A note from the cancer rollercoaster

Writing from a Starbucks in Tamarac, FL:

We learned last week that my mom knew she had breast cancer for at least 2 years, and hid it from everyone in her life: she continued to work at a doctor's office and volunteer at the hospital, and never sought treatment for herself, even as she watched it grow and spread.

It has metasisized into her bones and lungs. She's on oxygen, and signed herself up for hospice care 4 days ago. She's deteriorated every day, and is bed-bound and unable to communicate much. Today she actually ate something (she hadn't eaten or done much else but sip a few drops of water this week), but she is dying. We are doing very intense care for her, along with the hospice nurses.

There is much I could say about her choices, her anger and fear, and the wild emotions that have poured into my heart about this all. There will be time for those words later.

For today, while I have a brief respite here at St. Arbucks, I simply ask for your continued prayers. She actually allowed me to read Ps. 23 to her yesterday, and pray over her, but is keeping God and everyone else at bay in many other areas. She needs Jesus. My sister needs Him.

And I need Him, too.

Strapped onto the cancer rollercoaster

I got a phone call 11 years ago to tell me that my dad had just been diagnosed with leukemia. I remember thinking that I'd just been put onto a roller coaster I didn't actually want to ride.

And I couldn't get off. Not until after the funeral.

I just learned that my mom has cancer. She's been "ignoring" the symptoms, until they got so severe yesterday that she wound up in the ER. She's on oxygen, and they're doing tests today to figure out how far its progressed. They know that it's breast...lungs...

My sister and I are boarding planes tomorrow AM to be with her, and to hear what the doctors say. She needs healing, but even more than that, she needs to know her Healer and Savior.

We've been dragged onto the roller coaster again, and it's plummeting....

Please pray.

Growing pains - part 3

"Leaving a church because you're not 'being fed' is a sign of spiritual immaturity."

This might be true. Or false.

I once had a conversation with a person who headed both children's and women's ministry in her mid-sized church. Sunday mornings, she circled through the church like an electron in an atomic accelerator, overseeing children's programming. The rest of the week, she divided her time equally between organizing curriculum, recruiting volunteers, planning women's events, arranging mentoring relationships, and constantly communicating with her sub-leaders about plans and vision. "When is the last time you sat through a church service here?" I asked.

"Oh, I'm a self-feeder," she laughed. "I haven't attended an entire church service here in years!" Of course, she could listen to the pastor's message on CD later if she so chose. (But that isn't really the point, and neither is her motivation in being so darn indespendible.)

Her comment stuck with me, because church - the image most of us conjure when we first hear the word, anyway - is that thing we do on Sunday morning. When we say "I'm not getting fed at my church", we're usually saying "The sermons are missing the mark for me". Or we might be saying "The music to which I'm supposed to be worshipping stinks." Some of us might even be saying, "The other stuff we do in a church service has become rote and meaningless for me."

Even though I found the actions of this woman's/children's pastor extremely troubling, I found a bit of spiritual truth in her words. Spiritual maturity means that we learn to become self-feeders. Or, to put it another way, we learn to feed deeply on God, rather than being fed by others. As we do, we form a different kind of relationship with a Sunday morning church service - particularly those of us who attend churches where the sermon, rather than communion, is the centerpiece of the Sunday morning worship service.

So if we become "self-feeders", then those other things about a congregation (the stuff that happens the other 167 hours of the week) change priority, don't they?

Is it possible to outgrow a congregation if you're a self-feeder?

Down the rabbit hole and into a writer's life

I wasn't paying attention to some big things God was doing in my life 30 years ago, but I had an opportunity to do a little bit of time travel yesterday. Birthday boy Bill and I went to see "Love's Labour's Lost" in Bloomington at the Illinois Shakespere Festival. (2-1/2 hours from Chicago, this is far more than Shakespere in a corn field. Great, professional performances across the board in a beautiful setting.) I'd had an opportunity this past winter to return to Bloomington-Normal for the first time in many years. But dang if it wasn't too cold in February to get out of the car and walk around. While I was there, I remembered the Shakespere festival went on every summer, and mentally bookmarked it as something to check out this summer.

Yesterday, we walked around Normal a little bit and then strolled ISU's beautiful quad. This quad looks like what a college should look like: a castle, majestic old buildings and classy new ones, added over time like a collection, all surrounding majestic old trees and manicured paths in the middle of the campus. We walked over to Fell Hall and stood in the shade of a giant oak talking for a while. I told Bill I wanted to sit on the steps in the hot summer sun and pray.

