Joy is a mark of holy living.

The Institute for Ethics at Duke University did an online survey of about 1500 people as part of a project designed to measure the morality quotient of Americans. They asked people to rate how likely they’d be to do certain morally questionable things. Like, kick a dog in the head. As it turns out (happily), seven of eight respondents would refuse to do that and in fact, would turn down any amount of money up to $1 million to kick Fido in the noggin.

However, half of the participants said they could be motivated to throw a rotten tomato at a politician they dislike. For free. I guessing not all those respondents are pagans.

(Surely, you’ve heard the old joke about the shipwreck survivor they discovered on an uncharted island. The ship that spotted him sent a rescue team to shore and found the man alone among three huts. They asked what the three huts were for, since there was no one else around. The survivor explained, “Well, I live in one and go to church in another.” “What about the third hut, then?” asked a rescue team member. “Oh, that,” growled the man. “That’s where I used to go to church.”)

Lots of us haven’t managed to master Paul’s advice: “As far as it depends on you, live peaceably” (Romans 12:18).

But you say, “You don’t know what this person did to me. You don’t know my circumstance — how hard I’ve had it and how much it hurts.” But if it all depends on circumstance, we are right back to a works-based religion, the kind Paul said kills spirits. If your acceptance of me depends on me, I’m sunk. I can’t be that good. If your acceptance of me is grounded in what Jesus has done for you, there’s hope.

Because, frankly, you haven’t been that good, either.

This is great news on two fronts: I don’t have to wait for folks to act right so I can have peace; nor do circumstances control my capacity for joy. C. S. Lewis, in his book, Christian Maturity, writes this:

“The real Christian is the most natural person in the world. He has natural joys, natural gaiety, natural laughter, natural culture, natural grace—he is a man reduced to simple naturalness. When one is not living the Christian way all his pleasures have to be induced—induced by entertainment from without, by liquor, by stimulation of various kinds. They have to try to have a good time. I don’t try to have a good time—I just have one, naturally and normally. A simple, bubbling gaiety from within, what Rufus Moseley called “the Divine frisky.” As you get cleaned up and cleaned out within, you develop a hair-trigger laugh—one with which you can laugh at yourself if you cannot laugh at anything else.”

How attractive that is! To be known for the infectiousness of your laugh rather than the accuracy of your tomato-tossing, to have your mood drawn up from deeper wells than whatever has just happened. Wouldn’t it be something to be known for that, rather than the contentiousness and moodiness that too often define our average, proud lives? Don’t you think this is what Jesus was after when he called us to live his commandments, “that my joy may be in you, that your joy may be full” (John 15:11)?

Joy is a mark of holy living.

I’m “convicted,” as they say, by the stunning gap that separates my reality from this vision, but I’m also smitten by this notion of “the Divine frisky.” I’d like to be known for my capacity to find joy in any circumstance, to be at peace whatever the cost to my pride.

I’d like them to say at my funeral, “She had the best laugh!”

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Six lessons skating teaches me about life

I skate. Or at least, I own some skates and when I get an hour on a weekend or Friday morning, I find some flat asphalt and roll around. I took up skating a few years ago because the gym gets old after a while and my area isn’t bike-friendly. Here’s a bit of skater trivia: 1% of all skaters in the U.S. are older than fifty. I am the one percent. Walking doesn’t do it for me like skating does. And skating can teach a person a lot about life, especially when one’s health is determined by one’s ability to dodge gum balls.

Here are a few lessons I’ve learned on eight wheels:

1. Slowing down takes different muscles than going fast, but just as many. On skates, slowing down is actually harder than speeding up. It takes almost no distance to get the speed up but it takes a lot of space and effort to slow down (at least for me it does). That’s also true in life or at least in my life. It is much easier to keep increasing my speed, and much harder to figure out how to slow to a saner pace. Sometimes we need to slow down so we can exercise a different set of muscles, just for the sake of keeping those muscles limber and in practice. Maybe this is why God calls us to a Sabbath every week (also this and this)?

2. Slowing down is important for sanity’s sake; sometimes, it is critical. When the landscape is littered with storm damage, going slower is how we keep from hurting ourselves or someone else. Grieving requires a slower pace (we so rarely understand that grief is an illness that requires recovery and rest, like any other wound). Increased stress requires a slower pace. Being able to judge the path and move accordingly is a test of one’s wisdom.

3. Staying on our feet when we stumble is good. Staying on our feet graciously is even better. I’ve noticed over my year or so of skating that I’m better at staying on my feet when I wobble than I was when I first started. Still, it is not pretty when a skater almost falls. It doesn’t just stress the person who stumbles; it stresses the people watching. In much the same way, it is one thing to negotiate a crisis on the job or in a family relationship and somehow come through the other side without killing anyone. It is another thing entirely to negotiate that crisis in such a way that it raises everyone up to a higher level. Learning to move through situations with such grace that others can enjoy my presence and not be stressed by it is a skill worth mastering.

