You've Gotta Know When To Fold 'Em

This is yet another fun account of me doing something dumb. After considering several spiritual parallels (and even consulting my friend Lee the Enabler, who helped me edit the post) I decided to leave it as just a story. I'd be happy if you'd like to comment on what you see as allegorical in it, though.

My wife and daughter had almost finished setting up my daughter's new bed by the time I got home from work. All I had to do was obtain a couple of oddball bolts from my tub of oddball bolts (to replace the obligatory forgotten ones missing from the parts packages) and attach the headboard.

Well, that's almost all I had to do. Callie helped me dismantle the old frame before heading out to a very important ladies' shindig, about which I remember nothing because I'm a typical male, sadly. My daughter went with her and my son was at work, so the task of putting the old mattress and frame into the attic was, both figuratively and literally, on my shoulders.

As I folded the three-segment attic ladder down and listened to its squeaky voice punctuated by the the occasional "Toinnngg!!" interjection of the springs on the sides, I thought, "This attic ladder contraption is actually a remarkable achievement. I'll bet the inventor made lots of money." After I pondered it for a few seconds I mused that anyone with a rudimentary understanding of geometry could probably have figured it out eventually, so I forged ahead with my task: transporting awkwardly large objects up rickety steps through a rectangular hole in the ceiling.

It went well until I was down to only a few pieces of wooden frame leaning against the wall, sitting on a smooth laminate floor. Darn you, physics.

I had folded up the ladder to give myself some headroom as I pushed the remaining pieces a few feet down the hall. That may have been my first real mistake. Maybe I didn't wait to see if they were stable as they leaned against the wall.

Before I continue, I'd like to note that the upcoming wound healed rather nicely. No scar, even.

I reached up, grabbed the bottom rung of the ladder, and pulled it toward me, letting it swing up and over so I could catch it on the way down.

Just as the unfolding ladder was reaching the upper part of its arc before descending (seeming to hang in midair for just a moment), I heard the headboard start to slide away from the wall behind me. I instinctively lurched my head and body to the right to save the day (still holding my left hand up to catch the falling ladder), grabbed the headboard before it fell, and thought, "Oh, yeah, I rock!" and then turned back to permit the ladder to gracefully fall into my outstretched hand.

Imagine my surprise when, rather than feeling the ladder fall gently into my palm, I was greeted with a sudden splash of white light, a loud (yet strangely not loud), wood-against-bone noise, and the sudden realization that I was stumbling backward down the hall.

<i>Falling... ladder...       Hit...  in... head...         Blood...         Home... alone...     Must... get... help...</i>

It turns out it wasn't quite as bad as all that, but I realized I'd been smashed just above the eye by a rogue attic ladder.

Similar to Gloria Gaynor, though, I survived. (As I did in my last post.)

I was admittedly disappointed that I only had a small gash right next to my left eye but no cool shiner because I still think on sixth grade levels in some areas. Remember -- I'm a typical male. Regardless of the lack of a really good contusion, I received mostly acceptable levels of pity from my family when they got home in spite of my stupidity.

It was a neat experience, all told, but I doubt I'll do it again.

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A Journey of Self-Awareness

My bad attitude ramped up on Tuesday evening.

 

Oh, it would've started at least a couple of days earlier had we not been bombarded by "significant weather event" warnings that began Thursday or Friday the previous week.

 

But I was distracted as we rode out a bumpy Monday night packed with considerable paranoia (and we were packed into the bathroom) as tornadoes ripped through Mississippi and parts of Alabama, laying waste to sections of Athens, a small neighboring city, as well as other towns and areas I know you've heard about.
 

But in the end we were safe and I was able to get back to the task at hand: having a phenomenally poor attitude. Looming ahead was the weekend.

 

Among other music-related things I do, I play with a band. We had three gigs coming up, crammed into two days: one Friday evening, one Saturday afternoon, and one Saturday evening. I knew in advance how tired I'd be.

 

They say you don't get paid for actually playing music; rather, you're paid for loading equipment in and out.

 

Okay, maybe only our drummer says that. But he's right.

