Lauren Winner

Lauren Winner,one of my favorite writers, is coming to speak at the Rochester Church.

I first met Lauren in 2006 at the main ZOE Worship and Leadership Conference in Nashville. I've enjoyed trading stories, and ideas with her over the last several months. She's one of the author's I want non-believers and skeptics to read when investigating the spiritual life and thought of modern day Christians.

Here's an excerpt from Girl Meets God.

Evangelical friends of mine are always trying to trim the corners and smooth the rough edges of what they call My Witness in order to shove it into a tidy, born-again conversion narrative. They want an exact date, even an hour, and I never know what to tell them. The datable conversion story has a venerable history. Paul, the most famous Jew to embrace Jesus, established the prototype of the dramatic, datable rebirth. He was walking on the road to Damascus, Luke tells us, off to persecute the zealous disciples of the newly dead carpenter when Jesus appeared to him, and Paul became his follower instead of his foe. Centuries later, John Wesley, the founder of Methodism, was atttending a meeting in Aldersgate Street; listening to Luther's Preface to the Epistle to the Romans, his heart was "strangely warmed." At that instant, Wesley later wrote in his journal, he felt that he "did trust in Christ alone for salvation; and an assurance was given me that He had taken away my sins, even mine, and saved me from the law of sin and death." Less notable personages have dramatic conversion stories, too. My high school physics teacher sat in her kitchen reading the Gospel of Mark one day when, in an instant, she knew that Jesus was God and had died for her sins. My friend Tim dedicated his life to Christ when he was four at a mission's conference at Bibletown, in Boca Raton, Florida. He had seen a puppet show about Jesus knocking on your heart. So he opened it and asked Him to come in.

My story doesn't fit very well with this conversion archetype. A literature scholar would say there are too many "ruptures" in the "narrative." But she might also say that ruptures are the most interesting part of any text, that in the ruptures we learn something new. I had no epiphanic on-the-road-to-Damascus experience. I can't tell my friends that I became a Christian January 8, 1993, or on my twentieth birthday. What I can tell them is that I grew up Jewish. I can tell them about the time I dreamed of Jesus rescuing me from a kidnapping; I can tell them I woke up certain, as certain as I have ever been about anything, that the dream was from God and the dream was about Jesus, about how He was real and true and sure. I can tell them about reading At Home in Mitford, a charming if somewhat saccharine novel about an Episcopal priest in North Carolina, a novel that left me wanting something Christians seemed to have. I can tell them about my baptism.

A Good Ending...A New Beginning

This weekend, I am honored to perform the wedding of Kelly Sewell and Ray Stemitz. Kelly is my big sister which makes Ray my new brother-in-law.

My sister was married once before. She and her ex-husband have a beautiful daughter together—Alexa Mae Sewell. Lexi is a joy to all of us, a beautiful and spirit-filled young girl.

Though the last several years have been full of chaos and confusion for my sister, she’s now seeing the work of God in her life. Kelly went back to school after her divorce and is now an elementary school teacher in East Detroit—we’re proud of her courage and fight. She could’ve “packed it in” during her ugly and messy divorce, but she resisted that path.

It hasn’t been easy, but I suppose the easy way is the thing we should all be most suspicious of.

Major Ray Stemitz is an answer to prayer; proof that God wants to bring healing and new beginnings in stories of brokenness and deceit.

It's the Perfect Time of Year...

This is one of my favorite times of the year. School is about to start. Syllabi’s are being written, schedules mapped out. Once dark and dusty dorm rooms are now filled with new TV’s and photos of family and friends who will be missed.

Since kindergarten, my life has been shaped and molded by the pace of the school calendar.

Throughout high school, undergrad, graduate, and now teaching—I feel renewed each August as I anticipate the students who will come to Rochester College for the first time, the students who will take my class for the first time, and for the returning students who are building upon their previous work. I also realize some students are coming back this semester looking for a completely new start.

I met this afternoon with my fellow professors in the religion department for a time of update, reflection, and prayer. I’m honored to serve along side these dedicated people who take seriously the task of equipping students to engage the world in powerful ways.

This semester, I’m teaching a new course with one of my good friends and mentors entitled Introduction to the Christian Faith. I’m teaching the class with the approach that I want our post-modern students to understand the faith in ways that make them come alive to the biblical themes of spirituality, justice, friendship and beauty. This is the class textbook. Check it out, it’s an important work.

Here are the first four lectures of the class.

“Justice: U2, Martin Luther King Jr., and Desmond Tutu” (with clips from Bono at the National Prayer Breakfast)

“Spirituality: Jesus, Buddha, and Dream Catchers” (with clips from the short film The Many Faces of Faith)

“Relationships: We Were Made for Each Other” (with excerpts from Henry Nouwen)

“Beauty: In the Eye of the Beholder?” (with clips from Planet Earth and Life is Beautiful)

I cannot imagine my life outside of a local faith community.

My good friend Sara Barton was introduced as the new part-time minister for small groups. Dana Spivey (from Atlanta) will join our ministry staff this coming week.

Sarah and Priscilla were also introduced to my summer adult formation class. They are Ugandans who've come to Rochester College to study. We anticipate learning a great deal from them in the coming months.

Two young adults who've been working through a significant forgiveness issue asked me to pray for them during family communion. Imagine that--forgiveness breaking out during the Lord's Supper.

At our third service, a family admitted being at wit's end with their son's drug problem when some of our young adults stepped up and said, "We'll get involved." These young adults are willing to use their story to bless others and it encourages me about the future of our church.



-------------------------------------------

The Tigers just might be getting back on track...Magglioooooooooo!

Last night we remembered Nic Paradise, a young man from our church who died tragically early Monday morning from a long battle with a drug addiction.





The sixty minute worship and prayer gathering was a rare moment of hope and possibility in these rather dark three days. Several of Nic's friends were on hand to honor the bond and love shared by classmates and skate-partner friends spanning several years.

During the time of remembrance, we played a video of Nic's greatest skateboarding moments. Many of Nic's friends present were skateboarders themselves. I think they appreciated seeing Nic in his primary element; the place where his rather chaotic most made sense. As a former athlete, I have to admit that I was impressed with the danger and athleticism required for skateboarding

I'm not a prophet but I'm willing to guess most of the group present on behalf of Nic had not stepped foot in a church building in quite some time. Perhaps, some were for the very first time.

Liz Trainor, Nic's fiancée', stood up with Shawn Hover and offered some simple but powerful words about Nic's infectious ability to draw people to himself. Nic and Liz had a son together: Carter, a beautiful and healthy (he was nine pounds and nine ounces at birth) boy. Patrick (our senior minister) and the Bryans (the leaders of our pastoral care ministry) prayed over the various groups represented.

For the first time in three days, the numbness is starting to wear off. The pain is slowly rising to the surface.

Nic's immediate family (Mike, Jackie, Sid, Carmen, Aunt Pam and Liz) are mourning the loss of their son, brother and fiancée. But they also know the decade struggle for meaning, purpose and identity has come to an end.

I have been so impressed with the deep spirituality of the Paradise family. Their devotion to each other, their families, local community is something I certainly can emulate in my own life.

After the family and friends who were there to honor Nic left to return back to the viewing service downtown, I encouraged our church in this simple way. At least this is how I remembered what I said.

Saying that we want to connect all people to Jesus is a great thing to write on a piece of paper or post on our web site as our mission statement. I believe it is the ministry God is calling us to...all people. Broken, addicts, confused, cynical, jaded...all people.

But the reality is that is a very difficult project. It certainly isn't for the faint of heart. It isn't sexy. It certainly isn't the most comfortable way to do church.

For some time now, we've been challenging the church to be a people who are willing to follow Jesus to the dangerous places. The places everyone else runs from are the places we believe God is calling us to run toward. If others run from the projects, we run there. If some run from the homeless we run there. If others are running from single moms, we run there. If others are running from skateboarders with drug problems...we run there.

We run to these places because we believe that the one thing God gives us is the one thing we need: The assurance that if the world and this life kill us, God will raise us from the dead.

Numb

I try to avoid writing too much about the different people who God continues to bring to the Rochester Church in our efforts to reach people of all different backgrounds and experiences. There’s something dangerous about telling the world, through a blog or what have you, all of the stories and people that emerge in one’s ministry. It can quickly take on the feel of “ministry prostitution.”

But, it’s late Monday night, and I cannot help but write about the events that have unfolded the last twelve hours.

This morning I got several phone calls and text messages from some friends of mine that I had to come to the apartment belonging to a few young adults who are apart of our church. I knew something was wrong but I never dreamed of what I was about to walk into.

I pulled up to the apartments around 10am. The police had just arrived along with a few family members. I walked into the apartment to the reality that a young man (19 years old) had overdosed on drugs (what kind is not that important in this story). His body lay lifeless on the bed in the main bedroom. It had begun to turn a color not normal to my experience with flesh and blood.

“He’s been dead for some time,” I heard someone whisper in a corner.

I will write more in the coming days. There’s family to tend to. Stories to be told. A funeral to be planned.

For now, I’m still in shock. I don’t really have any emotions. I feel numb. I feel empty with little stirring inside.