I didn't realize it at the time, but sitting on those steps as a college student 30 years ago introduced me to my imagination. Fell Hall, known back then as International House, was a dorm full of foreign students, art and theater majors, along with a handful of eccentric others like me. It was the only dorm that sat directly on the quad, and those front steps made a perfect spot to play what became my favorite college game: Guess The Major. One friend in particular, a special education major, would sit with me as we watched the passers-by, and not only try to guess people's majors, but describe their lives, history, and future.

It was a sometimes judgemental, snarky little pasttime. (I'm sorry for that part, Lord.) But it taught me the pleasure of really watching people, to observe, to listen to snatches of conversation, to reach into the ether to capture something beyond what I could see and try to translate it into description. It taught me to sketch a story quickly, with broad brush strokes and neon-colored spray paint, a verbal graffiti artist.

Yesterday, when I went to sit on those steps to pray, I was caught off-guard by the emotion that swept over me. The present-day Michelle got a split-second glimpse of 18 year-old Michelle: it was as if we became one for just a nanosecond. I was that overall-clad little girl who thought she was going to teach deaf kids, and I was a 48 year-old grandmother who has written 3 books.

Have you ever experienced something like this? When you realize that something seemingly small and insignificant has actually launched something very big in your life? I thought at the time that the big thing was to get a teaching degree. I didn't realize that the joy I had in writing papers, in helping to edit the work of others, the love of art and theater, the non-stop journaling, and Guess The Major were the real direction in my life.

My own kids are in the age range I was then; I work at a college part-time. I want to be able to help them all pay attention to the other things going on in their lives beyond the classroom and job choices. Those other things may actually be the bigger story.

Growing pains - part 2

One reason the question of whether it is possible to "outgrow" a church keeps coming back to me is because of the process described in Ian Michael Cron's semi-novel Chasing Francis. The book is an interesting hybrid of history lesson, travelogue, church diagnostic, and love story. It tells the story of an evangelical megachurch pastor named Chase Falcon who has a spiritual and emotional implosion one day while midstream through a Sunday morning sermon. Pastor Falcon happens to have a beloved uncle who is a well-connected priest living in Rome who just so happens to be a scholar and student of the life of Francis of Assisi. The uncle directs Chase on his unexpected pilgrimmage walking in the footsteps of this 800-year old true, faithful Christian.

What is most striking about the book (besides the fact that I wished I had a cool uncle like this) is that Pastor Falcon didn't lose his faith, though for a while, he thought he had. He kept walking through that desert with Francis, and discovered his faith was there, but he'd outgrown the practices and spirituality of his mega church life. The book ends with Chase in his living room with a group of friends, plotting what it would be like to have the kind of church that echoed the ministry of St. Francis.

This was quite inspiring, but this cozy living room scene was immediately preceded by weeks of high-level church political subterfuge that took place while the pastor was away, followed by a fireworks-filled congregational meeting at the megachurch that ended with the pastor's ouster.

And this is how growing pains seem to work - too often. For every lovely parting of the ways when someone outgrows a congregation, there are many more flame-filled bridge-burnings. Curses are invoked, salvation is unnecessarily questioned by those left behind, and relationships are damaged. John 17 remains an unanswered prayer...

Some don't believe you should ever leave a church - that it's disloyal and consumerist. Stick with it, and grow there. Bloom where you're planted. Even if the soil is dust-bowl dry. God will bless your loyalty.

If you're one of those faithful "bloomers", I'd love to hear from you. What made you decide to stay in your church? What has the result been? What would you do differently? Recommend to others to help sustain them when the church no longer provides sustenance or fellowship?

Growing pains - part 1

Yesterday at Scot McKnight's popular Jesus Creed blog, he started a discussion about finding/losing faith. (Click here to read his post and the lively discussion that followed.)

It reminded me of something I read as I was up to my frontal lobe in research for The Church For Skeptics: A Conversation For Thinking People. It was a discussion about the stages of mature faith development in a person's life, and if I'm remembering correctly, the work in question (a book, I think) discussed the crisis that must precede a mature, deepening spiritual life. Of course, I hunted through my bookmarks, and couldn't find hide nor hair of the book's title anywhere, though I seem to remember the essence of the author's scholarly contention was that some of us simply outgrow the churches and practices that sustained us as young-in-the-faith Christians.

