Moving The Mouse…(Part Four) De-dichotomizing The Church

Let’s begin with a definition shall we…

di·chot·o·my Pronunciation: dI-'kä-tuh-mE

Function: noun, inflected Form(s): plural –mies
Etymology: Greek dichotomia, from dichotomos

1 : a division into two especially mutually exclusive or contradictory groups or entities ; also : the process or practice of making such a division

I remember how much I had the joy of life upon me when I was a wee lad. My family was very close. We did everything together from water-skiing, to baseball, to picnics, to shared meals, to watching the three channels we got on our black and white TV. We were a tight-knit, loving, mid-america, middle-class family.
The only slight sadness that I recall from my early days was our typical Sunday morning routine. For some reason, sometime after I had applied my little dab of butch-wax to the time I arrived at the breakfast table, I would begin to sob. For a little “tough guy” this was extremely embarrassing and I couldn’t really explain to anybody why Sunday mornings made me so distraught – at least at that time. All I can tell you is that each Sunday morning, as the family gathered around one of my mom’s incredible breakfast feasts, and everyone sat silently reading their Sunday School quarterly in preparation for Sunday School followed by church – I was deeply depressed.
I also remember this – that right after church we would usually head to the local IGA where my dad would purchase his weekly cigar and a copy of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. It was somewhere between church and the IGA that the feeling of sadness would lift off of me and I would get happy again. I was entering back into the “real” world. The “real” world being – not at church.
Some might suggest that I, as a little flat-topped boy, was experiencing some form of spiritual warfare – that Satan was making me unhappy with church. I suppose that could be true. But, I don’t think it was quite that dramatic. As I have pondered these strange emotional swings in my formative years, I have come to another conclusion; and, the conclusion is very simple: The real world felt comfortable, expansive, and full of God while the whole Sunday morning church experience felt staged and stifled. I remember having a God-consciousness at a very early age and chatting away with God every night as I passed seamlessly into sleep. The one place where God didn’t seem particularly friendly and expansive was sitting in church. Sitting on the floor and watching football next to my dad’s big burgundy recliner, while he puffed merrily away on his Swisher Sweet, seemed more real, more natural, more like the God I talked to before I fell asleep each night.
Imagine for a moment how strange a church service might be through the eyes of a small child or a person who has had no church orientation. You enter a service where people greet you like a long-lost friend at the door and then disappear to go huddle up with their friends. The service begins. You are told to stand up and sing– so you stand up and try to follow along the best you can. You are told to sit down – so you sit down. Following the standing up and the sitting down time, you notice a group of men passing around neatly carved little wooden bowls into which people start dumping money. After that, a group of gents walk to the front and grab some pretty silver trays and start handing out microscopic cups of purple drink – not even equal to a shot of whiskey – along with the tiniest of square crackers – hardly bigger than a button. Next, a guy gets up and reads a bunch of announcements that you already have a copy of in your hand. “Perhaps there are a lot of illiterate people here,” you innocently think to yourself. Finally, a man in a suit gets up to give a talk. You notice that all of his points begin with the same letter. There are three points: “Sin, Saved, and Sanctified.” You can’t help but think of that commercial you heard for the product that fixes clogged drains: “Liquid Plumber: It drains, deodorizes and disinfects!” You look over and notice that one of the people who greeted you and passed the little wooden bowls around is snoozing away during the talk. You have a question about what the speaker is saying but you do not know if it is okay to raise your hand. Being a visitor, you’re afraid to draw attention to yourself. The talk ends – or so you thought. Actually, a new talk begins which is accompanied by music and more singing. This talk is a little shorter but way more animated. A few people get up and