Pastor Tommy's Blog

You can access Pastor Tommy's past blogs from 2024 here.

  • Word - May 15, 2025

    My word for this year is “peace.” You no doubt know some of those people who adopt a word for the coming year. Words like “patience,” “hope,” that kind of thing. You may be one of them.


    I never much saw the point. And even if I did, seeing as how the month of December always seems to precede the new year, and seeing as how December is when Christmas (and all the Christmas and general holiday festivities) happen, and seeing as how by the end of December I’m so tired I can barely get out of bed, even if I wanted to come up with a word for the new year, it ain’t happening.


    But this year, one-third of the way in, my word found me: peace. I can’t seem to get away from it.

    Of course, my year didn’t start out all that peaceful. I won’t go into the details, but between work obligations, the calendar, health concerns, and probably a lot of other stuff I’ve blocked out, I was craving a little peace.


    And in the midst of the chaos, peace found me. It started when I participated on a mission team in Belize … the week before Holy Week. A recipe for more stress. And while this trip had its moments, by the end of the week, peace had found me.


    Then there was Holy Week. While I know Holy Week—the week leading to Easter—is supposed to be a Holy and peaceful time, in the church world, it usually isn’t. It’s a lot of work and preparation and stress. But this year, thanks in large part to our amazing church staff, peace once again found me. I emerged from the week not drained and desperately needing sleep, but at peace.


    And then, the very next weekend, I got to be part of a Walk to Emmaus Team. Sometimes, serving on Walks can be as frustrating as it is fulfilling. But not this time. Again … peace found me.


    And finally, I come back from all that and find myself and my congregation right in the middle of a sermon series on eliminating anxiety. In other words, about peace.


    The starting point for our sermon series is that there’s something wrong with our culture. Our culture encourages us to accumulate—more money, more stuff, more power—based on the underlying assumption that we aren’t enough, we don’t have enough, and we don’t do enough. According to our culture, we all suffer from an essential lack. A deficit. We need something to make us complete. So, we’re encouraged to accumulate; to accomplish. That’s how we are defined. Yet with each new accretion, instead of finding peace, we just seem to be getting more and more anxious.


    In looking back over the last several months, I realize our culture is in one sense right. We all need something to make us complete. It’s just that, in inviting us to define ourselves by our accumulation and our accomplishments, the culture has settled on the wrong thing.


    And, being embedded in that culture, I have a tendency to buy into its definition of who I am. In looking back, I can see that’s how I spent the better part of the last year. In fact, the better part of my life; buying into the idea that accomplishment and accumulation would bring me happiness. All, as it turns out, at the expense of peace.


    The fact is, we were made out of the love that is God to live in that love. To live in relationship with God. To live in love with God. THAT’s what we need. That’s what we are all too often missing. We are not defined by what we’ve managed to accumulate or what we’ve accomplished. The creator of the universe defines us; God defines us as beloved children


    And I think that’s the realization that lies behind the peace that finally managed to break through my thick skull—at least for a while—to allow me to find it. It may be partly just my stage of life, but I’m coming to the realization that the creator of the universe doesn’t care all that much about how much I’ve accumulated or what I’ve accomplished. God just loves me. Period. And in that, is peace.

  • Goo Goo Eyes - May 8, 2025

    Several years and two churches ago, a member of my congregation had a baby: a beautiful baby girl named Natalie (who, by the way, is now a part of my new congregation, though she’s grown up a lot). The mother brought Natalie to church and the reaction was predictable. If the goal was to not have to hold Natalie for the entire worship service, mission accomplished. Everyone just wanted a chance to hold this tiny, beautiful little girl.


    There’s just something about little babies. They are so perfect and complete, but also totally vulnerable and dependent. They are who they are. They haven’t had a chance to develop any masks, any protections from the world around them. At the same time, it’s inconceivable that they would hurt us (except for the whole lack of sleep thing, but that’s for the parents to worry about). And I think something in us senses that, so we let down our defenses when we hold them, when we look at them.

    I mean, have you ever looked at the face of someone who’s looking at a little baby? It almost glows. There is a warmth and caring and beauty that we don’t see very often. You could be under stress, preoccupied, or just a generally grumpy person, but in the presence of a little baby, those stress lines between the eyes disappear, the furrowed brows get de-furrowed. I know very few people who can look at a baby and stay in a bad mood.


    So, that Sunday, as we were all passing the baby around, someone said something about this phenomenon. If I’m remembering it right, she said, “Don’t you think the way we look at babies is the way God looks at us?” Isn’t that great?


    God loves us with perfect love. Every one of us. Period. So, I can envision God’s face looking at me, even me, with that same sort of glowing, blissful look.


    And I guess that’s a difference between us and God. Because when I look at the people in my community, in my congregation, or even my family, I don’t get that same look on my face. I’m always just a little bit on my guard. I know that the “them” I see isn’t really, fully them. It’s what they want me to see. So, I don’t let them see the real me either. They’re worried, even if just a little bit, that I might hurt them, and vice versa. So, we wear our everyday, non-baby-holding, mask faces.


    But God doesn’t have that fear. In perfect love (God), there is no fear. Perfect love casts out fear (1 John 4:18). So even though we may approach God with the same sort of defenses and masks with which we approach one another, God doesn’t reciprocate. God doesn’t need a mask. God doesn’t worry that we might hurt God. In fact, God KNOWS we will. We’re broken. It’s what we do. We’re suspicious, we’re resentful, we’re angry, we’re fearful. We are everything a little brand-new baby is not. Yet I still imagine God looking at us with that little-baby look.


    And the amazing thing is that God invites us to live in that same sort of perfect love; to come out of our resentment and fear and anger and look at the world and those around us the same way God does. I think that’s what Jesus meant when he said to love God with everything we’ve got and to love our neighbors the same as we love ourselves. Jesus is encouraging us to approach God without the fear, without the masks, and he’s encouraging us to do the same with one another.


