Thank you for your service

Costco Wholesale Warehouse is an absolute gold mine around lunch time. Vendors set up 
tables all over the mammoth store, hawking all sorts of samples ranging from vitamin juice 
shots to mini crab cakes. I used to make sure that I would go there with the kids so that we 
would have at least one day when we didn’t have to meal plan.

    
I don’t shop there all the time because we simply can’t afford to. Not that the prices are bad, 
it’s just that I don’t know when to stop. Instead, I will go every month or so to stock up on bulk 
supplies of juice boxes, salsa, pizza rolls, peanut butter, and whatever items I am convinced 
that my family cannot live without. 

     
Perhaps the biggest, if only, drawback to Costco is that it is always crowded. Every aisle is 
clogged with shoppers pushing oversized carts full of their choice of essential goods and, 
while no one is necessarily rude about the rules of the road, it can get pretty dicey navigating 
tight corners and attempting to cross from the snacks to the pasta section. 

    
Whenever I encounter an aisle that’s a little too congested for my comfort, I will backtrack and 
take an alternative route, as if I have some secret shortcut that no one else knows about. Not 
long ago when I was shopping for the next few week’s worth of supplies, as I wheeled my cart 
filled with a 120-count box of granola bars and enough gummy bears to choke a small elephant, 
I encountered a roadblock that had me quickly throwing it into reverse into a detour down the 
next aisle. It contained socks and men’s off brand running shoes, so it was a much safer 
passage.

     
Rounding the corner that would allow me to bypass this latest obstruction, I paused for a 
moment to take in exactly who it was that had caused this latest inconvenience. There in the 
middle of the adjacent aisle was an older gentleman, possibly in his 80’s, hunched slightly at 
the waist and using his shopping cart as a walker. He was traveling at the speed of slow, which 
for him was just fine because he was in absolutely no hurry at all. 

     
On his head he wore a baseball cap, one of those military hats that veterans of wars and armed 
conflicts wear with obvious pride. The insignia on the front told me that he had served in the 
Korean War. My grandfather operated the radio on a B25 bomber during World War 2 in the 
Pacific theater and I knew all about those islands he flew over and the enemy he fought.

I have read books about Guadalcanal and Bougainville and other exotic sounding places where 
our American GI’s fought tooth and nail against the Japanese for what amount to nothing more 
than isolated plots of land made mostly of coral. On these islands we began to win the war 
against Japan, keeping them from overtaking Australia and the rest of the Pacific region. My 
grandfather never spoke much about his time over there, but I know he must have seen and 
experienced some incredible, and horrific, things.

The war in Korea I admittedly knew very little about. I know that we tried to help South Korea 
hold the communists at bay and eventually were successful in doing so, but that’s really about 
it. Nevertheless, I have a great amount of respect for anyone who has served this country in the 
military and I learned a long time ago that it was a good and right act to thank those servicemen 
face-to-face whenever you saw them. Especially if they were wearing those special kind of hats. 

As this elderly hero made his way down the aisle, I purposefully stood in his way so that I could 
garner his attention. I wasn’t all that concerned that he would run me over with his cart because 
of his lack of momentum, but I was careful all the same to watch out for my toes. Right as he was 
about to bump my cart, he stopped and looked up, staring me straight in the eyes. I quickly 
gathered myself and told him in the strongest voice I could muster, “Thank you for your service.” 

Without missing a beat, he replied, “It was my honor to serve you and my country and, if I had 
the chance, I would storm the border of Korea all over again in order to make sure that you 
stayed safe.” Instantly I felt my eyes start to sweat and any response that I could have made 
was stuck in my throat as if I was choking on a piece of steak.