This young man worshipped with us yesterday. He broke bread with us yesterday. He listened to me preach yesterday. The entire gathering (during our third service) prayed over him yesterday. He repeated a confession from The Book of Common Prayer with his other brothers and sisters in Christ…yesterday.

And today…he’s dead. He’s not sleeping. He’s not in a coma. He’s not hibernating. Yesterday he was alive and today he is dead.

I do a lot of teaching about taking risks. This year I’ve spoken all over the country, by the grace of God. I have encouraged people to take risks for the kingdom of God, seeing people as humans created in God’s image regardless of their plight, skin color or addiction. I insist on this in front of our church in the classes I teach at Rochester College and in private small discussions. Occasionally, I even preach to it to myself.

And I still believe that is the mission we are called to with all my heart and soul.

But sometimes in life, you have to pause, and say “This business of following Jesus is so much harder than I expected it to be. It’s messy, confusing, and downright depressing.”

So today I pause to say exactly that.

Life is hard. Life is as hard as crucible steel. No bumper sticker, proof-text hall mark card, or “God needed another angel” conversation can do anything to change this grim reality.

Today I’m grateful to follow a God who entered into the suffering, pain, addiction, and shame of this world. I’m grateful to serve a God who promises me one thing only: “If this world kills us, I will raise you from the dead.”

Summer in Michigan

Cooking brats in your backyard: $6.
Reading a great novel: $15.
Eating a big bowl of ice cream: $3.
Bike ride with your wife: no cost.


Going to a Tiger's game with my wife on a Friday night: priceless.

Hospitality

I was going to write a post about the lesson Kara's grandfather taught me while the family was in South Carolina for Duncan's graduation from boot camp.

But Patrick beat me to the punch and did a great job.

Here's the story as told by Patrick.

The trip to see Duncan graduate was a remarkable one. You can read more about it at Kara Graves’ blog (link on the right of this page) and my other blog. This is a related story.

My father was raised under brutal conditions. His parents treated him in a way that, had they lived in our time, would have sent them to prison. He was the family scapegoat. Desperately poor, uneducated, and without a faith family, they were on their own. When they needed water, Bill was sent for it. When some money was found to buy new clothes or shoes, they were never given to Bill. His parents had favored children and they made it plain Bill wasn’t one of them and never would be. Dad tells me about how he would find trash, sneak it home, and stuff it in the cracks in the walls of his room so that the cold winter wind couldn’t come in. It helped very little; when he would get the water late at night, by the morning it would be frozen solid, right by his cot. By the age of six he was given a bucket and sent deep, deep into the mines, working his way back in crevices that were no more than three feet high, skinning his elbows, hands, and knees so that he could get a bucketful of coal. He’d bring it out and they’d send him back in.

During the summer, he was the only child made to work; and he worked every summer in his memory. He worked in fields, hoeing, pulling weeds, stacking hay, or harvesting hemp (the government used to pay people to raise hemp to use as rope in the war effort!). I’ve seen the only existing photo of my father as a boy. He was eight years old and his eyes were hollow and blank like those of a child in Ethiopia. His stomach was swollen by starvation and worms.

When dad reached the legal age, he volunteered for the US Navy. That caused a great stir in the family. He was roundly criticized and insulted for his decision (they wanted him back home to work for them and weren’t keen on him being in the US forces) but he marched off anyway. This was during the Korean War and he believed there was nothing the Koreans could do to him that would be worse than he’d endured for his first 18 years at home… but he wasn’t sent to Korea. He spent most of his Navy experience in Columbus, Ohio (city motto: Why Do We Have A Navy Base When We Don’t Have Water?) and Bayonne, NJ. He met my mother on a blind date and they married before he was discharged.

He knew he couldn’t go home, but he had no money. He took two and three jobs at a time while going to college — all the time getting nothing but derision from his family. He would walk to classes with rubber jar rings around his shoes to keep them from coming apart, enduring the sneers and snickers of his classmates.

He never forgot. His heart for the poor is so strong, he can’t help himself; it drives everything he does. He has spent his time stateside speaking for poor, small, isolated congregations, taking thousands of tons of good clothes and food to the poor, giving his money and time to them. When he goes overseas it is never on a major campaign with write ups in Christian Chronicle or Gospel Advocate. He goes alone, or with my mother, or Duncan, or a very small team. He goes to unreached areas and, when he returns, he has no luggage, no goods, no extra clothes, books, Bibles, or money. He arrives back with only the clothes on his back and his passport (and, at his age, with essential medication. He’s been known to give most of that away, too).

So there we are at Parris Island to see Duncan graduate, but Dad can’t stay focused. He keeps wandering off, looking for someone who needs something. We packed the rented minivans (nine of us went from four directions so we had to rent vans) with picnic supplies so that Duncan could have a real feast with us on Family Day. Duncan was finally released to spend five hours on base with us the day before graduation and we were so excited! We walked with him and he showed us different parts of the base. Dad kept wandering off. Here was his grandson, graduating from the most intense boot camp in the US Armed Forces, and whom he hadn’t seen in nearly a year… and he kept wandering off.

Finally, he showed up, all excited. He had found four new Marines whose parents were late or unable to come. He had them in tow. He was taking them to the vans to feed them. I tried to pull him aside and explain that we had bought that food for Duncan — our son. You know? The Marine that’s related to you? He heard nothing, no matter how I tried to steer him. I was trying to find a way to feed the new guys he’d found AND Duncan. Maybe I could pay for them to eat with us at one of the base restaurants… but it was too late. Dad was leading the Marines to the picnic tables. Out came the food and they ate.

It was a beautiful thing, really. They were so grateful. They were happy to find people to talk to who would help them as they eased back into society and out of the rigid matrix of Parris Island. Duncan ate some of the food as he visited with his family. Dad didn’t visit with the family. He spent all of his time — and eighty percent of the food — on those four men.

I will confess to some frustration. I didn’t want this time with Duncan to be diluted. I was selfish and wanted to focus on my boy, my man, my Marine. I didn’t want to be faced with the problem of trying to find a restaurant to feed my family; a problem we had tried to dodge by bringing the food with us in the first place. It complicated the day, but Dad can’t help himself. He’s been poor. He’s lived without family support or love. He’s been alone. It isn’t that, when he sees someone in that condition he must help them. No, he looks for them. Constantly. And whatever he has, even if it doesn’t strictly belong to him, will be given to them. Duncan learned that when he took Hardy Boy books to read on a mission trip to Guyana when he was nine. He didn’t get to finish them or bring them back because, since it was within reach of Dad, it was available to be given away. And it was.

He just can’t help it. And that’s not all bad.

A few people (whom I consider good friends) have asked me recently “how do you prevent from being burned out?” That’s a good question. Since the invention of the light bulb and subsequent inventions (television, internet, etc.) the work day now stretches far passed the past the former marker of “sundown”.

It is no secret that I enjoy working. In fact, much of what I do I do not consider work. Between working with young adults and college students, preaching and teaching, and teaching college religion courses—I’m actually energized by most of this work.

Here’s what I do to prevent burnout.

First, I love to read. I read books other than theology, philosophy and history. I actually prefer a good novel like this one or this one.

Second, I love to exercise by running and lifting weights. Nothing remedies stress like the bench press and a three mile run. One of the great discoveries of living with Kara is that we enjoy working out together.

Third, I love a good movie (too many to name) or the occasional television show (The West Wing, Lost and 24 have been the escape points over the last few years).

Fourth, I love the Tigers and Pistons. Whether it’s going to a game (rare but fun) or watching a game, it gives me pleasure to know who the “good guys” are (the Pistons and Tigers) and who the “bad guys” are (anyone playing the Tigers and Pistons).

There are other ways I “regroup”. How do you relax? What fills you up when you are depleted? What breaths life into you?

God in the City

If Cass Park is a novel, we are constantly being introduced to new and intriguing characters. Yesterday, for instance, was one of the more interesting Sunday’s we’ve had at Cass Park over the last several months.

We had several new Cass Parkers yesterday: Emily, Sean, Alex, CJ, Liz, Andrew, and Jenn came to the Park not knowing what to expect. I gave them a mini tour of the neighborhood, told them a bit of the history, etc. These young women and men did an amazing job: they cooked shared meals with people, listened to stories—they were fully present in the moment.

At one point in the beginning of the afternoon, I told this group, “I love Detroit. I love this city. I love the history, the people, the brokenness, and even the despair. This city is in my bones, it has become a part of who I am. It teaches me, challenges me, and pushes me to think deeper about reality, justice, the poor, and addiction. I cannot tolerate people, to my own demise at times, who bash Detroit and have never spent time in the D save a sporting event.”

I have been developing relationships with two women over the last year who, for the first time, welcomed me into their apartment yesterday. These two women have been fighting addiction and health issues for some time, but are on the path back to recovery. By the way, a little glimpse into life in sections of Detroit—there apartment is known in the neighborhood as the Dog Pound. If that doesn’t disturb you…

I met a man named Mr. Charity. He lives in the ‘burbs (like me) but spends three or four days a week in Detroit working with the poor, particularly with the VETS who live in the various veteran shelters sprinkled all over the city.

One group of Christians, whom we’d never met before, held a powerful worship service as we were ending the meal time.

