Who's Coming to Dinner (Friday Devotional)

“And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.”

- John 1:14

Despite all the traditions and music and food that fill the day, the most memorable aspect of each Christmas tends to be the people you spend it with. For parents of small children, Christmas is remembered because of the glee in your child’s eyes when you reveal that Santa stopped by overnight with toys in tow. For those with big extended families, Christmas is perhaps remembered as the time in which you catch up with cousins you haven’t seen all year. And for all the miles that many will put on the road the next few days getting from one family gathering to the next, the stress of travel tends to fade in your memory, overtaken by the joy of arrival, of seeing the smiling faces of family at the front door.

But for some, it is the absence of family that makes Christmas difficult to forget. The loss of a parent is deeply felt when that parent’s seat at the Christmas dinner table is unoccupied. The person whose family is too far away for travel, or who has no family to travel to, wakes up on Christmas morning saddened by the silence that fills the house. Christmas is expected to be a time spent among loved ones, and when that expectation goes unmet, it barely even feels like a holiday.

Whether this year’s Christmas is spent with dozens of family members and friends or it is a solitary experience, I want to encourage you to spend some time reflecting upon who it is that brought people together that first Christmas in Bethlehem. Because of him, the virgin and the carpenter’s marriage began earlier than planned, with a different start than intended. Because of him, heaven could not contain itself and the sky erupted with celestial praise. Because of him, shepherds left their work behind to see what the Lord had done.

Jesus, from the moment of his birth, was bringing people together who otherwise would not have been in the same zip code. The news of his birth was celebrated by everyone from his parents to the angels of heaven to shepherds in the field to magi from the east, a diverse cast of characters with different backgrounds but the same motivation: to see the glory of the Lord for themselves.

This Christmas, you may spend time with large groups of people or with no one but yourself. But no matter who else is around you, this is the day when we remember that God is with us. He came as a baby boy, meek and lowly, wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. His life would be full of many of the same joys and the same trials that you know today. When he gave his life for yours, he did so not as a casual observer of humanity, but as one who knew the full gamut of human experience—what it was to be tempted, to be joyful, to be betrayed, and to be loved.

So when you think about who you share your Christmas with, I hope you will not forget the one who shared so much with us that first Christmas. Whether your day is busy or quiet, crowded or lonely, the Lord is with you today. May your enthusiasm at his birth match that of the shepherds and the angels, and may you join with believers around the world in celebration—for unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given. Christ came for you, so may you welcome him today.

Love for the Lowly (Friday Devotional)

“O give thanks to the Lord, for He is good, for His steadfast love endures forever. O give thanks to the God of gods, for His steadfast love endures forever. O give thanks to the Lord of lords, for His steadfast love endures forever…It is He who remembered us in our low estate, for His steadfast love endures forever.”

- Psalm 136:1-3, 23

Sometimes the only way to learn something is to repeat it over and over and over again. I have a terrible memory for directions, so when someone calls me telling me where to meet them and how to get there, then if writing their instructions down is not an option, I will repeat those instructions out loud to myself again and again until I arrive at the destination. If you were to pull up next to me in one of those moments, you’d probably think you were driving next to a crazy person, because you’d see me not only talking to myself, but saying the same three things over and over again. But that’s the risk I have to take in those situations, because repeating the directions is the only way I’ll remember what I’ve been told.

Psalm 136 uses repetition in just such a way. It begins by offering thanks to God, then recounts the ways He has been faithful to His people, from the creation of the world to the exodus from Egypt to the defeat of rival kings and armies. In tracing Israel’s history from the beginning to the present, the psalmist punctuates every single act of God with the same profound statement: “for His steadfast love endures forever.” Everything God has done for His people, every victory He has won for them, the psalm says He has done for one simple reason: because He has always loved them and He always will.

But as the psalm draws to a close, the 23^rd verse reminds the people of something powerful—even in their “low estate,” when they were not victorious, God still remembered them, because His love is steadfast and it endures forever. Even when they felt lost and abandoned, God was with them, because His love is steadfast and it endures forever. Even when victory was a distant memory and humiliation an ever-present reality, God had not forsaken them, because His love never falters or fails—it is steadfast and it endures forever.

