Here's another one from way back when. It too was published by Relevant Magazine several years ago.
As the first chords were played at a worship service I recently attended, the audience stood and began singing and clapping along with the music. Many raised their hands. Some sat or even knelt on the floor. A few others just stood silently and listened.
I stood. I sang at least some of the time. To be honest, I was tired and having trouble concentrating. It was early, and I had a lot on my mind. After several songs my feet got tired, so I sat down but continued to sing, most of the time. A million thoughts streamed through my head, but one lingered. I thought back to a conversation I had with a friend the week before. We whispered comments back and forth about one of the songs. Although it was a highly emotionally driven song, it lacked both substance and sense, creating images that were shallow, absurd and perhaps even theologically incorrect. Lines like, "Walking blindly in the truth," or "Breathe upon the ones unknown." How can a person walk "blindly in the truth" when Jesus said we will know the truth and the truth will set us free? Or who are these "unknown" that we are asking an omniscient God to breathe upon? It wasn't just a bad worship song, but bad poetry as well. Needless to say, neither of us liked the song.
On this occasion, I didn't like the songs much either, but for very different reasons. These songs had depth, made sense and were about as theologically correct as "Amazing Grace." My problem with these songs was that they were too good. They were too correct. They echoed feelings and desires and claims that I felt I couldn't honestly have or make.
One song was particularly problematic. It went, This is my desire, to honor You/ Lord, with all my heart I worship You/ All I have within me, I give You praise/ Lord, with all my heart I worship You/ Lord, I give You my heart, I give You my soul/ I live for You alone/ Every breath that I take, every moment I'm awake/ Lord, have Your way with me. A song of complete surrender, love and adoration.
I was having a really hard time with it because, as much as I liked those words and wished to sing them, that was not the song of my heart. I desire to honor God, but I don't worship Him with all of my heart or praise Him with all that is within me. Usually my praise is only lip serviceat most a mental exercise. I have given Him my heart, although I often take it back and keep it for myself. I desire to live for Him alone with my every breath and every move. But I don't. I live for myself, my goals and dreams and desires. I get caught up in routines and schedules and forget about Him. I have things to do and often get too busy for Him. I want to say, "Lord, have Your way with me," but that scares me. His way is never easy and is often very painful.
I wanted to sing that song. I wanted to belt it out, hands stretched toward the heavens. But in thinking about the words and what they truly mean, it was difficult. The conflict between who I know I am and who I desire to be raged as the band and audience sang. I was confronted with the reality of my own spiritual apathy and indifference. Looking in the mirror can be a dreadful thing.
My thoughts then led me in a new direction. Although I am severely poetically challenged, I began to have aspirations of writing my own worships songs. Songs I could actually sing and mean whole-heartedly. Songs not about the ideals I hope for, but about the reality I face. Songs with words like, "Lord, I don't love You like I should. I know I should spend more time with You. You're not always my first and last thought of the day. I often live for myself rather than for You. But Lord, change all of this. Help me to love You and live for You more."
My lack of songwriting ability is probably as apparent as my lack of spiritual fervor. I know that these words probably won't find their way into a "real" worship song or into any church service. But they come from an honest heart. It is an acknowledgement of complete dependence. I can't do it on my ownplease help me. I think this might be what that father of the possessed boy meant when he said, "I believe. Lord, help my unbelief." I know I'm not where I should be, so help me get there.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Encounter with a Prophet
This is something I wrote quite some time ago. It was published by Relevant Magazine several years ago.
I met a prophet in a riverbed once. It might have happened anyway, but I don't think it's a coincidence that I met him the day after a couple friends and I had an all-night prayer meeting. We sent out flyers and made plans for a great time of worship, Bible study and prayer. But the only ones who came were the three of us. Although the turnout was disappointing, we had a good time talking and praying about many things.
The following day, one of these friends invited me to go along with him on a "help the homeless" outing. A group of students from his collegemostly non-Christians mind youwere going to some local parks to hand out food and blankets to homeless people living there. My friend and I saw this as a dual opportunity: help those in need and be a witness to our fellow helpers.
The morning went along pretty smoothly. As we handed out our goods, we struck up conversations with some of those we tried to help. It was difficult and uncomfortable at times. But most of them were just looking for someone to listen to their story.
We made our way to the dry riverbed that ran through town, an area where many homeless people had set up residence. As we grabbed the sack lunches and blankets from the car, my friend started up a conversation with someone in the group. He told this person that we were both Christians and were doing this because we believed that this was something Jesus would want us to do. The response was a polite one, but with very little interest in why we were there.
We hiked along, passing out food and blankets to those we met along the way. A few of us started lagging behind, but when we caught up to the group, we saw them talking to a tall, gray-haired man. They were explaining some of the organizations that were ready to help him get back on his feet again.