Read this the wrong way, and it sounds like I'm espousing a "gotta do what's right for me" program of spiritual growth that will endorse unbiblical practice or celebrate spiritual smogasbord-ism in the name of capturing a renewed sense of spiritual momentum. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Wrong.

But is it possible to outgrow a church?

Two brief examples in support of this possibility:

(1) When I was in high school, my parents didn't allow me to attend church, but they did let me go to Young Life club meetings. These meetings were designed for "seekers", and consisted of games, skits, songs (Pass It On, anyone?) and a short bible lesson. Meanwhile, I was sitting in my room at home, reading my bible, listening to Bible teachers on WMBI, and devouring spiritual life books as fast as I could sneak them into the house. A couple of years into my life as a Christ-follower, I began to get frustrated with the surface-y lessons at Young Life. I complained to a leader, and he looked me straight in the eye and said, "I think you've outgrown us." He wasn't saying it like I was an arrogant annoyance (though perhaps I was). He was simply stating that I'd gone farther than their particular vehicle could carry me. Though Young Life wasn't a church per se, it certainly functioned as one for many of the kids there (including me) to some degree.

(2) Also yesterday, I spoke with an old friend I first met years ago at a Vineyard congregation. She now attends a liturgical congregation. She said, "I got tired of the pastor wringing his hands about what to preach about next. Everything was a sermon series, and we weren't getting the simplicity of the Word of God." The church she now attends uses the lectionary, and the service is shaped by liturgy, rather than weekly invention. She is still a third-wave Charismatic, but worships in a formal setting, and uses her spiritual gifts in other settings (prayer and healing ministries with which she's involved.)

Do you think its possible to outgrow a church? Is this a Biblical idea - or just an accomodation to our church hopping culture?

And what does the Lord require of you?

I had lunch on Friday with my friend Pam. We've been friends since 8th grade, and together came to faith in Christ just as the Jesus Movement wave crested and began to recede. Our oldest children were born just a week apart. Our now-antique cats, Mike and Phyllis, came from a couple of litters of kittens born at Pam's house.

Pam has been an educator for all of her adult life, and I've always admired the sandpaper way she would put her hands on her hips and ask her administrators why they were doing what they were doing, and then come up with an innovative, red-tape free way to actually help her kids. She has always been the voice for her students, though her forthright manner hasn't always endeared her to the powers-that-be. She's remained remarkably unmotivated by a need for approval by those in authority over her, and at one point, even volunteered to take a pay cut in order to keep an educational program in place for another year because she knew it had life-changing potential for her students.

So you know what happened next, don't you? After many years teaaching at this school, the program was cut. And so was Pam.

"Justice" is a word swirling (at last) through the evangelical community in recent years. When Pam and I first began following Jesus, the word was either shaded with informational images of God sitting behind a judge's bench, declaring us "not guilty" due to the finished work of Christ, weighing deeds - or of those from more liberal, social action churches participating in C.R.O.P. walks or joining the Peace Corps. Now we evangelical/charismatic members of the Body of Christ are starting to realize that justice isn't just a descriptor of a theological truth or the domain of them thar lib'rals, but our birthright as members of the kingdom-revolution.

A few years ago, I read (somewhere, can't remember where) that the anger in us is wired to the beautiful and just character of God. When we encounter unrighteousness, something rises up in us that says, "NO!" That "NO!" is there to direct us toward God in order to cry out for justice, and to drive us to live the Micah mandate: "He has showed you, O man, what is good. And what does the LORD require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God" (6:8). Anger can scorch everything it touches - or it can fuel a life that loves justice, mercy and humility.

A life like Pam's.

Eatin' good in the neighborhood

I just returned from the Wednesday afternoon farmer's market with:

• Dead ripe tomatoes (my addiction)
• Bi-color sweet corn
• Imperfectly shaped green peppers
• Peaches so ripe they exploded out of their skin when I bit into one
• Homemade pasta
• Asiago breadsticks
• Mixed olives in anise olive oil
• Locally bottled white Sangria
• Garlic-dill jack cheese made by a small WI dairy

I am very aware that this is what blessing tastes like. And I'm grateful...

