Review: A Million Miles In A Thousand Years

When I first began working at the Trinity Bookstore in 2004, Donald Miller's Blue Like Jazz had been out for a few months and was just beginning to catch on via the best advertising of all, positive word-of-mouth. I grabbed it off the shelf, read it, lovedlovedloved it, and foisted it on all sorts of unsuspecting customers and fellow staffers. Miller's irreverently reverent, messy journey and distinctive writing voice resonated with me.

It resonated with hundreds of thousands of others. The book was an evangelical publishing phenomenon, and turned Miller into a Name. His follow-up releases (including a revision of a book he'd penned prior to writing Blue Like Jazz) were good, but never quite captured the evangelical cultural ennui of his big breakout book.

It was only a matter of time before someone, somewhere decided to obtain movie rights to Miller's seminal spiritual memoir. Blue Like Jazz was a series of colorful episodes strung together like mismatched beads. In fact, the book's subtitle is "Nonreligious Thoughts on Christian Spirituality"; not exactly a recipe for a movie plot. But the people who optioned the film rights sent a couple of writers to work with Miller to pull story out of "nonreligious thoughts". His new book, A Million Miles In A Thousand Years: What I Learned While Editing My Life, tells the story of what happened to him during this process.

I kind of expected this book to be a self-indulgent exercise, to be frank. Come on - a book about turning a best seller about your life into a movie about your life? I wondered if Miller's writing career and/or ego had jumped the shark.

Though there are whiffs of self-indulgence here and there, they are mercifully faint. What is here is a valuable first-person exploration of the components of story as Miller was learning and living them. A Million Miles In A Thousand Years is an enjoyable read for anyone involved in storying: pastors, writers, teachers, visual communicators. It provides a few ah-ha! moments about the elements of story applied to life from the pen of a really good writer who is willing, once again, to tell his own story to all of us.

Day of atonement prayer request

The holiest day of the Jewish calendar, Yom Kippur, begins at sundown tonight. (You can read God's prescribed order for the day here.) On the tenth day of the seventh month, the high priest would disappear behind the curtain leading into the Holy of Holies to intercede for his people. Only on this day each year could the priest come before God on behalf of a repentant people to seek absolution of the previous year's sins against Him and one another.

I remember the shock I felt this first time I read this. Please join me in praying that others of my people will hear the sound of the torn curtain as they seek God this Yom Kippur.

What am I missing?

What makes the Church dangerous?
In no particular order:
1. Love
2. Rabid intentionality about reflecting the risen Christ in deed and word, in that order
3. Signs and wonders
4. Communion
5. Meaningful spiritual friendships
6. Learning put into practice
7. Prayer
8. Its children and teens
9. Gracious countercultural lifestyle
10. Corporate worship as the starting line
11. Generosity
12. Service/justice
13. Mess
14. Truth
The more of the above-listed dangerous things that exist in a local congregation, the safer I feel.

On the other hand...
What makes a congregation dangerous?
Again, in no particular order:
A. Cliques
B. Institutionalism / "...but we've always doen it this way..."
C. Favoritism, nepotism
D. Unwritten rules
E. Lies
F. Agendas masquerading as sermons
G. Unteachable leaders
H. Ignoring or pandering to children and teens
I. Gossip
J. Pastors with money or sex secrets
K. Inhospitablity
L. Demonizing all opposition
M. Focus on appearances
N. Control

What would you add to either of these lists?

Two reviews from the top of the stack...

Philip Yancey's introspective, wise writing has been both a mirror and a pair of binoculars in my life. The reflective nature of his work has forced me to take a good look at myself in Disappointment With God; the binocular view of the struggles of others in Pain: The Gift Nobody Wants. But the truth is that most all of his beautifully-crafted writing is both mirror and binoculars. I've been a fan since his days writing for Campus Life magazine in the 1970's.

Grace Notes: Daily Readings With A Fellow Pilgrim (Zondervan) offers up 366 daily one-page readings from Yancey's prolific career (so far). The readings center on themes like faith, prayer, forgiveness, suffering, church and grace, and are arranged will sensitivity to the days and seasons of the year. For example, the September 11 and 12 entries both offer reflections on the grace Yancey discovered at New York's Ground Zero in 2001.

The simple volume would make a perfect gift for a Yancey fan or a friend who values the kind of thought-provoking, soul-surprising writing that is both mirror and binoculars.

* * * *

I liked Pete Gall's first book, the memoir entitled My Beautiful Idol enough to write and tell him so. His funny, messy journey from his job in the advertising industry to world-changer bound to set the world on fire to burned-out ex-superhero was well-written and honest. Gall is back with the next chapter of his story-in-progress: Learning My Name (Zondervan).

Story-in-progress most definitely captures the feel of this book. It does not have a neat resolution featuring the five alliterative steps he took to get fixed. Instead, Gall's quest for emotional, physical and spiritual health form the narrative of this extremely personal, confessional memoir. Gall is battling obesity, and he begins the journey toward wholeness as he faces down the why of his condition.

His father's introduction at the beginning of the book brought me to tears. It alone is worth the price of the book.

This was not an easy book to read. Part of me wanted to walk away from the book, to cover Gall somehow - the confessions are so intimate and his wounds so raw that I found myself worried for the very public way in which he is processing his pain in real time. The other part of me, however, felt welcomed into the naked mess of his story. I am broken, too.

Gall is not certain whether his story will have a happy ending. He hopes so, but that hope is not the Braveheart triumphalistic kind of hope that we tend to see in Christian books. It's small and uncertain, and it's a costly kind of offering that actually looks more like true worship than a lot of the bombast that passes for it in other circles.

If you or someone you know is battling an addiction or facing down their own brokenness, this book might be a helpful companion. Even without the certainty of a happy ending.

Or maybe, especially because of it.

In just five days...

This coming Tuesday, September 22 is the official release date of a beautiful new Bible.

