'm afraid to contemplate what I could be if I were to be healed.

Listen to these words of Nelson Mandela.

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, talented. . . Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us.

God, please heal me of my fear of getting well and would you be gracious enough to then heal me of my sickness? I ask for discontentment with my sickness and courage to embrace healing and the life that will accompany it.

Jesus stills asks, do you want to get well?

Retirement: Leaving a Career, Listening to Stories, Following a Calling

2011-01-27T13:06:00.000-08:00

I'm eighteen hours into retirement. So far, so good. I have been in the counseling field, whether clinically or pastorally, for a long time. It's been a wild ride. I have seen and heard more than I ever dreamed or dreaded.

There was Billy* who abused any obtainable substance--a huffer-- and showed up for our session with spray-paint all around his mouth and nose, assuring me he was clean.

There was Carl and Nancy whose lack of hygiene was unspeakable. I felt guilty but each time they left a session I would wipe down the furniture and spray air freshener in the room and hallway so the next client would be able to tolerate the atmosphere.

There was Jill. As we were talking I offhandedly told her she was special and continued talking, only to notice she had broken down and was weeping. My first impulse was to think I had possibly offended or hurt her. She assured me that wasn't the case. Rather, "No one has ever told me I'm special." She was decades into her adult life and no one had ever said something like that to her. No one. How can that be?

There was James. A pastor who found himself in a deep, dark place. Suicidal. A pastor--a messenger of hope, agonizing to find hope.

There was the cop, responsible for enforcing law and order, whose own life and marriage was total chaos, and insisted that his word was the law in their house. Sir, you can be right--or--you can be married.

There was Emma who had been financially exploited and manipulated by another therapist in the community and now didn't know who she could trust anymore.

There was George who swore he'd been framed, that he would never violate a child. Pleading with me to believe him because so few others were. Assuring me of his moral integrity and that he would never do something so reprehensible. In tears, telling me how scared he was and that this couldn't be happening. I believed him. I stood by him. And then it was brought to light that the charges were true, and, in fact, he had committed prior acts with others. George will likely die of old-age in prison--claiming his innocence.

Ed and Karen. Married. Two kids. Ed loved his kids, but had a special bond with his son, Brad. They were tight. Curious as to why a car was running in their attached garage, Ed discovered the lifeless body of his son in the frontseat, a hose running from the car's exhaust to the driver's window. Ed and Karen and I talked for a long, long time over the course of many, many months seeking consolation and healing and a reason for themselves to continue living.

There was Mary, in her 60's, maybe 70's. Childhood wounds still afflicting her. As a little girl, she had never been allowed to play. Always had to be responsible. Wanted her mom to read her nursery rhymes before bedtime but that was "childish" and mom was "too busy." There was something about that, in particular, that she missed so much. We talked about the inherent worth of that little girl, the God-given value of that inner child. On rare occasions, therapy is simple. At the end of one of our sessions I reminded her of the reality and presence of "the little girl" within her presently and I asked her what prevented her from reading nursery rhymes now. "Well, nothing, I guess." She went to the library and brought home several collections of nursery rhymes. At night she began reading her nursery rhymes and took absolute delight in them. Once upon a time. . .

There was Mallory who had been sexually abused when a little girl. She had never told anyone of the demonic horrors, and, instead had stuffed it all her life. Out of sight, out of mind, so she thought. Unwittingly, she was living a life of flight, a life of reaction. After her painstaking efforts to face the shame that was strangling her she began to trust me and she disclosed details of what had been done to her. She was violated in ways that in moments of my hottest rage and desire for revenge against an enemy I have never schemed. To this day I cannot speak of her abuse without losing my composure.

There was Bernard whose job required him to be on the road a lot. So self-conscious, insecure and ashamed of himself that when driving down the Interstate if he caught the look of another passing driver he would quickly turn away, in an effort to avoid the feared scorn and disdain of another human being.

There was Jason, a husband and loving father. He wept as he disclosed to me secrets never before told. Secrets of his addiction, an addiction neither his wife or kids know about, an addiction that, if he does not address, will rob him of everyone he loves. And he'll be left with just another one-night stand.

There was Becky, who had grown up in a rigid, authoritarian religious subculture and had been shamed into living a life of rules-keeping, but no relationship. She came to me with her questions, her doubt, her desperate longing for meaning. Somewhere and somehow in the counseling process she encountered Christ's love and mercy and experienced the love of God in an unparalleled way, and I didn't even know it til after the fact.

There have been hundreds and hundreds of other men and women who have trusted me with their stories. We have laughed at the hilarious and wept over the tragic. Holding hands, agony and ecstasy have walked into my office hoping for understanding. Confusion has entered, desperate for direction. Heartache has cried herself into my presence, quietly pleading for comfort. Buried in shame, many have come in hopes that maybe this time they won't be rejected. Many have come, no longer believing in God yet desperate for God.

I do not know what good I've done or been. Two things I do know. The stories have broken me and blessed me. And it has been my privilege to serve in this capacity wherein so many have trusted me with their lives, their sin, their pain, their dreams and hopes. A privilege to serve in my faltering way as a mirror of God's grace and mercy.

And now my own story is opening a new chapter. So far, so good.

* (all names and identifying details have been changed or omitted in order to protect the privacy and confidentiality of all individuals.)

Yipping Dogs, Insensitive Neighbors, and My Lousy Attitude

2011-01-20T14:50:00.000-08:00

"Hate" is a strong word and in light of our culture's obsession with being politically correct we need to choose our words with care. I HATE yipping dogs.

As I type this a neighbor's yipping dog is barking incessantly outside. And has been. Aside from the fact that it is grossly (versus understandably) cruel to leave a yipping dog outside in 14 degree windchill weather, it is also terribly insensitive to those living in the vicinity. I am three houses away and the doggy-decibels are sufficiently loud that the canine crescendo has me gritting my teeth while I type. If I'm three houses away you know the owner (of the dog, not my house) knows that Fido is freakin' freezin' and bored to death, and therefore has catapulted into a manic episode of frenetic yipping. If I were asked to bet on which will happen first--the dog freezing to death or its owner gaining some sense of civility and neighborly manners--you know I'm putting my money on a very stiff dog.

I'm sorry. When I get in a highly agitated state like this I don't care what the SPCA thinks about my attitude. I just want the dog to decide to shutup since the owner doesn't have enough sense to bring it in the house. Or the dog to freeze to death and thereby shutup. Or the neighbor to move away. Or the neighbor to freeze to death and Fido gets put up for adoption and goes to a loving hut in Africa.

Seriously. Is it that difficult to be aware of people around us, to care about people around us, and to take steps to avoid interfering with or disrupting our neighbors' space? Is it that hard? These seem like simple and realistic requests. 1. Would you please refrain from leaving your yipping dog outside to proceed to bark in staccato-like fashion? 2. Enjoy your music (as I enjoy mine) but don't play it at such levels that your music becomes my music because your music has drowned out my music. You know, requests like that. To me, getting along sounds so simple and ought to be so simple, but the neighbor three houses over makes it very difficult.

Some of you, I trust, are much more understanding and benevolent than me, and will come up with some logical explanation for the neighbor's yipping dog that is now in my crosshairs. (Just kidding, SPCA.) "Well, maybe the dog's owner is deaf and can't hear it." Yeh, he's deaf; his yipping dog blew out both eardrums years ago.

I will calm down soon. I will post this in my highly agitated state, and regret it within the hour. In the meantime I will listen to some Wilco, maybe Ray LaMontagne, and pray-- if I can pry my teeth apart from each other.

And don't ask me what I will be praying for. Neither you nor the SPCA would likely appreciate my "Dear God, please. . . "

The Universal Need to be Noticed

2011-01-16T19:42:00.000-08:00

I’ve never received The Friendliest Human Being of The Year Award nor do I foresee it happening in this life or posthumously. I try to be friendly and warm and often it is with substantial effort. As a therapist I relate to and engage people all day and typically on an intense level. By end of day “warm and friendly” has disintegrated into “warped and fiendish.” I just want to be left alone; don’t bother me. If my cell phone rings I moan, hoping the call isn’t urgent, important, or someone needing something. If it is, this will require effort, energy, and empathy-- little of which I have after 6:00 p.m.

All of this is preface. I am involved in a local church and really enjoy these people. On a Sunday morning I make it a point to greet my friends and inquire as to how they’re doing. If I don’t know someone I may say hi and generically ask how they are doing. I’m sincere in doing so, but it’s not like I am gushing friendliness and back-slapping everyone in sight. So I was quite surprised by an email a friend at church sent me today. She said, Just wanted to say thanks for always acknowledging . It makes me feel good as her friend when others take the initiative to introduce themselves and then take the few seconds to say hi again each week! I know it means a lot to her too as the whole church thing is really new to her still and she doesn't know very many people. I just wanted you to know I noticed and I appreciate it!!

I appreciate her gesture of kindness, but am also saddened by it. She is glad that I acknowledge her friend. Are we becoming so uncivil and autonomous that mere acknowledgment of one’s existence and presence is deeply appreciated? Can it be that a mere “Hi. . . how are you?. . . It’s good to see you. . . “ may be the only warm contact a person may receive during the week?

