Spencer's Mom

Except a kernel of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit.

Happy New Day

                                          Quincy waving hello from a tuk-tuk

          

                The rooster crowed into the darkness around me. I squinted at my phone – 2:30 am. I could hear the music outside still playing, hints of western pop with a Khmer karaoke overlay which sounded not as bad as you’d imagine, or maybe I was just amused. My New Year was ringing in, even though I was too exhausted to stay awake until midnight, despite the neighborhood dogs barking into the thick smoky Cambodian air. Our “deranged rooster” as my daughter-in-law aptly named him, was heralding 2020 a bit early, but I lay awake now, fully alert to all of the unfamiliar sounds around me. At a time when most people. including me, are prone to looking ahead – to a new year, new start, new diet, I lingered in the moment, letting my senses capture the strange land around me. My granddaughter’s rhythmic breathing beside me brought an other-worldly peace beneath the din and revelry outside the window. 

            We talk a lot about vision and that’s not a bad thing. Humans need hope just to survive. Soldiers dream of the girl at home, of mom’s baking while the earth turns to fire around them. The castaway hopes for a ship passing by. Maybe this year you want a new job, a husband or health. The ability to dream, to look ahead is God-given. It is the mark that faith aims at. But it is not faith.

            Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. Hebrews 11:1

            Some translations use the word assurance instead of substance. That means we already know that we have what we hope for. It is a robust, whole and complete hope, not a desperate or vague hope. It is knowing that whether we are in Cambodia or Cape Cod, we are still sojourners. We are not there yet; this is not our home. We are assured of that and we can not only rest in that, we can live fully and walk with purpose and conviction because we know where we are going. Our vision? Bringing others along. Using our God-given gifts to point them to Jesus. the Fountain of Life, so that they need nothing more along the Way.

            But whoever drinks of the water that I shall give him will never thirst. But the water that I shall give him will become in him a fountain of water springing up into everlasting life.” John 4:14

            “Whoever.” Malaysians, Cambodians, Koreans, Chinese, Nepalese, Iranians, West Africans, Pakistani. I was privileged to worship Jesus alongside all of these nationalities while I was vising my son and his family over Christmas but in God’s eyes we are just His kids, with all of the stumbling and wandering tendencies that children have. We don’t need a vision, or even a plan. We need to come to Him daily, sometimes moment to moment – and never thirst.

            “I’ve learned to stop looking ahead,” a friend told me recently. She and her husband have been side by side in the trenches ever since his cancer diagnosis several months ago. “I’ve got today, and that is enough. I just trust God with the rest.” There was so much wisdom in that, for all of us. That’s what got me thinking about the moment, how many God has hidden in each day, like He’s saying, “Look! Over here!” Use your eyes and ears and hands and heart right here, right now.
           For from his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace. John 1:14(ESV)

            Everlasting, eternal grace.

            I am 63. There is a lot more road behind me than before me. Maybe that’s one reason why I can linger now in the priceless moments God gives me. An out of sync rooster, watching my grandchildren play with children they can’t understand but each knowing the universal language of laughter, or singing Feliz Navidad in a Cambodian church (they really love this song for some reason) and the joy we share that transcends culture.

            All these people died in faith, without having received the things they were promised. However, they saw them and welcomed them from afar. And they acknowledged that they were strangers and exiles on the earth. Hebrews 11:1           

            We already have everything we need to make it to 2021, and each year after, until God’s children pass through the heavenly gates. But it’s what we do along the way that matters most. Let’s pray God opens our eyes to the moment, so we can love those He brings our way, and show them the way home – step by step, grace upon grace.

            Happy 2020 friends – and Happy Sunday or whatever day you’re in. May the road lead you to Christ Jesus, Fountain of Everlasting Life, and His hidden treasure along the Way.

 

(Below is clip of children playing:)

IMG_1829

 

 

The Legend of Mrs. Santa

Hmmm…you can buy this costume on Amazon.