    Now, I can already hear the objections. “If I went around looking at everyone with that little-baby look, I’d get arrested.” And that’s probably right. But I’m not sure this is a valid objection as much as it is a recognition of just how far we collectively are from the lives that God wants for us.


    But, we are where we are. So, I’m not suggesting the full goo-goo eyes for everybody. Maybe we should just ease into it, remembering that no matter how we look at them, God is looking at everyone around us like they were little baby Natalie.

  • God Loves You...Period - May 1, 2025

    I served on a Walk to Emmaus team this last weekend. As usual, it was an incredible experience, watching God work in and through so many lives. It was a little like a preview of heaven.


    But as I was talking to one of the other team members during a break, she said something that caught me off guard. She said, “You know, that abundant life that Jesus talks about. It isn’t just an abundance of the good stuff. It also includes an abundance of the hard stuff.”


    I was immediately struck by the truth of this statement. The gospels record several times when Jesus told his disciples that following him wasn’t all sunshine and roses. He told them they would have to pick up their crosses (Matthew 16:24-26). He told them they would be hated (John 15:18-21), persecuted (John 16:32-33), and even killed (John 16:2). Jesus is very clear that following him and experiencing the abundant and eternal life that comes with it doesn’t insulate us from the bad stuff that happens in life. In fact, it sometimes makes it even more abundant.


    I was shocked and more than a little convicted by what my friend said, because I preach about abundant, eternal life all the time. I talk about living in God’s love, God’s joy, God’s peace, and God’s hope. I talk about how it’s like being born again in to a new and amazing reality. But I almost never talk about the flip side of the coin. I almost never talk about the suffering.


    Like most of us, I’d just as soon not think about that flip side. But it’s very real, and a lot of us are living in it right now.


    There are some strains of Christianity—and religion in general—that say if you’re struggling, it’s because you’ve done something wrong and you’re being punished. If you’re suffering, you brought it on yourself. If you’re poor, or homeless, or addicted, it’s because you are a bad person.


    I don’t know a nice way to say this, so I’m just going to say it. This is a lie. It is Wrong. Bad stuff happens and it happens to all of us. We are all fallible, self-willed, stiff-necked human beings and we all make mistakes (self-righteousness being one of the biggest); and mistakes have consequences.


    But here’s something else I heard over the weekend. Several of the “pilgrims” on this Walk were from the same church, and they shared something that their pastor says at the beginning of every worship service. He tells everyone, “God loves you …. Period.” I love that. By the end of the Walk, everyone was saying it.


    And I think the reason it resonates so well with me and the other folks on the Walk is because it so perfectly sums up our situation in life. We’ve made mistakes. We may have dug ourselves deep into a hole. We may be battered and even utterly broken. We may be suffering. But there is a reality that runs deeper than all that; a reality next to which everything pales in comparison. The creator of the universe is crazy in love with us. Every one of us. Period.

  • Fear - April 24, 2025

    A lot of people are afraid right now. This seems like one of those “no duh” kind of observations, and I guess it is. But I’ve just been confronted in the last few days with how frightened and saddened some people are. Some are concerned about the economy. Some are concerned about the future of the country and the world. Some are concerned for their own safety. And these are people of faith. I can only imagine what folks without a foundation of faith must be going through.


    And as I contemplate all this fear, I keep coming back to one verse. It’s 1 John 4:18: “There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear ….” Now some people might read that and say, “Well, I’m afraid. What does that say about me?”


    I invite you right now to read the whole passage: 1 John 4:7-21. … I’ll wait. … It’s about God, our relationship with God, and our relationship with one another. They’re all connected. God is love. That ultimate love expressed itself by sending God’s son to live with us, die for us, and be resurrected as a promise of eternal life—something we celebrated this last week on Good Friday and Easter. Through that expression of love, God invites us to abide in Him—abide in that love—so that God can abide in and through us. In fact, that’s what we were created for. When we live in that love, we are capable of loving one another. And, to the extent we live in that love, our fear will be cast out.


    It all starts with God. It all starts with getting connected with—abiding in—God. GOD is the perfect love that casts out fear. There’s nothing we as individuals can do to address our fear, at least nothing permanent. We can try to deaden it with drugs or alcohol. We can try to distract ourselves with Facebook or TV. But as we are all painfully aware, those only make it worse.


    But here’s the thing. We are human beings. None of us is perfectly connected to God. None of us abides fully in God’s love. So, we still fear. And in this, each of us is different. In our individual spiritual journeys, each of us is starting from a different place. Some people are naturally optimistic. Someone accused me the other day of being an optimist and I guess they’re right. I’ve definitely got my issues (just ask Kirsten), but fear of the future isn’t very high on my list. On the other hand, I have family members (who will remain nameless) who are just natural worriers.


    The point isn’t to compare ourselves to one another or to worry about the fact that we’re worrying so much. The point is to abide; to invite God into our lives, over and over again, every minute of every day. To practice the presence of God, who IS always with us. The point is, by inviting the abiding presence of God into our lives in as many ways and at as many times as possible, to be transformed, slowly but surely, into the image of Christ—to become better than we were.


    God—perfect love—casts out fear. This isn’t a judgment on those of us who are afraid right now. In fact, you would have to be living under a rock not to be a little afraid. Some fear is good and healthy. You should be afraid of eating a hot dog that has just been sneezed on by a sick person.


    The fact that God casts out fear is not a judgment. It is a promise. And it’ not just a promise of reassurance. It’s not just a promise intended to make us feel better. It’s a promise of transformation. It’s a promise that through the power and presence of the Holy Spirit within us, we will not be the same tomorrow as we are today.


