washing away the dead…

I remember what I was feeling at 4pm, my truck inching past the intersection line where Hwy 76 cut through the road I journeyed on.  The light was still red, but the deadness of my heart benumbed an already battered body allowing me to slowly ease off the brake.  Maybe things would be easier if I just let my truck stall at that intersection and maybe a car would be speeding much too fast to stop.  And maybe, just maybe the numbness I was feeling would ultimately cease to affect me.

The rain was moderate, though to Southern Californians it was enough to wreak havoc on roads built for perfect weather.  My window down, I allowed the drops to pelt my left arm, soaking through the green fleece I wore.  My windshield wipers mocked me. First allowing the precipitation to blur the reality I thought couldn’t be true and then wiping it clean projecting the bleak grayness I was actually living in.  The chill was comforting in the same way a good break up song was.  Living in self-pity and especially hearing it play out in some sort of catchy melody somehow lead to healing.  Or at least that was the lie I was telling myself.

Days before I tried barreling my truck through this very intersection, only going the opposite direction.  After calling my mother and telling her my final goodbye I decided to do what dead bodies do best – not allow the stimulus of the world to aggravate me.  But through divine intervention my truck stopped, ironically in the middle of that usually busy highway, eerily empty at the time.

That day, I had to hold it together.  I was on a mission to put up thousands of fliers of my lost dog who ran away after I finally finished unpacking my new apartment.  I left the door open in order to empty a tank full of exotic fish that died in transit.  He bolted proving to be a fine cherry on top of an ice-cream sundae that had just crashed to the ground.  The woman I referred to as wife, loved-one, significant other, soul mate… had just skipped away cheerfully embracing my friend’s warmth that she now referred to in ways only endearing to lovers.  Leaving me with my truck, a four-bedroom house to clean up before eviction and papers served to me by deputy sheriffs, I was filled with holes that I hoped the rain would hide.  And my mission had to be complete before the day was up for the next afternoon I would be attending a beloved friend’s funeral.

I remembered what I was feeling at 4pm that day, because at 4pm today I was sitting at a traffic light impatiently inching past the intersection line.  The rain attempted to slow my progress but the new wipers in the SUV I drove obliterated any sign of moisture before me.  Though the rain fell hard, I had a clear view of the road that led home.  I was anxious to hold my baby boy, toss him in the air only to smother his giggling face with kisses.  My beautiful wife, faithful and honorable as any Christ-like person could be waited (however was keeping busy by packing and organizing the last of our belongings).  In a couple of hours we would be headed to a Cajun themed going away potluck hosted by several dozen of our closest friends.  In a few days we would be flying cross-country once again to visit more friends and family and by the middle of the month we would be in another country embarking in our adventure to proclaim the love of Christ to those who have never been graced with it before.  Yes, this is my life.

I allowed the rain to pelt me this time my naked arm feeling the bitter cold, too cold to keep it out.  The smell of the South, of Mississippi was unique to me.  A mixture of wood burning, newly mown grass and grilled catfish wafted past as I continued down Hwy 61.  Sticking my head out the window into the downpour, I knew that I would remember this day well…this time reminiscing on the joy God has overwhelmed me with.

Blind man’s healing…

Everyone passed Joseph* off as a confused individual for most of his life.  And it seemed like such an identity would stick with him until the day that he died – a day that was knocking on the door of this 50 year old man.  Suffering from glaucoma and tremendous hearing loss, he was clueless as to who entered his room to provide medical care.  So in turn, people who walked in merely came to perform a job, nothing more.  There were no conversations, no greetings, no acknowledgements of his presence.  And who could blame anyone?  Taking care of someone who can’t communicate properly is frustrating.

A big, burly individual weighing in at about 300 pounds, movement was extremely limited.  His coughing came in sudden spurts and lasted for an hour or so at a time.  They were so violent that it shook him to tears.  A spit cup sat on the table beside his bed for the phlegm he had coughed up.  But his eyesight, being as bad as it was, forced him to grab his hand-held urinal instead to dispose of his excrement. 

I had been taking care of this man for a few days when something happened.  We had a conversation.  Before that moment, I would scream into his ear and let him know that I was in the room.  I asked him if he needed anything.  I helped him up when he needed to use the bathroom, I monitored his vital signs, I brought him juice and water and helped him take a few swigs.  There were times when I had to clean him up and do his hygiene routine for him.  I felt sorry for the man and I really wanted to let him know I was there for him.  Eventually, my name became the only one he could remember.  When other people entered the room, he asked if it was Edwin.  And when they corrected him, he would still call them Edwin.