“There she goes! There she goes!” my father yelled as he pointed up towards the roof. It was freezing out, we had no coats on but it didn’t matter. A grown man and three or four kids had just spilled out onto the lawn on a Christmas Eve, and stood squinting up into the sky. And I swear, to this very day, that I saw the hem of a huge red skirt slipping over the crest of the roof. It was, of course, Mrs. Santa Claus.

                   Years later, my mom took credit for inventing Mrs. Santa, for leaving the basket of new pajamas on the front step, ringing the doorbell then running at break-neck speed around the house, through the back door and coming up behind us all as we ran to the door. It was the only time of year that my father read the Bible to us, from Luke, the birth of Jesus. And it was the perfect opportunity for my mom to make a run for it. I doubt we ever heard the end of the story, but it was a great way to get your kids into their pajamas on Christmas Eve.

                    It never made sense that it was my mother. She was the student, the bookworm, snapping us all to our senses. In my mind, her brows are terminally furrowed and I am in trouble or close to it. My father was a 5 year old stuck in a suit with a briefcase. I think that’s why he liked to drink, because he could bust loose, be could become what he yearned to be at the moment; a clown, a cowboy, a monster. At night he became a huge wrestling machine, rolling and growling on the living room floor while we screamed and giggled, while my mother sat at the kitchen window, smoking another cigarette. When she looked out of the window, her brows went up, like she was  waiting to be rescued.

                    I took a poll and all of my siblings, including me kept Mrs. Santa alive. For me, it was long after I put Santa to rest. My last son, Jake, never knew Santa. I told him it was me that put those presents under the tree. It was work and a paycheck. But I decided Mrs. Santa had a practical use and no other kid, in my lifetime, ever reported her ringing their doorbell. She became family.

                    By then I knew Jesus and He was much better than Santa. No one would ever tell me that they made him up. I learned the end of Luke; that He was more than a baby in a Woolworth’s crèche, that he became a man just so he could die for us. And the greatest joy and wonder of all; He could actually live within someone like me. In the same mysterious splendor that He came to earth, through a young girl in a dirty barn, He came to me one night 32 years ago. The baby really came to rescue us. I wish my mom had known that all those years ago.

                    When my brother died, my dad drank to forget, and the child inside died too. We still pulled off Mrs. Santa, until we all went off to different places and it was more sad to remember the wonder and laughter, the days of child-like hope. We had our own kids and I did plenty of tearing over snow and ice to get from the basket of new jammies on the front porch to the back door in time. Eventually they learned the truth. But I loved standing in the Cape Cod cold with my kids, our breath billowing huge puffs of steam, yelling, “There she goes!” as they peered up into the black winter sky.

                    I wonder if the shepherds that saw the angels rip through the silent night, God’s glory spilling out onto the dark earth, if they forever stood watching after that, – looking for maybe a wing, a golden hem of a robe, just a sprinkle of light or a faint song through the stars. I wish my dad had known that the child-like wonder can be real, that Jesus wants us that way.

                    According to my daughter-in-laws, the legend of Mrs. Santa has made it to the next generation, as far away as Malaysia! But it’s more for fun, honoring a peculiar family tradition. Like me, they retired Santa, and gave Jesus center stage. And I think Jesus would be right in the middle of it all; gingerbread houses and hanging stockings and singing songs, even shouting, “There she goes!” and especially the love in a mom or dad that tucks a child in at night. It might remind Him of His mom, that cold night, the love in her eyes and the love that sent Him from heaven straight to us.

                  We were worth all that to Him – the cold barn, the cross, the empty tomb. It was all His idea. It’s the most magnificent Christmas gift, every single day of the year. Christ in us – the hope of glory, a hope that is eternal.

Luke 2:11-14 (NLT)

The Savior—yes, the Messiah, the Lord—has been born today in Bethlehem, the city of David!  And you will recognize him by this sign: You will find a baby wrapped snugly in strips of cloth, lying in a manger.”