wander down to the front. The man who gave the talk says a few words to these people. Then he smiles. The service ends with the speaker telling everyone about the important decisions that have been made and nearly everyone grunts out an “Amen”. The speaker says a prayer and the program is over. The whole experience has been a bit odd, a little other worldly. On the way out, you see little groups of people huddled together having a smoke and talking about the same things you talk about with your friends during the week– football, politics, telling a good joke and such. A few minutes before, these guys seemed all tensed up and serious. Out here they seem almost normal – even approachable. But no one says another word to you and you make it out to your car and go home. As you drive, you say to yourself, “Well, I guess that’s not my thing.”
Remember our beginning word – the word dichotomy? Let’s revisit the definition: a division into two especially mutually exclusive or contradictory groups or entities. When I read the life of Jesus I am met with a person who seemed to go out of his way to combine the great teachings about the Kingdom of God with ordinary people in ordinary, everyday circumstances. In other words, there was no dichotomy- no division - between the spiritual and the natural. Jesus de-dichotomized the spiritual and the natural. Jesus taught in open fields. Jesus spoke with a guy sitting in a tree. The bow of a small fishing boat served as a makeshift platform. Jesus found his way into living rooms of notorious boozers, swindlers, hustlers and prostitutes. There seemed to be very little disconnect between His message and the real world into which He was born and ministered. There was no “putting on”, no staging of events, no getting gussied up for a meeting. Jesus' ministry took place in the midst of the sweat, grime, insanity, disease, cursing, sinning, gambling, backstabbing, gossiping, lusting, partying, and hypocrisy that is the sad lot of all mankind. He was in the “real” world. He didn’t create alternative safe-havens, holy ghettos of sinless people to whom to minister. His ministry was spontaneous, immediate – in the moment.
This is the God who found me in my little bedroom as a child. We had lovely chats. Somehow, without any sophisticated reflective abilities, I “felt” His absence on my treks to church. Nothing seemed real. Nothing seemed normal. I preferred the smell of my dad’s sweat to the smell of his English Leather. I was comfortable seeing my mom zipping around the yard in her shorts & floppy gardening hat rather than a dress, pumps and beehive. It was many years later that I sensed that I had permission to think this way. It was many more years after that before I felt free to speak of it.
The great purpose in our time is to bring God to the streets once more. I hesitate to use the word “relevant.” God is always that. Many are trying to make God relevant by pepping up the music, offering high-tech shows, and creating a plethora of goods and services in order to attract people to a geographical location. For the perceptive seeker, these sorts of “updates” are a mere change of clothes to a newer style. The same old gelatinous person is still in residence underneath the new outfit. But, here’s the deal – unless God actually “works” in the marketplace, or on the campus, or in the neighborhood – what good is He? He is still a contained God. And God, ferociously, has said through His Son Jesus Christ: “No more of that.” Jesus left heaven, a place of Divine confinement, in order to dwell (the words means: to pitch His tent) among us. The metaphors of the church compel us to move out and do life among the walking dead in the real world. We are ambassadors. We are salt. We are light. We are apostles (the word means: sent ones, or deliverymen). We are not the huddled!
So we end where we began – moving the mouse. That slight shuffle of the wrist which feigns busyness and productivity is something that we at Patrick Crossing are intentionally leaving behind. Rollo May once said: "It is an old ironic habit of human beings to run faster when we have lost our way." Life is too short to invest time and resources and energy – to run faster - in creating more things to show up for at church - even when those “things” are compelled by the greatest of intentions. We cannot continue to mistake activity for achievement. As we re-order our lives around a simpler approach – I encourage you to ask God to show you your entry point into the “real” world. He will have a place custom made just for you.

