VillagePastor

Miracle in the Bakaa

It was another dinner, another conversation. You have lots of these in Lebanon—lots. There is no end to the stories of ministries, ministers doing their own thing. I suppose the years of civil war have led to lots of mistrust. Throw in a culture of tribalism, and it makes sense that many are in their silos. It sort of came to a head for me, when we discovered that our ministry in the north of Syria was thwarted by churches fighting with one another.

Friday night proved to be a different story. For the first time, various home groups in the Bekaa Valley were invited to actually meet together. Would they come? We really didn’t know. It’s been so easy to criticize one another over some theological difference, leadership issue. A space for worship, for gathering outside of homes, was recently secured. By most of our standards, it’s not a lot, but it is big enough to bring people together. As I prayed about what to say, God gave me Ephesians 3:20-21—a powerful reminder that God is able.

I have often used this verse to assure myself and others that God can do the impossible—provide for our needs, heal lives, change hearts. But for years, I missed the context, that is all about the fact that the walls are down, and groups as disparate as Jew and Gentile can come together. Over here, it is hard to get Baptists together! I’m serious. There are so many walls it sometimes feels like walking in a maze—so many silos it feels like Kansas. But as this text affirms, God will have none of it. The Cross changed all of this—“But now in Christ you have been brought near, for He Himself is our peace, making both into one” (2:13-14). And if we believe it is impossible, then we miss Paul’s closing words in vss 20-21—GOD IS ABLE!

The miracle over the Bekaa is that the room was full—a mix of Bedouins, former Muslims, a mix of Lebanese and Americans and Europeans and Chinese—all worshipping God. And from everything I could tell—hungering for this unity Christ prayed about in John 17:20-21. By this will men know that the Father has sent Jesus. Last night, it was clear to most that Jesus was sent.

 

 

Time Near the Arabian Desert

It’s not easy getting into Syria. The border crossing, both ways, is a process of lines, unexpected fees, men in army fatigues with vacant looks, both on the Lebanese and Syrian sides. But once you get through their intimidation, their obvious intent of making life just a bit more difficult than it has to be, you enter a country where the spirituality initially seems as arid as the landscape.

This is my fourth trip to Syria, and while I could say it is the food, the sites in old Damascus, the hospitality that draw me to this region, it is the body of Christ that calls me back. Part of the church are the men I am so privileged to work with, modern day apostles of sort. We hiked into Dier Mar Musa one day for an overnight with the monks. It is a monastery sitting high above the Arabian desert, and we spent the night just looking at the stars and pondering the greatness of God and the work He has called all of His believers to do.

But coming back to ground level, few things go as planned in this part of the world. Doing ministry is one of them. Like Paul in Acts 16, trying to get to Mysia, hoping to enter Bithynia, God had other plans for us this time around. We planned to go to south Syria to visit house churches—then north toward the border, to encourage small home groups. But things were not opening. All along, it appears God was calling us to Aleppo, the second largest city in Syria, five hours north of Damascus.

It was here we met with two churches, one in a regular building, one in a home. It’s always a challenge knowing what to say. Speaking in a different culture, one where the secret police must be informed of your activities, one in which most make very little income, and the system seems to suck the life out of one’s soul, I often feel so inadequate to speak to it all. But the Word of God always proves powerful. I Peter seemed to be the working text for this trip. So much of the message seemed to fit this context, for these are “aliens” who pay a certain price for their faith. There aren’t many devoted followers here.

There are a lot of good things. People are coming to Jesus. Many are incredibly warm—and so gracious. But there is not a lot of trust between churches. It’s one of the greatest problems for the church in the Mideast, and it really grieves my spirit. The adversary is surely intent on doing everything to keep the church from becoming a movement, gaining traction. Tribalism seems to often get in the way. But God is bigger than any government, any culture, any work of the devil, and I regularly find myself asking—why not? (laysch la).

God seems to show us, whether we are in the northwestern part of the States, or the northern part of Syria, that His church can be a radical witness, a powerful movement, if it chooses to be missional; if it is determined to be one in Spirit. Here’s what I imagine some day in Syria—a movement where people come in and find a celebration of life, where all that has been sucked out of the soul in an arid and harsh environment is replaced with grace and imagination and passion. Given some of the people I am meeting, and given their deep prayers of faith, it really seems possible.