4. It is the big things that spook us but the small things that get us. Storms shake every loose gum ball from every tree in my path (when I’m skating on the riverwalk) … and countless twigs, a few big limbs, and every spare leaf. That path was an obstacle course. On a good day, my main concern on that path is two streets I have to cross along the way. Those street crossings are always a source of anxiety. I hate having to skate over curbs. It takes everything I’ve got to make it from one side of the road to the other without falling.

But here’s the thing: curbs are obvious hazards and I know to take them delicately. What is more likely to get me is not the curb I can see but the gum ball I miss seeing. In other words, it is the little things that throw us off. As I learn to pay attention to the small things — expressing gratitude often and creatively, following through on promises, learning to listen well — I notice that the big things aren’t nearly so scary.

5. People are inspired by risk-takers. In general, people like old women on skates. I get a lot of smiles and thumbs-up. I’m a rock star with kids. People are inspired by someone who tries something different. I hope it gives them joy to see someone enjoying life. Most people need something external to themselves to remind them that until we die, we are charged with living life fully. This life is a gift meant to be enjoyed, not just endured.

6. There is a big difference between commitment and involvement. Eight wheels is a commitment. Unlike biking, I can’t stop and walk when I skate. I can’t steady myself before rolling on. When I put those skates on, I’ve committed to a mode of travel that doesn’t change until I take them off. It is something like the difference between the the chicken and the pig in a breakfast meal. Chickens are involved; pigs are committed. Likewise, I believe we make the greatest impact in those places where we fully commit. People respect those who let their “yes” be “yes,” and they lose trust in those who don’t follow through consistently. As a pastor, it is always more difficult to hear the criticism of someone walking out the door; I have much more respect for the advice of one who is invested for the long haul. It doesn’t mean there won’t be skinned knees along the way, but that we’ll help each other up and get rolling again.

Because life is too short to let a few falls stop us from this grand adventure.

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What makes life worth living?

Life doesn’t justify living, but eternity does.

Stephen was the first to be martyred among those who knew the apostles. Polycarp was the last. He was 86 years old when they came for him; he met them at the door and fed them a meal, then asked for time to pray. As they were carrying him to the arena to kill him, he heard a voice that said, “Be strong, Polycarp, and play the man.”

When they urged him to recant the gospel, Polycarp said, “Eighty-six years have I have served him, and he has done me no wrong. How can I blaspheme my King and my Savior?” They threatened him with wild animals and then with fire, and still he refused to back down from the gospel.

A first-hand account of his death records the following:

“Then the fire was lit, and the flame blazed furiously. We who were privileged to witness it saw a great miracle, and this is why we have been preserved, to tell the story. The fire shaped itself into the form of an arch, like the sail of a ship when filled with the wind, and formed a circle around the body of the martyr. Inside it, he looked not like flesh that is burnt, but like bread that is baked, or gold and silver glowing in a furnace. And we smelt a sweet scent, like frankincense or some such precious spices.”

Polycarp teaches me that there are far worse things in the world that sacrificing my values for the sake of self-preservation. It is ironic that both the sheer act of existing and life abundant are both considered living, when in fact one is the very opposite of that.

I’ve never been a fan of the kind of Christianity that focuses all its energy on where you go when you die, as if that is all that makes faith in Christ worth the time. Salvation is so much more than a ticket to heaven. I have even less patience for the kind of Christianity that makes it all about “your best life now.” I am confident Christianity is supposed to be more than a lifestyle choice that offers prosperity in the here-and-now.

But to live a life so anchored in truth and power and prayer, so anchored in the assurance that there is more to this life than simply surviving it, so anchored in grace that nothing rocks the boat …

Well, that is worth living for.

And with deepest humility and gratitude in the face of such courageous faith, I say “thank you” to all those who have stood bravely for the faith — joyfully even, at the prospect of a violent death — recognizing that Jesus is worth it. Thank you for allowing us to stand on your shoulders. And today, I pray for those who wake up every morning prepared to die for the cause of Christ. May my witness where I am strengthen your stand where you are.

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Triggers, Urge-surfing and the God Who Heals Us

I have triggers. When I hear an ice cream truck, something in me immediately goes back to 1205 Eisenhower Drive, my childhood home. When I smell popcorn, I’m in National Hills Theater and in my happy place. The picture of a margarita will send me a craving. I haven’t had a drink in 25 years, but the picture of a margarita still sends me back. What are your triggers?

Think of an emotional trigger like a little internal tether. It links us emotionally to something behind us. Sometimes that thing is good (like the smell of coffee in the morning) and sometimes it is not so good.