Moving The Mouse...(Part Three) The Fisherman

(This is part three of a four-part series entitled "Moving the Mouse." The big image that we are using - that of moving a computer mouse around in order to look busy - serves as a backdrop metaphor to challenge the oftentimes pointless busyness associated with modern day ministry that has little to do with the call of Christ to simply go. Today, I borrow a great parable entitled "The Parable of The Fisherman" that I first heard when I was in seminary. The author remains anonymous. The message is powerful. Enjoy).

THE PARABLE OF THE FISHERMAN

Now it came to pass that a group existed who called themselves fishermen. And lo, there were many fish in the streams and lakes throughout the surrounding area....Week after week, month after month, and year after year, those who called themselves fishermen met in meetings and talked about: the call to fish; the abundance of fish; and, how they might go about pursuing fishing as an occupation. They declared that fishing is always to be the primary task of fishermen. But, they never fished.... These fishermen built large, beautiful buildings for local fishing headquarters. The plea was that everyone should be a fisherman and every fisherman should fish. One thing they didn’t do, however, was fish.... In addition to meeting regularly, they organized a board to send out fishermen to other places where there were many fish. The board was formed by those who had great vision and courage to speak about fishing, to define fishing, to promote the idea of fishing in far-away streams and lakes where many other fish of different colors & sizes lived. Also, the board hired staffs and appointed committees and held many meetings to: define fishing; defend fishing; and to, decide what new streams should be thought about and studied. Many people began to get into the fishing supply business because they didn't feel that fishing was their call or gifting. But, at the end of the day, nobody went fishing... A speaker bureau was provided to schedule special speakers on the subject of fishing. After one stirring meeting on “The Necessity of Fishing,” one young fellow left the meeting and actually went fishing. The next day he reported that he had caught two outstanding fish. He was honored for his excellent catch and he was scheduled to visit all the big meetings to share how he did it. So, he quit fishing in order to have time to tell about his experience to the other fishermen. He was also placed on the Fisherman’s General Board as a person having considerable experience. He was awarded an honorary doctorate in Fishology and was asked to attend an International Conference in Switzerland on world fishing where he was a keynote speaker. But, he never again went fishing... Now it’s true that many of the fishermen sacrificed and put up with all kinds of difficulties. Some lived near the water and bore the smell of dead fish. They received ridicule of some who made fun of their fishermen’s clubs and the fact that they claimed to be fishermen, yet never fished. They wondered about those who felt it was of little use to attend the talks about fishing. After all, were they not following the Master, who said, “Follow Me, and I will make you to become a fisher of men”? (Mark 1:17)... Imagine how hurt some were when one day a person suggested that those who didn’t fish were not really fishermen, no matter how much they claimed to be. Yet it did sound correct. Is a person a fishermen if, year after year, he never catches a fish? Is one following if he isn’t fishing?

Moving The Mouse...(Part Two) The Restaurant

(Continued- In the first post of this four part series, we used the illustration of "moving the mouse", i.e. sitting at a desk and looking busy by having one's hand on a computer mouse and moving it around, to illustrate the busy but often pointless activity that has become the current expression of church. For this post, we'll change images to a restaurant to strengthen the point)

Picture for a moment your favorite restaurant. There are two or three that come to mind for me. Living in a resort town we have a number of very fine eating establishments – from moderately priced to so expensive that you feel you have earned the right to steal a picture or to kick the owner in the shins on the way out.

Now, imagine for a moment all of what takes place behind the scenes to make a good restaurant. I once owned a couple of Pizza restaurants so I know a little of which I speak. A long time before any of the other staff shows up, the prep cooks arrive. These folks prepare: all the sauces, things which need time to thaw out and marinate, things which need time to rise and to be poked down, and things which need to be cut in little bitty pieces to put on or in other things. These folks also keep track of inventories, place orders and receive orders with various suppliers. Sometimes the prep cooks stick around and do a little cooking for the first shift. Sometimes they do not. The next set of folks that show up are the line cooks and the wait staff. These folks are there to put on the show – so to speak. Throw in a floor manager or two, a bartender, some busboys and dishwashers and you are ready to rock – you are ready to “have restaurant.”