Maybe we under-estimate the value of our words. The healing influence of an affirming acknowledgment. The significance of noticing someone. We may never know (unless someone like my friend goes out of her way to tell us) the impact of our presence. When I greet someone I usually will either shake their hand or gently and briefly place my hand on their shoulder. We all need to know we are not untouchable, for untouchable often translates into unlovable. One of the reasons I do so is because decades ago someone—without even knowing—deeply affirmed me in the most nonchalant way.

I was in my 20's and had gone through a devastating divorce that shattered my world. I felt absolutely rejected and not only unloved but unlovable. It was summertime in San Diego and I was sitting on the beach, my head down as I was buried in my sadness. Several young women were chatting as they walked by and one of them saw me. She saw into me. She paused, spoke several words of greeting and reaching down she mussed up my hair, smiled and kept on walking. I had never seen her before; never saw her again. All I know is that in that 3-5 second encounter she imparted something to me that moved my heart and soothed my soul. Her few words and her brief touch served to remind me that I still mattered--that as cast aside as I felt, I was still touchable. That memory has stuck with me all these years.

People need us to look them in the eye. People need us to acknowledge them. People need a loving touch. Those simple gestures may have a lifelong impact. You may never know.

I can tell you this; I know.

Children: The Litter of Our Landscape

2011-01-14T07:57:00.000-08:00

We are all shocked and saddened by the Tuscon shootings, and, in particular, the murder of 9 year old Christina Green. The shooting of a child exponentially heightens our outrage while intensifying our grief. I understand our collective sadness; I don't know that we should be surprised, however, because it seems that in our society children are steadily coming to be viewed as dispensable. Here’s why I am arriving at that conclusion:

**Our culture is all about ME. Self-actualization. Empowerment. Self-fulfillment. Individual autonomy. Personal development. blah, blah, blah. We seem to be moving in a direction where children are often viewed as an interference, an obstruction to MY goals, MY aspirations, MY pursuits. I confess that when I was a young father there were times when I resented the necessity of attending to the needs of our children because it interfered with my own preferences and desires. What comprised isolated incidents for some of us now appears to becoming a pattern for many in today's cultural climate. If it's all about ME, then all others--including children-- become dispensable.

**I understand these are uniquely different and difficult economic times which necessitate agonizing decisions to be made by parents. Two incomes are essential for many families if they are to survive. But--there seems to be a growing nonchalance, an indifference on the part of many other parents as to handing off their children to daycare or some other provider of care and abdicating their own personal responsibility to their children. I get the sense that many don't want to sacrifice their comfortable lifestyle and their "toys," and in order to sustain that lifestyle they let someone else, in essence, raise and nurture their children. "You take care of them during the day and we will tuck them in at night. Well, one of us will. . . depending on who loses the argument." Children are becoming an interference in our dogged pursuit of the American dream.

**Rather than children being protected in war, they are being utilized as a means of waging war. Explosives are strapped to children and then these innocents are told to run into the camp of the enemy. Children are blown up as a means of blowing up more of the enemy. Children are also being used as shields to hide behind. Apparently titanium and Kevlar have become too expensive. Let's throw a dispensable child in front of us, instead.

**I know that abortion is a complex issue with layers of moral and ethical ramifications. I also understand that, at times, there are either life-threatening issues at stake or excruciating circumstances involved. That being said, my impression is that for a number of couples an unexpected pregnancy and the possibility of a child entering their world would be a great inconvenience to their lifestyle and comfort zone. The solution to the problem is to eliminate the child rather than curtail the lifestyle. We can argue as to whether or not the fetus is a child; we can all agree that eventually, if the fetus is allowed to develop, a child will be born. In those situations I’m alluding to, we are not merely aborting a fetus. It’s not the 9 months gestation of the fetus we don’t want to hassle with. It’s the decades of raising and nurturing a child that we don’t want to mess with. I fear that children are coming to be viewed as a mere interference by some and that interference can be surgically discarded and now that couple can move on with their lives unencumbered.

I fear for us collectively as a civilization. How a society regards its children speaks volumes about the likely moral future of that culture.

I also fear for you and me, individually. And so should you. What if our children someday return the favor and regard us as dispensable?

War Does Not Determine Who is Right--Only Who is Left

2011-01-09T20:06:00.000-08:00

I submit that you could insert "Guns" for "War."   The attempted murder of Rep. Gabrielle Giffords and the accomplished murder of six others constitute an unconscionable tragedy. I wish I had an answer. I think I know what the answer isn't and I know there are many who would disagree with me. The solution isn't more guns for us all. The answer isn't pack 'n carry. That soon can turn into vigilante justice which, I fear, would lead to anarchy--every man for himself. Imagine the scenario if every person within 50 yards of that shooting scene was carrying a weapon and unloaded their gun in the direction of the person(s) they thought had opened fire initially. Have you ever reacted in panic, only seconds later to realize your clouded judgment in that state of mind? Have you ever impulsively responded in anger or rage, only to regret the outcome of your actions? Imagine the consequences with a Glock 9mm in your hand.

The answer isn't more weapons in the hands of more people.   I don't understand the logic of that position. That option frightens me rather than reassures me. I think it was former President Jimmy Carter who said, "War does not beget peace; war begets other wars." I would opine that guns do not beget peace; more weapons of violence beget more violence.

How do we restore civility in the media, in the government, in our conversations and interactions with each other?   If we don't figure this out, there will be very few left to ponder the problem. In a scene from Fiddler on the Roof the villager demands revenge and justice.

Villager: An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth!
Tevye: Very good. That way the whole world will be blind and toothless.

God, have mercy on us all. God, have mercy on those today who are burying people they have loved and lost. Caress their hearts and comfort their homes. God, give us grace to bestow grace toward those with whom we differ.

Facing the Fear: The Prerequisite to Dream-Building

2011-01-07T11:50:00.000-08:00

You have to take risks, he said. We will only understand the miracle of life fully when we allow the unexpected to happen.
Every day, God gives us the sun--and also one moment in which we have the ability to change everything that makes us unhappy. Every day, we try to pretend that we haven't perceived that moment, that it doesn't exist--that today is the same as yesterday and will be the same as tomorrow. But if people really pay attention to their everyday lives, they will discover that magic moment. It may arrive in the instant when we are doing something mundane, like putting our front-door key in the lock; it may lie hidden in the quiet that follows the lunch hour or in the thousand and one things that all seem the same to us. But that moments exists--a moment when all the power of the stars becomes a part of us and enables us to perform miracles.
Joy is sometimes a blessing, but it is often a conquest. Our magic moment helps us to change and sends us off in search of our dreams. Yes, we are going to suffer, we will have difficult times, and we will experience many disappointments--but all of this is transitory; it leaves no permanent mark. And one day we will look back with pride and faith at the journey we have taken.
Pitiful is the person who is afraid of taking risks. Perhaps this person will never be disappointed or disillusioned; perhaps she won't suffer the way people do when they have a dream to follow. But when that person looks back--and at some point everyone looks back--she will hear her heart saying, "What have you done with the miracles that God planted in your days? What have you done with the talents God bestowed on you? You buried yourself in a cave because you were fearful. . . So this is your heritage: the certainty that you wasted your life."
Pitiful are the people who must realize this. Because when they are finally able to believe in miracles, their life's magic moments will have already passed.
(excerpt from By the River Piedra I Sat down and Wept, by Paulo Coehlo)

Nearly four years ago I read this novel and here is what I journaled the day I came upon that passage. "This is so descriptive of me. . . afraid. Afraid of launching out into new ministry, new dreams. And this pictures my ultimate fear; that I will reach old age, not having pursued and lived my dreams/God's calling. Only possessing the certainty that I wasted my life. God, give me courage and discernment. The latter to know what and where and how you desire we spend the rest of our life together. The former to go for it."

I look back and see the demanding nature of my insecurity then--wanting to know what, how, when, why, and where before making a move. Today--this season of my life--I can honestly say I'm going for it. And it feels pretty good. Really good, actually. I'm not suggesting that there's a new me and I now refer to myself as Braveheart; maybe Tentative Toes, which is to say that fear is still present, along with every other feeling contained on the universal feeling vocabulary list. But I'm going for it. We are going for it. My wife and I are leaving our predictable and secure careers and heading to Honduras for a three month trial-basis to serve the poor. We will be working with Mercy International, the mission base I have served on short-term mission trips the past 10 years. We will then return home and they will evaluate us and we them, and a decision will be made as to long-term relocation.

We will leave around the first of March. This has been years in the making, years in summoning the courage and trust to do this. Years of clinging to the false security of our comfort zone. But now we are going for it.

You have to take risks, he said.

A Painful Look in the Mirror

2011-01-02T13:49:00.000-08:00

Depending on your background you might refer to it as The Lord's Supper. Or the Eucharist. Maybe Communion. Our church does so once a month. Typically, four people are asked to serve and at the appropriate time they walk to the front of the sanctuary, two standing on the left and two on the right, each couple holding a loaf of bread and a chalice of wine. This morning before our worship service began, our pastor asked my wife and me if we would be one of the couples and we agreed to do so and then proceeded to take our seats as the service began.

