Hard Questions

Don't be afraid to ask the hardest questions that rise up in your soul. But don't expect answers. Expect rather to experience God.

--Larry Crabb

We tend to avoid the toughest questions of life. We're scared of them. What if we ask a hard question, a question that challenges the core of our faith, and find no answer? What will happen to our faith then? We conclude that maybe it's best not to ask.

The genius of the book of Job in the Old Testament is that it gives us permission--even encourages us--to ask the very toughest questions. Job did, in the face of three friends who told him that such questions must never be asked. At the end of the story, God commends Job and scolds the three friends for misrepresenting Him. And Job, who receives no answers, has a deeper encounter with God than he ever thought possible.

So go ahead. Take your toughest questions to God. Wrestle with them; wrestle with Him. Voice your deepest doubts and your bitterest complaints. Fearlessly ask...

1. Are you really and truly there, or are you something people made up?
2. Why do you answer some prayers but not others?
3. Why do good people suffer and die well before it seems they should?
4. Why do you bless people who pay no attention to you, while while I face obstacle after obstacle with no apparent relief?
5. Why is my marriage falling apart despite my best efforts to save it?
6. Why have I been hurt by the very people who were supposed to love me the most?

The more frequently and honestly you bring these questions before God, the more richly you will experience the reality of God. Answers? You may get some; you may not get any. But I'll take God's presence--no matter how messy--over a neatly-wrapped package of answers any day!

What Do You Do With An Hour?

The "worship wars" that churches have fought over the past few years have largely missed the point. Periodically, we call a truce in the wars long enough to observe that the things we're fighting about--musical styles, proper dress, multi-media technology, and hands (clapping, raising, etc.)--are not the central issue. Then we go back to fighting over those very issues. Sigh!

The point is that we should have grateful hearts that are turned toward God, not just for an hour on Sunday, but 24/7. Although the hour on Sunday was never intended to be our complete worship for the week, what we do during that hour is important. During that time, we encourage each other to carry an attitude of praise toward God into all the other activities of the week. The message from each Sunday morning should be, "worship God through your work; praise God through your family life; give honor to him by sniffing out His ways in the ordinary events of life and then joining Him there; strive to 'be Jesus' to every person you meet this week." I think that's the point of oft-quoted "go to church" passage, Hebrews 10:24-25.

So here's the question: what do we do during that one hour together on Sunday? How do we structure that time so that we are encouraged to take our faith to the streets Monday through Saturday? How do we best remind each other of who we are and whose we are? How does that hour become a time to which we all eagerly look forward and then a launch-pad for Kingdom activity?

Things Discovered While Looking Up Other Stuff #2

1. Alan Smithee, one of the most prolific directors in Hollywood, doesn't exist. When a director wants to disassociate himself from a film because creative control has been taken away from him, he can petition the Director's Guild of America to have the fictitious name "Alan Smithee" listed as the director in the credits.



2. The lyrics to the "Wiener Song" (on the occasion of the 70th birthday of the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile^®, July 18, 2006):
       I know a wiener man; he owns a wiener stand
       He sells most everything from hot dogs to clams
       And in my later life I'll be his wiener wife
       Hot dog I love that wiener man



3. While Tagamet^® is a popular drug for treating heartburn and ulcers, Tagametsa is a town in Estonia that hosted the International Boy Scout/Girl Guide Jamboree in 2001.



4. The hip-hop group Black Eyed Peas is so named because, in the words of group founder will.i.am, "Black Eyed Peas are food for the soul." Meanwhile, down in southern Arkansas and northern Louisiana, the folks prefer purplehull peas to black eyed peas. They look very similar, but according to the connoiseurs, purplehulls have twice the flavor. Those in the know insist that purplehull is one word, though they admit that even many seed catalogs separate it into two. Tiny Emerson, Arkansas, on the Louisiana border, is home to the annual Purplehull Pea Festival and World Championship Rotary Tiller Race.

