When is it time to cut the rope?

Hollywood does a great job of dramatizing apocalyptic events these days. Special effects have come so far in just the last ten years or so that it makes things seem pretty realistic. Case-in-point: have you ever seen The Day After Tomorrow, with Dennis Quaid? In the movie, global warming eventually causes the ice age (because, science!). Quaid's character, a climatologist for NORAD, winds up going to New York to rescue his son from the impending doom of rapidly plunging temperatures.

In one scene, while headed north, he and his band of daring rescue workers are walking over a shopping mall with a glass roof. They did not know this as the mall was covered by snow and ice. One of them falls through the roof and is dangling by a rope, attached to the other two men, above the food court far below. It becomes apparent that the other two are not going to be able to haul the man and his sled and equipment back up, and they are in danger of being dragged down with the man. So he reaches up with his knife and cuts the rope, falling to his death but saving the other two.

I'm not sure this scene illustrates the point I'm about to make perfectly, but it's the best I could think of at the moment. Imagine yourself holding a heavy bag that is dangling over a deep precipice. In your mind, there's stuff in that bag that's very important to you. But is the stuff so important that you're willing to go down with it? It's apparent that if you don't either cut the rope or let go, you're doom is sealed. Can you cut the rope?

It's easy to say, "Yeah, nothing's that important!" But consider the Sanhedrin in John 11:45-54. Every evidence that could be given was given to them that Jesus was Messiah, the Son of God. Freedom could be found in Him alone, but here was a bunch of important people who simply could not cut the rope of their background, religious expectations, and prejudice. Here's what author Ellen White says about it in The Desire of Ages...

“Under the impression of the Holy spirit, the priests and rulers could not banish the conviction that they were fighting against God.” (page 539)

And yet, "He who walked upon the heaving billows, and by a word silenced their angry roaring, who cast out devils that in departing acknowledged Him to be the Son of God, who broke the slumbers of the dead, who held thousands entranced by His words of wisdom, was unable to reach the hearts of those who were blinded by prejudice and hatred, and who stubbornly rejected the light.” (page 541)

There comes a point in time where it seems you either cut the rope or go down with the weight. That weight could be any number of things: personal ideas and opinions, family background, religious or cultural expectations, jobs, relationships, activities... Really, just about anything that keeps us from accepting Jesus fully: His light, His life... Jesus ALL.

That's harder stuff to swallow than it appears at first glance. I'm part of a church that I've loved most of my life. It's a church that has a history of embracing God's Word and truth as it is seen in Jesus. It is now 150 years old (the last three days being its anniversary, founded as an official denomination in1863). The message and movement of Adventism is unique and, I feel, God-breathed and ordained. But we aren't the first people to have experienced something like this.

Consider the Jews themselves. Fathered by one man who was given a huge promise. Anointed, if you will, to bless all nations. God's very own people with a very unique and spectacular message. Yet led by people who were, well, people, there was quite a bit of evil that snuck into their history. When it came time to cut the rope, with the Son of God in their very midst, they (at least as a nation/religion/movement) couldn't do it, and the weight of their expectations and history dragged them over the edge--away from Jesus.

Don't ever get so enamored with a movement of people that you can't cut the rope. Why? Because, people are, well, people, and evil and deception will sneak into the ranks (and the "ranks" throughout history tend to be very confident with themselves and their interpretations of right, wrong, Scripture, God's leading, etc.). What's in the bag simply isn't that important, and you simply can't stuff Jesus Himself in the bag--He's too big for that.

I'm glad He's too big for that. That way it's possible to keep my eyes on Him and not on what's behind me. That way I can let go if the bag if necessary and cling to and depend on Jesus.

If it's not "Jesus. ALL."--all things understood in Jesus, all things collapsing without Jesus--let go of the bag. There's nothing in there worth getting dragged over the edge for. Not a relationship, not a church, not a job, and not a history.

Jesus. ALL.

Another day with Grandpa...

Sometimes I wish I could have a day with grandpa again.

Even now, 17 years after he died, I miss him. Strangely, it's actually been nearly 29 years since we've had a conversation that wasn't challenging. Grandpa had a stroke back in 1984. I remember that year pretty clearly. He was in the hospital for quite awhile, leaving my cousins and I at home where we watched the Olympics. You may remember that year because of Mary Lou Retton, Carl Lewis, Edwin Moses, Rowdy Gaines, and others who graced our televisions with incredible feats of athleticism. I remember it, and those Olympic games in Los Angeles, as a way to pass the time while grandpa recovered.

