Have you ever been asked to do something that you were fairly certain was beyond your ability?
When Tracie and I first met she was a middle school language arts teacher and soon after a high school English teacher. Soon after we got married and moved into a house that she with the help of her pastor/builder dad, built a few years prior. (A friend once joked by asking me, "Do you know what you and the President of the United States have in common? Answer: Neither one of you live in your own house! Well, we had been married for a few months and she said, “Let’s build a raised flower bed next to the carport.” I was like, “What!” I have never used a power saw! If I needed a screw driver I used a knife from the kitchen. I thought to myself, there’s no way that I can do that! Another day, I was asked to go to lunch with my pastor and the guy who had been leading the youth group at the church I was attending. We sat there eating a Chick-fil-a sandwich, and they asked me if I would be the point leader of the youth group, and build a Student Ministry. I was like, “What!” I didn’t go to middle school and I hated high school, why would I want to go back?! I thought to myself, there’s no way I can do that! But you know what? I built that raised flowerbed using landscape timbers, a power saw, and a few nails. We drove by there a few years later, after we had sold the house, and it was still standing! I accepted the challenge of building a Student Ministry and we saw a handful of students in 1992 grow to a couple of hundred over the next fifteen years. Challenging. Frustrating. But so fulfilling to see the Spirit of God move in the lives of students so that they are bearing fruit—and much fruit in the their lives today. When God asks me to do something that is beyond my capacity, and I hear the voice in my head say, "I can't do that!", I am learning to see that, "I can't, but God can do it through me!"
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Grace and Peace.
These are often the last words I speak from the platform on Sunday morning. I started using the phrase because, honestly, I was looking for a replacement for "you're dismissed," which sounded so un-worshipful and anti-climatic. But it has become so much more than a way to let people know it was time to leave. It has become a weekly reminder of our deepest desire. Entering 2017, I am certainly aware of my need for both grace and peace, but today I am keenly attentive of my need for peace. My pursuit of peace brought me to two Psalms: Psalm 34:12-14 "Whoever of you loves life and desires to see many good days, Keep your tongue from evil and your lips from speaking lies. Turn from evil and do good; Seek peace and pursue it." Psalm 85:10: "Love and faithfulness meet together righteousness and peace kiss each other." Can you see the passionate embrace of the two--righteousness and peace? Beautiful! Inseparable! I want to know the peace of Christ in my life. Calm. Fearless. Confident. In our first worship service of the new year we watched a video called Hands, produced by Journey Box Media, featuring the song Two Hands by Jars of Clay that I think can creatively inspire you to launch into a new area of trust in your own life. What words will you write on your hands this year? If I want to know the peace of God on the one hand, I will need to hate evil and pursue righteousness on the other. Grace and Peace. Earlier this month a friend of mine stood in the front of Newton Chapel at Mercer University in Macon, Georgia and made a life-long vow to love the man God had chosen for her. It was a sacred moment for those two that will mark them the rest of their lives. And, it was a reminder of one of my sacred moments in that same chapel twenty-nine years earlier.
The spring of 1989 was my final semester at Mercer University and I was struggling. I was struggling to complete the course work required to graduate with my class and I was struggling to finding direction for my future. Though I was a believer in Jesus I was not walking in obedience with Him. I was stuck. I was confused. I was alone. Then, if I remember correctly, some friends invited me to attend chapel with them on a Thursday night. They had invited me several other times but I had never showed up. There were more important things to do, like scrounging enough quarters together to order a small cheese pizza from Dominoes. But this night was different. I walked in late and silently slid into one of those wooden pews, feeling lost, worried, and anxious. I don't remember who spoke that night, but I do remember the Voice of God speaking to me. And I do remember the passage of Scripture from which he taught--Matthew 6:19-34. "Seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore, do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own." God had spoken...to me! By his grace he had spoken to me and calmed my heart. For me, it was a sacred moment, and the pew in Newton Chapel became a sacred place. As I sat in a different pew in that same chapel a few weeks ago I was reminded of how God has fulfilled his word spoken to me in that place. Twenty-nine years later he continues to remind me of the secret to contentment: Stop worrying and seek Him first! The Silver Comet Trail is 61.5 miles abandoned railway bed that is now a paved paradise for bicyclists and runners, which starts outside Atlanta and ends near the Georgia/Alabama state line. Fortunately, for my family, the trail cuts right through the heart of Rockmart, Georgia near the United Methodist Church that still rings its bells on the hour and each Christmas display a beautifully crafted nativity. So since the temperatures this week were near 60 and we needed to get out of the house, we took the bikes out for a ride to visit the manger scene.