 

Everything I did that week was bathed in the dim, miserable fog of the thought, "I have to play three gigs this weekend and it's gonna be awful." As miserable as my self-pity was for me, I have to imagine it was doubly (even exponentially) miserable for my wife. But she was a trooper (wow, that sounds patronizing, but I'm leaving it in the post, anyway). So we all slogged through the week.

 

But sort of like Gloria Gaynor, though, I survived.

 

Sunday morning we met with our church group for corporate worship. (Full disclosure: I was, indeed, humongously tired and I went out of a sense of obligation. My wife was the only one who knew this until you guys just read it.) We had an enjoyable and relaxing lunch with some relatively new friends from our not-to-be-called-a-small-group missional community. I grilled scallops that evening, and they were even good enough for me to have served them to friends without offering up self-deprecating comments throughout the meal.

 

At some point on Monday, or maybe even Sunday night before bed, I realized I'd taken a boat-load of gifts God had given me and tossed them into a miry swamp of indifference.

 

I'm not talking about the "good" things from Sunday -- the scallops and the happy lunch. I'm referring to all of the missed opportunities to be an integral part of what God was and is doing on the world and in people all around me. That isn't a passive religious idea. The God Who created everything gives me the unmerited privilege of playing a small part in what He's doing. And that is mind-boggling.

 

So how many people did I come into contact with over the weekend who were hurting in some way? How many wanted to tell someone about how God had blessed them? Who needed a few dollars to pay his utility bill? Was there anyone I came across who was at wits' end but was trying to maintain a happy face so no one would see how devastated he was? And what were the names of any of the families that lost their houses on Monday night?

 

I've no idea.

 

So help me, I have no idea whatsoever.

 

Instead of being aware of -- or, heaven forbid, acting upon -- the myriad chances to "be Jesus" to someone (those opportunities and people are constantly in every facet of our lives), I was consumed with something rather finite and insignificant.

 

I was consumed with myself.

 

I'd like to say it's a lesson I've learned before, but it appears it's only a lesson I've been taught before.

 

So it's another week of embarking upon a journey of repentance and awareness. Not a journey of self-awareness, though. Those tend to take me where I don't want to go.

 

They keep me from going where I need to go.

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Parched

I woke up this morning and from the time I was conscious I had the first few lines of Gungor's song "Dry Bones" in my head:

My soul cries out;
My soul cries out for You.
These bones cry out;
These dry bones cry to You.

These words tend to transport my thoughts to Ezekiel's vision of the valley of dry bones and to David's lament in Psalm 102. And I identify with those bones lately.

Bluntly, I've been parched the past few days. Spiritual dryness. Even failure. I hate that desert, even though I traveled there on my own. I'm desperate to be rid of whatever little idols I'm holding onto that weigh me down and to run to the oasis where Jesus is waiting on me. Or maybe to the place up ahead where He's just holding a small canteen. Anything.

So the Gungor song was incredibly appropriate for my mind to wake up with. I poured my coffee (which, ironically, is a diuretic when consumed in very large quantities) and took my Bible with me onto the deck in the back of our house, stepping into the misty early morning dawn.

My eyes were greeted by a cluster of shadowy figures standing not too far away in the field behind our house. As my vision adjusted to the meager 4:55 AM light, I was able to make out the shape of six deer staring back at me. Immediately the words scrolled through my head: "As the deer longs for streams of water, so I long for you, O God." Wow.

I don't know how you react to the little things that God puts in place, but my response to Him was, "Very cool. Thank you for letting me know You hear me." It was like jumping into a river.

I sat down at the deck table to read the devotional for the day from Oswald Chambers' My Utmost for His Highest. I love the book -- often hits me between the eyes -- but I rarely use it for a devotional because there's so little Scripture in it. The verse fragment of the day was from 1 Peter 2:9: "you are... a royal priesthood..." As I typically do when I use My Utmost for His Highest, I decided to read the entire chapter that the verse of the day was taken from. In this case it was 1 Peter 2.

I was quite stunned when I read verse 2-3: "Like newborn babies, you must crave pure spiritual milk so that you will grow into a full experience of salvation. Cry out for this nourishment, now that you have had a taste of the Lord’s kindness."

Cry out. My soul cries out. These dry bones cry for You.