Until that time, grandpa spent hours with the kids at some point just about every summer in Richardson, Texas. We rode with him on the tractor (OK, riding lawn mower). We knew where his stash of ice-cold Dr. Peppers and watermelon were kept in the old fridge in the garage. My cousins and I played hide and seek, and I only now know where the best hiding place really was. He used to keep the air conditioning in the living room at temperatures that would make a good Minnesotan button the top button of his flannel shirt (hey, summertime near Dallas is amazingly hot, so we loved it), and we always loved making as many blanket and pillow forts as possible. Grandpa used to set up a flimsy hose on a pole in the back yard that would wildly whip around spraying us (and occasionally whacking us upside the head if we weren't careful). And tickle? Oh wow, the side stitches from laughter are still memorable!

He would have absolutely adored our kids. He was a faithful elder in his church, and even a solid greeter years after his stroke stole away his ability to smoothly communicate with people.

On the day of his funeral, I was able to keep things together until I was alone with one of my cousins with whom much of those good times were shared. Not until then did I really break down at all. I think it has to do with shared experience. It's not that we always got along beautifully. I know I annoyed her to death at times, as she did me. I'm sure we both combined well to drive her older sister nuts. We could both be hard-headed and argumentative kids. But in that moment, it didn't matter. A man we both adored, around whom much of our relationship revolved, would now sleep for the rest of our lives on earth. I know we all miss Grandpa. I know my dad and my aunt do. I know Grandma really does.

I read today the story of Lazarus' resurrection in John 11. Here was a man dead for 4 days. Jesus could have kept him from dying much sooner than He did. He had done so for a little girl once, but was then accused of just waking her up from a deep sleep, that she wasn't really dead at all. People opposed to Him and His brand of "messiahship" accused Him of doing miracles by the power of Satan. He knew that there were those who doubted His ability, in the long run, to even resurrect the dead to eternal life at the last day.

He worked with people that day, asking them to roll the stone away from the tomb. In front of everyone, with everyone able to see the dead man lying there in the tomb, with everyone able to smell his decomposing flesh, Jesus stood. He spoke aloud to His Father, naming God as His Father--thereby staking claim to His own divinity. He spoke to the one that everyone could see was dead, and the dead man heard him, stood up, and walked out of the grave! When they'd removed those nasty death clothes, there stood a man in perfect health as though he was in the prime of his life!

Never was there more obvious evidence that Jesus was who He said He was. To deny Him at this point, to plot His death, whether that plot could succeed or not, was to plot against One who was obviously the Son of God. It was to consciously side oneself with the losing side in the great controversy between God and Satan.

But that evidence encourages me today, nearly 2,000 years removed from the event. It is convincing and convicting evidence, alongside the fact that Jesus Himself rose from the dead, that death has no real power over me. It has no real power over anyone who believes. It has no real power over Grandpa.

Lazarus came forth renewed. No trace of the disease that killed him remained in his body. One day, for the first time since 1984, I'll get to talk with Grandpa again without his having to struggle to tell me what he wants me to hear. It will be as though the stroke never happened. I can't wait!

Where does it hurt?

Nothing... I mean nothing... has a greater impact on me than my family. Them to me personally, talking about them, thinking about them, what others say about them... it's all a big deal to me. As I write, my son is happily looking at Mickey Mouse games online (he's going to need to be done soon as his screen time is about to expire for the day). Every so often he'll look up with a big smile on his face and tell me about something he just did. Later we'll go for a walk and play baseball together.

Every day my girl comes home from school and tells me about the cool things she got to do. I just signed her up for summer camp, actually, her first year to do something like that. She can't wait to ride horses and swim all day. We have a family vacation planned for the following week in North Carolina in a place that's secluded, where we get no cell reception or internet, and we spend our days hiking, biking, sight-seeing, or checking out the shops in town. Or we may sit around the camp all day and watch the kids play in the creek during the day and catch fireflies in the evening before we roast marshmallows over a campfire.

Reading through the passages in Matthew, Mark, and Luke today was kind of tough from one perspective. It's pretty clear that Jesus hit the guy where it hurt: in his wallet. He "valued" obedience and finding a way to the Kingdom of God through what He did. But there was a heart-devotion missing. Commandment-keeping wasn't his problem. It was motivation. Did he do it for self? Or for God? Was he really willing, as the other disciples did, to sacrifice everything to follow Jesus? Turns out that he didn't.

The presenting issue was riches. But I believe that riches are more than money or possessions. They are whatever moves you the most. Riches moved the rich young ruler. But that may not move me. What really moves me is my family. I can't bear the thought of my kids doing without, being hungry, suffering in some way. The situation they have right now is really good for them. My daughter is in a great school and has great teachers. I want the same for my son in a year. I'm not enamored with the typical pastoral "move every couple of years" thing because of that. Kids crave consistency and stability, and I'm loathe to take it from them.