Imagine now that the manager has assembled all of the staff: prep. cooks, wait-staff, line cooks, busboys, dishwashers, bartender, hostess, etc. - in a room for the big weekly pep talk. For this motivational time together, the manager has gone to the trouble of rounding up a few motivational songs that all of the staff can sing to get them fired up. One of the songs has to do with the greatness of the food being served. The next song focuses on working together in harmony. The final song is about the customers for whom the food is prepared – how hungry they are and such. For this portion of the presentation, one of the busboys has volunteered to accompany the singing on his guitar. He proceeds to strum vigorously and after a slow start, the assembled workers get with it – singing fortissimo with arms akimbo in rhythm. Next, there is a motivational speech by the manager about the restaurant business and its primary purpose: “to feed people.” Everyone nods their head in agreement. Suddenly, the lines cooks, in a moment of inspiration, run to their stations and begin to cook food. The wait-staff gets excited and begins to grab the food and to hand it out to each other. The busboy sets his guitar aside and waits in eager anticipation for the chance to dive upon any dirty fork or spoon or plate and to speed it back to the dishwasher. The bartender and cocktail waitress get into the act and start pouring adult beverages right and left. Everyone takes one sip, and then another. A good time is had by all. People have been fed. They have had a great dining experience. The manager smiles: “Yes, yes…they get it.” Finally, the manager says: “Good job everyone. We have had a great restaurant experience this evening. Now, if everyone could please put a portion of your paychecks in this little box on the way out, that would be great. See you all here next week.”

How is that for a business model? A bit absurd? Sure. A restaurant that doesn’t feed anybody but its own wait staff will quickly go out of business. And so it is with how we, in the west, have gone about doing or being the church. A great deal of resources and energy - a great deal - are being spent to feed, entertain and satisfy our own people.

The church in America is a puzzle to the church in Asia, India, or any third world congregation. They are amazed by our resources. They are equally amazed at our anemia. Talking with church leaders from other countries who have observed our “closed restaurant” mentality, they quietly suggest that God might have better uses for the resources of the western church than say to: build, heat and air condition massive facilities that sit empty most of the week; continually invest more and more time, treasure and talent into very complex Sunday morning productions that last only an hour or two; create unlimited specialized ministries based upon the “felt” needs of the congregation in order to keep them from heading down the road to another church that has more & better membership benefits, etc. In the words of my analogy, we are building nicer and more comfortable restaurants with more amazing ambiance, and page after page of new and exciting menu offerings - but people outside the restaurant are not being fed.

In a research article published in Christianity Today by, Rebecca Barnes & Lindy Lowry, entitled: Special Report: The American Church In Crisis, the following statistics were given: Less than 20% of Americans regularly attend church – half of what pollsters have reported – the number is closer to 17.7%. This will trend down because of population growth to around 16.6% in 2010 & 15.4% in 2020. Between 2000 & 2004, the net gain (the number of new churches started minus the number of churches that closed) was 5,452 in evangelical churches. When you add the start/closure numbers from mainline denominational churches, there is a net loss of 2,200, leaving an overall gain of only 3,252. The most telling fact is that a net gain of 13,024 churches would have been necessary just to keep pace with population growth during this period. Only 6% of American churches are actually growing. Most admit that they are simply trading members. In the words of R.C. Sproul it is simply , “…a game of church musical chairs.” (to be continued…)

Moving The Mouse...Part One

I am a big fan of the cartoon strip, Dilbert. One of my favorite characters is Wally, the guy who is always trying to get out of doing any real work and has perfected the art of looking busy. One of the methods he employs for looking busy is keeping his hand on the mouse while he snoozes away at his desk. When he hears his pointy-haired boss approaching, he deftly moves the mouse. The computer has perfected the craft of looking busy while really accomplishing very little. Welcome to a great metaphor for ministry – moving the mouse.

I have served in ministry for around 25 years – most of that time being in the role of Lead Pastor of growing congregations. One of the reasons I chose to leave the institutional church ministry setting was because of a growing disconnect that I felt with the moving the mouse activity that defines much of present day ministry. Let me explain.

