After church on Sunday, Kirsten had some words of advice for me. “Don’t ask open-ended questions.” You see, last Sunday I was responsible for the children’s sermon. It only took one question—“What’s some of the stuff you see on the news?”—for things to descend into chaos. I should know better. I was, after all, a lawyer for almost 30 years. You never ask a potentially hostile witness an open-ended question. And as I sat there last Sunday under a barrage of wildly varied and only moderately responsive responses, I was convinced that some of those kids were downright hostile.

Kirsten and I are getting bikes for Christmas and last Friday we were getting fitted. I had bought a bike that, according to my height, was a perfect fit. However, the guy who was doing the fitting kept asking questions like, “how tall are you, again?” and “how much lift in those shoes?”. He eventually went to get the bike mechanic guy, who looked at me on the bike for about a second and in a very prosaic way said, “You’re a T-Rex with a beard.” Apparently, I have very short arms.

I’m in a play. Four words I never thought I’d say. It’s Salado’s annual “Christmas Carol” performed at the Tablerock amphitheater. I’m pretty sure the last time I was in a play was when I played a camel in the St. Louis Catholic School production of the nativity play when I was in third grade—an experience that didn’t exactly deepen my devotion to theatrical performance.

Last Sunday my sermon was on Thanksgiving (duh?), and as a joke, I noted how I was thankful that both the Cowboys and the Longhorns had won their football games, an occurrence which in recent years has been pretty hard to come by. In fact, until this year, it had become so rare that I had pretty much given up hope of ever seeing the “glory days” again. And, in saying that, I am fully aware that last weekend might just be a blip on the radar … that my hope of future glory for my football teams might well be misplaced.

Have you ever known something but not known it? Kirsten and I were having dinner last week and I turned to her and said, “So, I guess you’re off work next week?” Kirsten is a teacher and Thanksgiving is this week which, in Round Rock, means the teachers and kids get the week off. No big deal, right? Except that until that moment, I hadn’t really “known” that Thanksgiving was already practically here. It’s like the data was there, and so some submerged part of my brain took the data, processed it, and passed the processed data on to my mouth, without my conscious mind ever getting involved in the process. And then—bam—once I’d said it, I realized it was true. Maybe I’d been repressing it. Who knows? But now the truth was out. OH MY GOSH! THANKSGIVING IS ALREADY HERE!

This weekend I started putting up the Christmas lights in our front yard. And as I did so, I was reminded of when I was a kid growing up in Austin. A week or 2 AFTER Thanksgiving, the whole family would go to the Optimist Christmas Tree lot at the intersection of Anderson Ln and Burnet Rd. We would search and search in the dark, with the minimal aid of some scattered strings of weak yellow incandescent lights, until we found just the right tree. Sometimes it would be cold and the lot would be serving hot chocolate (I might be conflating that part with a Hallmark movie). In any case, I loved picking out the tree.

Yesterday was a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day! Now, any of you who heard my sermon on Sunday might find that statement ironic. This last Sunday we started a new sermon series entitled “Thankful.” As you might guess, it’s all about practicing gratitude.

I just got back from a week-long mission to Belize. I’ll skip all the rapturous words about how awesome it was. It was. For right now, I want to focus on one of our many encounters with God.

Several years ago I was driving with my parents. Among the many topics we discussed was my grandmother on my dad’s side. She had five children and if you’ve met any of them, you know that “energetic” and “handful” hardly begins to describe them. The family would attend church every Sunday and would always arrive early. The younger kids would inevitably get a little rambunctious with boredom. They would complain and ask how long until Mass started. And I love my grandmother’s response. She would tell them to contemplate the length of eternity. Isn’t that awesome?

One of the cool things about my job is that I occasionally get to work from home. And, as a result, I get to spend some quality time with my pets. One of those was named Francisco Grande (ooh, that’s fun to say). Francisco was a very needy cat. If there was a lap in the vicinity, he could be counted on to hop into it and demand some attention.

And usually, after getting some scratches behind the ears or under the chin, Francisco Grande would start to clean himself. That was his go-to move whenever he reached a certain level of stimulation.

And while I like to think of myself as a little more evolved than Francisco, I think a lot of us have our own go-to moves when things get to be too much. For some people, it’s drinking—that’s what it used to be for me. For some, it’s drugs—been there, done that too. For others, it’s food (one of my current go-to moves). For others it’s withdrawal or anger or lashing out. For some, it’s condemning others—”It’s all their fault”—or self-condemnation—”It’s all my fault.”

And here’s where I think the comparison to Francisco Grande is especially apt, because when we do these things, we’re not usually acting out of our higher thought processes—the ones that set us apart from cats. We don’t sit down and think, “OK, I’m really stressed out, my life is a mess, I’m not sure how I’m going to pay the bills, and the world I grew up in and thought I knew seems to be dissolving before my very eyes, so I’m going to sit on the couch and eat an entire box of girl scout cookies while binge watching all of the “Lord of the Rings” movies (PURELY hypothetical). No, we just do it. It just sort of happens. We may actually think about it, but the older, more instinctive parts of our brains don’t have much trouble beating down the ol’ prefrontal cortex.

All of us, in one form or another, have developed largely unconscious defense mechanisms to help us deal with the stresses of life. Some of these may be helpful, but unfortunately, a whole lot of them aren’t. The short-term fix often ends up making things worse in the long term.

And this is where God comes in. God loves us and is interested in our long-term joy and peace. Through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, God offers us a new sort of life—a life not dominated by stress and hurry and worry and all the defense mechanisms we’ve created to deal with them, but instead a life of joy, hope and peace, lived bathed in God’s love for us, radiating that love to all those around us.

Now, as you might have picked up from my purely hypothetical example above, for most of us, it’s not an instantaneous thing. It’s a process. I’m a work in progress.

We’re all works in progress. But progress is the key. In Methodism we call it sanctification; growing more and more into the image of Jesus. And it doesn’t just happen. It takes intentionality on our part: things like worship, prayer, meditation, service, giving. It’s in seeking to get closer to God that we get closer to God. It’s in doing the things God does that we become more like God. And as we progress towards that goal, the stress is less; there’s less hurry and worry. There’s less need for those go-to, instinctive defense mechanisms.

I loved Francisco Grande. I loved it when he would sit on my lap. I just don’t want to be like him when I grow up.

I attended a church conference last week. Specifically, the ShareChurch Leadership Institute in Kansas City. I have shared before how I dread these events. Inevitably, I am presented with the amazing and innovative and incredibly successful ways other pastors and congregations are advancing God’s kingdom. And, in the process, I am confronted with my abject failure. At least that’s what it feels like.

Last Saturday, Kirsten and I had the opportunity to share lunch with our dear friend Priscilla. Priscilla is one of my very favorite people. She’s one of those people who just can’t help but help other people. You may know someone like her. Over the course of her life, she has fostered over 100 kids. She saw that her community needed a daycare so she created one, running it for years and, in the process, becoming a second mother to countless kids in the community, many of whom were in desperate need of a positive adult presence in their lives. And I could go on and on. She’s just an amazing person.

Back during the summer (which I can thankfully now refer to in the past tense … jinx), I took an extended hiking trip.  And one of the many interesting things about that trip is that I woke up every morning with a new song in my head. That by itself wasn’t that amazing. But what was amazing is that each song related in some way with that day. I’ve forgotten most of the songs and how they got lived out during the course of the day’s walk. But, for example, I do remember waking up to David Crowder’s “Good

God Almighty,” which was pretty appropriate for the awe-inspiring scenery on tap that day.

I also remember the day I woke up with Crowder’s “Forgiven” stuck in my head. At that point, I was a little worried because the connection between the songs I woke up with and the nature of the hikes I was hiking was becoming pretty clear. I was pretty sure I was about to do something that would require forgiveness from someone. But, for most of the morning, I managed to avoid any major moral failures.

But then, around noon, it was as if I had been asleep but suddenly woke up and found myself in a wasteland. It had been a forest, but now almost all the trees were dead. It wasn’t fire; the trees weren’t burned. In fact, most of them were still standing (though the ones that weren’t made the hiking pretty frustrating). I suspected and later confirmed that it was pine borer beetles. I had heard about them and had heard that they were a problem, but I had never imagined, much less seen anything like the devastation of that former forest.