    And so, that’s my hope and prayer for all of us. That come tomorrow, none of us are the same as we are today; that we as a church, we as a nation, are not the same; that we have allowed God to use this time to transform us; to make us better than we are.

  • Of Roller Coasters & Holy Week - April 17, 2025

    It’s Holy Week. Now, I’m tempted to write this morning about the strange warping of the space-time continuum which seems to bring Easter earlier each year, but that’s probably just me.


    This morning, I’m thinking about roller coasters. Or, more specifically, the roller coaster that Jesus and his followers found themselves on this week about 2,000 years ago. Last Sunday we celebrated Palm Sunday. Jesus triumphantly entered Jerusalem as a king, accompanied by the waving of branches and the singing of Psalms.


    Just a few days later, he celebrated his last Passover with his disciples. I wonder how he must have felt knowing what was coming, but actually, I don’t have to wonder. Just a few hours later, he was sweating blood and praying that his Father would take away his cup of suffering.


    Then there’s Good Friday. Jesus is tried, tortured, and crucified. His closest friends abandon him. Things couldn’t get any worse. Jesus dead, and his disciples without hope.


    Yet three days later, against all hope and reason, Jesus came back. He was resurrected. From coming king to crucified criminal to resurrected KING. That’s quite a roller coaster.


    I sometimes find myself on a roller coaster. I think we all do. Certainly nothing like what Jesus endured, but it’s easy to get queasy with all the ups and downs life can throw at us. So, it’s comforting to know that when I’m on that roller coaster, I worship a savior who understands. He’s been there and done that … and far worse. Even the worst thing—crucifixion and death—was not the last thing.

    And the same applies to us. As we will see this Sunday, the worst thing is never the last thing.

  • Getting Comfortable Being Uncomfortable - April 3, 2025

    “It’s when I start to get comfortable that I know I’m lying to myself.”


    Several years ago, I participated in a small group at my church that met once a week. One week, I remember us discussing how we as Christians face the constant temptation to “do church”; to just go through the motions. We talked about how this is especially tempting to those of us who have “done church” our whole lives. It’s just what we do. We go to church on Sunday, we sing the songs, we listen to the preacher drone on, then we go home. And we do it again next Sunday, and the next.


    Or maybe not.


    In fact, I think the idea that Christianity equates with “doing church” is why a lot of folks leave the church. It’s why I left after High School. I mean, really, if following Christ is just about spending an hour a week at a special-purpose auditorium and going through a bunch of ritual, what’s the point? Even if the music is really good or the preacher is awesome, nowadays you can get that stuff on YouTube. Our lives seem to be getting busier by the day. So, if church is just another item on our already-full-and-always-growing weekly checklist, it seems inevitable that it’s eventually going to go by the wayside. And really, if that’s all church is, then it probably should.


    John Wesley, the founder of Methodism, thought so. He started a new movement within the Anglican church because he saw a bunch of people just “doing church.” Then, as he neared the end of his life, he worried about the very movement he had started. He wrote, “I am not afraid that the people called Methodists should ever cease to exist . . . But I am afraid, lest they should only exist as a dead sect, having the form of religion without the power.”


    Which brings me back to something a very wise person told me that night in that small group. She said, “It’s when I get comfortable that I know I’m lying to myself.” Getting comfortable—seeking comfort—is human nature. Frankly, I think it’s part of our fallen state as human beings: the tendency to put ourselves before God and others. It’s a temptation we constantly face and must constantly guard against. It’s not something you can beat and then say, “I won,” because it’ll be back tomorrow.


    The truth is, life is a struggle. Faith is a struggle. Done right, it is constant growth into new and uncomfortable things. It is a process of gradually surrendering not just your mind, but your heart and your entire being to God; to live in—and live out—God’s divine love. Done right, it is always going to be new. It is always going to be uncomfortable.


    And that’s the tension we live in. We are constantly tempted to seek comfort, but the only way to grow and become who we were created to be is to get uncomfortable; to open ourselves up to God and others; to become vulnerable.


    And all too often, we resolve the tension in favor of comfort, in favor of just “doing life,” or just “doing church”; in favor of just existing instead of living. And we tell ourselves we’re doing fine. At least we’re going to church. At least we’ve got a house and a job and a car. At least we’re not as bad as the guy next door. And we lie to ourselves that this is about as good as we can expect.


    But deep down, we know we’re wrong. This is not as good as we can expect. Life isn’t about going through the motions. Following Christ isn’t about going through the motions. It’s about constantly resisting the temptation to settle for what’s easy and comfortable. It’s about relentlessly seeking out ways to give ourselves more and more over to the One who created us. It’s not about “doing church,” it’s about being the church.

  • Buster and the Deer - March 27, 2025

    Now that Spring seems to have set in, I’m reminded of last Spring. I confess that when I’m on the church property (and sometimes when I’m not), I let my dogs run off the leash. Not everyone (including my wife) fully agrees with me on this, but the dogs are generally under pretty good control.


    And one of the things my dog Buster loves more than just about anything else when he’s off-leash is chasing deer. I usually don’t stop him as long as it’s not near traffic, because it’s great exercise, he loves it, and the deer need the occasional reminder that … well, they’re deer and not pets. And, after all, there’s no way Buster’s ever going to catch one.


    At least that’s what I used to think until last Spring. That’s when Buster actually “caught” a deer. Well, he didn’t actually catch her. She was laying down, apparently giving birth. Buster ran right up to her and she didn’t run. It reminded me of the saying about the dog that actually caught the car. What’s he going to do now? Well, Buster didn’t know what to do. So, he did what any self-respecting yet sweet dog would do. He sniffed around a little, gave the momma deer a few good licks, and trotted off.