 

 

The Maddening Mideast

This is about my sixth or seventh time in Lebanon.  It has changed a lot since my first visit in 1996.  Then, the city was much uglier, bearing the wounds of an ugly civil war.  Syrians were the army in control, visible at many checkpoints.  It was clear they were there, in part, to keep a lid on a simmering pot that could boil over at any time.  Thirteen years later, there are still scars, but they are less visible.  The Syrians have gone home, and the most recent election was among the most peaceful.

Ministry has a bit less feel of a wide and open frontier, which is part of what attracted me in the first place.  It still has its challenges, but of a different sort.  You make plans, but you must constantly adjust.  A car blocks your path on the way to a meeting, the stapler jams, a meeting falls through, restrictions suddenly change where you can do ministry.  It’s best things are written down in pencil.  Be prepared to push the delete button. 

It seems appropriate that I began this journey reflecting on Proverbs 16:1—“The plans of the heart belong to man, but the answer of the tongue is from the Lord.”  All we can do is bring our plans to the Lord each day and submit to His will.  It’s surely the same back home, but here you feel so much less in control.  Most plans fall apart.  Like driving in this crazy place, it can feel like managed chaos.  Think of it as bumper cars on steroids.

There is still a pretty fragmented body of Christ, but there are also signs of believers banding together.  That is the principal reason I am here.  Five years ago, three of us, a businessman from London, an Australian directing OM, and I sat in a guest house and dreamed of a day we would begin to see various ministries begin to band together.  Today, we sat down together and asked ourselves—are we getting there?  Slowly, but surely, by God’s grace, we are.  Tonight my wife and I dined with seven key ministry leaders who have covenanted to team together to advance the kingdom of God together in Lebanon.  A lot of great things are already in motion, including one of the most powerful children’s ministries in the Middle East, a relief group that is doing a most incredible work reaching Iraq refugees, a church planter who is planting churches throughout Lebanon and Syria, etc.  Pretty cool stuff.

Lebanon is a place that lifts your spirit, frustrates your soul, wears out your body, and breaks your heart—all at the same time.  But it is worth it.  This is the gateway to the Mideast—one of the most strategic places on earth as far as I am concerned.  Outside of my ministry at Village and Western, I’m not sure where else I would rather be.

The Mysteries of Prayer

I’m into my third week of a summer series on spiritual disciplines, entering into one of the most difficult of all for me—prayer. I’m not sure why. I know down deep that my life, my ministry is desperately dependent upon prayer. Desperately dependent! And yet, prayer can be so laborious for me. It’s not that I don’t pray; don’t work through a careful list I have put together to pray over each day. But it is hard for me to relate to those saints of old who have gotten up in the night to pray, and pray for hours.

Part of it is living in a culture that has bred into me hurry and noise. When I took the test in Strengthfinder, “Achiever” surfaced as my dominant strength. It’s not all that surprising, then, that prayer can sometimes be so hard for me, for prayer can seem so unproductive. When I slow down to pray for an extended time, I am often uncomfortable. I remember going to a park one day for one purpose—to pray. But the whole time I feared someone would see me and accuse me of wasting time. Something inside said I must get back to work, missing of course that this is my most necessary work.

So I occasionally turn to books to get my uncentered self back on center, beginning with God’s Word. And yet, this too can often be confusing. I love Jesus’ stories of the widow who tenaciously stayed at it with a judge, until her needs were addressed; the neighbor who came to the friend in the night, and kept banging the door until his neighbor gave in, got up, and gave him a loaf. I love the promise of Jesus that when we pray, God is far more responsive. I rely on these stories to build my faith. I’ve preached them with conviction, exegeting almost every word. But these stories also confuse me, for a fair amount of issues I have been tenacious to pray about have not materialized—yet. When Jesus says, “If you ask anything in My name, I will do it”, I sometimes wonder, “Is He exaggerating?”  “Is there something wrong with me, God?” Am I not getting the “in My name” part right? 