Suddenly, the angel was joined by a vast host of others—the armies of heaven—praising God and saying,

“Glory to God in highest heaven,

and peace on earth to those with whom God is pleased.”

 May you know the wonder of His love and the glory of His salvation this Christmas and forever!

 

 *****Beautiful song: “Winter Snow”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xpHiAmL8-b0

Flying With Beethoven

The dust spun and danced in the late afternoon sun, then settled for just a short time upon the black Steinway grand piano. I waited on one of the many hard chairs that lined Mrs. Adams living room with my sheet music on my lap, until she waved me towards the kitchen as the previous student left, and inspected my hands while I washed. Only once did I show up with dirty hands.

            A week earlier, I had asked Mrs. Adams if I could learn the Moonlight Sonata. I can’t remember now where I heard it but something inside of me was unstuck and released within the haunting melody – as if I found someone who could speak my language, who knew. I loved Bach and Haydn but this! It was like finding an answer without knowing my question, and I wanted more. She gave me a little half-smile, and said nothing.

            As we sat down together on the bench, she reached for a booklet of sheet music on top of the piano. “Beethoven” was in large letters across the top of the page, then “Sonata (Moonlight)” underneath. She handed it to me to look at, and probably observed the expression on my face go from delight to worry. It was almost 20 pages long.

            “There’s three movements. You probably only heard the first.” And she was right. The first is the most famous – slow and rhythmic, the chords shifting and swinging in and out of darkness and light.  I would discover the second movement was lighter – almost playful at times but unpredictable. The notes were played staccato, a tap dance across the keys. Then the third; it sounded like rolling thunder. My hands were about to learn how to fly! But first –

            But first, I had to learn the right hand – all 19 pages, flawlessly. No pedal, no feeling. Then the left, the bass, clunky and dull, stretching my small hand across the octaves with precise rhythm, counting out the rests and pauses to the 16th note.  Finally I could put both hands together, and as the metronome swung back and forth, the sonata began to take shape. Still, this took time, synchronizing two hands to the measured language across the page. Months. Then one day, Mrs. Adams turned to me and said, “And now, with feeling!”

            This was more than just the whipped cream on the sundae – it unlocked the door into the music. And although the Italian directives like allegro (fast or brisk), crescendo (gradually louder) and pianissimo (very quiet) were dictated by Beethoven’s hand two hundred years ago, breathing life into the notes, this door also let the music become mine. I could fly with the Master, under his wing, but solo. What was his, became mine. I did not realize at the time that I was learning one of life’s most crucial lessons. Discipline first, then freedom. The lines drawn by the Creator of all things, including the metric language of all music, lay the foundation on which we build. Obedience, then blessing. Divine order.

            Two years later, I stopped lessons. Mrs. Adams told my mother she had nothing more to teach me and suggested I go to Julliard in New York City.  But the weak frame holding up my family was collapsing under the weight of my brother’s death a few years earlier, so instead I ran away, searching for freedom, for flight and that door in the music where my soul could escape. There were moments, fool’s gold, when I thought I had found it, but the freedom I sought entangled me in the long run. Angry, alcoholic and broken I was unable to shake loose. I was trapped.

            It’s funny, but when I first met Jesus, my soul leapt. I had almost forgotten the Door but here it was! And just like that, the trap was broken and I was free. But as the thirty -odd years have passed by, I have relearned the art of discipline. Sometimes I am just playing the left hand, sometimes both, not because I love to or it feels purpose-driven. I just do the next thing, because it’s right and in the going I am learning how much I really don’t know, and His patience becomes mine. Then, usually when I’m not expecting it, God shows up in His glory, and breathes upon it and I can hear the melody.