I often equate triggers with the struggle of the Israelites out in the desert, with Egypt on one side and the promised land on the other. They seemed to live in a constant internal tension, trying to press forward while Egypt called them backward. That seems to be the human condition. We tell ourselves little lies all the time that head us back toward Egypt. We romanticize slavery. That other life was simpler, less stressful. Or maybe it wasn’t so fun, but at least we didn’t have to work as hard. And those tiny internal justifications stir us to head back toward things that enslave us.

Once in the midst of Israelite complaints, God did a miracle. He turned bitter water sweet and then gave them this revelation: “I am the LORD who heals you.’” They named that place “Marah.” It became the place in their story where God spoke the kind of healing that turns bitter things sweet.

That makes Marah an important place on the spiritual map. It is the place we pass through that is hard, like the bitterness that settles in after the initial shock of divorce or the loneliness that follows rejection. Or the emptiness that follows loss. It is that place after a blow or temptation when we don’t quite know what to do next. When we aren’t aware of what is going on inside, we will struggle to press forward. We’ll long for Egypt, for old familiar territory. Virginia Satyr says that most people prefer the certainty of misery than the misery of uncertainty. We’d rather head back to Egypt than learn to live as healthy people, but Egypt is diseased while “I AM the God Who Heals You.”

Out in the desert, God explains to the Israelites what they are dealing with. “When you begin to do holy, you will tempted to go backward but there is no healing for you in Egypt. And there is no healing for you in the place you’re headed if all you do is drag your enslaved mentality with you to that new place. Freedom is in the God who heals you” (see Lev. 18). The trick, God seems to tell them, is to understand their triggers so they can get control of them. 

Learn your triggers. Folks who have dealt with addictions and messy lives find they are much more successful in recovery when they learn what their triggers are. Heather Hill, once an addict and now free from that life, gives some powerful advice about triggers:

Being triggered does not make me a bad Christian. It doesn’t mean I lack faith or that I am somehow less than. And the moment I start believing it does, I am that much closer to giving in to it. Triggers are simply remnants of my old self hanging on for dear life, because the old me doesn’t want to die. They are my thorn, reminding me of who I once was and reminding me how much I will always need God. My triggers are not in control. They don’t drive the bus. The most dangerous thing about a trigger is the urge that follows. And it’s tough, because it usually includes a physical reaction I cannot control.

The urge that follows my trigger only last about three minute. It used to last longer. I have found that the harder I fight the urge, the longer it lasts. When I rail against it in anger or disgust (because I believe the above point), I am thinking about it harder than I ought. When I am triggered to the point of an urge, the best thing to do is absolutely nothing. Pray it out. Wait it out. Don’t DO anything. Focus on God and pray until it is over. In rehab, we called it “urge surfing.” Because it comes in like a wave, peaks, and rolls out again.

There are practical ways to avoid my triggers. There are the obvious ways, like avoiding people, places and things. But when that isn’t possible (like when my family member is a trigger), the best way to overcome them is to understand them. Understanding why someone or something triggers me is the best way to move towards healing.Understanding removes the aspect of fear and confusion from the equation. And it gives me a point of focus for my prayers. I am triggered because I am a broken human being who needs healing.

Understanding my triggers helps me understand my brokenness. My best defense against triggers has always been gratitude. Remembering what God has done for me, how far he has carried me, all he has redeemed in my life, keeps me moving forward.

Healthy, life-giving relationships are key to recovery. We may always experience triggers, but we never have to face them alone. We are surrounded by a community of people who love us and want to see us healed. God is for us. His people are for us.

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Ten Marks of Spiritual Leaders

Leadership is both a privilege and a choice. To participate at the highest levels in God’s mission of redemption is a high and humbling honor. It is also a choice freely made by those who sense a call from the Lord to step forward; it should never be forced. These ten principles have helped us at Mosaic set a standard for healthy spiritual leadership:

