First Church of the Clueless

The wise men--kings or magi--whatever they were, they were curious about holy things.  They were curious enough to study stars and then travel across desert lands and borders and into a foreign territory.

Such spiritual curiosity, desire and hunger is all around us. And often, like in the story of the wise men, that seeking is done by those beyond the boundaries of where holy folks hang out.

Cluelessness, like that of King Herod, is fairly common amongst God's people. "WHAT? A king? Who? Where?" That was the best response the guy in charge of God's capitol could come up with when the "unholy" ones came seeking.

Do you see the irony? Outsiders "getting it." Insiders, "Meh, not so much." Outsiders longing for God and finding their way toward God, while insiders are singing holy songs and eating holy meals at First Church of the Clueless?

How long has it been, Christian, since you have followed an inkling that God was up to something? And acted on the belief that God wanted you to go out of your way to discover and honor the birth of Something New...and Vital...and Life Changing?

Often, for me, it is easier to sing God-songs and show up at God-events, than it is to tune my radar into the current broadcast. 

I pray for a hungry heart.

Queueing-up for the New Year

Mystery hushes us. It blasts away incessant mind-chatter. It chokes words into silence.

We stand at the edge of the canyon; or by the side of the sea; or at the foot of a mountain. Quiet. Awe.

Vows exchanged by glistening eyes, clammy hands and trembling voices.

Hearing, It's cancer.

The birth of a healthy new child.

Holding-onto a dear friend as they breath their last.

And now we queue-up to a new year. We hear a whisper pleading with us: Take off your shoes, This is holy ground. 

Will we remove them? Will we listen? Do we believe?

Hearing the Holy--Together

I've been reading the Christmas story again and watching as God weaves Heaven-realities into earth-longing.  Such a wonder.  And this mysterious coming of God to be among us is accomplished by people, not individuals.

There are Zechariah and Elizabeth, Joseph and Mary, the shepherds and the wise men.  Each of these individuals is experiencing holy wonders in partnership with another .  Even the two unlikely mothers--Elizabeth and Mary--are permitted time together to savor the truths of God's wrecking/remaking of their worlds.  No one is left to experience the divine on their own.  Not just Mary will bare a child.

When you hear from God, who hears with you?  Who is there to confirm your sensing of what the Holy One is up to in your life?  We are not intended to hear or perceive holy stuff in a vacuum.  Yet,  we often teach spiritual formation as a solo act.  I propose to you that we need someone else around who can affirm when glory comes our way.

Do you live in expectation of holy intervention?  Do you live in a bright place where God can speak to you--or dream through you as God wishes?  With whom can you share these epiphanies?  Who can affirm them?  Who is the Joseph to your Mary, or the Elizabeth to your Zechariah?  We are not intended to do this Jesus thing alone.  To whom would you turn if you heard from an angel today?

We need others to help us decipher holy messages. God is broadcasting in our direction.

Forgiveness: A Holy Pain

A friend sent me this post by Michael Hidalgo.  It speaks of the pain of forgiveness--not only for Christ, but for his followers.  It seemed a good way to end a six month drought of posting here, and an appropriate topic for this Holy Week.


May we do our suffering well and in a redemptive way.

Click here to read. 

Thank you Michael Hidalgo.

May Christ's grace keep us.

Where is God in the blurry mix?

Details--and more details.  Things to do.  Worries dangling over some threatening precipice.  We cannot identify their source, yet their weight threatens to undue us.


Sometimes it feels as if our days are shattered into a million tiny fragments. There are, after all, so many things to keep in mind—so many plates to spin in the process of our life-- and of making a living.  Far from having focus, our splayed vision shatters concentration like a prism scatters light, except that there is no beauty in the dispersion.

What is the product?  Confusion, lack of focus, anxiety and frustration are a few symptoms.  Stress, sadness, depression, hopelessness are a few more.  

Where is God in the blurry mix?