But then I read this stuff and I can't help but reflect on it in my context. If I'm called to pick up and move, will I? If I'm called to sacrifice something for the cause of Jesus, and that sacrifice impacts my family--well, how devoted am I? Most horrifyingly... if Jesus were to call me (not likely, but what if?) to walk away from them... if for one reason or another they would not follow Jesus (I'm aghast to even write that)... could I? Jesus said "I assure you that everyone who has given up house or wife or brothers or parents or children, for the sake of the Kingdom of God, will be repaid many times over in this life, and will have eternal life in the world to come." Do I believe that?

I'm not saying that will happen. As a family, we try to follow Jesus every day. We don't do it perfectly, but it's a joy for us to hide our imperfect selves in His perfection. But I cannot say with 100% assuredness that any of that stuff I just wrote of will not happen either.

How important it is to never stop looking at Jesus, falling in love with Jesus. He has to be adequate for me. It has to be such that happiness and fulfillment will not be lost until I lose Jesus. My greatest intimacies and thoughts and affections have to be wrapped up in Jesus. I have to understand everything in Jesus.

Please, Jesus, give me that kind of love. Give me that kind of courage and commitment to you, which I cannot just conjure up but what you place in me. May I be lost in You, focused on You without distraction, doing life with you without straying off course--ready to give up ALL for Jesus. ALL.

Calling the Uncle Teds...

A couple of weekends ago, my parents went back to North Carolina for the weekend. During the late 1970s and most the 80s, they taught at Mt. Pisgah Academy (MPA), a Seventh-day Adventist parochial high school near Asheville. It was the 30 year reunion for a class they sponsored that they still look back on rather fondly, and that class had invited them to lead out in a large Sabbath School class for the attendees.

There were a number of people who asked about me, apparently. Now, I was a 9 year-old kid when they sponsored that class. When they started out at MPA, I was 5. We lived on the campus in a rental house, and I had (sort of) "free run" of the place. We didn't have to worry too much about traffic as there wasn't much of it. We were in a fairly protected environment, so it was nothing for me to go play pretty much wherever I wanted to. It was a great place to be a kid!

I guess I let it get to my head a bit. I could be a holy terror as a kid. That class (and a few others) remember me as being one of the "Bad Boys of Pisgah." Another kid named Aaron was born there not long before then that took some of the pressure off. I could pass on the mantle to him, so to speak.

There was a man there, however, that took a liking to me. His name was Ted Graves. "Uncle Ted," we called him. He called me Tex (I was born in Houston and most of my family hails from the Lone Star State). I cannot remember a time when Uncle Ted belittled me, upbraided me for bad behavior, or treated my like a "bad boy." What he did was treat me like I think Jesus treated the kids in Matthew 19:13-15. He suffered me, I'm sure. He treated me with the kindness and dignity that others might have withheld. He got to know me.

It's largely because of people like him that I follow Jesus today. Ellen White, the author of The Desire of Ages and a multitude of other books, wrote in those pages, "Never give them [children] cause to feel that heaven will not be a pleasant place to them if you are there" (page 517). Uncle Ted certainly didn't make anyone feel this way that I know of. Uncle Ted was an accent of the opposite. If there was one person in my life that I would hope defines the personalities of heaven, it would be him.

Jesus' heart is drawn to children. Good ones and "bad" ones alike. He loves those we call model kids, but he loves the "bad boys of Pisgah" every bit as much.

Friends, do you know a kid or two? Pray for them. Pray for their parents who every day have struggles of their own and try so hard to raise kids who are respectable and contribute to society and who love Jesus. As a parent, I know I need it. But maybe today you can get to know a kid or two a little better. Sure, get to know a "nice" kid better. If we ignore the "nice" ones, they may not stay nice. But even if they're obnoxious, loud-mouthed, bullying little hooligans... could you be the one who knows them too? Shows them kindness that others withhold?

Uncle Ted died just a few years ago. But I know there are more of him in the world. If it's you, keep stepping up. If it's not you, do some soul searching. We need more like him. I know I want to be one.

Looking Forward

I look forward to a lot of things. Seeing my kids grow up, graduate, get married, having grandkids... short and long-term stuff. I look forward to getting out of debt. I look forward to the growth of the church God has made me a steward and shepherd of. I look forward to seeing Jesus face-to-face.