I met three pastors who have a heart for Cass Park who constantly pray for the addictions to relinquish their control over some of the women and men who call this area home.

John Gresham (veteran Cass Parker) introduced me to a young man who lost his wife approximately a year ago and has been living on the streets while keeping a job as a security guard. We are going to work with him this week to see if we can’t get him into SOS—the best transitional shelter I know of in Detroit or Metro Detroit.

Each afternoon spent in Cass Park uncovers new stories, new people and new possibilities. There will be stories of death and failure…but we hold out hope that there will also be a few more stories of transformation and new life.

God is at work in the places we often ignore.

My Wife is Smarter Than I Am

Husband: Do you ever wonder what it would be like to have your own brain, thoughts, passions, values, and interests switched with another person?

Wife: I’m not sure I know what you mean.

Husband: Ok, here’s what I mean. What if I had my brain, thoughts and sensibilities transferred to your body and voice. So, essentially, I would be you and no one would know it.

Wife: So, what you are saying is that you and I would switch personalities without switching bodies. Right?

Husband: Exactly. Would that not be crazy?

Wife: If that happened, you’d be the man of the house.

Spanish Eyes

Tomorrow marks three years being married to Kara. We’ve moved from Rochester to Nashville, Nashville to Abilene, Abilene to Nashville, and Nashville to Rochester in the five short years we’ve been dating/married. Hopefully, the next five years is not nearly as disorienting.

God knew it would take a special girl to be able to handle someone who’s constantly dreaming, thinking of new places and ideas…yet; Kara’s handled me with grace, direct and open speech, and consistent love.

So, this girl with “Spanish eyes” (to quote “In a Little While”—one of my favorite U2 songs that describes how I feel about Kara) still takes my breath away, still makes me a believer after all.

Insanity

I read this in the Free Press today. This is crazy.

According to a June 22 report by Wisconsin-based Runzheimer International, Detroit is the most expensive U.S. city in which to insure a vehicle, with an average yearly premium of $5,072. Philadelphia is a distant second, at $3,779.

Add to that the rising costs of gas and you can understand why it is difficult for the working poor in our country to get out of the danger zone of the cycle.

For many working poor (often single parents)--they are one accident, freak injury away from being completely powerless.

When I have spent time in places like Atlanta, Dallas, and The Bronx, I've learned that food in the city costs much more than food suburbanites buy in their grocery stores.

Injustice is a word that the writers of Torah and the New Testament care about. Perhaps some of us should too.

My favorite preacher/teacher/writer on the planet is Barbara Brown Taylor. She captivated my imagination concerning God when I was 19 years old and I've spent many days and nights wrestling with her words and insights.

Here's an example of Taylor's ability to connect.

"Gradually I remembered what I had known all along, which is that church is not a stopping place but a starting place for discerning God's presence in this world. By offering people a place where they engage the steady practice of listening to divine words and celebrating divine sacraments, church can help people gain a feel for how God shows up--not only in Holy Bibles and Holy Communion but also in near neighbors, mysterious strangers, sliced bread, and grocery store wine. That way, when they leave church, they no more leave God than God leaves them," (from Leaving Church: A Memoir of Faith).

The 313, Or, Why Detroit is the Best Sports Town in America

Detroit is the best all around sports city in the United States. I offer the following top five reasons (and no, I’m not writing this from work…I thought of this while spending too much time on the treadmill this weekend).


#5 The Detroit Lions: Now, before you laugh, hear me out. The Detroit Lions have been one of the worst Pro Football teams in the NFL over the last 20 years. And yet, do you know who is consistently in the top echelon of ticket sales, year in and year out—you guessed, the Detroit Kittens.

#4 The Detroit Red Wings: I don’t know much about hockey but I know the Red Wings are one of the storied franchises in the NHL with three recent Stanley Cup Championships.

#3 U of M Football: One of the oldest and most accomplished programs in the history of college football, Michigan plays in front of 100, 000 people plus every Saturday. While I admit that the Big Ten is not in the same class as the SEC, it is still one of the great football conferences around.

#2 The Detroit Pistons: Three championships over the last two decades, along with five NBA Finals Appearances in that same stretch, and too many Eastern Conference championships to count. Dave Bing, Isaiah Thomas, Adrian Dantley, Dennis Rodman, Joe Dumars, Vinnie Johnson, Grant Hill, Ben Wallace, Chauncey Billups and Rip Hamilton all make this one of the top five NBA franchises. And they play ten minutes from where I live and work. I've written about my obession with the Pistons in previous posts.

#1 The Detroit Tigers: I might have included the Tigers number one even if Leyland et al had not resurrected the Tigers last season. The Tigers play in one of the premiere ball parks (Comerica) with the one of the best (save Tampa Bay) core of young prospects in Brandon Inge, Curtis Granderson, Andrew Miller, Jeremy Bonderman, Justin Verlander, Joel Zumaya, and Cameron Maybin. Not too mention Ordonez, Polanco, Guillen, Sheffield, and Kenny Rogers! One of the original teams of baseball, the Tigers are a joy to watch. Some of my best memories with my grandfather are from the rightfield bleacher seats at Tiger Stadium.



One writer for ESPN agrees with me.

A new friend of mine, Mitch Albaugh, whom I met at the ZOE Conference in Orlando, wrote the following to me in response to yesterday's blog. I figured this is the kind of insight that must be shared.

It is insightful, prophetic, and true.

Hi Josh.

You’ve probably figured out that I read your blogs. Mainly because I want to know what makes you what you are. You didn’t say much about your friends whose son died.

Twenty-three years ago my first son (coincidentally, named Josh) died in Children’s Hospital in Boston following open heart surgery. He was 6 days old. Three days later, we buried him in our small family plot in Clearwater. Even after 23 years, I can’t IMAGINE hurting that much a second time. In fact, as my 3 living sons (ages 22, 16 and 10) have grown up, I have often drawn peace and security from the belief that God would NEVER allow me to go through that again because it would destroy me.

As I read your blog, I wondered if your friends felt like that, too. My heart and prayers really go out to them.

You probably don’t need to hear this advice, but ...


1. Don’t let appearances fool you; your friends may look like they’re doing ok. They’re not. They will need CONSTANT love and support. You CANNOT overdo, in this respect.


2. Don’t be afraid of making them sad or making them cry. Trust me, there is nothing you can do to make them any sadder than they already are. And crying is GOOD; it’s helpful and healing. This is especially true for the dad if he’s anti-tears. They HAVE to cry ... be there to cry with them. (When Josh died, I had to return to work the day after his funeral. I was a mess. I made a rule for myself that if I felt like crying, I was going to cry, no matter what situation I was in. There were a couple of times when it caught the people around me a little off guard, but they were fine – and sympathetic -- once I explained.)

(On the one-year anniversary of Josh’s death, we were informed by telephone that we were being disfellowshipped by a church in Tampa that we had recently left because of its adoption of the Boston/Kip McKean ideology ... the minister there (the fraternity brother who led me to Christ) was Kip McKean’s brother-in-law. The person who called was a longtime “friend” ... when I mentioned what day it was, he said he remembered, but hadn’t said anything because he didn’t want to remind me. That brother and I are once again close friends, but on that day he was a complete idiot. How could he possibly think he’d remember something that I’d forgot? My point: It is not wrong to bring it up. Your friends will NEVER tire of talking about their sons .... EVER! They’ll appreciate you for wanting to.)


3. Remember that 80% of couples that lose a child end up divorced. I don’t have a statistic for losing 2 children. The reason for this (I think) is because the grief cycles don’t coincide; one is up when the other is down ... and they begin to see each other from a different perspective (“Why doesn’t he/she care?” “How can he/she be so happy?”). Your friends may need someone there to remind them that they will grieve/mourn/heal differently.

Burying Two Sons, Praying for a Brother

It is a tragedy for a mother to bury one son. It is sheer calamity when a mother as to bury two sons.

This week, we mourn with our sister and brother in Christ, the founders of God's Helping Hands, as they have now buried their second son in five years.

We pray from The Book of Common Prayer:

Direct us, O Lord, in all our doings with thy most gracious favor, and further us with thy continual help; that in all our works begun, continued, and ended in thee, we may glorify thy holy Name, and finally, by thy mercy, obtain everlasting life; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

My other brother (Duncan) is in Marine Boot Camp right now. Yes, The Book of Common Prayer gives us language for this season as well.

Almighty God, we commend to your gracious care and keeping all the men and women of our armed forces at home and abroad. Defend them day by day with your heavenly grace; strengthen them in their trials and temptations; give them courage to face their perils which beset them; and grant them a sense of your abiding presence wherever they may be; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

---

When I asked a world-known theologian who recently visited Rochester College why he was Anglican (where The Book of Common Prayer comes from), he reponded by saying, "I needed more words."

Fentanyl (pronounced Fen-ta-nawl)

Here’s an excerpt from an outstanding piece on the devastating results of Fentanyl, a drug that some estimate to be ten times more potent than heroin. Fentanyl is on the streets of Detroit, having killed almost 300 people in the Greater Detroit area. This drug is an equal-opportunity killer—just as many rich folks from the Burbs are dying…
I’ve heard people who live and around Cass Park talk about “Super Heroin” (among other names), but I did not realize its potent destructive power as compared with Cocaine, weed, and heroin.