Our sanctuary is long and narrow. Consequently, any movement or commotion is seen by all. There is one guy who attends and obviously is not of the same socio-economic status as most of us and simply doesn't fit in (you know, the kind that Jesus loves). We had a guest speaker and he was delivering the sermon and the misfit who was sitting about three rows from the front and in the middle of the row decided to get up and leave the sanctuary. He couldn't squeeze by several people so they had to stand up and let him out of the aisle. He ambled to the back of the sanctuary. He does this all the time. Interfering and distracting. I mumbled something silently and there was good reason for doing it silently. The speaker continued. A few minutes later the misfit (you know, the kind Jesus didn't judge) returned, but decided he wanted to sit in the very front pew. He took his time and we all saw that he plopped himself down in the front pew. Apparently, he became disenchanted with the view and wanted his former seat back, so he got up, walked back a few rows and the couple had to get up in order for him to resume his initial position. As the speaker continued I impulsively muttered--quietly but not silently--"Would you just sit down!" (You know, something Jesus would say.) The speaker continued and eventually completed his homily without further interruption. And the misfit was now off my radar.

The time came to celebrate and honor the Eucharist. My wife and I walked up front as did the other couple and two lines formed as the entire congregation waited to partake. Slowly, one after another approached and as they took a piece of bread from my wife she said to each individual, "This is the body of Christ broken for you." I, in turn, held the chalice and as each person dipped their morsel of bread I said, "This is the blood of Christ shed for you. Go in peace." I'm not paying attention to the line; I'm simply seeing the person who is now in front of me to receive the blessing, as one after another files by. I find the misfit standing before me with his piece of bread in his hand. As his eyes peer into mine I find myself ashamed and convicted of my judgmental attitude. If I had possessed the moral courage I would and should have said to him, "I should be asking for forgiveness from you; you should be standing before me and I should be the one dipping the bread in the chalice you hold." My cowardice and ego kept me from saying any such thing. Who was I to be administering this holy sacrament? Who am I to cast myself in a superior role and look down on this person whom I regard as inferior?

I could barely make eye contact with him as I said to him, "This is the blood of Christ shed for you. Go in peace."

You know, something Jesus would say.

He Comes to the Chaos: A Final Christmas Meditation

2010-12-30T13:03:00.000-08:00

Our church had a Christmas Eve service, and I was looking forward to and hoping this would provide a sense of haven in the midst of hectic activity and obnoxious shoppers and angry drivers en route to shopping. I was already on edge because I was responsible for memorizing a significant portion of the second chapter of the gospel of Luke, which contains the birth narrative of Christ. I was the narrator as various children re-enacted the nativity scene. I was anxious about being able to recall my lines while the kids were acting like shepherds slamming down Red Bull. Well, I did lose my place and forgot several lines and attempted to re-insert them, and I doubt that many listening could tell, but I knew I screwed up and I had so badly wanted to nail it without flaw, and, ironically, found myself silently cursing before we all sang Silent Night.

The kids were squirming and restless and fussing and ruined a Norman Rockwellian Christmas Eve service. After the children's program our pastor shared a meditation and while he's talking people are hacking and coughing. A pew over, Marge is wheezing. Shortly into his meditation, a number of kids are by now whining. An occasional "Mommy, she pinched me!" It slowly is reaching a crescendo and one child begins and continues screaming his lungs out. My first reaction was, "Merry freakin Christmas!" And then it hit me: This--and much worse--is what Chrst enterd and still enters. Chaos. Christ was born in a setting wherein King Herod was slaughtering innocent children. Christ enters the the chaos of a Christmas pageant, as trivial as that level of chaos may be. Christ enters our chaos at our core level. That's why he comes to us--to bring order to our chaos, to bestow forgiveness for our sin, to eradicate the darkness with light.

I avoid the chaos; Christ enters my chaos. I do not have to fear getting lost in the chaos and the seeming senselessness; Christ finds me in it. He does not merely embrace my darkness by entering it, but he transcends the darkness and, in time, will dispense that darkness with his light. The gospel of John, in reflecting on Christ's birth puts it this way: "The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not (and will not) overcome it." Even in the throes of my emotional chaos, even at the height of my angst, there is always hope because Christ was born and is born into all of this mess. He enter our chaos.

Adrian Plass composed a poem that captures what I'm trying to say, and does so with more eloquence and poignancy than I will ever muster. i invite you to reflect on these words.

And Christ Will Be Born

On Christmas day the world will turn once more towards its end.
But Jesus will be born.
A woman who has tried once more in vain to re-create the morning
Will find her spirit crushed at last by failures and defeats
Her grief will trail like tattered ribbons
Through apocalyptic streets
And Jesus will be born
A little child who cannot waste his tiny reservoir of moisture
On a thing as purely pointless as a tear
Will puzzle at the burning skies
Blank and empty as his mother’s eyes
And wish beyond the point of fear
That darkness would descend
And Jesus will be born
And in some cold, sad cell a man will dream of blessed ordinariness
A walk, a meal, a smile, a book, the chance to feel
A trusting hand in his
Small and soft and folded like a flower in the night
Devastating innocence that promises redemption and has never lied
But will not save him from the morning and the hour
When heavy boots come marching down the corridor outside
And Jesus will be born
At the corner of the street the image of the living God
Will hug herself against the cold
And smoke a friendly cigarette
And be prepared to greet success with weary resignation
Feebly lit by one of yesterday’s recycled smiles
And struggle to forget what she was told
When someone was in charge and choices could be made
And there was hope
And Jesus will be born
Yes, Jesus will be born
Though the night enfolds like a black shroud
And the liar’s lies drive us from our peace
And take us from our beds
And bring us to our knees
On the cold stone tiles of the kitchen floor
Jesus will be born
Yes, though the skies crack
And the heavens sway
And the heat dies in the earth’s core
And the last stitch in the last ditch appears
When all is lost
A child’s hand will reach out from the manger
A wounded hand will catch our tears
For Jesus will be born on Christmas day.

My Model of a Man

2010-12-22T19:58:00.000-08:00

I'm inviting you to watch the video that follows. I aspire to be possess the gentleness and the peacemaking spirit of this man (and his wife) while I still have my senses. I don't want to reach a point of old age and senility where I'm harmless and incapacitated, reduced to a continual smile while I soil myself and salivate down my chin, and people remarking, "He' so happy and peaceful. . . and delusional." I want to still have fire in my belly--I want to have my senses and all my passion-- yet be consumed by a gentle, peacemaking spirit toward others. This man inspires me and gives me hope that maybe I, too, can become such a person.

Old Radicals

www.noondayfilms.com

Bill O'Reilly, Baby Jesus, and Jobless Joe

2010-12-18T18:52:00.000-08:00

This week Bill O'Reilly took to task Dem. Jim McDermott for his comment, "We talk about good Samaritans, the poor, the little baby Jesus in the cradle and all this stuff. And then we say to the unemployed we won't give you a check to feed your family. That's simply wrong." O'Reilly asks, "What does a moral society owe to the have-nots?" The implication being--not much. The implication being that you got yourself into your mess; you get yourself out. The implication being it's your own damn fault; if you weren't a slacker but were industrious like me you'd have a job.

That sounds just like little baby Jesus, doesn't it? I don't know about Bill's baby Jesus but the Bible's grownup Jesus is described in this manner: "When he saw the crowds, he had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd." (Matt. 9: 36)

There is an instance recorded in the gospels where a massive group of people--about 5,000-- had assembled to hear Christ teach or experience his healing. It's been a long day and people are tired and hungry and his apostles approach him and tell him, "Send the crowd away so they can go to the surrounding countryside and find food and lodging . . . " Jesus replies, "You give them something."    That definitely does not sound like Bill O'Reilly's Jesus.

He (Bill, not Jesus) goes on to say, "There comes a time when compassion can cause disaster. If you open your home to scores of homeless folks, you will not have a home for long." Maybe I'm missing something here. Are we precariously perched on the brink of disaster because compassion is running rampant across America? I'm going home tonight and tell the scores of homeless people I've taken into our home that I'm fed up and they have to leave. And I want each of you to do the same.   Really, Bill? I don't know anyone--myself included-- who currently has taken a single solitary homeless person into their home, let alone scores of them. Are we really at risk here?

Mr. O'Reilly closes his editorial with two comments. ". . . being a Christian, I know that while Jesus promoted charity at the highest level, he was not self-destructive."   While giving himself up to die on a cross may not exactly be self-destructive by intent, dying on a cross certainly isn't the epitome of self-actualization, accumulation, acquisition and consumption.

He closes by saying, " The Lord helps those who help themselves." That's not a quote from the Bible, by the way, about God. However, here is a quote from the Bible about the Lord whom Mr. O'Reilly references. "When we were still powerless (helpless) Christ died. . . " for us. God does not wait for us to initiate; God always makes the first move. God is the Initiator; I am the Responder. God doesn't help only those who help themselves; God helps the helpless and the jobless Joe's.