In the United States we pour a vast amount of resources into putting on what amounts to a production Sunday after Sunday. My former life was given to - week after week, month after month, and year after year - crafting an attractive, entertaining, captivating, “concerned”, and polished mini-event that took place once a week: something we called the Sunday morning worship service. This one event involved: study time; manuscripting a relevant message; handing the notes off to a tech team for production prep.; reviewing and approving the backgrounds for the power point presentation; rehearsing a worship band of anywhere from 8-10 members; doing a final revision of the notes and tech presentation late Saturday night, and then heading off for the big Sunday morning event where the service was conducted two times. Just that accounted for about 40 hours per week. In addition to those preparations were the: countless meetings with staff; elders; leadership; counseling appointments; facility meetings; dealing with budgets; dealing with fuss-budgets; funerals; weddings; community meetings; mission committee meetings; socializing with congregants, etc. None of this was necessarily bad mind you. And, a lot of churches and a lot of Pastors pull this off week after week with aplomb. But, by Sunday afternoon, I was exhausted and there was this gnawing realization in my gut that when I awoke the next morning, I would have to start pushing the rock up the mountain again. When I would occasionally ask a person - even my staff – what they had gotten out of the service two weeks prior, I was met with a deathly silence and a blank stare. Few could remember what I had preached on two weeks ago. I knew I was in trouble when I too couldn’t recall the messages I myself had prepared and preached. The services, the meetings, the busyness all became a blur – a blur of activity. I had become a professional mouse-mover.

Many ministers and many ministries become addicted to activity. Ministry is never lacking in opportunities for busy-work – never. Ministers can fuss with mountains and molehills of “stuff” that has to be done. And, at the end of the day, we can walk away and feel very tired because we have been so busy. But, if we ever stop to examine our activities and relate them to the great and high call that Jesus has on our lives to be his ambassadors to the world – then we are cooked. He has called us to be a harvester of souls, to be a threatening presence and a strike force that storms the gates of hell. But, what we often become are people who have: mastered this year’s church budget, created well-oiled policy manuals, recruited great nursery workers; and updated the carpet. If for a moment we can step out of the busyness and ask ourselves: “What the heck am I doing with my life?” then, the banality of it all will appall and horrify us. Were we called to such marginalized and mundane pursuits?

So…something happened to me about three years ago that rocked my world. A friend of mine opened up a coffee shop (Durango Joe’s – best coffee anywhere) and I, being a good friend, began to guzzle vast amounts of Americanos; and, I began to watch and observe the customers. I didn’t realize it at the time, but what was drawing me back again and again to the coffee shop was not only good coffee, but it was the sound of the harvest. The harvest – the precious people for whom Christ died. Wasn’t the harvest of souls the whole purpose of the church? Wasn’t it my original calling from God to be about the work of the Master and to be proclaiming the kingdom of God, the message of hope, the good news, to people who were lost and without hope and facing an eternity apart from God? Wasn’t this the main thing? Could I stay behind the walls of a church façade – safe and secure in my Christian ghetto – while people were marching inexorably day by day into hell?

These thoughts appalled me. I appalled me. I had been mesmerized for so many years with “churchy” activities, with Christian conferences, Christian concerts, and Christian events, which were all geared toward - Christians. But where were the harvesters? And, more pointedly, where was I in the harvest? I was outside of the harvest. I had to confess, I had become a professional Christian playing to the already convinced…

A Letter To A Victim of Suicide...

[Note: I received news today regarding a dear friend who lost her younger brother to suicide last night. My family and I navigated our way through this hell a few years ago. I have never really put a pen to the things I learned - or am still learning - from that defining event. The following letter, with some privacy editing, is shared as both a cathartic process for myself and as one small contribution for those of you who have experienced such loss or have found yourself in the position of trying to bring comfort to the unwitting victims of suicide.]

April 16, 2007

Dear_________

First of all, let me express to you my deep sadness and condolence for the loss of _____ last night. I have been on my knees this morning praying for the cloud of God’s presence to surround you. And tonight, when I am able to share with Jan what has happened, we will enter together that place of prayer on your behalf. What I have to share in this short note may or may not be helpful this very moment, but I think it might be so in the days ahead. Please know that I am available anytime to listen, to pray and to share.

_____, as you know, I lost my precious brother, Chris, seven years ago to this same, inexplicable choice. Oftentimes, when someone chooses to end their life, I am called in to give insight or to bring comfort. I think people assume that because I have been through this, that I am some kind of expert on suicide and have some magic words to say that will lift the fog and fast forward the healing. The truth of the matter is that I am, like you will surely be, a mere survivor. A survivor is not a person who has given much if any forethought to experiencing a crisis or a tragedy. A survivor - in the truest sense of the word - is a victim of a catastrophic event which was unforeseen, unplanned and uninvited. _____, to that end, you need to know that you could no more have prevented this event than you could have prevented a hurricane. This was a random event that crashed into your family’s well-ordered and joyful life like a comet.