As I approached the conversation, the man stopped talking and stared long and hard at me. It was one of those piercing stares, one that you don't want to meet with your own eyes, but you can't look away either. My heart began racing, and a cold sweat covered my palms. Finally the silent tension was broken as he extended his hand toward me and asked my name. I told him as my quivering hand shook his. He continued to stare, almost as if he was looking through me. Another couple of anxious seconds passed before he spoke again. "You're a man of God," he said.
"Y-y-yes," I answered, still very afraid of who this person was or what he was capable of doing to me. All eyes were now on me, or at least it seemed. The others just stood back watching this encounter unfold.
"Keep following Jesus," he continued. "Don't get confused. His ways, not yours."
I don't remember what I said in response, if anything at all. I was overwhelmed by the situation. I do remember going about the rest of our day, handing out food and blankets to those in need. Several of the others in the group voiced their surprise about what had happened. I think they were as shell-shocked as I was.
Our day continued on, most of which was a haze for me. It took quite awhile to fully process what had occurred. But later on, my friend and I met up with some others. All I could talk about was this incredible experience. Although I never fully figured out the significance of this encounterit didn't seem to relate to any particular decision I had to make or any struggles I was facingI know God had spoken to me. Something so simple, yet so true.
Days, weeks, even years have passed. This event, like most in life, has slipped back into the recesses of my memory. I have thought about it less and less as new and more pressing things flow in and out of my mind. And even now, but for the suggestion that I write about it, this memory might have slipped away. But in reflecting back on this experience of six or seven years ago, I realize the importance of this event. Not necessarily the event itself, but what was said to me. God had a message for me, and He used a homeless guy in Riverside, Calif., to tell me. "Keep following Jesus. His ways, not yours.
I met a prophet in a riverbed once. It might have happened anyway, but I don't think it's a coincidence that I met him the day after a couple friends and I had an all-night prayer meeting. We sent out flyers and made plans for a great time of worship, Bible study and prayer. But the only ones who came were the three of us. Although the turnout was disappointing, we had a good time talking and praying about many things.
The following day, one of these friends invited me to go along with him on a "help the homeless" outing. A group of students from his collegemostly non-Christians mind youwere going to some local parks to hand out food and blankets to homeless people living there. My friend and I saw this as a dual opportunity: help those in need and be a witness to our fellow helpers.
The morning went along pretty smoothly. As we handed out our goods, we struck up conversations with some of those we tried to help. It was difficult and uncomfortable at times. But most of them were just looking for someone to listen to their story.
We made our way to the dry riverbed that ran through town, an area where many homeless people had set up residence. As we grabbed the sack lunches and blankets from the car, my friend started up a conversation with someone in the group. He told this person that we were both Christians and were doing this because we believed that this was something Jesus would want us to do. The response was a polite one, but with very little interest in why we were there.
We hiked along, passing out food and blankets to those we met along the way. A few of us started lagging behind, but when we caught up to the group, we saw them talking to a tall, gray-haired man. They were explaining some of the organizations that were ready to help him get back on his feet again.
As I approached the conversation, the man stopped talking and stared long and hard at me. It was one of those piercing stares, one that you don't want to meet with your own eyes, but you can't look away either. My heart began racing, and a cold sweat covered my palms. Finally the silent tension was broken as he extended his hand toward me and asked my name. I told him as my quivering hand shook his. He continued to stare, almost as if he was looking through me. Another couple of anxious seconds passed before he spoke again. "You're a man of God," he said.
"Y-y-yes," I answered, still very afraid of who this person was or what he was capable of doing to me. All eyes were now on me, or at least it seemed. The others just stood back watching this encounter unfold.
"Keep following Jesus," he continued. "Don't get confused. His ways, not yours."
I don't remember what I said in response, if anything at all. I was overwhelmed by the situation. I do remember going about the rest of our day, handing out food and blankets to those in need. Several of the others in the group voiced their surprise about what had happened. I think they were as shell-shocked as I was.
Our day continued on, most of which was a haze for me. It took quite awhile to fully process what had occurred. But later on, my friend and I met up with some others. All I could talk about was this incredible experience. Although I never fully figured out the significance of this encounterit didn't seem to relate to any particular decision I had to make or any struggles I was facingI know God had spoken to me. Something so simple, yet so true.
Days, weeks, even years have passed. This event, like most in life, has slipped back into the recesses of my memory. I have thought about it less and less as new and more pressing things flow in and out of my mind. And even now, but for the suggestion that I write about it, this memory might have slipped away. But in reflecting back on this experience of six or seven years ago, I realize the importance of this event. Not necessarily the event itself, but what was said to me. God had a message for me, and He used a homeless guy in Riverside, Calif., to tell me. "Keep following Jesus. His ways, not yours.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
At the Cineplex
Here's a little something I wrote awhile back...