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Thought-provoking post of the day: Shawn Blanc's Fight Spot post about leadership. He writes about an essential component for healthy leadership - and it's not what you'd expect. But he's dead on.

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Here's a website that'll probably crack you up - or at least, give you a grin, just due to its complete absurdity. These are people who have way too much time on their hands.

Ch-ch-changes

Make it stop.

When stuff in our lives goes through a radical rearrangement - meaning, we're forced into some sort of change - more than anything, we want the discombobulation to stop. We want the old normal. Or the new normal. Anything but this horrible confusion that leaves us feeling like we're bobbing around in the middle of a stormy ocean wearing only a Looney Toons inflatable swim ring.

Make it stop.

One of the most helpful books I ever read on the subject of transition was placed in my hands shortly after I'd resigned from my staff position at the church and just before we decided to move back to Chicago. It was, of all things, a business book called Managing Transitions: Making The Most Of Change by William Bridges. Though the book is written to coach businesses through organizational change, it is actually one of thsoe books that seems to apply to just about everyone.

That book put language on a couple of things for me. First, that once an organization enters into its institutional phase, it will calcify or die. There is no way out of this death phase even though the institution may seem on the surface to be very successful and productive. Change and rebirth must happen, even though they run absurdly counter to the force of gravity and the establishment of "success" that catches hold when an organization becomes established.

The second thing that this book helped me to understand is that grief is a core part of transition. Mourning the passing of the old regime means wandering through the various expressions of grief (denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance) on the way to the new.

My old cry used to be "make it stop". This "make it stop" half-prayer was comprised of: Man, I want the comfort of the way things used to be, even if they sucked that way. I'm angry and sacred that those days are gone. If only I could try harder somehow, things would go back to "normal". I'm so bummed that things feel so messed up.

In other words, "make it stop" seemed to have all the elements of grief except for acceptance.

So I am discovering that I'm in the market for a new kind of prayer as I navigate transition. Anyone have any good ideas?

July 19

Harry Jerome Marks

July 19, 1933-July 19, 1997

Ten years ago today, my father died on his 64th birthday, losing his 17-month battle with leukemia. There were so many events I would have love to have shared with him, so many funny stories he would have loved to have shared, and moments from my kids' lives he would have relished. He was a pretty simple guy - he loved a good steak, Johnny Carson, fixing stuff and telling stories. And humor. He was one funny guy, though those who lived in the same house with him knew all of his punchlines.

So, for my dad, who taught me comic timing and the ability to tell a story, here's my favorite Harry story:

I wanted to learn to drive so much I could taste antifreeze, so as soon as I got my learner's permit, I bugged him to take me out driving. He took me to an empty parking lot and then around a few neighborhoods the first time out. I didn't kill anyone, so he must have decided that I was ready for prime time.

Literally.

After dinner one night later that week, he drove us over to another parking lot, this one near the intersection of Lake and the Edens expressway. "Switch places," he told me. "You're driving on the expressway." It was the tail end of a Chicago rush hour. He settled into the passenger seat, lit another cigarette, and directed me toward the entrance ramp of the Edens.

"Get on," he said. I had no idea how to merge, or what to do about not running headfirst into those huge trucks. I was screaming that I couldn't do it and that I would get us both killed. "No you won't," he said. "Sink or swim."

We didn't die, though I saw him lighting one cigarette off of an already-lit one, something I rarely saw him do. He had nerves of nicotine.

When I was teaching my three kids to drive by gripping the passenger door in a death grip and gasping like a beached alewife (or screaming at them in sheer terror), I thought of my dad. Just about every time we got behind the wheel.

And I wished I could tell him so. I miss him more now than I did when he first died.

Happy birthday, dad.

M.I.A.

Where are they?

Where are the 18-30 year olds?

We know they're not attending standard-issue church. And they're mostly not attending the alternative churches developed to "reach" them. This issue has been analyzed and analyzed some more, by people way smarter than I. That's not the purpose of this post.

The Good Shepherd leaves the 99 (who are sitting in pews, slick auditoriums, and rented elementary school gyms) to find the 1. He doesn't chase down that renegade sheep in order to tell him that resistance is futile. The passage in Scripture simply tells us that the Shepherd hunts down the sheep and rejoices when he is united with it.