The conversation took place as I was repositioning his oxygen nasal cannula.  My hands were working extremely close to his face.  Suddenly, I realized that he was staring at me with his clouded pupils.  Looking me dead in the eyes he said, “It’s over.  My life is over.  I can’t live like this no mo.”

There was a short pause.  I knew he was blind and he never talked in such a coherent fashion before.  I was caught off guard by the remark and then I pleaded, “Why would you say that, Joseph*?  You’ve got a lot to live for and people find value in you.  Believe me.” 

“People been tellin dat to me all mah life.  But if dey really knowed who I was, den they’d know that I deserve to be living like a gimp.  I can’t feed myself, I can’t see, I can’t even hear.  Hell, I can’t even take a dump without yo help.  I need to die and it needs to happen now!”  Joseph’s words were clear and concise, not muffled whatsoever.

“Think about it brother.  You’re not talking right.  I know it’s tough, but there is a lot to live for.  You’re only 50 man.  What can I do to help you realize that?”

“Not a damn thing brother.  I just need to go.  It’s all my fault.  All the bad things I done, all the death I caused, all the drugs I done sold.  I ain’t no gangsta…neveh was.  Just wanted da lifestyle.  Oh, and I got it.  But I nevah evah got caught for doin a damn thing.  I’m ridin out my punishment here, in this death bed a mine.  I just need to go.”

“And where are you going to?”  I asked, seeing an opportunity to bring him a ray of hope.

“To hell.  I belong there!”

“Do you want to go to heaven?”  Though my voice was calm, I fought every urge to respond the same way he did.  I wanted to yell back.  But I knew that the nurse’s station stood right outside his door and it was past midnight already.

“Yes, indeed!  I’d do anything to get there.  But it’s too late for someone like me.  I can’t be forgiven for all the wrong I done did.”  Tears were flowing from his useless eyes.

“You’re forgiven brother,” I said softly.  Realizing that he might not be able to hear me, I screamed, “I said, you’re forgiven!  Did you hear me?  I said YOU ARE FORGIVEN!’

“I heard ya the first time boy.” 

“Oh, sorry.”

We continued our conversation for a few minutes.  I told him about God’s forgiveness and the love that He had to offer.  It seems like everyone’s been to church around these parts, but not Joseph.*  He told me that he’s never heard anybody tell him that God loved him before and that he could begin a relationship with Him.  He was never told that he could be forgiven of his sins.

That night, he gripped my hand with all the strength he had left in his body.  He wept loudly and uncontrollably as he confessed some horrific things to me.  His body began to ease as I hugged his bear-like shoulders and he prayed to receive Jesus Christ into his heart.  Then, we talked about different things.  We dreamt about the new bodies that we’d have in heaven and about what it meant to die to our old selves.  And we even laughed at the fact that he couldn’t see my face and that he’d be one surprised brother to find out that I was a Filipino, even though he didn’t know exactly what that was. 

I exited the room as a nurse walked right in.  She was there for a few minutes.

“Boy, that man is really out of it huh?  You can’t understand a word he’s saying, and I’d be surprised if he even knew anyone was in there,” she said talking out loud to herself.

I smiled at the thought that the both of us had a unique moment together, one that couldn’t be replicated.  Though I have a lot of questions about the emotional conversation we had, I do know one thing’s for sure.  Something happened in that room that allowed a message to be communicated – a message of forgiveness, love and salvation.

Radical in the Strength of our Weakness

*I added a note at the end of this blog after a buddy of mine (through his blog) reminded me that God loves everybody…trust me, it’s easy to forget that and you’ll see why.

Being called a “radical Christian extremist” is a humiliating insult for most followers of Jesus Christ.  However, for popular atheist and author Sam Harris, such an appalling title warrants a simple explanation.  

In his book, The End of Faith, he quips that, “we have been slow to recognize the degree to which religious faith perpetuates man’s inhumanity to man.” Putting religions on the same playing field, Harris compares Christians to cults who kill in the name of Jihad.  He seems to scream, “If you are a true Christian, then you must be a radical!”  As an ordained minister, evangelist and missionary, I have to ask, “Do our common Christian responses to the worlds ills rightly deserve the negative title of extremist?”  I think the answer is yes.

Sam Harris’ views are typical of many who pay attention to the media.  Mixed in with news of terrorist attacks, murders, and scandals are headlines that show Christians attacking fellow citizens based upon political or social views.  Westboro Baptist Church of Topeka, Kansas responds to the immorality of this world by picketing, harassing people, and slandering enemies.  They hate (an understatement) people who fly against their own personal belief system.  Pastor Steven Anderson of Faithful Word Baptist Church asks his congregation to pray for the death of President Obama.  In an interview with Fox News he stated, “I hope that God strikes Barack Obama with brain cancer so he can die like Ted Kennedy and I hope it happens today.”  A few weeks ago, another Christian, Christopher Broughton, touted an assault rifle at one of Obama’s speaking engagments.

