Black Betty (my 124,000 mile, 1992 Chevy Impala) is sick. I am neither a mechanic nor the son of a mechanic, but there are a number of reasons for my diagnosis:
• She doesn’t take bumps in the road with the smooth comfortable ride as she once did. Each crack in the pavement seems like I just ran over the grand canyon;
• She’s a little cranky when I crank the engine in the morning especially on cold days;
• She moans and groans and rattles like her arthritis medicine stopped working long ago;
• Occasionally, she just won’t start (that is a really annoying habit of hers by the way);
• I no longer lock the doors because I think there is a problem with the security system (see above comment on occasionally not starting);
• The “needs oil changing” light doesn’t go off—even after I have had the oil changed;
• One interior light on the control panel is out;
• The Lenexa police officer that pulled me over a while back said the license plate light is out too. I didn’t know Betty had a license plate light. I’ll take Officer Friendly’s word for it—why would he lie about such a thing? (By the way, in case you are wondering… no ticket for Rob, just told not to roll through stop signs. Thank you Officer. I wonder if telling him that I pastor the church next to the police station helped my cause.).
• Her carpet is ripped and there are scratches and dents and chips all over her exterior—and there’s a little green paint on the rear right panel that looks eerily similar to the garage door trim paint. I wish those garage doors were just a wee bit wider;
• And most recently her check engine light periodically comes on. It’s not always on, just some times on. As of this writing, it is on, but yesterday afternoon it was off.
I know one day Betty is going to drive her last mile. I know it’s bound to happen sooner or later (as I have exactly zero car payments right now, I hope it is later. Much later.) I am unsure how to measure the life of a car, but I think it’s kind of like dog years. The formula goes something like this: Every 10,000 miles is like one dog year which, as you know, is like seven people years. So when calculating the life of Betty using the “10,000 miles = one dog year = seven people years” formula then she is 86 years and 9 months old by my reckoning. That might not be ready for hospice, but I am looking for their phone number.
One day Black Betty is going to die. And while I refer to her in human terms (notice she is “Betty” not “the Impala” or “the Chevy” or “the rattle trap from Detroit”; and further notice my use of personal pronouns in reference to her—Betty is not an “it”) still, I understand that she is an automobile and not a human. She will not go to “the great parking lot in the sky” when she drinks her last quart of 5W30 motor oil, but rather she will go to the dump. That’s where dead cars go. When they are dead, they are dead (Profound, I know).
Not so with people.
My dad who “died” less than a month ago (on Easter Sunday it will be exactly one month), is more alive now than ever. His faith has been made sight. He is enjoying all that God has promised to those who have allowed Jesus to enter his or her life and establish a relationship with him. Paul’s words to the Thessalonians are so wonderfully true. He said: “My friends, we want you to understand how it will be for those followers who have already died. Then you won't grieve over them and be like people who don't have any hope. We believe that Jesus died and was raised to life. We also believe that when God brings Jesus back again, he will bring with him all who had faith in Jesus before they died.” (1 Thessalonians 4:13-14 CEV). In other words, ol’ Bob Prince is doing pretty good these days. No pain. No cancer. No troubles. So I need not grieve like those without any hope. I have great hope in the One who died and is alive again!!!
And that is the GREAT news of Easter! And that is why this Sunday is the day to celebrate like no other day. And that is why I am so excited about Sunday. And that is why I can’t wait for Sunday. And that is why I want all of my friends to celebrate too--Jesus is alive! That’s the best news of all time!
Thursday, April 09, 2009
Thursday, April 02, 2009
Al Kaline and my dad
In my office I have pictures and memorabilia of my favorite baseball player of all time, Al Kaline. Al Kaline played for the Detroit Tigers and retired back in the early 1970’s. In the sixth grade, I was hospitalized for a ruptured appendix and my sister waited in a long line to get my hero’s signature at an autograph signing. That picture is on my wall along with his jersey, several signed baseballs, other pictures and a collage of several of his baseball cards.
You’ve seen baseball cards. They have a picture of the ball player on the front of the card and all of their important baseball statistics on the back. On Al Kaline’s card, you could read about his 3007 base hits and 399 homeruns, how he was a perennial all-star and gold glove winner.
Al Kaline was my baseball hero, but my dad was my real hero. As far as I know, my dad never played baseball, never swung a bat, and never slid into home base. In fact, he said more than once, “I wouldn’t walk across the street to see those bums (the Tigers) play.” So he certainly never had a bubble gum card with his picture on the front.
