When I was around six-years-old, we lived in the parsonage behind First Baptist Church of Oakville in South St. Louis County. Oakville was a typical post-World War II suburb that had been developed in the middle of farmland close to where the Meramec ran into the Mississippi river. Along with the acres upon acres of undeveloped woods, there were many other great places for a six-year-old to explore; including a goat farm, a privately owned dump and a ravine full of stuff thrown out of the original church building when we built our new sanctuary with the steeple.

Local legend, as reported by my older brother, was that a wild bobcat lived in the woods surrounding the ravine. My friend, Dennis and I loved to explore the ravine. We treated it like it was an ancient archeological site, but we knew we needed to stay alert to the possible attack of “the bobcat.” Anytime we heard the rustle of a leaf or the screech of tires from the nearby traffic on Telegraph Road, we would stop what we were doing and look around for the mysterious cat.

In the middle of the ravine, filled with old Sunday school records and worn out and broken furniture, sat a humongous pulpit. This was not an ornate, high and mighty Catholic or even Presbyterian pulpit. This was an orangey-beige with speckles-painted particleboard, beat-up old Southern Baptist pulpit.  It sat cattywampus next to several boxes of old Life magazines that my dad has often regretted having thrown away. It was so big, that my buddy and I would both crawl in it and hide whenever we felt the presence of “the bobcat.” We’d sit in there, sweating from the lack of air, browsing through old Life magazines until we thought the coast was clear.

As I pondered that story this morning on our walk, I asked Sally what she thought could be the theological take-away from that story. Her only response was that it sounded like just a couple of stupid boys playing. (Maybe that’s why girls were never allowed in our pulpit-turned-fort).

Yes, we were just a couple of “stupid boys playing,” but at least we had the sense to know where to go when we were afraid.

What would you say is the theological and/or spiritual lesson from this childhood story? Or do you have a childhood story/theological lesson that you want to share?

Besides all the usual adjustments of house training a puppy, we also acquired other new challenges. Belle’s soft white fur quickly took a life of it’s own, forming dust bunnies the size of Texas in every nook and cranny of our house and yard. As she grew into doghood, we quickly realized that no food could be left on any countertop space unless it was at least five feet from the ground. Cakes, cookies, steak and lasagna were all fair game if her big wet nose could reach it. We learned that any leather items were considered food to a dog. Belts and wallets were two of her very favorites. Then there were the souvenirs from far away places like China and Africa; who knew that she would eat videotapes and photo albums? She had quite a diverse palette.

But of all the things Belle loved to do (including eating and destroying), her all time favorite was walking her masters. As soon as she saw Sally or me putting on our tennis shoes, she would go berserk with excitement. It was all she could do to contain herself long enough to get her leash attached.

Recently, Belle has started slowing down. A tumor began to appear on her stomach that grew to the size of a grapefruit. But it hasn’t stopped her from wanting to go for long walks. Then early in April, we noticed her limping. She could hardly put any weight on her back right leg. Even still, she wanted to walk.

We’ve spent the past month loving on Belle and crying when no one was looking. The other day, I was up before dawn reading in my chair and she came hobbling in. It was obvious that she was in pain, but she just stood there with her leg trembling.  I encouraged her to lie down and rest, but all she would do was walk in a circle like she was preparing to land; she just couldn’t make herself do it. When she finally did make it down to rest, she would turn her attention to the tumor. She was constantly licking it. We would scold her. We tried putting a t-shirt on her or covering it with bandages, but she still managed to get to her wound.

As I watched her with tears pooling in my eyes, I thought about how much I loved and cared for my dog. I only wished I could convince her to rest and to stop obsessing over her wound. It reminded me of how God must love and care for me. I thought about the 23^rd Psalm where it says, “He maketh me lie down in green pastures.” Even though I’m hurting and I’m tired, I still try and stay busy, but God wants me to rest.

Belle is at rest now. Sally took her on a long walk today and even let her off leash. When they got home, she knew it was time. She had licked her tumor until it was raw and bleeding.  The vet had told us that as a pack animal, she would never show signs of pain, but we knew she was.

So, Belle, I just want to thank you for all the fun and happiness you brought our family. You taught us a lot these past thirteen years. You taught us that family was more important than stuff. You taught us to stop and smell, well, just about everything. You taught us no outfit is complete without a layer of dog hair. And you taught us that no one was above getting a nose in his or her crotch. You were the great equalizer.