  • A personal, living relationship with Jesus Christ. This goes beyond a mental assent to a set of principles. This is about a personal connection with God that is transformational and liberating. Without this kind of faith, we would be setting people up for failure at best, spiritual attack at worst.
  • A fervent commitment to prayer. Intercede regularly for the ministry, people and leaders. Spiritual leaders are not afraid to lead in prayer, and would not consider starting a meeting or leading a ministry without saturating it in prayer. Spiritual leaders understand and engage in spiritual warfare.
  • An enthusiastic commitment to being here. Spiritual leadership requires a commitment to the vision throughout the life of the church, not just in your ministry area. This includes a commitment to small group membership, as well as attendance at any leadership gathering or important meeting of the church.
  • A joyful commitment to giving. The Christian life stresses the importance of investing in the community that feeds you. Solid Christian leadership also stresses the importance of good modeling. People want to know that if you’re standing before them as a leader, you are invested in the life of the church in the same way they are. They should not be expected to trust the leadership of someone who is not sacrificing in the same ways they are, nor should they be expected to allow you to make decisions on their behalf if you are not invested.
  • A humble commitment to serving. This means not only serving where you are appointed, but making time to serve where you are called by the gospel to join in — particularly service to the poor.
  • A radical commitment to the Great Commission.  This means a willingness not only to see the church winning people to Christ, but a personal desire to share your faith story and invite people into a saving relationship with Jesus.
  • A healthy commitment to practicing emotional intelligence. This means open, direct and honest communication; a willingness to ask clarifying questions and accept constructive coaching; an absolute commitment to grace; and a refusal to feed any spirit of offense. It means being willing to deal honestly with your own brokenness. It means being willing to approach people immediately when conflict arises, placing a high value on reconciliation and an absolute trust in the principles of Matthew 18:15-20.
  • A transparent commitment to loyalty. In both speech and action. Leadership is for those who are committed to both the vision and the team. If you’re not, then my question would not only be, “Why are you in leadership?” but also, “Why have you chosen this place for your spiritual care and feeding?” Because life is too short to serve someplace where you’re not all in.
  • An educated commitment to an orthodox, evangelical expression of the gospel of Jesus Christ. Understand our theology so you can support our message and care well for those exploring the faith.
  • An unwavering commitment to excellence. No one person comes into leadership fully equipped. A continual commitment to education and training is critical for the leadership of a growing community. If we are going to stay on the leading edge of God’s movement, we need leaders who understand what God is doing in the world today and who are enthusiastic about joining Him in that work.

This is our list. What is yours? What matters to you in a leader? Having a clear vision and standards for healthy leadership is a prime way we can battle against the usual accusations about what it means to be “church.” Shoot for excellence so the Holy Spirit has room to work.

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You should know this about spiritual thresholds.

I’ve become interested in spiritual thresholds, that point of entry that leads us from one spiritual “room” to the next. Thresholds mark our progress, and they represent forward movement in our spiritual maturity. It makes sense, then, that it would be precisely at the thresholds that we experience the most pressure. After all, the enemy of your soul has a vested interest in keeping your interest low in moving forward. The enemy of your soul is not a fan of break-throughs (he prefers spiritual lethargy). So it seems to me that it is as I approach the threshold from one level of intimacy with Christ to another, deeper level, that I begin to encounter greater pressure. Right at the threshold itself, just before the break-through, that pressure can sometimes seem overwhelming.

How interesting that the Hebrew word for threshold captures this very idea. The word is caphaph (pronounced “sa-faf”). The word literally means “to wait at the threshold,” but it can also mean “to snatch away.” Those two definitions together tell a fascinating story. There we are, waiting at the threshold of a new spiritual place, hearing God’s invitation to come on in. Meanwhile, some devilish force is luring us backward, creating pressure against our progress. The enemy of our souls does not want us to make these moves from one room to the next and while he is always tempting us away from growth, it seems to be precisely at the doorways that he becomes most desperate and most forceful. I don’t think of the enemy as being particularly strategic so much as reactionary, so it makes sense that the real pressure would be at the threshold.

Years ago, a team from our church hosted a thing we call Cowboy Church in several inner-city settings. I was with one of those groups who ministered to about two dozen precious children who live pretty rough lives. I think the take-away image for me from that week was opening the door one night to the room in which I’d been working to find my husband, Steve, holding little D’Marcus by his armpits. Little D’Marcus had one foot on one door jam and the other foot on the other door jam, and he was screaming, “I don’t want to go in there!” And Steve was so patiently smiling and saying, “That’s fine … but we are going in there!” And you’d think that a kid being shoved into a room by his armpits would not bounce back but five minutes later, little D’Marcus was having the time of his life. The next day little D’Marcus was right there with us again. Evidently, it was the threat of a new room that most rattled him, not the reality of it.

I think of Steve holding D’Marcus by the armpits and I think of that passage in Isaiah where the prophet says, “In his love and mercy he redeems us. He lifts us up and carries us through all the years (italics mine).” And I wonder if God might have meant that kind of lifting sometimes? Because sometimes I think the way we get in there, into that next spiritual room where God is able to do a deeper work, happens less like the gentle lifting of a baby and more like the way Steve lifted little D’Marcus.

You know, probably, there is a little D’Marcus inside each of us, crying out against spiritual progress when we reach those doorways. It is the pressure of it that confuses us. It calls us backward, and because we don’t understand it we fight against it. Learning which voice is which becomes critical, so we can navigate these doorways when we reach them, so we can fight less against the Holy Spirit and press through to something new.

This is a very “Methodist” phenomenon — central to our doctrine of sanctification — but I’ve found the most help in understanding spiritual thresholds from Catholic mystics and Pentecostals.

Barbara Yoder writes this:

“Gates are where we win or lose. That is why Scripture uses gates as the place to be broken through. We must break through intimidation, faithlessness, fear, hopelessness, despair, or whatever else looms like an unconquerable foe at the gates. The threshold is where we either leap forward or back out. Yet once we leap, it is where we meet the incredible supernatural power of God to break through before us victorious over every obstacle. It is after we leap that we begin to possess our inheritance for the current season. It is where increase and abundance come in whatever dimension we are crossing over into. It is there we meet God in a way that is new.”