Perhaps because I have 3 young adult children - or because my little day job is at a place full of young adults - or because I read young adults' blogs, listen to the music they create, and observe and learn from the way they dress and interact with the older world - - -

- - - I admire them. I admire their passion, their willingness to ask questions, their creativity and facility with technology, their honesty, and their desire for risk and authenticity. I know that a few are starting churches and home fellowships. I know there are others who've cast their lot with other alternative types of faith communities (urban monasteries, discipleship schools, service organizations) because they want to DO something, rather than be passive spectators. Most of them are not interested in our slogans, org charts and pre-chewed cud.

There is a generation of sheep wandering. When I pray for them, I hear a soft bleating in my ears.

This morning, Bill and I were chatting with a nice man our age who asked, "If Paul and Peter came back and visited our churches, what would they think? Once they got past the technology, would they be happy with what we're doing? Singing? Proclaiming? Would they even recognize the message? Why?"

With all my heart, I believe that many of the 18-30 year-old wandering sheep may have wandered because they're looking for the Shepherd. They're not finding him where we've been telling them we've been keeping him.

Agree? Disagree?

Simply: a prayer

Turn your eyes upon Jesus

Look full in His wonderful face

And the things of earth will grow strangely dim

in the light of His glory and grace

This is my prayer for my children, my son-in-law and grandson...and for my husband and myself. What else is there to ask for?

List du jour

A near-perfect grandma day: Sitting in those butt-numbing chairs in an 76 db McDonald's Playland, watching your almost four-year-old grandson run and laugh, then going to the grocery store and letting said grandson sit in the front of one of those mutant shopping carts that looks like a fire engine while you shop, then watching some hideous cartoons on TV (when did newer cartoons become so visually ugly? And why?), then going to church with grandpa where the child hated the loud worship music but loved the bright kids' area, then hanging out together blowing bubbles at dusk before I tucked him into bed with a story and a prayer.

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Best post I've read in a long time: This Cerulean Sanctum entry, discussing the constant complaining about one another in the body of Christ going on in the blogosphere, over radio airwaves, in print and most especially, in person. I was simultaneously convicted by this entry (God knows I do more than my share of carping) and cheered (Dan Edelen's intelligent analysis is almost always fiber-rich food for thought).
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Dumb idea: Going to Taste of Chicago on a 97 degree day while on a new heavy-duty diuretic.


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Most under-used resource in my life: extended time with God. I discovered again in Kansas City how powerful it is to simply sit all day with an open Bible, a journal, and a desperate and impoverished soul. I read through Leviticus - an unusual choice, to say the least, but I felt strongly that this is where God wanted me during my time there.

Author Chris Tiegreen writes about Leviticus in his book Creative Prayer: "Sometime during a reread of that strange legal document, I began to smell the smell of sacrifice. The vision of a constant stream of blood flowing from that altar began to impact me. The aroma of incense, the sound of bleating, and the hazy air rising from burning flesh filled my disturbed heart. The busy rituals of preparation seemed to say to me over and over again that there was once a vast, tragic rift between me and my God, and there are two things I can never, ever take casually: my sin and his holiness."

In a place like the International House of Prayer, where there is so much worship going on, maybe Leviticus is exactly where I needed to be, for exactly the reasons Tiegreen describes.

Just my size

When I was about to turn six, I really wanted a Barbie house for my birthday.

When I sixteen going on seventeen, I remember crushing on a pair of Frye boots, and insisting that they would be the birthday gift of my dreams.

When I was twenty-nine (for the first time, as I often joke about being 29 again every year), I am pretty sure my birthday list included major appliances.

Sitting on the bubble of turning 48, all I could imagine wanting this year was a trip to Kansas City to touch base with some friends and spend time at the International House of Prayer. My husband Bill loves this place even more than I do, and we've always, always visited here together. But the last time we were able to do that was two years ago. Moving, book writing, job changes, stuff with our kids and life all managed to wallpaper our schedule with committments requiring us to be present in Chicago.

When Bill asked me a few weeks ago what I wanted for my birthday, I said, "Really, all I want is to go to KC." Through a crazy chain of last minute events, Bill said, "Go. Happy Birthday."

When I write that, it looks like I nagged like an acid-filled dripping faucet, but I didn't. I just said it. And Bill gave me the gift that cost him more than the price of the rental car to get me here. He's a man that could use a vacation, and craves long chunks of time with the Lord. And this the gift he gave to me.

It would be perfect if he was here to share it. (Next time!)