BY JIM SCHAEFER and JOE SWICKARD
FREE PRESS STAFF WRITERS

In the basement, anything goes. That's where everybody buys their dope. They can shoot it, snort it or smoke it down there. They can turn tricks to earn money for more drugs. It's all good.

Except tonight, something's bad. There are shouts from upstairs, and smacking sounds. And now water is dripping through the basement ceiling.

In this lair of strangers, where Detroiters get high next to users from Sterling Heights, Royal Oak, Pontiac and Ferndale, all of them drawn together by the pangs of heroin addiction, this is something different.
This is something alarming.

"Lauren!" someone shouts from up above, on the ground floor at 20152 Keating St. in Detroit. Then more of those smacks. "Lauren, wake up!"
"Sit her up!"

A guy known as Tommy comes through a side door with bags of ice, which he hauls upstairs.

The basement people watch him climb out of view.

What's going on?

Ralph, the man upstairs selling the drugs tonight, assures the people below that the girl's OK. Ralph is in charge of the dope house right now. And as lawless as a drug den might seem, there are rules. And one of them is: Customers don't go upstairs. She's OK, Ralph tells the basement people.

And so they return to their business. This isn't their sister or their classmate or their daughter. It's just another doper in a dope house, and, reality is, people overdose.

She'll be OK.

And the water drips. Someone moves over a bucket.

But it's not OK.

Upstairs, Ralph is shaking Lauren Jolly, a 17-year-old with a pretty face and light, shoulder-length brown hair, a former Brownie Scout, a junior at Birmingham Groves High School, a heroin addict her friends can no longer help.

It's May 24, 2006, and she is about to become the public face of fentanyl, a nasty laboratory concoction often mixed with heroin that exploded on the streets of Detroit, ending the lives of hundreds of metro-Detroit drug users, and more than 1,000 people nationwide.

The drug stole a once-promising young bowler from Shelby Township, a retired autoworker from Detroit, an ex-logger from out state and the lead guitarist in a rock band.

Inside the house in Detroit, a 21-year-old from Pontiac named Ben puts his fingers to the neck of the Bloomfield Township teen and feels a slow pulse.
Someone draws cold water and pours it over Lauren.

The girl is still breathing, but her pulse is faint, her blood pressure plummeting. Her eyes roll back ... and she is somewhere else.

***

The article can be read here.

Cass Park Meditation

This past Sunday, a group of friends spent the afternoon working in Cass Park hosting a love feast for the poor and homeless. I’ve written about Cass Park several times over the last year. In all, we fed over 400 women, men and children BBQ chicken prepared by Stephanie Corp (one of the most dedicated disciples of Jesus I know).

One person commented to my wife upon seeing the “spread” of great food we brought: “Some days, being homeless ain’t so bad.” Those are words that stay with me through Monday mornings, and Thursday afternoons.

As you know, this Sunday I’m referring to was Father’s Day. Almost every person who came to the love feast knew this and welcomed us with hugs, smiles and “Happy Father’s Day” greetings. I don’t know why but I hadn’t thought about how regular holidays are perceived by those on the margin of society. I also hadn’t thought how grateful our friends would be for the time we gave to them when we could have been hiding out in our air conditioned homes, sipping lemonade (not that those are bad things).

It is easy to point out, as many do, the fact that many of the homeless men we work with are not exactly ideal fathers. Communication with their children is limited at best, non-existent at worst. Some are hooked on crack, heroine, speed, prescriptions drugs. Most are alcohol-dependant. Yet, these men are full of life, love, ideas, and generosity. One man, named Sid, drew a picture of Jesus with this inscription: “Josh, Jesus loves you.” Now there’s a message I never grow weary of hearing.

I’ve been holding on to this treasure from Barbara Brown Taylor’s memoir Leaving Church. Quoting Walter Brueggemann, Taylor reminds herself of God’s mysterious way of working in our lives: “The world for which you were preparing for all these years is slowly being taken from you, by the grace of God,” (my paraphrase).

I never imagined myself becoming a pastor, and teacher. I never imagined that one day I would look as forward to working with the poor and broken of Detroit as I do watching a great movie or attending a Pistons basketball game. I never imagined I would, week to week, stand between humanity and God, communicating to one side on behalf of the other. I never imagined I would cry with some as they bury another child, receive negative news regarding their cancer, or find out about their spouse’s infidelity. But here I am, the young boy who wanted to be a college coach, serving the church that introduced to me Jesus.

The world I was preparing for, by the grace of God, is not the world God was molding me to live in.

It is Important to Disagree

I believe it is important to disagree.

Here's a story from the Talmud that illustrates why I feel this way.

And Resh Lakish died. And Rebbe Yochanan suffered his loss greatly. The Rabbi’s said, “Who do we have that hand help settle his mind? Let us bring him Eliezer ben Padat, for he is sharp in his learning.” Eliezer ben Padat went and sat before Yochanan and for everything Yochanan said, Eliezer ben Padat brought a text to support Yochanan’s argument. Rebbe Yochanan said, “You’re not like Resh Lakish. When I said something in front of him, he would challenge me with twenty-four questions which I would have to answer, and from that the Torah would be richer—and you, you just support me! So, I have no way of knowing whether what I’m saying is right!” Yochanan then ripped his cloak and wailed, “Where are you son of Lakish, where are you?” (From the Talmud as recorded in Judith Kunst’s The Burning Word, 44)

Routine

I am, by experience and choice, a person of routines.

I need routines for they provide a framework of familiarity and transformation in my everyday life. When I pay attention to my life, I notices that God seems to be just as much interested in the minute knitty-gritty as he is the big and spectacular.

Justin Verlander, the phenomenal young pitchers for the Detroit Tigers, threw a no-hitter last night: The first since 1984 for a Tiger pitcher and only the sixth in the 107th season of Detroit Tiger baseball.

Last night and this morning people talked about the routines they kept during the no-hitter. One sportswriter said he kept his hand on his head, without ever moving it, from the sixth inning to the conclusion of the game. For you non-baseball fans, that’s at least one hour of resting one’s hand in the same awkward position. Another writer for the Detroit News made a similar confession in an interview. I confess that I did not move from the sixth inning on from my spot on the floor in my living room. The announcers calling the game never dared mention the phrase “no hitter” throughout the course of the telecast. We slip into routines because it allows us to be fully present in the moment at hand.

Here are some of my most common routines:

Studying/Reading. Reading is what calms my mind and my soul. Reading takes me into unknown worlds, changing my beliefs and awakening my imagination. I rarely go one day without reading.

Writing. Writing is so connected to reading (and teaching for that matter) that it is often difficult to distinguish between the two. I sometimes write so I even know what I think or feel about a particular person or experience. It is not as if I know what I believe and then try to figure out a way to articulate it. No, usually, as I sit down with a blank sheet of paper to prepare a class/sermon/teaching time (after I’ve studied of course) I write to see where my thoughts and convictions will lead. I’m often surprised at some of the things that flow out of me, things I did not know about myself. I rarely go more than one day without writing.

Sleeping. You may not think about sleep as part of your routines but sleeping is a spiritual experience for a few reasons: first, it reminds you that you are not God. Second, it reminds you that God is the one who is able to raise us from the dead (sleep as it were). I never go a day without sleeping.

Exercising. In an era where many sit behind desks, or drive cars, etc. exercise is as close to physical labor as many have the opportunity to experience (home improvement plans notwithstanding). There is a mysterious connection between our bodies and our soul—and that relationship is unlocked in physical exercise.

Working. I love to work. I love projects, problems, ideas, challenges, and yes, even people (one friend is famous for saying, “Church would be great if not for the people”). I believe that work can be redemptive if and when we see our particular vocations as contributing to the betterment of creation and other people. Whether one is a teacher, minister, accountant, or engineer, God gifts us with ways to bring about justice, solidarity, community and good. I rarely go a day without working and I’m working on that.

"Routine is one of God's great gifts to humanity." Fred B. Craddock

Snickers Ice Cream Bars

Today and tomorrow, Kara and I are in Orlando (finishing our vacation) working with the ZOE Group who is putting together the Growing Deeper Worship Conference. Metro Church is hosting the conference—they are a fascinating church with a history of God working and moving them. The ZOE Group and the ZOE conferences are some of the best teaching and worship done in Churches of Christ. If you’ve never been a part of one, you should seriously consider it. The main conference takes place the first week in October in Nashville.

Today, in the leadership conference, I shared the story of Professor Jack along with the short film my good friend Sean and I put together.

Tomorrow, we board the plane to head back to Deeetrooooit—I miss home. I love living in the Greater Detroit Area. I love the people, the smell, the teams (Tigers and Pistons), the vibe—I love everything about it.

Sunday is a big day for the Rochester Church as we continue to move forward with our launch of Christ Church: Macomb.

I wrote the following in one of the books I read this week on the beach.


Kara's plane ticket to Orlando $150
Meals $150
Car Rental $250
Tickets to minor league baseball game: $20

Eating Snickers Ice Cream Bars for breakfast with your wife every morning: Priceless

Idolatry

I have a good friend who, every time I mention the Pistons, thinks of the “Bad Boys” he loves to hate. This friend, I’ve concluded, only remembers the Pistons for the era in which they were known for hard fouls, trash talking, intimidation, and a little rough-housing.