That was one of the more difficult things for me to grasp at the beginning. As I wept and wept – well past my body’s ability to even supply tears – I was haunted by the persistent thought of: “What did I miss? What could I have done to prevent this?” Now, I cannot keep you, or anyone else in your family, from asking those types of questions. They are as understandable as they are predictable. And, to be honest, I still have those questions flare up in my head these many years after my brother’s death. What I can tell you is that you will never arrive at any type of answer that will ever really satisfy.

But, just for the sake of argument, let’s suppose that you did arrive at an answer. What if you were to say: “If I would have done this one thing – then my brother would still be alive?” Well, that is a zero sum conclusion that simply invites some other grim reapers to the present party of despair; i.e., guilt, regret and accusation. To arrive at an “answer” is to simply make provision for the obvious and tormenting question: “Then, why didn’t I do it?” And, because you cannot answer that – all you are left with is self-recrimination.

So you see - it is all circular. We cannot make any sense of suicide. We will always be left with the question of “Why?” and the person who might shed some light on the answer is now gone. And you know what? Were it possible to somehow communicate with our loved one who committed the desperate act – I am not certain if even they could come up with a satisfactory reason. I think the question of “why” echoes on both sides of eternity.

I was blessed with a phone call from a wonderful old Christian statesman a few weeks after my brother’s death. Dr. Vernon Grounds, now in his nineties, is widely acclaimed as one of the founders of Christian counseling and therapy. His name graces one of the beautiful new buildings of Denver Seminary’s new campus, the: Vernon C. Grounds Counseling Center. This great man of God told me, very gently and lovingly - but also with a certain amount of firmness – that when it came to suicide, he had very few answers. His best efforts with suicidal people quite often ended in tragedy. He felt that once a person began to have and nurture those thoughts that they had somehow crossed over a line beyond anyone’s ability - save God’s - to stay the hand of self-destruction. A man who had helped thousands felt weak against the formidable and dark logic of suicide.

His point to me, and my point to you, is this: a victim of a tragic event is not the cause of the tragic event. Say that over and over to yourself. You must get busy with true grieving. That is the work before you for the next few days, weeks, and months. I refer to it as work – because it is. Those who counsel the bereaved – and I have done my share of it - have observed the following stages: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance. I have not found the order to be always that sequential. Oftentimes we will have to revisit portions that we think we have passed through. But _____, this is the near road ahead. A suicide – because of the things I have already mentioned – often hinders us from beginning the journey through grief. We wait around at a sort of weigh station asking questions that cannot be answered. Eventually though, the journey must and will begin.

When I recall the early days of my loss, I can tell you that the body of Christ (i.e. the church) carried me when I had no strength. My wife and children and my parents were the most amazing. They held me and quietly stood by while I passed through each of the difficult transitions. They did this without judgment and without ever once calling attention to their own grief – which was substantial.

If there was ever a time to learn the important lesson of receiving comfort, it is now. Your husband is a good, wonderful and strong man. Melt into him. There will be others who show up merely to be seen like the professional wailers of Jesus day - the purveyors of platitudes – people who take your pain and somehow make it about themselves. I experienced some of that. You have permission to ignore them.

But mostly this: cry out to God the Father from the depths of your brokenness. And, I mean – cry out. Find a place where you can scream and cry and question and demand. The Father responds well to such honesty. I doubt that He replies to anything less. Has He not promised comfort to those who mourn? He has indeed. And He is always faithful to His promises. Seek Him and you will find all of the resources of Deity available to your wounded heart.

With Love & Prayers,
C. J. Alderton, Pastor
Patrick Crossing

One Suggestion About Where To Begin A Faith Journey…

Have you ever had a sudden change of mind about something? It is not really a common occurrence, and usually we find, upon reflection, that there was really nothing “sudden” about our sudden change of mind. A host of seedling thoughts placed over time within our hearts and minds react with a particular set of circumstances in our lives that bring about this new way of thinking.