As we stood on the street admiring the handiwork and sharing the story of the baby Savior with our boys, I noticed this historic marker on the corner of the building and my mind began to wonder about the life of Rev. B.M. Lipham. Now, I don't know anything about this man, but it seems as though he knew a bit about spiritual leadership. Who was Rev. Lipham? Pastor, Architect, and Builder. Wait! What? Can you imagine the stories he could share about this experience? Here's a bit of what I imagine must have been true about this man. Notice that the church seems to have recognized him first and foremost as their pastor. How did he love and lead this people to the point where they saw the need to construct a house of worhip for the community? Were there those who opposed him or tried to sabotage his ministry? Did he have any idea that people would still worship Jesus in that place 102 years later? But not only did he lead them as their pastor and convince them to build, he actually designed the structure. I wonder if he and his wife sat at their table with a hurricane lamp lighting the paper as he took his ruler and pencil and drew out the details? I wonder if he had to convince the city council to approve his design? I wonder how many crumpled up pieces of paper were tossed in frustration before the final plans were approved. And once that was settled, there was still the question of who would do the actual construction? The answer: Of course he would! He knew how to dig foundations. He understood framing and masonry. He had the necessary skills to guide the hands of the unskilled laborers who worked alongside him. Who else was more qualified? Who else was more vested than he? And so the work was finished in 1914 and the cornerstone was set in place: "Rev. B.M. Lipham--Pastor, Architect, Builder." Now that's impressive! But could it be that the words chosen to describe his work carry an even more substantial double meaning? What if Pastor B.M. Lipham was as much a spiritual architect who knew how to design ministry and build people as he was a construction specialist who knew how to build facilities? I don't know Rev. Lipham, but I know that though his church most certainly admired his architectural acumen and his construction skill, they knew him most lovingly as their pastor and his name and legacy are etched in stone of the United Methodist Church in Rockmart. This fall my family and I were staying at a friend's place in Saphirre, North Carolina which is a few winding turns in the road from Highlands, NC. As we pulled into the resort complex we saw something white darting through the trees.
"What in the world?! It's a white squirrel! Grab the camera!" Now there's something you don't see every day! Sure, gray squirrels can be found foraging among trees and bird feeders in most every neighborhood. And on occasion one might be lucky enough to see a fox squirrel skittering along a fence post. But to encounter a white squirrel is simply out of the ordinary. In 2017 I want to recognize the out of the ordinary hidden in the midst of the ordinary. Could it be that those quiet whispers of the divine that I long for will be hidden in plain sight? I wonder. We won’t always understand the “why” behind the “what”—but we can learn to trust the “Who."