Leanne in Finland

A member of our church, Leanne Sexton, went to Tampere, Finland, on a mission trip last month, then stayed for an extra month to continue the work by herself. Her walk with Jesus is awesome; she is more in tune with the movement of the Spirit than just about anyone I know.

She sends back the most amazing emails from Finland. They're more than just a description of her ministry. They're challenging, thought-provoking, and edifying in the very best sense of that word. And here's the best part: her emails are now available in a new blog, His Girl in Tampere. Even if you don't know Leanne, you'll be encouraged by reading her posts.

Dis-a-vowel

Several weeks ago, I posted a story about a wedding vow renewal ceremony at a local senior citizen center. Whoever made the sign describing the day's activities had used the word "vowel" when they obviously meant to use "vow." It tickled me, so I wrote a reflection on what a wedding vowel might be.

Well, it seems that a significant segment of the population doesn't know a vow from a vowel. I keep getting visitors who were referred here after googling the words "wedding vowel renewal." I checked it out and sure enough, when you enter those search terms, my blog is one of the top hits. (I wanted Meanderings to gain recognition, but I didn't have this in mind.) Most of the other hits are sites featuring folks talking quite seriously about renewing their vowels. There are even some sites advertising places that are perfect for vowel renewals. Does it trouble anyone else that apparently many brides and grooms have such poor a handle on what a vow is that they believe they're taking vowels? Conversely, what do they think is happening when someone says, "I'd like to buy a vowel, Pat"?

How Embarrassing!

I hate it when I make dumb mistakes in my sermons. Three weeks ago, I was commenting on the sudden appearance of hundreds of people wearing Bluetooth phone devices. I said I thought they were the the first step toward becoming the Borg in Star Wars. I was thinking Star Trek, but said Star Wars. Every Trekkie in the church took it upon themselves to correct me. I think I could have referred to Elvis as the fourth member of the trinity and caused less of a stir.

But today, I topped myself. I made reference to The Passion of the Christ as a Mel Brooks film! What was supposed to be a serious moment in my sermon became decidedly less so. I have to admit, just imagining what The Passion of the Christ might look like if done by Mel Brooks is absurd enough to make me giggle.

That prayer that God would keep me humble: it's working.

Frost's Generational Axiom #1

"I sense a great disturbance in the blogosphere, young Jedi."

"What is it, my master?"

"It's the baby boomers, young one. They're aging, and they seem incapable of doing it quietly."

We boomers can't do anything without making a production out of it. The prez just turned 60, prompting every reporter of similar vintage to pontificate about the aging of the boomers. Over at Preacher Mike's place, you can find three posts* (so far)--complete with personal reflections and inspiring quotations--counting down to his 50th birthday. Age-wise, I'm in between Mike and W; well OK, a tad bit closer to W, truth be known. So who am I to buck the trend? No card-carrying baby boomer would ever let a significant life event pass by without waxing introspective and loquacious (in that order), under the false assumption that a World War II vet or Gen Xer somewhere gives a hang.

To any non-boomers still reading this: you need to know that whatever we boomers do is, by definition, cool--much cooler than when previous generations had the same experience. When we had sex, it was cool. The only cool thing about our parents having sex was that we resulted. Teenage alienation and rebellion? For us that was really cool; after all, we were challenging the establishment. When our kids rebelled, it wasn't cool; they were being spoiled brats. Asset accumulation and corporate ladder-climbing also became cool, once we got comfortable with being the establishment. (And no, we didn't "sell out." It's just that Michael Douglas's "greed is good" speech in Wall Street opened up a whole new perspective for us.)

Now getting old, which used to suck bilge water, is really cool because we're the ones doing it. Boomer blog after boomer blog trumpets the marvelous perspective, peace of mind and contentment that come with advancing age, rendering wrinkles, flab and arthritis mere superficial annoyances. Well guess what, campers? It's true. I am more comfortable in my sagging, at-risk-for-melanoma skin than ever. I wouldn't trade 55 for any other age I've been so far. But let's be honest; it ain't all sweetness and light, either. There are some frustrating realities about aging.