Now, I’m one of those people my cousin Terry refers to as a “namby pamb” (from the Latin nambinus pambino meaning of soft mind and heart). I believe that that the data indicating our climate is heating up is real, and I believe the 99.9% of peer-reviewed articles drawing a connection between climate change and human beings’ release of greenhouse gasses into the atmosphere. (I’m saying this not to invite debate but so you’ll understand the rest of my story.)

So, as I stood there, dumbfounded, staring at a hellscape that until that moment I could not have imagined, I reflected on how it had happened. The folks who study these sorts of things have concluded that the beetles have always been there in the woods—they aren’t an invasive species. Back in the day, the beetles would bore into and kill a certain number of trees, which would then decompose, enriching the soil for future trees. Circle of life sort of thing.

However, most of the beetles would die off during the winter, when temperatures got below -20. But in the last few decades, the winter temperatures haven’t been going that low nearly as often as in the past. And, on top of that, the warm periods during which the beetles reproduce have been getting longer. So, what used to be one reproductive cycle is now 2 or 3. Thus, the beetle population has exploded, leading to the death of not just a tree here and a tree there, but entire forests. (Which, if you’ve been watching the news, is a lot of what’s behind the massive forest fires that have been raging the last few years.)

And so, as I stood there, transfixed by the carnage, I got mad. I got mad at all the people who had participated in the death of this forest. I got really mad. But, after a few minutes of righteous indignation, I did the mature thing. I asked God to forgive all those bad, bad people for this atrocity.

And then I remembered the song that had been bouncing around in my head all morning. And I realized I was one of those people. I started weeping and couldn’t stop.

There’s a line from that song that goes, “I’m the one who held the nail, It was cold between my fingertips ….” I tend to want to blame others for what’s wrong in the world … and what’s wrong with me for that matter. But as I stood there, I realized I was the one holding the nail. So, even though it was a pain with the backpack on, I knelt down and asked for forgiveness not just for all the other bad, bad people, but for me too.

And then another line from the song entered my mind: “God, I fall down to my knees, With a hammer in my hand, You look at me, arms open.” I realized that I was already forgiven. For my contribution to the death of that forest, and for all the other stupid, destructive, and downright evil things I’ve done in my life.

As I was preparing for Bible study last week a question occurred to me, which I posed to the class: If I’ve already been forgiven, why does Jesus instruct me to pray for forgiveness as part of the model prayer he gave his followers (forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us)? Someone immediately piped up with, “Because we need to repent.” And he was right. It’s important that we regularly (like, every day) examine the things we’ve done (and the one’s we’re doing) to determine whether they embody the love God has for us as His beloved children, and for the world he created. We don’t do this to shame ourselves or beat ourselves up. We do it so we can lay before Him those things that don’t, and ask Him to change us so we won’t do them anymore.

The New Life that Jesus has made available to his followers is a life of constant, never-ending growth into His image. And, as Jesus says, for that growth to occur, some things have to be trimmed away (John 15:1-11). Only then can we bear the sort of fruit we were created for (eg, love, joy, peace, patience, kindness … Galatians 5:22-23).

All of which raises a very important question. Should I be worried that I can’t seem to get the theme from “Titanic” out of my head this morning?

I’m sitting outside this morning, and it feels wonderful. My watch says it’s 75 degrees but it feels almost cold compared to the last several months of convection broil. There are even some clouds in the sky, although I’m not yet willing to go so far as to expect actual rain. But I can finally, after what seems like an eternity, begin to accept that things are going to change.

I’ve been working on my sermon for this Sunday. It’s about change; how Jesus was changed—transfigured—after going on a little hiking trip with a few of his followers up on a mountain (Mark 9:2-8). I love that story. It is so rich with imagery and meaning. Jesus is transformed, his clothes are so bright they practically glow, and God’s voice booms out, “This is my Son, the beloved. Listen to him.” I think of this change in Jesus from the humble carpenter-turned-itinerant-preacher to a figure of glory and light as both a revelation of who he has always been as the 2nd person of the Holy Trinity, as well as a revelation of who he will become after his resurrection.

And I believe that through his life, death, and resurrection, Jesus has enabled us to be changed as well; to be transformed to become more and more like he was at the top of that mountain. Through the gift of God’s Spirit living within us, those of us who put our trust in Jesus have the ability to live what Jesus referred to as new, born-again, abundant, or eternal life; a life lived not for ourselves, but for God and for others. A life which, paradoxically, we experience as deeper and more profound and more fulfilling the less we live it for ourselves. It’s a life in which, as St. Paul said in his letter to the Philippians, we “shine like stars in the world” (Philippians 2:15) (note: not like the sun in the Texas Summer); where we can shine kind of like Jesus did up on that mountain.

Have you ever met one of those people? A person who shines? If you have, you know what I’m talking about. When you meet someone like that, you just feel better—more alive. And that’s because you’re experiencing something like those disciples experienced on that mountain. You’re being given a glimpse of real life—life how we were created to live it—new life.

And the thing is, as rare as it is for most of us to experience that shine, it’s actually what we were all created to enjoy. It’s how we were all created to live. So, next time you meet one of those people, take the opportunity to bask a little in the shine. Maybe even absorb a little for yourself. Who knows, maybe someday, folks will be basking in yours.

This Labor Day morning, I’m sitting under some trees down by the river. There are kids swinging and playing and swimming, and adults chasing them around trying to get them to behave. People are enjoying lunch (and a few up at the Barrow enjoying some beverages as well). It’s almost like a Norman Rockwell painting … except for the dying trees.

Last night, after an entire Summer without rain, we finally got some. And even if I hadn’t seen the almost invisible sprinkles falling down, or the small and almost immediately absorbed puddles, or smelled the rich, organic smell of the newly-but-barely-watered earth, I would have known that it had rained. And that’s because my dog, Ginger Ruth, went and hid in our bathroom closet. Ginger doesn’t like the thunder, or even the sound of rain on the roof. She’s also afraid of our Roomba. I like to call her our nervous Nelly.

A few months back I went on a backpacking trip through northern New Mexico. My plan was to use my phone’s voice-to-text capability to memorialize all of the theologically profound revelations the trail would inevitably bestow upon me.

Summer’s Over! Well, not quite. The meteorologists will tell you we’ve got about 2 weeks till the end of meteorological Summer (August 31). The astronomers will tell you it isn’t over until September 21st. And, if Summer were really over, someone forgot to tell whoever’s in charge of the blast furnace that keeps hitting me every time I step outside.

This last weekend I was blessed to see one of my dear friends get ordained. It was the culmination of a long road of devotion and faithfulness. Seeing her joy and excitement afterwards was one of the highlights of my life.

As part of my mountain adventure last month, Kirsten and I went to Yosemite. The trip was filled with way too much awesomeness to address it all in one post. But this morning I’m thinking of a particular moment of the trip. It was our last day there and Kirsten and I were hiking in the Mariposa Grove of Giant Sequoias when we came upon the “Clothespin Tree.” The attached picture doesn’t nearly do it justice. For one thing, the tree is absolutely huge; bigger than any other tree I’ve ever seen (except some of the other Sequoias). But the really incredible thing is that it gets its name from the clothespin shaped hole running right through it.

“Life is what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans.” This saying is often attributed to John Lennon but it goes back at least to the Biblical book of Proverbs: “In their hearts humans plan their course, but the Lord establishes their steps.”

I am finally back from my extended vacation/retreat. I learned a lot. And one of the lessons that came though the loudest and clearest was this: be careful what you ask for.

Several years back, when we were living in Jarrell, we started taking our dogs to a guy named Rick whenever we would go out of town. Now, Rick is an interesting guy. He’s really into dogs; he’s sort of a dog whisperer. And he’s also pretty honest, some might say blunt, about their behavior. In fact, Rick is almost unique in my experience for his level of honesty/bluntness.

"3-D Cameras!!!” That’s what the guy said.