Is it possible that the resistance you sense in your life right now is actually an indication that you are ready to move forward into a new spiritual room? And that God is inviting you into greater life, more life … maybe even wanting to push you through from death to life? Here’s the kicker to this whole concept. The right response is not to fight, but to do nothing. The mystics have the best advice on this: “To fight these storms directly is to rivet our attention on them or on ourselves suffering them, rather than on God” (The Spiritual Journey, p 113). Rather than fight, we should simply let God lead. “What God wants us to do is to undergo them, suffer them, let them run their course,” Nemeck advises. Let God’s power do the work. The only part we play is to cling to Christ, who owns that power. He will finish this work, pull us through, force open the door if necessary. And once we’re on the other side, we will find the joy we receive is worth it.

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How to bring a Sabbath spirit into your life

The problem with the Israelites was that even long after their bodies were out of Egypt, their minds were still enslaved. In that way, they were sort of like a dry drunk. Have you heard the term? That is someone who has managed to stop drinking and even stay sober over time, but who still has the mentality of an alcoholic or addict. They may be sober but they have the mind of a drunk with all its old emotions, old cravings, old behaviors.

As it turns out, to be taken out of slavery doesn’t automatically make a person free. Listen: I can be in the desert with Egypt behind me and still have the mind of a slave. Freedom is a transformation we have to choose, and Sabbath-keeping is one way we can reject an enslaved mentality. Sabbath is a call to rest. Rest is the biblical corrective to our inclination toward escape. It is the habit of a free person, so God gave the Israelites (and everyone since) a weekly invitation to practice our freedom. Every day, we can bring a little Sabbath spirit into our lives as a way of rejecting the culture of Egypt. Here’s how:

Take a little time every day for a conversation with God. Every day, God invites us into a personal inventory, so we can examine our lives and realign ourselves with God’s design. I love how The Message version phrases this in Psalm 139. David writes (Psalm 139:23):

“Investigate my life, O God, find out everything about me; cross-examine and test me, get a clear picture of what I’m about; See for yourself whether I’ve done anything wrong— then guide me on the road to eternal life.”

This is the recipe for a rich inner conversation with the Holy Spirit. It is about slowing down enough to weigh our motives and repent of those that are self-centered, unholy, unhelpful. And I have to tell you: as much as we love multi-tasking, this isn’t that. This kind of examination doesn’t happen behind a steering wheel on the way to work. For this, we must learn how to be still and know God.

Take a little more time every week to restore your factory settings. When your computer freezes up and you don’t know why, what do you do? Reboot. Think of a weekly Sabbath as a day when you turn everything off so you can reboot. Sabbath-keeping is about getting back to the other side of Genesis 3, to remind ourselves we are not slaves. It is about loving God and loving others, about laying our head on God’s chest and listening to his heart.

When it comes to Sabbath-keeping, I am probably more closely akin to a spiritually dry drunk than to a sober saint. To be honest, I’m not even always dry. My Sabbath is Saturday. In theory. I seem to take some kind of secret pleasure in the thought that I work even when I am not supposed to. It is one of those efficiency and productivity lies I bought into years ago. It took far too long to occur to me that by buying the lie I might be working against God’s plan for my life. Somehow I guess I expected God to cover for me and for all my significant relationships while I played the efficiency and productivity game. But there is nothing biblical about that mindset. Sabbath is not just about getting a day off. It is about getting our lives back in line with God’s design. It is about faithfulness. It is about relationship.

Take a little more time every once in a while to renew your life’s vision. This was the advice of God to his people in Leviticus 25. He gave them a recipe for occasional sabbaticals that not only gave people an extended rest, but gave the land a rest. Every once in a while, you just need to give it rest for a season, to replenish the soil before it gets completely depleted. It is yet one more way to restore things to their original purpose.

I can think of all kinds of reasons why we need a whole season every once in a while. We need it because sometimes it takes more than a day to readjust our speed. We need it because sometimes it takes more than a week to change a habit. We need it so we can put a period at the end of one season before starting another one. I’m thinking right now of the need for some folks to stop doing good things for a season, so their spirit can fill back up. I believe the most successful lives are shaped intentionally by this kind of time to rest and refocus.

Take a regular inventory of those whose debts need to be forgiven by you. We also hear this message in Leviticus 25, in the description of the Jubilee year when slaves are returned to their original owners and land is restored to the families that first settled there. The Jubilee year isn’t so much about ceasing work as it is restoration of right relationships. I believe Sabbath-keeping can include time to sort through relationships and make amends where necessary. This, too, is a kind of rest.