...Jesus stood and shouted to the crowds, “Anyone who is thirsty may come to me! Anyone who believes in me may come and drink! For the Scriptures declare, ‘Rivers of living water will flow from his heart.’”
John 7:37-38, NLT

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"Faith and Other Flat Tires" - Book Giveaway!

I just received my review copy of Andrea Palpant Dilley's shiny new book, Faith and Other Flat Tires: Searching for God on the Rough Road of Doubt. And to make things even better, I have one paperback copy to give away to a reader! Stay tuned over the coming days for specifics on how you can be a part of the giveaway. Share a link to the blog with friends! Wait... that would diminish your chances to win, wouldn't it? I suppose I'd better hope none of you are math majors, because I'd love for you to get the word out. So go forth and tell your peeps.

Here's a brief description of the book (emphases below are mine):

At age twenty-one, Andrea Palpant Dilley stripped the Christian fish decal off her car bumper in a symbolic act of departure from her religious childhood. At twenty-three, she left the church and went searching for refuge in the company of men who left her lonely and friends who pushed the boundaries of what she once held sacred.

In this deeply personal memoir, Andrea navigates the doubts that plague believers and skeptics alike: Why does a good God allow suffering? Why is God so silent, distant, and uninvolved? And why does the church seem so dysfunctional?

Yet amid her skepticism, she begins to ask new questions: Could doubting be a form of faith? Might our doubts be a longing for God that leads to a faith we can ultimately live with?

That hits directly on some of the dominant questions of a generation or two, starting with mine. By the way, I encourage you not to judge the book based upon a blurb on its back cover, as I have several good friends whom I suspect would likely dismiss it based upon the last two sentences above.

Having read the introduction, I'm already thinking I'll identify with much of what she says. Dilley states, "I frame my story by using John Bunyan's The Pilgrim's Progress as a parallel pilgrimage." [The link goes to a free Kindle version of the classic book, by the way.] Bunyan's work was incredibly catalytic in my walk with Christ.

Also from the introduction of Flat Tires, here are a couple of compelling recollections: "I grew up in a healthy Christian home and a healthy Christian community. And yet, beginning in adolescence, I started questioning everything I'd been raised to believe." If that doesn't resonate with you in some way, either from personal experience or something you're observing in the life of a family member or friend, you may not find this book to be up your alley, but it's right in the proverbial sweet spot for me.

Special thanks to Zondervan and Julie at Handlebar Marketing for the review opportunity! In case you can't wait, here are links to purchase the paperback, Kindle, Nook, eBook, or audio versions.

Off to read...

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Perspective Matters

I listened to an older podcast from Cornerstone Church in Simi Valley, California this morning. Francis Chan was the teacher and the title of his message was "How To Respond When Bad Things Happen."

I have to admit that when I scrolled to the title and clicked the play button, I assumed it meant "How To Respond When Bad Things Happen To You." When I began to listen I found that Chan was talking about "How To Respond When Bad Things Happen To Other People." The sermon was delivered immediately following the 2010 earthquake in Haiti. He wasn't talking about bad things happening to me; he was talking about bad things happening to people to whom I could show compassion and give help.

With that realization I was ashamed. Ideas had already flipped through my mind about what would be talked about in the message -- how to react when I lose my job, when my marriage is on the rocks, when people despise me for no apparent reason, when I've made a stupid mistake, etc. I've heard sermons on all these things. But all of those ideas had me as the subject and God as the One who would lift me up out of my bad place, or at worst, God the Omnipotent Genie who would fix all my problems.

I'm one of those who has said, "If the Church had been following its mandate through history we wouldn't see such rampant poverty, hunger, and crime throughout the world. We wouldn't expect for our government to take care of needy families," and similar things that have made me feel pretty sure God's been impressed with my pious wisdom. In the meantime, I wonder if I've been the hands or feet of Christ and have been encouraging the Church to go together into the world to meet those needs.

My assumption this morning about the context of Chan's message reveals more about me than I'd like to admit, and is very likely the perspective of most in America who call themselves followers of Christ or Christians. It's "me and Jesus" -- how can God help me through my pet trial? How can I show my perspective to the Church and the world?