One of my favorite stories from my childhood is about the time we took a two-week family vacation to California. There were 7 of us and we had one of those big, 15-passenger vans. To save money, we took the back seat out, built a little platform so the luggage could go underneath and people on top, and put a pop-up tent on the roof. We had plenty of room for everyone to sleep, so we stayed in RV parks pretty much the whole time.

It was a great trip. We went to Disneyland, Universal Studios, Knotts Berry Farm, Sea World, and several different beaches. And it wasn’t until the second week of the vacation that we started to notice the smell. At first, it was pretty faint but as time wore on, it got stronger and stronger. We started to wonder whether something had died in the van, the smell was so bad. But we figured that couldn’t be it, because the smell seemed to come and go.

Then, one day, after one of our beach excursions, a couple of my siblings got in a fight. And in a masterstroke of sibling conflict resolution, the youngest, Philip, said, “You better stop it, or I’m going to put my foot odor on you!” Turns out that was the smell.

Philip was about 5 at the time, the youngest of 5 siblings. Turns out my mother thought he was bathing with my dad and my dad thought he was bathing with my mother. So, for most of the 2 weeks, he hadn’t been bathing at all.

In some ways, we’re all a little bit like my little brother Philbert. If left to ourselves, we have a tendency to get a little rank. Without a boss holding us accountable to make sure the work’s getting done, it might not get done, or done well, or done on time. Without Kirsten to subtly remind me of some of my duties around the house, I might be inclined to just sit on the couch and doomscroll on my phone (wait, that IS what I do).

And it’s the same with our spiritual lives. Without someone (or someones) to keep us accountable, our spiritual lives can pretty easily stagnate (and maybe even start to stink). And no matter how brilliant the preacher, a sermon a few times a month isn’t going to cut it. It takes people who know you, who love you, and who you can trust to be honest about where you’re growing and where you need to grow; people with whom you can share your successes as well as your failures.  

This idea of spiritual accountability is central to the growth and success of the Methodist movement. John Wesley, the founder of Methodism, attributed the success of his spiritual renewal movement to what he called “class meetings” and “bands,” Christian accountability groups. I’m involved in the Walk to Emmaus ministry, which has accountability groups that are intended to serve the same purpose as Wesley’s class meetings and bands. And at my church, we’ve recently started up a few of these groups, with the same idea in mind. One of the core truths I’ve come to believe since becoming a Christian is that no matter how much I wish it were otherwise, we can’t do life on our own. We need help. We need help from God, for sure. But we also need help from one another. As people created in the image of relational God, we are hardwired for relationship; we need one another to point one another back towards God. And hopefully, as we do so, we’ll be able to manage the stinkiness.

I moved to Washington state in 1987. That’s where I went to law school, met my wife Kirsten, and where we started raising our kids. It was a great place, if you could ignore the almost constant clouds and drizzle, which we couldn’t. Eventually, when the kids were getting to school age, we decided to move back home (for me) to the Austin area. And one of the big draws of that move was the proximity of my parents. When we were in Washington, the kids may have gotten to see my folks once every couple of years. But being back home, they got to see them all the time.

Several years ago, Kirsten and I were dogsitting for my daughter, looking after her then-puppy Meeko.

And, at first, Meeko had a hard time. She was still a puppy and hadn’t yet had much experience of other dogs. So, when she got to our house, she was scared. She’d find a place to hide, or get stuck in a corner, and just bark at our dogs. Especially Ginger Ruth.

At the time, Ginger Ruth was also a puppy. And, if Ginger Ruth could pray, Meeko would have been the answer to her prayers. At the time, we had 2 other dogs who were 14 and 10 years old respectively. They weren’t much into playing. So, when Ginger Ruth saw Meeko, you could see the excitement in her little puppy eyes as she started chasing Miko around, inviting her to play. But, of course, this just freaked out Meeko even more. She ran away more and hid more and barked more. She was too scared to enjoy the fun and play that Ginger offered.

Eventually, Ginger Ruth wore Meeko down. Within a day, it was almost impossible to keep them apart. When our daughter came to pick up Meeko, it was traumatic for both dogs.

In reflecting on that experience, I can relate to Meeko. Most of my life, I’ve been scared. I’ve got my life pretty well laid out. It may not be perfect, it may not be the greatest life ever, but at least it’s mine. I know it, I’m familiar with it. But Jesus is calling me into a different kind of life. It’s as if I’ve been invited away from my familiar domain to another place, and just like Ginger Ruth, Jesus is chasing me around, promising something so much better than I can even imagine: a life lived in divine love, a life of joy and peace, patience and kindness; a life lived not for myself and my narrow conception of my self-interest, but a life lived for God and others. Jesus wants to play, but, like Meeko, I’m too scared, so I try to hide under the dining room table, or in a corner of the backyard, and bark at him, telling him all the reasons why I can’t do what he’s asking.

Thankfully, it’s not always like that. Every once in a while, I forget my fear and immerse myself in Jesus’ divine love. But here’s where Meeko’s got one up on me. Because once Meeko and Ginger Ruth became friends, they played together pretty much every waking moment. But I keep retreating. My movement isn’t into full trust and friendship and play. It’s more of a two-steps-forward-one-step back sort of thing. I feel as if I am making progress, but it’s not anywhere near as quick as I want.

And that’s frustrating, because now, having begun to experience the new sort of life Jesus promises, I have a sense of what I’m missing. I have a sense of what’s waiting, just on the other side of the fear. Yet the fear remains. Unlike with Meeko, it keeps coming back. I’m not sure there’s a quick fix or an easy answer. I’ll keep praying and meditating and working to move past the fear. But maybe I ought to also just resolve to be a little more like Meeko.

I write in pencil, which is interesting. It seems like I’ve come full circle. I remember when I was in first grade using one of those jumbo yellow Ticonderoga pencils and a Big Chief tablet to learn the alphabet (and I remember a little later, when I was given access to the thin pencils, launching them into the ceiling tiles). But by the time I got to middle school, I was using the blue bic ballpoint pen. Pencils were for little kids.

A few years ago, Kirsten and I went on a hike. She found a place out on lake Belton that we hadn’t been to before and we headed out. The park was in the Leon river bottom, right downstream of the dam. And, being down in that river bottom, there were trees. Lots of tress. And for some reason, I was drawn to the trees as we walked. It seemed like every time we’d reach a turn in the path, another spectacular tree would just appear, and then another, and then another.

I had the opportunity to preach at my “home” church this last Sunday. It was wonderful. I loved pretty much every minute of it and am so incredibly thankful for the opportunity.

A couple of Fridays ago I went on a pretty long hike. And it was utterly miserable. The temperature got up over 90 and with the humidity, it felt like it was over 100. Which wasn’t great, but that’s not the worst part. The worst part wass that I wasn’t prepared. I didn’t drink enough water, I was trying to walk too fast (in order to avoid the forecasted late-afternoon storms which I later prayed would materialize), I didn’t bring any electrolytes. All of which culminated in me having to stop and just lay down in the shade on the side of the trail for a while. When I finally got back to the car, it took me about 10 minutes to actually get in because I was cramping so much. And, for the next several days, my muscles were so sore it hurt to get out of a chair.

This last Friday, I went on another hike. This one was longer, but it was wonderful. Admittedly, the temperature was better, and it was cloudy (but still very humid) all day. I was careful to drink LOTS of water and electrolytes. I enjoyed the exuberant abundance of the wildflowers and got to spend some quality time with God. My feet were a little sore when I got done, but my muscles felt fine. 

The difference? Preparation.

I find much the same thing in my spiritual life. I have had a fair number of times in my life that went kind of like that first hike. The heat gets turned up: work starts to pile up, social obligations start to pile up—things that I should have foreseen but didn’t. And I’m not ready. I haven’t been spending quality time with God. I haven’t been seeking to draw closer to God in prayer and meditation. And so, I try to address things out of my own power and ability, ending up exhausted, depressed, and demoralized.