This season is the time in which we celebrate the fulfillment of this psalm’s promise, when we look for inspiration to a virgin of low estate whom God loved, when we wonder alongside a carpenter of low estate whom God loved, and when we sing with shepherds of low estate whom God loved. As we marvel at their roles in the story of Jesus’ birth, we celebrate most of all that in Christ, God gave us the ultimate proof of His promise. By coming to be with us as a child of low estate, He showed us that He remembered us where we were—that His love was not only with us when we were triumphant, but also when there seemed to be no hope in sight.

The steadfast, enduring love of God is a hope and a promise that extends from the Old Testament to the manger bed to today, from the people of ancient Israel to the churches of North America. No matter how high or low your estate, no matter whether your Christmas is marked by joy or grief, God’s steadfast love endures forever. At your most alone, He still has not left you. When you are ready to give up, He remains there to lift you up. So this Christmas, may the message of Immanuel resonate—no matter how low your estate, God is with you, and His steadfast love endures forever.

Looking for Peace (Friday Devotional)

“For a child has been born for us, a son given to us; authority rests upon his shoulders; and he is named Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. His authority shall grow continually, and there shall be endless peace for the throne of David and his kingdom.”

- Isaiah 9:6-7a

In a chaotic world, people search for peace, but more times than not they go looking in the wrong places. They turn to charismatic leaders who vow to bring peace, and they walk away disappointed when the results don’t match the promises. They count on agreements, both public and under-the-table, to maintain peace, and they’re discouraged when one false move renders those deals meaningless. Ultimately, they place their hope in strength (or at least some semblance of it), and desperately hope it will deter anybody from getting the wrong idea.

The simple truth is that we’re bad at making peace. Constructing harmony where there once was conflict doesn’t come naturally to us; any agreed-upon peace is an improvised invention that never feels complete or secure. For example, when you argue with a friend, the tension remains even after the apologies are exchanged—are we really ok now? Is he going to hold a grudge? How does this change things?

No matter how hard we look for it or how much we work to achieve it, peace never feels like something we’ve totally accomplished. Whether while watching the international news or sitting at the family dinner table, we’re always waiting for the next eruption of conflict.

So it as especially at this time of the year that we thank our Lord for giving us peace in the person of Jesus Christ. For in sending the Prince of Peace—first as an infant in a land that was not his home, then as a teacher proclaiming the year of the Lord’s favor, and ultimately as a Savior dying for our sins—God did not merely begin a peace process or meet us halfway. Through Jesus, God gave us what we could not make: peace between heaven and earth, Creator and creation, God and man.

The peace on earth that the angels sang about on the night of Jesus’ birth, the peace that Isaiah prophesied the Messiah would bring to his people, is an undeserved gift from a loving God. He offers reconciliation in spite of your disobedience, a family in spite of your selfishness. Though all you have to offer is childlike faith, God welcomes you home with the open arms of a Father. The peace that passes all understanding comes not from anything you make, but entirely from what He gives.

May that peace guide you, especially in this season of Advent. Instead of insisting on the last word, offer the grace of listening to those you disagree with. Instead of lashing out when you feel wronged, offer the grace of forgiveness and self-control. Instead of giving in to anger and bitterness, look to the grace and mercy of Jesus Christ, who brought peace not with a sword, but a cross. Real peace is not something made by man, but something given by God—may you receive it and share it with a world looking for peace in all the wrong places.

Lighting the Way (Friday Devotional)

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”

- John 1:5

When the world seems interminably shrouded in darkness and despair, we feel helpless. Terrorism, racism, war, poverty, disease—at times it seems like too much to take. So some react with anger, calling for bombs to be dropped or new laws to be passed or officials to be fired, but whether such measures are taken or not, the darkness remains, sometimes recognizable and sometimes springing up in a new form. Some react with sadness, weeping at the evil in our world and wondering where it will come from next. And some react with weary apathy, unwilling to expend the emotional energy on problems without solutions and tragedies without consequences.

