An Island, A Boat, and A Lie

We had planned our trip to Peanut Island months in advance. And yes, you read that correctly. Peanut Island is its unfortunate name. They could've picked something much more grandiose, like Spearfish Island, or The Island of Legend. But, for some reason, they chose a small, awkwardly-shaped legume to label one of South Florida's most visited tourist spots. Fabulous. Anyway, we were taking high-schoolers from Youth for Christ out for a day of fun on the island.

I was in a speedboat watching high-schoolers get dragged around by a long rope connected to a tube. For some odd reason, people (myself included) love being thrown around in the waves with the target of having of fun and getting whiplash. In the moments when we had to stand completely still so that somebody could climb back on the boat after being thrown off the tube, I paid attention to the rocking of the boat.

It felt like I was moving it.

For some reason, whenever I get in a boat that's swaying in the tide of the water, it always feels like I'm the one that's making it move back and forth. As if my 145-pound, mayonnaise body somehow had the ability to influence the movement of a several ton boat. False. The moments I felt like my weight was influencing the swing of the boat were actually the moments where I had aligned myself to the independent swaying of the vessel.

And I was fooled into thinking it was my own doing.

"The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps." (Proverbs 16)

One of the largest temptations I face is that I always think that I've brought myself to where I am. That I've pulled up my own bootstraps, so to speak. That in all of the major events in my life, I've swayed the boat in my favor. It turns out that the times when I thought I was swaying the boat the way I wanted it was actually God allowing His Hand to shape and mold the steps of my future.

For those times when things are going right, and you feel as if your life is headed where you want it to go, I plead with you to realize that it is not of your own doing. After all, how many other times in your life were you doing everything right, only to be met with the most opposing of circumstances.

Honor the Lord, and do not forget His arm stretches farther than you know.

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The Art of Breathing

For the past few months, I've been having some sort of issue with my back muscles. I'm not sure exactly how to describe the feeling, but it's a little bit like the fibers in my back suddenly tear from each other.

"You need to get that checked out, sir."

First of all, I'm offended that you would tell me what to do. I am my own man. Or something.

Second of all, I'm not really big into getting things "checked out," for the main reason that the doctor usually can't find anything without extensive testing. And when I say testing, I mean the whole bit: MRI's, blood work, etc. And I ain't about that life. I'll take the open air over getting put in a skinny cylinder that looks like a tube of toothpaste any day. But I should probably take your advice. Sometimes, the ripping pain will happen while I'm doing crazy things, like a jump serve in volleyball or while I'm riding my longboard. 

"You obviously pulled it."

Listen, I'm getting tired of your shenanigans. Can you just listen to me this one time? As I was saying, the ripping pain doesn't just happen in moments of action. It's also happened while sitting at Chick-Fil-A or while walking through my kitchen. Unprovoked. And when it happens, it often hurts so bad that it becomes hard to breathe. It's as if expanding my chest is the last thing I want to do, so breathing becomes a pretty heavy task.

But I'm not the only one who had problems breathing.

Studies have been done that have tried to replicate what it would have been like to be crucified by the Romans during their golden age. The Roman executioners were highly specialized in the art of torture, and they knew exactly how to beat you within an inch of your life, making death a better friend than the excruciating life you're experiencing.

Part of this skill was the way the cross was set up. The only way you could breathe on a cross is to push up on the nail that was going through your feet. This essentially meant that you had two options:

1. Breathe.

or

2. Endure indescribable pain.

You could only pick one. Something about all this reminds me of a saying about a rock and a hard place. And yet, for Him, it was neither.

Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God. (Hebrews 12)

The joy? What!? I'm sorry, but that doesn't make a lick of sense. Who on earth would joyfully go through crucifixion?

It was Christ's joy because He knew that it was all for you. Every push up on that nail was His way of expressing His love for you. The same God who breathed life into Adam was using every one of His breaths as proof that He would do anything to get you into His family. And so now you stand, redeemed by the diaphragm of Jesus, breathing life because He decided to be your Rescue Inhaler.

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She Was a Drawbridge

It was dark, windy, and too cold for my thin hoodie. And yet, I sat out there on the concrete wall, retaining what little heat I had and hoping to connect with God next to a parking lot that was butted up against the waters of the intracoastal. The sky had its stars, the water had its waves, and man had his bridge, sitting there atop the waters like one-half of a hand cupped in clapping.