Belle, take your rest. You were the best dog in the world and you deserve it.

.Comparing

I have tended to live my life in a constant state of comparison. How do I measure up to my fellow human beings? I suppose I was hoping it would motivate me to strive harder, but instead it only bred envy and despair.

Everyone became a threat to me because they were seen as my…

.Competitor

Ultimately, it caused me to relate to everyone as my competition. I found this odd, because I had never thought of myself as “competitive.” (envision me making air quotes here). I have always used that word to describe athletes and jerks who stepped all over anyone who got in their way to the top. But I recently became convicted of this character flaw while reading Galatians 6:4, “Each person should test their own work and be happy with doing a good job and not compare themselves with others. (CEB)

 Therefore, instead of being a competitor, I am now seeking to become more of a…

.Companion

A companion is described as “one who accompanies another,” or “comrade; an intimate friend or associate.” That’s how I wish to see others who invest in my life and how I hope they see me. I want to accompany others on our journey of life together, sharing myself with them and encouraging them along the way. I don’t want my life to imitate some apocalyptic, survival-of-the-fittest contest where everyone ends up dead before they cross the finish line.  This isn’t The Hunger Games

Because of my competitive and envious attitude, I became very self-centered in my relationships. I always needed more than I was willing to give. I never felt like I measured up, so I became overly dependent on others to prop me up.

I became a junkie, scrounging for the next hit of a…

.Compliment

I found ways to manipulate others into telling me I was adequate, competent, “special.” I fished for compliments from anyone who would pay attention to me. But, I no longer want to be so needy for compliments.

Instead, I want to be ready to be a…

.Complement

While a compliment with an “I” is all about me seeking to fill a black hole of neediness in my life, a complement with an “E” is defined as “something that fills up, completes, or makes perfect.” That’s what I want to become! I want to fill others up with words of encouragement. I want to see relationships made complete and whole. I want to bring out the best in others and I want them to do the same in me.

I no longer want to compete, I want to…

.Complete

Read Mark 14:32-42 

             “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death.” These were the words of Jesus the night before he was to be crucified. He had taken his disciples to the Garden of Gethsemane to pray. In his divinity, he knew what he was facing and was willing to do so out of obedience and love. But in his humanity, he wrestled with deep sorrow and distress, pleading to his Father to see if there was any way around this. There is a powerful scene from Jesus Christ Superstar that portrays this gut-wrenching agony of Christ.

Have you ever felt this way? Overwhelmed with sorrow? Perhaps even right now. Sorrow, fear, anxiety, worry, doubt, depression, addictions and disease can all have an overwhelming affect on us. Our souls can become overwhelmed to the point of death.

There was a time in my life when I could relate with the struggle between my human emotions and my faith in God. A time filled with fear, sorrow and betrayal. It was a very frightening and painful time. It was as if I was experiencing my own personal Gethsemane, if you will. These feelings left me overwhelmed emotionally, spiritually and physically.

It was during these dark days that the only thing I was able to cling to was the image of Christ in Gethsemane. The idea of the Son of God crying out in sorrow and distress, pleading to his Father to remove this cup from him, was profoundly comforting to me. Because it was at the moment I felt this overwhelming sorrow that I realized Christ also experienced overwhelming sorrow in his life. He knew exactly what I was experiencing. My God could relate to my human emotions because he was fully human in Jesus Christ.

So, my encouragement to anyone struggling with overwhelming sorrow is to cry out to God, just as Christ did. In your dark night of the soul, when it is overwhelmed as unto death, cry out in prayer. Don’t be afraid to show your emotions to God. He made you and gave you emotions to express. And he will respond with His presence. We might not always like his answers, as he doesn’t always take the pain and sorrow away. Christ still went to the cross. We still carry our’s. We still face death. But we don’t do it alone. God is with us in the Garden of Gethsemane.

Gethsemane literally means “olive press.” This garden was situated at the foot of the Mount of Olives and Gethsemane was where they pressed the olives into olive oil. Large heavy stones were laid on top of the tender olives to extract the precious oil from them. As we contemplate this process, it’s interesting to note that this must have been similar to what Christ felt that night in Gethsemane. It was as if Christ was being pressed by the heavy stone of our sins, extracting his precious sweat and blood for each of us.

Olive oil has hundreds of uses today, just as it did back in the first century; everything from cooking and nourishment, to medicine and religious ritual, and even illuminating lamps. This precious oil was an essential part of life for those who lived in the Mediterranean region.