    Buster’s experience makes me think of us. So many of us are like Buster: chasing something. For a lot of us, it’s the American Dream of all the money we can spend and all the safety, security, and comfort that money can buy.


    Like Buster, we love (or at least are conditioned to accept the importance of) the chase. We work hard. We work harder. We save. We save more. We get the nice house with the pool behind a six-foot privacy fence. If we’re doing really well, the house is behind the iron fences of a gated community.


    But, unlike Buster and his deer, we’re never going to catch what we’re chasing. Because there is always a better job. There’s always more money. There’s always a nicer house. John D. Rockefeller was once asked how much money is enough. He was the richest man in the world and one of the richest men in the recorded history. And his answer? “Just a little bit more.” There’s always just a little bit more. Enough is never enough.


    Now, the reason Buster likes chasing deer is … well, I don’t know. It probably has something to do with genetics; for him, it’s just fun. But for most of us, the kind of let’s-define-ourselves-by-our-achievements life we’ve created for ourselves isn’t fun. It’s a grind. It causes stress. It can destroy relationships. It takes time away from our families and those we love. For a lot of people, it shortens their lives, and certainly robs them of much of the joy to be found in life.


    For some reason, I keep coming back to this one passage of scripture. It’s right in the middle of Jesus’ sermon on the mount. He’s been talking about the importance of orienting our hearts towards God, not towards acclaim or attention or “stuff.” And then he says (I paraphrase), “Quit worrying about all that stuff—what’s for dinner, what you’re going to wear. Those are tomorrow problems and just living in right now is about as much as you can handle. Seek God first. Make God your focus. Make God and doing God’s will the most important think in your life, and all that other stuff will take care of itself (Matthew 6:25-34).


    As a friend suggested recently, maybe the reason that scripture keeps coming to me is because God thinks I need to be reminded. But whatever it is, I think Jesus is describing something very different than what we are conditioned to accept as normal. What he describes would probably have been considered counter-cultural in his day. It is certainly counter-cultural in ours.


    There are a lot of respects in which I am very happy not to be like Buster. For instance, it would be a real drag eating dog food every day. But it would be nice to occasionally catch what I’m chasing. Or, better yet, to just rest a little from the chase.


  • Blinded by the Light - March 20, 2025

    Several weeks ago, as I was preparing to greet folks for worship, I was talking with a friend who asked whether Kirsten had been out running that morning. I told him that I thought so. He asked if she wore a light when she ran. I said I thought so. Then he asked me to tell her to turn it down. It practically blinded him as he was driving to church.


    When I was in high school, I loved the Bruce Springsteen song, “Blinded by the Light.” I still don’t know what it meant, and probably don’t want to, but I just loved that image of being blinded—or overcome—by the light.


    But as much as I like that song, I’m pretty sure that isn’t why Kirsten was wearing the light. She was actually wearing it for two reasons: to help her see where she’s going and to make sure everyone else sees her.


    Which reminds me of a song I have come to appreciate more recently, the gospel song, “I Saw the Light.” This one I do know what it means. The singer was wandering around in darkness when Jesus showed up, bringing light into his life, showing him the Way … just like Kirsten’s headlamp shows her the way.


    And what happens when we receive Jesus’ light? Well, if things are working the way they’re supposed to, we rebroadcast it. People see it, just like my friend saw Kirsten out running.


    That’s what I think following Jesus is all about: being a light in a dark world. It’s not about politics or power or putting other people in their place. It’s about living as a beacon of hope and joy in a world that is anything but. It’s about demonstrating that there is a different way to live. I pray that we may all shine that light; and shine it so brightly that people occasionally ask us to turn it down a little.

  • Control - March 13, 2025

    I’ve been sick for a good chunk of the last three weeks. Nothing terribly serious, but I have hated every minute of it. I haven’t felt great, but I’ve felt a lot worse. That’s not it.


    As I consider the last few weeks, I realize the real issue is that I hate not having control. I don’t like being cooped up. I don’t like not being able to go where I want, when I want, not being able to take a walk. I realize these issues are absolutely trivial compared to what so many around the world are going through. But it’s how I feel. To paraphrase Veruca Salt in Willy Wonka, I want to do what I want to do, and I want to do it now! I want to be in control.


    And I don’t think it’s just me. I think we all do. It’s a natural human thing. We not only want freedom to do what we want when we want, we want the ability to exercise control over the future by planning for it. In the words of George Bailey, “I know what I’m gonna do tomorrow, and the next day, and next year, and the year after that.” Of course, any of us who have seen “It’s a Wonderful Life” know that turned out for him.


    The fact is, in the whole vast configuration of things, control is an illusion. We’re born and we die, and, as the saying goes, everything in-between is a dash. We can’t bring ourselves into this world and we can’t take anything out with us.


    Which isn’t to say that what happens in that dash doesn’t matter, but it matters for reasons that have little to do with our compulsion to control. What we do in the dash matters because the relationships we form—with God and one another—are going to help determine the kind of person we become: the kind of person who will choose to live eternally in the divine relationship of love, or not.


    Which, of course, is something we do have some control over. We are invited to have faith in Jesus; faith that through his life, death, and resurrection he has opened the way for us to enjoy that eternal life. But here’s the paradox: to exercise this kind of control, we are required to surrender control; to turn it over to God. Jesus puts it in terms of seeking first the kingdom of God (Mat. 6:33) and being willing to deny yourself and shoulder a cross (Matthew 116:24). It’s giving up control of your life and giving that control to God.


    Which, truthfully, is a little discouraging for someone like me, who apparently has trouble shouldering even short periods of inconvenience and confinement. But I’m working on it.