Mesmerized by his response, I stood frozen in place, unable to reply. Here was this weathered 
and worn veteran who could no longer tie his own shoes, now declaring his desire to re-defend 
this country if that’s what it took. Shaking off my stupor, I was finally able to feebly respond to 
him, thanking him again for his service, words which now seemed pathetically inadequate. This 
genuine hero offered a satisfied smile and began to shuffle on his way towards the peanut 
butter and honey section. I in turn quickly turned my cart in the other direction to head toward 
the ice cream and fruit punch.

As I padded my way, avoiding more carts and the glut of consumers, I could not help but admit 
with a bit of sadness that they simply don’t make men like that anymore.

Life in the new hood

This past Saturday night my new neighborhood - Wrightsville Green, aka The Hood - celebrated its annual 4th of July gathering. Before we even moved in, several of our neighbors were quick to tell us how fun and amazing this night was. Our home owner's association sent us emails reminding us of the festivities and we were asked to sign up to bring food at the community mailbox.

Seeing this as an opportune chance to get to know pretty much everyone in all 50+ homes, we agreed to bring cantaloupe (because you can't have a party without melon) and a cucumber/tomato/onion salad (because if they didn't eat it, I would). The days leading up to the shindig were filled with stories of past 4th of July celebrations and how this year's was going to be the best ever.

Finally the big day had arrived. The party officially started at 4:00 but we planned to be fashionably late because it's really awkward when you don't really know many people and you are the first ones to show up. Our posse left the house at 4:30 to make the short walk down to what is known as the common area, which is composed of the back yards of several houses that share Bradley Creek as their border. This creek is a meandering salt water marsh creek that eventually feeds into the Atlantic Ocean and it is an ideal spot for launching a small boat, kayak, or stand-up paddle board, which I haven't done yet but plan on doing soon.

As we rounded the bend of one of the houses, I was immediately struck by the decadent smell of smoked pork. Jamie, whose house lies in the common area and is also the pit master, lifted the lid to a rather large smoker to show me a behemoth of a pig that was almost cooked to perfection - all 140 pounds of it. He let me know that he also had a secret sauce that was willed to him by man whose barbecue sauce was locally famous but who would not give up the recipe until after he had crossed the threshold of heaven. I ain't gonna lie - that was some good sauce! Another neighbor, Steve, was also there and very attentive to the needs of this simmering sow.

It wasn't long before the rest of the neighborhood began to roll in (we weren't as fashionably late as I had hoped) and that's when the party really started hopping. Kids were absolutely everywhere! And the food just kept coming - chips and dips, rice and beans, chicken wings and some green rolled up things, as well as cookies and brownies and lemon squares, which I'm pretty sure Jesus Himself enjoys as a late night snack. When the pig was done and the men had begun to chop her into a million little pieces, the feast officially began.

Our two oldest daughters, who didn't know a soul, played it pretty close to the vest at the beginning, preferring to hang near mom and dad. Not so with our two youngest ones. You would have thought that they shared crib space with all of the neighborhood kids! Meeting new people has never really been a harrowing experience for my wife and I either, and we quickly found ourselves engrossed in conversations with people whom just a few moments before had been perfect strangers.

My wife met another neighbor who is also a professor at UNCW, teaching in the area of creative writing. I may or may not have told her to read my blog to see what she thought. There was sophomore at UNCW who will be living in his parent's newly purchased home (they live in another city) during the school year and who is interested in some of the same areas of ministries in which I have served. Chris is a guy from England who I kept having a conversation with because I enjoy discussing English soccer but mainly because I loved to hear his accent. There were also surfers, entrepreneurs, stay-at-home moms, an MMA trainer, photographer, a couple who helps rescue girls from the sex trade, and many, many others.

The evening culminated in the grand finale for the 'hoods annual celebration - a fireworks display that was not only illegal but incredibly dangerous. The aforementioned Jamie and Steve were also a few of the pyrotechnic experts who had assembled an obscene amount of gun powder fueled entertainment, much of which I am pretty sure would get you locked up in Mexico.

