“Don't build an air castle.” I can still hear my father's words as he tried bring me back to reality. He wanted me to understand that dreams disconnected from the real world are fantasy, not vision. For the Church, the “American Dream” is an air castle.

Patriotic scholars can argue that America was different by design, that people from all over the world came here for freedom and opportunity. Detractors can point out the hideous flaws of slavery, discrimination, and the displacement and massacres of Native Americans, and claim America is not worthy of acclaim. Who is correct? To me, it's simple. Sinful people trying to do something better were blessed by God, not because of their virtues, but because of grace.

There are different faces of grace. One face is forgiveness of sins. For the penitent who sincerely seeks forgiveness through the Blood of Christ according to scripture, this face of grace is God's kindness carved into unchanging marble. It is absolute. Every time you return, it will be the same. Another face of grace is freedom from consequences of wrong or unwise behavior: circumstantial grace. This face is as changeable and unpredictable as the clouds. One moment a cloud resembles a horse and then it reminds you of an old man in a hat. The thief crucified beside Jesus who asked to be remembered found forgiveness but not freedom from consequences. Barabbas, who was released instead of Jesus in honor of Passover, found freedom from the consequences of his wrong but, apparently, not forgiveness. Unpunished wrong is not virtue, it is a type of grace.

Perhaps the Founders found circumstantial grace for themselves and subsequent generations because they sought the grace bought with His Blood. Unless God reveals His reasons we will be, at best, making an educated guess. Circumstantial grace is beyond our wisdom. Why a devout follower of Christ in Africa would suffer starvation and a far less noble believer in America would suffer obesity from enjoying our plenty is not for our attempts at logic.

But what does seem clear is that we have claimed the Barabbas-grace as our birthright and denied the need for fundamental, ongoing forgiveness. The cloud is set in stone and the statue is ever re-sculpted by the winds of opinion. The expectation of unending circumstantial blessing is an air castle—we can live there only in our imagination.

It's been my contention that one can only be dis-illusioned if there are illusions. It is an illusion to believe that we have a God-given right to be prosperous and free from persecution. If that were not given to Jesus or His apostles, how can it be mine? Those blessings were given for a season, like youth. A facelift or a comb-over does not restore youth, but gives the illusion of it—at least from a distance. What we have believed to be forever has sagged or thinned. The extraordinary blessings of freedom of religion-even the encouragement to actively participate through tax deductions—seem to be fading. Pictures of Christ, the Ten Commandments and the Bible are being removed from schools. There are severe restrictions on prayer in public functions. Ridicule for attempts to live Biblically seem to be evolving into open hostility.

In this season, there is outrage at the baby steps towards persecution. (Ask a believer in the mid-east facing death daily if targeted tax audits are significant.) Some are politically active. Some stockpile food. Others post and re-post pictures and quotes. These are perhaps good things, but not the best. Consider these:

              

               Pray as if your life depends on it. It does.

               Get to know the Jesus who called the poor, blessed; who promised persecution as a result of                following Him, who embraced suffering without complaint.
               Hope in the promises of God.
               Love the people around you in practical ways, especially the “least of these.” Comfort them,                          give to them, visit them in their distress.

These are not air castles clouds blown away by the wind. Doing these things is seeking the unchanging face of grace. It is building on the rock. The events mentioned are only the rumble of thunder in the distance. Unless God stretches out His arm to calm the storm, it will come.

Carol was retarded. That's the description we used.

She was a neighbor, in a time and place in which you knew your neighbors. I don't remember being unkind to her. I was the fat, poor kid. I was too busy trying to survive to be a bully. I may have joined the cruel jokes and jibes. I hope I didn't, but I'm sure I did.

It was obvious Carol had suffered. In my mind's eye, I can still see her as we crossed paths on the sidewalk in front of my boyhood home. She instinctively cringed as I approached, as she did with everyone. She put right hand to her brow, as she did with every encounter, as if to shield her eyes from the sun. But she wasn't facing the sun. She was shielding herself from me, from the pain of words that were cruel instead of kind, from perhaps from hands that hit and didn't caress.

I knew her parents by sight and her mother well enough to perhaps say make eye contact in passing. She seemed more a grandmother in appearance. Maybe she was older or maybe life was hard. Maybe it was both. I know little else of her other than that she nearly died one cold winter day. Walking home from work in the dark, she slipped and fell, badly breaking a bone. She laid there alone for hours.

I don't know what happened to Carol. She was part of our neighborhood, and then she wasn't. She, like her mother, was damaged and un-missed.

Tim had been in a horrible car accident. The scars were still prominent years later. He too, nearly died. While he was in coma, he had had a vision of Jesus, calling him to live. But his body and brain had been damaged. He walked stiffly and couldn't speak clearly. Although he seemed intelligent, he was prone to do unfortunate things in the church we both attended. We did our best to be kind while being protective.

One day, Tim wanted to tell me something. We were at pot luck. The meal was over. I was alone with Tim in the busy room. He was working very hard to get the words out. “I” ….. “wish” ….. “I” ….. “was” ….. “like” ….. “you.”

When finally I understood what he said, I assumed he meant something about my maturity or position of responsibility at our church. Feeling good about myself and expecting to feel even better, I asked him, “How would you like to be me, Tim?”

“You've” …. “got” …. “a” …. “family.” Tim lived in a group home. He often walked for blocks in hits stumbling, awkward gate to share worship time with us. I had thought being kind to him was enough. I'd been pleased with myself that I'd occasionally given him a ride. He was lonely before he met me and lonely afterward.

Many of us in our churches work demographics and look to target groups for outreach. We tend to look for people like ourselves, those who will fit in, those who can “contribute.” I think Jesus did demographics and target groups, too. Only His demographics were the poor, afflicted, and sick. And His target group was “the least of these.” He looked for those couldn't possibly fit in. These were the core.

Jesus, you came to Tim as he lay dying and had nothing to give. And he never would. If I had the courage, I'd ask you to help me be like Tim, and to be like you as You seek “the least of these.” I'd ask you ask me to help extend real friendship to him. I'd ask you to help me see Carol as you did—not retarded or slow or different—but as one You loved and cherished. But even though I'm too afraid, will you seek and care for me, too? Will you carry me close to your heart? And in the warmth of your arms, will you melt fear?

He tends his flock like a shepherd:
He gathers the lambs in his arms
and carries them close to his heart (Isaiah)