May God correct our perspective.

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How Would You Describe Me?

A few days ago a friend at work presented me with an idea that might possibly tell me everything I need to know about myself -- or maybe just an most important thing I need to know about myself -- from a perspective that's outside of my own.

He asked the following simple question of an acquaintance at work and received an answer that he didn't want to hear. He asked, "How would you describe me?" The response was, essentially, that he's a die-hard football fan. That would bring smiles to many die-hard football fans, but what he wanted to be told was something that had to do with Jesus Christ in him. The answer sparked a fairly dramatic change in his day-to-day activities.

What if you asked your coworker, "How you you describe me?" Would the answer have "Jesus" anywhere in it?

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IDFLC Syndrome

My daughter and I geared up for the Christmas season moderately early this year. Lights were on the edge of the roof of the house and in the yard before Thanksgiving, and the Christmas tree went up Thanksgiving night.
Christmas music was in effect by then, too. My wife even called me "Clark Griswold" two or three times. Really.

The month has been rushing by so quickly, though, with the standard amount of December stuff happening, that I seem to have acquired the dreaded IDFLC Syndrome.

It Doesn't Feel Like Christmas.

Nevertheless, the Christmas season is upon us whether it feels like it to me or not. I know this. My personal perspective in no way impacts the truth that our special celebration of Jesus' birth will happen on December 25 and festivities and music and decorations will bookend it, but it would be nice to "feel" it throughout the season.

This general sensation isn't something new or isolated to blue Christmases. Removing the festive holiday setting and thinking about day-in, day-out life throughout the year, God is always at work around us (hat-tip to Henry Blackaby) but from my perspective it sometimes seems like He's forgotten about something or isn't working in my idea of a God-like way; usually regarding my special concern or situation at the time.

Just as the Beach Boys sang in one of my non-preferred Christmas songs (but one my daughter loves), "Christmas comes this time each year."

And just as the Word says:

I look up to the mountains-
does my help come from there?
My help comes from the Lord,
who made heaven and earth!
He will not let you stumble;
the one who watches over you will not slumber.
Indeed, he who watches over Israel
never slumbers or sleeps.
- Psalm 121:1-4 (NLT) (emphasis mine)

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So You Think God Is Through With You...

I'd like for you to invent an excuse for me to explain why I haven't written anything lately. I just don't want to offer the usual, "Blogging has been pretty light lately because life has been heavy," or something. I'm tired of making excuses and I'm betting some of you are also grand at it.

Once you've done that, read the rest of the post, but don't read on until you've given me my excuse. Please leave it in the comments here, even if you're a lurker who never puts comments on blogs, only on Facebook.

Done? Great. We'll move on, then.

To shoot from the hip, lately I've felt a bit like God was finished with me. Not "finished with me" in that He was so put out with me that He flopped back in His chair and said, "Okay, that's it. I'm done with that Lusk boy," but almost as though I'd done whatever it was that I was intended to do from the day I was born, and from here on out I should just expect to watch what He would be doing in the lives of other people.

He seems to have shattered that idea, though, and I have to admit that I'm rather glad I was completely wrong. I've learned over the years that God tends to work within time frames that don't make much sense to me until after they've passed, and usually in ones that stretch out longer than I'd have suggested to Him if He'd asked me in the first place. I say that I've "learned" that, but I can also say that I regularly forget it. It's like learning something in geometry class in whatever grade it is that one takes geometry class. Years later you may remember some general principles, but you don't remember a specific formula until you have to put it into use. Then you have to learn it all over again, but this time it makes sense because you actually had to use it in the real world. (Okay, maybe geometry was a terrible example.)

That's where I am today and I wanted to share it with every single one of my adoring fans. (Hi, Mom & Dad!!!)

I've not forgotten that I haven't finished the series on hermeneutics. You should read the first three parts. They're here, here, and here. I promise to get back on track immediately unless one of you provides me with the Mother of All Excuses in the comments.

Until then...

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"Personhood" -- It Isn't Just for Androgyny Anymore!

Big news! Mississippi voters are at the polls to support or vote against Initiative 26, an amendment that defines "personhood as 'every human being from the moment of fertilization, cloning or the functional equivalent thereof,'" according to CNN.com.