I find that I often think that if I could just understand the reason behind my pain that I could endure it with much more grace. But the fact is that more often than not the "why" remains a hidden mystery. Job certainly didn't have the benefit of insight into his pain. He had no idea that he was the topic of a divine conversation taking place in heaven. He was given no special word from the Lord to forewarn him and advise him of the ensuing calamity. Fortunately, we do. In chapter 1 and 2 we are told that the reason that Job suffers such pain is that God allowed Satan to push Job to the brink of despair. The conversation went something like this: God: “Have you considered my servant Job? He is upright and righteous and without fault.” Satan: "Of course he is,” Satan taunts—"life is working for him—he’s living the dream! But if you allowed me to remove all of those things, he’d curse you." Then in a synchronized Satanic attack, Job was robbed of his wealth (all of his livestock, and all of his employees were lost to a raid by the Sabeans while simultaneously a firestorm in the fields completely burned the remaining animals and servants); and all of his children perished as a tornado picked up the four corners of his eldest sons home where all of Job’s children were gathered to eat, and crushed the party. And yet in all of that Job did not sin or curse God. In Chapter 2, God once invites Satan into a follow-up conversation: God: "What do you think now? Job still maintains his integrity, though you incited me against him to ruin him without any reason.” Satan: "You wouldn’t let me touch him—let me touch him, let me let him feel the pain, then you’ll hear him curse you!" And as Job mourned the losses of family and wealth, Satan was permitted to ravage Job with a painful skin disease that tormented him from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. And yet in all of this, Job did not sin or curse God—though at this point his wife begged him to do so and seek death. Satan was convinced that Job found his “life” and satisfaction in the good things, in the blessings of God—in the second things—but not in God Himself. God knew otherwise. We may never have to endure the level of sudden and intense suffering of Job, but then again, we may. Job begins a painful journey to joy that begins with a step into despair and says: I won’t always understand the “why” behind the “what”—but I can learn to trust the “Who.” How will we respond? Job 16:12
“All was well with me, but he shattered me; he seized me by the neck and crushed me.” Job 17:11 “My days have passed, my plans are shattered, and so are the desires of my heart.” She had all she’d ever dreamed of…a husband who loved her and loved God. He worked hard to provide for her; protected her and made her feel safe—secure. That’s what a woman needs isn’t it? Security. That’s what a good husband provides isn’t it? Protection. Safety. They had a good life. He was a God-fearing man who inspired her toward increasing devotion to God. From the outset of their life together, he had made clear that he would obey God in all things…and God blessed him. He was a man of integrity and character. No one could find fault in him there. She was drawn to his strength and his commitment to God. As an entrepreneur his agricultural businesses thrived. He steadily amassed property and livestock and was able to employee fifty other men so that they too could provide for their family. He was a kind boss who not only paid well but also considered his employees a part of his family. He respected them, and they loved him, so they worked diligently to make his enterprise one of, if not the most successful in the country. He and his wife had seven sons who grew up healthy, intelligent, gifted, and God-fearing. They had earned leadership roles in the family business as they started their own families. His three daughters married winsome men that mirrored the character of their father. These ten siblings and their wives enjoyed each other’s company and spent the weekends and holidays celebrating birthdays, anniversaries, and religious festivals in a rotation of their homes. It was a dream come true! Afterward, the couple would often sit in the calm of the evening talk of how perfect their life seemed. Their love for each other was genuine and deep; they had seven sons (the perfect number) and three (another perfect number) daughters. They all enjoyed being together. Their finances were in order. Their health was…healthy. Their relationships were fulfilling. They were respected and well-liked in the community, and secretly gave of their wealth to serve others. Sure, there were little disputes and arguments but never anything major. And now, they had young grandchildren bringing even more life to their family get-togethers and a promise that the family legacy would continue. Life was good. Life was working for them—Job and his wife. All they had to do was keep following God and everything would be good. They would often say to each other in their private conversations, “If only other people could understand this principle, then they too could have a life that works rather than a life that is falling apart at the seams.” As they were putting the finishing touches on their planning for a twenty-fifth wedding anniversary get-away, there was a knock at the door. “We’ve. Been. Attacked! The entire oxen and donkey division and all of the workers are lost. The Sabeans took the herds and slaughtered the men. I’m the only one to escape.” As he was still