Whatever form your response takes, it seems to be unavoidably rooted in helplessness and hopelessness. We have come to believe that there is nothing we can do to stem the tide, that we are too small and the darkness is too overpowering. These things, whether mass shootings or impoverished families or terrorist attacks, these things just happen. There’s nothing you or I can do but wait for the next inevitable headline.

Into such a season of darkness steps the light of Advent, the hope of a child born to save us from the sin that haunts us. In the birth of Jesus we are reminded that God is no passive Lord, watching us suffer from a comfortable distance, but that He is the one who became flesh and dwelt among us. In the stories of Mary and Joseph, we are reminded that the Savior was not raised by kings, but by commoners, that no person is too small to be used by God. As we remember that starlit night that angels rejoiced alongside shepherds, we draw hope from the sight of heaven touching earth, and pray that it might be so again.

The hope of Advent is the joy of a promise fulfilled, but it is also the expectation that God’s work is not yet completed, that there is still time to bring people the hope of Christ. As a child of God, may you never be so discouraged by the darkness of this world that you lose sight of the light. Nothing, the angel told Mary, will be impossible with God—may that promise motivate and inspire you to keep serving when you want to curl up in the fetal position, to keep loving when you want to lash out in hatred, to keep hoping when you feel hopeless. For even when the darkness threatens to overwhelm and overpower you, you can assured of this in Christ—the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

Unplanned Giving (Friday Devotional)

“Let each of you look not to your own interests, but to the interests of others.”

- Philippians 2:4

We are now officially in what has been called “the season of giving,” with Christmas less than a month away. From now until December 25^th, mall parking lots will be full of shoppers’ cars, Amazon.com will be America’s homepage, and TV commercials will be collages of green and red—all because this is the month when we earnestly seek out the best possible gifts for our family members and friends. Yet for all of the attention we pay to giving presents, sometimes the stress of the season precludes us from giving much else.

Give a Saturday morning to serve at a homeless shelter? Wish I could, but I set this day aside to decorate the house. Give a love offering for the needy? Nope, I’ve already blown my budget on presents. Give a free night of babysitting to the overworked single mom down the street? Sorry, but I’ve got my own family to take care of. Too often the activities and obligations that come with the “season of giving” make us miss chances to help those who could use our gifts most of all.

Philippians 2:4 reminds us that as Christians, we are called to look first not to our own interests, but to the interests of others. Ironically, it is especially at Christmastime that we can lose sight of this message, so overwhelmed are we by the next present to buy, the next recital to attend. Yet much of Jesus’ ministry to the poor and the sick came “on the way”, as he was headed to a previously scheduled engagement—it’s an example we would do well to follow as we celebrate his birth.

This Christmas season, as your calendar fills up and your stress level rises, let me encourage you to make room for some unplanned giving. Open your heart and give of yourself to someone who is not expecting anything from you and will not give anything in return. After all, nothing says Christmas like an unexpected, unwarranted gift to someone who hasn’t earned it—sounds a lot like grace to me.

Taking the Leap (Friday Devotional)

“For God did not give us a spirit of cowardice, but rather a spirit of power and of love and of self-discipline.”

- 2 Timothy 1:7

I’ve never had much of a desire to go skydiving. That old cliché about seeing no reason to jump out of a perfectly good airplane perfectly describes my feelings—the most excitement I ever need to experience at that elevation is a little turbulence. But while I’ve never jumped out of a plane, I have a pretty good idea what it takes to be a skydiver.

First you need to find an eligible drop zone where skydiving is allowed, along with a pilot and a plane to get you in the air. You need to take a lesson from a professional instructor on what to do once you’re in the plane. If you’re smart, you’ll read up on skydiving, whether from books, magazine articles, or testimonials. You need a parachute, obviously. And finally, once you’re in the plane, thousands of feet above the ground, you have to jump. For all the preparation that comes before, all the studying and the instruction and the excitement, it’s that final step that makes you a skydiver—until you jump, you’re just like everybody else.