HOLY BIBLE: MOSAIC is unlike any Bible you’ve ever seen…

Gorgeous, incredible artwork from the 3^rd to 21^st centuries from every continent across the globe.

Moving and thought-provoking writings from the 1^st to 21^st centuries from every continent and branch of the Church around the world.

Both artwork and writings follow the Church calendar throughout the year starting with Advent (Sunday, November 29, 2009).

How do I know about HOLY BIBLE: MOSAIC? Well, I had the privilege of serving as a contributing writer for this exciting new Bible.

I can’t wait to tell you more! Please be sure to click on the cover artwork below and/or sign up at www.HolyBibleMosaic.com.

PS Whatever you do, please do NOT buy a copy of this Bible on Amazon—at least not yet. I’ll explain why early next week.

It happened one Shabbat...

I am deeply fascinated by the stories Jesus told. Imagine what it would be like to be in the room the first time He told this story.

Here's how it might have gone:

...In all his years of service to Avishai, Yigal couldn’t remember his master ever inviting this kind into his home. Though the room was packed with clusters of men engaged in animated pre-dinner conversations, Avishai’s “guest” stood alone in a corner. He looked as out of place as a python in a birdcage. Yigal couldn’t imagine he’d really stick around for the meal.

Even now, Avishai, a man known for his discriminating taste in righteousness, was orchestrating the seating arrangement in the crowded room. He shot a welcoming glance toward one of his protégés, Shmuel, giving the young man a subtle nod. Yigal watched as Shmuel caught the nod with a broad smile, maneuvering through the warm, noisy space toward his reward: a first-time spot at Avishai’s head table. Apparently, Shmuel had given himself a promotion this week. One of Shmuel’s friends followed in his wake, claiming the last spot at the table. It was a plum social score for the pair.

This act served as today’s cue for the other men in the room to sort themselves around the low tables ringing three sides of the room. V.I.P’s up front, lesser lights in less-desirable seats. Moving up in position at these gatherings usually came in increments, though rising stars like Shmuel found ways to circumvent the usual process.

Everyone managed to find a spot except the strange visitor tucked into the far corner of the room. Despite his greasy beard, he looked like a woman heavy with child, his hunched posture accentuating his grotesquely distended abdomen. The room’s tsks of disapproval at the untouchable man’s presence rustled like dry leaves across the mosaic floor. What on earth was this disgusting man doing in the same room with them?

From his post just outside the doorway behind his master’s table, Yigal could almost taste the untouchable man’s excruciating sense of humiliation. Yigal’s soul offered up word-incense for the man: “O God, please…have mercy on him.” He knew the religious professionals in the room had pronounced this man, and all others like him, guilty of sin. If it were otherwise, those second-class, no-class creatures would be enjoying God’s blessing of good health.

Yigal couldn’t understand why Avishai had “invited” this man to today’s Sabbath meal. Avishai was a very pure man, a professional’s professional. Having someone like this man in the house would surely defile the sacredness of the space. There must be a reason that Avishai was willing to risk infecting his home’s whitewashed purity this day, when thousands of other days had been uncontaminated by sinners like this man.

But what could that reason be?

Yigal has served Avishai for years, assisting Avishai as he sculpted his life with rules the same way the Roman wrestlers sculpted their bodies with their extreme, punishing training regimens. Avishai’s reputation for professional righteousness was the stuff of legend.

Yigal was surprised earlier that week when Avishai had mentioned that a different guest, Yeshua…Jesus, would be joining them for today’s gathering. Avishai and his cadre had been dissecting this upstart rabbi’s words and motives in their never-ending debates in recent weeks and found him lacking. However, Avishai had insisted Jesus join him today at the head table. Jesus laughed as he and Shmuel conversed.

As if on cue, one or two at a time, the raucous discussions in the room fell silent as the men looked expectantly toward the head table. Yigal took a step into the room, watching intently for Avishai’s nod so he could begin the task of serving the Shabbat meal. Avishai shook his head almost imperceptibly, warning Yigal off. Not yet.

Avishai pointed toward the swollen, deformed man in the far corner of the room, motioning him to the open center of the crowded room. The man swallowed hard and obeyed.

“What about today, Jesus? You wouldn’t heal a man like this on Shabbat?” Avishai’s question wasn’t a question, but a challenge.

A quiet murmur of approval rippled through those righteous, healthy men ringing the tables in the room. No one questioned Jesus’ reputation as a healer. Word had spread like a firestorm about his miracle ways. But everyone knew that there were six other days in a week in which to attempt the work of re-creation. After all, God Himself rested from labor on the seventh day.

Now Yigal understood why this man had been invited. It was a trap, a set-up.

“Is it lawful to heal on the Sabbath or not?”(Luke 14:3) Jesus question was the kind of thing Avishai and his other high-ranking religious professionals loved to debate. That they’d never been called upon to heal was irrelevant to their discussions; instead, they volleyed a question amongst themselves for years, launching it to one another with “what if?” and “what then?”, all the while closing possible loopholes in their answers as if they were tightening a hangman’s noose.

There was no debate in this moment. Even the air in the room seemed to be holding its breath. Jesus rose from his place and walked over to the man, placing one hand on his head. A benediction. He touched his other hand to the man’s swollen midsection, a wordless invocation. As he did, the man’s distended belly deflated.

The men ringing the room’s perimeter erupted into furious analysis with one another, burying the miracle in a slag heap of words.

Until this moment, these animated discussions had always fascinated Yigal. He longed for the kind of righteousness Avishai enjoyed, and hoped…somehow…that Avishai’s life and knowledge had polished his own rough virtue into something he could offer the Almighty.

Melting to his knees in an attitude of prayer, Yigal trembled like a newborn exposed to the elements as he alone watched the two men in the center of the room. They were seemingly oblivious to the commotion swirling around them. The healed man was weeping, laughing, thanking God. Jesus responded with pure delight in the man’s unfettered joy. This delight was so terrifyingly beautiful and intimate that Yigal covered his face with his hands and whispered, “O God, have mercy on me.”