But I got thinking… what if my dad did have a bubble gum card with his picture on the front? I think you would be able to flip the card over and read some stats that are even more impressive than Al Kaline’s hits and homers. You would read…
• Lived on this planet for 81 years.
• Married to my mom for 56 years.
• Worked for the Ford Motor Company for 43 years.
• Served his country in Germany during World War II.
• Became a Christian 49 years ago following a life of motor cycle gangs and alcohol abuse
• Father of four kids—all graduates of Olivet Nazarene College. A lawyer, a nurse and two preachers.
• Grandfather of eight—five of whom have graduated from Olivet (a lawyer, school social worker, teacher, and two in graduate school) and three who are still in school.
• Sunday school teacher, church board member, willing worker in all things church related.
• Recipient of numerous awards for his volunteer service in Detroit’s inner city.
I suppose if my name were Al Kaline Jr. I would have known how to hit a baseball a little better than I do. If my name were Michael Jordan Jr., I would have had a better jump shot. If my name were Bill Gates Jr., my bank account would be much bigger. But my name is Robert Samuel Prince Jr., and I wouldn’t change that name for any other name. My dad left me an example and legacy of faithfulness, loyalty and love. He taught me the important things of life—not simply through his words but more importantly through his actions.
A little more than a month ago, my dad walked into his doctor’s office with a tummy ache. A week after that, he had a test to determine the extent and the exact nature of his condition. A week after that, he was told he had pancreatic cancer. And two weeks later he died. My brother and I officiated at his funeral. While it was the most difficult funeral service I have ever participated in – still we were able to rejoice in the life my dad lived and the promise of eternal life that he is now experiencing.
You’ve seen baseball cards. They have a picture of the ball player on the front of the card and all of their important baseball statistics on the back. On Al Kaline’s card, you could read about his 3007 base hits and 399 homeruns, how he was a perennial all-star and gold glove winner.
Al Kaline was my baseball hero, but my dad was my real hero. As far as I know, my dad never played baseball, never swung a bat, and never slid into home base. In fact, he said more than once, “I wouldn’t walk across the street to see those bums (the Tigers) play.” So he certainly never had a bubble gum card with his picture on the front.
But I got thinking… what if my dad did have a bubble gum card with his picture on the front? I think you would be able to flip the card over and read some stats that are even more impressive than Al Kaline’s hits and homers. You would read…
• Lived on this planet for 81 years.
• Married to my mom for 56 years.
• Worked for the Ford Motor Company for 43 years.
• Served his country in Germany during World War II.
• Became a Christian 49 years ago following a life of motor cycle gangs and alcohol abuse
• Father of four kids—all graduates of Olivet Nazarene College. A lawyer, a nurse and two preachers.
• Grandfather of eight—five of whom have graduated from Olivet (a lawyer, school social worker, teacher, and two in graduate school) and three who are still in school.
• Sunday school teacher, church board member, willing worker in all things church related.
• Recipient of numerous awards for his volunteer service in Detroit’s inner city.
I suppose if my name were Al Kaline Jr. I would have known how to hit a baseball a little better than I do. If my name were Michael Jordan Jr., I would have had a better jump shot. If my name were Bill Gates Jr., my bank account would be much bigger. But my name is Robert Samuel Prince Jr., and I wouldn’t change that name for any other name. My dad left me an example and legacy of faithfulness, loyalty and love. He taught me the important things of life—not simply through his words but more importantly through his actions.
A little more than a month ago, my dad walked into his doctor’s office with a tummy ache. A week after that, he had a test to determine the extent and the exact nature of his condition. A week after that, he was told he had pancreatic cancer. And two weeks later he died. My brother and I officiated at his funeral. While it was the most difficult funeral service I have ever participated in – still we were able to rejoice in the life my dad lived and the promise of eternal life that he is now experiencing.
Tag Team Wrestling
Before WWF, before Hulk Hogan, before Vince McMahon, before any of today’s over-the-top wrestling events and characters there was Big Time Wrestling. Every Saturday afternoon as a boy I would tune in our 15 inch, rabbit eared, turn the channel with needle nosed pliers, black and white TV to channel 50 in Detroit and watch Big Time Wrestling. I couldn’t name for you one current wrestler, but from my childhood wrestling days there were guys like BoBo Brazil, Haystack Calhoun, Pompero Ferpo (the 8th Wonder of the World), Andre the Giant, Dick the Bruiser and the Sheik.