And then, there are the times like the second hike; times when I’ve learned my lesson (which it seems I have to keep learning and relearning). Difficult things happen, but I’m prepared. I have been getting my spiritual electrolytes by spending time in God’s presence, and so I am able to address the difficulties not out of my own resources, but out of God’s. I’m able to find joy where before I would only find desolation; peace where before there would be nothing but confusion.

It’s the Boy Scout motto: be prepared. And it’s wise. Because you never know. You never know what tomorrow—much less today—will bring. You may think to yourself, “I’ve got time, I’ll get to it tomorrow.” But between right now and tomorrow, a lot can happen. Jesus’ little brother James says this: “Draw near to God and He will draw near to you” (James 4:8). And it’s true.

But here’s the thing. Spending time with God isn’t just an insurance policy. It’s not just a comfort in times of distress. It’s what we were made for ALL the time. God loved us into existence for the sole purpose of enabling us to live as a part of that love, in union with God. Spending time in God’s presence isn’t a duty or a chore. It’s like eating smoked brisket, potato salad, and iced tea. It’s like being out on the trail, turning a corner, and seeing a field of wildflowers. It’s who—and where—we were created to be.

My Dog Buster Ruth is in the back yard barking again. It’s developing into a bad habit. Now, of course, it’s not as if he doesn’t have good reason. I mean, our yard and the surrounding environs are regularly visited by vicious, bloodthirsty deer that would just as soon rip out your jugular as look at you. Buster is just doing his duty. And there are dogs down the street who like to bark and Buster just wants to be friendly and give them someone to talk to. And then there are the people who park in the Table Rock Amphitheater parking lot right behind us. I’m sure a lot of them look a little shifty. Buster’s got good reason to bark.

But, like I said, it’s developing into a bad habit. It started out as a reasonably natural response to what was going on in the world around him, but it’s beginning to develop into something he does just for the sake of doing it. Maybe it’s a release valve for internal stresses that build up. Maybe, since it’s a strategy that seemed to work to chase the deer off, he figures it might work to make the wind rustle the trees a little less. Or, who knows, maybe he just doesn’t like being a boy called Ruth. I don’t know. I (fortunately) don’t have much of a window into his mind.

But I do see the same sort of thing happen in me and other’s I know. I’m sure there’s a psychological term for it, but I call it ossification. It’s pretty common in people who experience childhood trauma. They develop coping mechanisms—like dissociating from their feelings—that help in the moment, but become a problem later on. But I think we all do it to one degree or another.

I used to fun long distances. I had a well-researched and well-planned routine that enabled me to do that. But at some point, that routine and my body sort of parted ways. I started to get injured. First an achilles tendon, then a calf, then a knee. Eventually (but after waiting far too long), I decided to change the routine. And then I had to change it again (but not soon enough). Now I mostly walk. We all do this sort of thing.

We even do it in the church. It’s the “we’ve always done it that way” syndrome. We get into a groove that works and so we just keep doing it. Of course, the irony is that we haven’t always done it that way. The early church consisted of lots of small house churches, with worship resembling a dinner-and-Bible-study small group far more than the Sunday morning gathering we are all used to.

Which isn’t to say there’s anything wrong with the way things have always been done. We just need to (1) not kid ourselves that our way is the only way that makes sense, and (2) be sensitive to the point at which the way things have always been done is no longer the way things ought to be done.

Most people who are in the church today (at least in the churches that I’ve been a part of), were raised in the church. For a lot of them, the way things have always been done (big Sunday gathering in a big, “holy” place, often with old, familiar hymns), provides familiarity and comfort. But we need to be open to the possibility that for people who haven’t been raised in the church, the way things have always been done provides just the opposite—unfamiliarity and fear.

Our mission as Christians is to love God, love one another (Matthew 22:36-40), and especially to introduce those who don’t know God into the experience of living as a participant in the divine and eternal love that is God (Matthew 28:16-20). Our one and only criteria for how we worship together should always be how best to do that. Otherwise, we’re just barking at the wind.

I love this picture. I snapped it on a recent hike near lake Georgetown. In case you can’t see it, it’s a picture of a cedar tree that fell over in this year’s ice storm. It didn’t snap like a lot of the other trees, it just fell over, with its roots now mostly above-ground. And in the roots is a big ol’ rock. And finally, if you look carefully, you can see that even though the tree is pretty much sideways, it’s still alive. It hasn’t completely lost its roots.

So, where do I go with this picture? So many possibilities. But I’m drawn to the rock in the roots. It’s the reason I took the picture.

At one point, that cedar tree was a little sapling. Engaging in a little anthropomorphism, I wonder what it thought when its roots encountered that rock. Maybe it was annoyed at this obstacle to its growth. Or maybe, as its roots surrounded and embraced the rock, it came to see the rock as an anchor—something that it could use to survive the winds and the ice that threatened to knock it over. And maybe, when the tree was younger and less mature, the rock was able to serve just that purpose. Who knows how many howling windstorms and devastating ice storms the tree was able to survive because of that rock.

However, at some point, as the tree matured, it outgrew the rock. I just wonder whether the tree realized it had. I wonder whether the tree continued to rely on that rock as its anchor, even though the rock could no longer help. I wonder whether the tree decided to spread its roots out wide, rather than deep, in reliance on the anchor of that rock. And so, this time, when the ice came, the tree went down.

Which makes me wonder about my own anchor. What do I rely on to keep me from falling over when the storms come? And actually, I’ve had a lot. To varying degrees over my life, me, myself, and I have been my big rock. I figure I’m big enough and strong enough to handle whatever comes my way without any help. And it worked OK when I was a kid, but, of course, that’s just a recipe for getting knocked over on the long run. I’ve also relied on financial stability, success, acclaim at various stages of my life, but as I grew, none of them proved enough either.

I finally, belatedly, discovered Jesus. But even there, it seems like I keep finding new and larger anchors. At first, I thought of Jesus as a really smart and moral guy who came up with a bunch of wonderful ideas for how we could all live more productive and meaningful lives. Before long, I came to understand Jesus as a divine magician who, if I just said and did the right things, could magically make all my problems disappear … or at least get me into heaven when I died. Those rocks didn’t turn out to be big enough. More recently, I’ve come to understand Jesus as the ultimate expression of the creator of the universe’s limitless, eternal love for me and for all humanity, as well as all the rest of His creation. And I’ve come to understand that all he really wants is for me to BE with him (not necessarily do things for him); to join him as a participant in the divine and eternal dance of love that is God. In my better moments, that’s the rock I’m holding on to now, and it seems to be a pretty good anchor. Although I have to admit, my roots are always tempted to rely on some of those other rocks.

So, how about you? What’s your “rock?” What are some of the rocks you’ve outgrown? And, –be honest with yourself—what anchor are you holding onto today? Is it big enough to keep you from getting knocked down in the next storm?

I just participated in a Walk to Emmaus this last weekend. It’s a 3-day spiritual retreat and what I am supposed to say after having served on one is that it was the Best Walk Ever and that you should all sign up to do one. But that’s not what I’m going to say. What I WILL say is, “Don’t do it!”

I was the Spiritual Director on the Walk, which means I was supposed to help lead the rest of the group towards greater spiritual depth and maturity; a closer Walk with Christ. And, going in, I felt pretty ready. I felt I had my spiritual life in pretty good order. I would be able to bestow upon the spiritually undeveloped the largesse of my many years of spiritual study and development.

Only, that’s not how it turned out. I discovered that I had a lot more to learn than I had to teach. It’s a little ironic (and an example of God’s sense of humor) that I preached just a few weeks ago on the spiritual trap of pride, yet there I was, pride practically oozing from my pores. Of course, I disguised it pretty well, but I couldn’t fool God.

As I reflect on the experience, I’m reminded of chapter 9 of John’s Gospel. Jesus heals a man who was born blind. You would expect that everyone would be excited—as the formerly blind many himself notes, something like that had never happened before. But the Pharisees, the experts in Jewish law, were upset because the healing happened on the Sabbath. The healing couldn’t be legit because it was against the rules that the Pharisees, with their many years of spiritual study and development, had come up with. Likewise, Jesus couldn’t be legit because he wasn’t following those rules. And it didn’t help that he was an unlearned hick from Galilee (Galilee!). So, the Pharisees, in their spiritual wisdom and development, did everything they could to disprove the miracle (or at least convince themselves that it didn’t happen), up to and including throwing the formerly blind man out of the synagogue.

