Santa: "I hope this isn't that dreaded 'New' Coke"
I love Christmas morning (which, if you know me, is really saying something … I’m not a morning person … never have been. In fact, you have to practically stick your foot in my back and kick me out of the bed. But on Christmas morning, no matter the time, I never give getting up a second thought. In fact, I look forward to it … maybe as much as my kids).
This morning, my oldest boy, Jack (6), came around the corner and the smile on his face, the tone of his voice, the excitement and the happiness …. absolute joy in its purest form. “He came! He came! Oh my gosh! He came!” There wasn’t an ounce of his 50 pounds that wasn’t blissful. Which, of course, caused me to ponder a couple of really important things.
1) It reminded me what real, true joy looks, feels and sounds like. And made me question the joy I feel in my relationship with Christ. Am I THAT joyous? And, if not, why? Shouldn’t I be? Was His gift not the equivalent of a set of $12.00 walkie-talkies?
2) It made me fall even further in love with my boys – which I didn’t know was possible. Making them this happy should be my objective more often than once or twice a year.
3) It reminded me, perhaps for the first time since last Christmas, how immensely gratifying and fulfilling it is to make someone else really, really happy.
It made me so happy and fulfilled me in such a way, in fact, that I sat several hours later, missing it already … wishing things didn’t have to go back to normal, to hum-drum, to enduring … wishing I could do it all again (well, all of it except the getting up before sunrise and the gift-wrapping).
Then, I realized … I could. That there was nothing stopping me. I could be Santa every day, if I wanted to. And, I should. It wouldn’t have to cost me an arm and a leg, require the in-laws to sleep over or that I provide a receipt.
I could give. Every day. To someone.
Whether that requires me going a mile out of my way, or just a cup of coffee, a hot meal, an encouraging word or a few minutes of my time, I could give more than I do.
So, that said, I’m gonna try to recapture that Christmas morning feeling more often this year.
I sat down recently to write a letter, vouching for the character of someone I love. Trying as best I could to explain to a complete and total stranger what a wonderful person she is. And, it was difficult. Not because she’s not one of the kindest and sweetest people I know, because she is … but because … well, where’s the proof? What has she done? What are the works, sacrifices, offerings, etc. that would serve as testimonies to the goodness of her heart?
It doesn’t do much good to offer “she just is … trust me, I know her” as an explanation. This man is looking for proof of her goodness – and a great many people testifying to it is a statement and a bit of proof in and of itself, I suppose. That said, I hope a sackful the size of Santa’s shows up on this stranger’s doorstep. He’s a very, very important person in her life right now, after all … and will have a profound impact on her future very, very soon.
In the meantime, all she can hope for is that she’s made a profound enough impact on the lives of enough people that that bag full of letters shows up. That, within them, are stories and memories that are convincing. That show more than a lifetime of the best intentions. And, I think it will.
All of this brought me to this question … what if it was me? What if I were dependent upon all of those I count as friends and family to write a letter, vouching for my character? Explaining who it is I am?
Would I, in good conscience, even be able to ask them for one? Would I really want to know who they thought I was? Would they have to search their souls, calendars or picture books for hours to recall an example of love and/or goodness? Would they be able to fill a page with anything convincing?
And, to take that one step further, if you’re someone who claims to love Christ, have your actions reflected that love? That commitment? What kind of sacrifices have you made on His behalf, for others? What kind of things have you done that have had a profound impact on the lives of others?
In Christ’s court, a list of works/deeds – proof of your love, if you will – won’t be required. He knows your heart.
A stranger on the other hand … ? Well, he doesn’t. And the only tangible proof of its goodness is what its produced … its fruit (or, this being the holiday season, fruitcake, of course).
Would others have any on hand to send along on your behalf?
Watching an Andrea Bocelli Christmas concert on television and it’s impossible to not be absolutely blown away. Just … awestruck. And, I’m thinking, God created this man to do exactly what he’s doing. Can there be any doubt? That when God created Andrea Bocelli, that He was creating someone that would serenade us? That would move us with his voice? That would sing?