The Scriptures refer to this phenomenon as “repentance.” The word repentance, in the original language of the Scriptures literally means: “to change one’s mind.” The Scriptures tell us that it is impossible to begin a faith journey without learning to think differently. So, the question becomes: “Think differently about what?” Great question.

The central figure of the Christian faith is the person who referred to himself as both the Son of God and the Son of Man. In the English language, we call this person Jesus, a knock-off of the Greek translation of the Hebrew name Yeshua. Yeshua was a very common name among the Hebrew people, sort of like our Joe, or Bob. A more familiar translation of the name Jesus, or Yeshua, in our English language would be Joshua, or Josh for short. Part of this great journey of faith is to learn how the Creator of the whole universe humbled himself and became one of us and assumed a common, non-descript name like Joshua.

So, what do you think about “Josh?” It is an important question. A lot of people have tried to admire Josh from a distance and they have had some pretty nice things to say about him. They have said things like: “Josh was a great moral teacher.” Or, “Josh was a great example.” Or, “Josh is right up there with Buddha and Mohammed and Gandhi.” Or, “I really like Josh but I can’t stand his followers – the Joshuites!”

But Josh had something much different to say about himself. Josh not only referred to himself as the Son of God and the Son of Man, but also as the “road.” He said these very words: “I am the Road, also the Truth, also the Life. No one gets to the Father apart from me.” These are pretty extravagant claims that Josh made. Josh proclaimed, without any hesitation or apology, that he himself, not just his teaching, was exclusive and unique. Other great teachers and sages might vaguely point in the general direction – sort of like a compass – but he claimed to be the very road that one needs to take to make all things turn out well in the end. He didn’t say that there were a lot of roads; he said that there was one road and that he was it. He didn’t say that there were a lot of truths, but that he was THE truth. He didn’t say that there were a lot of ways to experience life, but that he was and is the life. That’s what Josh said.

To some that sounds like the height of arrogance or delusion. If that is your opinion, then according to Josh, you are on the wrong road, believing the wrong truth and living the wrong life. That’s his view of things. If that is how you feel, then I invite you to pray a prayer – a bold prayer – to Josh, just to see if he is listening. Trust me; he can handle all sorts of prayers, even one that says something like this: “Prove yourself to me.” Now, you need to help a little here and be part of the answer to your own prayer. Find a Bible. You can borrow one at the local library or buy one at Wal-Mart or online, and look up one of the little books contained within the big book called, “The Gospel According to Saint John”, or something along those lines. It will be broken into chapters and verses. Don’t let that slow you down, just do this: Every time you come to a new chapter, say out loud, “Josh, prove yourself to me.” I know it doesn’t sound like much of a prayer, but it will do. If you are so inclined, keep some paper handy and jot down your thoughts about Josh as you read. See what happens. You might find as many have that your prayers begin to change as you read along. Your thoughts about him being a great moral teacher will certainly be reinforced. Your thoughts about him being a great example will not suffer either. But, you will also most likely find yourself attracted to him. If you find that happening then you can trust that you are being loved and drawn into a friendship with this remarkable person. You will find your mind being changed. But even then, something deeper, something more profound might begin to happen – you will find your heart – your inner world, your gut, responding to him. Here is the place where the faith journey really begins in earnest – when our hearts and minds meet. You might find that your heart – which has been so beat up by this sad world in which we live, by mistakes made, by failures, addictions and disappointments – is running ahead of your mind. That often happens. Oftentimes the heart has a logic all its own. While our mind protests and negotiates some middle ground, some reasonable compromise – our hearts cry out for a friendship that is offered freely to us. When and if that happens, just keep talking to Josh - a.k.a. Jesus Christ, the Messiah, the Son of God and the Son of Man. He is listening. But, he is also talking. He knows the language of our hearts.

If you happen to reach this point and need someone to talk to, please feel free to e-mail us at: patrickcrossing@gmail.com.