Jesus took His eyes off of the man and spoke. His words sliced through the uproar in the room like a sword. “If one of you has a son or an ox that falls into a well on the Sabbath day, will you not immediately pull him out?” (Luke 14:5)

Again, stunned silence. No one dared voice a jot or tittle of dissent. Jesus spoke into that silence with a pair of parables meant to rescue a roomful of men trapped in a well they – and their forefathers – had been digging for generations:
A guest at a wedding reception marches up to the head table and grabs a prime seat, only to be very publicly asked to move so someone more important to the host’s family can be seated there OR An honored guest comes to a wedding reception and takes a seat at the far edge of the festivities. Spotting him across the crowded room, the stunned host rushes over to the guest, wrapping his arm around the guest’s shoulders and escorting him to the head table.

A host invites only his friends, family and wealthy neighbors to his parties, ensuring the reciprocation he craves will be immediate, temporary…and ultimately worthless OR A host invites the sick, the broken and the poor to the party of the year without ever expecting payback. Surprise! At the end of time, there will be justice; a blessing from One hosting a very different kind of banquet.

The truth hinging this pair of parables together? “For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be exalted." (vs.11)

There was palpable discomfort in the room. There were no deep hidden meanings in these stories, waiting to be excavated through years of academic debate and endless discussion. Jesus had wiped away the “we’ve always done it this way” seating chart of privilege, politics and power with his words.

Even as Avishai’s brilliant protégé posed a loophole-seeking question in response, Yigal closed his eyes and reached in prayer for his rescuer’s hand.

Home schooling's "Great Omission"

"Will you home school me?" We could no longer ignore our kindergarden son's frequently-repeated question. His overcrowded classroom left his harried teacher herding far too many 5 and 6 year olds through activities meant to fill time, rather than educate. I worked at the school as a playground supervisor and was involved with both the parent-teacher association and with a group of moms who gathered in my living room to pray for the staff each week. I was committed to making public education work for our children.

Except it wasn't working. Both of our kids enrolled in the school were a little frayed and a little bored. I'd taught both of them to read, and regularly worked with them at our kitchen table doing academic enrichment activities. I often felt like I was running an after-hours, parallel universe school in our home.

A couple of other families in our church were home schooling. I met with them to pick their brains, asking questions about socialization, curriculum, laws, and support groups. And then my husband and I headed to a home school conference. We heard a lot about how to teach our children - and we heard some very convincing arguments about why we needed to teach them at home. These reasons included Deuteronomy 6:4-9, public education's aggressively secular humanist agenda, a conservative (and sometimes revisionist) view of American history, the almost ironclad guarantee of a better educational and spiritual outcome for home schooled kids, and worry about pub school pagan peers possessing an unwelcome host of nasty social and spiritual habits. In varying measures, we shared each of those concerns.

There was one caveat no one mentioned at that event - or any of the many subsequent home schooling conferences we attended during our years of home schooling (1992-2004). It was, perhaps, a truth that should have been self-evident from the intense, sometimes extreme convictions expressed with great confidence by many of the movement's microphone-holders and authors about everything from dress to diet, from home birth to home business. It was the Great Omission that families considering home schooling desperately need to hear in order to put their journey in a healthy context.

This Great Omission? That by making the choice to avoid immersing your child in an environment filled with "pagan" peers, you may well be teaching your child to swim in a pool of a different kind. That pool may be filled with Pharisees - legalistic, fear-driven and reactionary. You will have to deal with one or the other no matter how you train up your children.

Please hear me - not all home schooling families are Pharisees by any stretch of the imagination, any more than public schools are crawling with pagans. However, each academic option's vociferous spokespeople tend to be the most opinionated ones. When we first began home schooling, we were grateful for the traction we got from the strong convictions of those "leading" the home school movement back then. Home schooling is a trail-less uphill climb. You need some strong convictions to launch into - and continue - that journey. Unfortunately, a good number of people we met during that journey were happy to substitute fear (of all the evils spoken of by the micophone holders) for convictions. I can certainly see places in our journey where we took that shortcut. I grieve the sour effect that Pharisaiism had in our family. It proved to be just as toxic as paganism.

I would home school again in a moment. The benefits far outweigh the liabilities. But I would go in with eyes wide open: our classroom is inside a fallen world, and a number of our fellow students will deal with their brokenness by ignoring God or creating Him in their own image. And I will not be surprised by this, since seeds of both sinful choices - paganism and Pharisaism - reside inside of me.

Parents, what has your experience been with the educational option you've chosen for your family?

Hey lady, call the Fire Department to extinguish the fire in your bones

Yesterday's announcement from the nice people at Zondervan that they were going to suspend publication of the TNIV provoked intense reaction from its readers across the theological spectrum. One of the most virulent I read came from an egalitarian Christian woman who felt as though the decision diminished her ministry and was an attempt to muzzle her identity.

Whoa.

In the interest of fair disclosure, I must tell you I've never been a fan of the version. When it released, I was working at the Trinity Bookstore, and I had to keep a stone face when discussing its merits with customers. I'm a NASB girl, with some NLT and Message stirred into the mix. As my husband pointed out yesterday, we should all be thanking God we have Bibles - period. The fact that we have choices is gilding on the lily.

That revealed, I can't stop thinking about the intense anger I heard from my sister in the Lord. Though I don't know her personally, I understood she was reacting to a religious culture that has sometimes marginalized women. In her honor today, I am posting the introduction from the chapter about women in the church from in my book trapped in publishing no-man's-land (The Church For Skeptics: A Conversation For Thinking People).

Hey lady, call the Fire Department to extinguish that fire in your bones

Six year-old Nancy arranged her entire collection of stuffed animals in rows and then stood in front of them with her Just 4 Kids Bible in her hands. Most little girls cuddled their stuffed critters. Nancy preached to hers. “God doesn’t want just a part of your life. He wants all of you.”