I'm Ch-ch-ch-chokin' on Ch-ch-ch-changes

2010-12-16T12:40:00.000-08:00

Maybe David Bowie was stuttering after all when he sang about ch-ch-ch-changes. My wife and I have just made the most monumental decision in recent decades and I certainly find myself stammering and stuttering as I come to grips with it all.

We are both quitting our respective jobs/careers as of Feb. 1 and we're going to work with and serve the poor in Honduras for 3 months, beginning in March. Mercy International in Yamaranguila, Honduras has invited us to do so and we have accepted. And a significant part of me says, "You did WHAT?!?" The bolder, trusting side says, "YES!!!!" At this point it an ongoing internal dialogue hundreds of times a day.

Ch-ch-ch-changes. Some of us thrive on change; some of us dive from it. I personally thrive on diving from change. Gimme my predictable comfort zone within which to operate and then a comfy haven to come home to at night. I want the American Dream--without the divorce, the rehab, the ulcer, the mid-life crisis, the sense of pleasure but no purpose, the spoiled adult children. But then it wouldn't be the American Dream--now would it. I want my comfort zone but I find myself getting complacent in it. I find myself becoming soft 'n pudgy-- the Pillsbury Dough boy with a remote.

I believe there is something innate within us that needs adventure; we need a cause, a purpose greater than our own ego. I need more than my acquisitions and accumulations. I don't buy into the idea that he who dies with the most toys wins. He still dies. By the way, have you heard some variations of that 80's mantra?

Judaism - He who buys toys at the lowest price, wins.
Catholicism - He who denies himself the most toys, wins.
Atheism - There is no toy maker.

Anglican - They were our toys first.

Branch Davidians - He who dies playing with the biggest toys, wins.
Hare Krishna - He who plays with the most toys, wins.
Polytheism - There are many toy makers.
Evolution - The toys made themselves.
Church of Christ, Scientist - We are the toys.
Communism - Everyone gets the same number of toys.
Baha'i - ALL toys are just fine with us.
Amish - Powered toys are a sin.
Taoism - The doll is as important as the dump truck.
Mormonism - Every boy may have as many toys as he wants.
Voodoo - Let me borrow that doll for a second....
Jehovah's Witnesses - He who sells the most toys door-to-door, wins.

If there is someone I have not offended, please let me know.   I have been known to digress and I believe this might be one of those instances. I will get back on-course.

As inviting and alluring as it may be at times, I don't want to settle for the status quo. I don't want to observe life like I'm some Audubon bird-watcher.   I want to fly; I don't want to watch birds do it.   There is a stone plaque that sits eye-level on my computer desk. I'm looking at it right now. It reads,

Remember this; when you're through changing. . . you're through.

Now THAT makes me stutter. That jolts me out of my false sense of security and possibly settling for less than what God intends for me. How about YOU? Are you embracing ch-ch-ch-changes? Are you resisting the life of consumption? You and I will make an impact--either on the couch cushion or on others.   I'm far from it but I want to embody that axiom, If you're not living on the edge you're taking up too much space.

My hope for not only me but you is that we will discard our pipe dreams and embrace our God-given dreams. That we will summon the courage--the faith?--to go for it in spite of the obstacles. Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the tradewinds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.   (Thank you, Mark Twain)

The Foo Fighters in "My Hero" pose this question in a lyric about heroes, people who discard their apathy and give all they've got to make an impact on this pummeled planet. "Don't the best of them bleed it out while the rest of them peter out?"

May God give us grace not to settle for being one of "the rest of them." May we bleed it out because we are fueled by a heart for others, a restlessness with the status quo, a compassion for those who are suffering.

Merry Christmas and I Hope You Don't Freeze to Death Tonight

2010-12-10T06:17:00.000-08:00

The shelters in town turn out the homeless very early in the morning and don't allow them back in til evening. One, I'm told, does not allow them back in until 9 p.m. Our church provides a hot breakfast for the homeless early each Sunday morning. Last Sunday, we didn't have a shuttle van and had informed everyone that they would have to walk. A 30 minute walk in the cold for a healthy person. My wife and I were the first to arrive; it was still dark. In the darkness I noticed a figure huddling in the cold. A homeless man was already there, waiting. I thought it was strange anyone should show up an hour early, particularly due to the walk. Puzzled, I asked him what he was doing here so early. He had on a light denim jacket. I don't recall any gloves. Shivering, he told me he had slept outside all night in an open parking deck. He told me he was "cold to my core."

Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and God, it's cold out there. The Christmas season has become primarily an opportunity for further consuming, rather than caring. I know what's on MY list and am hoping to get--and it's not a place to sleep. This is supposed to be a season of giving, not getting. Isn't our entire life, if properly ordered, to reflect our compassion, not our acquisitions? Our culture is all about accumulation; on the other hand, Christmas--"Christ's Mass"-is all about giving, not getting.

So, let's enjoy our friends and families. Enjoy what you get from those whom love you. Give to those you love and with whom you share life.

But, please don't forget--it's cold out there.

Life is Like the Ocean; It Comes in Waves

2010-12-03T20:38:00.000-08:00

I don't believe that life is a crap-shoot but it certainly consists of both billboards, doesn't it. There is a book in the Bible, Ecclesiastes, and the writer attests to the fact that "for everything there is a season. . . a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build. . . " Pete Seeger took this text from Ecclesiastes and put it to music in 1959. "Turn! Turn! Turn!" became a world-wide hit in 1965 when The Byrds made it their cover song. It isn't merely a good song; it's a picture of life itself.

As you read this, I don't know what season of life you are going through. For some of you this has been and continues to be a season of drought and despondency. A relationship has dissolved. Savings are being exhausted. Health issues. Broken trust and discarded vows. Demons who had been dormant now have sprung to create a living hell. I would never--never--choose such a season, but I can see value in it. A season like this can serve the purpose of a crucible, wherein the "fluff", that which lacks substance, or possibly the inauthentic in me gets grounded out. Granted, the grounding, the grinding can feel as though I am being hammered to death, rather than the "impurities" being ground and filtered out. I hope you endure the billboard.

There are several perspectives which serve to sustain during one of these seasons. I believe there is Order underlying the seeming chaos of the season. I believe there is One who possesses a good heart overseeing a very bad time. "Why?" questions abound, but I do not allow this season to define me. It certainly influences me; it does not have to define me. There is something in the very nature of a season that also motivates me to endure. A season, by definition, is temporary. This season of the dark will yield, eventually, to rays of light. This season will change. I will not always feel like I do today. As a Christ-follower, I do not hold to the position that God brings such a season into my life to punish me, to spew his wrath upon me. What serves to sustain my hope is that God desires to turn that which could serve to destroy me into something that will, instead, deepen and strength me.

For some of you who are reading this, it's a season of hope. A season of joy and gratitude. A new baby. You've fallen in love. A new job has opened up. A relationship has grown to a deeper level. You've lost the weight. Things aren't heating up; they're looking up. I encourage you to savor the season. Enjoy and "be in the moment" of every moment. Give voice to those matters of the heart that, in a different season, may be much more difficult to utter then. Hold each other close. Dance with delight. Enjoy the billboard.

For me, though I have very much for which I am thankful, this has been a very long and persistent season of drought. To use Ecclesiastes terminology, "a time to tear down. . . a time to weep. . . a time to search. . . a time to be silent. . . " For many, many months I have found myself withdrawing. It's been a time of brokenness, a desperate time of wrestling with God and questioning my faith. Toss in some self-loathing and Abracadabra! I haven't been exactly charming.

But I keep pressing on. I speak beyond what I feel. I trust beyond what my senses may tell me. And though I don't know why this darkness has descended on me I know why I trust the One who does know why.

(I want to give credit where it is due; the billboard picutre was posted by Abraham piper, a blogger, twentytwo words.)

The Death of a Well-Intentioned Marriage

2010-11-28T19:55:00.000-08:00

They were young and naive and so in love. He had lived a sheltered life of insecurity and couldn't believe someone with such grace and sophistication would glance at him, much less love him. She was raised under the harsh authority of a cold, bigoted father. Neither had any idea or insight into the impact of their past upon their present nor the impact each of them would have on the one they loved. They would soon find out.

They were devout in their faith. Their faith context was deceptive--not by intent, but in the outcome. They married in bible college, preparing for the ministry. The axiom--and myth--was "Bible college marriages are made in heaven." Unfortunately, they're lived out on earth.

It wasn't long at all before their differences and dysfunction--nesting dormant under the surface--became triggered in the crucible of intimacy. Within a year the frustration, the misunderstanding, the incompatibility reached intolerable proportions. They were embarrassed to seek help. A person preparing for the ministry was supposed to have it together; a Christian couple was assumed to be exponentially intact. What would others in their subculture think? So the secrecy slowly destroyed them. Three years later, they finally sought help, but the cumulative damage was lethal--like a cancer discovered in the final stages, having wrapped its tentacles around all vital organs. The therapist's role. at that point, was not to attempt restoration, but to acknowledge the death and proceed with the burial of the relationship.

The saddest day and, ironically, the most tender day of their marriage was the day of their parting. They sat on their apartment steps and sobbing as they embraced, they each said they were so sorry, they regretted the hurt they had caused each other, and they said good-bye. They never saw each other again.