I don’t want to be misunderstood here. God has given to us many wonderful answers—far more than I will ever know. That I am blessed with a most fulfilling ministry and a great family is more than enough evidence. That Heather has survived a close call with death in November, and my own health stays strong is a testament to God’s faithful response to our petitions. That we are far richer than I would have ever imagined is a witness to God’s profound answers to our needs. But I would be less than honest if I didn’t also admit my confusion over unanswered prayers.

Some books on prayer inspire me, others just deepen the guilt. But recently, I came across a wonderful new book on prayer by Paul Miller, entitled A Praying Life. It was as if I found a kindred spirit on the journey. He writes with warmth and insight, and I found myself praying throughout the reading. It just provoked me to constantly Twitter with God.  

I’m still learning to pray like a child, for this is where it starts—coming to grips with our total helplessness. “Learning to be Helpless” is, in fact, one of the best chapters in the book. Quoting from Thomas Merton, Miller writes: “Prayer is an expression of who we are…we are a living incompleteness. We are a gap, an emptiness that calls for fulfillment.” Prayer reminds us of the words in John 15:5, “Apart from me, you can do nothing.”  And reading John 15:5 points us back to prayer.

Speaking of prayer. I am off to Lebanon and Syria for two weeks. I your are reading, please keep me in your prayers. I hope to blog what God is teaching me.

Bright and the Missional Church

I was reading a story about Bill Bright, the founder of Campus Crusade, who arguably has had as great an impact on Christianity in America as anyone else, including Billy Graham. When Campus Crusade for Christ unleashed “Four Spiritual Laws”, it became one of the most widely distributed booklets in history. In the activist days of the 60’s, CCC learned from campus radicals and seized their platforms. I was a student at San Diego Stat in the early 70’s, when one of Crusade’s voices, Josh McDowell, came on campus and spoke. It was an electric moment. People yelled obscenities from dorm windows, and threw things.

I was not part of Campus Crusade. I worked with another campus organization, but our mission was the same—to reach students for Christ. Sometimes, our training took place at San Diego State, where we typically confronted other radical groups like the SDS. It was a great time to be a new believer, as well as working in a parachurch movement. There was a sense of urgency. In a culture of drugs, Vietnam, protests, and occasional riots, we felt we were in our own war. Things were polarized. You were on one side or the other, for or against. There was little space in the middle. In 1970, Esquire magazine placed CCC at the top of a list of ten movements to avoid in college—ahead of the Weathermen and the Communist Party.

I’m not sure where Esquire would place Crusade today. Christianity doesn’t seem so radical, so dangerous today, on campus or in the community. Not that I necessarily want to go back to the rebellious days of the 60’s, but I do miss some of the passion, commitment that characterized those days. You carried a New Testament with you most of the time, and were intentional about regularly praying for a name in your wallet, a “target person”, someone without Jesus.

In reading books like Alan Hirsch’s The Forgotten Ways Handbook, there is a fresh call to be missional, a challenge to the church to go outward into the world and deep into culture. Transformation, as well as multiplication, are critical to survival, and needful if we are to once again be dangerous. I’ve been thinking about this a lot, especially with the completion of our new worship center. There are lots of emotions I feel when I walk through it, but the one that dominates is this—God is giving us this huge opportunity, as well as responsibility, to use it to reach lost people. Hence, in a strange way, it does not so much invite me in as much as send me out to live in more proximity with those beyond the walls, beyond the faith.

Hirsch’s title comes out of a conviction we have largely lost contact with the memory of what we can be, and ought, to be. We have forgotten the importance and the art of building friendships with those beyond the church. But it is his conviction we are waking up and becoming a movement once again. Voices like McManus and Wells and Carson and Stackhouse and Crouch and Peterson and Viola (an odd mix, I know), are all stirring up the church to be the church. And a huge part of this begins with getting outside of our walls and becoming intentional again, even if it means carrying a name in a wallet.

 

 

Friday Night at the Movies

I don’t typically blog about movies I have seen. Most of this space has been reserved for books and travel. But I’ve been thinking a lot about the last movie I saw, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Maybe it was the cinematography, the romance, or the imaginative idea of an infant born suffering the limitations of old age and gradually becomes younger. They all played a part. I loved many of the scenes, like I did in The Woman with the Pearl Earring. Many of the movements seemed like paintings on a canvas. Of course, it is also amazing what computer effects can do.