She was getting warmed up, but she could tell it was going to be a good sermon today. She got that burning feeling deep in the marrow of her bones when she was preaching to her bears, puppies and the giant giraffe her mom and dad gave after she got her appendix removed last summer. Her own sermon moved her to kneel in front of her stuffed congregation and pray, “Lord, you can have all of me.” In that moment, she felt sure of it. She would grow up and become a preacher. She felt God smile at her.

Nancy’s family attended a very conservative church where all the leadership was male. Nancy learned early that good Christian women could best use the gifts God had given them by being good wives and homemakers. She learned that church women were supposed to enjoy teacups and scrapbooking and sentimental messages about hearth and home. She loved God, and wanted to feel His smile on her life always. So she learned to be a good Christian woman.

Nancy married young and settled into her assigned role in the church, attending Christmas cookie exchanges and Mother’s Day luncheons. Her leadership gifts eventually placed her as the head of women’s ministries at her church. This meant she was responsible for creating social events like the ones she’d attended her whole life long. It also meant she was responsible for coordinating the yearly women’s retreat where she’d invite a prim outside speaker who usually spent most of her preaching time exhorting the women to be submissive keepers at home.

Nancy helped lead the weekly women’s Bible study, and discovered how much she enjoyed digging past the workbook questions into the rich soil of Scripture. She’d do a devotional introduction to the material each week, and would feel the marrow of her bones warming as she shared what God had been teaching her.

Change of plans

But Nancy had muffled the calling she’d felt as a young girl, and didn’t dwell on it in her busy “keeper at home and head of women’s ministries at church” life…until one year, the retreat speaker cancelled at the last moment. Nancy stepped into the role of keynote speaker as if she’d been training for it her whole life. Though the response from the women was incredible, what lingered in her was the sense that she was doing exactly what she’d been created to do in the body of Christ.

Nancy began receiving invitations to speak at other women’s retreats. Her husband was fairly supportive, which enabled her to use her spiritual gifts to encourage other women to connect with God more deeply. Whenever she spoke, she felt the fire in her bones she first felt that day she ministered to her stuffed animals.

But in the aftermath of these speaking invitations, she found herself quietly questioning some of the assumptions she’d always believed were true and Biblical:

• “Women may teach other women, and of course, children. Women can teach boys, but must never teach men.”
• “Women must be meek and submissive to the men in her life, as they’re in authority over her.”
• “Women of course have equal value before God, but are assigned different roles in the Body of Christ.”
• “All women preachers are feminists”

Were these things true? Nancy had believed these things for years, but wondered how it could be that a few conservative evangelical women slipped past these restrictions without being shunned by the rest of the tribe. Billy Graham’s own daughter, Anne Graham Lotz was a woman preacher who spoke regularly to large crowds of men and women. Bible teachers like Beth Moore and Kay Arthur began their ministries by teaching women only, but drew men who appreciated their skill and insight.

Female missionaries in Nancy’s denomination had been responsible for planting numerous churches on foreign soil. It had always been explained to Nancy that God would use a woman if he couldn’t find a man to do the job. But when one of these missionaries visited Nancy’s church, the pastor allowed her a few minutes during the Sunday morning service to “share” her work. She was supposed to tell a couple of missionary stories, but the woman opened her Bible, and preached a 15 minute sermon, using her stories of life in a foreign culture as sermon illustrations.

Some of the churches at which Nancy had been invited to speak had women preachers. She’d once wondered if these churches had capitulated to feminism and had compromised their biblical authority, but as she visited with the church staffers, she discovered that these congregations were just as committed to the gospel as her more conservative home church was.

Nancy didn’t quite know what to do with her questions about women in ministry. Though her husband had been quietly supportive of her speaking engagements, she also knew he basically agreed with the men at church who tossed misogynist comments into casual conversation with one another: “She’s just a feminazi”, “Women should be seen and not heard” and “Remember the good old days when the father was the head of the house and the mother stayed home barefoot and pregnant to raise the children?”

Though these attitudes had always been present among the men (and pretty much all of the women) at church, Nancy began to notice how much these careless comments smarted, inflaming the questions that kept forming within her. Were these patronizing attitudes the way God saw her, too? She knew His answer was no. No, no, no. So with increasing frequency, Nancy found herself swallowing hard, hoping she could find a way to gulp down her questions and figure out how to quench that fire in her bones at the same time.

Question, dear readers of both genders: Have you experienced this dynamic at your church? How have you handled it if you have?

Life's tapas

We're going out for tapas tonight with our son and his fiance to celebrate their engagement, which became official earlier this week. (We're so happy for them!) Ordering rounds of "small plates" of sun-soaked Mediterranean flavors is a fun way to eat a meal, and a perfect recipe for community.

I have a lot of small plates in my life right now: family, two part-time jobs, the opportunity to edit a book-length manuscript, and lots of opportunities to serve. Some of them don't even feel much like work, because they are flowing out of what God is already doing in my life.

I pray I'm offering the empty plates back to God as I go.

In honor of a tonight's tapas celebration, here's a list of some yummy little plates of media consumables on my life's table right now:

My current "to read" pile:
The Sacredness of Questioning Everything - David Dark (just started it)
The Magic Barrel - Bernard Malamud
Notes From the Underground - Doestoyevsky
The Monkey and The Fish - Dave Gibbons
Writing Down The Bones - Natalie Goldberg (halfway through it)

My top three favorite podcasts:
This American Life
Internet Monk
Aliyah Revolution

Four worship songs resonating with me right now:
You Won't Relent - Misty Edwards
Hero - Jars of Clay
Daughters of Jerusalem - David Brymer
Never Let Go - David Crowder Band

Most interesting documentary I've seen this summer:
Hiding and Seeking

Favorite pickles:
Osem canned
(Just threw that one in for fun.)