You want to know the hardest part for me? It's facing the truth of Frost's Generational Axiom #1, which states, "Each new generation instinctively understands stuff that the older generation can grasp--if at all--only after a thorough explanation." I only recently formulated the axiom, but I've observed the principle behind it for decades. Remember Archie and Edith Bunker from All In the Family? Their perspective, which seemed so normal and right to them, would elicit groans and eye-rolls from Michael and Gloria. No matter how much Michael tried to explain things to his father-in-law, Archie couldn't see the obvious. The only thing obvious to Archie was that Michael was a Meathead. And Edith, who really wanted to understand, just didn't have enough brainpower to get it. We boomers laughed along with Michael and Gloria; we all knew older people like the Bunkers, for whom no amount of reasoning would suffice to make them to see the obvious.

But now, it's my generation that doesn't get it. And I'm not just talking X-Boxes and programmable remotes here. Turns out, our whole world view is a bit dated. Check out James Wiser's insightful description of what his generation "gets" that we boomers need to have explained to us. Consequently, now I'm getting eye-rolls from the younger generation, and I dag-nab hate it. The first time I recall it happening, my daughter was in high school. I referred to one of her friends as an Oriental girl. Caren was mortified.

"Dad," she scolded, rolling her eyes, "she's Asian!"

"Of course she is," I replied. "I occidentally misspoke." More eye rolls. And since then it's only picked up steam. Increasingly, I get those looks from younger members of my congregation. You know: the condescending, "I'm-just-humoring-you-because-I-wouldn't-know-how-to-begin-to-straighten-you-out" look. I know it well, for as a young man I bestowed it countless times on my elders.

I recently read what I thought was a very challenging book about the future of the church. When I shared it with our youth minister, his reaction was, "you didn't know this stuff? I thought it was pretty obvious."

Meathead.

*Links to Preacher Mike's countdown to 50:
Turning 50 this Year
Twenty Days and Counting
As the Day Approaches

Yes, They're for Real!

I've delayed saying this until the All-Star break, but the Detroit Tigers are for real this year! Will they win the series? Who knows? Will they even make the playoffs? They have the best record in baseball, but the second-best record belongs to the White Sox who are in the AL Central with them. And the Sox are only two games back. But, the Tigers are real enough this year that they've awakened my long-dormant baseball gene and I find myself following every game with an intensity I thought I had lost.

You see, baseball fandom is an acquired trait for me. I didn't grow up near any major league teams (Roswell, New Mexico is known for some "out of this world" things, but not baseball). It wasn't until we moved to Cincinnati in 1974 that we became fans. In Cincinnati (especially in that era), either you were a Reds fan or you had nothing to talk about with friends (if you even had friends). We really got into the Big Red Machine--Pete Rose, Johnny Bench, Joe Morgan, Davey Concepcion, Ken Griffey, Sr., etc. And of course, Sparky Anderson, the best manager ever.

When we moved to the Detroit area in 1978, the Tigers were a group of has-beens, and what little glory they had was the dying glow of their 1968 come-from-behind, miraculous World Series win. But in 1979, Sparky came from the Reds to the Tigers. I immediately became a Tigers fan. Going down to Tiger stadium for a game became a favorite family activity. And our devotion was rewarded in that amazing 1984 season when the Tigers started with a 35-5 record and never looked back; they led their division from opening day to the last day of the season.

But that was 20 years ago, and after Sparky's departure the only notable thing the Tigers have done was to come within a game of setting the all-time record for most losses in a season (2003). Until this year! Baseball is fun again. The Old English D is once again a symbol of excellence, determination, skill, and perseverance.

I'm hoping that this year, I may break my jinx. I've never seen the Tigers win a game at Comerica Park (I even went to opening day this year and they lost). Even though their home record this year is not as good as their record on the road, I think my odds are pretty good. What a glorious day that will be. Now, if it just so happened that it was the seventh game of the World Series...