I find great encouragement in Philippians 3:4-14.  Paul completes his thoughts with a bombastic statement.  "This one thing I do..."  How can that be true?  Paul travels, faces immense persecution and suffering, starts churches, trains leaders, manages them at great distances, writes letters, faces-down Roman governors--and all the while he is composing Christian Theology and church polity on the fly??  One thing?? 

Right.  Where was he hiding his "to do" list?

Once, when Jesus had impressed the multitudes with his miracles, a group of religious followers asked him, "What must we do to do the works God requires?"  

Jesus answered them: "The work God requires is to believe in the one he has sent."  (John 6:28-29)

We ask the great questions of life in the plural.  

                                  Jesus answers in the singular.  

One thing is required.  Jesus.  And Paul understood.

And I'm trying.

First fires, and rekindling my spiritual disciplines

I just placed the first fire of the year in our wood stove.  Forty degrees this morning and a frost warning for tonight.  When the cabin thermostat showed fifty-nine, it seemed a solid enough hint.

Looking now across the room, the glass in the wood stove displays beautiful, dancing flames.  But the struggle to get that fire started was not an easy one.  There were repeated trips to the newspaper stack.  A fresh splinter received from the process of tearing kindling from a stubborn, yet well seasoned piece of fire wood.  I re-lit and puffed and rearranged the ingredients until finally, the fire had its own life.

First fires are tough.  The beauty and warmth they provide are life sustaining.

I find it a similar truth when rekindling my spirit.  Prayer and spiritual discipline require steady and determined effort to catch their own life; and now and then, despite myself, I find nothing but ash in my soul.  At those times, I have to begin again.  I need to attend to my spiritual disciplines.

I no longer despair in times like these--thinking that God has deserted me, or is hiding until I prove myself worthy of a restored flame.  No, the truth is simple.  Relationships require two or more.  And sometimes I'd prefer to be the served master, rather than a responsible partner.

The Psalmist David once said: "Restore to me the joy of my salvation."  And then, I assume, he proceeded to his spiritual disciplines.

The Great Trees of the Forest~And coming up short of greatness

Here in the National forests of southern Indiana, some of our younger, weaker trees are sagging under the summer sun. Rains have been few, and plants in under-watered gardens bow low. Shrubs all but pant aloud, seeking pity with their dying leaves. The grass snaps under foot as I cross the lawn. The trails I hike are dust. Rushing streams from earlier in the summer are nothing but gravel and silt. Talcum-fine powder cascades down the rear window of our car. Think "desert" in a Midwestern forest.

And yet the great trees of the forest sway green in the hot breeze. Their branches remain strong and supple, and their leaves vital and alive. What is their source of strength--of endurance?

Yesterday morning, five degrees before the thermometer topped one hundred, I parked my Jeep and stepped into the forest for a five mile hike. I had plenty of water. The tall oaks, sycamores, beech, maples and ash cooled the air.  Their canopy offered cover from the sun's anger. I heard the occasional unsuspecting animals move for protection--their motion less a wintertime skitter, and more a forced march. Yet, beneath the protection of the great trees of the forest, life lumbered and gasped along, as did I.

I paused long enough to step into a stream bed. Just a few short months ago, water had gushed its way through this valley--pushing gravel and forest debris into great piles. Not now. All of life seems to have bent, moaned or broken midst this arid season--except for the giants of the forest. Even next to the empty stream, the sycamores and beech trees stand firm.

Ever wanted to be a spiritual giant?

We all experience dry times in our lives. Our sources for spiritual renewal seem drained. They no longer provide. What worked last month, is coming up empty today. We are denied living water by life's bustle, griefs or fury. And soon, in the blazing place we call today, we bend to worry, doubt and despair.

I am no great oak. My branches sag too often, and my leaves chatter their browning complaints. It is agonizing to find one's self so often coming up short of greatness.

Yet, we must keep on seeking sources that remain; and longing to push roots deeply enough into rocky soil to find Life--no matter the surface condition. That is, if we ever want to be a covering for those who depend on us.

Perhaps spiritual giants--like great forest trees--become so in order to shelter those of us who are weak? Perhaps personal survival is the last thing on their minds? Perhaps it's easier to breath up there where the living and giving are being done?