It is not very often that I get to watch movies anymore. The rising prices at the box office have made me think twice; there are better uses for ten dollars in my mind. So I often just wait for a film to come out on video. Also having two kids makes it difficult. I can’t bring them with me, and it’s hard to find babysitters.
But there’s another reason I don’t go to the movies anymore. Maybe it’s a sign of my age, or maybe I’m just becoming old-fashioned, but there aren’t a lot of really good movies that I consider worth the ten dollars’ admission price. My wife and I have a sort of unwritten rule when it comes to watching movies: if it’s rated R, it’s very unlikely that we’ll see it. We figure if it is rated R, it probably deserves it for some reason. And it probably contains things that we don’t need to see or hear. So with rare exception, we don’t go see R-rated movies.
Now this makes it difficult to go see the “really good” films. I am a huge movie fan and I love watching the Oscars every year. But it becomes less and less meaningful for me each year because there are fewer and fewer nominated films that I have seen. Just in the last two years, eight of the ten best picture nominations were rated R.
So why do all the good films have to be rated R? Why do the great works of writing and directing and acting also have to be filled with sex and drugs and violence and profanity? Does it take these things to tell a great story?
The answer, obviously, is no; however, Hollywood producers are no dummies. They know that a little skin and a few big explosions attract big audiences and, therefore, fill their wallets. It’s all about the money.
I guess that is why I am such a fan of the classics. Although there has been sex and violence since the silent era, most films from back in the day were pretty wholesome, mostly because society didn’t allow much of what gets a film an R rating today. They were great films that didn’t rely on nudity and gore to sell tickets.
I have noticed a trend over the last couple of years, though. Many studios are producing more “family-friendly” films. Producers have realized that there is a huge market for PG-rated films. There is a large portion of our population that doesn’t want to see naked bodies and hear the f-word. Although I don’t see these films taking over the market as a whole, it is nice to see that Hollywood is paying attention to people like me. Now all they need to do is cut ticket prices in half and provide free childcare and I’d be happy to make regular visits to the local Cineplex.
It is not very often that I get to watch movies anymore. The rising prices at the box office have made me think twice; there are better uses for ten dollars in my mind. So I often just wait for a film to come out on video. Also having two kids makes it difficult. I can’t bring them with me, and it’s hard to find babysitters.
But there’s another reason I don’t go to the movies anymore. Maybe it’s a sign of my age, or maybe I’m just becoming old-fashioned, but there aren’t a lot of really good movies that I consider worth the ten dollars’ admission price. My wife and I have a sort of unwritten rule when it comes to watching movies: if it’s rated R, it’s very unlikely that we’ll see it. We figure if it is rated R, it probably deserves it for some reason. And it probably contains things that we don’t need to see or hear. So with rare exception, we don’t go see R-rated movies.
Now this makes it difficult to go see the “really good” films. I am a huge movie fan and I love watching the Oscars every year. But it becomes less and less meaningful for me each year because there are fewer and fewer nominated films that I have seen. Just in the last two years, eight of the ten best picture nominations were rated R.
So why do all the good films have to be rated R? Why do the great works of writing and directing and acting also have to be filled with sex and drugs and violence and profanity? Does it take these things to tell a great story?
The answer, obviously, is no; however, Hollywood producers are no dummies. They know that a little skin and a few big explosions attract big audiences and, therefore, fill their wallets. It’s all about the money.
I guess that is why I am such a fan of the classics. Although there has been sex and violence since the silent era, most films from back in the day were pretty wholesome, mostly because society didn’t allow much of what gets a film an R rating today. They were great films that didn’t rely on nudity and gore to sell tickets.
I have noticed a trend over the last couple of years, though. Many studios are producing more “family-friendly” films. Producers have realized that there is a huge market for PG-rated films. There is a large portion of our population that doesn’t want to see naked bodies and hear the f-word. Although I don’t see these films taking over the market as a whole, it is nice to see that Hollywood is paying attention to people like me. Now all they need to do is cut ticket prices in half and provide free childcare and I’d be happy to make regular visits to the local Cineplex.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Never Shall I Forget...
In response to reading Elie Weisel's Holocaust Memoir, Night, I am having my students do an imitative writing assignment in which the mimic the style and structure of the "Never shall I forget..." passage. To help them along, I wrote this passage about the birth of my first daughter. I thought it was worth sharing with the rest of you.
Never shall I forget that blessed morning in the doctor’s office when my
wife went into labor. The shock and surprise; it was three weeks too
soon. The pounding of my heart, the adrenaline pumping through my
veins. Never shall I forget the nurse’s words to me. “You’re going
to have a baby.”
Never shall I forget my wife lying on the hospital bed. Pain and
anguish on her face as each contraction hit. Powerless to do anything but
hold her hand and kiss her forehead. Yet overwhelmed with the joy of
anticipation.