  • Treasures - March 6, 2025

    One of the things I really enjoy is walking around the neighborhood. A few years ago, as I started my walk, I stopped to talk to my across-the-street-neighbor. She was out pulling weeds and her little granddaughters were “helping” her arrange the rocks in her rock garden. As we talked, one of the grandkids came up and showed us a “crystal” she had found. Then another came and showed us a diamond.” And as I continued to talk to my neighbor, the visits became more frequent. There were shiny brown rocks, maroon rocks, burnt orange rocks (I asked them to find a green and yellow Baylor rock but they couldn’t), sharp rocks, round rocks, rocks that looked like eggs, little rocks, and big rocks. By the time I left, each of them had a big pile of “treasures” they had pulled out of the rock bed.


    These precious little girls reminded me of my kids. Although they’re mostly grown now, when my kids were little, the world was a new and amazing place full of treasures just waiting to be discovered.


    Eventually I continued on with my walk, and as I walked, I started to think. I must have walked by that rock bed hundreds of times and I can say without qualification that I never saw a single one of those treasures. And I started to wonder how many other “treasures” I was missing as I walked along.


    At some point, most of us lose that child-like wonder at the world. I’m not sure exactly why. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism, maybe our brains can only hold so much wonder and awe, maybe we just get bored with life. Whatever it is, a whole lot of us end up just plodding along in a world not of bright maroons and burnt oranges (and greens and yellows), but of blacks and whites, or shades of gray. We’ve got our eyes on all of the things that need to be accomplished that day, that week, that year, that lifetime. Even a walk around the neighborhood becomes a task to be completed instead of an opportunity to experience joy and wonder.


    Have you recently looked, I mean REALLY looked at a tree? Or a leaf? Or a bird? Or all the activity going on at the edge of a pond, or the color of the sky and how it changes during the course of a day?



    Here’s what I believe: God is love. And that love that IS God couldn’t be contained, so it created the universe, all of creation, and us. We are an expression, an out-working of that love, and as an out-working of that love, we are created to live in it, to be a part of it, to participate in it. And the creation around us is a part of that. It’s not something for us to use. It’s not something for us to trudge through so we can get things accomplished. It is an expression of God’s wondrous and amazing love for us. It’s a gift for us to enjoy, for us to revel in. When my dog, Ginger Ruth, is happy, she gets down on the ground and just rolls around. Maybe we ought to try that; just wallowing around in God’s creation.


    Or maybe we could all go rooting around in our neighbor’s gardens looking for treasures … or maybe not.

  • Whose Kingdom are you Building? - February 27

    Seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things [food, clothing, drink] will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own. Matthew 6:33-34


    This is one of the most important passages of scripture in the entire Bible. Let me say that again: This is one of the most important passages of scripture in the entire Bible. This is, in fact, my daily prayer: Help me to seek first your kingdom.


    In a way, this is what our faith is all about: seeking God’s kingdom instead of our own. I mean, that’s the basic choice we are faced with over and over and over again every day. Is this word, this action going to further my kingdom or God’s? Sometimes (often) we will try to convince ourselves we can do both. And we might occasionally be right. But most of the time we’re just fooling ourselves; it’s a choice: me or God.


    And in this scripture, Jesus tells us that if we make the right choice, God’s going to take care of us. In Paul’s letter to the Philippians, he goes even farther. When we give our cares, our worries, our lives to God in prayer, we receive God’s own peace (Phil. 4:7).


    We become what we think about. The more we focus our minds, our hearts, our words, and our actions on God, the more powerfully God’s Spirit is able to work within us, to inhabit us with God’s hope, peace, love, and joy. And the more God we’ve got in us, the more generous we’re necessarily going to be.


    And I think one of the ways we can keep our eyes on God is through generosity; through seeking to imitate our supremely giving God. The only gift that is too small is the one given when our eyes aren’t on God.


    So, whose kingdom do you spend the most time and energy building? Yours or Gods? PRAYER: Almighty God, help me today to fix my eyes, my hear, and my hands on you and your kingdom. Amen

  • Checklists - February 20, 2025

    Woe to you, teachers of the law…You give a tenth…But you have neglected the more important matters– justice, mercy and faithfulness. You should have practiced the latter, without neglecting the former. Matthew 23:23


    I really like to make checklists, and then check things off of them. Sometimes, I’ll even add something that I’ve already done to the list so I can check it off. I know, not healthy.


    The thing I like about checklists is, they represent a system of well-defined expectations. If I can just meet those expectations—check off the things on my checklist—I’ve mastered the system. I’ve done what I need to do, so now I can go watch cat videos on Youtube.


    Unfortunately, from this passage of scripture, it doesn’t sound like Jesus is a big fan of the checklist. I mean, that’s what the teachers of the law were doing. The Bible told them to give a tithe and so they did. And then they went and did the 1st Century equivalent of watching cat videos. But Jesus said it’s not that easy. Faith isn’t about just checking off boxes. It’s about love—for God and people—things like justice and mercy and faithfulness. And love doesn’t lend itself to check boxes. Love is a relationship. It’s a matter of the heart.


    Likewise, our giving isn’t a matter of checking things off a list. It isn’t a matter of picking some arbitrary number—5%, 10%–and letting that define what we’re going to give. Instead, as our love for Jesus and one another deepens, our giving should follow suit. As our devotion to Jesus deepens, the earthly things that have been holding our hearts should begin to loosen their hold. In short, a deepening of our faith journey should be accompanied by a deepening of our giving: of our time, our abilities, and our financial resources.


    Which, for people like me who like checklists, can be frustrating. But it’s just the way it is. It’s what love does.


    PRAYER: Loving God. Help me to see my faith as a relationship, not as a checklist. Amen.

  • Running on Rocks - February 13, 2025

    I went on a (for me) long run last Friday. I’m trying to work my way into better running fitness, so I’m trying to keep my runs pretty easy for the time being. Nice and flat and typically on some sort of pavement. I thought I had planned this run to meet just those parameters.