My brother and I would faithfully watch the Saturday afternoon wrestling matches. And following some particularly exciting matches on TV, we would transform our family room into a Big Time Wrestling ring (minus the ropes and referees) and have our own Big Time Wrestling Brouhaha. Although I was a willing participant, this was usually not a healthy choice for me.
My brother Fred is seven years older and seven years bigger than me. Hence, the resulting wrestling match in the family room usually consisted of Fred pretending to be BoBo Brazil and I was the poor wrestling fodder that was the recipient of BoBo’s signature move “the Coco Butt” (in case you are worried, the “Coco Butt” had nothing to do with anatomy but was a “head butting” type of move). Rarely would our wrestling match end without me running and tattling to my mother that Fred was: a) mean; b) not fair; c) pretending to be BoBo Brazil and I wanted to be BoBo; or d) all of the above. The most frequent result from my whining to my mother was a several week ban of Big Time Wrestling in the house or on the 15 inch Philco TV.
I think I would have fared better (and with less bumps and bruises) had my brother and I been a tag team, rather than him acting as if he were Bobo Brazil and me acting (although I wasn’t really acting) as the guy beaten up by BoBo. Of course, the question is who would we have teamed against? My sisters were much to wise to ever participate in the family room Big Time Wresting matches. Still, I would have liked being part of a tag team. As all wrestling fans know, a “Tag Team Match” is when two wrestlers pair together to wrestle two other wrestlers. In such an event, only one wrestler from each pair is in the ring at a time (unless the wrestlers are unruly, unfair and downright un-American wrestlers like the Sheik or Pompero Ferpo, the 8th Wonder of the World), and when the non wrestling wrestler wished to get into the foray he would tag the hand of his partner and the two wrestlers switched places.
Why the wrestling trivia?
I think church should be a tag team event. Not so that we can beat up the Baptists or the Episcopalians (I’ve seen some Episcopalians and I think we could take ‘em, but the Baptists? I am not so sure. Just kidding, I don’t want to body slam anyone or any church), still we need to be a tag team so that we might impact our world. When Central folks walk in church, they tag our worship team and me (the preacher) and say, "Go for it." Meaning: Help lead us to a place of worship and praise and connecting to God. When Central folks walk out we tag them and say, "Go for it." Meaning: take the light of Christ and the things you have learned and the peace you have experienced and the joy in your heart to the dead and dying world. Don’t keep it to yourself.
As all tag team loving wrestling aficionados know, the best wrestling tag teams trust each other. They know that once tagged their partner won’t let them down. In our church tag team—I hope we can have the same confidence. So that when you invite a friend or neighbor and walk into church and tag us and say “Go for it” you will have confidence that we who are leading in worship will be real and authentic and prepared to lead us to God. Then when we tag you back and say, “Go for it!” we will have the confidence in you that you will keep being faithful and keep inviting, and keep being real and honest, and continue to live before your friends a Christ-like life.
By the way, Mr. or Ms. Newly-Tagged-member-of-the-Central-Tag-Team, the best form of advertising always has been and always will be word of mouth. For what it's worth, most Central folks came to Central because a friend invited them. It's as simple as that: friends inviting friends. This Easter we've invited several thousand people in our surrounding area through a direct mailer. And a few may come through that effort. Others will come to Central for Easter services simply because they drive by our church and will drop in or they will have hopped on-line and checked out our web-site and decided we are a nice place to visit. But most new folks will come to Central because somebody invited them.
This Sunday we will have touch cards (should I have called them “tagged” cards?) available so you can invite friends, neighbors, waitresses and sales clerks. You’ve been tagged to reach out-- think of it as one way of "going into the highways and hedges" and "compelling to come in" (Luke 14). And then this Sunday (or on Easter) when you walk through the doors you will tag us—and we will do our best to lead us all to the place where we can encounter a holy God!
OK… you’ve been tagged! Go for it!
My brother and I would faithfully watch the Saturday afternoon wrestling matches. And following some particularly exciting matches on TV, we would transform our family room into a Big Time Wrestling ring (minus the ropes and referees) and have our own Big Time Wrestling Brouhaha. Although I was a willing participant, this was usually not a healthy choice for me.