Never shall I forget those four short hours as they passed by so
quickly. The sterile hospital room. The heart monitor sounding off
rhythmically with each beat of the baby’s heart. The pain of each
contraction as they got closer and closer. The excitement as the moment
drew nearer and
nearer.
Never shall I forget the counting and the pushing. The doctor’s soft
and encouraging voice urging her to push one more time. Never shall I
forget that first cry breaking through the din of the room. Never shall I
forget the moment they laid the tiny babe on my wife’s chest. Never shall
I forget the toughness of the cord as I cut her loose. Never shall I
forget the ink marks of her footprints upon my forearms. Never shall I
forget cradling her in my arms for the very first time, feeling her wiggle and
squirm just as she had in the womb. Never shall I forget the day I would
first be called “Daddy.”
Never.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Scars
I used to play on a rec league softball team. I played for several years, mostly as a first baseman. My fielding skills weren't that good, but I could catch almost anything thrown at me, given that it was at about chest level and not thrown too hard. I had good infielders who made me look a lot better than I actually was.
During one game about a year and a half ago, the shortstop threw me a ball in the dirt. It short-hopped right in front of me and nailed me right above the ankle. It hurt pretty bad, but I played through it. However, I noticed as the game progressed that my ankle was getting more and more swollen. By the time I got home, I had a rather large, and rather painful, lump above my ankle.
It stayed swollen for a couple weeks. The bruising spread down all around my ankle and foot. And it hurt like the dickens. I was on the DL for about two weeks.
As the weeks wore on, the swelling and most of the bruising went away. But there remained a small, darkened, sensitive spot where the leather of the ball hit my leg. Every morning when I dry myself after a shower, I feel a twinge of pain as I touch my left ankle. Or I have to quickly, but gently, remove my daughters from the spot when they decide I am their personal jungle gym. A year and a half later, I'm still feeling it.
Not long ago, I was driving to Ventura to take my wife's car in for servicing. As I drove a road I became very familiar with a few years ago, I felt another twinge of pain. See, driving that direction takes me right past the school I once taught at. I spent a horrible year there trying to teach unruly sophomores and trying to win the favor of unpleasable administrators. The nine months I spent there were probably the worst of my life. A very distressing, emotionally and spiritually taxing time of my life.
Time has helped heal the wounds. The swelling and bruising have gone down. But somewhere, in some unseen part of me, the scar remains. Like the brush of a towel, or the bump of a toddler's foot, against my ankle, a drive past that school brings back those feelings. Not nearly as intense, but just as real.
Leaving that job allowed me to take the one I currently have, the one I truly enjoy. I see God's providence in the circumstances. He did work the situation out for good, as His Word promises He would do. But the scar remains. A reminder of the worst job I ever had. But I wouldn't be where I am now if I hadn't gone there first. I think I am better for having gone through the experience, as awful as it was. I just wish taking that short-hop off the ankle improved my fielding skills as well.
During one game about a year and a half ago, the shortstop threw me a ball in the dirt. It short-hopped right in front of me and nailed me right above the ankle. It hurt pretty bad, but I played through it. However, I noticed as the game progressed that my ankle was getting more and more swollen. By the time I got home, I had a rather large, and rather painful, lump above my ankle.
It stayed swollen for a couple weeks. The bruising spread down all around my ankle and foot. And it hurt like the dickens. I was on the DL for about two weeks.
As the weeks wore on, the swelling and most of the bruising went away. But there remained a small, darkened, sensitive spot where the leather of the ball hit my leg. Every morning when I dry myself after a shower, I feel a twinge of pain as I touch my left ankle. Or I have to quickly, but gently, remove my daughters from the spot when they decide I am their personal jungle gym. A year and a half later, I'm still feeling it.
Not long ago, I was driving to Ventura to take my wife's car in for servicing. As I drove a road I became very familiar with a few years ago, I felt another twinge of pain. See, driving that direction takes me right past the school I once taught at. I spent a horrible year there trying to teach unruly sophomores and trying to win the favor of unpleasable administrators. The nine months I spent there were probably the worst of my life. A very distressing, emotionally and spiritually taxing time of my life.
Time has helped heal the wounds. The swelling and bruising have gone down. But somewhere, in some unseen part of me, the scar remains. Like the brush of a towel, or the bump of a toddler's foot, against my ankle, a drive past that school brings back those feelings. Not nearly as intense, but just as real.
Leaving that job allowed me to take the one I currently have, the one I truly enjoy. I see God's providence in the circumstances. He did work the situation out for good, as His Word promises He would do. But the scar remains. A reminder of the worst job I ever had. But I wouldn't be where I am now if I hadn't gone there first. I think I am better for having gone through the experience, as awful as it was. I just wish taking that short-hop off the ankle improved my fielding skills as well.
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