Late summer reading list

Recently, I've had an opportunity to read a handful of interesting non-fiction books. The first, Keri Wyatt Kent's Listen: Finding God in the Story of Your Life, was a wonderful treat to myself. The next three were review copies offered to bloggers by publishers. The books have taken me from contemplative life to life between the sheets, from a theological throwdown to a challenge to rise above the rabble of pop culture.

Read on to find out which one of these books I didn't like one bit.


Listen: Finding God in the Story of Your Life (Jossey-Bass) is an accessible, thoughtful invitation to a deeper life with God. The divisions of the 193-page hardcover offers a great overview of the way author Keri Wyatt Kent has tackled the subject of intentional listening: Section 1, Listening To Your Life, explores our passions, struggles and longings. The next section discusses Listening to Others in community and through a committment to compassion. The final section of this book, Listening Practices, is an introductory journey through the spiritual disciplines of silence, lectio divina and prayer.

Wyatt Kent's writing voice is luminous and wonderfully honest. She puts her life and struggles onto the pages as appropriate, encouraging illustrations meant to urge us along. She's a smart, funny suburban mom, kneading her passion for God into the dough of everyday life - and letting the rest of us know that a deeper, wiser, more intentional life is possible. Highly recommended.


Even though the picture above looks like a floating fig leaf, it is actually the cover of Pastor Andrew Farley's recent release The Naked Gospel (Zondervan). The subtitle of this book is "The truth you may never hear in church". I've actually heard his version of "grace versus law" over the years in some of the dispensationalist churches we've attended.

Farley is understandably angry about his own past addiction to religious performance ("My intensity hit its pinnacle when I could no longer sleep at night unless I had shared Christ with someone that day"). His Martin-Luther-like "Saved by grace through faith, and not works" breakthrough in intellectual understanding about the nature of grace helped move him off the performance treadmill and onto the horse he's riding in this volume.

I disagreed with his view of the place of the Old Testament and the need for confession, just for starters. But his smug, graceless delivery that left me feeling like I'd been slimed by the time I'd finished the book. Farley had some clever illustrations to support his points, though it was a bit distracting to have him insist on presenting them as fact ("In 1998, my father was killed in a car accident...") instead of the illustrations they are (his dad wasn't killed in a car accident - gotcha!). The book's tone is unnecessarily defensive and combative, and by the time I finished its 231 pages, I all I wanted was a piece of good news. This attempt to strip away religion from the gospel wasn't it.

No More Headaches: Enjoying Sex & Intimacy in Marriage (Tyndale/Focus On The Family) would make a helpful read for a monogamous wife and mother of a couple of young kids who has been married for about 10 years. Dr. Juli Slattery tackles differences between men and women in this overview of married sexuality, coaching her readers toward a greater commitment to their mates, themselves and God.

She's frank without being salacious, and discusses desire, physiology, our past baggage, life in our hyper-sexualized society, and the effects of parenthood on intimacy in far more detail than you'd hear at church, but less detail (thank you) than you'd hear on Oprah. Slattery would affirm my own (thank you) response - she observes that younger and older women tend to have different comfort levels with discussions about sex. Younger women who have been brought up in our sex-saturated culture keep far more on the table when discussing their sex lives with their friends than we boomer women do. My own experience working with college women has confirmed this.

She does a good job connecting the physical to the emotional and spiritual, while avoiding specific prescriptions (how adventurous should a couple get?) in favor of general principles. Slattery's friendly writer's voice and lots of anecdotes from her own counseling practice make the book like a heart-to-heart conversation with a smart, wise Christian girlfriend - and a useful overview/gentle course correction for some church-going women.


For a heart-to-heart of a different kind, Jordan Christy's How to Be a Hepburn in a Hilton World: The Art of Living with Style, Class and Grace (Hachette) is the kind of advice book most every generation needs. Unfortunately, the people who most need Jordan Christy's advice - the skanky girls who use Paris/Britney/Kardashians as role models - would probably never pick up this breezy book. But for young women trying to figure out how to navigate a world where immodesty and agressive sexual behavior rules, Christy's smart, sweet book of advice is like pep talk from someone who is channeling a combo of Miss Manners, your wise grandmother, and yes, Audrey Hepburn.

With chapters discussing topics like language, friendships, clothing and dating, you'd think this book might read like a giant, pruny scold from an never-married aunt born during Queen Victoria's reign. But Christy writes with the bubbly confidence of someone who is navigating these waters NOW while making intentional choices that allow her to rise above vapid shallowness. She tosses store names (Anthropologie and Urban Outfitters) and sprinkles pop culture references (Ashton Kutcher) into timeless advice like "don't call him - wait for him to call you".

In fact, those date-stamped "right now" references may give this book a relatively short shelf life. But for young (20-35) women trying to figure out who they're going to be, Christy's cheerful wisdom may be just what they need right now to march into their tomorrows with class and a cute pair of shoes.

Suffer the little ones...

During our search for a church some time ago, we landed for a season at a small congregation that had been a part of the community for about 20 years. The people seemed friendly enough, the corporate worship was solid. We appreciated the family feel of the place, and hoped we might have found a good fit.

My first clue that something was terribly wrong was when I volunteered to help in the nursery. I was a newcomer to the church, so no one knew me beyond those little generic lobby conversations that sandwich a worship service: "Beautiful weather today", "Wonder how the Bears will do this afternoon", "Have a good week". The lady in charge of nursery scheduling asked me one or two questions about who I was and where I'd come from, then added me to the rotation.

My first Sunday in there, she came in to show me where wipes and graham crackers were, and mentioned that a middle-school girl might be in to help me. Then I was on my own for the next hour and a half. I had a half a handful of kids that first day and didn't know anything about any of them. The three parents dropped their kids off, and a couple of them came to check in partway through the service, but otherwise, I was on my own.