My brother Fred is seven years older and seven years bigger than me. Hence, the resulting wrestling match in the family room usually consisted of Fred pretending to be BoBo Brazil and I was the poor wrestling fodder that was the recipient of BoBo’s signature move “the Coco Butt” (in case you are worried, the “Coco Butt” had nothing to do with anatomy but was a “head butting” type of move). Rarely would our wrestling match end without me running and tattling to my mother that Fred was: a) mean; b) not fair; c) pretending to be BoBo Brazil and I wanted to be BoBo; or d) all of the above. The most frequent result from my whining to my mother was a several week ban of Big Time Wrestling in the house or on the 15 inch Philco TV.
I think I would have fared better (and with less bumps and bruises) had my brother and I been a tag team, rather than him acting as if he were Bobo Brazil and me acting (although I wasn’t really acting) as the guy beaten up by BoBo. Of course, the question is who would we have teamed against? My sisters were much to wise to ever participate in the family room Big Time Wresting matches. Still, I would have liked being part of a tag team. As all wrestling fans know, a “Tag Team Match” is when two wrestlers pair together to wrestle two other wrestlers. In such an event, only one wrestler from each pair is in the ring at a time (unless the wrestlers are unruly, unfair and downright un-American wrestlers like the Sheik or Pompero Ferpo, the 8th Wonder of the World), and when the non wrestling wrestler wished to get into the foray he would tag the hand of his partner and the two wrestlers switched places.
Why the wrestling trivia?
I think church should be a tag team event. Not so that we can beat up the Baptists or the Episcopalians (I’ve seen some Episcopalians and I think we could take ‘em, but the Baptists? I am not so sure. Just kidding, I don’t want to body slam anyone or any church), still we need to be a tag team so that we might impact our world. When Central folks walk in church, they tag our worship team and me (the preacher) and say, "Go for it." Meaning: Help lead us to a place of worship and praise and connecting to God. When Central folks walk out we tag them and say, "Go for it." Meaning: take the light of Christ and the things you have learned and the peace you have experienced and the joy in your heart to the dead and dying world. Don’t keep it to yourself.
As all tag team loving wrestling aficionados know, the best wrestling tag teams trust each other. They know that once tagged their partner won’t let them down. In our church tag team—I hope we can have the same confidence. So that when you invite a friend or neighbor and walk into church and tag us and say “Go for it” you will have confidence that we who are leading in worship will be real and authentic and prepared to lead us to God. Then when we tag you back and say, “Go for it!” we will have the confidence in you that you will keep being faithful and keep inviting, and keep being real and honest, and continue to live before your friends a Christ-like life.
By the way, Mr. or Ms. Newly-Tagged-member-of-the-Central-Tag-Team, the best form of advertising always has been and always will be word of mouth. For what it's worth, most Central folks came to Central because a friend invited them. It's as simple as that: friends inviting friends. This Easter we've invited several thousand people in our surrounding area through a direct mailer. And a few may come through that effort. Others will come to Central for Easter services simply because they drive by our church and will drop in or they will have hopped on-line and checked out our web-site and decided we are a nice place to visit. But most new folks will come to Central because somebody invited them.
This Sunday we will have touch cards (should I have called them “tagged” cards?) available so you can invite friends, neighbors, waitresses and sales clerks. You’ve been tagged to reach out-- think of it as one way of "going into the highways and hedges" and "compelling to come in" (Luke 14). And then this Sunday (or on Easter) when you walk through the doors you will tag us—and we will do our best to lead us all to the place where we can encounter a holy God!
OK… you’ve been tagged! Go for it!
Friday, February 13, 2009
My Valentine Dilemma
As Valentine’s Day approaches, I have a dilemma. What do I give my wife to commemorate the day? I’ve seen several television commercials and heard many radio ads that have tried to assist me with my predicament. They have indicated that to be considered a good husband I must do one of the following things:
· Purchase chocolates from a guy named Russell. With apologies to the Stover family, Karla would not want me to purchase chocolates in a heart shaped box.
· Buy flowers. As some of you know, last year I purchased my wife tulips. Unfortunately, they were dead tulips. So while I won points by not spending too much money (I got them half price), I lost what little points I might have gained by spending even one penny on dead flowers.
· Get diamonds in the shape of two hearts designed by that TV cowboy doctor lady. With apologies to “Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman” aficionados, I think the good doctor should stick to homespun cures on the range rather than jewelry designing.
· Order a teddy bear made in Vermont. If Karla was six or seven years old this would be a great idea, but since she is slightly older than that—I am not sure that purchasing her a stuffed bear from the Green Mountain State sends the message, “Your husband really loves you.”
