“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)

A rout of 25 snails. I counted them. I bet you didn't know a group of snails is termed a “rout.” I didn't.

As I walked in the park on the warm November day, I saw a snail on the trail. This portion of the trail is a forty wide steep hill created for soap box derby races. I walk there often, and had never seen a snail. It piqued my interest, so I stopped to look. The snail was just beginning its journey across the pavement. Thoughts went through my mind... “How long would it take to get across?” “Will someone step on it?” “Should I help it?” I decided to not interfere, and continued my walk. But soon I saw another, and then another in various stages of progression of their migration. There were twenty five within about 50 yards.

Who knows what's in the mind of a snail? One or two making the journey would seem random, but 25 within a short distance to me implies that there was some need or instinct compelling them. Something entirely hidden from me. I've been thinking about them ever since.

I feel more than a bit like one of those snails. I know I cannot stay where I am. I must move--not in a geographic sense—but in spiritual mindset. That spiritual mindset—geography—has been a committed faith from an American perspective. God and country. Freedom. Comfort. Prosperity. My wants and needs. Compromising truth and obedience with small accommodations. But like the snail, I know without knowing that I cannot stay.

I don't know the future, but I feel I/we are unprepared for it. I fear we are the ten virgins in Jesus' parable who ran out of oil while waiting for the bridegroom. They waited too long and it was too late. I fear we are like Peter. Jesus warned Peter that he would deny Him three times, and Peter scoffed. After Jesus was arrested, it's said of Peter that he “followed at a distance.” And the denials came.

My choice is simple. Though always unable and often lacking commitment, I will follow Him. When He tells me of my weakness, I will listen and come closer. Though unprepared, I will ask to be prepared; to be filled with His Spirit and wisdom. Though the journey is too hard and too far, I will begin. Like a snail crossing a forty foot wide path, I will go slowly, with no guaranty of completing the journey. In a sea of asphalt, I may lose my way. I may be stepped on and crushed; or run over, entirely unnoticed and insignificant. But I will.

Will you? We can be a rout of snails. We can be the Church—the unlikely and unable following Jesus to a promise we cannot see with a hope beyond words.

What if Jesus were a politician?

I can see it now. The camera pans the crowd—crying women, the crowd in the background milling around the tomb. The man standing at the side, a tear running down his cheek. The sun is setting behind him, accenting every feature. His hair seems to be glowing. He speaks, his voice full and resonate: “Lazarus, come out of the tomb. LIVE!” As the tomb opens, the man in the shroud emerges. The women appear dazed with joy. The announcer: “A vote for Jesus....”

As I write, it's the close of an election season. A very long season. Mailings. Advertisements. Commercials. Videos. Many people spending a whole lot of money to get you and me to assent to the rightness of their cause and candidacy. A product they want me to buy, a product that will make my life better. Or so they say. The cost is my contribution and my vote. And perhaps a whole lot more...

...Truth. It can't be purchased. It doesn't care if I affirm it. Or not. Truth won't fit in a soundbite, is never comfortable, safe, or entirely what is expected. It does not change with demographics, or favor those already favored.

I cannot incorporate truth into my life. If I open the door to it, it will either come in and rule; or it will not enter at all.

Jesus is not a politician, but I fear we sometimes treat him as one. His Words become soundbites to convince and cajole others to our point of view. We “like” Him, admire Him, and want to with His adoring crowds, but draw back from obeying Him. Gathering together can be an event to be publicized rather than a time to abandon ourselves to worship and gratitude. His commandments become little more than a campaign platform, a wish list of platitudes. Our outreach is based on demographics and budgets to gain adherents, not the mandate to present Good News of great joy to the hungry, thirsty, and desperate.

Jesus is a leader, a King, not a politician. A leader to be followed—not from a distance, not on a Twitter account, not “liked” on Facebook. I can serve Him, but not assist Him. He doesn't need my support. I need His.

I'm glad. I'm weary of politicians. Are you?

The Legend of FrankenBike

OK. It's not a legend. It's just a story about a bicycle.

My bicycle was born in the 70s. On the frame, it has a manufacturer's logo followed by prestigious awards won by that brand in the early part of that far off decade. There is no record of when it died. It faded away, became unimportant, and was discarded. Perhaps it sat in a garage corner, or was hung, dusty, from the rafters until the day it ended up at the curb, the victim of a cleaning day.

Doctor Bob gathers dead parts and pieces, and saves them. He takes them to his laboratory, or basement, and assembles them. Mismatched, but not misaligned; a frame, wheels, handlebars, derailleur, cables, seat, and peddles again become a living thing. Or at least, they become a functioning bicycle. It was christened “FrankenBike” and he gave FrankenBike to me, and it became attached to me. Quite literally, it's seat (or saddle) became painfully attached to my seat as we trained for 4 months for a week long tour, and then rode 350 plus miles in those few days.