Mind Like a Rolodex^®

Remember the venerable Rolodex card file? It was such a wonderful little innovation for the office. Instead of index cards being packed into a drawer, they were on a wheel which could be turned to quickly get the needed information. Once you got to the right place, you could see the whole card at one glance (unlike older card files) or you could pull the card completely out.

I don't see too many rolodexes any more. I'm sure they're victims of office computerization. One little database can hold much more information than a huge Rolodex. Still, I'm sad to see them go, because my grown kids tell me that I have a mind like a Rolodex. Mention almost any topic, and my brain starts to churn. Before long, I'll come up with a joke, an anecdote, a memory, or a bit of trivia that fits the topic. My kids can even tell when the Rolodex is at work. Caren notices that I grow silent and I have a faraway look in my eyes. She pokes Alan, who makes the "thd-thd-thd" sound of cards flipping past on the wheel. When they see the twinkle in my eye that shows I've thought of something, they say, "Ding!" and sure enough, there's the joke or story.

Some ministers keep a file of sermon illustrations. I've never had one; I have my Rolodex. Not that it's a complete blessing. My Rolodex contains appropriate as well as inappropriate material. It has some funny stuff and a lot of corn. And sometimes, the topic that triggered the Rolodex search triggers another topic, which reminds me of another one, so that what eventually pops up has little or no relation to the subject at hand. Nor does the Rolodex work well on command. If someone says, "tell me a story about puppies," the Rolodex freezes in place and refuses to spit out anything puppy related until, say, 2 a.m. the following morning when I'm supposed to be asleep.

But for better or for worse, my Rolodex is a part of who I am. However, it is causing me to question my proper place in the world of blogging. When I read other people's blogs, the Rolodex is in fine form; I find myself wanting to comment on just about every post I read. But when I realize I haven't posted anything on my own blog in a while, Rolodex freeze sets in and my mind goes blank. I'm still weighing this one out, but maybe my purpose would be better served not by operating a blog, but by wandering about from blog to blog, dropping cards from the Rolodex as I go. Kind of a Johnny Appleseed of the blogosphere, if you will.

Teens at Work

This week, I am at Michigan Christian Youth Camp, participating in the first-ever "Mid-Michigan Work Camp." It's a week of Christian summer camp for teens, except that instead of horseback riding, water skiing, volleyball, and high ropes, the kids are painting houses. Each day, they pile into vans and go to homes of needy people in the Lapeer, Michigan, area and they paint. Most of the recipients are seniors who can't afford to hire the work done and who are too frail to do it themselves. I haven't worked a week of camp in six or seven years, and haven't done any other significant youth ministry in 12 or 13 years. But when my friend Jerry Brackney asked me to be a part of this, I couldn't say no.

My task this week is to speak each evening to a group of worn-out, paint-speckled teens. The theme for the week is "Extreme Makeover--Christ Edition" an obvious play on the reality show that basically tears down substandard houses and rebuilds dream homes in their places. Our theme scripture is Romans 12:1-2. The kids have been great. They listen patiently as this old guy lectures them on the finer points of being a living sacrifice. And despite being normal, goofy teens, I get the sense that they're really serious about giving it all the Lord.

Which sometimes makes me feel like a bit of a hypocrite. I'm 55 years old, and I wonder how good a handle I have on what it takes to be a living sacrifice, to allow the Spirit to do an extreme makeover on me, no holds barred, no questions asked. I'm afraid that more often than not, my life more closely resembles Aaron Tate's lyrics (below) than Romans 12:

You say you want a living sacrifice
Well I am a burnt offering
Crawling off the altar and
Back in to the fire
And with my smoke-filled lungs
I cry out for freedom
While locking and chaining myself
To my rotting desires.
And I hate the stench,
But I swallow the key,
And with it stuck in my throat,
Can you hear me? Can you hear me?

(From Coming Home, performed by Caedmon's Call)

But, like Tate, I still cry out to the Father, "I'm coming home." And my Father stands ready with the ring, robe, sandals, and fatted-calf barbecue. This week's camp is a wonderful and encouraging way-station on that journey back to the Father's love.