Positioning ourselves a "safe" thirty-some yards away from ground zero, several of us oohed-and-aahed at the amazing display of glittered colors in the sky as the more responsible adults assembled the kids a safer distance away. Even more entertaining than the fireworks were the antics of several grown men as they lighted wicks and danced out of the way before certain disaster happened.

As the evening was about to come to a close, a near catastrophe of cataclysmic proportions happened. A mortar tipped, sending its wayward cargo shooting in all directions, including straight at me and my youngest daughter who decided to join me closer to the action. Instinctively I stuck out my sandaled foot as a shield to block the fiery missile, hoping for a split second act of heroism to save the day. Thankfully, it fizzled out right as it was about to make contact, saving both my lower leg and my Rainbow flip flops. Several of my neighbors reacted with horror at the fact that they had almost killed the new guy, but we were able to nervously laugh it off once we saw that no damage was done.

Indeed, this was a memorable night in our new neighborhood, one that we won't soon forget. We are grateful for the new friendships that were made and can't wait to grow and foster them more in the future. Lying in bed later that night, my wife and I were recounting our day when we both realized that something really cool was occurring in this neighborhood of people that we had just met: They were doing an amazing job of living in community with one another.

Community is what so many of today's churches are seeking after yet are failing to achieve. Relationships are built on more than just shared belief; they thrive on a shared connection, one that is rooted in a genuine interest in not only the well-being of others around you but in also sharing life with them - the good, the bad, and the ugly of it all.

I think we're gonna like it here.

Living the other six

Growing up in a Christian home, church on Sundays was not just something that we did. It was something that served to define who we were. I have fond memories of attending Sunday school classes where I learned about Moses crossing the Red Sea, Daniel and the lion's den, and Jesus healing sick people all from the magic of the flannel graph board. The pain of sitting beside my grandfather on those impossibly hard wooden pews was dulled by hearing his rich baritone voice singing those beautiful old hymns. Those were simple, good times, but they served to give me a spiritual foundation that I have never forgotten.

As I grew older and eventually left home, going to church shifted from something I had to do as a child under my parents' authority to something I could choose to do. As a young man who was entering the ministry, continuing to attend church was a no-brainer for me - why would I NOT want to go? Yet at the same time, I began to notice traits within me bubbling to the surface that up until that point I had never really noticed before, particularly the slick ways that I could play the part of good church-going young man on Sundays while living a less-than-holy way during the week. Instead of simply going to church, I had begun "showing" for church.

If you are a follower of Jesus or grew up going to church, this is not a foreign concept to you. We've all heard preachers exhort us to live out our faith on Monday through Saturday, "Because Sunday is coming!" And the term "Sunday Christian" needs no real explanation. Yes, it's easy to live righteously when all eyes are on you - especially the preacher's eyes who see you sitting on the back row!

I am pretty sure that for the early Christians, this idea of struggling to live out their faith in Jesus on the other six days of the week made no sense to them. After all, their lives were in danger every day because of their faith and choosing to follow Jesus was an all-or-none proposition for them. Yet even then not everyone got it.

In Jesus' day, many of the Jewish religious leaders were not too thrilled about His ministry and His claims to be the Son of God. These were the guys on the fringe whose devotion to religious ritual had effectively numbed them to the reality of true faith. So when they saw all that Jesus was doing in the communities around them - healing the sick, bringing hope to the hopeless, and bringing truth to the lost - it drove them nuts.

One guy in particular, a leader in a local synagogue, became the poster child for the religious idiocy. We find his story in Luke 13:10-17 and it goes something like this: Jesus heals a woman on the Sabbath, a day on which the Jewish people believed that no work should be done (the definition of "work" was rather dicey at times). Enter the synagogue leader. He can't believe what he is seeing. No, he's not overwhelmed at the amazing miracle from Jesus that he has just witnessed. Instead, he's ticked off that Jesus chooses the Sabbath of all days to do the work of God. Boiling over with anger, this synagogue leader asks, "Can't you do your amazing works on one of the other six days of the week instead of the Sabbath?" Now I don't know about you, but if I was face-to-face with Jesus I'm pretty sure I could find a better question to ask of Him!