· Send a Pajama gram. I’m pretty confident Karla does not want me picking out her pj’s. My idea and her idea of the perfect pajamas are rarely the same.
· Name a star after her. The last thing Karla would want is for me to waste my hard earned money on naming a star after her. I can see it now: In the 14th sequel of Star Wars, in a galaxy far, far way Luke Skywalker flies his spaceship into the blinding glare of a Super Nova and informs the star base command, “I am approaching Karla Prince. She looks hot.” That’s just weird.
Now please understand I certainly want my wife to consider me a good husband. But do I really have to purchase any of those things to prove it?
While I joke about them, none of those aforementioned items are bad (although seriously… who would name a star after someone?). There’s nothing wrong with flowers or chocolates or Vermont-made teddy bears. There’s nothing wrong with heart-shaped cards and candies and jewelry.
But can I tell you—as tasty as a candy heart may be-- the heart I want Karla to know best isn’t made of chocolate or diamonds. It’s the heart I gave her nearly twenty one years ago in front of our family and friends in Westland, Michigan. And when she looks deep into my heart, my hope is that she sees this heart of mine as:
· A loving heart. I want Karla to know that I will always love her. No matter what.
· An honest heart. I want Karla to know that I will always be honest. No matter what.
· An undivided heart. I am hers and only hers.
· A pure heart. A heart that has no room for the impure sights and images from our sex-crazed society.
· A committed heart. I will not waver on a promise I made to her on that rainy spring Saturday afternoon in 1988-- that she could count on me whether times were better or worse, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer. She could count on me until to death us do part. And most importantly,
· A Christ-like heart. I am determined to be the man, husband, and dad that honors Christ.
Husbands and wives, for Valentine’s Day this year give each other a heart that is loving, honest, undivided, pure, committed and Christ-like. Determined to cultivate and develop a heart that is pleasing to your spouse and pleasing to Christ. Make your heart exude the love that Paul describes, when he wrote:
Love never gives up.
Love cares more for others than for self.
Love doesn't want what it doesn't have.
Love doesn't strut,
Doesn't have a swelled head,
Doesn't force itself on others,
Isn't always "me first,"
Doesn't fly off the handle,
Doesn't keep score of the sins of others,
Doesn't revel when others grovel,
Takes pleasure in the flowering of truth,
Puts up with anything,
Trusts God always,
Always looks for the best,
Never looks back,
But keeps going to the end. (1 Corinthians 13:4-7 The Message)
And if an addition to that faithful, loving heart—if you need to give a chocolate heart or a “Be Mine” cushy, velvet pillow then do that too. (Truth be told, I’m going to try it again with tulips. Only this year, I think I’ll buy living ones, even if I have to pay full price.).
· Purchase chocolates from a guy named Russell. With apologies to the Stover family, Karla would not want me to purchase chocolates in a heart shaped box.
· Buy flowers. As some of you know, last year I purchased my wife tulips. Unfortunately, they were dead tulips. So while I won points by not spending too much money (I got them half price), I lost what little points I might have gained by spending even one penny on dead flowers.
· Get diamonds in the shape of two hearts designed by that TV cowboy doctor lady. With apologies to “Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman” aficionados, I think the good doctor should stick to homespun cures on the range rather than jewelry designing.
· Order a teddy bear made in Vermont. If Karla was six or seven years old this would be a great idea, but since she is slightly older than that—I am not sure that purchasing her a stuffed bear from the Green Mountain State sends the message, “Your husband really loves you.”
· Send a Pajama gram. I’m pretty confident Karla does not want me picking out her pj’s. My idea and her idea of the perfect pajamas are rarely the same.
· Name a star after her. The last thing Karla would want is for me to waste my hard earned money on naming a star after her. I can see it now: In the 14th sequel of Star Wars, in a galaxy far, far way Luke Skywalker flies his spaceship into the blinding glare of a Super Nova and informs the star base command, “I am approaching Karla Prince. She looks hot.” That’s just weird.
Now please understand I certainly want my wife to consider me a good husband. But do I really have to purchase any of those things to prove it?
While I joke about them, none of those aforementioned items are bad (although seriously… who would name a star after someone?). There’s nothing wrong with flowers or chocolates or Vermont-made teddy bears. There’s nothing wrong with heart-shaped cards and candies and jewelry.