I have been a Detroit Piston fan since the 1987-88 season—I was eight years old and the Pistons were the young, upstart team on the NBA block. They were formidable going into the ’87 season, but they were not yet feared.

Isaiah Thomas was the fearless leader. Pound for pound, Zeke is one of the best basketball players in the history of the game.

Joe Dumars was the glue: the team’s best defender and clutch three point shooter. Dumars, according to Michael Jordan, was the best defender he’d ever faced, period. Add to that Dumars character and integrity and you know why this unknown college player from McNeese State, and you can understand why he is one of Michigan’s most respected sports icons. In a blue collar town full of self-made men and women, Dumars epitomizes the Detroit ethos of effort and humility. This is why, for instance, Ben Wallace was adored during his time in the D. Detroit, like Pittsburgh and Cleveland, prides itself on not being “LA”-ish. This also explains why some point out the hypocrisy of adoring any NBA player for the $60 million dollar contracts one can secure in an inflated system.

Back to the Bad Boys.

Vinnie Johnson, the microwave, could come off the bench and score ten points in two minutes. It is said that Vinnie would have started for any team not named Detroit, LA, or Boston.

Adrian Dantley/Mark Aguirre played small forward. Dantley, a great player and rare scorer, was traded during this era to the Dallas Mavericks. Mark Aguirre was a childhood friend of Isaiah—they grew up on the tough streets of Chicago. Aguirre played at DePaul, Isaiah went to Indiana. The two remained close friends and it is thought of by most Detroit sports gurus that Isaiah demanded that Aguirre (his guy) be brought to the Bad Boys. Even if that meant parting with Dantley.

The post players for the Pistons were by “committee”. John Salley, from Georgia Tech, was an athletic shot blocker who brought swagger and confidence. I met Salley when I was in the seventh grade. I though he was a god. Then I touched his ring and I believed I’d received some of his deity. Dennis Rodman (before he went loco) was the energy, diving for loose balls, mixing it up with the other teams elite players. James “Buddha” Edwards was a seven foot small forward, raining fade-away jump shots from anywhere on the floor. Rick Mahorn was the muscles and grit. Bill Laimbeer was the hatchet man, Isaiah’s bodyguard and thug. Laimbeer, much to the chagrin of NBA enthusiasts, might be the best shooting seven footer (save Dirk) in the history of the league.

In all, the Pistons one back to back NBA Championships in 1989 and 1990. In ’89, the Pistons swept the Lakers, and in ’90 they defeated the Trail Blazers in five. The Pistons had to get past the mighty Boston Celtics, led by my earl childhood hero, Larry Bird. By now, ESPN has engrained this fact: every great team/player has to overcome another terrific team. The Celtics had to beat the 76ers. The Pistons had to beat the Celtics. The Bulls had to beat the Pistons. And on and on and on it goes.

Now, the Cavs have beaten the Pistons.

I’ve enjoyed watching, studying, and cheering for the second championship wave Pistons over the last five years. Who could ever forget their upset of Kobe and Shaq in the 2004 Finals, breaking up the best duo in the history of pro ball? Like the Bad Boys (who will be remembered for not shaking the Bulls hands after they swept the Pistons in ’91), there are things about this group I don’t care for (their haphazard attitude, Rasheed’s constant complaining)—but all in all, they have been a rare thing: a true team in an era of superstar promotion and attention.

Now it’s Nash (the best player in the world) Kobe, LeBron, DWade, and Dirk for the next several years. The problem with “team basketball” is that it’s too boring. That’s why the NBA is thrilled that the Pistons and Spurs will not be playing again in the Finals. It’s all about ratings. It’s all about money.

If I have a glaring idol in my life, it’s basketball. I fight it and fight it, and probably always will. “My name is Josh and I’m addicted to basketball.”

Basketball has been a huge part of my life. I’ve spent hours upon hours in the gym either a) practicing b) playing or c) watching (my father took my brother and I all over the state of Michigan when I was in middle school and high school watching other great players such as Chris Webber, Jalen Rose, Robert Traylor, and Howard Eisley). It was the afore mentioned Pistons who captured my imagination with passing, defense, emotion and raw guts.

As trite as it might sound, until five or six years ago, basketball gave me a purpose, something to concentrate on, something to consume my mind.

Basketball has also forged unshakable relationships. A young man can never forget his father spending an entire Saturday, as mine did, installing a light on top of the garage which neighbors came to detest claiming the light “lit up the entire street.” How many cold fall, winter and spring evenings did I spend in the driveway with my dad first shoveling snow (it’s Michigan) then working on 10ft, 12ft, 20 ft jumpshots? Too many to count. A thousand? Five thousand?

I’m still friends with one of my high school teammates, who became a much better college play than I, earning All-American his senior year for a team that was ranked number one in the country.

And I’ll always be close to the guys I played college hoops with, along with the coaching staff. I tell people that this team was one of the best examples of church I’ve ever experienced.

Perhaps that’s why I’ve enjoyed the last five years of my life—playing my last college basketball game in March of 2002. I’ve been able to find new passions: theology (which was emerging as I entered into college and sat at the feet of teachers like David Fleer, Dave Greer and Greg Stevenson), ministry in the church and with the poor, and writing.

Just to show you how engrained hoops is in my soul—I could not turn down the chance to coach college basketball when my friend Klint Pleasant invited me to join his staff at Abilene Christian University. Balancing grad school, work, and Kara (we’d just gotten engaged) proved too much—I only lasted one year at ACU before I returned to Nashville to finish seminary and work with my rabbi, John York.

So, if blogs have replaced journals than this is the closest I’m getting to painful confession. I love hoops. I am a recovering hoops addict. There, it’s out in the open.

Florida

I have one measure for a good vacation: a stack of good books. Kara has one requirement for a good vacation: a beach on the ocean. So, you can picture me on vacation reading a bunch of books at the beach. Occasionally the old man (me) will venture into the ocean. Occasionally the young girl (Kara) will sit down to read a magazine…neither will give in too much to the other.

I also like scuba diving, good Mexican food, lots of access to Dr. Pepper, and a TV to watch the Pistons struggle through the NBA Playoffs. But, alas, if I have to choose one—give me some books.

On this trip, I’ll be reading The Kite Runner (Hosseini), Leaving Church (Barbara Brown Taylor), The Next Christendom (Jenkins), and No Future Without Forgiveness (Tutu). It’s a good lineup from top to bottom: a novel that’s received critical acclaim by several trusted friends (Kite Runner); a memoir of the paradox that is faith by a preacher/writer bar none and future professor of mine (Leaving Church); a scope of the globalization of Christianity, or…why Christianity isn’t about America and Europe anymore; And…Desmond Tutu’s account of one of the most fascinating achievements of the twentieth century: The Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa.

The truth is actually a bit deeper, I have two requirements for a good vacation: good books and Kara (not in that order).

Small Things

On Friday night, I and a group from the Rochester Church stayed the night with the South Oakland Shelter at St. Philip’s Episcopal Church. Over 70 people from our church worked with St. Philip’s to care, nurture, feed, and share our lives with the 30 or so guests now homeless, trying to get out of the cycle of poverty that is consumes many in the Detroit area.

It was a relatively normal night, at least compared to some of my other experiences. I and two other friends had the distinct honor of pulling an all-nighter—we were tagged security for the night. I learned how to play chess (how I’ve avoided learning this game is beyond me), talked about life, politics, etc.

Three young women were in the shelter with their children. It’s one thing to fend for yourself in those conditions; it’s another to fend for your family.

Charles, Mary, Lucky, Steve, LaKeisha, Justin, Edward, Norma, and Tammy among others. It might seem like a small thing, to give up one night of your week to care for the invisible people of Metro Detroit. But the Gospel is all about the small things. To paraphrase one of Christianity’s greatest ambassadors, “We cannot do big impressive things, only small insignificant things with great love.”

Ramblings...

Tonight, I am staying (with some close friends) at the SOS homeless shelter in downtown Rochester with St. Philip’s Episcopal Church. But before I do that, some reflections on a great week. I hope to be able to relay some of the stories from this week’s work between the Rochester Church and folks at St. Philip’s. More on that to come.
---

The Rochester College Sermon Seminar was a smashing success. Gail O’Day (from Emory University) stole the show with her lecture on friendship in the Gospel of John. She combined great scholarship with deep pastoral convictions.

Richard Hays was, well, Richard Hays—one of the real studs in New Testament studies. Greg Stevenson (RC professor and good friend) was the equivalent of a great Major League pitcher: He throws in the mid-90s, with a great change-up, and is able to stay with those two pitches for all nine innings. D’Esta Love was the first woman to preach at this event. Women scholars have presented for several years, but this was the first time a woman has delivered a focal homily. Tom Boomershine challenged me about the inherent nature of the text. David Fleer and Jerry Taylor also delivered powerful and imaginative sermon’s from John’s Gospel.

