Questions about Church- #1

When the local church fails to produce fruit and win people to Jesus, the problem is not that the GOSPEL is no longer effective and people don't want to hear IT. The problem is that WE are no longer effective and people don't want to hear US.

The Holy Spirit, a little common sense and humility can help us change that.

Why wouldn't we admit that? Why wouldn't we seek to change that? What is it that we are so afraid of? Why can't we admit that we don't have it all figured out?

Keep Shoveling!

Phyllis Jones, from Harvey, Illinois went to the Metra station to take the train into Chicago the day after the historic blizzard of 2011. More than 1 ft. of untouched snow surrounded everything. She wasn’t surprised as she walked, crawled, and shuffled through parking lot snow drifts. This is the Midwest. She’d seen these messes before. She was surprised, however, when she got closer and realized someone was shoveling snow around the Metra stop. It was a welcome relief to find a path where she least expected it, through the snow right to the familiar, cleared bench she would sit on to wait for the train. The young man doing the shoveling was smiling and she smiled back. She thanked him for working so hard and asked him who he worked for, "Metra or the city of Chicago"? “Neither,” was his response, “my fiancé has to come through here after she gets off work and I just want to make sure she can get through.”

Marthas' heart melted, as did the heart of the waitress at my favorite coffee shop when I read her the Sun Times story. “Now he’s a keeper!” she said. A buddy of mine was sitting in the booth adjacent and overheard our conversation. As the waitress walked away, without looking up from his paper, he commented; “Probably just a stalker.” Cynicism shows up regardless of the weather.

No, Charles Pryor is not a stalker, he’s a man in love. The 36 year old trumpet player met a woman who changed his life 6 months ago and he wants to make sure she has a way through.

And then I read another story about a man who wanted to clear a path. As Mark tells it, it’s the “beginning of the gospel.” Mark, chapter 1, is the story of a man preparing a way. It's the story of John the Baptist “making straight paths” so that the lover of your soul could get you.

I was thinking about the path Jesus had to walk to get to me. Someone had to shovel the lies and the shame and the fear out of the way so Jesus could knock on my hearts door. It’s amazing how preconceived ideas, arrogance, and pain can snow us in. It's amazing grace that shovels us out.

Looking back... remembering, I can see more than one face out in the driveway of my soul, removing the mess, making a straight path in a crooked world so that I could meet Jesus.

Thank you Mom & Dad, Lindy, Peggy, Bill, and Lynn! Thank you, Mike Stipp, Randy Hird, and Dale Campbell! These are the names of just a few of the "shovelers" in my driveway that cleared the way for Jesus to change my life.

Here's to all of you "shovelers" out there; pastors, teachers, greeters, friends of the forgotten and lovers of lost souls, those who continually remind us of God's love and our value! Don't give up! Some of our drifts are deep, but the truth you tell and the love you share is the "beginning of the Gospel" for us and you are making a difference!

Keep shoveling!

Tell me again why you can't win?

This may be the strangest blog ever, but I saw this in the Sun Times today and believe it is worth reading. Think about this the next time you're tempted to whine, give up, or make excuses. Makes me want to go to the funeral and I never met Mr. Olaker.

Anderson E. Olaker had a busy double life.

By day, he taught science and math in the Chicago Public Schools. By night, Mr. Olaker did welding at a diesel-engine plant on 103rd Street in Pullman.

He worked both jobs full-time to help pay for college for his three children and his wife. Somehow, he also found time to earn a U.S. patent and learn both Spanish and German.

He grew up on a half-acre farm in Savannah, Tenn., where the Olakers grew most of their own food. They raised chickens that sometimes wound up in the supper pot. At night, the family heated up an iron in the fireplace and placed it in their beds, so they wouldn’t be chilly.

His great-grandmother was a slave. The Olakers can still repeat the stories she passed down. The slaves had no choice when “Their hair was cut and sometimes their hair was used for other things, like for stuffing” pillows, said Mr. Olaker’s daughter, Dr. Suezette Olaker-Copeland.

Mr. Olaker headed north to find a job. He and a friend were hired as migrant workers, but soon realized that if they stuck around, they would — as the old song went — owe their souls to the company store. Each time they were paid, they seemed to owe the farmer more money for their food and lodging. “They got dressed and left in the middle of the night,’’ said Mr. Olaker’s daughter.

He continued north to Chicago, where he went to welding school. In 1945 he landed a job on 103rd Street at the old GM Electro-Motive Diesel plant, which made train engines.

Mr. Olaker died at age 86 on Jan. 20 at the University of Chicago Hospital.

Mr. Olaker met Artemese White, who worked as a “Kelly Girl” secretary. They married in 1947 and lived in a South Side boarding house, where several renters shared one bathroom. Mornings were like an English door-slamming farce. “They would have to listen and hear somebody in the bathroom, and as soon as the bathroom door would open and close, you’d have to rush in before somebody else,” Dr. Olaker-Copeland said.