But can I tell you—as tasty as a candy heart may be-- the heart I want Karla to know best isn’t made of chocolate or diamonds. It’s the heart I gave her nearly twenty one years ago in front of our family and friends in Westland, Michigan. And when she looks deep into my heart, my hope is that she sees this heart of mine as:
· A loving heart. I want Karla to know that I will always love her. No matter what.
· An honest heart. I want Karla to know that I will always be honest. No matter what.
· An undivided heart. I am hers and only hers.
· A pure heart. A heart that has no room for the impure sights and images from our sex-crazed society.
· A committed heart. I will not waver on a promise I made to her on that rainy spring Saturday afternoon in 1988-- that she could count on me whether times were better or worse, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer. She could count on me until to death us do part. And most importantly,
· A Christ-like heart. I am determined to be the man, husband, and dad that honors Christ.
Husbands and wives, for Valentine’s Day this year give each other a heart that is loving, honest, undivided, pure, committed and Christ-like. Determined to cultivate and develop a heart that is pleasing to your spouse and pleasing to Christ. Make your heart exude the love that Paul describes, when he wrote:
Love never gives up.
Love cares more for others than for self.
Love doesn't want what it doesn't have.
Love doesn't strut,
Doesn't have a swelled head,
Doesn't force itself on others,
Isn't always "me first,"
Doesn't fly off the handle,
Doesn't keep score of the sins of others,
Doesn't revel when others grovel,
Takes pleasure in the flowering of truth,
Puts up with anything,
Trusts God always,
Always looks for the best,
Never looks back,
But keeps going to the end. (1 Corinthians 13:4-7 The Message)
And if an addition to that faithful, loving heart—if you need to give a chocolate heart or a “Be Mine” cushy, velvet pillow then do that too. (Truth be told, I’m going to try it again with tulips. Only this year, I think I’ll buy living ones, even if I have to pay full price.).
Thursday, February 05, 2009
My Free Breakfast at Denny's
While watching the Super Bowl I saw an advertisement from Denny’s restaurants stating that on Tuesday anyone who showed up from 6 AM until 2 PM could eat a free Grand Slam breakfast. That’s free pancakes, free bacon, free sausage and free eggs. Yummy! Since I live by the motto that free food always tastes better (with the exception of free liver and onions, of course), I thought this would be a wonderful exercise for my family to partake.
When the rest of the Prince clan discovered that to take advantage of Denny’s free breakfast offer and make it to school too—we would have to leave the house around 6 AM— both the oldest cherub and my fair maiden decided that no matter how free the food was—they weren’t leaving their comfy beds.
Ben, on the other hand, shared my enthusiasm for a free breakfast. Which upon further review is a bit curious, since technically, whenever Ben goes to a restaurant with me his meals are free (at least for him). I cannot recall a time in Ben’s nearly 14 years of living when he paid for a meal when I was present. So, I’m not sure why Ben was excited to go, but I am glad he came to Denny’s with me.
Tuesday morning, before any roosters awoke, when it was still dark and very cold, Ben and I (and two million of our fellow Americans) got a free Grand Slam breakfast at Denny’s. When we walked into the Lenexa Denny’s, every seat was taken and there were approximately 40 people waiting to be seated. It was crowded. People were standing all over the place. I wasn’t sure where the hostess was to put my name on the “to-be-seated” list. I wasn’t sure how long the wait would be. I was worried they’d run out of eggs before we ordered. I was worried that I would have grandchildren before we ordered. The waitresses were having difficulty getting through the crowd to deliver the free breakfast orders to the other patrons. It was a little crazy in Denny’s.
If this day would have been a normal day (well if it would have been a normal morning—Ben and I would not have been there. I would have already had my breakfast of champions—a cup of Mickey D’s coffee—and Ben would still be asleep)—still, if this would have been a regular day and had I walked into a crowded restaurant at 6:20 in the morning, with forty people ahead of me—I would have been out of that restaurant quicker than you could say, “Where’s IHOP?”
But of course, this was not a normal day. Denny’s food was free. So I gladly stood in the foyer of the restaurant with my forty free food-loving friends. And once we were finally seated, I didn’t mind that the waitress was a little over worked and a little slow in filling my coffee cup. (Actually, I am amazed at how quickly I was served and how friendly the staff and everyone were on that morning. Believe me, I have been in other restaurants far less crowded and far less crazy, with a much more cantankerous staff and much slower service). With the promise of free food, the waiting and the crowd didn’t seem to matter much.