Overall, it was a stellar gathering; one of the best events that occurs in Churches of Christ. Where else do Methodists, Presbyterians, Baptists, Catholics, Churches of Christ, Community Church, and Episcopal leaders gather under the umbrella of intense study of Scripture?

---
Seven days until I and the most intelligent and beautiful woman on the planet take our first vacation in a long, long time. The stack of books I’ve ignored in my office are crying out to me.

---
The Tigers continue to win in impressive fashion. This weekend’s series with the Indians will be fascinating to watch. One could make the argument that Guillen, Ordonez and Polanco are the most dangerous trio in any MLB lineup.

---
I’m trying hard to stay interested in the Eastern Conference Finals. Though the Pistons are up 2-0, I find myself thinking one thing and one thing only as this series unfolds: The San Antonio Spurs may as well get their rings fitted for Duncan’s fourth NBA Championship—because it does not matter who comes out of the East the way these Spurs are playing.

I hope I’m wrong, I really do.

Rochester College, Rasheed, Birthdays, and the Tigers

The next three days marks a highlight event of the year for me: the 10th Annual Rochester College Sermon Seminar. One of my key mentors in undergrad studies (David Fleer) is the director. This seminar has had such teachers as Fred Craddock, Tom Long, Barbara Brown Taylor, Will Willimon, Stanley Hauerwas, Charles Campbell, and Walter Brueggemann. Evangelicals, Main-line, and Roman Catholics have come together to study Scripture, wrestle with contemporary situations, creating unexpected community.

This is the final Sermon Seminar as David Fleer is going to be teaching and working at my alma mater (and Kara's favorite school), Lipscomb University. I feel at a loss to see a mentor and friend move, but I know he'll bless the school richly.

This year, I’m leading a panel discussion on “The Many Faces of Faith”—Sean Stockman helped me write, produce, and film this video. Sean is extremely talented and I learn something new each time I work with him.

This morning, Tom Boomershine taught a special adult class at the Rochester Church on the power of Scripture being heard thus experienced in community rather than read as a scientific document to be examined. It was a powerful morning indeed. It was interesting sitting next to Tom and Amelia (his wife) during our Mosaic worship gathering. You do not realize how low church/charismatic you are until you are in a tight space with an ordained Methodist minister and an ordained Methodist elder/scholar. I will post the link to his class in the coming days.

----------------------------

Tonight, several of our friends threw a surprise bday party for the most beautiful woman on the planet. It was a great time of food, conversation, jokes, and music. What would a gathering of friends be without music?

-----------------------------



The Pistons are one the path for a re-match against the Spurs. It would be sweet vindication to beat the Cavs (to the dismay of NBA officials who are enamored with King James) and then take down the Spurs. I’m not convinced it will happen, but the prospects are fun to consider. If Rasheed plays like he did in Game 6, the Pistons could have their second championship in four years.

Meanwhile, the Tigers continue to win despite having a depleted pitching staff.

As for the Red Wings, I’ve never gotten “hockey”—sorry, it’s too hard to follow the puck. If they make it to the Stanley Cup, I’ll be a frontrunner, cheering.

You Would Do What?

Recently, I went to lunch with two friends and an acquaintance, Jeff Patton. Jeff is a hard guy to describe. Prophet is really the only word I know that comes close. Jeff talked about a lot of things with us over chips and salsa and quesadillas. Everything from preaching to politics, immigration to the recovery process of clergy post seminary (moving from experts to pastors).

At one point in the conversation, Jeff quipped: “Did you know the ten largest churches in the world are not in the West? They are in places like China, South Korea, Peru, and West Africa? Here in the U.S. we are impressed is a church can get a thousand people into a building on a Sunday morning. In some of these churches (in the margins—my word) they have tens of thousands meeting several times a week in homes, underground and above.”

After sipping on some (ok, a lot) Dr. Pepper, Jeff turned to me and said:

“Imagine this scenario. A man walks into your office completely at the end of his rope, he’s hit rock bottom. His annual salary, before losing his job, was $250k. In a span of 30 days, this man spent over $100k on alcohol, gambling, and food. That’s one hundred thousand dollars… His wife left him and took their children. He’s lost his house, cars…everything and now lives on the streets and in shelters sorting rags for $25 a week. This guy walks into your office and tells you this information, how would you respond?”

I thought for a minute, cutting through all the weak answers I could offer.

One person at the table chimed in, “I’d tell him to call someone who cares.”

I immediately felt something inside saying, “Ok, that’s not the best answer.”

So, I attempted to respond to my prophetic peer. “I would ask him if he wants to stop drinking.” I come from a family where alcohol addiction has been talked about openly. I know the first rule to addiction is that the addict has to desire change. “If he’s serious about changing, then I can help him.”

Jeff abruptly responded, “You all are such Westerners. I asked my friend from Africa what he would do and he said he’d grab the man right then and there in the office and start praying that God would release his soul from the bondage and captivity that was oppressing him. I don’t care if he wanted me to or not. I’m a Christian and I believe in the power and authority of Jesus.”

He continued much to my dismay.

“So, the next time this guy came into my office, that’s what I did.” Apparently this was a real situation!

“I grabbed him and started praying for the Holy Spirit to invade his life and create transformation, real change.”

“What happened?”

“I grabbed the guy as hard as I could, hanging on to him, praying with passion and fervor.”

“Then what?” I was quite the reporter.

“He ran screaming into the night.”

“Oh.”

“But you see…it’s not about being successful, it’s about being faithful.”

Chutzpah

Thanks to my friend Wade for suggesting The Burning Word by Judith Kunst. I’ve been doing extra reading the last year or so in Jewish studies. I find Jewish approaches to faith, community, interpretation and creation to be refreshing and invigorating. If you are looking for a place to start that’s not too intimidating, I suggest you read Girl Meets God by Lauren F. Winner. I have had the privilege of working with Lauren at two ZOE Conferences recently—she’s simply one of the best Christian writers I know of. She was raised Jewish, and in many ways, still considers herself as such. She is also a follower of Yeshua (Jesus), which means she’s had to think carefully about the relationship of Judaism and Christianity.

Back to The Burning Word…here’s a story from the Talmud about Abraham. I used this story recently to describe the word chutzpah—rare bravery in the face of opposition (think valor or courage).

“…Abraham was pious too, though not quite so well behaved. In fact, one legend holds, he was prone to rather violent confrontations with heresy, even when the heretic was his own father,” (Judith Kunst in The Burning Word, 99):

Abraham’s father was an idol maker. He would make stone images and sell them in a shop in the market. One day, Abraham’s father asked him to watch over the idols in his shop while he was away. While he was gone, Abraham seized a stick, smashed all the statues, and placed the stick in the hand of the biggest of them. When his father came back, he asked: “Who did this to the gods?” Abraham answered: “The biggest of them rose up and smashed all the others.” His father replied: “Are you making fun of me? They cannot do anything! They are merely pieces of stone!” Abraham answered: “Let your ears hear what your mouth is saying!” (From Genesis Rabbah).

Pepperdine, College Church, Pistons

I just returned from being in California at the Pepperdine Lectures (I'm still trying to get back on this thing called Eastern Standard Time). One of the highlights for the trip, besides being with my wife for a rare occasion on a trip such as this, was spending time with the College Church of Christ in Fresno, CA.

College Church might be one of the most diverse Churches of Christ in the country with members and leaders in its family ranging from white, black, Hispanic, Jamaican, Hawaiian and Asian (Chinese, Japanese, and Hmong). And…they are the only Church of Christ I know that has a female worship leader, Sandra Henderson.

I first met this church while teaching for a ZOE Conference. It has been a blessing to see the many ways in which God is at work in churches all over.


In other news, I owe the Pistons a public apology. I told a good friend and sports confidant recently that I am certain the Pistons are near the end of their glorious NBA Playoff run (Nearly five consecutive Eastern Conference Finals, two NBA Finals appearances, one championship).

Well, it turns out I might be wrong. Thanks to Ben Wallace and the (very) Baby Bulls, the Pistons seemed to have found the edge and focus they boasted in 2004 when they defeated Kobe and Shaq and in 2005 when they nearly upset the Spurs after going down 2-0.

Hats off to Chauncey, Rip, Rasheed, Tay, C-Webb et al—they are handling these playoffs like true pros. I hope they have one more championship run in them. And…I hope Joe Dumars can figure out a way to bring Chauncey back after the summer.

Dance with the One You Love

"Dancing is like painting with your feet," Kara Graves.

For the past few months, I took a dance class with my wife and several other people who are apart of our church family. Insert joke here.

We learned three different kinds of dances: Rumba, Fox Trot, and Swing. Like anything, becoming a good (or even respectable) dancer takes more than one three month class. For most people, it takes several years of practice, mistakes, and growth. Don't be fooled by Dancing with the Stars.

Nonetheless, dancing has taught me a great deal about married life. Here are some things I've learned about myself and my sweet wife.



1. Leading is important but only if you are dancing with someone else. In dancing, someone has to lead. If one does not lead, one does not move. But the leading is gentle, subtle, almost undetectable. Dance purists insist the man must always lead. However, when the man is a bit slower than the woman in picking up new steps, it helps to have a woman who's not afraid to step out and lead for a little slice of time. A great "lead" dancer appears not to be leading at all. This is important for men who are overbearing, dominating and demeaning to their precious wives. You are not simply dancing with yourself...You are dancing with another person.