            Shortly after burying my son, I came across this:

“Grace rooteth not out the affections of a mother, but putteth them on His wheel who maketh all things new, that they may be refined, therefore sorrow for a dead child is allowed to you, though by measure and ounceweights…” Samuel Rutherford

            Measure and ounceweights? Refined affections? This seemed a bit harsh at first, but over the years, almost 18 since I lost my son, the necessity of discipline, even within the most unspeakable pain has proved its place.  Isn’t the true essence of faith often like playing with the left hand? Prayer is hollow, Jesus is not calling, There is no melody, no place for interpretation or even appreciation. It is boring at best, terrifying at worst. There were days where I felt as if I was on a tightrope over a huge gaping abyss… in a black-out. Slow, one unsure step at a time towards a place I couldn’t see. It was exhausting, but eventually, over years, it led to a wide open place, a higher ground with a better view. There I had a new song I could not have learned any other way. No short-cuts – I looked.  

            Western Christianity often looks like whipped cream on whipped cream. Church websites lure the flock (often Christians from other churches) with pictures of lattes, videos of pretty girls in dark theaters with neon lights, eyes closed, arms raised, swaying to the music. Or bands on huge stages where they have enough room to skip and dance.Now that’s important. So when the lights are turned on and everyone goes home, will you have something to take with you, to practice? Something that God himself picked for you to learn. Or will it seem too hard?

“No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it. ” Hebrews 12:11

or try this:

“Whoever loves discipline loves knowledge, but whoever hates correction is stupid.” Proverbs 12:1

            Disciple means discipline. It should not be easy. It is not skipping across a stage.

            We need to fly – I do.  Those precious times when God has brought me into His sanctuary, the place of refreshing, of vision and hope – every believer needs that.  But it is not our entitlement. We are His own, bought with a heavy cost. Our rights, our affections, our dreams are handed over to Him to place on the wheel. And when He is looking around for someone to use, he will need “a vessel for honor, sanctified and useful for the Master, prepared for every good work.” 2 Timothy 2:21

            One day, every follower of Christ will get called home. And I think it will be a little like when Mrs. Adams said, “And now, with feeling!” Because then it will become ours, even though God made the whole thing. And we will have the answer to the yearning that haunts every human heart, and all the discipline, the refining  by ounces and measure, the turning on the potter’s wheel will become radiant glory, His eternal song will be ours as we worship at His throne. If I see Beethoven there, I’d like to thank him for pointing a little girl towards something deeper, something that only Christ could complete. But until that day, first the right hand.  Perfect! Now the left…

 

PS Here it is. Yes I could play this when I was 11. But definitely not now!

https://youtu.be/4Tr0otuiQuU

 

Set Apart – Not All Set

Jesus People 1970’s

 

“Quench not the Spirit.” 1 Thessalonians 5:19

Sanctification: 1. to set apart to a sacred purpose: Consecrate 2:to free from sin: Purify

This word popped into my mind as I made my way through the woods this morning, lifting my concerns before God. “Sanctified.” But then what God spoke next was disturbing. “They will not be sanctified.” Specifically, believers – I was praying for one in particular who I see as a bit adrift.  I’ve tried to call her in, to reason with her and she hears me, but she does not “heed.”  I don’t think she sees it as obstinacy or rebellion.  She is surrounded by a cloud of other compromised Christians and a group-think of postmodern plurality and half-truths.

        I’ve been making my way through the Bible over the last six months and I’m now in 2nd Kings. After several chapters, you pick up a pattern. Two kingdoms, Israel and Judah with two kings, their reigns overlapping throughout the course of each nation’s chaotic history. Some kings were flat-out evil, laughing at a God they assumed was blind.  Then there were the good kings. They usually had to tear down what the bad kings built. They wanted to please God, but I noticed a disturbing trend with these kings. The Bible states,  “but they did not remove the high places.”

        The “high places” refers to altars that were built to worship strange pagan gods. Solomon’s compromise, as he tried to appease way too many women, led to building pagan altars, a split kingdom and two nations veering off track. An occasional king would tear these places down in order to restore his people back to God, but then the next king would build it again.