There are times when good intentions, blind faith, and being "in love" amount to nothing. Being in love may have nothing to do with knowing how to love.

If they had only known.

Life can be cruel like that.

Where Are You, God?

2010-11-27T06:17:00.000-08:00

". . . how faint the whisper we hear of him."

Sometimes beauty is cloaked in sadness, poignancy often evoking a melancholy sigh. These words move me. There is beauty in the meaning and flow of these words. There is also sadness in the truth of these words.

I have been a Bible reader most of my life and came across these words this week for the very first time. They were penned by Job, the man of lament. They were spoken of God. In his suffering Job describes God as being nearly imperceptible.   So many of us have asked, Where are you, God?, and we've been met with absolute silence. The invisible God so often remains just that--unavailable to our senses.   It saddens me that God's whisper so often is so faint. I need and desire more than the faint whisper. I want to know, not merely trust. Be clear, God. It's terribly difficult to see God in the circumstances. Sure, when I've sailed in the Caribbean and taken in a beautiful sunset or been staggered by the magnitude of the body of water I "hear" or "see" God pretty clearly. But it is so hard to see God, to hear God in the hatred, the senseless killings, the perversion, the abuse of daily life. God, where are you?

The loud clamor of the chaos in life often drowns out the faint whisper of God.   At times, the clamor has come perilously close to shipwrecking my faith. There have been several devastating hammerings of life wherein the clamor was so loud that it drowned out God's faint whisper. The suffering seemed to outweigh the assurance of God's presence. The whisper was, indeed, faint. There are times when the severity of life can nearly extinguish the faint whisper of God.

Yet there is also beauty accompanying the sadness of Job's lament. God whispers; there is a gentleness about God. Often our childhood authority figures form our adult picture of God. God is not the yelling, shaming father. God is not the loud, belittling teacher. Nor is God the red-faced, pulpit-pounding preacher who constituted my childhood view of God. There is a gentleness in God's strong voice. There is a tenderness about the creator of the cosmos. God is not sheer brute force. God is not an omnipotent dictator wielding power unmercifully. God whispers. There is a strange-to-our senses story in the Old Testament about a devout man, Elijah. He is in a decimating season of his life and cries out, "I have had enough, Lord. Take my life. . . " (I Kings 19:4) Life has unfolded and unraveled in such a manner that he, too, wonders, Where are you, God?    He treks up a mountain hoping to have some encounter, some frayed strand of hope upon which to cling. The text reads, "Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks. . . but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper." God was in the whisper. There is a gentleness in God's strong voice. He does not boss his children; he beckons. God is not the divine drill instructor who orders; he invites.

We don't scream our intimate affections. We don't yell our deep love for someone. We often will kindly whisper our heart's love. We learned that from God. God the creator implanted his DNA in us. God is tender toward you and me. Life assaults and somewhere in the darkness God quietly assures.

I understand Elijah. I have undergone seasons where, I, too, "have had enough." And like Elijah, I await the faint whisper. I depend on it.

The Difficult Desire to Love

2010-11-24T20:54:00.000-08:00

(As Advent (the Christmas season) approaches our church is going to focus on four themes--worship fully, spend less, give more, love all. I was asked to write down my reflections on what it means to love all. I invite you to read my thoughts on what it means for a Christ-follower to love all.)

I confess that I'm about as close to loving all as I am to spontaneously generating hair. My neighbor with the outdoor, perpetually barking dog would agree. I wish I could say to you what the apostle Paul said to his readers, "Follow my example." Unfortunately, there are days when I don't love my wife well, much less love my enemy. However, I can encourage you to follow Jesus' example. As the apostle John says of Jesus, "He is the atoning sacrifice for our sins, and not only for ours but also for the sins of the whole world." (I John 1:2). He loved and loves all.

As Christ-followers we, in turn, are to do the same. "This is the message you have heard from the beginning: We should love one another. . . we know we have passed from death to life, because we love our brothers. Anyone who does not love remains in death." (I John 3:11,14)    So, what might that look like if we were to "love all?" A few suggestions.

Here's what it does NOT mean. It's not a mushy, sentimentality that is blind to the harsh realities of life. It's not sloppy agape'. Neither is it an attitude of "we're just going to love everybody, accept everything, and approve of all." It is not some limp-wristed, non-assertive blind acceptance and approval of everyone and their accompanying depraved actions. It is not values-free and void of convictions.    Jesus was characterized by the noblest of values and the deepest of convictions (see the sermon on the mount.) Loving without strong values and moral scruples may not indicate a loving person so much as a spineless person.

Some thoughts on what it means to "love all." I referred to what it's not; here's what I see it as being.   It is humanly impossible. I know--not exactly good news. My own will-power will not turn me into a person who loves all. (This much I know: my own experience has shown that 61 years of exerting will-power has not changed me into a man who loves his neighbor with the outdoor, perpetually barking dog.) On the other hand, my will-power has, indeed, devised devious schemes for silencing the previously mentioned dog. It requires transcendence to love all. It requires God in me--a holy Other to inhabit and indwell me and thereby slowly transform me into a man who loves all. Most certainly, my will-power needs to be in alignment with my desire to love all; however, my will-power is inadequate to create that depth and width of love. That requires God himself, or it won't happen.

To love all means to indiscriminately love all others while not necessarily approving of or sanctioning their actions or behavior. Jesus, in referring to Jerusalem, pleads with the city, " O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks. . . " (Matt. 23:36) Notice the city's behavior--they killed, they stoned to death God's very own messengers. Notice, also, Christ's heart--he longed to gather them. He wasn't about revenge; he was all about reconciliation.

To love all means that my love transcends cultural, gender, socio-economic, ethnic differences. We don't ignore those differences; to do so may be very unloving. It's just that we don't allow those differences to define who we love and who we don't.   Jesus was once invited to dinner by one of the Pharisees, the respectable religious decision-makers of the day. The text states that "when a woman who had lived a sinful life in that town learned that Jesus was eating at the Pharisee's house she brought an alabaster jar of perfume, and as she stood behind Jesus at his feet weeping, she began to wet his feet with her tears. Then she wiped his feet with her hair, kissed them and poured perfume on them." (Lk. 7:36-8) Luke, the gospel writer, is very polite when he describes her as "a woman who had lived a sinful life in that town." She was the town slut-- a whore. Jesus knew that, but he didn't allow those gender and moral and cultural differences to define this woman nor determine his response to her. Ultimately, he forgives her and affirms her for her loving heart toward him.

How do we move toward becoming Christ followers and, collectively, a church that loves all? Several considerations. A disciplined life of yielding to Christ will be essential. Daily I must yield my own ego-centered self to Christ and ask him to, instead, reside in me fully. Daily, something in me has to die in order that something in Christ can live in me and form a heart that loves all. Surely, in time, the presence of Christ will remedy the absence of love. Secondly, it helps me in my regard for others if I practice what the apostle Paul did. It's an issue of how I am identifying or defining the other individual. I find myself too frequently impulsively identifying others as "idiots" or "jerks" or worse. A guy cuts me off in traffic and I impulsively label him a !!#?*!! Look at how the apostle Paul identifies others. In Romans 14:15, he cautions the church to be careful that they don't destroy "your brother for whom Christ died."    It is so much easier to flip off and harbor resentment toward the guy who cuts me off in traffic if I identify him as "an idiot." On the other hand, it is much harder to entertain hateful thoughts toward that same individual if I consciously regard him as "my brother for whom Christ died." I am much more likely to have a loathsome, rather than a loving, regard for a woman whom I identify as "trailerpark trash." In contrast, if I consciously attribute value to her and view her as "my sister for whom Christ died" I posture myself in a way that makes loving her much more likely. Third, I will not progress toward becoming one who loves all by doing so in isolation. I need to be accountable to several others who are on the same journey of faith. I can rationalize, minimize, excuse my lack of love all too easily if I am only accountable to my conscience. I need others who will most certainly encourage and support me in my holy intentions, but who will also correct me and re-calibrate my direction if I'm drifting.

At times, I feel like I will never become one who loves all. If I have difficulty loving the above mentioned neighbor with the outdoor perpetually barking dog--which on the grand scale of moral/ethical dilemmas is inconsequential--how will I ever love the man who sexually abused one of our daughters? I imagine that, you, too, wrestle with the everyday irritants and sometimes stumble over your own trivial nemeses, much less find yourself loving those who have deeply wounded or offended you.    Take heart. The One who loved and loves all is committed to "transforming you into the image of His own Son"--His Son who loves all. Know this: God promises you and me that "he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion. . . " (Phil. 1:6)

The Lover of all has begun a good work of love within you. He always finishes what he starts.

Honduras: Reflections and Update

2010-11-22T16:13:00.000-08:00

What follows is a letter/email I sent last week to our support-base regarding the mission trip to Honduras we led the first week of November. Some of you who follow my blog also Honduras know us and we want to thank you for your support and encouragement; some of you don't know us and I hope this will be informational and maybe also inspire you to reach out to the marginalized.