I find it interesting Jesus' reply to the Pharisee's inquiry about the Kingdom of God (Luke 17:20-21). They looked forward to it. But Jesus proceeds to blow up their ideas (again) of what it would be like. "You can't find it or make it come because of your careful observation. It's not a matter of the observable. It is within you."

It is reality. It is physical reality. The body is the temple of God now. It is spiritual reality. The Holy Spirit makes it so. It is, I feel, both outward and inward manifestation among people, something mysterious inside with observable results outside. But it isn't about a location.

In their own midst, the Kingdom of God was a reality in Jesus, but they couldn't even see it. How would they be able to find it when Jesus wasn't physically there with them? The fact that they couldn't see it right in front of them would make it impossible to detect God's kingdom when it was less obvious. And today, if God isn't in the everyday stuff of life, we won't be expecting it when it physically comes again.

I need Jesus in me. I need Him in the daily realities of life. I need to be in His Kingdom even if I'm living in another. The destroyed life of yesterday needs to stay destroyed. I need to live as a God's-Kingdom-Citizen today so I will expect His Kingdom to be here soon and not get dragged into the lethargy of this kingdom.

Walk away from the dead me. Embrace the living me, and speak of Jesus and do life with Jesus today.

Talking to strangers?

As a kid, did we not all learn an important safety principle from our parents? "Never talk to strangers!" The idea "stranger danger" is a fundamental thing we teach our kids still, and for good reason. I can remember how dangerous I was told it could be to pick up a hitchhiker, how terrible it was to accept a gift from someone I didn't know.

I get the reasoning behind all of this. Unfortunately, it becomes something a bit tough to overcome as an adult. I recall a hot day about ten years ago driving somewhere in town in the minivan, rounding a corner not far from the house, and seeing a young woman wearing sweat pants and carrying what appeared to be about a 4 year-old kid. She looked miserable. So did the boy. You know what the first instinct still was? I am ashamed to admit it: stranger danger. You never know what could happen.

I recall the story of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:25-37). Sadly, I can identify with the priest and the Levite. Now, the story doesn't directly talk about why those two were motivated to pass by the fellow suffering on the side of the road. Uncleanliness is surely part of it (these were Temple folk after all, and cleanliness was a big deal to them). However, there was the danger element. You couldn't have known how far away the bandits were and if they were hoping that someone would stop to help, someone they could add to their list of victims.

As for the "unclean" factor, I doubt that many of us today could totally avoid this feeling. I live in a town with an very interesting population. There are a good number of people living here who have it pretty rough. Quite a few of retirement age who don't really have enough to retire on. A lot of people not of retirement age just struggling to make it, single-parent families doing their best to put food on the table. There's a derogatory word used to describe a lot of the people around here: redneck.

Jeff Foxworthy is famous because of his "You might be a redneck..." jokes. It describes a culture viewed as backwoods, uneducated, and poor, people who may be poor because they have poor ways of doing things. They are stereotyped as those who haunt Wal-Mart late at night while yelling at their kids and buying a bunch of cigarettes and beer and miniature chocolate doughnuts with a little actual food on the side, often with food stamps. They are pretty much ignored, avoided, and made fun of.

Maybe it's not unlike the way Jews treated Samaritans.

In the parable, the question was answered, "Who is my neighbor?" (Luke 10:29). The neighbor to the suffering man was the one who helped him. He wasn't defined by being Samaritan or Jewish, ultimately, or by the position he held. He was defined as the helper. The one with compassion. The one who looked past prejudice and stereotype and saw another who needed his help.

Back to the young single mom carrying his son. The temptation was to drive on. Stranger danger. Stereotype. But it turned out to be one of those moments where I could actually hear the audible voice of God in me, the Holy Spirit. Like the sheet being lowered for Peter: don't call unclean what I call clean.

I turned around. I had carseats already. Mom was dubious, but desperate and tired enough to take help. She had been walking all the way from Dade City to get to a park where she'd meet a friend to go home with. Her trek was taking her about ten miles with this little boy in the hot sun. I only wish I had seen her sooner, and about eight miles further north. At the least, we were able to save her a couple of miles of walking and sweating. And I made a friend with a pretty cool kid.

Look, I'm not a great neighbor. I've driven by others that I should have stopped for. But it's pretty memorable to be a neighbor. I want to be one more often. I know I still have to unlearn some things, lose some biases and inhibitions, and start thinking of people the way Jesus does: Precious people for whom He died. Start doing life with Jesus in the way He would do it. Maybe it'll be dangerous. Maybe I'll get burned a time or two, but at least I would be able to say I lived. Better to be a risk-it neighbor than to always play it safe and miss the opportunity to be like Jesus.