Unbeknownst to him, our synagogue leader friend has flipped the script and turned the tables on US by asking Jesus this ridiculous question. Put in another context for our enjoyment, he might be asking all of us, "I see your devotion on your days of worship. But what are YOU doing the other six days of the week that are pointing others to Jesus and creating a stir in your community?" It was obvious that Jesus taught amazing truths and performed incredible works everyday of the week. His disciples were known to follow suit. Can the same be said about us?

Sundays are a special time for Christians because it is the one day of the week where we can all intentionally gather for corporate worship and celebration of Jesus. We should never overlook these times of assembly and should come expectant to hear from God and give back to Him all of the worth that is due Him. But we should all realize that church on Sunday is not the time that we gather to impress God or each other with our personal notions of holiness and piety. Sunday gatherings (or whenever you gather as a body of Christ followers) are for God to be worshiped, not for us to ring the bell of our own self-proclaimed spiritual awesomeness.

The true call of the follower of Jesus is to live for him daily. It's nice to gather once a week with a bunch of people who think and believe as you do. Yet it's far more urgent that we live this faith in Jesus the other six days of the week so that the world around us can see just how great and worthy our Jesus truly is.

Passion 2017

For several years now I've been able to go as an adult leader to the Passion Conferences in Atlanta. Having returned today, my mind is swirling with all sorts of thoughts, images, and mental tiredness that affects old guys like me when they go non-stop for almost three days. I realize that I am probably getting too old to keep doing this but I simply can't help myself.

If you have never experienced something like the Passion Conferences, then a brief blog post like this is probably not going to amount to the much more than the first few pieces of a 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzle. But it's just too difficult to not make at least a meager attempt to recap some of the more memorable moments for me.

Imagine yourself sitting in a room surrounded by around 60,000 other adults young and old who want one thing - to know God in a more intimate way. And I'm not just talking about experiencing warm and fuzzy "Yes, Jesus loves me" kind of tingles; I'm talking about a passionate desire to know God on a deeper level than ever before. To breathe Him into your lungs. To see His work manifest in the world around you. To want Him more than anything else. This is what I walked into when I stepped into the Georgia Dome in downtown Atlanta on Monday night.

As someone who has been involved with student ministry for a couple of decades, I've experienced my share of trendy events where there is a lot of glitter and glitz but very little substance. Passion isn't like that. Yes, the production level is top notch and the music is about as professional and "tight" as you can imagine, but that is not what it's all about. Those things are avenues to open the heart and mind all the more so that God can fill it with Himself.

John Piper. Francis Chan. Christine Caine. Levi Lusko. Louie Giglio. Beth Moore. Chris Tomlin. Christy Nockles. Matt Redman. Passion Band. Hillsong United. All of these men and women come together to lead and teach through music and the study of God's word and life experiences that captivate the souls of all in attendance. It's not some weird hypnotic effect. Rather, it's interactions with real people who love God with everything they have whose sole aim is to lead this generation of college students to also love God with a reckless abandon. There are no gimmicks, just God.

Being one who is one score removed from being the age of most the participants, it would be easy for me to sit back with arms crossed and marvel at what God is doing in the lives of these students. However, that isn't what happens. Instead, I find myself captivated by what I am hearing and seeing, the spectacle of much being made of God. In return, I am drawn in as well and my soul is well-watered. I leave inspired, encouraged, connected, focused.

Eventually my days as a participant at Passion are going to come to an end. Each year, thousands of men and women my age come to Passion as "door holders," volunteers who selflessly and tirelessly serve to make sure that every aspect of these three days flows without interruption. I see myself in that role sooner than later. But for now, I am grateful to be a part of this movement of God as it flows and picks up momentum, showing no signs of slowing down or fizzling out. Thank you, Passion, for allowing an old guy like me to share in the joy of what you do.