Though these incidents do not describe the views of all Christians, it is unfortunate that the negative stereotypes we have been given have nothing to do with our love for Christ, but have everything to do with our hate for people.

I am not suggesting that Christians stay out of politics or let evil prevail. Yes, we are called to seek justice as Micah 6:8 proclaims. However, when our desire to do such things overwhelms us so much that society deems our actions as hateful, then we must reflect on whether or not God’s hand is truly moving us.  When we continue to respond in rage to the issues of abortion, liberal politics, and lifestyles contradictory to Christian values, we certainly deserve the title of extremist. But, if we decide to follow the example that Christ has set before us, then our response to the world’s sin will look different.

What if atheists like Sam Harris attacked the evil of religion and left Christianity alone.  How wonderful a thought if he were to one day say, “Though I don’t agree with their beliefs, let’s just leave the Christians alone because they make the world a better place.”  Though we may appear weak to the world, we know that our strength comes from Jesus.  So what if we became radical in the strength of our weakness?

When I surrendered my life to Jesus Christ, I lay aside everything that was within me.  I surrendered my right to be comfortable, my right to have my way, my right to hate, my right to fight, and my right to live.  I did that because of Jesus’ example, “Who, being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made himself nothing…He humbled himself and became obedient to death…” (Philippians 2:6-8). 

Note:  Shortly after writing this I read a blog that a buddy of mine, Brian Kiley, wrote about pastors from the organization XXXChurch visiting Westoboro Baptist Church. In the blog, we are reminded that “God loves the religious too.”  Often times I forget that and when I do, I stand in sin.  Thanks for reminding me that loving people excludes no one, Brian.  Check out his blog here.

Click here for a link to a news video about the Porn Pastors visiting Westoboro Baptist Church.

A Fear so Great…(graphic transformation)

“The Lord your God is with you.  He is mighty to save.  He will take great delight in you.  He will quiet you with His love.  He will rejoice over you with singing”  Zephania 3:17.

Those who have an intimate knowledge of me are aware of my all consuming fears.  Those who have a superficial knowledge of me believe I fear not.  

The experiences of my life narrate a story, rather a blueprint, of how to build up defenses strong enough to withstand the greatest armies of this world.  I have been forced to deal with these great defenses over the past few months here at the Center for Intercultural Training in North Carolina…preparation crucial before embarking on a journey into a life of missions.

It pains me to reflect on several specific moments that have hardened my thick skin. But to realize the extent of my depravity and the reasons I built up a facade more extravagant than the sets of Hollywood, I had to venture into the realms of my deepest, darkest thoughts.  Emerging out of the gloomy waters, I have experienced a renewing of my soul…a second conversion experience that has changed my life.  I wanted to share with you some amazing things God has been doing to  make me realize that my identity is not in other people, but in Him, as one of His valued children adopted into a family overflowing with true love.  

It has been a process.  Part of that process had to begin with a very real confrontation with my past…a past I had been too weak to deal with.  So over the past month and a half, I was compelled to venture into places I didn’t want to go to.  Each time I walked down the cluttered hallways of my mind, an overwhelming fear would consume me.  To my left and right, large doors loomed over me.  I knew what lay behind those doors.  It was me who shut them up, locking the deadbolt with the hope that I would never have to face what was behind them ever again and it was time to open them up.  A couple of things that gave me motivation to open those doors:  

1.)  Learning that I had to preach the Gospel to myself everyday.  As you know, it is my passion to proclaim the Gospel to others, bringing hope to those who have yet to experience the Good News.  Little did I know that such proclamation is not reserved strictly for those who do not believe…reminding myself that God has saved me is foundational to my day to day living.

2.)  A good friend, colleague and counselor by the name of Jim Head urged me on with the ferocity of a general and the gentleness of a father teaching his child to ride a bike.  His Godly example and humble wisdom nudged my arm toward those doorknobs…all I had to do was twist.

One would think that when I came into a saving relationship with Jesus Christ, those doors would have been destroyed, along with everything in it.  But the truth is, when I became a Christian, I frantically approached those doors with a big can of white paint and fearfully brushed over the dark, thick wood representing who I used to be.  I looked different, heck, I even felt different, but inevitably the paint faded away and the peeling began to once again show the rotting dark wood that lay beneath.  

I began to open the doors.  Behind the first one I saw myself when I was a little four year old boy.  I was crying because I had disappointed my father after destroying a new toy he bought me.  After a good spanking, he told me to stop crying.  ”Men don’t cry, Edwin!  Stop being a little girl.”  The next time I cried was 23 years later.