(No, I don't live in Mississippi and I didn't vote today.)

While it does seem a bit extreme (and I'd fear some fallout as a result) I applaud whoever is responsible for the amendment, but I don't think for a moment that it will pass. If it does pass, it will be appealed and the appeal will be upheld, or it will be ruled somehow as unconstitutional.

Sadly, too many people make a living off of what this amendment would prevent. The CNN article states it accurately:

"The Mississippi State Medical Association and Doctors Against MS 26 are voicing concern about implications for the health care of women as well as their ability to practice medicine."

The good ol' boy system -- the one based on politics and lots of money -- will be working at its finest in the coming days.

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When Christians Attack

Buddy the Christmas Puppy and Jesse the Over-sized Kitty don't get along too well most of the time.

For example, if one of us in the house sees Jesse clawing something he shouldn't and we scold him from across the room, "Jesse! Stop that!" Buddy will hear from whatever room he's in and come running, acting in his self-ordained role of Buddy the Hall Monitor and viciously growl and bark cease and desist orders at Jesse, who will then hiss at his nemesis and run to the safety of the bedroom that's inaccessible to the dogs.

It seems strange, then, that the two of them actually care about one another. This morning Buddy apparently caught one of his sibling puppies doing something "illegal" and ran to address it. A fight ensued, which I heard from the living room. It was one of those snarling, not-at-all-playful fights. I jumped from my chair and knowing that Buddy can be a bully, I snatched him up and while supporting him with one hand I swatted his bottom with the other and chided him forcefully, "Buddy, no!!"

Jesse in his natural habitat

I suddenly realized that Jesse had come to investigate the commotion, as well, because as soon as my hand landed on Buddy's hind quarters I felt the stabbing pain of cat claws and fangs in my leg. Shocked, I turned my attention down to Jesse and simply blurted out, "Jesse!" Assuming he was worked up because of the ruckus and was acting on instinct by clawing something, I looked back up at Buddy, still in my hand, and gave him one final bottom-tap and scolded him again. And Jesse showed me the claws weren't an accident the first time -- he displayed his disapproval by attacking the same leg.

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The Perilous Adventures of Hershey the Aptly-Named Chocolate Lab: Part 3

(Continued from the previous posts, The Perilous Adventures of Hershey, the Aptly-Named Chocolate Lab: Part 1 and Part 2. Be sure to read those for the back-story.)

Hershey didn't feel like pushing it when we got to Veterinary Regional Referral Hospital (which I now highly recommend) in Decatur. I let two staff members pick him up out if the van and put him on the stretcher to wheel him into the area where they'd prep him for surgery. When he got on the stretcher, he perked up and then sat up so he wouldn't miss anything. I pulled my camera out too late to take a photo.

After getting him checked in and waiting for a short while, my son and daughter listened with me as the surgeon, Dr. Mullins, explained what would be necessary if she was to save Hershey's left front leg. It would require two rods going through the bone above and below the break, connected by another rod on the outside of his leg. Recover time would be anywhere from six to a whopping 20 weeks (!).

The other option was amputation -- the medical way of saying Hershey would have his leg cut off.

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The Perilous Adventures of Hershey the Aptly-Named Chocolate Lab: Part 2

(Continued from the previous post, "The Perilous Adventures of Hershey, the Aptly-Named Chocolate Lab: Part 1". Be sure to read that post first for the back-story.)

Waking several hours later, I got ready for the day and woke my son Nelson so he could help me get Hershey to the veterinarian. Though I knew my wife would want to go with us, she'd been sick and I hoped she would be able to recover by staying in and drinking fruit juice, etc. Throughout the morning, as I had done the night before, I prayed a prayer that would've been totally understood by my six-year-old self years before when my dog Astro had died: "Lord, please let Hershey survive. Please heal any internal injuries."

Because I've become so spiritual, you see, I realized that that was a very selfish prayer. You know, the kind we're not supposed to pray. God would probably not give me the thumbs-up on it unless I added, "...for Your glory." Knowing that He would very likely not be fooled by me putting a spin on my prayer, however, I decided not to say that. I'm a little embarrassed by all this, but in retrospect I realize this is exactly what was going on in my head.