I can say without reservation that FrankenBike was the oldest, ugliest bike on the tour. It made strange noises. The chain came off half a dozen times. But it finished. A few good bikes broke down. I guess an ugly, slow finisher is better than a beautiful-broken.

Bob is a Jesus follower, both in his everyday life and in his avocation of restoring bicycles and passing them on to “would be” cyclists like myself. You see, Jesus took discarded dead men, parts and pieces, and assembled them into the Church. And then He gave the Church to the world. And His Church is not described as beautiful, only without spot or blemish—a description of His washing not our attractiveness.

Bob is always looking. He is not ashamed to stop when he sees a frame or wheel at the curb, and load them in his car. He doesn't care. Jesus was not ashamed of the human debris left on His culture's curb. He lovingly gathered them. He restored them. He assembled them. He gave them purpose. In fact, being discarded or dysfunctional almost seems to be a prerequisite.... “Blessed are the poor for theirs is the Kingdom of God.” “Come to Me all who weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”

I was picked up from the curb and carried on Jesus' scarred back. I was made to be joined with others also carried to the place of restoration. We were given life and purpose. But we are a FrankenChurch; assembled parts gathered from the dead. We are made to be like Jesus: human trash-pickers seeking and saving those abandoned on curb of life.

FrankenBike is only an old broken down bicycle ridden by an old, broken down man without enough money to buy a good one. If there is a legend, it's of the kindness of Bob. And he is part of a larger legend—The Legend of FrankenChurch: Going out at night in Rome in the days of the empire, it gathered babies left to die, and raised the children as their own. It made hidden rooms to save Jews from the Holocaust. It touched the Untouchables through Mother Theresa's hands. It shoveled the snow from the widow's walk. It coached the inner city team and cried for the fatherless.

Jesus' Church turns the world upside down. Not because its beautiful, organized, successful, or prosperous; but because it gives comfort instead of seeking comfort. It gives to others what Jesus has given to them: Good News for the lost and unlovely, for the weak and weary.

The Outcast and the Child

Who changed your life? Who went far beyond helping you, encouraging you, enabling you? Who took you where you could have never gone by yourself? Who had the power to unlock the door that had no key?

It was 6^th grade. I wasn't popular, athletic, or good looking. I was fat. I didn't know it, but I had an incredible teacher. Mr. Brooks was a negro. Now it would be disrespectful to identify him that way, but truthfully, I had no idea that race made a difference, and I didn't think of him as anything but as my teacher. I also had no idea how hard it would be a man teaching elementary school, how hard it would be to one of about a half dozen African American families in a white small town, or how it would hurt to hear the whispered jokes that stopped—or should have stopped—when he came into the room. Different times in some ways, but in others, much the same. People—struggling, lonely, afraid—trying to find their way. Some of those around them make the journey much harder. Most simply don't care. And a few make it much better. I don't know whether Mr. Brooks did what he did for me because he was a good teacher or a good man, or both.

It was simple, unplanned. It was recess, or maybe after school. A portion of our school was a century old, and had a cloak room where we kept our jackets and lunches. I was alone in there—not surprising—when Mr. Brooks came in with another man. A gracious man, Mr. Brooks introduced us. He said, “This is Lee. He's my best student” Until that moment, I had no idea that I was anyone. I became a person that day. I was someone. Mr. Brooks didn't just teach me, he transformed me from how I saw myself into who I really was. I've spent my life trying to live up to what he spoke and do for others what he did for me.

It was simple, unplanned. It was a Children's Chat at a small church. I was talking with the kids, interacting. I had a point to make—long since forgotten—but giving the children a chance to talk, too. Sebastian wanted to speak about his grandfather's death. I was concerned; I knew we could quickly go to things very uncomfortable, but I let him go ahead. His point—never forgotten—was that God gave his grandfather permission to go to heaven. Whole books of theology and hours of evangelical preaching could not have better expressed Sebastian's statement. He took me where my more “sophisticated” understanding never could.

Both were examples of the Jesus method. In the beginning of His ministry, He is recorded as simply saying to Simon, later renamed Peter, “Follow me, and I will make you a fisher of men.” Simon left everything behind immediately, and followed. And three years later, at Pentecost, Simon Peter became a fisher of men.