But here’s what I found so refreshing. This was a story. This wasn’t a hodgepodge of special effects, with the faint lines of a narrative. This was a narrative that one could get lost in. I like how a CT reviewer put it—this was “technology placed completely in the service of story and character.” I became so engrossed in the story line that computer wizardry was hardly noticed.

In an age so dominated by technology, could it be we are losing story, even in our own lives? Could it be we are running from twitter to voice message to e-mail to text message, so much so that there is not much of a narrative being written in our own lives?  Are we becoming a jumble of special effects? I don’t know. I just know that I find story in movies a welcome reprieve.

Of course Hollywood tends to romanticize life, creating an illusionary world, and it does so in this film. There are parts of the love relationship between Pitt and Blanchett that don’t square with reality. Her narcissistic past and his previous affairs do not seem to have any impact on their eventual relationship. But life does not work that way. Still, it is nice to see a story of two people whose love keeps drawing them back to each other, and love that eventually is strong enough to love through life’s infirmities.

What hits you in this film—especially if you are pushing 60, is the inevitability of aging and mortality. Impermanence is the constant theme of this movie, as it is in life. There is this one moment in the movie when Benjamin and Daisy meet in the middle—he is going one direction, getting younger; she is going the other direction, getting older. For that one fleeting moment, they look into the mirror, and you can sense the pain that will eventually come. At least we all go the same direction, though sometimes you wish life did go backwards, that the older and wiser and more seasoned you became, the younger the body becomes to facilitate the internal.

Last week I stood next to the body of a woman I have gotten to know in my church. She had just died moments earlier, and it was time. She was in her 90’s, frail, and scared to let go. And maybe she was hesitant to cross over out of feelings that when she has the most to offer, her body won’t let her. It all leads to a certain feeling of melancholy, which both this film and life itself create. But unlike the film, that offers no hope in the end, we have this hope of life on the other side, where the body will get neither younger nor older, and despondency will be utterly absent. I’m hoping we all lock in at about 25.

Transitions

Lingenfelter, in his powerful book, Transforming Culture, makes the statement, “In every generation people decide that the old leaders and the old game are inadequate. What they need are new leaders and a new social game to make ministry happen.”

 

It’s natural. But it may not always be good. There was this moment in Israel‘s history when a generation decided that the old leaders were inadequate. So they demanded a king. The people wanted change, wanted youth, wanted to be like the other nations. They wanted a symbol of royalty that would impress the others. Someone dynamic, who would stand head and shoulders above the rest. Saul seemed to fit the bill.

 

So Samuel had to give way. But when you read I Samuel 12, it is clear Samuel was finding it hard to adjust. He had been God’s leader, but the tide had turned. His style of leadership, though appreciated, was no longer valued. He was old and gray, and as he put it, “it is the king who is now leading you.”  It led to some hard questions, troubling questions like, “Whom have I wronged?”  One can hear him asking—so why am I rejected?  Outside of the need for a new image, where have I failed?

 

It was nothing personal. Israel wanted image, change, youth—wanted to be like the others. Ecclesiastes 4:13-16 speaks to the same pattern. People may find the right leader to replace the former, but even with him, the old game will eventually be inadequate, and, as the writer puts it, “those who come later will not rejoice in him.” But Samuel will remind them in this last public speech that success is not contingent upon leadership and social game; a new leader and a new title won’t necessarily deliver you. The fear of God and obedience to His commands is what matters (vs 14).

 

I think about all of this because I was recently with a small core of ministry leaders. A meeting was called for no discernible reason, but behind it all was this angst over the fact we are all getting older. I listened as these guys, amazing guys, each powerfully used of God, talked about where they were at. They have led movements nationally, as well as world wide, gave birth to incredible churches, and shepherd significant existing ministries. All believe they have more to offer the church than at any other time of their lives. And yet, there was this sense that their best days are now past, that they are no longer adequate for the new game. It’s not that they felt this way. But in some cases, another generation does.

 

Maybe I was witnessing the inevitable change of the guard, a precursor to my own unavoidable change. Better to initiate change than be asked to change. But it raises a question. Is there something to learn from Israel? Could it be that there is a tendency in these days to rush into the latest trend, go after tomorrow at the expense of the wisdom of the present?  