Come let us adore...us?

The Christmas season is fully upon us and everywhere you look there is magic - and gaudy decorations - in the air. Black Friday shopping still exists, but the internet has now cornered the market for savings and Amazon has this whole one-click shopping thing mastered.

If you consider yourself a Christian or even just a slightly religious person, then you understand that Christmas is more than just being in the spirit of giving or a holiday that gets the kids out of school for a couple of weeks. Christmas is about Jesus, because it is that time of year when we recognize His birth, His coming into the world as the Messiah to save us from our sins and to bring the hope of eternal life.

Now more than ever we realize that a large portion of our culture does not celebrate Christmas for those reasons. Honestly, I have no problem with that at all because no matter how the rest of the world chooses to acknowledge what Christmas is about, I know that it is about Jesus and I get the chance to share that truth with others. I know the history of Christmas - December 25 is a day selected by the early church to celebrate and recognize the birth of the coming King and that we really don't know when Jesus was actually born. Not that this takes away from our celebration of Him, it just helps to understand the background. I mean, we celebrate Jesus everyday, right?

And let's be honest for a minute. There are many Christians out there who get a little too territorial when it comes to Christmas. What do I mean? Think about it - they wage a version of holy war if department store workers say "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas"; town councils are angrily assaulted if a nativity scene is not allowed on public property; and don't even think about denying them the right to wear their Christmas sweaters and vests to work (That last one I kind of make up, but to be honest, have you seen some of those sweaters? I wish they were banned!).

Then there is the whole Christmas time celebrations, especially the ones sponsored at church. I grew up going to Christmas cantatas and have wonderful memories of the music and the festivities that I witnessed over the years. Who knew that Mary could sing so well after having a baby with no epidural? The way that the stage at church can be rearranged to look like a barn complete with live animals is amazing and some of those set designs look like they came from Hollywood. Lighting candles with the house lights out completes the "Silent Night" effect. Don't forget all of the decorations! The Christmas lights and the big Frazier fir tree (because those are the best), complete with miles of garland, add a beautiful finishing touch.

We wouldn't dare dream of celebrating Christmas any other way. Besides, this is how we've been doing it for years and years. Yet in the midst of all of this celebrating and decorating and singing and giving, it seems as if we have lost some of our focus on what Christmas is really about. And it is more than just a manger scene that we recreate on stage - this is about the Messiah, the Son of God, whose soul purpose for coming into this world was to die a grizzly death because that was the only way to pay for our filthy sinfulness. 

Looking on social media sites, I see so many pictures and videos of Christmas plays and musicals complete with virtual back-slaps for what an amazing job we all did on them this year. I shudder to think how much money our churches are pouring into these productions! And yes, let us celebrate together with music and festivities, but let us also make sure that we are so very careful that we aren't too excited about how amazing we are in the midst of trying to point people to who Jesus is.

The big danger when we celebrate Christmas in extravagant ways is that we invite others to come and adore US instead of Jesus. We fight to "Keep Christ in Christmas" (as if anyone could actually steal His name away) and we strive to have the biggest and best Christmas show ever without realizing that all of this may actually do very little in pointing people to the object of our celebration.

I don't want you to read this and think that I am going all Scrooge on you or that I am trying to dictate how you celebrate. But I do want you to sincerely evaluate what your focus is on this time of year. Perhaps you and your family can discover an Advent reading plan from the Bible that you can read together each day. Or maybe you can choose to give some gifts this year as a family to worthy causes instead of wrapping another present for under the tree. Whatever you choose to do, strive for your focus to be on Jesus.

And if you know others who don't care about all of that, love them just the same. They aren't doing Christmas "wrong," they just aren't seeing it for what it truly is. Maybe they are observing Christmas as a reaction to how so many of us have tried to make it an agenda and not as a time to worship. Remember, it is Christmas, not Christm-US.