2. Leading is important but only if your partner is willing to go with you. If your partner does not trust you they will not follow you totally.

3. Practice, experience and embarrassment are priceless. There is no subsitute for being off the couch and on the dance floor. Putting yourself in a vulnerable position is as important as what happens once you find yourself in that spot.

4. Laughter really is the best medecine. If you are a person who is "all business all the time", one session of learning Rumba will cure you.

5. Everyone can dance. Notice I did not say everyone can dance well. But everyone can dance. I did not say everyone should dance as some are called to dance with different people in different ways (i.e. Jesus and Paul were both single, called to singleness).

6. There aren’t as many people watching as you think. You do not have to be something you are not meant to be. You do not have to compete with other people. God is writing your story one page at a time.

7. There are some still watching however. One's marriage is the greatest indicator of character and integrity. I have not met too many people who can hide once they are married.

8. A new dance partner will only mean new problems/challenges. In a culture (the West) where many claim to fall out of love, I challenge the very notion of falling in love. I choose to love the person I'm married to regardless of the outcome. I'm not suggesting that those who are divorced have taken the easy way out for I know many who've bee rescued out of dark situations. But many fall prey to the idea that the deep longings in their life will be met if only the meet the right person. Only the loving God revealed in Jesus sits on that throne.

9. The best teachers are the ones who remember how hard it really is to dance well. People who dance well make it look easy. And it makes the rest of us sick. But they had blisters on their feet and frustration in their gut at one point.

10. Finishing what you start is a sign of maturity and inner strength. It takes curiosity to start something, maturity to finish it.

11. There are moments of chaos and solidarity, learn to enjoy both. Some dance sessions went well, others were full of mistakes and missteps (mostly on my part).

12. In the midst of other dancers it is important to keep your eyes on your partner. Rowan Williams once wrote, "The hardest place to live is right where you are." That is no truer than in the context of marriage.

I wanted to write something about the connection between dancing and sex but alas, I've been censored by my dance partner. So, I'll end with this little nugget. I prefer to think of our relationship with God as a holy dance. God is leading but we are invited to move (or not move) with the divine. It takes years and years of practice to become a follower of Jesus who dances in the truest rythyms and to the clearest gospel cadence.

St. Paul's

If New York City is the “city that never sleeps” it is also the city that loves to worship. There are some amazing churches in New York City. Known for its diversity, population (nearly 20 million), the epi-center of life in West, God is on the move in this place.

One of the churches that impress many visitors to New York is the Riverside Church, located uptown Manhattan. Founded by the Rockefeller family, the Riverside congregation is one of the most important churches in recent American history. This is the home of one of the twentieth century greatest preachers, Harry Emerson Fosdick. That name might not mean anything to you, but he influenced whole generations of black preachers in this country. Dr. King delivered some of his most important sermons at Riverside during the Civil Rights struggle. It was after one of his trips to Riverside that JFK and Dr. King met for the first time forever changing the course of American Politics: In 1956 the majority of African Americans voted Republican, in 1960 the majority of African Americans voted Democratic. A very similar shift to what many white conservative Christians experienced in the 1980 election with Ronald Reagan. Riverside is not just a building; it is a part of the American story!

On one recent trip to New York, I was walking around Union Seminary (which is located right across the street) and could not gain access into the campus for it was after hours. Not realizing Riverside was directly across the street, I stumbled in the lobby reading inscriptions until I came upon a huge mural dedicated to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. This is like a baseball fan stumbling upon Wrigley Field or Yankee Stadium.

One could also step into St. Patrick’s Cathedral not too far from Times Square and Rockefeller Center. St. Patrick’s boasts more important funerals per capita than any church I know of. From church leaders, to business entrepreneurs to famous athletes and entertainers-St. Patrick’s is an icon in the American religious landscape. I was walking through St. Patrick’s by myself with my winter cap on when a security guard asked me to take it off as a sign of respect. I completely understood but at that same moment a woman walked by with her Cocker Spaniel inside this holy place. I looked at the guy and shrugged, he shrugged back like “there’s nothing I can do.” And of course, I'm thinking..."if the dog had a hat on would you make her take it off?"

You might be most interested to visit The Brooklyn Tabernacle Church located in the heart of downtown Brooklyn. I first learned about this church when their pastor came to Woodmont Hills in Nashville, a church I was serving while finishing school. The pastor, Jim Cymbala, had a vision to build and grow a truly diverse church that represented the diversity of the borough of Brooklyn. Today, after starting with a few families in a rented facility, it is a church of several thousand often considered the most diverse church in the United States. The last two years, I’ve take a group of students to one of their prayer services for a powerful hour and a half of imprecatory prayer. There is no “praying for the hands and minds of the doctors”—they pray in authority and power. It is interesting how those two words function in churches comprised of minorities: authority and power. Some leading church thinkers tell us that the more and more the church is pushed to the margins of our Western “church-fatigued” culture the more crucial it is that churches demonstrate the power and authority of Jesus over and against all other powers and authorities.

But the church I am most interested in these days in NYC is St. Paul's.

St. Paul’s; it is located right across from Ground Zero in the heart of Manhattan. St. Paul’s is Manhattan’s oldest public building in continuous use. It also plays an intriguing role in American history.

George Washington worshiped here on Inauguration Day, April 30, 1789, and attended services at St. Paul's during the two years New York City was the country's capital. Above his pew is an 18th-century oil painting of the Great Seal of the United States, which was adopted in 1782.

Directly across the chapel is the Governor's pew, which George Clinton, the first Governor of the State of New York, used when he visited St. Paul's. The Arms of the State of New York are on the wall above the pew.

Among other notable historical figures who worshiped at St. Paul's were Prince William, later King William IV of England; Lord Cornwallis, who is most famous in this country for surrendering at the Battle of Yorktown in 1781; Lord Howe, who commanded the British forces in New York, and Presidents Grover Cleveland, Benjamin Harrison, and George H. W. Bush.


When the World Trade Center came crashing down that dark day almost six years ago, St. Paul’s was one of the only buildings in the immediate area still functional and functioning. St. Paul’s is not an impressive place per se. It is rather quaint, and old.


After the attack on September 11, 2001, which led to the collapse of the twin towers of the World Trade Center, St. Paul's Chapel served as a place of rest and refuge for recovery workers at the WTC site.

For eight months, hundreds of volunteers worked 12 hour shifts around the clock, serving meals, making beds, counseling and praying with fire fighters, construction workers, police and others. Massage therapists, chiropractors, podiatrists and musicians also tended to their needs.


As the world around them was in shambles they became a place where people gathered in order to be sent back out. They took the pew where George Washington once sat and turned it into an area for volunteer workers to massage the feet of firefighters who were working 16 hour shifts. St. Paul’s understood that the church is a people not a place.

Fire, devastation, destruction, and death were swallowing hundreds of people right outside there building. Instead of retreating, or creating a country club they opened their arms and hearts as wide as Jesus did on the cross saying, “Whosoever will is welcome in this place. But know this. IF you come in here, you will be sent back out to bring in the weary, fatigued, worn-down and broken.”

While everyone was running away from the chaos of Ground Zero, the folks of St. Paul ran toward the chaos.

A chronology of rescue:

September 11, 2001
Terrorists Attack the World Trade Center
On September 11, 2001, terrorists hijacked two American Airlines' and two United Airlines' flights. Two of the flights crashed into the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center in New York City. Less than two hours after the crashes, the Twin Towers collapsed from the impact. More than 2,500 people lost their lives in New York City. Trinity staff members carried Trinity Preschool children through the ash-gray streets in a black cloud of debris and smoke. Safely away from Ground Zero, the children boarded buses to go uptown.

September 12, 2001
Digging Out and Cleaning Up
Though St. Paul's Chapel remained standing, the building and churchyard were covered in inches of dust from the Twin Towers' collapse. After engineers inspected the building and pronounced it fit for occupancy, the digging out began. Without electricity, Chapel staff used candles and flashlights until city workers set up crude lamps to shed light on the fledgling ministry. Slowly, rescue workers, police officers, firefighters began to come to the Chapel to eat and rest.


September 15, 2001
The Seamen's Church Institute Delivers a Ministry
At first, The Seamen's Church Institute served the rescue workers at St. Paul's. Staff and students from the institute and General Theological Seminary and other volunteers arrived at the Chapel with food, clothing, and other supplies, literally carrying St. Paul's new ministry to the Chapel. They brought Weber grills and began cooking hamburgers on the sidewalk outside the Chapel. Hundreds of hungry and tired rescue workers received coffee, meals, underwear, socks, and gloves.


Oh that we could remember the church is a people not a place.

NOTE: I should have noted that our church partners in ministry with the Bronx Fellowship of Christ and Lindy Emerson--one of the church models (organic house church) that is challenging me these days.