The Olakers raised their three children on the South Side, and Mr. Olaker ran a science club for neighborhood kids. They grew crystals and studied ant farms. “We always had microscopes and chemistry sets,” said his son, Malcolm, a 25-year-employee with the state of New York.

Mr. Olaker wanted to go to Roosevelt University, but when he took the entrance exam, his test-taking was rusty — he didn’t finish on time. He started studying books on speed-reading. When he rode the streetcar, he memorized the license plates of cars he passed. The next time he tackled the entrance test, he finished with time to spare.

He majored in chemistry and graduated in 1960. He wanted to work at Abbott Labs, but in those days, it was rare for an African-American man to be even granted an interview at a major drug company, his daughter said. So he taught chemistry, math and science at Crane, CVS and Robeson High Schools.

During his studies, he picked up Spanish and German. “He could speak in the perfect past tense and future perfect tense,” his daughter said. When he traveled to Germany to visit another daughter — opera singer Charlae Olaker-Haase — he used his mastery of German to go off exploring on his own.

Mr. Olaker got off work at the factory at 1:24 a.m., went home to sleep, and got up in the morning to teach school. A special treat that kept him going was lemon meringue pie.

He did the two jobs for about 15 years. He retired from GM in 1980 and from CPS in 1987. He then taught at Washburne Trade School and Kennedy-King College. He also invented an anti-tampering device for fire hydrants, earning a U.S. patent.

Mr. Olaker sang for more than 60 years with the choir at Greater Bethesda Baptist Church.

His son Malcolm said he learned empathy from his dad as he watched his kindness toward homeless and hungry people on the street: “Often, he would take them to a restaurant.”

The word is "Savior."

I don't know how he got there, he might not have known either, but there he was. Maybe he meant to walk out on the precipice of Niagara Falls in order to be swept over and commit suicide. Maybe he thought he could brave the swift, but shallow water and make it to the other side. Maybe he was running from something...or to something. Regardless of how it happened, it happened. He was alone, standing on the edge of Niagara Falls. One foot, braced against a rock, was all that kept him from being swept over the 171 ft. water fall to certain death. He was too far out to go back. He was too close to the edge to turn around.

Rescuers came, but couldn't help. People trained in this sort of thing. They through lifelines to him that didn't quite reach far enough. They told him to "hang on" but all knew it was just a matter of time. They attached ropes to themselves and tried to wade out to where he was, but to no avail. Emergency responders said they got close enough to hear his plea for help and see the fear in his eyes, but that was all. They couldn't help. Then, his knees buckled...it was almost over. A person can only fight against a river for so long before strength gives way to current. Suddenly, the waters stirred. Into the picture came rescue from above. A helicopter hovered over the helpless man, and a rope with a life preserver was tossed close enough for him to embrace. In a matter of seconds it was over. He was safe. Rescued from above. The help from above went where the earthbound rescuers couldn't, reached where they couldn't, and did what they could not do.

I watched the video and thought about Jesus and me. How, one day, I also teetered on the brink, my past a raging current that pushed me toward despair and my future a hopeless fall into darkness. I wasn't even sure how I got there, but I was there.

I remember how my knees buckled and I wanted to give up. I remember people trying to help me, people trained in this sort of thing. I remember rescuers reaching out to me, but unable to get to where I was.

And then help came...from above.

He came where others could not come. He reached where others could not reach. He did for me what others could not do. He forgave the sin, arrogance and foolishness that led me into despair, and lifted me out of it. I've never been the same.

This Christmas I'm rejoicing at one word that was part of the good news given to the shepherds on that hillside 2,000 years ago; "Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord." The word is "Savior."

A "Savior," that's what I needed, what I need, and who I have discovered Jesus to be. No earthbound friend, family member, or trained rescuer could have done for me what Jesus did. There is no substitute for "Savior." True, he has used all of the above to help me on the journey, but only Jesus could have reached me where I was.

Indeed... "when nothing else could help, love lifted me."

Merry Christmas!

You can find the video if you Google "Amazing Rescue at Niagara Falls."

When it Hurts

Leadership is often painful. If the team loses, the coach gets fired. If the play breaks down, the quarterback gets sacked. If the stock drops, the president of the company is called into the boardroom. Psychologists tell us that we can endure almost anything if we have some understanding of a purpose that might be behind it. I recently ran across this devotional thought from Streams in the Desert II. (December 13)

"Angels are not fitted for sympathy, for they know nothing about human life. In a picture by Domenichino, there is an angel standing by the empty cross, touching with his finger one of the sharp points in the thorn-crown which the Saviour had worn. On his face there is the strangest bewilderment. he is trying to make out the mystery of sorrow. He knows nothing of suffering, for he has never suffered. There is nothing in the angel nature or in the angel life to interpret struggle or pain. the same is measurably true of untried human life. If we would be sons of consolation, our natures must be enriched by experience. We are not naturally gentle to all men. There is a harshness in us that needs to be mellowed. We are apt to be heedless of the feelings of others, to forget how many hearts are sore, and carry heavy burdens. We are not gentle toward sorrow, because our own hearts never have been plowed. The best universities cannot teach us the divine art of sympathy. We must walk in the deep valleys ourselves, and then we can be guides to other souls. We must feel the strain, and carry the burden, and endure the struggle ourselves, and then we can be touched, and can give help to others in life's sore stress and poignant need."

