The house has been lived in since he lived and died there. The furniture has been moved. The trees have grown, brush has been cut. The space wasn’t at first preserved, it was used by someone else.

What is most striking is that it is ordinary. There are leaves outside the window. Not lions, not literature, leaves. There are pens on the desk, sheets on the bed, ashes in the fireplace.

Discovering that writing that shaped me was written in such ordinariness is convicting. It means that I can’t go to that house and expect to write thoughtful, brilliant prose.

It’s the only second Monday of the year and I feel like the year has already evaporated. I think I want a new one. I keep wanting to get new books, whether bought or lent, to read for ideas.  I’m finding that I would be best served by thinking through the ideas I have. I keep wanting to buy blank pages, pads and moleskines and amazing calendars. I keep thinking that outside that next window or page or story will be the the best one.

But I’m thinking that rather than rushing the next year, living this one would be a good idea. Instead of always reading and buying blank paper, reflecting might be wise. And maybe saying this morning, “You are God, I am not. I’m glad you love me.”

Who knows what I might see outside my window?

Humans are satisfied with whatever looks good;
God probes for what is good.
Put God in charge of your work,
then what you’ve planned will take place.

My friend said, “But how?”

Here’s part of what I said:

We create plans all the time, plans that don’t work.

They don’t work because they center around us and our own view of reality. They run aground because other people exist. We cannot control other people. (We can barely control ourselves).

For example:

You make a plan. Your spouse exists. And her very uttering of anything can affect whether that plan happens.

We think, “If only I could have a bigger view, process more variables, be able to read people better, talk better, explain better.”

Then we think, “What if someone could see the interplay of everyone. See the end from the beginning.  Suggest which path might be better, which way of living might be best.”

And God, assuming that he is who he says he is, is that someone.

But with God, the starting point isn’t that I plan and then say, “Hey God. Make this work.” Or even “Please please please make this work and I’ll be indebted to you forever.”

The starting point is, “So, God, you know where you want me to end up. Even better, HOW you want me to end up. You know the kind of person that you want me to be so that, at the end, I’m more like you. Today I need your direction. About this decision, I need your direction. More importantly, I need to know the values you are using, God, so that I use those as my values so that I end up with the choices you’d make.”

And then never say “amen.”

1. Back in June, Rich Dixon and I offered 5 sets of books to be given to names drawn from people who commented on a post. You commented, Rich’s wife Monte drew names, and Joel, Frank, Tammy and Mike should have books (and Stan needs to reply to my email.) Rich also said that out of the suggestions and conversations, they have a name for his project: Rich’s Ride: Together on a journey of hope. 

2. Last Saturday night, our small group talked a bit about doing a time audit, every fifteen minutes recording what you are doing. I said, “if you do that for twelve hours, you have 48 data points. If you do that for a week, you have 7 times that.” And then I said, “what would that kind of research show?” Lisa said, “It shows you how you are wasting your life.”

It blew me away.

3. This week I read Mudhouse Sabbath. Lauren Winner looks at several spiritual practices, like prayer, grieving, and fasting. She tells of her conversions, first to being an Orthodox Jew and then to being a Christian. She talks about her Jewish life taught her well in these disciplines. It was a quick read. She writes with honesty and vulnerability.

4. A powerful article from someone who lost a child. Two Minutes to Eternity | LeadershipJournal.net.

5. I’ve submitted a proposal to speak at #140conf small town in September. They ask what you want to talk about. I said:

3-continent parish.

How a pastor from a town of 1000 gives daily spiritual help to people across the world for $30 a year. and twitter.

For the first two verses, everything is bad. And then the hero comes, the story turns, the cavalry arrives, the light dawns. We love to read these stories, to sing these songs, because they give us hope. The first two verses are exactly where we are. Adrift, in pain, needing relief, wanting answers. The last verse is where we want to be, acknowledged, accompanied, heard. And when the writer lived the words, all the better.

The practical among us don’t understand these songs: “Why include the doubting parts? They aren’t true, you know. The hero was watching all along.” But practical people, deep down, need hope too.

That’s why this song from the practical poet David can speak to all of us.

A reflection on Psalm 6.

God.