 

 

Holding on to Idealism

This weekend, another seminary graduation came and went. Each time I march in with the faculty, and I see the students alongside, I’m reminded of my own experience in 75, 77, and 84. It’s hard to believe thirty-seven years ago this June, I packed practically everything I owned, crammed it into the back seat of a Datsun, said good bye to my family, and drove from San Diego to Portland to attend Western.

I had a pretty romantic notion of seminary training. After reading the airbrushed catalogues, I assumed the seminary’s backdoor was the Pacific Northwest forest, where I would go for long afternoon walks, reflecting on the theological insights of the day. It turned out to be partially true. I spent lots of time walking through Mt. Tabor’s trails. I determined that I would stay fixed to a deep walk with God. I would not let seminary classes take the place of devotions, the Bible become a textbook. For the most part, I stayed faithful to this. I did not want to lose my first love. Did not want to find my passion cooled. I wanted to develop a critical mind without a critical spirit. I wanted to graduate with a more realistic understanding of life, yet hold on to a youthful idealism that believed God called me and would use me to help advance His kingdom.

I looked out over these students last weekend, hoping that this sort of idealism has not eluded any of them. I hooded the latest doctoral candidates, hopeful they are still passionate. Idealism is necessary for risk takers and dreamers. But it is also dangerous, for it runs head on into realism. There is no getting around the fact that ministry is, for the most part, hard. I tell my students there will be disappointments. You go out with romantic notions of riding a wild stallion in parades, only to find yourself “mucking out the stalls, spreading manure, pulling up the weeds,” as Peterson once put it. Some in religious clothes will receive you warmly and then turn on you. After years of abuse in one church, my best friend in seminary ended up in need of psychiatric care. Some of my peers left the ministry within the first initial years, due to the ungodliness of some churches. It is a broken world.

The biggest challenge is to stay at it, stay fresh—hang on to a certain idealism that you had at graduation. To still believe God wants to enlarge your borders, expand your vision, do the impossible through you. But one has to be so careful of getting in the grind and getting ground up. Every now and then, I still reread Barbara Brown Taylor’s Leaving Church. I look for clues, warnings, for most of us are candidates to write the same book one day. I’m always struck by her candor, her admission. As she puts it, ministry became so all encompassing, she kept the soul so hitched to the plow that “it stood between the traces even after the harness was off, oiled, and hung on the wall.”  It seems to be her way of saying that, as an Anglican rector, she could never take off the collar—could never find any other identity but the one placed upon her by others. As she puts it, “my context was so tightly focused that even my junk mail was Christian.”

To a certain extent, all of us need an annual commencement, a fresh start, a new collar, as well as down times to take it off and read the rest of life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Connectivitis

Things that drive me crazy. Here’s one—cell phones that go off in services, particularly a very solemn service like Good Friday. No less than six phones went off this year, a record for those counting. Worse, I was part of an early prayer meeting with leaders of the church last Thursday, and yes, a cell phone went off right in the middle of my prayer. And I lost my train of thought with God. It was maddening…especially because it was my cell phone!  For a moment, I had visions of the Verizon commercial, where the offender falls into the grave.

 

Let’s face it—there is a spreading disease out there. The symptoms are lives with lots of words on the page, and little white space left. We are becoming overly connected, such that it is almost impossible to get disconnected. And as I shared this weekend, technology seems to be doing its best to create even more opportunities to connect. Twitter is just one of the latest tools to keep us connected—joining snail mail, land line, cell phone, texting, Instant Messaging, Facebook, MySpace, etc.

 

What makes Twitter unique is that it is an online service in which one is confined to 140 characters or less. So most of the twittering amounts to issuing updates on the daily minutia of our lives…what we’re watching, eating, feeling, at any given moment…to no one in particular. On the good side, Twitter’s an amazing tool for instant updates, alerts that must get out immediately. Other online opportunities have the potential for us to make contact with people we have not connected with in years. One co-worker recently shared how Twitter and other tools have enabled her to establish contact with people she has ministered to in the past, and how God is opening doors to extend discipleship. I think that is great.