    I massively miscalculated. Instead of a nice, flat, easy run, I ended up having to run about 7 miles of it on a single-track trail. Now, I usually love trails. They lead you right through the middle of God’s creation, they’re usually softer and better on my joints. And that’s how this one started.


    But it didn’t stay that way. Pretty soon, the rocks started to appear. And almost instantly, my nice, comfortable, meditative jog morphed into a virtual hellscape of sharp, ankle-turning, pace-breaking, demon-spawned rock shards. Every once in a while, the trail would even out, beautifully winding between open meadow and oak motte, lulling me into a false sense of peace, only for the rock-knives to resurface in even greater numbers. Did I mention I was wearing slippery road-running shoes and most of the trail was wet? Did I mention that this was an out-and-back run, so when I turned around, I got to do it all over again?


    Like I said, I usually enjoy trails, but after just a few minutes of this torture, I began repeating to myself like a mantra, “I hate this trail, I hate this trial.” Which is strange, because this is a trail I have hiked—and loved—many times before. So, what was the difference?


    There are a number of possibilities. For one, even though I wasn’t running for time, tiptoeing through the rocks resulted in a considerably slower pace than I had been running before, and while that shouldn’t have frustrated me, it did.


    I was also a little scared. I was wearing the wrong shoes, and I’ve been known to twist my ankles while sitting. It took all my attention to keep from getting injured, so I wasn’t able to actually enjoy any of the amazing scenery.


    All of which probably boils down to this: it wasn’t what I was expecting. When I started, I had a picture in my mind of how the run was going to go. This wasn’t it. And I wasn’t able to adjust my expectations to fit the circumstances I found myself in.


    I do that a lot. I think most of us do. I tend to live in my head, dwelling on past mistakes (and infrequent glories) and looking into the future at all of the things on my calendar and to-do list. And if that’s where all of my attention is, it can’t be where I am right now. I’m living everywhere but the right now. And so, the challenges I face today become impediments to the day I thought I was going to have, rather than opportunities to experience what God has in store for me in the day that He has given me.


    Jesus talked about this. He said, “Don’t worry about tomorrow; tomorrow will worry about itself” (Matthew 6:34). Every day is a gift. Right now is a gift, if we can just tear our eyes off of the past and the future long enough to see it and to actually be in it.

  • God Hasn’t Stopped Whistlin’ - February 9, 2025

    I didn’t get to know my granddaddy on my mom’s side very well. He was a smoker and died from emphysema when I was pretty young. But I do remember one of his sayings. Whenever I would come to him with a complaint—like I’d stubbed my toe or skinned my knee—he’d say, “I’ve had worse places on my lip and never quit whistlin’.


    Nowadays I go to God pretty frequently with my complaints. And they’re usually (though not always) a little worse than a skinned knee. I’ve never actually heard God respond the way my granddaddy did, but sometimes I imagine God doing so.


    I mean, God’s been through a lot. God has been there through every war, every genocide, every natural disaster. God has been there every time God’s church twists the Gospel of love and pushes those who might want to meet Him away. God was there when humanity chose religious and political expediency over Himself, and nailed the Word made flesh to a cross.


    God was there when I turned away as a youth, and all the times I have fallen short of what God wants for me since then.


    God has experienced a lot more than chapped lips.


    And yet God has never quit whistlin’. God continues to love us. God continues to love me. Despite everything, God hasn’t given up on me, on us. That’s Grace.

  • Rolling Around - January 30, 2025

    I write about my dog Ginger Ruth a lot. She’s smart, sweet, goofy and wonderful. But she does have this one slightly annoying habit. She loves to roll in stinky stuff. Whenever we go for a walk, she will inevitably zero in on the worst-smelling thing she can find, and roll all around in it. Sometimes it’s a rotten banana peel, sometimes a squished toad. More than once, it’s been a partially decomposed animal. But whatever it is, it stinks. And, as a result, she stinks. As I said, she has a lot of good qualities, but personal hygiene isn’t among them.


    Of course, Ginger Ruth isn’t alone in doing this. Her predecessor, Piper Ruth, would do the same thing, although not with the same frequency or gusto. Her “brother” Buster Ruth … well, as the commercial says, he doesn’t always roll around in dead animals, but when he does, they’re really, really dead. I guess dogs are programmed to mask their scent so their prey will think they’re being stalked by rotten bananas. And while this may be handy in the wild, it’s not so great in the neighborhood … or the house.


    I know people who are a lot like Ginger Ruth. I’m one of them; people who are doing just fine till they get a sniff of that special thing and bolt off to it. For some people it’s alcohol or drugs, for some it’s worry, for some it’s approval, for some it’s obsession over money or work, for some, it’s chocolate chip cookies. For me, it is or has been pretty much all of those things at one time or another. We know that stuff stinks. And, unlike Ginger Ruth, we also know that stuff is going go make us (and those around us) miserable. But we bolt off anyway. We can’t seem to stop ourselves. So why do we do that?


    I think we do it for some of the same reason Ginger Ruth rolls in rotten banana peels and squished toads: it’s in our nature. I believe we are born with a lack. The French philosopher Paschal called it a God-shaped hole in the soul. We sense that emptiness and our natural, instinctive reaction is to try to fill it by ourselves—with drugs, power, money, worry, acclaim, work, other people, chocolate chip cookies. And, I think we figure out pretty quickly that while some of those things might seem to fill the void for a while, none of them ever lasts. The emptiness always comes back. But we can’t seem to help ourselves. We realize the best we can ever really do is to distract ourselves, but we figure that’s at least something. So, we do—we fill up our days with music and noise and activity worry and more activity and more worry. We obsess over our health or our kids or our house or our jobs, all the while hoping against hope that the void will go away, or at least be shut up for a while. We roll around in a bunch of stuff that, if we could look at it from God’s perspective, just stinks. And we get the stink all over us.