She was a drawbridge, totally in control of those who would walk all over her, and yet rarely exercising her ability to make them stop. No one ever really appreciated her: she was just a means to an end. The other end, specifically. They never counted the cost of the innumerable tons of concrete used to construct her gentle slope and never took the time to notice the strength of her intricate mechanized underbelly. And yet, she never reacted in anger to those who would ignore her, but only every so often would she open her mouth to sing, stopping driver and pedestrian alike in their pursuit of the other side.

But when she sang, everyone stopped.

Not everyone would stop out of a wish to admire her grandeur. In fact, more often than not, her beautiful song went unnoticed, covered by her audience's insignificant distractions. While they were worried about who was going to make dinner, or why their lives never seemed to work out quite as they had hoped, her gears turned and her rivets held a long, silent note that pierced the night air. Her beauty made them stop, but their admiration was their own to indulge.

On that day when we find ourselves at eternity's shore, we will also be confronted with an immeasurable beauty - that of the bridegroom accepting His bride. All of the most lavish weddings of the earth will rise in their humble submission to the fact that they were a drop in the bucket compared to the elegance to be portrayed that day. The altar will be the Great White Throne room, and the Father will give away His Bride to His Son, recounting the long and strenuous story of redemption as a joy that resulted in that moment of union.

Dear friends, the beauty of a drawbridge, or a mountain, or a song are meant to point us to the beauty of Christ, not only on that wedding day, but every day. The only difference is that Christ will be too beautiful too ignore.

So take a minute, read the Psalms, walk out into nature, see the ocean. Anything. Just reflect on the beauty of Christ.

"Then I saw a great white throne and him who was seated on it. From his presence earth and sky fled away, and no place was found for them." (Rev. 20)

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Cheesy Christian Analogies

I've heard it said that the GPS analogy is getting too much mileage. (See what I did there?) If you've spent any amount of time in the church environment you'll know what I'm talking about:

"All right my congregation/flock/sheep, today we're going to be talking about how the Bible is your GPS to (pause for dramatic effect) HEAVEN!"

It gets kinda weird when you hear the metaphor used as much as it is. And I understand that it's cool 'cuz it's all hip and relevant, what with the abundance of GPS-enabled cellular devices. I get that it makes the speaker look like he's "with it." (I was hoping I'd never see the day I used that phrase...) But c'mon people, I'm sure you could be more creative. If navigation to heaven is what they're trying to get at, I'm sure that pastors could say things in a much more original way. Like a sailor using his compass to navigate the treacherous seas. Or a vagrant finding his way by the use of a star. Something other than a GPS. Anything. Really, anything.

If I hear another "God's Positioning System" joke again, it'll "drive" me insane. (Man, I'm on a roll.)

In any case, I find that pastors usually use this analogy to talk about how the Bible gets you to heaven. I'm not sure that this is entirely the point of the Scriptures, however. I definitely think that the reward of every believer is eternal life in paradise, but I think that's just the by-product of what we get to experience now:

Knowing God.

If you're going to take an axe to my dislike for bad analogies, at least do it with the right goal in mind. Yeah, Heaven's gonna be amazing. Beyond belief. But as my boy Matt Chandler says, the reward of the gospel is not that we get God's stuff, but that we get God. Period. Exclamation point. No question mark. Unequivocally, the unbelievable truth of God's grace is that we get to be perfectly intimate with Him at all times, not simply that we would enjoy the perfect afterlife.

John 17 puts it this way, "And this is eternal life, that they know you the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom you have sent."

So please, take advantage of put-downs. As in, put down that GPS-enabled phone and put down your knees to the floor so that you might find your ultimate navigation.

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Happy Pills and the Holy Ghost

It's pretty crazy to see a patient change completely after they've had their morphine. One minute they'll be cursing you with creative insults you thought only gypsies could come up with, and then next they want to buy you a drink. In these moments, I'm always fascinated by just how imaginative patient's mockeries become in the heat of pain. I'm not even mad. I'm impressed.

But, yes, things get weird. And I'm not even talking about addicts. These are normal people who are in a lot of pain, and morphine is one of the only drugs that seems to do the trick.

And we give it to them.

It'd be slightly unethical to allow a patient the kind of pain that leaves them wishing that your scalp would be invaded by the fleas of a thousand camels. And yet, doctors worry that they'll get addicted to the euphoria morphine has been known to cause. The only issue is, are they really experiencing euphoria, or are they just mad happy that they're no longer in pain?

Imagine being in so much pain that you spend most of your time writhing around in your hospital bed and wondering if being alive is really all that hot of an idea. You've spent a considerable amount of time in this kind of pain, with little hope of relief. Then, all of a sudden, someone comes along and offers something that can take the pain away. Wouldn't you be ecstatic?