I know that you may be angry with me.
But if you are, please wait til you cool off before you punish me.
I am already fainting; please have mercy on me.
And the ache goes to my very bones;
I need healing more than I need more pain.
Inside and out, I am falling apart.
Can you please speak to me?
I feel like I’ve been waiting forever.

Change your mind and deliver me from all this.
Remember, dead followers can’t say good things about you.
And they can’t remember you very well either.

I groan and sigh all the time.
I can’t sleep at night,
the sofa is soaked with tears
My eyes are bloodshot
And all I can see is my enemies.

***

You know what, enemies,
you can just leave now.
God has heard me crying out
I’ve kept him up with my weeping.
And he finally heard.
And he’s coming for you.
You are going to run scared.

1. Maybe you are missing something. Probably not, but consider the possibility.

2. TV Movie endings are only in TV movies. If you want an intervention to always end with “How could I have been so foolish, I’m sorry, you were right,” you are going to be disappointed. Every time.

3. Humans almost always choose the short-term over the long-term. Even when the short-term looks painful, it’s because it is easier than the real hard work that would bring about long-term change.

4. Remorse and repentance aren’t the same thing. One is about getting caught. The other is about getting right. The first will only lead to avoidance. The second may lead to change.

5. Yelling almost never works. It just makes fingers go into ears.

6. Sin is fun like antifreeze is sweet. Both are delightful for the short term. And then kill you.

7. Self-destruction often isn’t evident to the self being destroyed. What looks obvious from the outside looks very different from the inside. Of course, the outside view can often see further down the track.

8. Consequence pain is often a good alarm clock. Sometimes people sleep through gentle warnings.

I know it hurts to watch. And you want to help. But sometimes the best help is to be around after the wreck. And to ask God for wisdom and clarity and the right words.

That’s what I do anyway.

I paraphrased Jesus, “It’s more embarrassing to be moved down the list than moved up.” A couple people said, “What’s up with that?”

They ask a good question. I had pointed to a parable that Jesus told, but I paraphrased the punchline. And it felt funny. After all, Paul talks about Jesus and said, “Have the same attitude [of humility] that Christ had” who gave up everything. Everything we know about Jesus says that humility is a good thing.

So here’s the story. 

He’s at a party. With religious leaders. He notices that guests are looking for the best seats, the seats of honor, seats closest to the front.

Jesus tells a story, a parable. He says something like

Imagine you are at a wedding feast. You look at the numbers on the tables. You find number 1. You sit down. You say, “the number on my invitation must have been wrong. After all, the bride is my niece’s second cousin once removed.” You are feeling pretty comfortable. The tables are getting full.

Until the bride’s father taps you on the shoulder.

“These are for the bride’s grandparents.”

An you have to walk all the way to the back. To the card table set up by the kitchen door as overflow.

Ouch. Everyone listening to Jesus cringes. And looks up. And sees, over his shoulder, the people looking for the best seats.

Instead, when you show up at the party, stand at the back. Get to know the help. And then, if you really do know the family, you’ll get called up to the better tables.

So, was Jesus saying “fake humility is a great party strategy?” Or was he saying, “focus on being at the party. Let others worry about the seats?”

I thought about that saying from a mug the other morning. I started reading Esther, a booklet in the Old Testament. Rather than start at the beginning, I jumped into the middle, and read this:

When Haman entered, the king asked him, “What should be done for the man the king delights to honor?”

Now Haman thought to himself, “Who is there that the king would rather honor than me?”

You don’t have to know the whole story to recognize that Haman has enormous self-confidence. At a time when a king can execute you for saying the wrong thing, it seem a big leap to me to assume that the king is always thinking positively of you.

But most of us understand exactly how Haman felt.

We work hard. We curry favor. We try to please. And when a person we admire looks at us to ask counsel, we feel pretty excited. We start to think we matter.

Haman was happy to answer the king’s question. He laid out an elaborate plan, complete with a parade and a town crier. And then discovered that it was his mortal enemy the king “delighted to honor.”  And Haman wasn’t in the parade. He was to be the town crier.

And he did. Cry, that is. And then said the wrong thing and was executed by the king.

It would be easy to draw a moral from this story. But I’d rather just remember Jesus sitting at a party with a bunch of religious leaders. They were all looking for the best seats, sitting at the head table. They wanted to be noticed. Their actions quoted Haman.