        I thought of this as I circled the pond this morning. Sanctified means “set apart.” Not set on a fence, straddling two worlds. If I had to define what disturbs me most about many millennial Christians I meet is a disregard for what is holy. They won’t tear down the High Places.  They want to dine at the King’s banquet wearing flip-flops and pajamas.

Sanctify yourselves therefore, and be ye holy: for I am the LORD your God. Leviticus 20:17

        I know what you’re thinking. Doesn’t Jesus love me just the way I am? Well, it depends. Any wretched sinner, no matter how filthy, who is repentant, is welcome to eat at His table. Come as you are! But when I should know better, when I should be eating meat and I’m still on the bottle, when I know the Truth but fail to speak or live it… I better get it right. “Quench not the spirit.” If I just ate a box of bavarian creme donuts (I did that once when I was slightly impaired) I will pass on an invitation to dinner. All set.

       Dietrrich Bonhoeffer said, “Cheap grace is the grace we bestow on ourselves. Cheap grace is the preaching of forgiveness without requiring repentance, baptism without church discipline, Communion without confession…Cheap grace is grace without discipleship, grace without the cross, grace without Jesus Christ, living and incarnate.”

        When you get as old as I am, you begin to see cycles. As Solomon lamented, there truly is nothing new under the sun, including the “postmodern” philosophy. As a child of the 60’s, our mantra was  “if it feels good do it.” Why not? We weren’t hurting anyone! But unlike today, we would’ve proudly admitted our rebellion and rejection of all things holy. We built the altars ourselves and partied into the looming darkness. The hangover was immense and the whole nation suffered. Strange that the Jesus People Movement was born out of the midst of this depravity, yet so just-like-Jesus.  

        “A false scale is an abomination to the Lord.” Proverbs 11:1. I read this today, and I know it is talking about a literal scale, but I sensed the Holy Spirit highlighting it before me. What is my false scale? How am I weighing in on sanctification, holiness and the standard that God expects of me? A false scale is a deceptive scale. Do we also think our God is blind?

Much will be required of everyone who has been given much. And even more will be expected of the one who has been entrusted with more. Luke 12:48

         I have been given much – much more than I ever deserved or could even ask for. I want to tear down any lurking High Places and come to His holy altar –repentant, hungry for more of Jesus, abandoning all.  Oswald Chambers says, “Am I prepared to let God grip me by His power and do a work in me that is worthy of Himself?”

        This is the cost of sanctification. It is not cheap. But I want to be set apart for my Master’s use, so that when He needs me, He can joyfully reach for me.

        Perhaps the “Postmodern age” will signal a new revival, a resurgence of the Truth the Way and the Life.  If God is looking for some Jesus People, will we be ready? Worshippers in Spirit and in truth or worshipping before strange gods? Let’s demolish the High Places and return to our first love. There is a fountain of grace at the altar of repentance.

 

” but as He who called you is holy, you also be holy in all your conduct, because it is written, “Be holy, for I am holy.”1 Peter 1:15-17 (NKJV)

 

 

O Come to the Altar – beautiful song!

 

Just An Ordinary Superhero

            Steve Rogers. Britt Reid. Tony Stark.

            Do any of these names ring a bell? Okay…how about Peter Parker? Bruce Wayne. Here we go – Clark Kent!

            Yep…you got it. Superheroes, in their not-so-super everyday selves.

            I haven’t given this much thought since the days of watching Clark Kent dash into a phone booth where he would transform from a bumbling geek into the Man of Steel, until a phone conversation I had last week with my son Jake. Eli, my four-year-old grandson has an unwavering love for superheroes, which now spans, oh at least two years. But the thing that caught my attention was when Jake told me that Eli has taken to not only learning all of the superheroes “real” names, but pretends to be them through out the day. Not Batman, but Bruce. And when he is Iron Man, he asks to be called Tony.