Spiritual transformation is not just behavior change. It is heart-level change, relational change, spiritual change … even change in the way we approach our future. It is the kind of change that makes what is ahead more important than what is behind. It is ultimately the pathway to freedom, the mark of which is the ability to rest in God.

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Why should we care about Sabbath-keeping?

The notion of “sabbath” is mentioned 172 times in the Bible, and 60 of those occurrences are in the New Testament. Why do you suppose that of all the 613 laws, Sabbath-keeping gets so much attention? Here is my theory. I believe Sabbath matters to God because it is like a stake in the ground for people freed from slavery. Sabbath is a call to rest, and rest is not the right of a slave. It is the habit of a free person. After being freed from slavery in Egypt, Sabbath became an every-week opportunity for an Israelite to proclaim his freedom. It was also how God’s people got in rhythm with God’s heart for the least, the last and the lost.

Should we still care about Sabbath-keeping today? Not as legalists … no. But as beings made in the image of God, Sabbath is  central to our design and worth our attention.

Sabbath-keeping restores us to our factory settings. Remember that Sabbath-keeping is the fourth of the ten commandments. When God gives the Israelites the ten commandments the first time, he pairs it with creation. “For in six days the Lord made the heavens and the earth, the sea, and all that is in them, but he rests on the seventh day. Therefore the Lord blessed the Sabbath day and made it holy” Sabbath-keeping reconnects us with the rhythm of creation and God’s creative nature. It aligns us with holy work. Remember that work was part of the Garden of Eden before the fall. In the same way that God worked to build creation, we were given creative work to fill our days and give us purpose. Work at creation was good, and rest wasn’t required. It was designed. A good, perfect and loving God designed rest as a mark of completion in the work of creation. At the conclusion of creation God rested, and we lived inside his completion. Rest for God was completion, not weariness. And when we rest, we are putting faith in God’s ability to finish the work and make it holy.

Sabbath-keeping is an act of worship (love God). Notice this, in Genesis 2:3. “God blessed the seventh day and made it holy because on it, he rested.” This is the first time the word “holy” is used in the Bible. Holiness — to be whole — is first used in the Bible to talk about rest. That teaches me something about what it means to be whole. It means being at rest, at peace. It turns out that holiness means we have the right to put our work down and rest, because God — not our work — is what makes us whole.

There are two other Hebrew words that strike me as being related to the notion of Sabbath. Shalom means peace, or wholeness. When Jews are approaching Sabbath day, they say, “Shabbat Shalom.” The common meaning is “Have a peaceful Sabbath.” But the deeper meaning is something more like, “May you find wholeness as you cease your work.” This is what happened with God in creation. When he finished, he rested.

The other Hebrew term is shema, the Hebrew word for “hear.” It is the first word of the greatest commandment: “Hear O Israel. The Lord our God, the Lord is one. Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength.” The Shema is the first and last word of a Jewish Sabbath.

Now, go with me on this for a minute. The last thing God created before he rested was us. Which means our first day on earth was God’s Sabbath. Which means the first thing we did as creatures was to take a day off with God! Not because he was tired (or us), but because that’s what he called whole, holy and good.

As I contemplate this profound idea of Sabbath being the first whole day of humanity, the image that comes to my mind is of the birth of my own child. When our baby was born, the doctor lifted her from my body and handed her directly into my arms. I immediately laid her on my chest, so that the first thing my child heard (shema) was her mama’s heartbeat and her mama’s voice. And her whole job in that moment — the whole job of a newborn child — was to listen, rest and attach. Which is to say that on our first day on earth when God ceased his work — Shabbat shalom — our whole job was to listen (shema), rest and attach.

And that is still our sabbath work today. My, how beautiful is this gift of Sabbath (and we thought we were just getting a day off)!

Sabbath-keeping teaches us not to “harvest to the margins” (love others). This idea seems woven into the fabric of Leviticus. It begins as a habit of the harvest. The Israelites are told not to harvest their fields to the edges (Leviticus 23:22), so there would be food enough left for the poor to come along behind and glean. Leave room at the edges of your field so people who don’t have can eat, too. In Leviticus chapter 25, where we get a more detailed description of Sabbath years and Jubilee years, all through is sprinkled a reminder to take care of the poor. This, I believe, is what distinguishes someone who just wants a day off (or who doesn’t even want a day off and resents the time they have to take for others) from someone who has laid his head next to the Father’s heart — who has heard God’s heartbeat for the least, the last and the lost. It is that there is room in their lives for others.

Hear this: When we harvest to the margins, we have no energy left for the poor and the ones who require extra grace. When we harvest to the margins, it is hard to be present to the people in front of us. When we harvest to the margins, there is no patience left, no bandwidth for the things that break God’s heart. Jesus himself said it is okay to do good on the Sabbath, but we can only do good when we have room left at the margins when those moments for mercy emerge. Sabbath gives room to be present to people.