I stayed on the rotation for the next few months. One Sunday, I spent the service caring for a single child. While the little boy played happily with a roomful of toys, I spent the morning pondering what a nearly-empty nursery communicated about the church. (My conclusion: The place had given up on growth and outreach and had instead become a religious clubhouse.) We left shortly afterward, because the place then went through some dramatic leadership changes that caused the place to further contract.

A couple of weeks ago, I attended the Leadership Summit at Willow Creek, thanks to my new position with Catalyst Lake County. The speakers were terrific, and the event had much to say about encouraging leaders' soul health and casting a vision for service to others beyond their own tribe. The speaker who left the biggest impression on many was Compassion's Wess Stafford, who told about his own call to ministry as a result of the abuse he suffered as a child in a missionary kid boarding school in Africa. He explained that the missions organization with whom his parents served sent their failed and washed up missionaries to teach at the school. They threw anyone with a pulse at the job, and horrific physical and sexual abuse was a part of the institution's culture as a result.

I saw the same expediency at work in a micro way at that little clubhouse church. Kids weren't important (and there were so few of them) - and they were willing to throw anyone with a pulse at the "problem" of nursery.

Most large churches have formal screening policies in place for those who work with children. But for those of you attending smaller churches, I'm curious - what does your church do to evaluate and monitor the people working with your kids?

Heading home via Deuteronomy 8

Imagine being a thirty-something who'd spent your entire life living a nomadic existence in the desert. You'd played on the hard-baked sand as a child. You'd nursed your babies in a tent pitched next to a lone barren tree. The repetition of a lifetime manna-diet mirrored the bleached, unchanging environment in which you'd laughed, loved, lived.

And worshipped: your Sabbath rest the only punctuation in an unchanging march of days through an unchanging terrain toward...

Maybe you'd forgotten whatwherewhy. A life spent in the desert gave you no context for the "what's next" of this journey. All you'd known was the journey, and it was home.

God handed ancient Moses the stopwatch and whispered, "Time's up". Moses told his people:
^"Observe the commands of the LORD your God, walking in his ways and revering him. For the LORD your God is bringing you into a good land—a land with streams and pools of water, with springs flowing in the valleys and hills; a land with wheat and barley, vines and fig trees, pomegranates, olive oil and honey; a land where bread will not be scarce and you will lack nothing; a land where the rocks are iron and you can dig copper out of the hills" ( Deut. 8:6-9).

Can you imagine these fairy-tale images being spoken into the souls of people who'd never experienced anything but desert? What context could these 40-and-under wanderers have for a watered land, a variety of dining options, a land from which to build, to create, to call home?

Yesterday at church as I mediated on these verses, the unreality of these words struck me. I am a wanderer, and there is a destination. This I know. But when someone attempts to describe my destination - heaven - my deepest longings and imagining beyond the mapped terrain of my own soul can not comprehend where I am going. I have no context. It is an act of faith to pull up my tent pegs and move purposefully toward home.

God's recycling program

"I'm sorry, but there's no room for you in the program here," my advisor looked up from a stack of papers centered on the desk in front of her. "If you're convinced you want to pursue this teaching certification, there are other colleges you might consider if you're willing to transfer out of state."

I bit the inside of my cheek, willing myself not to burst into tears. This deadbolted door was not not the way things were supposed to happen. The deaf education program at Illinois State University had an enrollment cap, and I'd tried for three semesters to move into one of the rare open spots in the program. I couldn't immediately afford to transfer to an out-of-state school.

I returned to my home town and entered the work force in search of a Plan B. Or C. I was certain that working with deaf children was God's Plan A for me. Through a long, challenging process of relinquishment, I learned to unclench my fists from Plans A-C (and D-Z, too), offering my gifts, skills, experiences and desires to Him to use as He saw fit. Or not use at all.

I recently spent a bit of time reflecting on what He's placed in those emptied, worshiping hands as I moved through life. (You know where this is going, don't you?)

He has recycled those gifts, skills and desires, asking me to use them in ways I never could have dreamed. Sign language, for example, trained me to quickly access my brain's thesaurus function because a single sign can represent a number of spoken vocabulary words. This training has been invaluable to me in my vocation as a writer.

God's redemptive recycling program doesn't waste a single moment of our life's experiences. Joseph expressed this truth perfectly after he revealed his identity to his betraying brothers after years of separation: "You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives" (Gen. 50:20).

What about you? How has God recycled your past gifts, skills, experiences and/or desires? Please send an e-mail to mishvl@yahoo.com telling me how He's using something from your past in your life right now. I'd love to hear a bit of your story!

As a way to honor you and the One who makes all things new, everyone who e-mails me even a single sentence on the topic will be entered into a drawing for a $25 gift certificate from Christian Book Distributors. Keep it for yourself - or gift it to a friend who is experiencing a deadbolted door of his or her own.

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Writing and speaking news

I'm once again offering e-mail tutorial services to home schooling families. If you or someone you know is looking for personalized, step-by-step writing instruction for a child in grades 5-12, please point them toward my website: homepagewriting.com.

I'll be leading a couple of workshops at the Wisconsin Christian Writers Conference on Saturday, October 17. This affordable event promises to be a great day filled with practical tools for aspiring authors. Visit the website for registration information.

If your group is looking for a Word-rooted, Spirit-led speaker, I'd welcome the opportunity to help connect our stories to His with messages and prayer ministry based on the parables. I'm also happy to work with you to develop a message or a retreat tailored for your group. Contact me at mishvl@yahoo.com.

I had an opportunity to be a part of two very different book projects both releasing this fall. One is a devotional for women entitled Quiet Reflections Of Hope (Baker/Revell). This simple, thoughful volume would make a lovely gift for a busy woman in need of a brief, focused bit of time with the Lord each morning. The second project is still under wraps for another few weeks. I can tell you that it is a creative and worshipful volume. I'll send details as soon as the publisher gives the group of contributors the OK to reveal the project. (I can't wait!)

And if you're in search of a fresh, Biblically-faith exploration of more than 24 of the stories Jesus told, visit www.theparablelife.com to order my books Parablelife: Living the stories Jesus told in real time and Uprooted: Living a parable life from the inside out.