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The Perilous Adventures of Hershey the Aptly-Named Chocolate Lab: Part 1

I won't be able to fit all of Monday's events into one post. This is, therefore, part one of the Hershey saga.

We arrived home from our weekend trip around 1:30am on Monday. Hershey the Slobbering Spring-Loaded Puppy, our nine-year-old chocolate lab (who thinks he's a puppy), typically runs to the car to drool on us as a means of saying, "Where have you been?! It's about time the rest of the pack got home!"

He didn't do that this time. Instead he remained lying on the front porch, dead center of the front door, only lifting his head to see us and wagging his tail slightly.

When we approached him (quickly) he was apparently unable to get up and when I tried to move him, he whimpered. Very unusual, very wrong. Eventually, with my son Nelson's careful help, Hershey struggled and stood, and we could see that his right front leg was of no use to him.

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Tim Hawkins

This evening my family will be in Jonesboro, GA to see comedian Tim Hawkins. Yes, we love him THAT much!

Not really. But he is funny.

We intended to see him when he came to Huntsville, AL (my daughter is a huge fan and months in advance we promised her we'd go) but we procrastinated on getting tickets -- difficult to believe, I realize -- and the event sold out. We took the opportunity to catch his performance at the next closest city. Five hours away. The great thing is that it's quite close to my wife's cousin's house, so we enjoyed the weekend chilling with Matt, his wife Cat, and their little daughter Emery.

No moral to the story today. Not even an interesting tale of anything nutty that happened this weekend. Just wanted to share.

By the way, my in-laws are house-sitting.

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But I Can't!

I imagine myself standing outside my daughter's room, aware that it resembles a tornado-swept laundromat/toy store more than it does a 12-year-old's bedroom, knocking on the locked door and saying in as mild-mannered a voice as possible, "Alaina, open your door so I can come in and clean you room for you." Note that I'm saying I'll do it for her, not with her.

And I imagine her slightly-muted response, "But it's too messy. I CAN'T clean it." Believe it or not, I have heard this kind of statement from her. If you have a typical kid, you've probably heard something like it, too.

Now, this scenario is not too typical in our house, but I want you to see the disconnection in the illustration. I offer to clean the room for her and her response is that she can't clean the room, and she keeps her door locked. Obviously we're not communicating on the same channel here.

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Solomon Was a Bullfrog

I don't know what "Jeremiah was a bullfrog" means, but since it was used in a now-classic song, I think I can hijack the phrase, act like I know what it means, and use it here. But I digress.

Solomon wrote this in Proverbs 2:3-5 (NASB): "For if you cry for discernment, lift your voice for understanding; if you seek her as silver and search for her as for hidden treasures; then you will discern the fear of the Lord and discover the knowledge of God."

Good stuff. If you want discernment, then you need to have to have understading, as well. Often I'll ask God to give me knowledge so that I can have the wisdom to know what to do with it.

I thought about the fact that this was written by a guy who wound up having hundreds of concubines (a Biblical word for permanent ladies of the evening) later in life, and he eventually drifted away from the Lord. It's noteworthy that this wasn't just written by Solomon; it was given to him by inspiration of God (2 Timothy 3:16). It was "God-breathed," as one translation puts it.

Now, if I were in God's place, I'd probably have avoided speaking through a guy that I knew would wind up like Solomon did. And I probably would have given David a miss, too, given the fact that he had an affair that led to murder. Moses killed a man out of rage before God used him in a historically huge way. Paul had a violent history, Peter swore that he never knew Christ, and Matthew the Apostle probably constantly swindled people out of money before he met Christ.

Apply, lather, rinse, and repeat.

Wouldn't it have made sense -- I mean, if God really wanted His Word to be taken seriously -- for Him to have chosen only men and women of spotless, impeccable reputation to deliver it? I mean, surely there were some Billy Graham-types in those days, like Enoch, who never wrote Scripture, or maybe Noah. (But Noah wound up getting really drunk at one point, and the story gets worse from there...)

But the fact is that God chose people who were flawed, many times even more flawed than those around them, to deliver His eternal Words. This gives me great hope!