Other(s) Thoughts on Blacksburg Tragedy

I was going to write a recap of the powerful hour our faith community spent in prayer, lament, worship and reflection for the people who've been ravaged by the violence and murder in Blacksburg. Then I read Patrick's description. Here it is:


Tonight at our mid-week event (called Connections. It is usually a seeker friendly service) Josh Graves and Chris Lindsey planned and carried out a touching hour of prayer and hope. Chris led us in songs of mourning, sadness, loss, and dependence upon Christ. Josh spoke to us about the events of Monday at Virginia Tech, going over them minute by minute as they are known so far. We were then directed to four prayer stations around the Family Room (what you might call a sanctuary). At those stations were tables with the photos and the names of those who were killed — some at each station. We were asked to go to each station and pray, by name, for each one lost, their families, friends, comrades, and communities.

Yes, that included the shooter and his family. Everyone was prayed for, by name, many dozens of times by the assembly. Male and female, young and old poured out their hearts to God.

A long set of tables was placed up front. A large supply of note cards was there and we were asked to pour out our hearts in cards that would be given to the parents of those who lost their children. Moms and dads wiped tears as they wrote. Children drew flowers or crosses and wrote in clumsy letters: "I love you. I am sorry" or as I saw on one, "I am sad, too." On the stage was a large sheet of paper so that people could write short lines of encouragement and prayer. That paper will be placed in the campus center of the local church, the cards distributed to the parents, and our assurances of continued prayer and love will be carried to Blacksburg by people already ready to deliver them.

We closed the evening on our knees, led in prayer by Duane Harrison, one of our shepherds; a combat veteran and one who has lost friends and family members, a man well qualified to lead us.

My prayer around the station tables? It was merely one of many, but I will share one version of it with you. "Father, we are asking for an intervention. We ask you to send your Holy Spirit into the hearts of every grieving person, especially the families of the victims and the shooter. We ask you to intervene as well by shutting the mouths of politicians and all who would work their agenda into this tragedy. Turn off the microphones. Turn the cameras away. Allow the hurting their space, and as the world rushes on to the next story — the next starlet, the next movie deal — send your Spirit and your people in among the people of Blacksburg and Virginia Tech like a tide rushing back up an inlet until you surround them. Thank you for sending professors who stood up for their students, even at the cost of their own lives. Thank you for sending us Professor Librescu; a hero, a great man who had already confronted great evil in his life and who, when it reared it’s ugly visage again, recognized it and stepped toward it, saving his students. We know that we are not saved by works, but we ask you to consider his life and reward him for his faithfulness in the cause of goodness, his courage in the face of evil. Father, we know that evil will never leave this world. We know it cannot be legislated out of existence nor can we take so many precautions as to be immune from its encroachment, its attacks. Help us to be faithful when that day — those days — come. As one who lost His own Son, we know you grieve with those who lost their children. Help us to have Your mind. Help us to remember them."

---

Scot McKnight wrote these words

Virginia Tech: What can we do?
Filed under: Miscellaneous — Scot McKnight @ 2:30 am
We can pick up the pieces of rubble left aground by the cold-blooded murdering of 32 Virginia Tech students, but we cannot make sense of the senseless shards of rubble we find. A professor who perceived that the young man was deeply troubled and fellow students who knew the same; lives of 33 familes now wrecked and young adults who will not return for the summer; security measures that can never be secure enough to block tragedies and police investigations that didn’t take the turn we wish had been taken. What can we do? What do you think?
(read more…)
We can hold the entire school, the families, the police force, the medical doctors and nurses still tending to the wounded and all involved unto our God as an offering in the hope that we can heal the grieving and guide our country.

But we can’t make enough laws to prevent troubled, isolated individuals from penetrating into the fabric of a reasonably-safe garment to unravel parts of it.

We can be more sensitive to the troubled and more vigilant in seeking help for roommates, students, acquaintances, and those we encounter whom we believe are a threat.

But we can’t find our way into the inner world of everyone so that we can with breathless certainty discern those who might explode at any moment.

We can fight for justice, establish better laws, and live out our vocation in peace and justice and love. And we can urge the media to remove the videos of the murderer — those videos can have no redemptive value.

But we can’t create a completely safe world, a perfect environment, or a society in which no one with evil intent can ever enter.

We can live by the Jesus Creed, but we can’t force anyone to live by it.

For these reasons, and more beside, we can pray what Jesus taught us to pray:

Our Father who art in heaven,

Hallowed be thy name.

Thy kingdom come,
Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread.
Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil.

For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory forever. Amen.

Evil

Today's tragedy (still unfolding) at Virginia Tech is a reminder of how destructive and evil humans can be toward one another. In the days and weeks to come, I am confident we will find out a great deal about the person responsible for such darkness.

I wrote these words a few weeks in a Review I wrote for Wineskins Magazine of N.T. Wright's book Evil and the Justice of God.

More humans died in the twentieth century than in all previous centuries combined. Mass genocide in Cambodia, Iraq, Bosnia, Darfur, Northern Uganda, Rwanda, Kosovo, and Srebrenica, along with the devastations of WWI and WWII crushed the optimism that characterized the West at the onset of the 1900s. By 1930, the spirit of progress began to give way to a spirit of disillusionment.

Western Christianity did not fare well either. Many of these atrocities took place in “Christian” nations or nations closely affiliated with the Christian religion (including Nazi Germany which was overwhelmingly Lutheran). According to Alister McGrath, though almost two-thirds of all Christians lived in the West in 1900, only one-third were still recognized as “Western” by 2000. Christianity shifted to the far corners of the world: China, South America, and Africa. Scholars now notes that there are more Anglicans in Africa, for instance, than in all of Great Britain.

Even more chaos consumes the 21st century landscape. The devastation of the Indian Ocean Tsunami, tragic earthquakes in Pakistan and Kashmir, the terror of Hurricane Katrina, and the latest surge of wars in the Middle East push Christians to ask, “is God present and working in the face of such pressing evil?” To paraphrase C.S. Lewis, “If the atheist must answer the reality of joy in the world, the Christian must answer the presence of suffering.”

To read the whole piece, click here. To check out Wright's book, go here.

---

May the families of the victims be covered in prayer by people of all faith on this dark day in American history.

Imus in the Mourning?

If you are not aware of the recent drama surrounding Shock Jock host Don Imus, you really need to stop watching LOST, Idol, and 24 and pay attention to what's happening in the larger world.

Some thoughts...

Two Reasons Don Imus Is Getting What He Deserves:

1. He comes off as a bigot. A bigot towards “all people” (Spreading one’s animosity around equally is not the most savvy of arguments I might add) but a bigot nonetheless.

One national writer notes, “He has acknowledged using the "N-word" in conversation with a producer. He has referred to the "Jewish management" of CBS as "money-grubbing bastards." He has called Palestinians "stinking animals." And he has been quoted as calling former attorney general Janet Reno "the big lesbian" and a prominent black journalist as "the cleaning lady."


2. He targeted specific people. It is one thing to use humor (though what he said is ‘out of bounds’ for public humor in my estimation) towards different sub-groups in American culture; it’s another thing to target specific people: Rutgers female athletes.


One Reason to Fire Imus:

1. His original comment is reprehensible and his apology wasn’t much better.


One Reason NOT to Fire Imus:

1. We are all guilty of racism and stereotyping on some level. Whether it is subtle insinuations or blatant comments about who owns the party stores in Detroit—we are all guilty of turning people into straw men false constructions.

I’m not thrilled that the Rev. Al Sharpton is at the forefront of this discussion but it does not mean that Imus should not be held accountable for his demonstrative public comments. Imus can only apologize so much. It is up to everyone (regardless of color, socio-economic status) to name the mistake, learn from it, and move on.

One reporter shared these words with Imus:

Jeff Greenfield: "...But, it is true I think that your show makes fun of black people in a different way than you make fun of white people. Which is, when your comedic staple does "Ted Kennedy" he doesn't sound like "Hulk Hogan", who doesn't sound like "Dr. Phil" who doesn't sound like whoever else you're doing. But I think it is fair to say, and I just read this by one African American columnist who made this point today, that when you parody black people they all sound the same, sort of a nineteenth century mushmouth minstrel thing. And I think that comes from a more general notion, that like all comedic insult type humor, you look for the most obvious thing to parody. If some of us put on weight you make fun of that, but when that gets into the area of race, and I think that's what happened with this admittedly idiotic and hurtful comment you made yesterday, you look for the most obvious thing, and in this context, in this country when you do that with people's skin color it's at a different level of insult. And one of the things that I think would be really useful in the two weeks that you're off, is not to swear off making fun of black people who do dumb things, I mean you know if Barack Obama or Al Sharpton or Jesse Jackson says things that are hypocritical, I mean the idea that Reverend Sharpton gets to decide what's a racially inflammatory remark kind of shows that God has a sense of humor, but you may want to think about how you do that in a way that isn't the most obvious stereo-typical comment to make about someone's skin color. That's what I think about that."
---

This is a great example of the way in which all of us share in the comments made by Imus. Imus is responsible for completely irresponsible dialog. His listening audience is responsible for being drawn to a personality who is notorious for the ways he belittles people of various, ethnicities, genders, etc. No doubt, Imus will also gain listeners now because of this. In our modern shock jock ethos there is no “bad publicity.” And…I am responsible because I have too often stayed silent on issues such as this, contributing to the degredation of women, minorities, and other targeted persons. We all share in this. We are all in this together.