Could Bocelli have been a great schoolteacher? Maybe. Attorney? Possibly. Hair stylist? Probably not. Ok – couldn’t resist that last one. But, my point is this – at some point in his life, he discovered exactly what it was he was uniquely created to do. He accepted that gift, cultivated it … shared it. And, as millions of us around the world have been blessed to hear, he’s absolutely brilliant.
What does that have to do with me? Well, I was custom-made, too. We all were.
Which means, of course, that there’s something out there that I was uniquely created to do. Something at which I’m as brilliant as Andrea Bocelli is.
Sure wish I could figure out what the heck it is. Always wanted to be brilliant.
Great stuff, as usual, on Pete’s blog. If you don’t visit there often, you should. I’ve added him to my blogroll, so you can always find him, easily, here. Looking forward to reading his first book, Plan B, which we at Nelson will publish in the spring.
I think I jump into and out of this, as a parent. Not in a sense of overscheduling or denying my kids time with me – we spend alot of time together, talking and hanging out – but, more the opposite. I’ll catch myself hovering, managing, directing every little thing, and oftentimes, expecting way too much of my oldest boy, Jack (6).
Granted, he’s an exceptional kid … and, there’s nothing wrong with expecting alot. I think we should (letting them know you expect very little of them would be a horrible and devastating message to send, wouldn’t it?). I’ve just had to, as I catch myself daily, make sure he knows it comes from a place of love … and that I’ll love him more than anything in the world, regardless of what he achieves or doesn’t achieve.
That my love, like God’s, doesn’t hinge on achievements, milestones or markers. That it’s unconditional and that his dad will be there for him, ALWAYS. But, that doesn’t mean I don’t know, oftentimes, what’s right for him, that I don’t expect alot of him (because he’s capable of so much) and that I’m not gonna nudge him (lovingly, of course) along until he’s old enough to start making his own, bigger, decisions.
That said, he’s beginning to learn, as we let him make smaller ones, that (ALL) decisions have consequences. Heck, I’m STILL learning that lesson … and, a one decision I have to make every day is to let my exceptional six year-old be a six year-old.
The consequence, I hope, will be a boy who’s secure in his relationship with his dad and his God … who knows he’s loved … who won’t be afraid to go after things and fail from time to time.
I was talking to a friend recently, who has moved to Dallas to attend seminary. And, at one point in the conversation, we were discussing the admission requirements and our (underwhelming) undergraduate GPAs.
Mine, I explained, had been dragged down considerably by one thing – algebra. I, of course, received only one B (that I can remember) within my major (Broadcast Journalism / Public Relations). And I did quite well in english, history, philosophy and psychology. But those were things that interested me. I enjoyed them. I had an aptitude for them – especially the comm. classes and english. And, I spent time with them (now, don’t get the idea that I sat in my room night after night, studying, and missed a whole lot, because I didn’t … in fact, I got phone calls and mail at our favorite pub – but, that’s a whole ‘nother post … anyhow, I digress … ). Algebra, on the
Fractions! Aaaaaah!
other hand? I hated it. Passionately (still do … and, in fact, the day Jack andCharlie come home with their schoolbooks and ask “Dad, if 18xy – 34y= 3/4 x, what is y?”, I think I may drive my car off a bridge). It didn’t make sense to me (still doesn’t … and, by the way, after all these years, I can say that I
was right! I’ve never needed it. Ever. And, before I drive my car off that bridge, I’m gonna tell Jack and Charlie that they’ll never need it, either). I’m a right-brain thinker … I’m not wired that
NOT a picture of me.
way. So, I had to expend alot of
extra energy. Do alot of things I didn’t want to do. Summer school. Junior college classes. Correspondence courses.
Tutors. It wasn’t pretty. But, I did it. I was desperate and I was after something.
Now, while some people say that math is the universal language, for the purposes of making my point (and there is one coming … eventually … at least in my mind) in a simpler way, let’s use another of the languages - Spanish.
Learn Spanish in record time!