            I liked that – that a four-year-old can recognize that even Super Heroes have to wash their uniforms. And it made me think about Jesus, the Ultimate Super Hero. I mean, He was God. But He made his entrance as a helpless baby, through a dirty barn and grew up in a po-dunk town called Galilee – a carpenter! I bet He got splinters and His mom reminded him to wear a coat. When it was time for Him to step into His three-year ministry before His death, people said, “Wait a minute! Isn’t that the carpenter’s son from Galilee?” He was disqualified by His humanity. He was just like us, even ordinary.

 – who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. Philippians 2:6,

              It was almost like God was pointing to us, with all of our desire for pomp and position and saying, “You missed it!” Jesus is reclining at a table with sinners, He is crossing a lake to pray for one crazy lunatic that lives in a graveyard. He’s playing with kids. Then just when you think you know Him, He’s raising someone from the dead, healing the blind and casting out demons. Whoa! Super hero action! But what I love is He didn’t have to change costumes or assume a new identity. He was showing us that this is what following Him looks like. Sometimes thinking about what you’ll make for dinner, sometimes praying for someone to be healed – from sickness, addiction, depression or fear. It may be just taking the time to love and listen.

            Oswald Chambers said,

We have a tendency to look for the marvelous in our experience, and we mistake heroic actions for real heroes. It’s one thing to go through a crisis grandly, yet quite another to go through every day glorifying God when there is no witness, no limelight, and no one paying even the remotest attention to us. If we are not looking for halos, we at least want something that will make people say, “What a wonderful man of prayer he is!” or, “What a great woman of devotion she is!” 

            Sometimes you feel like a Super Hero when you follow Jesus, and sometimes you feel like the loneliest person on earth. But when we allow God to use our lives in any way, at any time and He is glorified, you need nothing else on this planet. There just is nothing better.

            Eli and his brother Leo both have Hulk masks, and when they put them on I have to pretend that I am terrified of a four-year-old and a two-year old. I scream and ask them what happened to Eli and Leo and they whip the masks off with sheer joy shouting, “Here we are!” and I sigh in feigned relief. Even they understand that you just can’t sustain a Super Hero life for long. We need naps.

            Intuitively we know there’s more to this than what we see; there’s power, supernatural power just beyond our reach, but I think we also know there’s a price. They followed Jesus for the miracles, but when He challenged them in their faith, most walked away sad or mad. It costs, and He never chased anyone down.

            Eli might be Bruce Banner or Peter Parker today but he’s got it right. Though we all want to be a super hero, true heroes are made in the everyday grind of life. If my life is hid with Christ, then you will see Him, and His glory, no matter what I do. The task itself is unimportant. I’m just Robin (no relation to Batman) but He is the biggest and best Super Hero ever;  Mighty to Save, to Rescue and Redeem – and to use just ordinary folks like us.

            He is Emmanuel – “God with us.”

https://youtu.be/as5ubS6oNp4

Bruce Wayne? Definitely NOT Peter Parker.

Unfriending Facebook in Three Not-So-Easy Steps

 

 

A man of many companions may come to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother. Proverbs 18:24

             Four clicks and done. The directions to delete a Facebook account seemed simple enough. But alas – by the third click, the plan was unraveling. Why? the Facebook folks wanted to know. A list of reasons were displayed. I quickly scanned them, then clicked on I spend too much time on it. Oh? How about we send less emails, those pesky Friend requests and reminders to post, to wish someone I haven’t seen in six years a happy birthday.

            No, that’s not enough I thought. I scanned further down.

            I don’t have any use for it. Yes! That’s true too!

            A long detailed reply popped up suggesting I should be a better friend to my Friends. By now I was getting annoyed. This was supposed to be easy, clean.. instead it was turning into a sloppy break-up. I hovered above the Deactivate Account button and clicked. It’s over, Rover.

            But…the word “Deactivate” was somehow unsettling to me, like when you tell the guy “maybe we can work things out down the road.” No, I wanted it over. I searched some more. Turns out there’s a difference between Deactivate and Delete. I wanted Delete. So I tried to sneak back onto my deactivated Facebook page and instantly a “Welcome back to Facebook!” message popped up in my email. AAARRGH!