I've been thinking about all of the "guides" I've been blessed with over the years and how many valleys they must have walked through, just so they could lead me through them later.

I am grateful.

Stop Dancing and Throw the Bum Out.

A rant after reading Mary Mitchell’s column in the Sun Times on November 9^th, 2010. It was in the “News” section on page 12.

Mary's column said:

“When it is put out there that 72% of “black babies are born to unmarried women,” it is like kicking someone who is down. Most of these women don’t choose a life of solitude. Many of them wanted the white dress. They wanted to walk down somebody’s aisle. They wanted a glittering diamond on their left hand. But pregnancy happened. It bothers me that whenever America’s out of wedlock births are discussed, it becomes a conversation about the shocking number of “black babies being born to unmarried women.” Unless we are talking artificial insemination, it still takes two to tango. And while a lot has changed over the last century, women still have to wait for a man to ask.”

This column is in the “News” section of the paper? Here’s some news, Mary, pregnancy doesn’t "just happen.” It "happens" when two people make a decision and decide to dance. (Okay, it did "just happen" once, but that was 2,000 years ago. Come to think of it, Joseph probably said the same thing I just wrote when it did "just happen" 2,000 years ago. But I digress.)

After years of being the pastor of a local church, I am still surprised at the women who settle for bums because they don’t want to be alone, and I’m weary of the bums they settle for. Bums do what bums do, they bum, and then eventually they move on. You’re right Mary, it does take 2 to tango, and as long as women are willing to dance, be assured there’s a bum somewhere who will dance with them.

Men need to step up! White, black, whatever… men need to step up. The failure of men in our culture to step up to the altar is a shameful mark against men of all ethnicities. It’s time that American men take it personal. According to Mary’s column, in 1990, the number of children born to ALL single-parent households (regardless of race) in the U.S. was 13%. Today it is 41%. If her numbers are correct, that’s a 28% increase, and that’s a problem. The tango needs to stop. The dance floor is getting too crowded.

As men, we need to stop pretending that it’s okay for us to father a child without being married to their mother, and we need to go farther. We need to stop pretending it is okay when one of us moves in with a women without being married to her. In my opinion, that guy's a bum.

We need to call the bums what they are, and stop smiling sideways around the water cooler. We need to call our brothers on the carpet who decide they want the benefits of marriage without the commitment. Men in the U.S. need to grow up, now. No excuses. Propose marriage or move out. As a matter of fact, propose marriage and move out until you’re married. Far too many of you select a date far enough away it leaves you time to keep dancing in the mean time. Stop the music. No more. Offer the ring and give her back the keys because a vast majority of the time, it’s her place. Grow up.

However, when men fail to step up and propose marriage, women need to say “no,” and exit the dance floor. It doesn’t take 2 to make this happen, it only takes 1. When she says “no,” the dance has ended. You’re more powerful than you realize, ladies. That’s the message Mary should be sending to our community as a whole.

The church has to take a stand and say “enough.” Grace demands a strong message about the power and privilege of marriage. Grace demands that we make sure men are hearing what God has to say about what it means to be a man. Grace demands that we so love the women in our lives that they would never dream of settling for anything less than a walk down the aisle with a man who is committed. Grace demands that we reach out lovingly, but firmly to women and men who never realized that there was any other way. God forgive us for doing anything less.

Behind, But Looking Ahead

With the information and media age in full storm, I am feeling left behind these days. I remember conversations with my parents 30 years ago when I was trying to explain the basics of the Apple IIE computer. At some point I just gave up. It was too hard to explain. My parents weren’t stupid, if anything they were much smarter than I was, but the world had changed and they hadn’t.

Now it’s my turn. My son Nate is studying at “Tribeca Flashpoint Academy of Media Arts and Sciences” in Chicago. I don’t even know what the name means. When we talk I try to ask intelligent questions about his work. I’m 0 for 100. We can talk philosophy, religion, and politics, but when it comes to his work, it’s a different language. I have no idea what he actually does. My other son, Nick, is finishing up an undergraduate degree in Corporate Communication at Olivet Nazarene University. Again, we can talk philosophy, religion, and politics, but then he explains the impact of new technology and social media on all of the above and I’m left nodding like I used to do in Algebra class. I nod “yes,” but have no idea what's actually going on. Both conversations with my sons usually end with me saying, “Well, go get’em.” I think that’s what my Mom said to me 30 years ago.

Andy Stanley said something recently that has captured my attention and caused me to rethink my approach to everything new. He said, “I don’t want to become a critic when I should be a student.” He talked about how, as a youth pastor many years ago, the old timers would sit at the table and shake their heads at new ideas and methods for ministry. Now he finds himself in that seat and he’s determined to learn and listen instead of critique and criticize. Me too, Andy, let’s go get’em!