The way of Jesus is a little bit like that. There’s plenty of learning to be done, a host of Bible verses you can memorize, sermons you can hear, books you can read—but until you’re willing to step out and put what you’ve learned into action, until you’re ready to jump, you’re just like everybody else. And “just like everybody else” is not what God calls you to be.

God calls you to not only believe in Jesus, but to follow him; He calls you to take up your cross and be willing to suffer even unto death for your faith, just as Jesus suffered unto death for you. And faced with such a terrifying challenge, God does not give you “a spirit of cowardice, but rather a spirit of power and of love and of self-discipline.”

To follow the way of Jesus means being courageous even in the face of uncertainty, because the way of Jesus is full of risks. When you evangelize to a friend, you take the risk that she will reject your message. When you give aid to a poor man, you take the risk that he will waste what you give him. When you show compassion to the guilty, you take the risk that the encounter will damage your reputation. Following Jesus means loving God and loving people even when it’s scary, even when it’s risky, because the way of Jesus is the way of the cross: giving of yourself so that others might know God’s love.

It’s not hard to believe in Jesus, because his message is appealing. It’s not hard to learn about him either, because his life and his gospel are interesting. But following Jesus is hard, because his way calls you to love sacrificially, to give when your instincts say to take. It can be difficult and it can be dangerous, but if you strive to be a follower of Jesus, you can’t love only when it’s comfortable. When you’re tempted to keep your faith strictly where it’s safe, may God give you the courage to jump.

More Than False Hope (Friday Devotional)

“Let us hold fast to the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who has promised is faithful.”

- Hebrews 10:23

It’s present every time somebody buys a lottery ticket. Politicians frequently traffic in it, especially during election years. And for every sports team that spent the previous season in the cellar, it’s an intoxicating motivator when the new year begins. In so many areas of life, false hope is a powerful thing.

False hope refers to the distortion of true, reasonable hope. While hope has a foundation in realistic expectation, false hope deals in blind faith, where evidence is neither needed nor particularly desired. Hope can lead to victory, but false hope only breeds disappointment.

The gospel of Jesus Christ is firmly grounded in hope—hope that the cross redeems all who believe in its power, hope that Christ will come again, hope in the resurrection and in life everlasting. Believers cling to these promises from God especially in hard times, when the burdens of life are oppressive and the world seems governed more by chaos and sin than by a sovereign, loving God. But for all the assurance that the Holy Spirit provides, for all the ways creation testifies to God’s glory, and for all the proof that Scripture offers, ultimately the confession that Jesus is Lord is an article of faith—built upon “the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen” (Hebrews 11:1). The gospel is not proved by what you can observe, but by hope.

But it is not a false hope. You can hold fast to the confession, you can believe without feeling foolish, because God is faithful. You can trust God to keep His ultimate promises because He keeps His daily promises, because His mercies are new every morning. Even when you waver, He remains steadfast; even when you are weak, He is strong. The promise of the gospel is ultimately proved not by anything you bring to the table, but by the faithfulness of the promiser.

In those moments when you are plagued by doubt and when you have far more questions than answers, may the faithfulness of God serve as an encouragement. Faith, even faith that falters, is powerful when you know who to place it in—so long as God is true, your hope in Him is never false.

Proofreading (Friday Devotional)

“Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my thoughts. See if there is any wicked way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.”

 - Psalm 139:23-24

 I still remember the strange feeling of nervousness I had as I handed my dad the paper. I had spent all semester reading and researching for it. I had written and turned in three different rough drafts. I had followed all the directions my teacher had given me and now, finally, had nearly finished the big sophomore research paper. All that was left was to have a friend or family member proofread it.