Up North Tour Guide?

When we first moved to Wisconsin in 1995, we had no idea how deep the pull of "up north" had on the psyche of the entire state. People didn't have to say the name of a place. They'd just get a misty look in their eyes and say things like "We're going up north this weekend" or "I'm heading up north to hunt as soon as I'm off of work Friday." Only happy things apparently seem to everyone who headed "up north". It had the aura of a giant clubhouse where only those who'd been grandfathered in by culture and relatives (like actual grandfathers) could enter.

We used to joke that if we told people we'd graduated from Hurley High School ("Go Midgets!") and thrown in some off-hand references to "cabin", "snowmobile" and "muskie", our transplantation to Wisconsin's fiercely provincial soil would have been a non-issue. There is deep reverence across southern Wisconsin for those who come from "up north" to work in the Big City, mostly because the know where the open door back into "up north" life is located. They will use it. They will retire up there.

And they will access it on weekends and during gun deer season until they're free to return permanently.

As we drove across WI yesterday, I found myself wondering about what people love most about lake-n-tree life, and why "up north" is such a powerful magnet. Feel free to e-mail me at mishvl@yahoo.com if you can pretend to be a tour guide and explain the magic of life in the pines to me.

Twofer book reviews

It's been a while since I've posted a book review. I'm typically a blazing-fast reader, and finished one of the two books I'll be reviewing today in a couple of nights. But N.D. Wilson's Notes from the Tilt-A-Whirl forced me to suspend my Evelyn Wood-style speed-reading habits in favor of the kind of slow savor I reserve for stunning, poetic writing. I don't downshift into first gear very often as a reader. Wilson's arresting, lyrical prose left me no other option.

Wilson's artful exploration of creation and re-creation is light-years beyond the heavy-footed exposition most Christian authors use to invite people into a deeper understanding of the Gospel. His words are art. And they are surgery:

I know little, but I know this: When you have died and your leaves have been raked, when you have looked on the face of God and had your final conversation, exchanging words others may never know, you will be where you want to be. If you cannot let go of yourself, if you cling to the filth that you've loved so long, stroking the cherished scabs that line your soul - hates and bitternesses that you cannot lay down, an imagined mirror picturing a glorious self - then He will push you away. You will be sent out into the darkness, far from His presence. You will not like the darkness, but the other option seems worse. You couldn't bear to be without those scabs. You will be in good company, wandering with preachers, priests and kings, and every lofty human unable to live without themselves. Many "righteous" will crowd into that corner with you, people who cannot imagine themselves as anything other than good, who cannot bend to a God who will not bend to them.

He references philosphy, art, science and literature in 14 chapters that are simultaneously raw and polished as sapphire. The book would make a wonderful gift for a literate friend who has weaned himself from sentimental, formulaic evangelical pulp. It is my new favorite book. Please buy it.

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Journalist Warren Cole Smith writes from a theological corner (Reformed) of the church adjacent to that of Wilson, and his book, A Lover's Quarrel with the Evangelical Church covers a small bit of overlapping territory. However, Smith's work is diagnostic in nature, and focuses, as the title implies, on the woes of modern evangelicalism.

Those woes are not breaking news to anyone who has been involved in the evangelical world: provincialism, sentimentality, the merchandising of faith, media, decisions instead of disciples, megachurches. Smith is a seasoned reporter, and illustrates each of his points with solid, supportive stories.

Though he occasionally offers some prescriptions for these woes (church multiplication by church-planting congregations instead of the bigger/better/more of mega-church addition, for instance) the book's focus leans toward thoughtful lament. He doesn't offer many solutions for the problems he describes.

Five or ten years ago, this book would have been cutting edge critique. But there has been soooo much written about the often-unlovable evangelical church during the last decade that it didn't feel like much new ground was covered in this volume. It would be a quick primer for someone new to the subject matter, and I hope that Smith considers penning a follow-up that offers a way forward from this sad, hurty place in which we find ourselves.

Primary-colored promises

I admit it. I love the sight of school supplies making their yearly center-stage appearance. Blank pages and unsharpened pencils await their call to duty for everything from the circle-stick-hook of a wobbly first ABC on through spelling tests, crush notes, algebra equations and first-day essays that always begin, "I spent my summer vacation..."

School supplies are primary-colored promises: something magical will happen if I open a box of brand-new crayons. I even wrote about my yearly Crayola jones in Uprooted:

Every August, school supplies blossom in the aisle of Target and Walgreens like sunflowers. Packages of wide-ruled filler paper. Eight solid ovals of watercolor paint toeing the line in a narrow plastic container. Glue sticks. Octagon-sided yellow #2 pencils.

This past August was the first time in a couple of decades that I couldn’t think of a single reason to buy some new crayons. No one in my family needed Raw Sienna, Carnation Pink or Teal Green for their school projects. It made me feel so sad.

Young adults, which is what our kids have become, don’t really think much about crayons until the time comes to buy them for their own kids. Every house needs a freshly painted wall adorned with Violet Red scrawls like ours once was. During my crayon mourning period, I was talking to an acquaintance named Tammy who mentioned that she was going to be taking her elementary-age kids for the traditional Buying Of The School Supplies that afternoon. I told Tammy that I felt sad that I didn’t have to buy crayons for anyone at my house.

When I saw her a few days after that conversation, she handed me a sky blue 2-pocket folder and a box of 24 brand-new crayons. I didn’t mention my crayon jones to anyone else that I can think of. Yet not more than a week after Tammy handed me those crayons and bonus folder, I discovered that someone had put 3 packages of colored pencils and another box of crayons in my mailbox at work. No one could explain why I’d received this anonymous gift...