            When I was a child and we moved to a new neighborhood, I would set out to troll for friends. I’d knock on a door and ask, “Is there anyone here to play with me?” And usually, because it was the 60’s and every home had a minimum of four kids, the mom would yell,

            “Susan? Cindy? Billy? There’s someone here for you! ” And an avalanche of raw energy would burst through the door, spilling out into the yard where we would play until the lightening bugs flickered on. It was pure and simple. We fought, we made up and fought again at least three times a day. We were friends.

            I entered the world of FB about two months ago. I had launched a non-profit called Higher Ground Outreach and Facebook seemed like a logical platform for it. But I had to first start with a personal page, so I gingerly stepped into the world of Friends and Likes and Unfriends I’d heard so much about over the years.

            “We’re Facebook friends,” someone would say to explain how they knew someone they didn’t really know.

            “Oh.” It seemed a tad silly but I would be silent. I did not belong.

.           But here I was now, one of them. Instantly the friend requests came tumbling in, My first thought was: Where were you guys when I was in eighth grade? And I noticed that a lot of my friend requests were from men named Mohammed. Okay I had to do some weeding. Soon I was staring at photos of people I had known and loved who had disappeared or people I didn’t know well, at all, but now befriended me – I mean Friended me. It was an odd mix of joy (reconnecting with one of my favorite girls from our Pawtucket church), wonder (I saw a side of my little sister that was clever and hysterically funny) and then downright depressing. Friends I thought I knew were far from where I thought they were. I grieved the disappointment, but I couldn’t really even grieve because every emotion on Facebook is about two inches deep. Friends who once gathered in my home or around a fire pit, giving thanks and praise to the God who rescued us now seemed to be worshipping around a strange fire – money, little league, politics and position. Not bad things, but where’s Jesus? It reminded me of those Where’s Waldo books that challenged you to find Waldo in the midst of ridiculous chaos and confusion crammed into every page.

            I’ve had to take a hard look at the busy-ness of my own life, the subtle nagging feeling I’ve had over the last few months that, despite doing “good” things, I am missing something so important, like the sleeping baby in the car seat. I felt justified in my good works. I even hung the Jesus sign on it. There! But I began to see the slippery slope. I was using His name to endorse my own will.

            If Jesus came back and walked the earth again among us, I’m pretty sure He would pass on social media. He doesn’t need it. In fact His true friends were not many as it turned out, even though He told us, “I call you friend.” I think it’s because He wants us to follow Him, not the other way around. And He knew it would be hard, that many would walk away sad, like the rich young ruler. I wonder what that guy did next? I bet he bought something he didn’t need or maybe started a non-profit or a big charity. Yet in his heart, he must’ve known he missed it. But the scariest thing is, I think once we start to walk away, the cross gets smaller and smaller, until it’s not even on the horizon. You can still quote the Bible and bless the food, but your heart is stone again. “Come to me,” Jesus said. Not now, too busy. God help us.

Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends. You are my friends if you do what I command you.  No longer do I call you servants, for the servant does not know what his master is doing; but I have called you friends, for all that I have heard from my Father I have made known to you. John 15:13-1

                  When I deleted my FB page, I had 335 friends. Not bad for a short time. But at least 325 of those friends were gained with a click and lost with another. “Life’s more fun when you live in the moment!” Snap Chat boasts. But are you really living life or posting the parts you want all of your “friends” to see? It’s hard to be in the moment with your phone in your hand.

How deep the Father’s love for us

How vast beyond all measure

That He should give His only son

To make a wretch His treasure

                      Come to me, Jesus calls. Friend. Stay awhile and rest. He will even give you real friends, maybe not a lot, but what you need. Bear one another’s burdens, He tells us. And when I can’t find just one, when no one will come out to play, He is there at the door, knocking, even after the fireflies come out at night. I just have to be able to hear Him, then go and open the door.