Mr. Brooks' words allowed me to fulfill a human potential, to better utilize a gift already present. Jesus, though, does something much more. He said, “I will make you...” He didn't say, “I see your potential. Be all you can be.” But Jesus' words awoke a longing, a hope, to be something entirely different, to go where no one can go unless taken by God Himself. Jesus was saying, as He spoke to Sebastian and through him, as He spoke to Simon and through him, “I give you permission to follow Me. I will take you as you are and I will re-make you. You long to be with God and to part of what He is doing and to used by Him. Follow me. Copy Me. Be filled by Me. Obey Me. Die with Me. And you will be remade, reborn as a son of God.”

Have you ever heard the Gospel? Not the parts about forgiveness and Hell, as important as they are—but the really good news of what you are permitted to do, and what He does in return. YOU MAY follow Jesus; YOU MAY be with Him; YOU MAY leave your old life behind. By His power, YOU CAN be remade, I will do it; YOU CAN be useful to the Living God, I will do it. He is giving you the same opportunity He gave Peter: permission to follow Him and the promise to be remade to be like Him.

If you haven't heard before, you've heard now. The Living God, creator and ruler of the universe gives you permission to be with Him; not for Him to part of your life, but for you to part of His. Good news. Excellent news. Superior, life-changing news. He opens the locked door that has no key.

Old Blue Jeans and New Wine

My favorite pair of work jeans has a hole in the pocket. Being a man, and a frugal man at that, I don't want to throw them away. The comfort of a well-broken-in pair of blue jeans is a treasure, not lightly to be given up. I've sewed the pocket, but the cloth is thin and thread doesn't hold well. I've even stapled the frayed cloth back together to allow me to wear them a little bit longer. But nothing holds long. I don't mind losing a bit of pocket change from the hole, but when I find my keys in the parking lot, even I know it's time.

My inability to patch the pocket got me thinking. I've been puzzled about the parable admonishing us to not use new cloth to patch an old garment for a long time, especially in its context. Levi the tax collector had just left everything to follow Jesus. He then had a party, with Jesus as the guest of honor, and invited all his friends. The Jewish religious leaders were appalled with the mixture of heretics, outcasts, and sinners—all beneath them! When asked about the odd gathering, Jesus responded that the sick needed a doctor, not the well. The leaders went on to ask Jesus why His followers didn't give themselves to fasting when John the Baptist's did. Jesus responded again, saying that it's appropriate to celebrate while the bridegroom (Jesus) is still with them. And then Jesus told seemingly random parables about new cloth being incompatible with old, and new wine breaking old wineskins. He finished by saying old wine was more desirable to those who had tasted it than new. I understand Levi and his party. I understand why the religious leaders hated it. I understand sick people needing a physician. I understand enjoying Jesus' presence while you have opportunity. But how do the parables about the incompatibility of new and old fit into the story?

It had not made sense because I had seen the parables as the cataclysmic clashing of two faiths—one old and worn out and one new and full of life. Unfortunately, these assumptions fit neither the context nor the whole of scripture. God's commands and the history of His faithfulness did not wear out. Following Christ was not, and is not, a new faith. For those of us who believe in Him, it is the only possible way to fulfill an old faith.

So then, if old cloth and new cloth are not faith systems, what are they? What things become so worn out that they are un-fixable, un-redemable? If God and His word are un-changeable, what is changeable? The answer, of course, is our perspectives. In this story, the leaders' perspectives were wrong. God had given His Word through Moses and the prophets. But over time, their interpretations and traditions about those Words became more important than the Words themselves, and in some cases, directly contradicted those Words, and they clothed themselves with their traditions. These tradition-clothes became hard, brittle, and unrepairable. Their pockets also had holes in them. Repairs to those pockets were neither possible nor desired. But they were comfortable in their worn out clothes. The keys--unreserved love for God, justice for the oppressed, and mercy for the penitent—had long since slipped from their torn pockets. And new clothes are expensive and sometimes uncomfortable. The old was preferable. They chose comfort for themselves over usefulness to God.

And now back to my jeans, and my life. My jeans are comfortable, but worn out, dangerous and need to be discarded. Their liabilities are greater than their usefulness. Some of my perspectives and ways of walking out my faith are the same. Levi came to a similar decision point, and found a whole new way to implement his new faith. He gave a Jesus party for his friends. For me, that would have been incredibly uncomfortable. But it may be the best example of how a new believer, or any believer, can impact friends and co-workers. Incredibly useful! But I'd rather read about it than do it. Real change in how we live is not easy.

P,S. I still have my jeans. I will throw them out. Maybe I'll do it tomorrow.

"No one tears a patch from a new garment and sews it on an old one. If he does, he will have torn the new garment, and the patch from the new will not match the old. And no one pours new wine into old wineskins. If he does, the new wine will burst the skins, the wine will run out and the wineskins will be ruined. No, new wine must be poured into new wineskins. And no one after drinking old wine wants the new, for he says, 'The old is better.' " (Luke 5)