    But, unlike dogs, that’s not how God created us to live. God knows, and in our better moments we know as well, that the God-shaped hole can only really be filled one way, and that’s with God—by giving up our efforts, by shutting of the noise, by stopping with the attempts at distraction—by sitting in the silence and inviting God in.


    I would like to say this is an easy thing to do. And, in one sense, it is. It’s as easy as saying “yes” to a direct, loving, eternal relationship with God made possible through Jesus. But for the vast majority of us, it doesn’t end there, because regardless of what we might believe in our heads, we’ve got a lifetime of bad habits to break. We’ve got a lifetime of rolling around in smelly stuff to undo if we’re going to really live in God’s love; if we’re going to live the sort of lives we were created to live. And the hard truth is that this takes work. It takes discipline. It means taking seriously spiritual practices like prayer and silence and service to allow God to conform us over time into the image of Jesus.


    I suppose I could break Ginger Ruth from the habit of rolling in bad-smelling stuff, but she enjoys it sooo much. I suppose if Ginger somehow realized what she was doing was causing problems and asked me to help her stop, I would. But it wouldn’t be a quick process. It would take effort and patience on both our parts.

    Thankfully, God doesn’t want to let us go. God is calling to each one of us right now and inviting us, offering to help every one of us that’s willing to try. We’ve just got to be willing to ask, and to try . . . and then, to put in the work.

  • Taking Down the Lights - January 23, 2025

    I’m taking down the Christmas lights. Well, not at this moment. I mean, it’s 25 degrees out there and I’m not crazy. But I have been taking them down ever since Epiphany. And as I was doing so yesterday, on my tiptoes with one foot on a tree branch and the other on a slightly unstable ladder, I reflected on the fact that taking down the lights isn’t nearly as fun as putting them up.


    Not that either occupation is especially thrilling. But when I’m putting the lights up, I’m anticipating the final result. I’m anticipating the beauty. I’m anticipating the symbolic light in the darkness. I’m excited.


    On the other hand, when I’m taking the lights down, all I’m anticipating is eventually being done. I’m anticipating getting to lug several large storage containers up another ladder and into the attic. It’s pretty much a drag.


    As a matter of fact, the whole Christmas season can be the same way if I let it. I love the anticipation of the presents, the food, the time with family … and of course, celebrating Jesus’ birth. But sometimes when it’s done, I’m like, “That’s it?”


    And, to tell you the truth, a lot of the time that’s how I live my life: anywhere but in the present. I spend a lot of time anticipating and planning for things. Some I’m excited about and some I’d just as soon not be involved with. I put a lot of energy and time into the preparation; a lot of myself. And then, when it’s over, well … it’s over. Time to move on to the next thing. Time to clean up. Time to put away the boxes (or the files, or the excitement) and move on to the next thing.


    That’s not how it’s supposed to be. Jesus was pretty clear in the Sermon on the Mount that we shouldn’t be worrying about (or for that matter glorifying) tomorrow. It’ll take care of itself. There’s plenty for us to experience right now, today (Matthew 6:24). It’s called living in the present and it isn’t just a Jesus thing. Most authentic faith traditions recommend it.


    And when you think about it, there’s one very good reason. Right now is all we’ve got. That’s the way time works. The past is gone and the future may or may not come and if it does, we have no idea what it’s actually going to bring. So, whether the lights are still waiting to be taken down, let’s live in right now.

  • Happy New Year - January 2, 2025

    We’ve just entered a new year. We have an opportunity to reflect on the year that’s passed, and to anticipate the one that’s ahead. It’s a weird time; an in-between time. The trendy churchy term for it is “liminal space:” a transitional phase of being in-between what was and what is to come.


    I think the reason the church (or at least my United Methodist tribe) has latched on to a term for this in-between-ness is because it’s the reality we’re living in. With the disaffiliation of so many formerly United Methodist churches over the last several years, our denominational reality is different. We can’t go back to the way things were, and yet we don’t have a clear understanding of what our future looks like.


    On top of (or maybe as a part of) this is our overall cultural shift to a post-Christendom world. Whether we like it or not, Sundays (and Wednesday nights) are no longer off-limits for non-church-related activities. Youth sports meets and tournaments are all weekend affairs, usually somewhere far, far away. Fewer people are being raised in the church and, given what many experienced growing up in the church, as well as the reduced social pressure to participate in church, many who were raised in a faith tradition see no reason to continue. The church can no longer rely on people just showing up on Sundays at the church-house because it’s what everyone does.


    As I look back on this last year, there were definitely some good times. As I face the reality that I’m not getting any younger, there’s a part of me that would like to just freeze time—maybe just replay 2024. But I know that isn’t how it works. The good old days are just that: old. Yet, as an active participant in my faith tradition, I feel the constant temptation to try and turn back the clock to the “good ol’ days;” to somehow force things to be the way they were.


    The fact is, I don’t like uncertainty. I don’t like not knowing what the future holds. I would like to be able to engage in long-range planning for the future of my church based on the assumption I can just project the past into the future. But, like the investment disclaimers say, past performance is no guarantee of future returns. And that is especially true right now in the church.


    But, as uncomfortable as all this is, I’m not sure it’s entirely bad … or even at all bad. For one thing, I’m not sure there really is such a thing as “the good ol’ days.” Christianity started out as a counter-cultural movement opposed to the evil, injustice, and oppression of the governing politics and religion of the day. The marriage of religion and political power that characterized Christendom in the global West for the last few hundred years was antithetical to Christianity’s origin, and the loving servant-hood of its originator.