speaking, another messenger—bleeding, exhausted, and crying came running to the house. “It was surreal. One minute everything was normal and then out of nowhere fire fell from heaven and the fields were engulfed in flames. There was no place to run. The heat was intense. All is lost. Every sheep and every servant is dead. I am the only one left. Job and his wife were in shock. A lifetime of wise investments, hard work, and training, lost in an instant. All that they had worked for and planned for—dreamed about, shattered. And the men—their families—how would they be provided for now? How could he even begin to tell them the horrific news. This was the worst day of Job’s life. He couldn’t speak—he could only stand and stare as the man relayed the terrifying story. And as he stared, his eyes caught a glimpse of another figure on the horizon, running toward them—“I know him,” thought Job. “He is one of my eldest son’s servants. Why is he here?” The man fell at the feet of Job and his wife weeping. “Your sons and daughters were feasting and drinking wine at the oldest brother’s house, when suddenly a mighty wind swept in from the desert and struck the four corners of the house. It collapsed on them and they are dead, and I am the only one who has escaped.” This was more than anyone could bear. The agonizing wails of a mother who loses one child is haunting enough, but the depth of despair and cries of a mother who loses all ten of her children in a single moment is beyond language. Two eerily timed and pinpoint natural disasters synchronized with an unexpected raid by evil men shattered Job’s life. He was broke and broken. His soul lay bare and exposed by the cascade of catastrophic calamity. And yet he spoke these words: Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked I will depart. The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away; May the name of the Lord be praised. It didn’t get easier for Job, it got worse. Behind the eternal scenes Satan spewed his slander: “The only reason that Job hasn’t turned his heart against you is because you didn’t allow me to touch him. Strike his flesh and bones and he will curse you.” And on that day, Job was afflicted with painful sores from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head. Mental and emotional anguish; spiritual darkness; physical agony. It was more than his wife could bear—“Are you still holding on to your integrity? Curse God and die!” Now he was losing his wife! What is happening?! And yet even in all of this, Job did not sin in what he said. When I was seven or eight years old my backyard seemed as large as Atlanta Stadium, plenty of space for an aspiring baseball player to hit magnificent home runs like Hank Aaron was doing at the time. The only problem was that my dad had asked me/told me not to hit home runs in the backyard because in reality there was only about twenty feet of outfield before the wall, which was the house, came into play.
But, one afternoon, I chose to ignore what I considered a silly request, and I hit a shot that was heard around the world! (Well, at least it was heard inside the kitchen since the ball shattered the window and landed in the sink.) No one was amused. It didn't take long for me to realize that it was one thing to shatter a window with one swing of the mighty bat, but quite another matter to shatter historic records like Hank. Today, guys with baseball skills are rated as four or five tool players. They possess power and speed, can hit for average, field with agility, and throw with accuracy--and even most of them don't make it! The only tool I had was an old rusty hammer that my dad gave me after I left it out in the rain. My dream was shattered. One of my favorite thinkers, authors, and teachers is Larry Crabb. When he began to formulate his vision for creating a School of Spiritual Direction he wrote, Shattered Dreams: God's Unexpected Pathway to Joy. I'm "stealing" his book title for my next series of messages at The Stone Church. My hope and prayer is that we will all be able to reframe our hurt and find meaning in the midst of our shattered dreams. Based on John 4: The Woman at the Well
My name is Warwoman Wells. I’ve had a hard life. I’m the only daughter of a father who wanted, yet never got, a son. He never even tried to love me. Instead he drank every day, beat my mom every night, and pretended that I didn’t even exist. I’m glad he died young, the victim of an over-liquored liver. My momma tried to protect me; she tried to soothe my tears by stroking my hair and wiping my face but the hurt was too deep for her to reach; and she was wounded too. I can still hear her muffled sobs as she cried herself to sleep most every night. I hated that man for what he did to my mom and me. Now, I’m a waitress. I’ve had many lovers. I’ve been working at this same restaurant for the last fifteen years. Same customers. Same orders. Same jokes. Same complaints. Same pay. Every day. Fifteen years. In here, nothing ever changes. But a few weeks ago, in walked a man I’d never seen him before. He seemed pleasant—which is unusual in this place. Most guys that come in here are hardened, cold, and rude. This man didn’t quite fit. It was like he was in the wrong part of town at the wrong time of day—sorta like he was lost—but he didn’t ask for directions. He just sat down, smiled and asked for a glass of water. “Anything else I can get for you?” I said with a hint of cynicism. “Not right now”, he smiled kindly. “Be right back,” I said as I turned toward the