This scene was enough to drop me to my knees in tears…such pain.  That was when I began to hold my feelings in, poisoning my very being.  Trembling, I made my way to the next door.  Opening it, I could hear the screams of my mother and the sobs of my father.  I remember it quite well.  Slowly pushing the door as quietly as I could, I noticed all the broken glass on the floor.  Sticking my head part way into the room I saw the holes in the wall made by angry fists.  Dishes were broken, the couch was ripped up, our family portrait was on the ground torn in two.  Yes, I remembered it quite well… the aftermath of infidelity preceded by my mother’s horrific assault by a local rapist as she waited for the morning bus.  Beyond the room through the windows I saw the flashing lights of a police car.  It was time to take my father away.  This scene, almost a decade and a half ago represented my entire childhood and adolescent years.

I couldn’t take much more.  There were so many doors.  I was drowning in emotions too painful to express and I had just started.  So I began running down the hallway.  I went to each door and started kicking them in, tears still running down my face.  The sounds that emitted from those rooms filled the hallway in a discombobulated clutter of noise.  Some of the words were too piercing to ignore.  ”You’re a loser; What is wrong with you; You’re such a fat kid; Nobody cares about you; You have nothing to contribute; Hey everybody, he’s a fag; you dumbass…”  And then the laughter began.  It hurt my ears so badly that I tried to cover them up.  It was too much…I was on the ground writhing in the pain of the loud laughter that I knew was directed at me.  But I knew that I couldn’t stop now.  I mustered up my strength, let out a loud groan, and pushed myself up off the floor.

I ran to the next door and broke it down, this time barging in shoulder first.  I lunged forward and fell onto soft sand.  I looked up, dirt stuck to my face and saw the military vehicles before me.  My unit was gearing up and the Marines around me were loading themselves onto 7-ton trucks.  ”Maybe we can kill some Hajjis this time…” voiced one of the men.  I saw myself, sunglasses on and “the old me” responded, “I aint helping any of you m—–f—ers if you get shot…unless you’ve been good to me of course.  Hahaha!” 

Mortified, quickly I got up and scrambled for the door.  But it shut before I could get out.  I turned back and came face to face with myself wearing combat gear and a medical bag, noticing the prideful look in my eyes.  I saw my desire to see violence, though it didn’t come out through my words.  I had an air of arrogance to myself.  Even though I looked happy enough around my buddies, I knew what I was really thinking.  I wanted to see people die.  I wanted to release the anger I had accumulated over the years.  I wanted to fire my weapon even though my primary duty was to save lives as a combat medic.  How I wished to engage in real hand to hand combat with an enemy.  I dreamt of ripping people’s heads off.  I remember me back then.  I was hateful.  But people couldn’t see it in me.  During those days, I participated in the Marine Corps Martial Arts program.  I took out this internal hate during my sparring sessions.  When we were in garrison and I had access to the gym, I worked out twice a day, two hours at a time…every single day.  It was the only way for me to keep sane. 

Suddenly, the whistling of an aircraft forced me to look up.  It was a helicopter.  The ones that transported Marines and Sailors.  It was crashing toward me.  I ran for the door again.  It was locked.  The heat of the day was burning my back and the wind of the propellor was kicking up dust so violently that I felt like I was in the middle of a tornado.  I gathered everything in me to kick the door off its hinges before the helicopter that was carrying a dear friend of mine crashed into the sands of Iraq.  I made it out.

Now back in the hallway I knew that I had to open every single door, no matter how long it took.  It was painstaking.  The experiences of pain, embarrassment and loss.  I had to relive it all over again.  Behind some of the doors the sounds were so familiar that I had to close my eyes before turning that knob.  Eventually, I got into a rhythm.  It was getting easier.  Though my sweat was uncontrollable, my body was feeling strong and refreshed.  Then I came upon a door that looked like no other.  I knew what was behind it.  In fact, I could hear what was behind it.  That voice…one minute it was sweet and gentle and the next it was a screech as intolerable as a nail to a blackboard.  Before I could open it up all the way I could hear the sounds of romance.  The sounds of two people in love, expressing their passion for each other.  I knew what I was going to see.  Behind that door was my ex-wife and the man she was loving wasn’t me.  Another day I remember quite well…infidelity.  Would I ever get away from the torment of broken relationships?