    The fact is, the past is the past, and there’s no going back. And I’m not sure that’s a bad thing. It’s also a fact that the future is uncertain. It is going to involve a lot of change; maybe changing what it means to be the church. And that’s going to involve some work. But, again, maybe that’s not such a bad thing.


    God knows what the future holds. I certainly don’t. So, I guess in this new year, I’ll just have to trust in that, and do my best to remain faithful to whatever God’s calling me to do to help make it happen. How about you?

  • Pulling Weeds - January 17, 2025

    I’m trying to get the Bermuda grass out of my yard. Now, I’m pretty sure the yard didn’t start out as Bermuda, but over the years, with watering restrictions and the slow deterioration of the sprinkler system, most of the St. Augustine has died off. In the meantime, the coastal Bermuda from our neighbor’s yard has slowly migrated over to ours.


    Last year I sowed some wildflower seeds in the front yard, in large part to reduce our dependence on having to water in light of current and future water limitations. Of course, it rained almost constantly until about mid-June. The flowers did great, but because we held off on mowing to allow the flowers to seed out, it became apparent just how thoroughly and how far the coastal had encroached.


    So now, I’m trying to get rid of the “weeds.” I can’t use herbicide because 1) it’s poison; and 2) it would kill everything else. So, I’m trying to get rid of the weeds by hand. Now, I know some of you are laughing right now. And you’re probably right. It’s impossible to eradicate Bermuda once it’s established. Who knows how many millions of seeds are just waiting to sprout. And even if there weren’t any seeds, even the tiniest bit of root left behind will grow a new plant. But I’m still going to try.


    And here’s my plan. Instead of trying to do it all at once, I’m clearing just a little bit, every day. And I figure even if I manage to do the whole yard before the growing season starts back up, a lot of the weeds will grow back from the seeds and roots. So, I’m planning on doing the same thing next year, hoping that my work from this year will make it quicker and easier. And then I’ll do the same thing the next year, and the year after that, maybe forever (or at least as long as I’m here), with the hope that each time, the flowers will come back stronger, and the weeds will be fewer.


    And I think that’s kind of how it is in our faith lives. At least in mine. I find that slow and steady does actually tend to win the race. Instead of tying my spiritual health to one big worship experience a week (or, in my past life, every few weeks), I try to make sure and spend some time every day—even if some day’s it’s just a little—getting close to God in study, devotion, meditation, and prayer. Now, of course, some days I forget or, more often, I decide I just don’t have time. And those days tend to be my bad days. But since it’s not a huge obligation, and since I’m trying to do it every day, I don’t feel crushed or hopeless if I miss a day. I just acknowledge it, ask for forgiveness (which I know I’ve already got) and move on to the next day.


    And my hope is much the same as with my front yard. I don’t expect miracles (although sometimes they happen). I don’t expect to suddenly become Mother Teresa. I just hope to gradually become more who I was created to be. And I don’t expect that I’ll ever be completely done. Especially given my starting point, there’s always going to be room to grow. But I do expect to grow; to mature, so that next year I’ll be a little closer, and the year after that, and the year after that.


    Of course, there’s a part of me that wishes it didn’t work like that. I wish I could magically transform my yard into a wildflower utopia. I wish I could suddenly become a saint. And, of course, God can do anything. But that’s not where I’m putting my hope. I’m putting my hope in the little, daily victories.


    Now, back to clearing the weeds.

  • Thief - January 9, 2025

    Thief!


    My dog Buster Ruth is a thief. Whenever I leave our bedroom door open, he will sneak in (and I do mean sneak) and steal a pair of socks. If there aren’t any socks, he’ll find some other article of clothing lying on the floor which, at least on my side of the room, is pretty easy.


    It works the same way with the pantry. If the door is left even the slightest bit ajar, he’ll get in there. For some reason, he really likes the freeze-dried mushrooms and tomatoes. Same for the recycling. If we let the recycling can get too full, especially with cardboard, he’ll pull some out. The otherr night, we left the doors under the sinks open to keep the pipes from freezing. Yesterday afternoon, I found several packages of wet-wipes, a scouring pad, and an assortment of cleaning products missing.


    And here’s the interesting thing. He takes all of these things to the same place, right outside our back door. I said he was a thief, I didn’t say he was a smart one. And even more interesting, except for the cardboard, which he chews into a million tiny, impossible-to-clean-up pieces, he leaves everything intact. He apparently just enjoys the act of absconding with stuff.


    Which reminds me of me. Much of my early life was dedicated to seeing how much I could get away with. I’m not proud of it, but I spent my whole junior year of high school grounded. My senior year would probably have been the same, but I think I finally just wore my parents down.


    And I think most of us do something similar with our heavenly Parent. I know I still do. We know the rules. Jesus was very clear, and they’re pretty simple: love God and love people. Yet we play all kinds of games in our heads to get around them. Like the guy in the Gospels, we ask God, “who is my neighbor,” desperately hoping it isn’t the obnoxious neighbor who starts up the leaf blower at 6:00 AM, or the guy who cut me off in traffic last week, or the person starving to death on the other side of the world. We think, “maybe if I do it just this once, no one will notice; it will be ok.”


    Unfortunately (or fortunately), unlike my parents—who never did figure out everything I did to push the boundaries—God knows. And God grieves. He grieves for the same reason our earthly parents grieve when we do stupid things. The rules aren’t just random, made-up things foisted upon us to make our lives miserable. They are there for our own good. In the case of God’s rules, they actually tell us who we are and help us to live out that true identity as beloved children created in the image of a God whose very essence is love.


    And so, as I was returning the cleaning products to their proper place, and cleaning up the last of the cardboard, I tried explaining all of this to Buster. And his response was pretty much like mine to God: that vacant, 1,000 yard stare. But at least when I was done, Buster licked my hand. Do you think he gets it better than me?

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