What would inspire you to learn Spanish? I can think of one really powerful incentive. What if the woman you love, or your child, spoke only Spanish? You’d learn it in record time. Why? Because you’d be desperate to communicate with them. You’d stay up late, working on conjugation, and adoring each word learned as a new way to express to them how much you loved them. And, in being able to hear what it was they had to say to you, feel loved in return. You’d learn the language because a relationship would be the reward.
As the conversation with my friend, and later, the book I’m finishing up, took my mind down this road, it convicted me. Because, I would learn Spanish in record time. I would be desperate. I’ve been desperate enough to do alot of things, for alot of things, over the years. Desperate enough to work three jobs. Desperate to save a marriage. Desperate to save our home. Desperate to find a job.
And, I remember how hard all those things were. And how intensely I had to work. And because I do remember, I can say that I haven’t worked nearly as hard or been nearly as desperate about the things that are infinitely more important than all of those others … my salvation … a real and intimate relationship with God … what kind of reflection I am of Him.
Do I read alot? Yes. Do I study the Bible? Quite often. Do I pray? Yes, daily – but not nearly enough. Do I love the Lord? Of course I do. But, do I do the things that are most difficult? That are against my nature? That I’m not wired to do? Things like giving generously? Forgiving? Sacrificing? Offering others grace and mercy? These things are the very language of God, man. The language of love.
And, I need to get desperate about learning them. I need to do whatever it takes.
Because that’s the way He wants me to express to Him – and to others – how much I love Him.
Because I’m already loved in return.
And because … a saving relationship is the reward.
- – -
Sorry to ramble. I edit and am edited enough at the office. So, this is my opportunity to just let it fly, straight off the cuff. Me, uncensored, if you will. I guess my point was, in a nutshell, that my mind just isn’t wired in a mathematical way. But, I was desperate enough to get algebra done, somehow. And, that I’m also not wired to forgive and offer grace …. but, I gotta be desperate enough for God that I figure out a way to do it, anyway. Don’t I love Him as much as I loved my diploma? Don’t I want to graduate in my faith, too? Ya know?
Hope all’s well. Something much shorter next time. Promise.
I’ve finally gotten around to reading something that’s been recommended to me numerous times over the years – What’s So Amazing About Grace? by Phillip Yancey. Thus far, it’s been fantastic. And early on, Yancey transposes the world’s best-known parable into a more modern setting and circumstance. Though it’s one we’re all familiar with, I don’t think it’s one with which we can ever be familiar enough … and I thought it made sense to share it as we’re now almost officially into the holiday season.
A young girl grows up on a cherry orchard just above Traverse City, Michigan. Her parents, a bit old-fashioned, tend to overreact to her nose ring, the music she listens to and the length of her skirts. They ground her a few times, and she seethes inside. “I hate you!” she screams at her father when he knocks on the door of her room after an argument, and that night, she acts on a plan she has rehearsed in her mind a thousand times. She runs away.
She’s visited Detroit only once before, on a bus trip with her church youth group to watch the Tigers play. Because the newspapers in Traverse City report in lurid detail the gangs, the drugs and the violence in downtown Detroit, she figures that’s probably the last place her parents will ever look for her. California, maybe … or Florida … but, not Detroit.
Her second day there, she meets a man who drives the biggest car she’s ever seen. He offers her a ride, buys her lunch, arranges a place for her to stay. He gives her some pills that make her feel better than she’s ever felt in her life. She was right all along, she thought – her parents were keeping her from all the fun.
The good life continues for a month, two months, a year. The man with the big car teaches her “a few things that men like”. Since she’s underage, men pay a premium for her. She lives in a penthouse, and orders room service whenever she wants. Occasionally, she thinks about her folks back home, but their lives now seem so boring, so provincial, she can hardly believe she grew up there.
She has a brief scare when she sees her picture printed on the back of a milk carton with the headline “Have you seen this child?” But, by now, she has blonde hair and with all the makeup and body-piercing jewelry, nobody would mistake her for a child. Besides, most of her friends are runaways and nobody squeals in Detroit.