It was a good morning. We ate good free food; had fun conversation; and, Ben still made it to school on time. (And we saw of couple of other free pancake-loving Centralites, too!)
On the way back to the church after dropping Ben at school, I started thinking about the whole experience and wondered what I could learn from Denny’s that morning. I was reminded that:
1) People love a bargain. If it’s free… they will come. Hmm… isn’t God’s grace free? Isn’t the offer of forgiveness and acceptance free? Maybe we aren’t communicating what we need to communicate to the world—if we did a better job of letting people know of God’s free gift of salvation maybe folks would be lining up at our doors too. We need to get the word out! God’s gift is free. It’s a better bargain than free eggs and pancakes.
2) Free is no respecter of person. There were old folks and college kids. Well dressed businessman types and people who looked liked they just rolled out of bed. There were families and single people. There were black people and white people. Most of the people spoke English, but some did not. As I looked around, I thought: This is what the church should look like. All ages. All races. All together.
3) People were happy. Usually waiting in lines makes people cranky and not finding an up close parking spot makes people crabby too. But I didn’t see anyone cranky or crabby. The promise of free bacon makes people forget about those minor irritants and focus on the yummy stuff that is to come. I wish we in the church wouldn’t worry about the minor irritants and instead focused on the good that is yet to come. And,
4) When I finished my free meal and I was ready to leave, I left more than my usual tip. I assume most people did too (OK maybe the poor college kids in the booth behind me didn’t… but they were poor college kids after all). The service was good, the food was free, everyone was happy—so I wanted to share the joy of my free breakfast by leaving more tip for the waitress than I normally would have. Likewise, in the church when we experience the free gift of joy and peace from Jesus, we need to be generous and share so that others may know that deep down in your soul happiness too.
I don’t know if Denny’s is going to have a giveaway day again anytime soon. I know they got a lot of free publicity and general goodwill from their action. (I’m kind of hoping that Jack’s Stack Barbeque or better yet, Outback Steakhouse sees the light. I’d gladly eat a free juicy steak and bloomin’ onion.)—but I know this-- we can learn a thing or two from good business practices. We need to get the word out that Jesus’ love is free, and we need to get the word out that His love is open to anyone, anywhere. And for those of us who have already experienced the free gift of joy and peace, we should be happy and generous in all we do!
When the rest of the Prince clan discovered that to take advantage of Denny’s free breakfast offer and make it to school too—we would have to leave the house around 6 AM— both the oldest cherub and my fair maiden decided that no matter how free the food was—they weren’t leaving their comfy beds.
Ben, on the other hand, shared my enthusiasm for a free breakfast. Which upon further review is a bit curious, since technically, whenever Ben goes to a restaurant with me his meals are free (at least for him). I cannot recall a time in Ben’s nearly 14 years of living when he paid for a meal when I was present. So, I’m not sure why Ben was excited to go, but I am glad he came to Denny’s with me.
Tuesday morning, before any roosters awoke, when it was still dark and very cold, Ben and I (and two million of our fellow Americans) got a free Grand Slam breakfast at Denny’s. When we walked into the Lenexa Denny’s, every seat was taken and there were approximately 40 people waiting to be seated. It was crowded. People were standing all over the place. I wasn’t sure where the hostess was to put my name on the “to-be-seated” list. I wasn’t sure how long the wait would be. I was worried they’d run out of eggs before we ordered. I was worried that I would have grandchildren before we ordered. The waitresses were having difficulty getting through the crowd to deliver the free breakfast orders to the other patrons. It was a little crazy in Denny’s.
If this day would have been a normal day (well if it would have been a normal morning—Ben and I would not have been there. I would have already had my breakfast of champions—a cup of Mickey D’s coffee—and Ben would still be asleep)—still, if this would have been a regular day and had I walked into a crowded restaurant at 6:20 in the morning, with forty people ahead of me—I would have been out of that restaurant quicker than you could say, “Where’s IHOP?”
But of course, this was not a normal day. Denny’s food was free. So I gladly stood in the foyer of the restaurant with my forty free food-loving friends. And once we were finally seated, I didn’t mind that the waitress was a little over worked and a little slow in filling my coffee cup. (Actually, I am amazed at how quickly I was served and how friendly the staff and everyone were on that morning. Believe me, I have been in other restaurants far less crowded and far less crazy, with a much more cantankerous staff and much slower service). With the promise of free food, the waiting and the crowd didn’t seem to matter much.