 For most students, that meant having Mom or Older Brother scan it quickly and say, “Looks good to me.” But I knew I wouldn’t be getting off that easy, because my dad was a professional writer and editor. By having Dad proofread my paper, I was going to learn just how good or bad it really was. He would be able to point out misspellings I didn’t notice, to rearrange sentence structures in ways that sounded better, to tell me both where my writing was succeeding and where it was failing. If I wanted my paper to be rubber-stamped, I could have given it to a friend—by giving it to Dad, I knew some flaws might get exposed, but that I’d also wind up with a better essay at the end.

 The prayer in Psalm 139 is for a similar proofreading, but of the soul—search me, know my heart, test me, know my thoughts; these are the petitions made to the Lord. The psalmist opens himself up to God and allows for the idea that there might be a “wicked way” in him, that as much as he strives for obedience, he may have faltered at some point. He is not only willing to have his faithfulness examined, he requests it, because in doing so he trusts that God will lead him where he needs to go.

 It is easy to keep yourself closed off from accountability, to assume you’re doing the right things and avoid any suggestion that you’re not. Yet one of the marks of a faithful believer is the desire to grow closer to God instead of keeping a comfortable distance from Him. Spiritual intimacy comes when you are willing to be vulnerable, to be corrected, and to be led by the Holy Spirit.  So may your prayer be like the psalmist’s, full of courage and faithfulness, not fearing the watchfulness of God, but welcoming some proofreading from the author and perfecter of your faith.

Shades of 2011

Let me tell you a story: A team built on aggressive baserunning and timely hitting shocked the baseball world by busting into the playoffs for the first time in many years. Led by a manager whose old-school mentality was alternately maddening and lovable, a solid if unspectacular pitching staff, and a stellar bullpen, the team advanced further than anyone expected they would, culminating in an improbable trip to the World Series, where they were swatted down by Buster Posey, Madison Bumgarner, and the San Francisco Giants. The fans, most of whom would admit they had just been happy to be there, nevertheless longed for a trip back, for a second chance at glory. But the star pitcher left in free agency and the odds seemed long. Some analysts speculated the team might not even make the playoffs again. Yet when the American League Championship trophy was awarded, it was to a group of familiar faces…looking even stronger than the previous year, they were back in the World Series, ready to take care of unfinished business.

As a fan of that team, the 2011 Texas Rangers, you can see why I’m happy for the Kansas City Royals today.

The last time I was so invested in a non-Rangers World Series outcome was 2001, when the Arizona Diamondbacks walked off in Game 7 against a dynastic New York Yankees team (and even then, my glee at the result had a lot more to do with my jealousy-hatred of the Yankees than any love for an Arizona franchise younger than I was.) This year, Kansas City was the team I was rooting for to win it all the moment the Rangers were eliminated—more than the long-suffering Cubs, more than the traditionally hard-luck Mets, and certainly more than the Blue Jays, who had taken down my team in one of the weirdest games of all time. The Royals just seemed like, after coming so close last year, they deserved it.

They had gone through the gauntlet of another 162-game season, this time not as the hunters of “better” teams, but as the hunted. They had advanced through the playoff rounds one by one yet again, this time not as the plucky underdogs but as the defending A.L. champions. And this time, entering the World Series against an N.L. team with a flashier history than theirs, there were a lot more people predicting that they had a chance. Shades of 2011.

I wanted the Royals to win because they reminded me so much of my favorite Rangers team. Their speed, their youth, their heart-stopping tendency to play possum for 6 innings and erupt for dramatic comebacks in the final innings—it all felt so familiar. They got a football town to pay attention, not just for a few weeks but for a whole season; they got their stadium rocking with individual player chants that needed no prompting—every time the “Moooooose” cheer would begin for Mike Moustakas I could hear the thundering “NA-PO-LI” chant echo in my memory.

I’m happy for Kansas City because they now have what I wanted for my team 4 years ago. The 2011 Rangers endured what some baseball people have called the greatest World Series of all time—and I’m sure if you root for one of the other 29 teams in the majors, there’s a fair case for that designation. But for me that World Series was not great; it contained the darkest sports moments I have ever experienced and will ever experience…seriously, I know I’m only 26, but nothing could possibly be worse than Game 6. Nothing.