After a year, the first sallow signs of illness appear and it amazes her how fast the man turns mean. He growls at her and before she knows it, she’s out on the street without a penny to her name. She still turns a couple of tricks a night, but they don’t pay much and all the money goes to support her habit. When winter blows in, she finds herself sleeping on metal grates outside the big department stores. “Sleeping” is the wrong word, however … a teenage girl at night in downtown Detroit can never really relax her guard. Dark bands circle her eyes. Her cough worsens.
One night, as she lies awake listening for footsteps, all of a sudden, everything about her life looks different. She no longer feels like a woman of the world. She feels like a little girl, lost in a cold and frightening city. She begins to whimper. Her pockets are empty and she’s hungry. She needs a fix. She pulls her legs tight underneath her and shivers under the newspapers she’s piled atop her coat. Something jolts a synapse of memory and a single image fills her mind: of Traverse City in May, when a million cherry trees bloom at once, with her golden retriever dashing through rows of blossoming trees in pursuit of a tennis ball.
God, why did I leave, she says to herself, and pain stabs at her heart. My dog back home eats better now than I do. She’s sobbing and she knows in a flash that more than anything else in the world, she wants to go home.
Three straight phone calls, three straight connections with voice mail. She hangs up without leaving a message the first two times, but the third time she says “Dad, Mom, it’s me … I was wondering about maybe coming home. I’m catching a bus up your way and it’ll get there about midnight tomorrow. If you’re not there, well … I guess I’ll just stay on the bus until it hits Canada.”
It takes about seven hours for a bus to make all the stops between Detroit and Traverse City and during that time, she realizes the flaws in her plan. What if her parents are out of town and miss the message? Shouldn’t she have waited another day until she could talk to them? And, even if they are home, they probably wrote her off as dead a long, long time ago. She should have given them some time to overcome the shock.
Her thoughts bounce back and forth between those worries and the speech she is preparing for her father. “Dad, I’m sorry. I know I was wrong. It’s not your fault. It’s all mine. Can you forgive me?” She says the words over and over again, her throat tightening even as she rehearses them. She hasn’t apologized to anyone in years.
The bus has been driving with lights on since Bay City. Tiny snowflakes hit the pavement rubbed worn by thousands of tires and the asphalt steams. She’s forgotten how dark it gets at night out here. A deer darts across the road and the bus swerves. Every so often, a billboard. A sign posting the mileage to Traverse City. Oh, God.
When the bus finally rolls into the station, its air brakes hissing in protest, the driver announces in a crackly voice over the microphone, “Fifteen minutes, folks. That’s all we have here.” Fifteen minutes to decide the rest of her life. She checks herself in a compact mirror, smoothes her hair and licks the lipstick off her teeth. She looks at the tobacco stains on her fingers and wonders if her parents (if they’re even here) will notice.
Walking tentatively into the terminal, not knowing exactly what to expect, other than to be disappointed, not one of the thousand scenes that’d played out in her mind could have prepared her for what she’d see.
There, in the concrete-walls-and-plastic-chairs bus terminal in Traverse City, Michigan, stands a group of forty brothers and sisters and great-aunts and uncles and cousins and a grandmother and great-grandmother, to boot. They’re all wearing party hats and blowing noise-makers … and taped across the wall of the terminal is a banner that reads “Welcome Home”.
Out of the crowd, breaks her dad. She stares out through the tears puddling in her eyes and begins the speech she’s memorized. “Dad, I’m so sorry … I know …”
He interrupts her. “Hush, child. We’ve no time for that. No time for apologies. You’ll be late for the party. There’s a feast waiting for you at home.”
If you’re reading this blog, chances are, there’s a feast to be had this holiday season. Be it for you, or for someone you love.
All that’s required … ? A willingness to go, or to (without conditions) welcome someone else, home.
Be thankful this season, above all else, for grace.