And so, in summing up the miracle, Jesus says, “’I came into this world for judgment, so that those who do not see may see and those who do see may become blind.’ Some of the Pharisees who were with him heard this and said to him, ‘Surely we are not blind, are we?’ Jesus said to them, ‘If you were blind, you would not have sin. But now that you say, ‘We see,’ your sin remains’” (John 9:39-41). Their pride—their unwillingness to consider that they didn’t have all the answers—had blinded them, making them unable to see the presence of divine love in their midst.

Thankfully, God used the people I was supposed to be helping to help me. God took off my blinders and reminded me of what I was there to teach and to model: God’s unconditional love. Instead of judging, I was supposed to be loving. So, that’s what I did.

I wish I could say the weekend was enjoyable, but for most of the time, it wasn’t. And that’s how growth is sometimes. I’m reminded of the stupid metaphor I keep using to make this point about the need for continual spiritual growth: the onion. Every time we think we’ve got things all figured out, every time we think we’ve attained some level of spiritual maturity and mastery, God rips off another layer to reveal a whole new layer that we didn’t know existed (another reason the analogy is so good is because that ripping is often accompanied by tears). And, as painful as that can be, it’s better than the alternative: living our whole lives on the outer skin of the onion, away from the New Life that’s to be found at the center.

Of course, I wasn’t the only one who experience growth (and tears) during the weekend. There was a whole lot of onion peeling going on. As God usually does when we take the time to intentionally open ourselves to God’s healing presence, God shows up and heals, whether we think we need it or not.

So, after a little thought, I retract my prior statement. If you’re pretty satisfied with your life, if you think you’re doing just fine, if you’re really not that interested in going any deeper into the onion, if you feel qualified to judge others’ spiritual wisdom and development, then maybe a spiritual retreat like the Walk to Emmaus (or any other regular and intentional spiritual practice) is just what you need.

It was one of those things they don’t teach you about in seminary. My first Easter with the folks in Salado. A packed sanctuary. I’m doing the children’s sermon with what seemed like 100 little kids. And then I asked the fateful question. I held up an egg and asked what comes out of eggs.

Last Sunday was Easter Sunday, the time when we Christians celebrate Jesus’ resurrection and the New and Eternal life thereby made available for all who believe in him. Which, of course, got me to thinking about death. I mean, Jesus couldn’t have been resurrected if he hadn’t first died. Even for him, as for everyone else, death is a reality. In fact, it’s part of life.

But we don’t want to think about that. Me included. However, as I was hiking a few weeks ago, I wasn’t given a choice. I turned a corner and was confronted by a buzzard, right in the middle of the trail, about 5 yards in front of me. The trail was covered by low-hanging undergrowth, so the buzzard couldn’t fly away. Instead, it hopped (not quite like the graceful soaring on thermals that I’m used to) and hopped and hopped until it found an opening in the canopy, at which point it flapped up into a branch overhanging the trail. I figured that as I approached, it would eventually fly off, but it didn’t. I walked directly underneath it and took the picture you see above. I felt like I was in one of those Loony Toon cartoons where the vulture just sits in the tree, waiting for Elmer Fudd to die. And I was Elmer Fudd. Not a good feeling.

As a culture, we are terrified of the buzzard on the branch. We do everything we can to avoid it or at least postpone the photo op. If you don’t believe me, just look at the numbers: healthcare accounts for about 20% of the economy, and it’s going up. I read an article last week (ok, the headline) suggesting that medical scientists are hoping to achieve immortality by the middle of this century (at least for those able to pay for the treatments). I’m skeptical, but I’m also struck by how much money, time, and effort are being poured into efforts to keep us humans alive as long as possible. It’s almost as if we’re scared to death of death.

Well, it’s not almost “as if.” We are. And we are because we’re convinced this life is it. I don’t think it’s any coincidence that the rise of the medical-industrial complex roughly corresponds to falling professions of Christian faith in the United States. And, even among so many of those who profess faith in Jesus, we still behave like we’re terrified of death; like we really aren’t certain there’s anything else.

But there is. It’s what we celebrated last Sunday. Jesus died like the rest of us … but then he came back to life; he was resurrected. And that resurrection is a promise that those who trust and follow him will never die (John 11:25). In fact, they will have the opportunity to be born into a new love- and hope-filled way of living right now, on the way to an eternity spent in God’s divine love.

Which, of course, is no reason to invite the buzzard down off the limb right away. God put us here for a reason. There is so much good to do and see; so much love to share. Like the Country song says, we need to live like we’re going to die, meaning we need to recognize the preciousness of the gift of life we’ve been given and live it to the fullest. But at the same time, we need to be prepared to die like we’re going to live, approaching it not with fear, but when the buzzard does come down off the branch, as a welcome friend; a doorway into a new and even better life.

Am I crazy? That’s what I found myself asking this weekend as I worked in the yard. I had been pulling weeds and was planting trees in an area where I had just spent at least 2 months cutting down a whole bunch of trees. One of my friends is fond of saying weeds (and, by extension brush) are just flowers/plants growing where you don’t want them. And it occurred to me that my history as a gardener has revolved around that saying: removing things that grow naturally in a given environment (such as dandelions, winter grass, and brush trees), and replacing them with things that might or might not grow well in that environment, but which I want in that spot. Quite often, this exercise requires long-term follow up, such as ongoing weeding, fertilizing, and watering, which often creates undesirable follow-ons, like more work, more water usage in an increasingly water-constrained part of the country, and the undesirable environmental side-effects of fertilizers.

I was driving up to Ft. Worth to have lunch with a friend when it happened. I was in the right lane on I-35 somewhere north of Waco, coming up on an 18-wheeler that was going a little slower than me. I had the car set on cruise control, and we were approaching a hill, which meant the 18-wheeler was fixing to slow down even more. I was about to switch lanes when I saw in my rear-view mirror another 18-wheeler in the center lane. He was coming up on us. I probably still had time to switch lanes and get in front of him, but then I’d have to floor it and veer back over once I passed the 18-wheeler in front of me to keep from slowing him down. But, if I didn’t veer over and instead let him go by, there was a good chance he would also slow down on the hill, and I would be boxed in; boxed in by a couple of 18-wheelers, practically crawling along the interstate. I started to get anxious. I started to get angry. How dare they do this to me? How dare they interfere with my forward momentum? How dare they keep me from my meeting?

And then I came to my senses. I was not in a hurry; I had given myself a generous time cushion to allow for traffic conditions. And, looking at the situation rationally, I figured what’s the big deal? It is most assuredly not the end of the world if I have to take the car off cruise control and travel a half mile at a slightly slower than optimal speed. So, that’s what I did.

Now, what I just took 2 paragraphs to describe took all of 2 seconds to play out. And as I reflected on it, I wondered at myself. My sermon last Sunday was on pride, and one of the points I made was that every time we think we’ve got pride licked—every time we become proud of not being proud—something happens to remind us that there’s another layer of the onion waiting to be peeled back. I had just found another layer.

I pride myself that through the transformational power of the Holy Spirit, I have managed to let go of so much of the anger and anxiety that used to characterize my internal life. Yet there I was, getting all worked up about something that might have added 30 seconds to a 2+hour trip.

I realized that instead enjoying the journey, I had become fixated on the destination. And so, I changed the focus. I decided to enjoy the journey. I as I began to do so, I started to notice the incredible blooms of bluebonnets and Indian paintbrushes that until that moment I had pretty much ignored (this really has been an incredible year for them). I turned off the book I had been listening to and just enjoyed the few extra moments that I had been given in what promises to be a pretty busy week, just soaking in God’s presence.