 

But as a caution, we sometimes need to stop and ask ourselves what are the dangers. This weekend I raised a number of questions with the congregation, questions regarding online technologies:

-are we lulling ourselves into believing we are more connected than ever—when in reality we might be becoming less and less connected?

-could Twitter—and other technologies--be another way of dwelling too much on ourselves, a subtle slide into narcissism, more about self-gratification than community building?

 

Last week I came across a recent article in Relevant magazine entitled: “Twitter: What’s It Doing to Us?” in which it asks these and other questions…

-what are incessant interruptions—mostly empty of meaning—doing to our minds, our souls?

-could constant updates—with tiny bits of information--that give us little time to reflect—condition us over time to no longer have the capability of reflection. Are we being trained to become indifferent to real needs?

 

Here’s what I am wondering—

-if we’re always available, are we worth anything when we are available?

-can we have so many friends, that we no longer really have a friend?

-is the slow drip of trivia pulling us away from the hard work of authentic community and connection?

 

It’s not that I am trying to sound like a Luddite, protesting technological advances. But I am wondering where it is all going. For now, I have drawn the line at cell phone and e-mails. I don’t text. I’m not even sure how to text. I honestly don’t want anymore connection. I already feel like the electrical outlet in my study that has two power strips attached to it. I can be engaged in a great book, composing a sermon, crafting a lecture, and stop everything at the sound of an e-mail coming in. My cell phone often gets more priority than face to face conversation. Like an unwanted guest, it sneaks even into my prayer closet.

 

Oh, I almost forgot. I am trying to connect with blogging. This is my cyberspace of choice. But I have long sense concluded it is a way for me to reflect my reading, express what I am learning, and give it the respect of careful thought. In other words, it is only worth the space if there is enough white space left in my life.

 

 

The Monday After Easter

Like probably other pastors, I am feeling a bit comatose after Easter weekend. Two Good Friday Services and five Easter Services make for a long Monday. The alarm went off way too early this morning. Getting to seminary at 6:30am, I decided to close my office door and grab one more hour of sleep, even if my pillow was my briefcase and my mattress was a concrete floor. It was actually somewhat restful, though when I awoke for the second time of the morning, I felt far worse—like a train had run over me. Even Zipfizz seemed to have little impact. Looking into the mirror was especially frightening.

 

I’m not sure how other pastors deal with Monday after Easter. It’s always been a mix of excitement for me (the opportunity to speak into the lives of new people) and relief (thank God it is over!). There’s a certain irony in going all out to accommodate those who generally have little interest in your ministry or God the other 50 or so Sundays of the year. It’s not that they are unkind. Easter-only attendees are rather pleasant. If you catch them in time, they might even shake your hand, but they are generally on to other things—brunch, the family meal, a sporting event. Some even dress up. They are grateful for the service, but you know down deep most won’t be back until December or next Easter, or the next disaster.

 

And yet, we still go that extra distance. Like a frazzled housewife, we make sure the rooms are picked up, the trash emptied, the table set. I always find myself giving more attention to getting the introduction and conclusion just right. Yesterday I lingered a bit at the closet, looking for just the right suit to wear, the appropriate tie that would match. And at church, I was especially in micromanage mode--encouraging an usher to be more aggressive in seating people, critically eying the selection of music, making sure the welcome and announcements were appropriate, looking to see if staff were manning their posts, the projectionist was on cue, etc.. Sometimes Easter can transform (deform?) me into a bit of a stage manager.

 

And then I have to stop, take a breath, get on my knees and remember that the only One I really need to please and honor is God. And remember again that those who need, deserve my greatest love and attention are those who are there faithfully, through thick and thin—good times and bad. Who are there whether it is April 12^th or Dec 24^th or July 7^th, who will come back even if your sermon didn’t quite speak to them, even if the musician hit a wrong note, and even if the carpet is soiled.  

 

This is not to say that Easter-only attendees are not worth the investment. Even though it can feel a bit like the John 6 crowd (there for the free meal, but gone when there is a call for commitment), you never know when someone may emerge from the crowd and say, like a woman yesterday, “All I know for sure is this, I want what these people have.” There is this eternal hope some will say, I want to live a resurrected life, I want to be passionate rather than lukewarm for Jesus.

 

We extend this grace, of course, because we were once there ourselves.