I flung the door wide open and before me stood the woman whom I could never please.  A smirk on her face said to me, “You’re nothing…you never were.  You failed me and I stopped loving you because of your inadequacy.  Who could blame me for cheating on you all those years?”  I stood there so hurt that even the tears of sorrow couldn’t come flowing down.  I was paralyzed and stuck in a dark place where my fears became a reality.  I couldn’t move or defend myself as all of the people who wronged me, beat me up, abused me, and assaulted me started to press their way around me.  They engulfed me like an uncontrollable mob ready to tie me to a stake and burn me alive.  

I thought I was going to die, or worse yet, remain trapped in this unforgiving torment that was my hell.  What have I done?  I opened up the doors and allowed the fears of my life to flood the cluttered hallway I could not escape.  Was this all a mistake? I started to panic and fear overwhelmed me until suddenly that still soft voice whispered, “I love you Edwin.”  That voice carried me off to a place of quiet solitude.  My eyes were closed but I could feel the radiance of the sun upon my face. The gentle wind caressed the trees that I knew surrounded me.  I opened my eyes and allowed the picture of small grassy hills take over my senses.  I was at the peaceful cemetery next to the C.I.T. campus.  For some, such a place represents morbid death.  For me, it became a quiet place of prayer where I could meet God without the distractions of the world.  For me, the gravestones that lay scattered throughout the grass were not representations of lives long forgotten.  At this particular moment, they symbolized the death of lifelong fears that controlled me.  Fears so great that my entire character was molded into someone that God did not intend for me to be.  I had forgotten that “There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love” (1 John 4:18).

I was in a cemetery that put to rest the hidden fears I protected.  You see, my mind was never built to house such depressing pains.  On my own volition, I took on the painstaking task of building rooms with doors that housed my fears.  I built that hallway and I guarded what lived behind those doors and I had no idea that they had the power to turn me into something I never wanted to be.  After becoming a Christian, my life turned around and the hatred that once lived inside me transformed into love.  My mission in life became this: to impact the world with the love of Christ by simply loving people.  Love drives me.  But although the Holy Spirit has the power to transform a person, we still have the ability to prevent Him from doing a great work in us.  My past pains and fears prevented the Holy Spirit from truly filling me up and I didn’t even know it.  It has taken years of transformation, years of being a Christian, to get to the point where I could admit that I needed Jesus Christ to heal me completely.  My pride said, “There’s nothing wrong with me.  I just need to be saved to get into heaven and to stay out of hell.”  But God knew that He could one day get me to realize that He had so much more to offer me than to just keep me out of “prison.”  

When I became a Christian, I became a people pleaser.  To be more clinically accurate, I became a person suffering from co-dependency.  In my past life before Jesus Christ, I suffered from feelings of inadequacy.  Eventually, that forced me to become a hateful person.  With Christ in my life, that hate turned to love, but because I did not deal with those pains, I still suffered from feelings of inadequacy.  I found my identity in those who affirmed me as a good person.  I loved pleasing people because it made me feel good about myself.  This drove me to be a workaholic.  Instead of recognizing the value I have in God, I cherished the value I have in people.  To the rest of the world, I looked like a super-disciple.  Rarely did I sleep in my efforts to help every single person who popped into my life.  Ask my wife and close friends.  The average amount of daily sleep I got for almost 3 years = 3 hours/day.  I went into debt to buy food and pay the rent for those who were in need.  I sacrificed my health (eating/sleeping habits) for the benefit of others.  I went to school full time and worked full time because I thought people would be impressed with me.  My so-called lifestyle of discipleship was a mask for issues of hurt that were hidden deep within my heart…hidden behind those terrifying doors that I had built.  

The problem was that on the outside, I was doing quite well.  I was on staff at a church, had a lot of friends, helped a lot of people, completed my seminary education and I was an ordained minister of the Gospel.  But, I was doing it all on my own strength.  It became apparent that I was more sinful than I thought and I was getting into a lot of trouble because I denied the fact that I needed healing.  And then I arrived here…the Center for Intercultural Training.

I thought I knew the fullness of the Gospel, but I realized rather quickly that my understanding of God was not complete.  I believed that God wanted to save me.  I already knew that He didn’t want me to go to hell and I knew that the Good News was that He sent His Son to die for me.  I thought that Jesus merely gave me a “get out of jail free” card.  But now I know that God doesn’t just want to keep me out of jail. He wants to bless my socks off too.  I never truly grasped the concept that I have been adopted by God and I belong to His family.  As a Christian, I have been living a life of an orphan, always trying to please my Father in heaven.  