We can choose to look at our faith as a destination that we may (or may not) be all that anxious to get to (going to heaven when we die) or as a journey (seeking to draw closer to God throughout the course of our lives). We can set the cruise control and then get on with our “real” lives, or we can slow down and soak in God’s loving presence. I was reminded through a wonderful devotional I got to experience last Saturday of what the Psalmist says: “Be still and know that I am God” (Ps. 46:10). Jesus himself says that faith isn’t about accomplishing tasks. It’s not about getting to the destination. It’s about abiding in Him (John 14).

So, how about we do that? How about we all take a few minutes today to slow down and look at the bluebonnets?

Last week I went on a little 3-day backpacking trip around Lake Georgetown. And one of the things that really stands out to me as I reflect on the experience (other than the awe-some stillness and silence) is that trees generally grow bigger down close to the water. And it’s not because the trees down by the water are a different species (although some of them, like Pecan and Cottonwood are). What I observed is that, as a general rule, the red oaks, elms, and cedars all tended to grow WAY bigger down next to the river, as opposed to high on a limestone hillside.

Now, I’m sure some of it has to do with the soil, which is generally better next to the river. But the main reason (and the reason the soil tends to be better) is the water. There’s lots more of it. All else being equal, the more water, the bigger the tree. And this is even true for the trees that tend to get big away from the edge of the water. I saw some absolutely huge live oaks well away from the water (and plenty of scrubby ones as well). And would be willing to bet that those big ones, with their long tap roots, had found an aquifer.4

I’m pretty sure I’m not the first person to notice this correlation. In fact, I’m sure I learned it at some point and my brain is just pretending it’s a novel observation to impress me. But it’s still an interesting fact to ponder.

Because it reminds me of my faith. Jesus said, “whoever drinks of the water that I will give him shall never thirst; but the water that I will give him will become in him a well of water springing up to eternal life” (John 4:14). The closer I get to the water of life, the more life I have; the more I grow.

For me, sometimes it’s easy. Sometimes it feels like I’m right there on the banks of the river, sucking down as much of that water as I possibly can. Other times, I feel far away, up on a chalky hillside somewhere, having to tell myself to dig down with that taproot to the aquifer. But either way, I need the water. Without it, I’m gonna die.

And here’s one way we’re different from trees. We not only consume the water of life for our own growth, we also consume it so we can pass it along to others. This is what Jesus means when he carries the water metaphor to the next level in John 7:38, “He who believes in Me, as the Scripture said, ‘From his innermost being will flow rivers of living water.’” We aren’t here, whether on the hillside or the riverbank, to just consume the water of life, we are to be its source as well. Each of us, as we receive new life, is also to be a spring of living water, an oasis of God’s peace, love, joy, and hope in a parched world.

I came across this quote in my devotional material yesterday and it really hit home:

“Christians are distinguished from other [persons] neither by country, nor language, nor the customs which they observe. For they neither inhabit cities of their own, nor employ a peculiar form of speech, nor lead a life which is marked out by any singularity. The course of conduct which they follow has not been devised by any speculation or deliberation of inquisitive [persons]; nor do they, like some, proclaim themselves the advocates of any merely  human doctrines. But, inhabiting Greek as well as barbarian cities, according as the lot of each of them has determined, and following the customs of the natives in respect to clothing, food, and the rest of their ordinary conduct, they display to us their wonderful and confessedly striking method of life. They dwell in their own countries, but simply as sojourners. As citizens, they share in all things with others, and yet endure all things as if foreigners. Every foreign land is to them as their native country, and every land of their birth as a land of strangers. They marry, as do all; they beget children; but they do not destroy their offspring. They have a common table, but not a common bed. They are in the flesh, but they do not live after the flesh. They pass their days on earth, but they are citizens of heaven. They obey the prescribed laws, and at the same time surpass the lawsy by their lives. They love all, and are persecuted by all. They are unknown and condemned; they are put to death, and restored to life. They are poor, yet make many rich; they are in lack of all things, and yet abound in all; they are dishonoured, and yet in their very dishonour are glorified. They are evil spoken of, and yet are justified; they are reviled, and bless; they are insulted, and repay the insult with honour; they do good, yet are punished as evil-doers. When punished, they rejoice as if quickened into life; they are assailed by the Jews as foreigners, and are persecuted by the Greeks; yet those who hate them are unable to assign any reason for their hatred.” (“Epistle to Diognetus” by Mathetes)

May this be said of us. Or maybe we ought to ask, can it be said of us?

To whom (or what) have you given your heart? That question jumped out at me as I read the story of Zacchaeus this morning (see Luke 19:1-10). He was a tax collector, which meant he had turned his back on his Jewish friends and neighbors and was collaborating with the hated Roman invaders. And he did it because of money. It was a way to make lots and lots of money. He gave his heart to money.

You’ll notice that the question I started with wasn’t framed as an option, as if we could choose whether to give our hearts away. The fact is, we ARE going to give our hearts away. We ARE going to give our hearts to something. The only question is to what (or who).

It’s how we’re made. I believe we were created as an expression and manifestation of the love that constitutes God. We were created to exist in that love and to share in it; to be a part of it. We were made to give our heart to God.

And, deep down, we know this. Unconsciously, we sense that we need to belong to something—we can’t just be by ourselves. So, some of us, like Zacchaeus, give ourselves to our money and our stuff. Others give ourselves to the quest for power or fame. Some people engage in a quest for ultimate sexual fulfillment. Some of us give our hearts to another person—a spouse, a child, a parent, a friend, possibly a spiritual or political leader. Some of us give it to our job or our hobbies. Others give their hearts to their nation (either the way it is or the way they want it to be). Others (somewhat ironically) join together to insist on their absolute independence. And, of course, this doesn’t even begin to exhaust the people or things we can give our hearts to.

But, as St. Augustine said, “Our hearts are restless until they rest in [God].” We can try all those things and more, but none of it is going to work. There will always be a hole. It may manifest itself as boredom, or restlessness, thrill seeking or addiction, depression or suicide, or any number of other things. Our bodies and our souls know that our hearts are made for one thing. They are made to be one with God’s heart. They are made to participate in God’s love.

So, I ask again, to whom (or what) have you given your heart?

Yesterday was Ash Wednesday. It’s hard to believe the Lenten season is already here. And as I consider the fact that it IS here, I’m reminded of something that happened a few years ago: I began my appointment as the pastor in Hillsboro in January of 2020. Kirsten was finishing out the school year down in Round Rock, so for the first six months, I commuted back and forth between Jarrell and Hillsboro. And, since that’s a non-trivial commute, I was staying in Hillsboro 3 days a week.

I remember one Spring evening about 3 years ago, as I sat in the Jarrell house, tapping away on my laptop, when I noticed that my dog, Ginger Ruth, was curled up on my feet. She usually doesn’t do that. Although she’s a great dog, she can only deal with so much actual human contact. But there she was, curled up on top of my feet. And I realized that this was her attempt to make up for lost time. She was feeling my absence in her life and so was seeking to get closer.

Like I said before, yesterday was Ash Wednesday, which marks the beginning of the season of Lent, the 40+ days leading up to Easter. And, when you get down to it, the point of this season is to be like Ginger Ruth. You may have spent the last few months out in the backyard, playing and running, chasing the deer and the squirrels, wearing yourself out. Or you might have been hard at work, putting in long, thankless days of effort and toil in the midst of chaos. And all of that stuff may be good and necessary. But it doesn’t leave a lot of space for curling up and spending time with God.

So, starting now, and continuing on through and beyond Easter, I invite you to take this opportunity to intentionally be like Ginger. Take a step back. Take a breath. Remember who you are and whose you are. Take the opportunity to draw near to God; to curl up at God’s feet; to just enjoy the warmth of God’s presence. Be intentional about taking the time to spend some quality time with God.

I discovered a tree the other day. I was in the back yard cleaning up debris from the ice storm and I noticed a live oak I hadn’t noticed before. It had a pretty nice sized limb down and as I was working the limb loose, I was impressed with the tree’s beauty, or at least its potential beauty.

You see, the reason I hadn’t noticed this tree before is because it was surrounded by a bunch of scrub trees. They obscured it from sight and had grown up enough so that some of its lower limbs were just about dead for lack of sunlight.