A couple of weeks ago, I read the terrific new book by one of our very own Thomas Nelson authors, Donald Miller, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years(it really is a great read … in fact, it’s been on the New York Times bestseller list for the last three weeks now – so I’m hardly alone in that sentiment … but, I digress ). A few days later, Miller spoke to us in our quarterly company-wide meeting in Nashville. And, in reading and hearing his voice over the course of that week, one question/theme continued to present itself to me.
And, I’ll get to the question momentarily. But, let me explain the book to you, first. That way, you’ll understand how I came to the question to begin with. Don wrote a best-selling memoir several years ago on his spiritual journey (Blue Like Jazz – another terrific book that you absolutely must read if you haven’t already). A few years later, a couple of hotshot movie producers called, wanting to adapt it for the big screen. Don said yes and they began writing … only to figure out that the real Don’s life wasn’t a great enough story. Not enough action. Not enough conflict (at least not that people could see … most of Don’s conflict played out between his ears). The real Don wasn’t a hero. So, they began to edit Don’s life.
Now, this struck him at his core. And upon reflection, he decided, more or less, that if there was to be a sequel some day – if someone were to tell the story of the rest of his life – he better get busy making it one worth telling. He had an opportunity, from that point forward, to edit his life … to write his own story. And, you’ve just gotta read about some of the things he did (and is still doing). It’s really remarkable. He’s finally living a story worth telling.
But, you know what it took (and, this is where my question comes in)? It took understanding the components of a great story. What makes one (oddly enough, while we all know one when we see one, writing one ourselves ain’t so easy). And, Don realized he didn’t know. So, he went to Robert McKee’s world-famous story seminar to find out exactly what they were.
Among the many things he learned there – and maybe the most important? That conflict is crucial.
That, to be a hero, the story’s protagonist must face it. Take it on. Beat it down.
How many great movies have we ever seen, after all, in which the main character didn’t have something to overcome?
We love it when an underdog character triumphs in the face of
Odds ... long odds
overwhelming odds. When the street fighter from Philly takes down the champ. When Bedford Falls rallies around the Savings & Loan. When the small-town school in Indiana wins the state championship.
Awesome stories. Some of our all-time favorites. And, we’d love for them to be ours … to be the heroes in those types of tales, wouldn’t we?
Absolutely. But, again … there’s that one thing all of the great stories have in common that we want nothing to do with.
Odds.
Obstacles.
Conflict.
And, until we’re willing to stare them down, ours will be tales – like Don’s – that need a re-write.
So … (boy, can I take a long time to get to a question, or what?) … that begs the following questions …
Why do we love conflict in the movies … but not in our lives?
Why don’t we understand that, if we want our lives to be stories worth telling, they’ll require our overcoming great conflict?
Airstrikes over Vietnam. Soldiers, on the ground, pinned down, fighting for their lives as the enemy attacks them from every conceivable angle. Surrounded and without hope of escape, they’ve called in backup.
Moments later, it arrives. Fire rains down from on high … the enemy, taken out by these lightning bolts from above. Each unleashed upon a precise location that would allow for the soldiers’ escapes from the clutches of the enemy.
Surely, by now, you gotta see where I’m goin’ with this, right?
So – do you feel surrounded? I do. Hemmed in and fired upon. Every day.
I mean, if you believe, as I do, that there’s a battle going on and that we’re on the ground … then you understand that, as Christians, we’re the foot soldiers … that we’re on the front lines. And, if you’re paying attention, you’re hearing those shots ring out … you’re feeling the enemy fire whiz by from every direction, ripping into the grass and trees and make-shift shelters we’ve built and many times, into the very flesh of those we love.
Bullets and grenades, in the form of hurtful words, extramarital affairs, lost jobs, sick children … lies, pride, greed, deception, envy, anger …
American_soldier_in_Vietnam.
And we’ve all taken our share of bullets. In fact, alot of us are full of shrapnel. And we’re lying there, fearful, wounded, in our foxholes (i.e. offices, bedrooms) … our eardrums bursting with each explosion, sweating, bleeding, hurting … waiting for the inevitable … to be found out, descended upon, overtaken, imprisoned, killed.