kitchen. “Great. Water—I got a cheap one; a no tipper!” I said out loud to myself. I walked back to his table with attitude and set the water down, a little bit sloshed over the edge and puddled up around the glass. He pulled a few napkins from the dispenser and mopped up my mess; and then he turned up the glass of water and drained it while I was standing there. He sighed deeply and contently with his eyes closed as if he were savoring every molecule of designer water. Then he opened up his eyes, tilted his head and smiled at me as he held out the glass for a refill. “Anything else?” I asked, already knowing the answer. “Not right now,” he politely replied. “Maybe in a minute.” I got to tell you, I took my time coming back with his refill. When I had waited about as long as I could, I made my way back to his table. I hadn’t even bothered with refreshing his ice. I set the glass down with attitude this time too. A little bit more sloshed over the edge and even splattered on his shirt a bit. He calmly reached across the table and pulled another handful of napkins to mop up the spill. He didn’t even seem frustrated. (I was, but he wasn’t.) He took a single swallow from the glass and gently set it on the napkins that were soaking up my mess. “Thank you so much for the water—it was exactly what my body needed. I’ve been walking a long while and as you can tell, I was thirsty beyond belief.” “Glad I could be of service to you,” I said flatly. “Anything from the menu,” I demanded. He held up the glass and looked through the sweating condensation on outside. “Yep. This water sure satisfied my thirst now, but do you want to know something? I’m going to be thirsty again.” “Look,” I said, “you can’t just come in here and drink water all day. I’ll bring you one more glass but then if you aren’t going to get something to eat, you’re going to have to leave.” It was like he was ignoring me—but still talking to me. “Yep—this is good water but it doesn’t satisfy your true thirst. Now if you were to drink of the water that I have, now that permanently quenches your thirst.” Is this man crazy?! What is his deal? All I could do was stare at him. “What in the world are you talking about? If you have that kind of water why did you come in here and bother me? Why are you even thirsty?” He kept smiling—not a crazy man smile, but a contagious smile. I felt my guard drop just a bit. He was waiting on me to say something. “OK, fine, I’ll bite. Let me drink some of that water so that I won’t ever be thirsty again.” He replied, “Go get your husband and then come back.” “I don’t have a husband,” I spewed, caught off guard by his sudden directness. “You are right when you say you have no husband. The fact is, you have had several husbands, and the man you live with now is not your husband.” Now I was mad even though he was right. How did this stranger know this about me? What was his angle? He wasn’t from around here. I knew everyone from here, and he wasn’t from here. Was he trying to get me fired? “Who are you; and what do you want from me?” I demanded. “I can see your pain. I can sense your anger and your desperation. You really are thirsty for something real—something that will last. Men have disappointed you and always will, but there is a hope beyond a man. Your way of life haunts you—you don’t like it and never have; you feel guilty, dirty, alone and trapped. But you aren’t. I know the way out. Do you want to know the way out?” “I do,” I sobbed. My anger had melted as his words offered hope. “Follow me.” “What? You want a burger and fries to go?” I blurted out. “Well, yeah!” he sang. “There’s more to talk about.” Do you ever wake up on a Monday morning and find yourself overwhelmed with a cluttered and confused mind and heart?
What has to get done today? Is that Science Fair Project due today? Which kid goes where today? What if it rains all week? Who do I need to talk? Does the car have enough gas to get to work? How should I respond to that request from yesterday? Did I pay the mortgage? What size spark plug did I need for the leaf blower? The trouble is that that is just the top layer of clutter. There's a whole other layer or two left over from last week, as well as that ever growing layer that hoards concerns for the future. I know what to do when my desk or my closet get cluttered: Trash it. Donate it. Reorganize it. I think I may need to do some of those same things with the clutter in my heart. There are some items that just need to be trashed or deleted. I don't have any control over them anyway, and it is not even my place to worry about it. Jesus reminds me that "You can't even add a single hour to your life by worrying." Other things need to be donated. There are pieces of clutter in my mind, tasks that need to be accomplished that I can't merely ignore, but instead they are really someone else's responsibility. I just need to give them permission and empower them to do what they need to do. There are other issues that are laying on the top of my desk or my mind that I just need to reorganize. I need to put them back where they belong. When my mind is cluttered it is because I've allowed my world to temporarily usurp the kingdom of God. Oswald Chambers writes, "Are we experiencing the 'much more' He promised? If we are not, it is because we are not obeying the life God has given us and have cluttered our minds with confusing thoughts and worries." "Seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well." Matthew 6:33 |
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