So, over the last couple of weeks, in between clearing and hauling limbs felled by the ice storm, I’ve been clearing out some of the brush to reveal that lonely live oak. As you can see from the picture, it’s got some pretty interesting structure (or maybe it’s just me). But you can also see how the encroachment from the brush has stunted its full growth, and how the vines are practically choking it.

It reminds me of a parable Jesus told. A farmer sowed some seed on different kinds of soil. Some landed on a hard path, some in rocks, some in thorns, some on good soil (see Matthew 13:3-23). The seed that landed in the thorns couldn’t really grow because the thorns grew and took up all the light and nutrients, while the seed sown on the good soil grew. I think the point of the parable was that we shouldn’t get disappointed when not everyone fully responds to the Good News of new life in Christ. And I get that.

But what if someone came in and cleaned out the thorn bushes? What if someone came in and cleaned out the brush?

The fact is, every single one of us is like that tree. We’ve been planted in the midst of brush and thorns and brambles. We are constantly bombarded with the message that the universe is all about me and, at the same time, that I am not good enough as I am to be loved. Accordingly, I need to do everything within my power (and financial resources) to make myself worthy. And thankfully, according to the culture, a new car or a new outfit will do the trick. Until it doesn’t. And the thorns just grow higher.

Now, I would like to be able to tell you how to clear away your own undergrowth, but I can’t. We can’t do it for ourselves any more than that lonely live oak can. Someone’s got to do it for us. And that someone is God.

But God isn’t going to just blunder in and start cutting, like I did with that tree. God has to be invited. We need to invite God into our lives and allow God’s Spirit to change us, through things like prayer, service, giving, and study of God’s Word. We need to allow God to convict us of the ways we have been allowing the brush to block us from the light and, at the same time, to convince us that we don’t need any of that stuff anyway; we ARE worthy of love. And not just worthy, we ARE loved—no matter what—by the creator of the universe (Romans 8:38-39).

Now this isn’t necessarily a quick—or a painless—process. As you can tell from the picture, I’ve still got some work to do with that tree. There’s still some brush to clear. There are still some brambles to terminate. I figure if I put in a few hours a week, I’ll have everything cleared out in a month or so. But it’s not like that in our lives. For us, it’s a lifelong process. Because as the Holy Spirit reveals to us one layer of pride or bitterness, greed or judgmentalism, we discover that there’s always another just below; another whole area of thorns to be taken out.

But that’s OK, because with each clearing, a little more light gets in; we are able to grow just a little more into our potential; into the beauty, power, grace, joy, and love we were created for.

I was on spiritual retreat last week, and all I brought home was this lousy poem:

A chaos of branches

And tears

Mine and heaven’s mingled

Limbs—gnarled, cut, broken

Yet exploding with chaotic life

Balance and imbalance all at once

–

We are one, and not just us two

But the lake, the forest, the earth … all of it

Together in being, in bending, in breaking

And in becoming new

–

Regrowth, new growth, twisting towards Light

Ineffable Life—dormant now in the soft, spitting snow

But waiting to spring in a surprising moment

To abundance

In a joy of green sapgrowth

And more twisting, gnarling

More striving for the Light

–

Monument to hope, sentry at eternity’s door, pillar of earth’s tongue

Thank you for this glimpse

In bark and limbs and snow Of Life relentless, fearless, inevitable

I had the opportunity the other day to hear one of my clergy friends do a talk on sin. It’s a talk I’ve heard a lot of times from a lot of different people, but this time it was different.

The basic idea is simple. Sin is anything that separates us from God; anything that prevents us from loving God and loving one another, as individuals created in God’s image. And, in my case, the biggest of those obstacles is me. In your case, it’s you. There’s a compelling visual that makes this point:

sIn

The big “I”, as in me, myself, and I, is right in the middle of sin. I lose connection with God when I make the world all about me. So far, so good.

But here’s where things took an unexpected turn. Because my friend threw in an additional visual:

SiN

The little “i” can also be a problem. We can get ourselves to a place where we think so little of ourselves that we lose connection not only with God, but with everyone else as well. “i’m dumb.” “i’m ugly.” “i’m fat.” “Why would anyone want to have anything to do with me.” “i’m worthless.” Now, I understand that there are often reasons outside our control that we find ourself in the world of the little “i”, and it’s not easy to get out, but it’s not where God wants us to be. It’s still all about me. It’s not where we were created to be. And it’s one of life-stealing ways of “living” that Christ came to remedy by making available to us new life in His Spirit.

The Christian author C.S. Lewis says that pride is probably the greatest of all the things that separate us from God, because when we’re proud, we become our own God. And who am I to disagree? But the other extreme isn’t much better. There’s humility, which Jesus modeled for us from the beginning of his ministry all the way to the cross (see, eg, Phil. 2:5-11), and then there’s despair. Humility: good. Despair: bad. Lewis puts it this way: “Humility isn’t thinking less of yourself. It’s thinking of yourself less.”

Here’s to getting rid of both the big “I” and the little “i”. May we fix our eyes and our minds upon Jesus, not thinking too highly or too little of ourselves. But instead, may we all think of ourselves less.

As I was sitting at home this morning working on my sermon, I looked up and saw my dog, Buster Ruth. I took a picture so you could see what I saw. Buster, to put it kindly, is not very bright. You can see it in that 1,000 yard stare. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say he’s dumb; dumb as a rock or, as a friend of mine likes to say, dumber than a sack of rocks. Now, for sure, he’s got some amazing qualities. He’s loving. He’s kind. He’s enthusiastic. But he’s also dumb. I shared a few weeks ago how he ate a fire starter. And that’s not the first time he’s done that sort of thing. He just doesn’t learn.

And sometimes, I feel a little like Buster. So far, I haven’t eaten any fire starters, but I often catch myself doing or thinking things just about as stupid. I’ll get angry with someone for not reading my mind and knowing what I expected them to do. I’ll spend valuable time ruminating on perceived (but probably unintended) slights to the point where I feel my human dignity has been directly challenged. And, sometimes I spend my time considering the stupid things I’ve done and just feel stupider, thinking I must make Buster look like a genius. Sometimes I feel as if I just never learn.

But then, there are other times I don’t feel that way. If you were to ask me right now if Jesus is real, I would point at my watch. You see, I’ve got one of those fancy-pants watches that doesn’t just tell time, but can tell you your heart rate, whether you got a good night’s sleep, and will even give you workout suggestions based on about 15 different factors. I’m sure there’s a software update on the way that will tell me what to have for dinner. But one of the things this watch does which I really like is it tells me my stress level. And my stress level is consistently low. Even during Advent and Christmas—which is not a stress-free time for pastors (or really anyone else)—my stress level stayed low. And that hasn’t always been the case. Before I met Jesus, I spent most of my time stressed out. I spent most of my time in anger and resentment at someone or something.

Now, I realize my watch isn’t really proof that God exists or that Jesus is His Son. I’m sure there are other things that could account for the transformation of my life. But I know they don’t. When I look at my watch, I know I have changed and I know why. I know that I HAVE learned.

And that’s cause for celebration. Whenever I’m tempted to go back into that dark place of self-recrimination, I just need to remember that while I’m not where I want to be, and certainly not where God would like me to be, I’m so much better than I used to be. Instead of getting down on the person I am, I can celebrate it.

And I invite you to do the same thing. Celebrate who you are. Celebrate where you are. (And celebrate that however dumb you might sometimes feel, you’re not as dumb as Buster.)

I used to have a cat. I often felt sorry for him. First, because of his name: Francisco Ruth. Sort of like a boy named Sue. Second, he was an indoor cat. That wouldn’t have been my choice, but we inherited him from someone who’s fiancée was allergic to cats (riiiight), and Francisco Ruth (formerly Dieon Sanders) was raised to be an indoor cat (note: for reasons that would take too long to explain, Francisco has returned to his true home and regained his rightful name).

Francisco’s favorite time of the day used to be the early morning, before the summer air would become like the inside of a furnace. I would open up my office window and Francisco would get up on the window ledge, looking longingly out the window at the birds and the trees and the grass. His second favorite time of the day was whenever I would let the dogs out into the back yard. He would jump up on the back of the sofa right there at the door—but go no further—and look longingly outside as I opened and then closed the door.