Sabbath-keeping is an invitation to resist the culture of Egypt. The ten commandments are listed twice in the Old Testament, and the one about Sabbath is the only one with an explanation attached — both times (almost like, “Okay, we know why we shouldn’t kill people, but we’re not really sure why we need a day off”). The first time, the Sabbath is explained as part of creation and the second time it is explained as a freedom principle. God tells his people they must not do any work on the seventh day. “Remember that you were slaves in Egypt and that the Lord your God brought you out of there with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm. Therefore the Lord has commanded you to observe the Sabbath day.” Sabbath by this definition is a memorial and a mark of freedom. We get a Sabbath because we are not slaves. The daily grind is not what we were created for. It is a call not just to cease working, but to take on the mindset of a free person — not just the behavior of Sabbath-keeping but the spirit of it.

Sabbath-keeping is how we practice Heaven. While our human tendency is to want to escape, the Kingdom call is an invitation to rest. In other words, rest is the biblical corrective to our inclination toward escape. Paul told the Colossians that sabbath is a shadow, a vague glimpse, of what is ahead for us in the Kingdom of God. Which means that when we practice it well, we are practicing heaven. By practicing Sabbath we find what is most real … namely Christ. And when we practice Sabbath, we are proclaiming what is most real to us … namely Christ. It is the practice of becoming whole … the practice of listening to the heart of God … the practice of freedom.

 

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The Gospel of Welcome

There are few phrases that evoke more warmth or comfort than this one: Welcome home. In that welcome, we experience all we need. We are safe. We are loved. We belong. This was the radical contribution made by first-century followers of Jesus. Their brand of religion was so much more than a set of rules. It was a people and a place — a family and a purpose to which anyone could attach. This expression of faith in God exposed His heart for people.

In the gospel of welcome, we remember that God is for us.

Seven times in chapter 9, Luke uses the word “welcome.” He gives instructions for what to do when one is not welcome, then contrasts that with a picture of the radical welcome of the Kingdom. It isn’t a picture a first-century audience would have anticipated, nor is it the one more typical of our sermonizing about Jesus’ heart for people. It isn’t Jesus with a leper or Jesus with a woman or Jesus loving on someone no one else likes. Not this time. This time, it is Jesus with a child.

The moment comes as his followers are immaturely arguing over who is the greatest. Frankly, they sound like fifth graders in this scene. You don’t get the sense they are arguing in front of Jesus; at least they know enough not to do that. They just can’t help themselves. Likely, they were tired and impatient with one another. Someone probably called someone else out as not pulling his weight and before reason could set in, they were all one-upping each other.

Like I said, you don’t get the sense they were doing it in front of Jesus, but everything eventually ends up in front of Jesus. He knew, even if he hadn’t heard. Jesus knew their competitive, self-justifying hearts so he put a child in the midst of them and said, “Whoever welcomes this child welcomes me and whoever welcomes me welcomes God. And you need to make a mental note here, my friends, because you don’t have the same values as the Kingdom. What I’m about to say won’t sound logical to you, but the person you least want to welcome is the person most likely being pursued by God and the time you least want to welcome them in is probably the time God is most open to using you.”

This was Jesus’ teaching on the gospel of welcome: It happens, he says, when we least expect it and often to the person we least want to welcome in.

There is one other use of the word “welcome” in Luke 9. It is in the description of Jesus heading toward Jerusalem and his death. He sent messengers into a Samaritan village to get things ready for him but the people of that town didn’t welcome him precisely because he was heading for Jerusalem and into the will of God. Hear that: the Samaritans didn’t welcome him. Samaritans … the ones Jewish people tended to avoid at all costs. Samaritans, who Jesus used in parables to talk about people we’d walk by without thinking twice about their suffering. Samaritans, whose very land a Jewish person would avoid walking on. Samaritans were the ones who didn’t welcome Jesus, a Jew, nor his followers — the very ones who’d just been arguing over who is greatest.

If we gather up all these uses of the word “welcome” in Luke 9, we get a 360-degree view of Kingdom hospitality.

  • Welcome people when you’re tired.
  • Welcome people when you’re inconvenienced.
  • Welcome people as a way of right-sizing your own ego.
  • Welcome the ones you don’t trust, don’t like, don’t value.
  • And don’t just welcome them with southern politeness. Learn to welcome people all the way through or as Peter would later write, love deeply from the heart.
  • Recognize that even when you get the welcome right, people on the receiving end of God’s grace might not appreciate it. Sometimes the “Samaritan” won’t return the kindness, but don’t let that stop you from heading into the will of God. Don’t let your welcome ride on their response.

Hear that: Don’t let your welcome ride on their response.

That may be something you need to hear as you begin your week. You may already be tired before you’ve even gotten started, and you just don’t see the need to give more than the minimum. Maybe you don’t realize that the problem is less the other person’s distastefulness and more your ego. You may be oblivious to the callouses building on your heart toward those who matter most to God. Or it just may be that you’re giving and giving, and those on the receiving end ought to appreciate it … but they don’t.