I lived a life of works-righteousness.  The same exact thing that Jesus rebuked the Pharisees for being.  I thought that if I excelled in spiritual disciplines such as spending hours in prayer, reading my Bible, journaling, serving, going to church, giving financially and other religious acts, then I would win God’s favor.  In fact, what I was actually doing was manipulating God to act according to my will.  If something went wrong in my life, my response would be, “But God, I did all these things for you…I followed the formula to the “t”.  You’re supposed to bless me because I have worked so hard for you.”  That sort of thinking is no different from the theology of the tribes of South America or Indonesia that believe in appeasing the gods of the sky through child sacrifices in order to get them to bring forth rain.  My Christian living mimicked tribal animism.  I was a Christian Animist.  

This past week our small group had the task of affirming and finding ways to help each other grow.  This meant that we had to essentially evaluate each other.  It was mortifying for me.  I didn’t want to hear any negative comments toward me…remember, I struggle with people pleasing.  But in all actuality, it was one of the most helpful things I’ve ever gone through.  On one occasion, my peers observed how I acted differently in class as opposed to social gatherings or small groups.  I didn’t like to share my opinions or feelings.  My buddy Nate Wallace has been able to speak bold truth into my life.  He noticed this about me and was not afraid to tell me.  Immediately I thought of times I’ve spent in church staff meetings and in my college and seminary classes.  I never contributed.  I realized that the fear of not being able to please the people around me consumed me so much, that I could not be myself in large groups.  

Another thing that Nate pointed out to me was that my struggle in forgiving those who have wronged me stems from a self-righteousness and judgmental attitude that he too had to overcome.  OUCH!  How wonderfully humbling it is to embrace Romans 12:3, “For by the grace given me I say to every one of you: Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought, but rather think of yourself with sober judgment, in accordance with the measure of faith God has given you.”  My inability to forgive expressed a direct reflection of what I thought about God.  Much like the wicked servant in Matthew 18:21-35 who was forgiven of an incredible debt but did not extend that forgiveness to those who owed him, I did not embrace how much God had forgiven me.  I have a lot of forgiving to do!

I will never admit that I have “arrived.”  But today, I can confidently say that I am allowing God to do a work in me so great that fear has no place in my soul.  I have never felt like this in my entire life.  This feeling of joy…wow…it’s a feeling that I never want to let go of.  The best thing is, I have an eternity to revel in it.

TRANSITUS….

I have officially transitioned myself out of my first ministry love…Frontline.  I know, it took a while but you have to understand, it was my baby – a privelege given to me by God.  However, it’s time to move on.  As you may have noticed, the stories that exist on this blog were stories from Frontline events in Oceanside.  They will follow me wherever I go, but stay tuned because new ones will be added.  So pull your seat up, hang on, and get ready to journey through an adventure with me.

VIDEO

Shame

 

There are few things more embarrassing and shameful than to beg for food.  Sure, you can think of the time you tripped on stage during the school play or when you found your zipper down during a presentation, but asking someone else to provide for you and your family because you can’t do it… now that can be humiliating. 

It took every part of her soul to muster up the strength to get out of that Honda.  It had been idling for a few minutes.  She wasn’t sure how the people in the office would react.  Just an hour ago she found herself at another church’s food pantry.  Head bowed low, her purse clenched tight acting like a shield to protect her heart, Sarah* felt the disgusted look of the volunteer handing out canned products.  “You’ve been here before! “ the volunteered snapped.  “Stop taking advantage of our programs!”

Was she going to receive the same type of treatment at this church?  She began to weep in her car.  As the tears began to flow, a knock on the window ripped her back to reality.  The woman outside of the car motioned her to roll her windows down.  “Are you okay?” she asked.  Wiping her tears as quickly as possible, Sarah stepped out of her car, shook the woman’s hand and followed her into the church.

The receptionist gave Sarah a warm smile and asked her if she needed any help.  All Sarah could do is nod.  Sarah needed food.  She lost her job, her business, her house, and could no longer provide for her family.  Her situation represents the outcome of a failing American economy, and it’s growing at an incredibly fast rate.  A volunteer led her to the food pantry. 

Sarah was amazed at the kindness of everyone she met along the way to the pantry.  When she entered the storage trailer she was overwhelmed at the amount of food available to her.  The volunteer told her to take any and everything that she needed.  She loaded up three grocery bags full of pasta, canned foods, cereal, and bread.  The volunteer asked her if she needed more and Sarah’s response expressed itself in tears.  Why do these people care?

Out of her sobbing, Sarah felt compelled to tell the volunteer that her teenage children were struggling.  They reacted rudely to any type of authority enacted by their mother and they were constantly fighting. The volunteer stood there and listened.  No advice was given, just a shoulder to cry on.  By the end of the conversation Sarah felt better.  She finally let go of all the burdens that she was carrying, and she did it by merely talking to someone who took the time to listen.  After asking question after question about God and faith, Sarah decided to surrender her life to Jesus Christ and to begin a journey filled with the love that only God can provide.  She left the church with groceries and a sense of joy that she had never experienced before.