When you face your Gethsemane, as dark and painful as it is, I pray that you will begin to see the precious oil that’s being extracted from you, even now. In the Bible, oil is often used as a symbol of the Holy Spirit. In John 16:7 Christ explained to his disciples that he had to die in order for the Comforter, the Holy Spirit, to come to us. And it’s the same Holy Spirit that bears fruit in us as we face the overwhelming sorrows and challenges in life. When we feel the heavy stones of life pressing down on us, we can often discover that the Holy Spirit is extracting the precious oil of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control in us and from us.

So take heart friends, we can gain strength through our own personal Gethsemane, because our Lord suffered first. In his death, he sent the Holy Comforter to be with us during our trials. We have a God who knows what it’s like to experience sorrow, distress and betrayal. Let’s take comfort in that and allow him to extract the precious oil that can then be used to heal and nourish us and those around us, and ultimately to be used as a fragrant offering back to him.

One of the recurring struggles in my life has been my tendency to envy others. I often compare myself to others in some twisted game of internal competition where I inevitably end up in the losers bracket. It’s one of those prime examples of insanity, doing the same thing over again, expecting different results. In my struggle with self-measuring, I find myself caught up in a giant toilet-bowl swirly of discontent, envy and jealousy.

“I’m not as smart as him.”

“She has more talent in her little toe that I do in my entire body!”

“Why can’t I be as good-looking as him?”

I have learned that the best defense against my envy attacks is gratitude. I must practice being grateful in all things lest I fall into my toilet bowl of discontent and envy.

I have challenged myself over the past year to write down five things I’m grateful for each morning. If I miss a day, then I list ten the next. This practice has helped me get free from the chains of envy and jealousy in my life. When I’m grateful, I’m less likely to obsess over what other people have.

Brian McLaren, in his book Naked Spirituality: A Life with God in 12 Simple Words, gives an entire chapter on the practice of gratitude. One of the exercises he encourages his readers to do is to write out a prayer, finishing three prompts:

• “Thank you, Lord, for…” (Name gifts as they come to mind.)
• “If I stopped being grateful…” (Tell God what would happen to you if you didn’t give thanks.)
• “Thank you!” (Describe how you feel to be so blessed.)

It was the second prompt, “If I stopped being grateful…” that really caught my attention. As I began to explore my life and what it would become if I stopped being grateful, I was overwhelmed with how tragically different my life would end up. I would end up a wretched, bitter old man, isolated from my family and my church. I would be alone and homeless, all because of my chronic ingratitude.

As I contemplated on this realization, it occurred to me that gratitude is like the earth’s axis in my life. If the earth’s axis moves too far off it’s 23.5-degree angle, all havoc would break loose, literally destroying earth, as we know it. The same thing would happen to my world if I lost my axis of gratitude. My life would be turned upside down.

We can’t survive without an axis of gratitude.

“Gratitude is not only the greatest of the virtues but the parent of all others.” Cicero

My five-hour trip brought me into St. Louis at about 9:00 on a Saturday night. As I crossed the river, the lights of the Gateway Arch welcomed me home. The copper-green dome of the historic courthouse radiated in her winter gown accompanied by the sparkle of the city skyline. The brisk winter night seemed to highlight the beauty of my hometown. I traveled through my favorite city corridor past several illuminated landmarks: Busch Stadium, Union Station, and Forest Park, and thought to myself how beautiful St. Louis is at night.

As I made my way home, the thought occurred to me, cities always look better at night. They seem to shimmer and glitter with light, putting on a dazzling display for those who are passing through. But in the daylight, much of that sparkle seems to disappear. In the light of day, the city isn’t able to hide its mortifying decay of vacant warehouses and stores, the blight of burned out buildings, stripped of its brick and copper, laid bare for gawkers to see. In the light of day, the city skeletons won’t stay in their dark closets. So the city has learned to use the shadows of darkness to cover her scars, while at the same time, using lighting effects to accentuate her beauty marks.

In Matthew 5:14 Jesus told his followers, “You are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hidden.” I wonder if the church, the city on a hill, has also found ways of covering up her scars in the shadow of darkness. The light of Christ is supposed to illuminate from us so others can see His light through us, but I’m afraid we tend to use the light mainly to spotlight the good things that make us proud and we keep our scars and our poverty hidden away in the dark corners of our back closets. I pray for the day when we can allow God’s light to shine on us so we can be seen for what we truly are, broken people made beautiful by the Light, not concealed in darkness.