Kickin' `em when they're down

I get Monday Morning Insight's (MMI) weekly pastor/leadership newsletter every (surprise!) Monday morning. The dudes there definitely have their biases - they heavily promote the Second Gen Mega Church church leaders. I don't always agree with the MMI guys and their congregational cover boys, but the things they're thinking about and doing affect us all, whether we want them to or not.

So it's been interesting (like a car wreck is interesting) to follow the discussion that's ensued at the site in the wake of a question about church hoppers vs. church "lifers", which shifted in an instant to become a discussion about the problems with church hoppers versus the problems with screwed-up dysfunctional abusive church leadership. This is an old, tiring debate that never seems to change any minds or any practices. The MMI conversation in particular has left me feeling a little beat up, frankly. Both sides (because in this conversation, there really is a sense of "versus" that is fueling this round and venue of the old, tiring debate) mostly sound like Jets Vs. Sharks, not sheep and shepherds.

My good friends (scattered all over Chicago and WI) have been listening to me weep and grieve these last few months over the fact that we don't have a church home. (If you want to hear the whole sad saga, e-mail me at mishvl@yahoo.com. An abbreviated version is also listed on the above MMI post.) We have been attending a place, but it is shockingly unhealthy, and we know at this point in our lives, we aren't the stick of dynamite these sleepy people desperately need. I have grieved deeply, perhaps obsessively, that we're back on the road again...again. And I have grieved the molasses-like stuck-ness that has left this middle-aged church shrinking, clubby and completely disconnected from the community around her.

So listen up, MMI guys: I don't want to be looking for a new church. I don't want to be a church hopper. Your conversation this week hurts right now. Not like conviction hurts - in order to bring change. No, it hurts like cliques and smug answers hurt.

I want to be the church - the bride!, live the mission, and love and be loved by Jesus.

Go home

Because my husband was preaching this morning, I had an opportunity to mediate on Luke 8:28-39 this week. Those thoughts became a reading he used to introduce the story of the text. I’m sharing it because I wondered if some of you might find this creative recounting of the story an encouragement.

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He terrified them.

They were all relieved when he “relocated” from town to live in his own personal ghetto – the graveyard just outside the city limits. The only time they had to deal with him was when they went to bury one of their own out there and his violent, naked screams tore into their grief like a knife. He saw the terror in their eyes, but he was powerless to calm them. Or to calm himself.

There was a rasping soundtrack blaring inside his head day and night: “You’re worthless…useless…beyond redemption.” Couldn’t anyone hear the noise?

There was a tiny corner of his tormented soul that had once tried firing flares to God: Help me. All he ever heard in response was “God doesn’t hear you, fool!”

But that was a lie. Years after everyone else had abandoned him, fled from him in fear - Jesus came. To him. As Jesus approached him in that desolate field of tombs, the man’s tormented screams became louder and louder. Without fear, Jesus said firmly: “Come out of him.”

The response? “What do you want with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? I beg you, don't torture me!”

Jesus looked at him, pure, fierce love. “What is your name?”

The man didn’t answer. The demons did. “Legion.” The Roman army’s legions numbered 3000-6000 men. The anarchy of the legion of demons tormenting the man ceased – with military obedience, the demons spoke as one.

Those who’d followed Jesus to the graveyard heard the voice, a ragged dark scream begging Jesus to command the legion of demons anywhere but back to the abyss from where they’d come.

“Send us into the pigs over there,” Legion begged. Whimpered. Demanded.

Jesus anticipated exactly what the maddened pigs would do next. And for the sake of those present – and for our sake as well – he permitted the legion of demons to enter the pigs. The quiet milling herd became a swirling fury. The swine were suddenly hearing and feeling what the man had experienced for years. They thundered down a hillside and into a lake...a watery abyss...and drowned. Every last one of them.

The pig herders ran shrieking into town.
“And he…”
“…Then the man…”
“…and the pigs…”
“…like an avalanche…”
“…drowned…”
“…It was Jesus….”

The people from the town came thundering like a herd to the graveyard. And stopped, as one, by the sight of the man.
Someone had given the man a cloak and the man was wearing it! And he was sitting and listening to Jesus…smiling and laughing.

The townspeople were terrified. More terrified than they’d been when the man was running naked among the tombs, screaming and swearing. What kind of power had made the madman whole? As one, a legion of sorts, they begged Jesus to leave their town. To stop disrupting the “normal” order of things.