You may think I’m going a bit overboard here … that my imagination has indeed, put in a little overtime. And those of you that know me also know that where I’m concerned, yeah … it happens from time to time. Rest assured, however – this isn’t one of them. I really believe that if our eyes were opened to what’s going on all around us, we’d be terrified.
We’d find that we’re at war.
That we’re surrounded.
And that there’s no way out.
… Or is there?
Well, like the soldiers who called in these air strikes, we too have a direct line to deliverance – prayer.
With that in mind – when was the last time you wrapped your hands together around that radio and spoke to your field commander?
He knows your location. He knows who is after you and how they plan to attack. And He can get you out. He’s just waiting for you to ask … and hoping you’ll call again before you need it.
—————————————————-
Like me, you’ve likely heard this analogy before. It’s just how my mind works and how I visualize it happening all around me … and when I revisited it at New Vision last week, I thought this time I’d get it down, in case there was someone out there who hadn’t put it together quite this way before.
And, while I’m at it, let me be also say that I’m no hypocrite – I’m as guilty as anyone of not spending enough time in prayer.
Anyhow … on a somewhat related note – I’m trying to figure out what to do/where to go with this blog. New name, new look, new content. I’ll still post thoughts like these – and likely, quite often. Regardless of what it evolves into, faith will always be a big part of it. But, I’m thinking there needs to be more. More of the day-to-day. I’m tossing all these things around in my head and just waiting for that aha! moment … ’cause, I know if I force something that isn’t authentic and that I don’t enjoy into this space, not only will I not enjoy it and eventually cease doing it, you won’t read it anyway (as though anyone is reading it now, right?).
Gordon_Dalbey's_book
So – any thoughts on spiritual warfare? On any of this stuff? If you wanna read more about it, there’s plenty to be found in a number of best-selling books, including John Eldredge’s classic, Wild at Heart or Gordon Dalbey’s Healing the Masculine Soul (left), among many others.
Love to hear from ya, as always. Be blessed, have a great weekend and following week. Leave ya with this from the Apostle Paul:
Ephesians 6:10-18
10 A final word: Be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. 11 Put on all of God’s armor so that you will be able to stand firm against all strategies of the devil. 12 For we[c] are not fighting against flesh-and-blood enemies, but against evil rulers and authorities of the unseen world, against mighty powers in this dark world, and against evil spirits in the heavenly places.
13 Therefore, put on every piece of God’s armor so you will be able to resist the enemy in the time of evil. Then after the battle you will still be standing firm. 14 Stand your ground, putting on the belt of truth and the body armor of God’s righteousness. 15 For shoes, put on the peace that comes from the Good News so that you will be fully prepared.[d]16 In addition to all of these, hold up the shield of faith to stop the fiery arrows of the devil.[e]17 Put on salvation as your helmet, and take the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.
18 Pray in the Spirit at all times and on every occasion. Stay alert and be persistent in your prayers
10 A final word: Be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. 11 Put on all of God’s armor so that you will be able to stand firm against all strategies of the devil. 12 For we[c] are not fighting against flesh-and-blood enemies, but against evil rulers and authorities of the unseen world, against mighty powers in this dark world, and against evil spirits in the heavenly places.13 Therefore, put on every piece of God’s armor so you will be able to resist the enemy in the time of evil. Then after the battle you will still be standing firm. 14 Stand your ground, putting on the belt of truth and the body armor of God’s righteousness. 15 For shoes, put on the peace that comes from the Good News so that you will be fully prepared.[d]16 In addition to all of these, hold up the shield of faith to stop the fiery arrows of the devil.[e]17 Put on salvation as your helmet, and take the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.
18 Pray in the Spirit at all times and on every occasion. Stay alert and be persistent in your prayers
Must admit that it feels a little strange to be back behind the keyboard. Our home computer contracted a really nasty virus and was in the shop for nearly three weeks. All the while, I of course, had plenty to say – but nowhere to say it. Once I got it back? Nothin’. Not a thing to say. And, in fact, until this very moment, the real problem with that never occurred to me.
