Come Clean

“Come clean” is a curious expression. Its meaning aligns more with airing dirty laundry than handing out clean linen. Another vantage point heralds disclosing secrets, exposing hidden sin and harbored ill will, all with the intent of resolving regret and moving forward with a fresh start. Such mindset generally assumes the form of hopeful resolve aimed at an altered and more desirable condition. I am unopposed to harbingers of a New Year’s wake up call, but there is an insurmountable hurdle on my way to a better me. Here is the sad truth — there is nothing worth salvaging from the old me. Duct tape does nothing to alter states; it merely temporarily allows a blemish to function to a lesser degree. Remembering failed efforts at self-help nauseates me. What I want most is my past to be utterly unrecognizable. The man I long to be is not a remodeled version of a previous edition; in fact, it doesn’t resemble me at all, but acts and sounds conspicuously like Jesus Christ.

The Cross is not a metaphor; it is an actual altar of hideous execution. The Cross defines life by demanding death. It has absolutely nothing to do with improvement, and everything to do with transformation.

“Our Lord never patches up our natural virtues, He remakes the whole man on the inside” (Oswald Chambers).

Instead of New Year’s resolutions, grant me a grave to mark both end and beginning. Eradicate independent striving and replace it with struggle of a newborn entering the world entirely dependent on his mother.

I am Thine, O Lord, I have heard Thy voice,

And it told Thy love to me;

But I long to rise in the arms of faith

And be closer drawn to Thee.

Draw me nearer, nearer blessed Lord,

To the cross where Thou hast died;

Draw me nearer, nearer, nearer blessed Lord,

To Thy precious, bleeding side.

Consecrate me now to Thy service, Lord,

By the pow’r of grace divine;

Let my soul look up with a steadfast hope,

And my will be lost in Thine.

Oh, the pure delight of a single hour

That before Thy throne I spend,

When I kneel in prayer, and with Thee, my God

I commune as friend with friend!

There are depths of love that I cannot know

Till I cross the narrow sea;

There are heights of joy that I may not reach

Till I rest in peace with Thee.

(Fanny Crosby, 1875)

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A Christmas Miracle

“So we’re not giving up. How could we! Even though on the outside it often looks like things are falling apart on us, on the inside, where God is making new life, not a day goes by without his unfolding grace. These hard times are small potatoes compared to the coming good times, the lavish celebration prepared for us.” (2 Co 4:16-18 The Message)

I have a confession to make—I enjoy watching Hallmark Christmas movies. No one need convince me that the cheese is thick in these holiday flicks; they are nothing, if not predictable. My wife and I know each plot by heart. Hallmark seldom deviates from an expected sequence: lovely young lady seeks a promotion she thinks she wants in a large city (usually New York or Chicago), but receives word that she must return to her childhood in Smalltown, USA for Christmas. She hasn’t been home for quite some time. The reasons vary for her return, but upon arriving she is reacquainted with an old flame, or she meets a new one. Either way, they fall gradually for one another, but something from her or his past prevents her/him from fully committing to the relationship. As the two help to decorate for a Christmas festival or an old family Victorian that is up for sale, they find themselves in close quarters and angle towards a kiss, only to be interrupted by someone who breaks the spell. All looks as if this is a romance meant-to-be when one of them overhears something they take out of context, forcing the relationship into a downward spiral that the other does not understand. Then, in the crescendo of conflict, a Christmas miracle happens to resolve a crisis of monumental proportion, leading to disclosure of the relational misunderstanding, and the mistaken party madly rushes to find their true love before she/he trips the light fantastic back to the promotion awaiting them in the city. The movie ends with an embrace and kiss that suggests they will live together happily-ever-after; harmless heartwarming entertainment that doesn’t require full concentration.

What in the world may we glean from such surface-level holiday tripe? We are all either running away from something or running toward someone; some of us are doing both at the selfsame time. Christmas provides context to consider which of these two scenarios best describe us. Am I avoiding an undeniable truth that must be addressed, or refusing to concede closure to a festering relational wound that poisons every other relationship into a toxic web? A Christmas miracle of transformation awaits individuals who acknowledge Christ wrapped himself in humanity for them; He invaded history so we might know hope of an unearthly brand. No matter what I have done or left undone, a Christmas miracle of forgiveness is available to anyone who refuses regret and greedily latches on to grace.

Mental Wellness

“The mind is its own place and in itself, can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.” ~John Milton

Procrastinating as long as possible, I reluctantly endured the annual wellness exam required by my employer for a lower insurance premium. As I expected, my weight was slightly elevated as was my blood pressure, but to my surprise I escaped pretty much unscathed, especially since I successfully evaded the less than desirable manual prostate exam by choosing instead a related blood test. In the end, the physician declared me healthy, if not slightly out-of-shape. I understand and appreciate the requirement to physically check-in at least once-a-year, and came away with heightened motivation to lose weight, exercise more, and generally improve the state of this body I’m strapped with for the duration. As a wise sage once said, old age is not for sissies.