If every person approached a church building with fear, then we’re certainly doing something wrong.  Churches have always been a place of refuge.  We were once able to declare, “I’m in a sanctuary… I’m protected,” in the midst of violence and destruction. Society has always fled to the church to find a place of comfort.  The people who made up the church were seen as saints.  They were viewed as God’s hands.  If someone had a prayer request, God moved the people of the church to help answer those requests.  Today, we view the world through cynical eyes.  We’re afraid of being ripped off and we protect our resources in a covetous manner.  We’re afraid that we won’t have enough provisions for ourselves. If we mimic the hospitality of the social security office, WIC, the housing commission, and all the government aid services that exist, then shame on us.  No wonder why people don’t flee to the church anymore. 

We must take care of each other.  Let us stop worrying about what the government will do for us and start caring for those in our community.  Keep in mind… my experience in helping those in need has led me to believe that simply putting a band aid on a problem never did anything to transform a person’s life or situation.  It does, however, buy us more time to find a better solution and proves to the one receiving aid that we actually care.  Then, we have earned a platform to speak into their lives.  The only way to receive true healing, to find true joy in grim circumstances is to turn to the only hope we have in this world, Jesus Christ.  But how can anyone know if no one is available to tell them?

AIDS – A Christian Response

A small square sticker “officially” sealed the door to Greg’s apartment.  It was under quarantine for 30 days.  I placed the bouquet of flowers down and approached the facilities manager who was slowly making his rounds.  This has been the first death this community experienced in half a decade and he was obviously despondent.  I took my time walking to the common area observing the beautiful gardens that several residents had cultivated.  It was excruciatingly peaceful.

The people who live here have one thing in common.  They have AIDS.  Many of them are homosexual or have led lifestyles that follow its path.  Some of them have rehabilitated from their conditions so well that they could now live on their own.  Others were on their way to a life of assisted living.  The majority of the residents have passed midlife so you can imagine the stories they narrated about the lives they once lived.  Partying in Hollywood, drug popping, sex, entertainment, fun… life. But today I wasn’t there to simply hang out.  I was presiding over the funeral.

I was invited to come based upon my relationship with the community.  The last time someone died, they communicated the news at a meeting and asked for a moment of silence.  Then, it was back to business as usual.  You can imagine why it is difficult for this community to seek after ceremonies that have anything to do with Christianity.  The normal interactions they experience with Christians include words of condemnation, the pressure to convert, and disgusted faces that show judgment.  Don’t forget about the all-encompassing stereotype that Christians hate gay people.  Because of the Frontline Team’s unique relationship with these wonderful people, they decided to call me in – a Christian minister.

We’ve been hanging out with them for years.  They have utilized us as taxis, counselors, entertainers, and friends.  Every so often, we’ll have a party to celebrate whatever.  Amy comes in to sing or play the guitar and I usually come around so that they can make fun of me for being me.  They love theatrical plays and watching movies.  They especially love Amy’s banana pudding.  We love on them and they love on us in spite of this whole Proposition 8 mess. 

Some disagreed with me for performing this funeral.  A church in Texas refused to do a funeral for a gay man explaining that allowing for it would condone behavior that is against the Bible.  Obviously, I stand with my friends who are dying with AIDS.  I have not compromised my belief in the commands of Jesus Christ. The residents know how I feel about their lifestyle, much like how my addicted friends and the dealers who made them that way know that I wish they would change their ways.  They all still love me. 

True love must be expressed.  I hate how this disease ravages the bodies of my friends and I wish my love could find a cure. This will not be the only funeral I will perform.  For now though, we’re living life fueled by love.  After the ceremony we all hung out and ate.  We talked, laughed, made fun of each other, and embraced.  We’re coming back to watch a movie.  It’ll be outdoors with a projector in the freezing southern California weather.  We’ll also be back to pick some of them up for church this Sunday.  Could I have loved these people if I didn’t realize that Jesus Christ loved me – loved me in a way that no one could ever possibly conceive.  I don’t know….

 

KILL!

This word is a commonly used grunt that many military members sound off as an affirmation that they are listening, whether in classroom instruction or in battlefield combat.  It makes absolutely no sense as a logical response to any question, however, in the military not only does it make sense, it’s motivating. It’s kind of like saying “Amen” after a preacher gives a clever, Holy Spirit-driven, sweat induced, charismatic, phrase within his or her sermon.  How dare I connect the two words!  Now that I’ve ruffled the feathers of my anti-war/anti-military (sometimes the same thing…but not always) friends and acquaintances, let me explain more about this concept.