When these men had a right relationship with God, He spoke to them and through them. Of course I'm not suggesting that God is going to use me to write some new Scripture, but I can see that regardless of what I've done in the past (or even what I might do in the future), I have the opportunity to hear God speak. I have the opportunity for Him to use me to be His hands and feet. I have the opportunity to speak His words to someone who needs to hear them.

Don't get caught up in wishing that you had been a better person, or maybe that you'd been "sold out to God" earlier in life. Be grateful that God is willing to start fresh with you -- to speak to you and even to use your life -- right where you are at the moment you surrender to Him.

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Hey, you're wearing a really holy shirt...

I really like this shirt. It's my current favorite, and it has been for a few years. The problem is, I can't really wear it anywhere unless I have another black shirt on under it. The material is now very thin, it's lost much of its elasticity, and it has a few holes in it (not where you'd expect, like around the collar or arms, but in the lower middle of the back. No idea how that happened).

The shirt has become tattered due to repeated use. The thing is, not only do I not really notice the wear and tear, but I like to wear the shirt -- I ignore its holiness. I have plenty of other shirts to wear, but I prefer this one.

The only people who notice the holes are... anyone but me.

I notice the bad things on (and in) other people far more than I notice them on (and in) myself.

Someone who doesn't live with this shirt and doesn't love it is probably going to see it for what it is -- a tattered piece of cloth that should really be thrown away. If I saw the shirt on someone else and knew he had plenty of other clothes, I'd probably wonder why he chose to wear the shirt in public.

Welcome, O double standard. I can wear a moth-eaten shirt and it's justifiable. You can't.

There are two tons of Scriptures that address this. The one I've encountered most recently is Romans 2, which I paraphrased a couple of days ago. In Romans 2, Paul tells the Christians in Rome that they'd better not be casting stones at non-believers if they're doing the very same things as those people.

Before you judge a man by his moth-eaten shirt, examine your own clothes to make sure you're not wearing the very things at which you turn up your nose.

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Max the Sinless?

Max the Lovable is a great little dog. Perfect? I suppose that's for you to decide as you read this...

Max is staying with us for a while as his family moves into drag new surroundings in the deeper south. Sadly, I believe he'll be moving back in with his old family soon. He's the brother of our two yapper dogs, Buddy the Christmas Puppy and Molly the Needy.

When Max the Lovable wants a puppy treat or wants to go outside for poo and recreation, he'll get in front of me and jump into the air, his back legs reaching almost a foot off the ground, I'd guess. The crazy thing is, when he wants to get on the couch or into the recliner with me at any random old time, he'll give what I know to be a half effort and eventually (within 15 seconds or so) begin audibly begging for me to pick him up and sit him down next to me.

In theory, he CAN get onto the couch, yet in real life he can't, right? I've seen him go beyond such a little jump, yet he thinks, for some reason, that he can't jump onto the couch.

Are you familiar with the idea that we, being human, will sin every single day, period? We'll sin because we're human, right? The Bible says so? Or does it?

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What You See Is What You Get

I enjoy using sarcasm to make a point sometimes. Yet Paul's use of sarcasm late in 2 Corinthians (chapters 10-12) may be one of my least-favorite sections of Scripture (it feels terribly blasphemous to say that there's any part of Scripture that I "like" less than another). I'm talking about places where he says things like, "I hope you will put up with a little more of my foolishness. Please bear with me." (2 Corinthians 11:1, NLT) He uses tongue-in-cheek irony to make a point.

However, right in the middle of it there's a non-sarcastic gem: "...I don’t want anyone to give me credit beyond what they can see in my life or hear in my message..." (2 Cor. 12:6, NLT)

But I think that we often look for ways to make our appearance seem more Godly than our lives actually are. We think that in order to be a good, Godly example to other people, we can't let people see any chinks in our armor.

Do you believe it's helpful to the Kingdom of God or counter-productive to put on a face that's always smiling when you're actually frowning on the inside, or when you know you've messed up somewhere?

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2011

Happy New Year!

To recap the year with me, what did you see God do in 2010 that left the most lasting impact on you (for better or worse)?

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