And Jesus said, “It’s more embarrassing to be moved down the list than moved up.”

Remember that at weekend feasts.

I spent some time in the attic last weekend. It was time. Stuff accumulates.

Empty boxes saved in case something breaks. A broken string trimmer saved in case someday I know how to fix it. Mugs saved because someone gave them to me . . . from events that are over . . . at institutions that no longer exist.

I don’t like cleaning, in part, because it reminds me of my failures. Forgotten commitments. Wishful promises. Neglected relationships.

The problem, of course, with cramming all that stuff in the attic is that the ceiling of the garage is sagging a bit. The ladder that hung straight when we moved in 14 years ago is now a bit crooked. My unwillingness to deal with stuff is causing actual damage.

David talked about cleaning in Psalm 51. He says,

Cleanse me with hyssop, and I will be clean;
wash me, and I will be whiter than snow.
Let me hear joy and gladness;
let the bones you have crushed rejoice.

We often read things like that, talk about God crushing bones, and we think, “See, he’s horrible.”

But then I think about cramming stuff in the attic and I realize that often, it is my unwillingness to deal with what is wrong that results in the crushing. There is a dull ache from ignored conflict. Sin, for that is what it often is, hurts. Until I address the reasons I stuff things out of sight, the ceiling will continue to sag. The bones will be crushed.

The point of cleaning is not the pain, it’s the result. Cleaning, cleansing, results in freedom, in restoration, in space and simplicity.

I must confess that every time I deep clean, whether the attic or my heart, there is emotional pain. Facing failing God and others hurts.

But my bones always feel better.

His parents, hungry, had left their country. There weren’t many close relatives, wasn’t much holding them back. It was mom and dad and a couple sons, off to make the best of things.

Ruthie married one of the sons. She, in her own land, crossed her culture, and his, to marry. I have no idea why. I wonder how marginalized she was in her own country. I wonder how compassionate she was for refugees. I wonder why it has to be one or the other, why looking up from the bullied or looking down in pity.

What if she was just Ruthie?

What if you are just you?

You meet a guy from over the border and you marry and then he dies. And his dad dies. And his brother dies. And you live and grieve. Every day.

Until one day your mother-in-law decides to go home and you passionately, dramatically, gut-wrenchingly say that you will abandon your country, abandon your gods, abandon everything except your relationship with her.

Suddenly you discover what matters.

Ruthie’s great-grandson by her second husband became a king. After being a refugee. After growing up at the margins. After showing compassion. But when Ruthie was standing one day talking to Naomi, she didn’t know that she would have a child. She didn’t know she would have anything at all. She just knew that as her mother-in-law was going back home feeling a failure, she had to go too.

Sometimes, even when we don’t know why, even when we don’t understand, even when there is no promise of a better day or of a hopeful future or of assured success, we are presented with the opportunity to throw our lot with the God of a person that we don’t want to leave.

I understood. And was saddened.

I’m sitting at a conference of pastors and church leaders. Our speaker this morning said,

If all we do is teach and tell people things, they aren’t disciples. We need to have relationships of trust, people who are shaped by the WAY we believe, by our life.

He talked about a conversation he had with God.

God said, “He who doesn’t love you isn’t really your disciple.”

Edwin said “So how do I make them love me?”

God said, “Why do you love me?”

Edwin said, “Because you gave your live for me.”

God said, “So give your life for them.”

Those two thoughts have been kicking around my heart: the importance of relationships and the absence of relationships. It’s the heart of the model and the action of Jesus. Have conversations, develop relationships, listen, care, heal bodies, work hard, be exhausted in the work, be emotionally involved. Then die sacrificially. Then come back and live in and through people committed to him.

I can’t do the dying instead of part. But then, I don’t have to. I don’t have to be everyone’s savior. That’s covered.  But when I heard Edwin this morning, I confess, I wept a bit. Teaching is easy. Living alongside is way harder, way more vulnerable. It involves working out answers to hard questions rather than giving hard answers to easy questions.

But I’m guessing that my friend isn’t the only one who has never had a pastor as a friend. I’m afraid that there are lots of pastors without friends.