While regular attention should be given to our physical well-being, much of life is lived in the mind. Yes, there is the doing of things, daily routine carried forth often with barely an awareness of the individual acts that collectively form the day. Much like when asked “How was your day?” We aren’t really wanting a recitation of moments and feelings, simply a label, more often than not, a benign “good.” Life largely consists of the considering, weighing, planning, deciding, reflecting, grieving, rejoicing that is imperceptible to even the closest to us. This quiet living occurs in our hidden place, the spot no one sees but only learns of second-hand. For that reason, this sacred space deserves and demands our highest cultivation. I have no problem with those who warn against “garbage in, garbage out.” But my greater concern is that we return to feeding our minds with strong nourishment and sanctified inspiration. Memorization is one such food of substance all but ignored by the vast majority. Quiet contemplation, sacred listening, expansive reading—these too foster a better living in the mind. Lest someone label these sentiments as New Age hooey-gooey, hear well and heed the sage advice of the Apostle: “Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.”(Philippians 4:8 KJV)

The Passing of Public Integrity

“The other party took words to put together their platform, but left out three simple letters: G-O-D.” ~ George H. W. Bush

George Herbert Walker Bush grew up in the home of devout Episcopalian parents. According to an article in The Morning Call, his father Prescott, a Republican senator from Connecticut, and his mother Dorothy led family worship every morning, using readings from the Episcopal “Book of Common Prayer” and “A Diary of Private Prayer” by Scottish Presbyterian theologian John Baillie. They modeled for their children how the Bible applied to daily life, and George adopted their faith as his own. While flying a combat mission for the Navy in September 1944, Bush’s plane was severely damaged on a bombing mission, forcing him to parachute into the Pacific Ocean south of Japan. Hunted by the Japanese, he was rescued when a U.S. submarine picked him up. Bush thanked God for saving his life and asked, “Why had I been spared and what did God have for me?” Some years later, George and Barbara’s three-year-old daughter Robin’s battle with and eventual death from leukemia both tested and deepened Bush’s faith. “Our faith,” Bush testified, “truly sustained us.”

President Bush affirmed that Jesus was God’s divine Son and frequently referred to Christ as “our Savior.” Bush seasoned his speeches with biblical quotations and stories to make his point. He began his 1989 inaugural address by praying, “Heavenly Father, we … thank You for Your love.” Strengthen us “to do Your work.” Make us “willing to heed and hear Your will, and write on our hearts these words: ‘Use power to help people.'” Bush’s Cabinet meetings always began with prayer. The Bushes prayed together every night before going to sleep.

I mourn the passing of public integrity and character. When moral strength is no longer expected or demanded, the foundation of civilization dissipates into a faint remembrance—the stuff of museums. The moment decency and justice atrophy and principle fades into nostalgia, society is doomed. While liberals herald the end of moral absolutes, conservatives fiddle with second-rate concerns. There is but one moral compass, a single litmus test of right and wrong. That immovable and irreducible crucible is God Himself as revealed in the Holy Bible. Let women and men debate Scripture but never relinquish hold on its Author as ground of all being. Our constitutional forefathers had in mind such a mooring, and though it is no longer in vogue, our future depends on returning to our past.

“We asked for God’s help; and now, in this shining outcome, in this magnificent triumph of good over evil, we should thank God.”

~ George H. W. Bush

Martyr or Misguided Adventurer?

Father, make of me a crisis man. Bring those I contact to decision. Let me not be a milepost on a single road; make me a fork, that men must turn one way or another on facing Christ in me. ~Jim Elliot

The most important story of the week is one you likely have not heard. John Allen Chau was shot with bows and arrows as he landed on North Sentinel island of India’s Andaman and Nicobar Islands, a remote location forbidden to outsiders. According to local officials, the 27-year-old was a Christian missionary. Officials say the islanders have lived in isolation for nearly 60,000 years and advocacy group Survival International said that by contacting the community, Chau may have passed along pathogens that have the “potential to wipeout the entire tribe” of about 50 to 150 people.

Chau described himself as “a snakebite survivor” and wilderness medic who is “following the way”. He said he was inspired by the Victorian explorer and missionary David Livingston, and Jesus. A missionary who was in contact with Mr. Chau in the last days of his trip says his aim was to bring the gospel to the island’s tribesmen. In a last note to his family, Chau wrote: “You guys might think I’m crazy in all this but I think it’s worthwhile to declare Jesus to these people.” He added that he was “doing this to establish the kingdom of Jesus on the island… Do not blame the natives if I am killed.”

Jeff King, president of International Christian Concern, the organization with which Chau was aligned, was in contact with him during his visit:

“John went there to bring the gospel to these people… He had talked about it… planned it for a while, so it wasn’t a whim, it wasn’t a lark…. He’d been in the islands before, to this particular island… there were three or four visits on that day, and what happened was on the first visit he was turned back by arrows; the second visit, he came with two big fish as a gift. My understanding was the men accepted the gift; they sat together for an hour; he said they were menacing and they actually shot him. He went back to the boat, and then gradually went back a third time. That’s when the fishermen who were looking through binoculars saw that they’d killed him and were taking him apart. This was not a job he was doing—this was a dream he had that unfortunately went wrong.”