Dear Friends and Family,

It has taken some time to re-enter normal life here and re-adjust. It's a strange phenomenon engaging in a mission trip. For weeks and months and months life goes on as usual. That abruptly stops and within hours you are cast into a completely different culture, different lifestyle, different climate, different language, completely different socio-economic level of poverty. You no sooner begin to acclimate and it's time to leave, and within hours you are dropped back into life as you have always known it. It is quite a jolt in both going and returning. Les and I love serving in this manner but it has taken a while longer than usual to re-adjust. Thanks for your patience.

We led an incredible team from our church, Imago Dei. 11 of us flew into San Pedro Sula, Honduras. The director of Mercy International, Henry Lowman, met us there and then it was a 3-4 hour drive to get to the mission base. It is located in a rural area, the nearest little town being Yamaranguila (for those of you who have geographical interests.)

We accomplished a lot in a short period of time. We were able to finish a house in the local area that a prior team from the states had begun. This family was living in a shack with a dirt floor. Their new house, 20x24, has a concrete floor. The concrete block walls were up; our team built the trusses and put a roof on, and finished the two doors and windows. This family now has a safe and solid shelter that will last them for generations.

One of Mercy International's goals is to provide shelter for the poorest of the poor who reside up in the mountains. The poor in the local area where we finished the house are unbelievably poor compared to U.S. standards. The Lenca Indians who reside in the mountains suffer an even worse plight. They are removed from access to resources and medical attention. They depend on and survive upon what they can grow for themselves; they are presently undergoing, in Henry's words, a famine. He has committed to slowly build shelter for one family after another. Here's one of the difficulties: to get there you drive for over 2 hours and a mountain road that constantly shakes your own skeleton and the chassis of the van unmercifully. At that point the road becomes impassable. We embark on a rugged four hour hike further up into the mountains just to get to this village, Santa Maria.    It's a hike, not a walk.   An entire day is spent just getting there. Mules are utilized to haul up materials and supplies.

Once there, we bedded down for the night on a concrete floor, and the next day we began a house for a family of 6. This house will be 14x18. We graded and poured for them a concrete pad for their floor. The husband, months earlier had, by hand, made large adobe blocks to form the new walls. All these blocks were stacked in his shack to dry out. I saw a single bed in the space remaining; I assume most of the family is sleeping on the cold earth that has served as their floor. Our pre-determined goal was to provide them a floor for their new "house." Mission accomplished, but it was difficult leaving them with so much more to be done. We had to get back to the mission base, particularly in light of a storm front moving in. if we were to get caught in a storm--and on a previous trip that happened--the dirt quickly turns into a slippery clay and hiking becomes brutal. so, we packed up our gear and bid them farewell. Sadly, it might be January before another team makes it up there to resume where we left off.

It's frustrating. It's so labor and time-intensive and, seemingly, so little to show for so much time and energy spent. Are we to ignore them? To my knowledge, no one else is working up there to provide shelter and to establish a church. These families are destitute and not because they're lazy; it's an extreme environment. Somehow, those families need to know that there are others standing with them--people like you and me.

A lot of the team also spent significant time establishing friendships with the children and their families. These kids are like sponges and soak up hugs and attention. We engaged the kids in games and memorizing bible verses, providing them some soft, cuddly Beanie Babies to cling to after our departure and prayed with some of the moms and families.

We are grateful for your support. Some of you provided financial assistance. Others prayed for us while we were there. Many of you have provided words of encouragement that served to bolster our spirits. It is your support, in what ever way it is shown, that makes it possible for us to do what we do. We are in this together. Some are Goers, like Les and me. Some are Senders. Others are Mobilizers. You Senders and Mobilizers make it possible for us Goers to make a difference. I want you to know that YOU have made a difference. Several families now will not have to wonder about the fundamental need of shelter. Generations of their family will be protected for a lifetime.

Thank you for your own heart for the poor. We go as representatives of the church, as mirrors of God's love, serving as reminders to them that in the midst of their destitution God has not abandoned them nor will he ever forget them. We are grateful for the privilege to serve in this capacity. If you could see the expression on the face of one of these parents or their children, you would know beyond a shadow of a doubt that they, too, are deeply thankful for someone caring.

A previous team had poured a concrete floor for an elderly lady up in this same mountain area. She was overwhelmed with not only gratitude, but overwhelming relief. As she put it, "I was born in the mud--and I was afraid I would die in the mud." She is no longer afraid.   We thank you and, if possible, this dear lady would wrap her frail arms around you and thank you, too.

Grace and Peace, Steve and Leslie Harris

Salt Adds Flavor; Lemons Make me Pucker

2010-11-19T13:03:00.000-08:00

Jesus called and still calls his followers "the salt of the earth." Salt adds flavor. That which was bland becomes bodacious when salt is added. Christ-followers are to season society. So many people live a bland existence--tasteless and boring. Sometimes the mundane routine wears thin. Life is so daily. Christ launches his followers into daily life to add zest and flavor. At least, that apparently was his intention.

Some Christ followers and much of established fundamentalism and evangelicalism seems to have mistaken him to have said, "You are the lemons of the land" not the salt of the earth. So much of the religious establishment and so many pious rule-keepers seem so intent on souring, rather than flavoring, other people's lives. They seem intent on ruining a good time; after all, the reasoning goes, if it's fun it must be sinful. So much of established religion assigns ourselves as the moral police and we go around looking for something wrong we can condemn. We scope the horizon ready to pounce on the next hell-bound hedonist. The lemons of the land sour people's lives, assuming the slacker they've shamed will now repent. Repentance isn't normally what has been my response if I've been on the receiving end. I and many others respond to these lemons with an involuntary gag reflex: pucker and puke.

Wouldn't it be a beautiful thing if we were to take Jesus seriously and determine to serve as salt in society? This video portrays a group serving as salt. What flavor they added that day! Notice the wonder-full excitement and joy in the smiles of the unsuspecting shoppers. You can bet that at the end of the day if a family member asked, "How was your day/" The response wasn't the usual perfunctory, "fine." The shopper would be telling their loved one all about the melodious joyful interruption to a harried day. Their day, their routine was interrupted--not by someone in their face, but beautiful music resounding in their ears and settling in their heart.

God, give us who claim to be Christ- followers the grace to creatively enhance others' lives with random acts of flavor.

Bumper Sticker Faith

2010-11-15T20:18:00.000-08:00

Call me weird. Tell me I need to get a life. Regardless, bumper stickers fascinate me. I search bumpers for a catchy phrase. Here are some that make me chuckle, some that generate a grimace.

Hokey Pokey Anonymous

A Place to Turn Yourself Around

Jesus is Coming. Look Busy.

Make it Idiot-proof and Someone Will Make a Better Idiot

It’s Been Lovely But I Have to Scream Now

Jesus Loves You;
Everybody Else Thinks You're a Jerk

She’s Always Late

Her Ancestors arrived on the June Flower

Honk if You Love Jesus.

Text While Driving if You'd Like to Meet Him.

Honk All You Want. I'm Deaf

When the Chips are Down the Buffalo is Empty

I Married Mr. Right.
I Just Didn't Know His First Name was Always

Thank you, Baby Jesus, for a Smokin' Hot Wife

Bumper stickers often make a statement. In 1974 (think Watergate) I had a beat-up Chevy van (Peace, dude) and I slapped a bumper sticker on it which read, Honk if You Think He’s Guilty. KnowhutImean? In recent years I’ve seen a bumper sticker that a number of Christians display and it, too, makes a statement. Real Men Love Jesus. I don’t know what underlies the motives of flaunting that bumper sticker but, I have to tell ya, I hate that statement. Bear with me and if at the end of this post you think it was a waste of time, feel free to copy and paste this comment-- Real Men Don’t Give a Rip About Bumper Stickers.

I am offended by Real Men Love Jesus. Here’s why—it’s misguided. It calls into question the manhood of anyone who is not a born again, evangelical, Promise Keepers attending Christian. The reasoning seems to be, “I love Jesus; therefore, I’m a real man. You, on the other hand, don’t know or love Jesus; therefore, you are a limp-wristed, effeminate, testosterone-deprived excuse for a man.” That kind of thinking assumes that only Christian men have integrity, only Christian men are faithful, only Christian men are men of courage and honor. It assumes that men who don’t know or love Jesus surely are not “real,” i.e. authentic, caring human beings.

I am offended by Real Men Love Jesus because that sentiment comes off as terribly arrogant as well as judgmental. It’s arrogant in that it assumes a position of superiority on the part of Mr. Bumper Sticker. “I’m real and you are not—after all, I, of all people, should know.” It’s judgmental in that it assumes an inferior position about someone you don’t even know. It categorically assumes, without even getting to know a man, that he is not a “real” man if he does not know Jesus. Such a position is both arrogant (prideful) and judgmental—two qualities which Jesus loathes about the religious. Jesus exercised the harshest judgment upon the religious, the “Christians” of his day, who were consumed with pride or harbored a judgmental spirit.