Jesus’ answer? OK.

As Jesus stepped into the boat to leave, the man who’d lived among the dead approached him. He wasn’t laughing now. His eyes filled with tears. “Please, Jesus. Take me with you,” the man begged. “Please.”

Jesus was moved with compassion for the man…and for the cowering crowd beyond them. Jesus told the man he needed to go back to the town…back home…and live among all the people who’d been terrified of him before, and were even more terrified of him now.

“Tell them how much God has done for you,” Jesus said.

The man’s heart generated a thousand questions in a fraction of a second. All he wanted to do was serve this One who’d set him free. And as the man looked into the eyes of his deliverer, he knew that Jesus understood that. Loved him. And wanted to do the same for each one of them. Jesus nodded toward the murmuring, tense group behind them and said, “Tell them.”

The man nodded his yes, turned and walked toward the terrified crowd.

#1 Hypocrite

"I'm fed up with Christians these days," my friend said on the phone last night.

She's spent the last few years living in very intense, intentional discipleship and faith community settings. She's put her own heart and attitudes both under a microscrope, simultaneously allowing them to be projected onto a big screen in the name of transparency, healing and spiritual growth. She's experienced the kind of kingdom-radical transformation most of us can only dream of. She was a poster girl for the parable life.

I asked her what was bugging her about other believers. Her answer: "People who should know better and be better just end up acting like the rest of the world."

Haven't we all sung that song? Maybe some of us sing accompanied by a banjo, and others by a full symphony orchestra, but the lyrics are always the same.

I asked her what she was doing with all her frustration and there was a half-beat pause. "I'm not really attending church right now because I can't sit through any more long, repetitive services. I'm not really reading my Bible or praying..." And as she talked, she confessed that in some weird ways, she was becoming exactly what she disliked so intensely those around her - someone who knew how to play the game, but whose spiritual life was gradually being drained of power. Her disappointment and disillusionment with other believers were eroding a once-vibrant walk with Jesus. And she knew that few people in her life these days would be able to perceive the subtle cooling that had taken place in her once-fiery heart, precisely because she had learned to play everyone's favorite Christian game, the Hypocrite Show.

The conversation was a good one, especially since I didn't have to say much. As she confessed her struggles, she became acutely aware of the course correction she needed in her life. The bonus was that God used her struggle to convict me, as well. Smug judgementalism dogs me - I hate it in myself. (But something tells me I don't hate it nearly enough, since it is a regular and familiar battleground in my life.)

Again and again in our lives, we have to come to terms with the hypocrites around us, and the hypocrisy that lurks in our own hearts. The beauty of the parable of the tax collector and the Pharisee is that the poverty of the rich man was more precious to Jesus than the "righteous" performance of the religious man. It's ironic that the moment we stand in judgement of those hypocrites, we are a hair's-breadth away from becoming one of them.

Have you ever realized you were on the way to becoming what you hated in others' lives? I'd love to hear about what made the lights go on in your heart.

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Update: The high drama of the church women's summer book club's loony choice of "The Secret" ended. (Kidding about the drama - to my knowledge, there wasn't any, other than a couple of e-mails I sent) An announcement went out today - cancelled for lack of interest. Good - because it was a poorly-informed reading choice in this church's context. Troubling - because the reasons for the "why" and "how" of this choice really need to be addressed. I'm not sure they will be.

Get me a refrigerator magnet

The relationship between art (and artists) and the church was a chilly one when I first came to faith in Christ in the `70's. Evangelicalism had a serious case of amensia, leaving itself disconnected from 2000 years of church history. We got kitsch instead of thoughtful, provocative, beautiful art.

It's a lovely thing to see the tide turning. Lovelier still, to be able to surf on it. The old, false, mean-spirited walls are crumbling. It is a slow process, but a hopeful one. I love the changes I see happening in the church's attitude toward art. Here in Chicago:

Willow Creek does an amazing arts conference each June. How I wish I was there this year. I followed the reporting on their conference blog, and it made me salivate as I read: http://2007artsconferenceblog.blogspot.com/

Karitos, that unpredictable, scrappy, vagabond and completely delightful multi-disciplinary arts conference, continues to be held each year: www.karitos.com.