John Allen Chau was an adventurous young man with a passion for Christ and commitment to spread the Gospel. He was not a trained missionary, and we could easily criticize what went wrong; instead, I prefer to learn from what he did right. Chau’s deliberate actions remind of those of Jim Elliot, Pete Fleming, Ed McCully, Nate Saint and Roger Youderian, who were all killed by the Huaorani tribe in eastern Ecuador in 1955 as they attempted to bring the Gospel to the remote people group. Elliot had written in his journal several years before:

“He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain that which he cannot lose.”

Nothing makes more sense for the Christ-follower than to relinquish everything in relentless obedience to the Savior. Sacrifice is never hollow when we lay down our lives so that others may discover the Way. Live so that you die with holy purpose; die in such a way that you inspire others to live.

(Photo from BBC via Instagram/John Chau)

Preparing Thanksgiving

“I would maintain that thanks are the highest form of thought, and that gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder.” ~ G.K. Chesterton

Don’t ask me to explain why, but some of my most random thinking comes while raking leaves and mowing grass. I finally got around to my Thanksgiving preparation To-do list, which meant I spent the evening getting reacquainted with rake, shovel, and wheel barrow. Perhaps it is the complete absorption in a menial task that liberates the mind to meander; whatever the case, thoughts burst into view like bubbles from an underground thermal spring. I contemplated Providence, Christmas gifts to purchase, divine design in alternating seasons, where my business travels will take me the next year, if I chose the best turkey for our family gathering, and who the Astros might secure in the off-season. Physical exertion eventually centers my thinking on physical limitations, which triggers musings about advancing age and how much time I have left on earth. I considered the oddity of being this old without having acquired expertise in any endeavor. How does a man muddle through this much of life without excelling at anything? What will I leave behind more than adequate insurance to provide for my wife’s needS when I’m gone? Is there anything to salvage from whatever time remains?

At the moment my thoughts poised to descend into a downward spiral of self-pity, my wife stepped outside and announced dinner was ready. Her simple statement summoned me back from my self-induced labyrinth of paradise lost. My wife always has that effect on me; she anchors and rescues me from trivial pursuit. What matters most is how I invest my heart in this moment. The root of Thanksgiving is the present, not the past. Only when we find safe footing are we free to appreciate the climb. Take stock of the ordinary glory all around you, and then you will be free to express gratitude for all that came before and what you pray will transpire tomorrow.

A Veteran’s Day Confession

“The soldier above all others prays for peace, for it is the soldier who must suffer and bear the deepest wounds and scars of war.” ~ General Douglas MacArthur

I admire those who can honestly say they have no regrets, but I am not numbered among them. I console my conscience by rehearsing a litany of my own from time-to-time and vow never to repeat self-inflicted wounds, but one I can never rectify resides near the top of my list. The Vietnam war ended with the fall of Saigon on April 30, 1975, which coincided with the home stretch of my sophomore year in high school. Although the military draft had ended in 1973, I voluntarily registered under the Selective Service Act when I turned eighteen, and began planning to enlist in the US Army upon graduation. To say I was gung-ho would be understatement. Much to my mother’s chagrin and father’s consternation, I joined a group of would-be soldiers in Beaumont to take the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery (ASVAB) two weeks following high school graduation. Talk of a possible appointment to West Point Military Academy surfaced during my exit interview with Sergeant Culbertson, and I agreed to postpone enlisting to allow the required official process to took place.

While awaiting governmental next-steps, I went to seek my pastor’s approval because he had been instrumental in helping me to come to grips two years earlier with a sense of divine call to Christian ministry. He refused to tell me what to do, but a series of well posited questions dislodged my cocksureness about military service. Mom and Dad were visibly relieved when I decided to forego the Academy and accept a scholarship to East Texas Baptist College instead, but that life-altering choice became an unending watermark that resurfaces with very little prompting. A few years ago I attempted to enlist in the Army Reserves and National Guard as a chaplain, but was rejected by each because of my age. I wrote to the President protesting that decision, but received no reply. The window had closed on military service.

Why this Veteran’s Day confession? I cannot rectify my choice to follow an alternate path, but I can and will thank those who chose to travel down the path of military service. Each time I glance at my father’s tank commander helmet atop my bedroom shelves I remember my father’s service during the Korean conflict, and I am grateful. I try to always express appreciation when I spot a senior adult proudly displaying a ball cap or jacket identifying himself as “Veteran.” Words fall woefully short of expressing the value and depth of sacrifice these brave women and men displayed, but to all who have and are serving this country in any branch of military service, my heart salutes you and I thank you for your service.