I wrote those words a couple of years ago. Fast forward to July, 2009: To supplement my free-lance writing life, experience and income, I recently began a new part-time position as Communications Director for Catalyst Lake County. (My other new part-time job is as a caregiver for Visiting Angels, a home health care agency.) Catalyst coodinates a wonderful ministry initiative each summer called the ShareFest Backpack Drive. Click here to read a local paper's coverage of this summer's drive.

As I read the article, it struck me - a Neon Green ah ha!

I once again have a perfect excuse to buy some crayons.

What's a nice Jewish girl...?

Though I felt like I washed ashore schlepping my meager possessions and broken heart on the door step of our church a couple of years ago, more refugee than pilgrim, I am hardly alone.

"One of the more interesting of many religious movements taking place in this country today is the quiet movement of many evangelical leaders...away from evangelical churches to more historical and liturgical expressions of faith. Billy Graham was a counder of Christianity Today magazine, but today many of its editors and contributors are Anglican or Orthodox. Some of those on staff of Chuck Colson's organization are Anglican or Roman Catholic." (from A Lover's Quarrel with the Evangelical Church)

Robert Webber wrote persuasively about the Evangelical-to-Anglican trend several years ago in his book Evangelicals On The Canterbury Trail. There has been coverage recently of the very high profile leader Todd Hunter (Vineyard, Alpha) becoming the newest bishop in the Anglican Mission in America, the same Rwanda-led branch of the Anglican communion of which our church is a part.

I occasionally find myself astonished during a Sunday morning service and want to turn to ask those around me: What's a nice Jewish Fundy/Evangelical/Charismatic girl like me doing saying the Nicene Creed every week with all y'all?

I would love to hear from you if you have made a journey from one corner of the church to another (far-flung) corner, especially if you find yourself asking a variant of the question above. I'm brooding over a possible writing idea. Please feel free to e-mail me at mishvl@yahoo.com to share a bit of your experience.

Michelle's bookmobile

Does anyone else remember the bookmobile coming to their neighborhood on a steamy summer day? Even though the vehicle reminded me of the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile, I loved the idea of a library-on-wheels, parking two blocks from my house. How did they know that this 8 year-old reading addict needed a regular fix throughout the long summer months? Most kids wanted to play in the street until late at night. I wanted to mainline biographies of Helen Keller and Mark Twain. W-A-T-E-R, indeed.

No bookmobile in stops by the neighborhood where I live these days. But yesterday, the mailman brought me two books on my newly-created amazon wish list: Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down The Bones: Freeing the Writer Within and Angry Conversations With God by Susan Isaacs. Though they're not free like the ones from the Weiner-With-Books, my reading crack is here, waiting to be inhaled.

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One other way I guarantee myself a regular supply of books is by writing reviews of occasional new releases from Thomas Nelson. Here's a review of Andy Stanley's The Principle Of The Path:

I'm facing 50. The impending Big Day has had me wondering if this is my one last chance to change direction in my life. Though I tend to avoid both self-help books and titles promising a magic formula of some kind, I picked up Andy Stanley's newest book wondering if I might find a nugget of wisdom for the next leg of the journey.

Stanley, the son of a well-known Baptist tele-preacher, writes with a disarming and decidedly non-churchy voice. It doesn't feel like he's trying too hard to be earnest or relevant. He's simply sharing some practical wisdom about how to change one's life direction in the book's ten easy-to-read chapters. The book also includes a study/discussion guide with some helpful reflection questions.

The book is basically a motivational speech. Though that statement sounds like a criticism, I actually mean it in a favorable way. Sometimes, we all need a coach to come alongside of us and remind us of where we're going, how to get there, and to stop eating cold corn dogs for breakfast. Andy Stanley is that coach, and I appreciated his kind, firm good-natured technique in The Principle Of The Path. I did indeed find a giant nugget of wisdom (Chapter 4, about regrets), and a gentle course correction in its pages.

R.I.P. Charismatic movement?

I've been a Christ-follower since my mid-teens. About half of that time has been spent in Charismatic churches. I've seen signs, wonders, deliverances, fakers, spiritual abusers and epic moral flame-outs, sometimes all at the same church service. I've lived through the second wave and the third. In the West, the recent years have been characterized by some headline-grabbing Charismatic charlatans whose claim to 15-minute fame usually came because they misused or manufactured power gifts, gave their followers dramatic ecstatic experiences and promised prosperity.

Though there are some of these same abuses in the church across the global South and East, charismatic practice and belief are integrated into the explosive growth happening there, rather than being a separate, controversial "Movement" as it usually has been here. Isn't this how its supposed to work? When it does, there is nothing more breath-taking and life-giving.

Though there are theology and tradition reasons a-plenty why charismatic believers formed their own congregations and conferences (and why non-charismatic believers thought this was a dandy idea), in the end "ghetto-ization" has hurt all of us. In our mutual shared fear of coming down with the Swine Flu of religion, heresy, and either John MacArthur or Benny Hinn, we started our chainsaws and amputated one another. Memo to Bride: I don't think this was what Jesus was asking us to do when He said, "If your right eye causes you to sin, gouge it out and throw it away. It is better for you to lose one part of your body than for your whole body to be thrown into hell" (Mt. 5:29).

J. Lee Grady, the editor of Charisma magazine, recently penned a sort of epitath for the Charismatic movement here in the West. Grady's words are not without hope, but need to be read in the context of the rising tide of statisticians and prophets alike from across the ecclesiological spectrum in the Body of Christ telling us, quite simply, that a lot of us have wandered just beyond earshot of our Shepherd's Voice. Clogged ears are an equal-opportunity employer.

If there is a "third day" church being resurrected from the receding or dying areas of the Body (and I believe there is), Paul's prescriptive description in 1 Cor. 12 will absolutely characterize this beautiful Bride. I am praying that resurrection begins with our shared sense of hearing.

I can't get this image out of my mind

I saw this image on the Jesus Creed blog a few days ago, and I can't get it out of my mind. I don't think I'm meant to.

Please pray for true justice for the people of Iran. Pray for the church in Iran during this time of upheaval.