Artists who happen to be Christians make art. Write books. Create music. I am on a mailing list for a group that is trying to gather for artist support and discussion in Chicago. The groups's purpose is not to help its members figure out how to paint a pastel picture with a Bible verse (taken out of context) on it - but how people of faith can create excellent art. I'm hoping to visit this group at one of their upcoming gatherings. I'll let you know what its like.

I've attended a couple of different writer's groups this year - first time in my life to try to be a part of a writer's group. The writing in the non-Christian group was awful. Bad, talentless writing - or porn, which actually doesn't take much talent either. The writing in the Christian group has been, for the most part, pretty darn good.

* * * * * * *

On a separate note: Though I'm not sure you can call it art, my sons Ben and Jacob are now the proud hosts of a radio show being broadcast over the FCC airwaves at WNUR-FM , the Northwestern University radio station. The dudes will be on the air from 5-7 a.m. every Saturday through the summer, and, if you're an early riser with titanium eardrums, you can also listen to them online. Ben and Jake play bands most people have never heard of (including me) including Deerhoof, The Shags, Old Canes, Jana Hunter and Tragedy Skit System.

Banned book at church

Bill and I have been attending a small church for the last 9 months or so. Small churches typically don't drown their members' schedules in lots of programs and meetings and busywork. This congregation is especially sparse, programming-wise. Besides Sunday services and a wee youth group, there was some kind of once-a-month women's meeting that did...something, but I have no idea what, and a women's Bible study that met this spring to explore the book of James. (Let the reader note - I didn't participate in either of those women's "ministry" offerings.)

I was surprised to get an e-mail note to the women of the church that read:
Ladies Book Club
Book Choice: The Secret by Rhonda Byrne
Instructions: Please purchase/borrow the book, before the start of the first session please read
the Forward, The introduction and the first two chapters.
For the second session please read chapters 3 - 6, the following session read two chapters.
This will be an open forum to express your views and feelings on the book, and gain insight from everyone attending. I hope it will be a fun and interesting time! This group is open to all of the women (of the church) & whom ever they wish to invite.

(If you're unfamiliar with Oprah's most recent fave book, author, pastor and professor Donald Whitney has a fair and non-hysterical review here. )

I give the context for the invitation to spend some of my summer evenings with the ideas found in The Secret and the women of this troubled church because this has left me in the unpleasant position of Bad Cop, questioning both the "why" of this book choice as well as asking whether the elders at this church reviewed the book before giving the OK to the woman who initiated this book group. (Aw, come on. You already know what the answer is.)

If there was a sense that this church was interested in exploring the intersection of Biblical truth and pop culture, I might have fewer questions and different concerns. But I have seen no evidence of this in the kind of teaching the church proffers on Sunday mornings, the kinds of outreach (none) the church does, or the kinds of things the women typically discuss amongst themselves. I am trying to figure out what itch The Secret scratches for the women of this church, and why they're willing to spend time with this book instead of something that might spark some spiritual growth among them. I am also realizing that the trust issues (old scars) I have when it comes to church leadership have been scraped open a bit with the announcement of this book group.

How funny that I, a writer who reads widely in my areas of passion as well as a reader who encourages others to read books and blogs with which they'll be challenged or even disagree in order to shape their hearts and minds would become Bad Cop when it comes to a book group.

BUT its not just a book group. It's a book group AT CHURCH. If I wanted to learn about The Secret, I'd watch Oprah or go to a discussion group at Barnes and Noble. But I don't.

I want Jesus....

What do you think about this? Am I wrong in my concerns? If so, why?

* * * * * * *

And just to lighten my mood on this depressing topic, I'm posting a picture of 3-1/2 year-old grandson Gabriel.

See? I feel better already.

:)

Out of the money

I didn't even know I'd been entered in the Evangelical Press Association's contest, but apparently my story "Tina Meets The King" came in fifth in the Fiction category. Here's some irony for you:

(1) Since I wasn't aware that Discipleship Journal had entered the piece in the competition, coming in fifth was a nice little surprise.

(2) I'd originally written the piece after my first visit to the International House of Prayer in Kansas City. The visit solidified my conviction that I could no longer stay on staff at our church in Wisconsin. "Tina Meets The King" captured both all that was wrong with my life at the time, as well as all that God really wanted from me in story form.

(3) I had to do a double-take when I realized the story had been placed in the Fiction category. "Tina Meets The King" feels like reporting from the front lines to me.

Thank you, Jesus.