I’m happy for the Royals fans, for a town that loves its team. I spent a few days in Kansas City last year, and I had a wonderful time. Great music, incredible barbecue, easy to get around, nice people, easygoing vibe. I’m glad that city’s getting a championship parade, and I know the streets will be full hours before it starts and after it ends. The Royals and their fans deserve the ecstasy they’re feeling today.

I hope they know it doesn’t always end this way…even when it seems like it should. In sports, the good guys don’t always win. But I’m glad that, at least this time, they did. Way to go, Royals, sincerely. Just don’t get comfortable…I hear there are a few ballplayers in Arlington still looking to finish a job 5 years in the making.

I Don't Want To Talk About Race. I Want to Listen.

If there’s one thing social media has taught me, it’s that talking about race is almost entirely useless. Blood pressures rise, feelings are hurt, sweeping generalizations are made, and in the end nothing is accomplished—the exchange ends not because a consensus has been reached, but because its participants are too exhausted to continue. The declaration that is made each time a new video emerges—that is time for all of us to have “a national conversation about race”—ignores the simple reality that we don’t know how to talk about race.

If I choose to enter into a conversation about race, I do so from the perspective of a blond-haired, blue-eyed, white, straight, middle class, Christian, married, college educated, employed adult—the perspective of someone for whom oppression is purely academic. I can only imagine what it might feel like to be discriminated against by society, because that is not part of my experience. I can learn about it, I can hear others talk about it, but I cannot know it. It’s not part of my sociological DNA, and to claim otherwise is to be blind, arrogant, or both.

So when an unarmed black man dies at the hands of a white police officer—as in the cases of Michael Brown and Eric Garner and Walter Scott and others—my first question about the victim is, “What did he do wrong?” I have been raised to believe that police officers are here to serve and protect the public, that they keep us safe from the bad guys, that if the police are looking for you then you must have done something wrong. So if an unarmed black man is killed at the hands of a white cop under ambiguous circumstances, then he must have been doing something illegal or threatening. Policemen are the good guys, so if an officer is standing over a black body with a smoking gun, then that dead man must have been a bad guy.

Obviously each of these stories is complicated and unique, and obviously my opinion can shift away from that immediate reaction as the details of each incident come out. But make no mistake, that instant, visceral reaction matters. The moment another police video goes viral, my background and the biases that come with it have already determined who gets the benefit of the doubt. I cannot read these stories or see these videos neutrally, just as you cannot. However implicit, each of us understands race based on the way we have experienced its effects in our own lives.

And so we don’t know how to talk about race with one another. We are so tied to our own understandings that are we are unwilling to hear another vantage point for more than a few seconds. The truth is, we don’t want to have a real conversation, a dialogue, about race—we want to explain why we’re right and they’re wrong, and for them to sit down and shut up while we explain it. Talking about race isn’t getting anything done because we have too big an appetite for our own words and no stomach for those of another.

But, as I alluded to in my introductory blog post, sometimes reading and writing can do what talking cannot. This week I read Ta-Nehisi Coates’ book, “Between the World and Me”, a cross between a memoir and a manifesto on race in America, written as a letter to Coates’ 14-year old son. The book is not an optimistic one; there is no attempt to find redemption in African-Americans’ painful struggle for equality in this country, nor is there much of a nod to progress in that direction. Coates’ outlook is bleak, arguing that the American Dream was built upon the domination of “black bodies” (a term he returns to throughout the book) and that in order for America to change, it must not only acknowledge its past and present sins, but fundamentally reform its Dream.

Coates’ writing is provocative, brilliant, beautiful, and heartbreaking. Certain passages made me angry, others made me sad. Sometimes I nodded along with his points, other times I found myself wanting to argue with him mid-sentence, to accuse him of oversimplifying something so complex. But all I could do was keep reading, keep immersing myself in his perspective, keep learning from the experience of his life and the lessons it has taught him. And in doing so, in letting him tell his full story without interruption, I was able to grasp some things I never heard in the back-and-forth of a Facebook debate, whether because they hadn’t been said or (more likely) because I wasn’t listening.