This word is empty in its original meaning.  When the military shouts, they don’t actually purpose to illicit a sense of morbidity and death to the listening unit – they are merely following an age-old tradition.  I would like to ease your worries by notifying you that this reverberated response is being phased out for obvious reasons – except in the church…

At 10am, the chaplain at Edson Range removes his blouse and trousers standing only in his exercise (PT) gear.  Before him are close to one thousand Marines and behind him stand 10 courageous souls.  These men are also standing in shorts and t-shirts.  There is a built in pool on stage to the left of the alter.  As the chaplain steps waste deep into the water, he beckons the man closest to him to join.

Cold-faced and scared, this soon-to-be Marine jumps into the water.  Standing a foot taller than the chaplain he continues the stern look on his face knowing very well that his fellow service members are watching.  The chaplain asks him to identify himself and so he sounds off. 

“Recruit Williams, Fox Company, Platoon 10028!!” 

In one consorted and instinctive effort, the congregation responses with a shout. “KILL!” they scream.

With all his might, the chaplain shouts a short sermon to the crowd.  He reminds them of why they respond with “kill.”  These men are in boot camp and they are ready to get baptized.  Before being baptism, these men must affirm the faith that they have recently obtained.  They are believers in Jesus Christ and they are committed to following him for the rest of their entire lives.  It is time to publicly declare and profess this faith.  They are dead to their old selves (Gal 5:24; 1 Peter 2:24; Col 3:3-7; Rom 6:11; John 12:24;) and are now a new creation (2 Cor 5:17).  These men have begun a journey where the lives they once lived have taken a new turn towards the Almighty and only God of this universe.

The chaplain immerses the man into the water proclaiming, “buried in Christ…” and then lifts him out of the water and finishes with, “risen anew!” 

Sure, many people think it impossible for any military service member to become or remain a follower of Christ.  Issues such as just war, murder, violence, and the reputation of being aggressive, vulgar, and constantly inebriated can support this.  I stand next to the men and women of this country and defend the faith that many of them have.  However, we need people to pray, serve, and disciple these faithful warriors into a life led by Jesus Christ.  Otherwise, we must cease our complaints.  Will you stand next to the men and women who defend our freedom and rejoice in their faith?

To live and die in Kindergarten

Andrew didn’t look into my eyes… not once during our 30-minute conversation.  A 7 year old in first grade, Andrew felt like the king of his class.  Every once in a while he’d enter the door that connected his 1^st grade class to a kindergarten class and stare some of the students down.  Though he hadn’t truly been “jumped in” he still claimed Center Street.  His uncle lived next door and was a highly respected O.G. at 30 years old and taught his nephew the way of the gangsta’.  His 5-year-old brother and a few other kids would see him enter the class and stand straight up.  They’d throw up the gang signs of rival enemies and tell him to f-off, even though they themselves didn’t know what those signs really meant.  This was far from the playful wrestling and clowning I did when I was in elementary school.   

I was talking to Andrew because his 5-year-old brother, Christian, had just gotten suspended.  Before class started Christian was in line for some water.  There was a third grade girl drinking from the fountain and was dying of thirst.  She guzzled the water down, but unfortunately she took a long time… Christian punched her in the middle of the back (He’s about a foot shorter than this girl).  She turned around in anger but before she could yell at the kid, he socked her in the jaw and knocked her out.  The P.E. teacher saw the whole thing and as soon as she intervened, Christian called her some insanely derogatory names and strolled back to class.

The teachers tried to diffuse the situation.  It didn’t work.  Christian threatened to kill the teachers and told them that he was going to bring a knife back to school… a knife because he wanted to give them a chance to get away.  With the help of law enforcement, the situation was handled and Christian was suspended for the time being.  Remember, he’s only 5 years old.

Though this sounds like an extreme situation, Laurel Elementary School has had many like it.  These children are caught up in gang life.  They are constantly looking for a place to belong to.  Most of these children do not have a father.  As a matter of fact, 70 percent of juveniles and adults incarcerated are without a fatherly figure.  Andrew, Christian’s older brother, seems like he has the greatest chance at becoming a “good boy.”  Though he is one of 5 children living in a single parent home, there are people at the school who care for him, and he knows it. 

After telling him that we were there for him, he said thank you.  We invited him to church and though he called it boring and stupid, he was willing to check it out on one condition: that we came back to the school every week to play with him.  We can change this community.  If we only took a few hours a week pouring into these children, we can prevent gang violence, homelessness, and poverty.  I’m not asking people to learn how to teach; I’m asking people to be a friend and love on children who don’t feel the love of Christ that we as Christians do.  Let’s prevent the problem before it begins.