It was sort of funny but also sad. It was pretty clear that he was intrigued by what was on the other side of the window and the door. But it was also pretty clear that he was happy (enough) where he was. Despite the fact that he was created to be outside, pouncing upon and killing stuff, it’s like he wasn’t sure what he would do if he ever actually got out there.

I sometimes feel a little like Francisco Ruth. Over the course of my life, I’ve created my own metaphorical house that I live in. I’ve put walls on it to keep people from getting too close, I’ve put a roof on it to protect me from the vagaries of life. And I’m pretty comfortable there. It’s not the greatest house. The walls are sort of random and haphazard, the roof leaks, the insulation’s not that great, but it’s my house and I’m used to it.

But the thing is, Jesus didn’t take on human form, live, die, and experience resurrection so I could just keep on living in my wonky-but-reasonably-comfortable-to-me house. He didn’t do all that stuff so I can stand behind my door as he’s waiting on the other side and tell him, “I believe,” as if he’s a Jehovah’s Witness.

Jesus came that we may have life, and have it in abundance (John 10:10). He came that we might be born again from above (John 3:3). He came that we might enjoy a new life, a hope-filled life, a joy-filled life, a life lived in God’s divine love.

And just like Francisco Ruth, I can look out the window and see that life. I know it’s there. I know Jesus offers it to me. It’s beautiful. I mean, who wouldn’t want that sort of life. But, like Francisco, I’m afraid to leave my house. I know it’s not the greatest house ever, but it’s mine. And in my house, I’m in control.

And maybe that’s it. Control. I know that if I leave the house, I’m no longer in control. Leaving the house takes faith, it takes trust that God will help me deal with the rain and the wind, the people and events and feelings when they inevitably come. And that’s hard. It’s really hard to take that leap from the familiar to the unfamiliar, from the known to the unknown. But that’s why they call it faith. Faith isn’t easy. It’s not simple. But by taking that leap of faith, we begin to process of transformation from the people we have created ourselves to be, into the people God created us to be.

That’s easy for me to say, but all too often, I still feel like Francisco Ruth, looking out avidly at that big, beautiful, transformed world from behind a window screen . 

As I write this, we’re are down to 3 dogs in our house. That may seem like a lot, but it’s better than the 6 we had during the weeks before and after Christmas. For a while there, we had all of our kids—and all of their dogs—staying with us. It was a full house, to say the least. But now, things are getting a little more back to normal.

And as I sit here, contemplating the relative peace and quiet, I’m reminded of when we would walk all 6 dogs. It would take at least 3 of us, usually more, and I’m sure it looked a lot funnier than we thought it was.

As I’ve mentioned before, I let my dogs off leash in areas where there’s not much chance they’ll get run over by a car. They usually listen well enough to come back when I call them. And most of my kids’ dogs are the same way. We can release them from the leash because we’re reasonably confident they won’t hurt themselves or anyone else.

All of them, that is, but Meeko. Meeko belongs to my daughter Caitlin. She’s a Husky and is maybe the prettiest, most well-behaved, and most human-like dog I’ve ever encountered. She’s like a super dog. But we can’t let her off leash, especially around here. And that’s because her prey drive, as with most Husky’s, if off the charts. To put it simply, she’s a killing machine. If she sees a critter, she’s going to chase it and try to kill it and she’s not going to stop for anything or anyone. To put it in Salado-specific terms, if she sees a deer, she’s going to chase it and very likely wear it down until she kills it, at which point she would be utterly and completely lost, probably several miles from home. So, we can’t release her from the leash.

All of which reminds me of the sermon I’m writing for this week on release. In the scripture, we read that Jesus released Mary of Magdala from demon possession (Luke 8:1-3). In effect, by his presence in her life, he took her from the degraded, evil-infested existence she was living, and released her to live a new, better, freer life. The apostle John says that in Jesus is life (John 1:4), and Jesus released Mary to live that life.

Now, I’m not saying Meeko is possessed by demons, although my daughter Caitlin may occasionally disagree. But what Meeko wants to do isn’t always what’s best for Meeko. By living with Caitlin, she’s released to live a much fuller and satisfying life than if she was out in the wild just trying to survive. I mean, you don’t get puppuccinos out in the wild. But that release brings with it a constraint. She doesn’t get to chase down and kill deer (at least within the city limits).

It’s the same—although also different—for those of us who have found new life in Jesus Christ. We’ve found new life. Real life. Abundant life. We’re no longer just surviving, dragging ourselves from one day to the next. And as a result, we’re not necessarily doing—in fact we’re released from doing—a lot of the stuff we used to do.

And this is where we part ways with Meeko. Because for her, she’s being prevented by an external force—the leash and Caitlin—from doing something she wants to do (kill and destroy). She doesn’t understand why she can’t just run after the deer and she resents not being able to so.

And, now that I think about it, that IS kind of how some Christians—and certainly a lot of non-Christians—view faith: a bunch of things we’d like to be doing that we’re not allowed to.

But that’s not what faith is really about. New life brings with it transformation. We are changed from the inside out. In most cases not at once, kind of like training dogs to come when they’re called.  But over time, our lives conform more and more to the one who established life and embodies its proper pattern. We become like Christ and, as we do so, we are released to really live.

I’ve got a giant pile of branches in my front yard and I’m not quite sure how it happened. I mean, I KNOW how it happened. I got out my loppers and my chainsaw and trimmed back (way back) the photinia hedge that had been planted many years ago along one side of the front yard. It’s been years since they were trimmed back, so they had grown to gigantic and ungainly proportions. They needed to come down. I’m just sitting here scratching my head as to why it happened now. I’ve got at least a couple of months of cool weather left. I could have taken it easy. I could have planned out how I’m going to get RID of all these branches. I could have just done a little at a time. Instead … I’ve got a giant pile of branches in the front yard.

Looking back, I can see the progression. I was mowing the leaves in the yard and noticed all the leaves that had gathered at the base of the hedge. I couldn’t get back to them without stooping under a bunch of branches, so I cut off those branches, and one thing led to another … and now the hedge is gone.

It reminds me of pretty much every home repair project I have ever embarked upon. I start out intending to accomplish one relatively simple task. But taking the deck planks off reveals some rot in the joists, which reveals problems with the foundations, and so on. And don’t get me started about bathroom projects!

Yesterday, as I considered a pile of branches taller than me, I was reminded of something Jesus said. It’s in Luke’s gospel, 14:28-30: “Suppose one of you wants to build a tower. Won’t you first sit down and estimate the cost to see if you have enough money to complete it? For if you lay the foundation and are not able to finish it, everyone who sees it will ridicule you, saying, ‘This person began to build and wasn’t able to finish.’”

Chopping stuff down is fun. Ripping off the drywall or the deck planks is fun. But it’s just the start. The hard work—the true cost—comes later. Too often in my life (like, as recently as the day before yesterday), I start stuff without considering the true cost.

And all this reminds me of my faith in Christ. As the crowds that used to follow Jesus around would testify, it’s fun and exciting at first. But there is a cost. In one sense, it’s an extremely high cost. It’s everything we have. Jesus put it in terms of picking up our crosses and following him—a shocking image when you think about it. The Christian author C.S. Lewis put it in terms I can more easily relate to: a remodeling project. We may want Jesus to just put in some new floors and maybe spruce up the paint of our lives, but once we invite him in, he’s much more likely to start knocking down walls and adding on rooms.

The fact is, just as with cutting down the hedge out front, when I came to my initial faith commitment to Jesus, I didn’t count the cost. I didn’t think it all the way through. But, for me at least, that was probably a good thing. If I had understood then what I understand now, I’m not sure I would have done it. I’m not sure I was ready to turn my life over to someone else to live it for me. But, as I’ve gone deeper into this remodeling project that is my life in Christ, I’m getting a better sense of the cost. And I’m getting a better understanding that yes, I am willing to pay it. Because I’m getting a better idea of the glorious transformation that God can work in and through me if I am just willing to see it through.