When I played my music loudly in the car at 16, it meant I was a teenager—when Coates’ son does so, it means he’s a thug with no respect. When I’m asked if I need help in a store, I can say no thank you without eyes following me around the premises—Coates does not share that privilege. When I’m pulled over by a cop, my worst fear is that I’ll be given a speeding ticket—Coates’ worst fear is that the wrong word from him will make his wife a widow and his son an orphan.

Is Coates’ perspective fair to white America, to the establishment, to the police? I don’t know. But I’m not sure it matters. What matters is hearing him before responding, letting him tell his whole story—his fears, his hopes, his ideas—instead of dismissing him out of hand. He has a perspective that is different from mine, probably different from yours, and that perspective deserves a voice at the table, a chance to speak without being shouted down.

Reading “Between the World and Me” stretched me, because it forced me to enter a world I do not know and to inhabit a life that is not my own. It made me do what great writing should—it made me empathize with someone who is not like me. And by listening to his feelings and his arguments, his stories and his conclusions, an unspoken connection formed between writer and reader, black man and white man. I do not know his world as he does…but I know it better than I did before. And in that there is progress.

Perhaps we do not need conversations about race, with their myriad interruptions and misunderstandings. Perhaps we need to do less debating, where the prize is not consensus, but the last word. Maybe the secret is not better explaining your perspective—maybe it is hearing someone else’s.

The Forever in the Photos (Friday Devotional)

“For the Lord is good; His steadfast love endures forever, and His faithfulness to all generations.”

- Psalm 100:5

At any family gathering, a consistent source of fun is the photo album. Old pictures spark stories and even elicit tears, but the most common reaction they provoke is laughter—at the clothes you wore 15 years ago, at the hairstyles your mom’s bridesmaids had on her wedding day, at the way your grandparents’ house was decorated 60 years ago. The older the photos, the more struck you tend to be by how much has changed since then. Looking at some of these old pictures, it can seem like they were taken on a whole different world than the one you know today.

But when the people in those photographs start to tell their stories, you quickly realize that, for all the surface-level differences between 2015 and 1995 (or 1965 or 1925), much remains the same today. Whether wearing parachute pants or cargo shorts, parents still cram kids and luggage into vans so they can experience the wonder of the Grand Canyon together. Whether they put them in brown paper bags or insulated lunch boxes, moms still put post-it notes saying “I love you” on their kids’ sandwich bags. Whether the house was a log cabin built by your great-grandfather or a suburban condo that your realtor landed at a good price, it is still the love of family that makes a house a home. As much as the details change, the important parts of life endure for generations.

In the same way, much of the way God works in your life seems to change over time. When you’re a child, God is found in the exciting stories of the Bible, where He helps people like Moses and David and Samson win thrilling victories over impossible odds. As you get older, you learn that God wants you to know Him not just as a character in a bunch of stories, but as the one who loved you enough to send His Son for you. Faith becomes about more than memory verses and moves to a personal relationship between you and Christ. By the time you’ve reached adulthood and maturity (which don't necessarily happen simultaneously), your picture of God is a more complicated one—He is there in your victories and your defeats, when you laugh with joy and when you sob with grief.

Like the details in those old photographs, your mental picture of God and your understanding of His role in your life changes as the years go by. But the psalmist reminds us that while some things look different to you as you mature, the important things endure—“The Lord is good; His steadfast love endures forever, and His faithfulness for all generations.” No matter how you change over time, no matter how mighty your triumphs or how miserable your losses, God’s goodness and faithfulness and love endure through it all, just as they have for the generations before you and the generations that will follow you.

Especially when goodness and mercy seem like distant memories, when you’ve fallen and feel like there is no one to help you up, you can draw encouragement from the promise of God’s unchanging love. As different as life looks when circumstances shift, God remains the same today as yesterday, still regarding you as His precious child. When God’s faithfulness seem like a memory from a long-gone past, resigned to faded photographs, take a second look—some things never change.