Like alot of people, truth be known, I probably use this forum – my blog/the internet – as a bit of a crutch. A hiding place. A cop-out. Being introverted and sometimes even, a bit shy, I feel a heckuva lot more comfortable professing my faith from behind this keyboard. And, while there’s absolutely nothing in the world wrong with sharing my life/experiences/concerns/the truth, etc. with others in that way, when you make a statement like the one I made in that first paragraph up there … maybe it’s time to take a step back, re-evaluate.
Of which statement do I speak? Allow me to quote myself. “All the while, I of course, had plenty to say – but nowhere to say it.”
Are you kidding me?
Nowhere to say it?
How about to the people around me? At work? At home? At church? Am I – not consciously, albeit – at a point where I am thinking more about how a particular thought the Lord lays on my heart would work better as a blog post than about how it could enrich the life of the person in the cube next to me? Or about how it may be exactly what the person I’m talking to at that very moment needs to hear? Am I letting opportunities to speak into others’ lives pass me by, because, well … I can just send it to ‘em with a link and a photo later?
I catch myself flipping open my journal to get a particular thought or angle down before I lose it. So that I (I!) can reflect on it later. And, while that, at first glance, wouldn’t seem to be something awful, at second glance, maybe it is. After all, in that moment, I’m not thinking of anyone but myself, am I? I want to get it down, so that I – and only I – can reflect on it later … Maybe pray about it. But, what about the person with whom I’m talking? What if it’s something THEY could/should reflect on later? Am I robbing them of something they desperately needed to hear? Couldn’t our talking it through offer us both something significant? And, couldn’t I still, later, sit down at this keyboard – only with even MORE to say?
Not sure what this means for you, if anything … for me, it means I’ve got to stop seeing this platform as an escape, a crutch, a cop-out, an alternative.
There’s a message I’m supposed to be hearing right now – obviously. I picked up MacArthur’s book, Hard to Believe, which I wrote about last week. The book’s topic – “seeker-sensitive” churches, or more specifically, pastors and churches who preach only a “feel-good” gospel … a gospel that will grow the number of butts in seats on Sunday. But – not necessarily a gospel that will save souls. I’ve been agreed with on what MacArthur said and my opinion of it. I’ve been taken to task.
But, upon visiting Fellowship Memphis’ web site to hear the latest sermons, this one was (its subject unbeknownst to me), of course, the first one I opened and listened to. Of course it was … of course. God will absolutely direct your path and speak to you, if you are willing to listen.
Very, very, very well said (as always) by Bryan Loritts. If you’re gonna preach the gospel – don’t preach it to please people. And preach it ALL.
Great, great listen. Do yourself a huge favor and check it out.
Love to hear what you think afterwards, as we continue this discussion …
While I was on the North Point Community Church campus, I called John Saddington , who is on Andy’s staff, and invited him to a spur-of-the-moment lunch. ... Sidebar: My personal philosophy is that if you aren’t continually reinventing yourself, your company, and your brand, it’s only a matter of time before you become obsolete, irrelevant, or go out of busi […]
One of my favorite things about the holidays is the down time with family. We’re back in Nashville now, but the couple days we spent in Kentucky with Brandi’s family was great. No agenda. No to do list. No email. In fact, on Saturday I told Brandi let’s just get in the car and drive. She asked, “Where?” I [...]
I love singing Christmas carols. I love what their words remind me of. Just this morning Stasi was singing a few refrains from O Holy Night and it absolutely grabbed me: A thrill of hopeThe weary world rejoices Something deep in my spirit said, O yes, dear Jesus, we need hope. Come for this weary world. Actually, this world is more than weary. This world is […]
Like alot of people, truth be known, I probably use this forum – my blog/the internet – as a bit of a crutch. A hiding place. A cop-out. Being introverted and sometimes even, a bit shy, I feel a heckuva lot more comfortable professing my faith from behind this keyboard. And, while there’s absolutely nothing in the world wrong with sharing my life/experiences/concerns/the truth, etc. with others in that way, when you make a statement like the one I made in that first paragraph up there … maybe it’s time to take a step back, re-evaluate.