In Luke 18:9-14, Jesus tells a pointed story “to some who were confident of their own righteousness and looked down on everybody else. . . “ I imagine these were guys who had their chariots decked out with Real men Love Jesus parchment stickers. Jesus contrasts two men—one, a very religious and devout individual who thought to himself, “God, I thank you I’m not like other men,” and a despised social outcast who in his humility “would not even look up to heaven” but simply pleaded, “God, have mercy on me, a sinner.” And Jesus declares that it was “this man, rather than the other” who received God’s mercy. The other man, full of judgment, received God’s judgment.

I see myself and much of the evangelical church as often mirrored by the man who was confident of his own righteousness and looked down on others. We tend to pride ourselves on possessing the truth (as if it were our ingenuity or determination that discovered it)—and doctrine is important—but the ultimate deal maker or breaker will be whether or not we have loved our neighbor and our enemy. And I don’t think those with whom we disagree are “feeling the love.” As an example, Brennan Manning, in The Ragamuffin Gospel, comments specifically on the pro-life stance of many Christians and his thoughts sober me up:

“How I treat a brother or sister from day to day, how I react to the sin-scarred wino on the street, how I respond to the interruptions from people I dislike, how I deal with normal people in their normal confusion on a normal day may be a better indication of my reverence for life than the anti-abortion sticker on the bumper of my car.

We are not pro-life simply because we are warding off death. We are pro-life to the extent that we are men and women for others, all others; to the extent that no human flesh is a stranger to us; to the extent that we can touch the hand of another in love; to the extent that for us there are no ‘others.’”

I fear we may echo the words of Christ, but sometimes fail to embrace the spirit of Christ in our words and actions. Isn’t it time we embraced a Christian civility? Civility is defined as “the act of showing regard for others; a courteous expression of esteem; politeness or courtesy in behavior and speech.” You won’t find that word in the Bible, but you certainly find the quality as one to be embraced by Christ-followers. The Scriptures encourage us to act in this manner, “ Do not repay anyone evil for evil. . . if it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.” Again, “Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye?” We are to be gentle towards other, esteeming them in spite of our differences. There’s an old axiom by which I think everyone has a right to “judge” us: “Don’t TELL me what a friend I have in JESUS until you SHOW me what a friend I have in YOU.”

I’m afraid many of our Christian bumper stickers and much of our “attitude” turns off and puts down those around us. Instead, I’m convicted to pursue an attitude of humility which sees and affirms the value in others in spite of our differences.

In the meantime, I’m having this put on my truck: Real Men Don’t Have to Flaunt the Fact on a Bumper Sticker.

Let’s forsake flaunting anything! Flaunting is so “in their face.” May God give us grace to be in their hearts, their homes, and their lives as we love and serve others.

The Juxtaposition of Heaven and Hell in Honduras

2010-11-12T07:11:00.000-08:00

We're back. Got back midnight Monday, having spent 18 hours in airports, jets and vans and up at 6 a.m. to return to work. Not smart. Being born in the USA (thank you, Bruce) it's always difficult adjusting to life in the USA again. Not to mention I'm still dragging four days later. Ok--I'm done whining.

It's a strange experience. You spend weeks, months, maybe years in your routine. That abruptly ends and within hours you're in a totally different culture, radically different socio-economic status, foreign language, lempiras not dollars, filth, squalor, majestic beauty of mountains, poverty unparalleled here in the states, the serenity of rain forests, dirt-clad kids joyful over your attention, destitution that breaks your heart. And then you abruptly resume middle-upper class life back home. Typically, predictable and cushy. I think my mind, body and spirit require a longer transition. My body's back but my mind keeps lingering in Honduras. I crawl under my covers but my spirit remembers the poor in a fetal position sleeping on a cold dirt floor. I hope I never completely adjust; there needs to be an uncomfortable edge that does not allow me to forget my brothers and sisters in Honduras.

Juxtaposition: the act of positioning close together to show similarities or differences. Eye level, all I see is filth, garbage, feces, shacks made of anything the resident could scavenge to throw together, malnutritioned dogs with their bones nearly protruding through the skin, shoeless children begging for attention. I raise my head and within a few hundred yards are beautiful mountain ranges lush with foliage, the forest greens glistening in the sun. The glorious and the gory inhabit the same place; the exquisite and the excruciating hand-in-hand.

Our team resumed where a previous team left off and we were able to finish a house for a poor family living in the dirt. A 20x24 concrete block house. The husband and wife were smiling in anticipation of the completion and in hope for their children. Shelter--a fundamental survival need that doesn't even register on my scale of concerns for my life. Shelter--a fundamental survival need that many hope and pray for daily.

We hiked up into the mountains to serve the poorest of the poor who have little if any access to care and resources. The four hour hike was preceded by a two hour and fifteen minute very bumpy drive (who's counting and hoping it ends soon?) to where the road becomes impassable. Therefore, the hike. I've hiked it before, but this was the most difficult one for me, at 61. It was comforting to hear from several twentysomethings that they had never engaged in such a physically taxing endeavor. We had several mules carrying our supplies, materials, and food up the climb. The Lenca Indians live up in the Opalacha Mountains. They are an impoverished people. We poured a concrete floor for a family as the begining of a solid shelter for them. The husband had spent the previous two months making adobe blocks, one by one, to create the walls that will rest upon this floor. It's so labor intensive. Minimal tools and resources. We needed a board trimmed; a Honduran took his machete and carefully whittled the board down to the desired width.
We had to leave. It will not be until January that another team heads up there. Hopefully, soon this family will have shelter for which they have been hoping and praying. An elderly lady told a previous team, "I was born in the mud and thought I was going to die in the mud."    Out of the mud and into a 14x18 mansion.

We hiked back down (down is not always preferable to up) and 7 or 8 hours later we were back at the mission base. I was on one of these outreaches into the mountains several years ago. Our team leader, Vinnie, was Rambo-like and highly motivated. He would lead us in a team cheer:

Vinnie: What are we gonna do?!!?
Team:   Leave it all!!!
Vinnie: Where we gonna leave it?
Team: On the Mountain!!!!

It was exhilarating and exhausting. I am so proud of our team. I can honestly say, "We left it all."

If you would like information about this organization and mission base I've been going to through the years, Mercy International, go to: http://www.beyondmercy.com/index_files/Page391.html
Henry Lowman and his wife, Cindy, direct this organization.   They are a couple wh possess unparralled integrity and compassion.

Let's not forget the easily forgotten.

To Hell and Back

2010-10-31T12:51:00.000-07:00

I will be away from my computer for at least a week and a half. I'm going to Hell. A team of us will be working with a poverty-stricken settlement close to La Esperanza, Honduras, and building a house in order to extricate at least one family from their current ruins.

Then we will be drive up into the mountains until the road is no longer navigable by van and we'll hike 4-5 hours further up in elevation to get to an area that is even more destitute. We will pour a cement floor for a family of seven, after which another team will arrive after we depart and they will continue the project. The director of the mission base emailed me just last night and told us to anticipate inclement weather in light of the recent hurricane. Sadly, he also informed me that there is currently, in his words, "a famine in the Opalacha Mountains" which is where we will be hiking. He will be attempting to haul corn and beans for families up there. I've been there and on a normal day it's Hell; I can't imagine what it's like presently.

We leave tonight and will return in a week. So much to do and so little time to do it. 99.9% of Honduras won't even know we're there. But one family will be changed for generations to come by what we'll be privileged to do over the course of just one week. One family may very well dance for joy because they will have a floor, rather than dirt, for their babies to crawl on. One family will have a house to live in, no longer a shack to survive in.

One team spending one week making a difference for one family for one generation after another. I can't wait.

I'll fill you in upon our return. Thanks for reading my blog; I am grateful.

Variations and Vulgarities of Christianity

2010-10-28T16:30:00.000-07:00

There's a lot out there that passes as authentic Christianity. And they are all warning about false teachers, as though they alone possess the truth. In my channel surfing I, at times, go to local religious channel 20. It's a sad commentary on the state of religion in the Midwest that I go there for entertainment rather than inspiration. There are individuals uttering off-the-wall platitudes that have no ring of truth about it but if they clothe it with a Bible verse I guess the audience believes it to be true.

Last night my good friend and colleague, Howard, called me and was chuckling as he said, "Check out Channel 20." I flipped over and a woman was holding the Bible in her left hand and her right hand was extended --not with open palm but with the index finger pointed at me. And she was yelling and threatening and condemning. My thought bubble read, Just like Jesus?

This did not evoke laughter; it brought back disturbing memories of my childhood fundamentalism. Angry, yelling preachers. Invariably shaming us for not being and doing better. Ironically, hell was probably referenced more than heaven. My faith was fear-based; I obeyed because of the damning consequences. I obeyed or followed Jesus not because I was drawn to him, I did so because I dreaded him. That preacher gritting his teeth and spitting exhortations was, in my boyish eyes, Jesus--and he scared the hell out of me. For a long time, what should have been a time of innocent childlike joy was, instead, a harrowing nightmare from which I feared I would never awaken. This angry screaming Jesus made me very anxious on a good day--terrified on bad days. Living like this was terrible and the thought of living forever, i.e. going to heaven, was intolerable. Isn't that sick? Most people think of heaven or "eternal life" as an unending experience of peace and beauty and restored relationships and healing and the list goes on. I couldn't stand the thought of being in the presence of this angry Jesus forever. I thought heaven would be pure hell. "Dear God, please don't make me live forever. When I die just let me become nothing and have no brain and no heart and not live at all." That was my thinking as I would lay down at night and dread going to sleep because what if I were to die in my sleep and fall into the hands of this angry God!?!