And to you, however you find yourself today, Jesus would say: Don’t let your welcome ride on your circumstances, on your ego, or on their response. Let your welcome ride on the leading of the Holy Spirit. Welcome others into your life because Christ has welcomed you.

Amen.

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Depression is hell.

For some, it looks like gathering clouds. For others, a black hole. For some, it feels like dread or fear or hopelessness. For others, it feels more like guilt — the kind that won’t go away. It may feel like shame, or like anxiety that never eases up. It can leave one unable to function, and another unable to sleep. Some ease the pain by eating; others by not eating. In some people, it masks itself as physical pain. Other people mask it with anger; many medicate with substances that seem to help at first, but end up enslaving in a deeper darkness. It saps some or all their energy; it makes others nervously busy. Some become manic; others become numb.

Depression is hell.

And there are as many faces of it as there are people who live with it. Statistics say one in ten adults will deal with it in some form at least once in their lives. They tell us more women than men suffer from it, but that may be more a difference in how we talk about it. We know this much for sure: A depressed person cannot talk himself out of it or will it away, nor can the people around him. And the pain of it can affect us spiritually, causing us to question God and even our own existence.

As spiritual people, how do we cope when the clouds gather? What stories help us understand how God works when we are in darkness?

The obvious choice would be Job, I guess, but I’d like to draw some thoughts from an unlikely character in the Bible — Moses, a great man whose obedience changed the world. Consider his story. Moses spent literally decades, sitting in his own cloud of unknowing, waiting for God to show up. Then, when God did show up, Moses could not have responded more unenthusiastically if he’d tried. He responded to God in fear. He was a man who tended to leave things half-done (remember the argument with his wife?). He caused his family no end in grief. His meetings with the Pharaoh created suffering for a cityful of people. If ever there was a man with a right to feel depressed, Moses would be it.

Eventually, he had it out with God (I love him for this). He explodes in frustration. “God, why have you mistreated your people like this? Why did you send me? You have not even begun to rescue them. Where are you, God? Have you forsaken us forever? Where are you? Where are you?” (Exodus 5:22-23)

When the low-hanging emotional clouds hover like a weight of fog over your life, it is hard to hear the voice of God over our pain. “Why are my finances in such trouble? Why is my job so miserable? Why is my home life so unappealing? Why is my marriage loveless? Why do my children suffer with illness or disability or emotional pain? Why, God, have you mistreated your people like this?” For some of us, the questions far outweigh the answers and it leaves us depressed, broken, fearful … feeling guilty for the way we feel about it.

One of the angriest times I’ve had in my life came after my mother died. I hurt. The grief was heavy; the pain worse than what I’d known before. I remember a pastor telling me I needed to keep praying. I responded by telling him I had no more prayers. I was so angry. I didn’t understand the suffering she went through or the grief with which we were left. Folks around us meant well (they always do), but no amount of words, food, flowers or care seemed to penetrate the darkness.

Then I got a card from a friend that seemed to touch at the point of my deepest need. In the card, she quoted a French poet named Rainer Maria Rilke, who wrote:

“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms and like books that are written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now.”

That thought seemed more relevant than any well-intentioned encouragement others offered. It went right to the heart. I couldn’t talk myself out of how I felt. There were no answers to make it all make sense and it helped greatly to be told I didn’t have to have answers. It helped to know I didn’t have to depend on cheap clichés to soothe deep pain. Making peace with the questions made more sense. It was certainly more do-able.

I suspect that God understands that. Maybe that’s why he answered Moses the way he did when Moses got to the end of his rope. God didn’t get mad at him or fire him. He didn’t make him feel guilty for being frustrated. He didn’t punish him for the emotional outburst. In fact, I can almost hear him saying, “Finally … now we’re getting somewhere.” In the midst of Moses’ honesty, God showed up compassionately and met him at the very point of his questioning. God acknowledged his frustration and raised him above it not with cheap clichés that would ease the immediate pain but with the eternal truth of God’s power and promises.

Hear this: The best thing God has to offer us is not answers to our questions, but the truth of Himself. God said to Moses, “I know it doesn’t look great for you right now and while that’s not something I will change, I am One you can trust as you walk through it. You can count on me to do what I’ve promised.”

God comforts Moses by showing him who He is. In other words, God says, “I have not changed. Even though your moods may swing and the clouds hang low and your perspective may shift and your faith may waiver and your circumstances may alter, I AM. I am the same yesterday, today and forever. What I have promised, I will deliver. I am still the same powerful and loving God who cares for you and wants to bring you into your destiny. I Am Who I Say I Am.”

And while that may not do one thing today to ease your depression, maybe it will provide for you a solid truth to lean on while you walk through your valley. God’s character is eternal, his promises are safe, his nature is to love and his plans for us are good.

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