As I left the information desk, a Priest walked up. I noticed he had a hospital badge identifying him as a hospital chaplain. But what really caught my attention was the nasty-looking bruise he had on his forehead too.

Now remember, I hadn’t lived in St. Louis for very long and was totally unfamiliar with the Catholic Church culture of our city. So when I saw his matching bruise, my very first thought was, “That poor nun and priest must have butted heads with one another! How embarrassing!” It wasn’t until I got halfway down the corridor when it hit me, “It’s Ash Wednesday, idiot!” I felt like such a goober, but at least I hadn’t made a comment to either of them. Thankfully God and I were the only witnesses to my stupidity.

I eventually found the grieving family who had gathered in one of the waiting rooms. I recognized my secretary who was a member of the family and went to her and asked if I could gather the family for prayer. She gathered everyone and we held hands in a circle as I prayed for Clyde, their brother, husband, and father who had just passed. I heard the sniffs of some of the family members who were crying during the prayer. When I said “Amen” I opened my eyes and shared my condolences and goodbyes. I noticed the collective countenance of their faces had brightened. I was pleased that my prayer had ministered to them in their grief. I told my secretary that I would talk to her later in the day and said goodbye. Later that day, she came by the church office to pick up some things and she thanked me for coming to the hospital. But as she turned to leave the office, she said, “Just one thing, my brother’s name was Carl, not Clyde,” she smiled and left me in my office convulsing in humiliation.

I’ve reflected on that story every Ash Wednesday since then. I guess it’s God’s way of keeping me humble. And isn’t that the whole reason for Ash Wednesday? We are but dust and ash. We are totally dependent on God. Yet we do our best to keep an image of being independent, self-made adults who have our lives together. But in reality we’re all just butting our heads with God and we have nasty-looking bruises on our foreheads to prove it.

Anyway, back to my sermon. I preached on Ephesians 4:1-16, “How Can You Promote Unity in the Church?” I opened my sermon with a story about two young cohorts in crime hiding rotting bananas in my office. These bananas went unnoticed by me for several weeks, and consequently forgotten by said cohorts, until one day when one of them noticed me swatting fruit flies in my office. We all had a good chuckle about the rotting fruit and resulting fruit fly infestation. Yes, good times.

It may have been a stretch, but I was able to tie that story into my sermon topic on unity. People were impressed and lives were changed for eternity…all because of some rotten bananas. That’s right, God can even use rotten bananas for his glory. No one likes rotten bananas. One can only make so much banana bread. But no one likes green bananas either. It’s only when a banana has had time to mature and ripen, can they be useful to nourish others. In the meantime it’s important that they stay connected with a bunch of other bananas so they can mature to perfection.

Christians are like bananas. Apart from the bunch too soon, they’re still green. Stay apart for too long, they rot and only attract flies. But Christians that stay connected long enough to mature will be nourishment to those who come in contact with them.

May they be brought to complete unity to let the world know that you sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me.     John 17:23

It was the early 60’s and my dad shaved like most men of his generation: he used an old shaving mug and brush. He would pour hot water in the mug and vigorously stir the soap with his shaving brush until the lather foamed up to the rim. Using the brush, he would lather his face, then take his stainless steel double edged safety razor and shave off his black stubble.

I would climb up on the toilet, taking my seat on the porcelain tank and revel in this manly morning ritual. Dad would sometimes pick me up before shaving and rub his whiskered cheek against mine. I would scream with delight. His unshaved face felt rough yet comforting. It was as if he was injecting his blessing through hundreds of little bristles.

On the mornings when he wasn’t in a hurry, dad would take the shaving brush and lather up my boy face. He’d then hand me the bladeless razor and let me shave.
The smell of shaving cream and Old Spice would transform the small bathroom into our own father-son man cave.

I can’t imagine growing up absent of this father-son ritual. Actually, I don’t think I could have grown up without it. I think I would have been stuck in a Peter Panish state of never-never land with a bunch of other lost boys still awaiting their masculine blessings.

I’m a man now. Not because I have whiskers, or any other physical traits of the adult male. I’m a man because my father blessed it to me.

Thanks Dad!

Check out my other blog at Ballwin-Ellisville Patch

Morning Confession: Darkness Welcomes the Light