Last night channel 20 activated some stuff that had been lying dormant. (Ya think?)

I am grateful that the 18 years I was confined in that religious milieu didn't define me. It definitely influenced me, but the ensuing years have defined me. Since those early years, I have seen through those vulgar caricatures of Jesus and God has shown me Jesus of the gospels. My life no longer consists of merely following rules, but following Christ. It's about relationship, not rules. That has been liberating! The caricature no longer damns me; the Christ now draws me.

I love this picture of Christ that is contained in the gospel of Matthew (12:19-20):

"He will not quarrel or cry out; no one will hear his voice in the streets.
A bruised reed he will not break,
and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out."

Jesus does not yell at us; he beckons to us. I was a bruised reed boy and the preachers of my subculture nearly broke me. There was scarcely a flickering flame of life in me and they nearly snuffed it out. But Jesus intersected my life through people who mirror him and they imparted to me acceptance and affirmation and grace. And I am a blessed man.

Now when I am bruised I don't hide my hurt in fear of being condemned; I reach out to him for healing. When the wick is barely smoldering I run to him for fire.

And the idea of living forever wherein I will be in the very presence of God (and all the ramifications of what that may mean) is a vision that compels me and completes me.

I have to avoid channel 20 in the meantime.

Mission Trip to Honduras: We're Not In Kansas, Anymore

2010-10-15T18:31:00.000-07:00

16 more days. That's all. On Nov. 1 my wife and I will lead a team of eight others to Honduras. Over the last 10 years I've gone on 7, maybe 8, short-term mission trips down there. It's brutal work. Everything is labor-intensive. Shoveling sand and cement all day. Carrying 5 gallon buckets of heavy wet cement. Hot Honduras sun and no shade. No running water nor electricity on the job site. After a few days on this site we'll then hike up into the mountains to work up there. Minimum of 3 hour drive on rough roads just to get to the beginning point of the hike. This hike is nothing like a walk up an Illinois incline. It's steep and, if rainy, the clay is slippery if you don't sink into it first. The altitude makes it hard to catch your breath. Mules will pack our gear and supplies because it's too difficult a hike and vehicles can't make it over the terrain. By mid-afternoon I'm beat and stiff and sore and tired and hungry.

And I can't wait! I love it! There's something about helping someone who has nothing. There's something about shedding blood, sweat and tears for a week on behalf of some people who shed their blood, sweat and tears their entire life. There's something about seeing a family that for six years has lived in a shack of sticks, rough-hewn boards, and scraps of sheet metal patched together to be able to move into a concrete block home that actually has a floor in it. There's something about breaking out of my comfort zone and interrupting my life of consumption with meaningful service.

There's something about busting your butt for a week and making a difference that will last for generations.

There's something about being utilized in a way that mirrors and mediates God's love to broken people. The Psalmist describes God in this manner: "The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and delivers those who are crushed in spirit." (Ps. 34:18) It's a beautiful thing to be able to confirm by our presence that, indeed, God has not forgotten them.

I hope you haven't construed this as me bragging. I'm not trying to tell you all about the many wonderful things we middle-upper class white Christians will be accomplishing. My intent is to communicate to you that I feel so privileged to be able to do this. My intent is to convey the honor it is to do this.

And I can't wait to do it!

If you're a praying person, please pray for us as we embark on this trip. If you're not a praying person, your good wishes on our behalf will be appreciated.

Civility: Am I In your Face--Or--In Your Corner?

2010-10-07T16:24:00.001-07:00

Whether it's a ballgame, a political speech, a hockey mom, a PTA meeting, a church board meeting, civility has become a four syllable as well as a four letter word. Abrasiveness is in; diplomacy is out. Speech that is incendiary is chosen over talk that might calm the atmosphere. Light the fire, fan it, stoke it--add gas not water. Words are intended to incite and provoke, rather than promote understanding. When is the last time you saw a political ad that was about issues rather than character assassination? (I can't recall, either.)

Sojourners, an organization whose mission "is to articulate the biblical call to social justice. . . ," has formulated a "covenant of civility" in an effort to counter the prevailing cultural tide. Here are the guiding principles of this covenant. I invite you to consider these Biblically-based determinations.

We commit that our dialogue with each other will reflect the spirit of the scriptures, where our posture toward each other is to be "quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry" (James 1:19).
We believe that each of us, and our fellow human beings, are created in the image of God. The respect we owe to God should be reflected in the honor and respect we show to each other in our common humanity, particularly in how we speak to each other. "With the tongue we bless the Lord and [God], and with it we curse those who are made in the likeness of God ... this ought not to be so" (James 3:9-10).
We pledge that when we disagree, we will do so respectfully, without falsely impugning the other's motives, attacking the other's character, or questioning the other's faith, and recognizing in humility that in our limited, human opinions, "we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror" (1 Corinthians 13:12). We will therefore "be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love" (Ephesians 4:2).
We will ever be mindful of the language we use in expressing our disagreements, being neither arrogant nor boastful in our beliefs: "Before destruction one's heart is haughty, but humility goes before honor" (Proverbs 18:12).
We recognize that we cannot function together as citizens of the same community, whether local or national, unless we are mindful of how we treat each other in pursuit of the common good, in the common life we share together. Each of us must therefore "put off falsehood and speak truthfully to his neighbor, for we are all members of one body" (Ephesians 4:25).
We commit to pray for our political leaders -- those with whom we may agree, as well as those with whom we may disagree. "I urge that supplications, prayers, intercessions, and thanksgivings be made -- for kings and all who are in high positions" (1 Timothy 2:1-2).
We believe that it is more difficult to hate others, even our adversaries and our enemies, when we are praying for them. We commit to pray for each other, those with whom we agree and those with whom we may disagree, so that together we may strive to be faithful witnesses to our Lord, who prayed "that they may be one" (John 17:22).

Can you imagine the next PTA meeting or hockey game or church board meeting if those attending were taking these "steps?"

I wonder what I would be like if I were practicing these steps.

Self-Help Helps Me Only So Much

2010-10-07T11:31:00.001-07:00

Being a Christ-follower who is a therapist I believe that a person has incalculable worth and value. I believe we have unbelievable potential and capabilities. Unbelievable, but not limitless. I don't believe the popular mantra "You can do anything!" It sounds good on Oprah but doesn't seem to play out too well back home in every day life. Check out this video a friend included in his blog.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8rDgE9d3GXE&feature=player_embedded

I can accomplish a number of phenomenal tasks. I can overcome daunting obstacles. But I need intervention from outside myself if the core of who I am is going to transform from being selfish to compassionate. Will power is not going to morph me from being judgmental to becoming a man characterized by mercy. Self-talk of "I can do it! I can do it! I can do it!" is not going to uproot hatred and transplant it with love.

I need Someone outside myself to intervene. I need an Other who is infinite to do what my finite capabilities cannot. I also need forgiveness--not only bestowed by myself but by the One against whom I have transgressed.

If our efforts at mere board-smashing are often futile, what or who do I rely on for that which truly matters?

Life is Both/And, Not Either/Or

2010-10-03T13:59:00.000-07:00

Life is good; life is gory. Life is exhilarating; it can be exhausting. People are delightful; they can be diabolical. My neighbor's dog is loved by them and loathed by me. Heaven is glimpsed in a sunrise; horror is revisited in the middle of the night. I laugh til I'm crying; I cry til I fear I'll never laugh again.

There is such anticipation I can't get to sleep; there can be such fear I'm afraid to go to sleep. I don't want this day to ever end; I dread what the next day holds. One day I'm atop the peak viewing awe-inspiring vistas; the next day I've fallen into a deep dark crevice and no one can find me.

It seems it was only yesterday they were making their promises; today they're filing their papers.

Yesterday I was sprinting; today I'm in a fetal position immobilized by apathy. Today a feast, tomorrow I may scavenge for crumbs. Today a dance, tomorrow a dirge. Today I feel I'm 20 again; tomorrow something shows up on an x-ray.

Babies are birthed, babies are aborted. The elderly are loved for their wisdom; too much hassle, the old are shipped off to a sterile facility.

The company needs you and bleeds you; the company gives you a plaque once you have no life left in you. Work is a waste; work is wonderful. There are days the eight hours fly; there are days when it will never end.

There are days when I can't wait to hear about it; there are times when I fear my friend will never shut up. Days when my hands are open, times when my fists are clenched. One day, words can be sweet and consoling; the next, swift to pounce and kill. The same mouth both bludgeons and blesses.

There is Mystery in the madness; there is Meaning in the maze. We are divine dust and there is magic in that mix. God is in it; God transcends it. If God were merely in it, I might be comforted but I would have no hope for anything changing. If God is both in it and above or beyond it then I have faith that he is neither contained nor confined by it. Therefore, I endure the assault and enjoy the ascent.

There is the prospect of healing and hope not only when life feels heavenly but in the very hell of it all.