Imagine being in so much pain that you spend most of your time writhing around in the darkness of sin, wondering if being alive is really all that hot of an idea. You've spent too long in the agony of a life characterized by a gloomy tale describing your constant and unrelenting fall into evil, with little hope of relief. Then, all of a sudden, Someone comes along and offers something that takes the sin away. Wouldn't you be ecstatic?

"Wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!"

When we have an encounter with the Holy Spirit, there tends to be victory over sin - a time of delivery from the body of death that dwells inside of us. One of the first, and most obvious signs of this release is pure, unadulterated joy, if for nothing else than just the fact that we've been finally released from the anguish of sin.

So, are you ready for your dose?

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Squirrel Shirts and Worn-Out Jeans

When it comes to matters of fashion, let's just say I'm not the guy you want advice from.

Squirrel shirt in 52XL? "Sure!"

Neon pink fanny pack? "Only if I can have one, too!"

Overalls and a tank top? "Can I give you my helicopter hat to accessorize?"

While fashion might not be my strength, I will say that I've noticed a trend change throughout the years: worn-out jeans. When I was about 15, these were all the rage. And when I say rage, I'm talking charging bull. People couldn't get enough of them. Youngsters were selling their arms and legs so they could have them, an action which made it really difficult to put on said jeans. All in all, it was a fiasco.

It wasn't uncommon to hear stuff like, "I want the jeans the raggedy tear right along the inner thigh, so people know I'm hardcore when I wear my spaceship undergarments," or, "Is it normal to have a breeze running along my hindquarters?"

Now, as a few years have passed, I've noticed the whole trend change a little. Jeans are still washed-out, but holes don't make much of an appearance nowadays. For whatever reason, the holes have started to disappear from our jeans and appear in other places.

Like our churches.

If there's one thing that you don't want to appear old and weathered by time, it's the church. The one place in the world where people have historically sought life and energy from is instead quickly deteriorating into a washed-out opportunity to have a social hour. Instead of being a place for challenge and conviction, we've allowed the holes from our jeans to become the holes in our theology. The church, which is called to be separate and different from the rest of society has become another pair of nondescript, garden-variety jeans that makes no effort to step above the sea of religion.

Well, to solve the crisis of the worn-out church, I don't suggest anything new. My solution does not consist of jumping into something fresh, but rather to dive into something really, really old.

“A Bible that’s falling apart usually belongs to someone who isn’t.” - Charles Spurgeon

My solution is to transition from a worn-out church to a church with worn-out Bibles. Since the church is made of people, it becomes the individual's responsibility to make sure that they wear down their Bibles with constant use, and that they wear out their jeans with constant prayer. We aren't called to come up with the next, crazy fix that'll take care of what's wrong with us. We are called to radically apply ourselves to the simplicity of the Scriptures and fellowship with God.

"But be doers of the word, and not hearers only, deceiving yourselves." (James 1)

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What an Airport Taught Me

They changed my flight. Yuck. I have to wait three more hours in an aiport. Blech. The place smells like old mushrooms. Yum.

As I walked through the security checkpoint, I saw a tearful, sniffling blonde. I turned around and followed her line of sight to see a young boy with long hair who looked slightly less impacted by his girlfriend's departure than she was. But perhaps I'm just crazy. Or right. One of those.

Near those two lovebirds, I heard a lady emphatically proclaim her joyful thanks to a security guard who had helped her.

Having grown up being in and out of airports, I've had some time to analyze this cultural anomaly, and I'm always blown away by the fact that airports are simultaneously one of the happiest and one of the saddest places in existence. No other place can you find a mother tearfully saying goodbye to her children standing next to a man excitedly anticipating his reunion with his dearly missed girl.

No where else do you see a grandpa joyfully wrapping his rarely seen grandchildren in bear hugs while a fearful soldier looks on as he contemplates his future with his heart in his stomach.

It's a strange place with the most polar of opposites coexisting in the closest of proximities. But everyone there is on a journey.

And so are you.

Though, in the journey I'm talking about, there's really only two flights available. One to eternal joy and the other to eternal torment. And if you booked your flight correctly, your final destination ends at a hub where all tears will subside and all tearful goodbyes turn into your last hello.

"And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Look! God’s dwelling place is now among the people, and he will dwell with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. ‘He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”" (Revelations 21)

So as I sit in this airport typing away on my little phone, my encouragement today is simple.

That day IS coming.

Hang on. Christ is coming back for His Bride. Your struggles? Gone. Your heartache? A distant memory. Your fate? Secure and perfectly, unimaginably, and infinitely rewarding.

Just hang on.

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