Why I'm Doing This

I hate writing. In college, essays were always the homework assignments that I pushed to the back burner; it would take considerably more fingers and toes than I possess to count the number of papers I completed while more responsible students were in bed. That procrastination is a bad habit that I’ve never outgrown—as a pastor, there’s never been a Sunday morning that I wasn’t still editing my sermon 30 minutes before the service started.

Any time I look at an old piece of my writing, I find 4 or 5 things that make me groan, wondering, “What was I thinking here?” And the older the writing, the more horrified I am at what I once thought was acceptable prose.

The writing process takes too long, editing is painful, and by the time I’ve finished the work, the feeling is less akin to pride than relief. Writing, more often than not, leaves me exhausted and empty.

Thing is, I also love writing. I don’t know how to build anything more complicated than a Target bookshelf, but constructing an essay has always been something that came naturally to me. Where math and science presented problems I had to solve, with right or wrong answers, writing challenged me to give my thoughts, and to let the quality of the argument and the writing determine its rightness or wrongness. Writing my ideas, instead of just thinking them or saying them, somehow makes them seem more organized, more substantive, and more thoughtful—maybe because in order for me to put those thoughts on paper, they have to be all of those things. My best thinking doesn’t come through in my writing; my best thinking is my writing.

So I’m both unlucky and lucky that a large part of my job is spent writing. I have to write a sermon every week, because come Sunday morning I either have something to say or I have to say something. Of my own volition, I put out a devotional every Friday. Add to that preparation for weekly Bible study, church newsletter articles, and a variety of more occasional assignments, and much of my week ends up being spent in front of a computer—mostly staring at a blank Word document waiting for inspiration to strike, but occasionally typing, occasionally enough that I’m still employed. All of that writing pushes me and drives me, empties me and fills me.

But when I’m “off the clock” (and for the record, no pastor ever truly is), I’m still thinking. Sometimes about faith, sometimes about family, sometimes about sports, sometimes about politics, sometimes about comics books, sometimes about the news of the day, sometimes about television, sometimes about what I’ve been reading, sometimes about something so random I can’t wait to tell somebody about that something. But when I’m thinking about those things, the things that don’t apply to Sunday’s sermon, I have no outlet. I can talk about it, sure, but whenever I do, I find that my enthusiasm tends to overpower my thoughtfulness. So instead of presenting my idea or my argument the way it sounds in my head, as something potentially worth hearing, it comes out jumbled. Words, so powerful when written deliberately, come out of my mouth too quickly for their own good and see their impact lessened as a result.

I want a space where I can put those words, those ideas, on paper, where I can erase a sentence here and move a paragraph there, where those thoughts that come out of my mouth as a muddled mess can come through my keyboard as something worth reading. And thanks to the Internet, such a space exists—it’s called a blog, and you’re reading it.

This will be a place for me to write about whatever’s on my mind. Sometimes that will be the kind of argument you’d normally hear at a sports bar, sometimes it’ll be a review of a book I just read, sometimes it’ll be a devotional thought. Sometimes I’ll address big, universally important issues, other times I’ll just give my two cents on a headline. And so sometimes you won’t care about the topic I’m addressing at all—no problem! This blog is not about drawing an audience, it’s simply about organizing my thoughts and practicing my writing. I’m not doing this because I want to impress you, I’m doing it to challenge myself.

That being said, these essays are being put in a public space for a reason: collaboration leads to better thinking and better writing. So feel free to comment, share, e-mail me, or just read. I’m going to keep writing regardless!

I know that maintaining this blog will be something I’ll hate some days, when I would rather shut down my brain and watch 30 minutes’ worth of YouTube videos than write. I know sometimes I’ll wonder what the point is of writing this stuff down, what I’m really accomplishing here. But I also know that it is writing—strong, eloquent, thoughtful, passionate writing—that has moved me more than any verbal argument ever has. And if I manage to stumble my way into writing something like that, then this blog will have been worth the trouble. I hope you will enjoy reading what is posted here—because as much as I hate it sometimes, ultimately I will love writing it.