A small grace at the soup kitchen...

This past Sunday I spent a good part of the morning at the Manna Soup Kitchen in Durango. I had been invited there by a couple I had not previously met, by the name of Jim & Nancy Sanderson. Jim and Nancy have worked for many years with the poor and dispossessed. They have even been known to grab their sleeping bags and some food and camp out with folks who have found themselves without a home. Someone gave them my name because that person thought my vision of the church and that of the Sanderson’s were very similar. Upon hearing of their journey, I felt horribly inadequate in regard to the comparison.

I arrived at the Soup Kitchen to help cook breakfast. I was greeted at the door by a young teenage girl. She told me I needed to put on an apron and to go and wash my hands. Later I heard her remark that gum chewing wasn’t allowed in the kitchen. I later found out that this young lady was one of Jim and Nancy’s granddaughters who helps each week with cooking and serving food. She then instructed me to open cans of chunky fruit and pour them into a large silver bowl. After mastering the commercial can opener – which I did in less than two minutes – I then completed the assigned task in about a minute. Three minutes total. Now what? The young lady was a buzz of activity as she put the final touches on the breakfast burritos and she didn’t appear to need my help. So, I went scrounging for some coffee.

Somewhere into my first sip, granddaughter number two appeared – a bespectacled eight year old. She said that I could come and help her wash the “cooking” dishes. When we got to the sinks, she was very distressed to find that her wooden step stool had gone missing. After a brief search of the premises, I found it in the storage room. My new supervisor then began to instruct me on how to wash dishes. I found out the following: it takes at least a half bottle of Dawn for one skillet, that drying is optional, and that it is fun to operate the powerful automatic dishwasher. She showed me how to place a tray into the dishwasher and then pull the large lever down. In thirty seconds or so, the dishes came out clean. On one load, she even let me pull the lever. She was right, it was fun.

After that, she announced that we could go join the customers for breakfast. By this time a pretty good crowd of folks were shuffling through the line and taking their seats in the dining room. For some reason, I was a little self-conscious. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to talk to people or leave them alone. So, I found a lonely spot at the end of a long table and chose to eat in silence. At the far end of my table sat a very skinny man – perhaps around forty years – with sunken cheeks and slicked back hair. Across the table from him was a rather pretty young lady, maybe in her thirties. They both looked very tired and sad.

My monastic moment was interrupted when a rough looking man plopped his plated burrito down in front of me. He had tattoos across his knuckles. He stared at me. I stared back and gave a little half smile. Before I could say something stupid like: “So, where do you live? Where do you work? Where did you go to college?” I felt a whir of activity to my immediate right. My eight year old supervisor had taken the place next to me and was handing out sticky notes and colored pencils to rough man and me. She asked us to draw her some pictures. Seizing the moment, I proceeded to draw her a picture of a…….rough man! She squealed with delight and held the picture up for my neighbor to see. “Egads – What was I thinking?” I decided on the spot to change to the animal kingdom and drew a quick sketch of a dog. She was equally excited with this effort and began to urge the rough man to draw a picture. Finally, he picked up a pencil, and on the little sticky note he began to slash away. In a few seconds he presented to our side of the table a picture of a very passable elephant. Then he spoke. I fully expected to hear deep gravel - a Slingblade type of voice. Instead, a very kind and gentle voice said, “Elephants are my daughter’s favorite.” With those few words I heard pain, love, longing, and regret.

The enthusiasm that was fidgeting at my right somehow helped me to keep my peace. Normally, I would have asked this man about his daughter which, more than likely, would have unleashed a fury of a sad tale. But no, not on this day. To countenance and rehearse pain in the midst of the incredible wonder and joy to my immediate right seemed somehow out of place –perhaps even unholy. On this day I would sit and marvel at the Holy Spirit’s condescending ability to work through every molecule of an available eight year old. The moment of pain passed and the rough man and I smiled and shared together this moment of grace.

(PS Any PC folks who wish to help in the soup kitchen, please give me a call. I will be cooking there every other Sunday).