It was a good morning. We ate good free food; had fun conversation; and, Ben still made it to school on time. (And we saw of couple of other free pancake-loving Centralites, too!)
On the way back to the church after dropping Ben at school, I started thinking about the whole experience and wondered what I could learn from Denny’s that morning. I was reminded that:
1) People love a bargain. If it’s free… they will come. Hmm… isn’t God’s grace free? Isn’t the offer of forgiveness and acceptance free? Maybe we aren’t communicating what we need to communicate to the world—if we did a better job of letting people know of God’s free gift of salvation maybe folks would be lining up at our doors too. We need to get the word out! God’s gift is free. It’s a better bargain than free eggs and pancakes.
2) Free is no respecter of person. There were old folks and college kids. Well dressed businessman types and people who looked liked they just rolled out of bed. There were families and single people. There were black people and white people. Most of the people spoke English, but some did not. As I looked around, I thought: This is what the church should look like. All ages. All races. All together.
3) People were happy. Usually waiting in lines makes people cranky and not finding an up close parking spot makes people crabby too. But I didn’t see anyone cranky or crabby. The promise of free bacon makes people forget about those minor irritants and focus on the yummy stuff that is to come. I wish we in the church wouldn’t worry about the minor irritants and instead focused on the good that is yet to come. And,
4) When I finished my free meal and I was ready to leave, I left more than my usual tip. I assume most people did too (OK maybe the poor college kids in the booth behind me didn’t… but they were poor college kids after all). The service was good, the food was free, everyone was happy—so I wanted to share the joy of my free breakfast by leaving more tip for the waitress than I normally would have. Likewise, in the church when we experience the free gift of joy and peace from Jesus, we need to be generous and share so that others may know that deep down in your soul happiness too.
I don’t know if Denny’s is going to have a giveaway day again anytime soon. I know they got a lot of free publicity and general goodwill from their action. (I’m kind of hoping that Jack’s Stack Barbeque or better yet, Outback Steakhouse sees the light. I’d gladly eat a free juicy steak and bloomin’ onion.)—but I know this-- we can learn a thing or two from good business practices. We need to get the word out that Jesus’ love is free, and we need to get the word out that His love is open to anyone, anywhere. And for those of us who have already experienced the free gift of joy and peace, we should be happy and generous in all we do!
Sunday, January 25, 2009
The family of God
Does anybody remember the old Gaither Song: “I’m so glad I’m a part of the family of God”? Back in the day, we would sing that song each week during the Passing of the Peace segment of the worship service. Only we didn’t call it “passing of the peace” way back then, I think we called it “Meet-n-Greet” or “Say Hey to your Neighbor” or something not all that spiritual. Anyway, we would sing Bill and Gloria’s ditty and shake a few hands and be thankful that “we were joint heirs with Jesus as we travel this sod.” I’ve got to be honest; I never really liked the “travel this sod” part of the song. Who travels on sod? Was that the best word that rhymes with God that they could come up with? I tried to make a better line. Maybe the lyrics should have been:
I'm so glad I'm a part of the Family of God,
I've been washed in the fountain, cleansed by His Blood!
Except for the guy in the first pew, we’re not very odd
For I'm part of the family,
The Family of God.
Or how about this one:
I'm so glad I'm a part of the Family of God,
I've been washed in the fountain, cleansed by His Blood!
Our preacher’s quite boring, to sleep you will nod
For I’m part of the family,
The Family of God.
Or maybe this one:
I'm so glad I'm a part of the Family of God,
I've been washed in the fountain, cleansed by His Blood!
Won’t you come to our pot-luck, but don’t eat the cod.
For I'm part of the family,
The Family of God.
OK maybe the Gaither’s version was better after all. Even with the travelling on sod line, I really like the truth the song conveys. I really am glad that I am part of the family of God. Even if an odd guy is sitting on the first pew (Hey, wait a minute, I sit on the first pew!), and if the preacher is boring (that’s me too), and even if there are questionable pot-luck entrees (been there, ate that), I am still glad that I can be included in the family of God. Let the Biblical truth sink in: We are joint heirs with Jesus! WOW! As such, I’m glad that we can come together and laugh and sing and pray and cry and connect with each other and connect with the Lord. Yes, I’m glad I am part of the family of God!
I'm so glad I'm a part of the Family of God,
I've been washed in the fountain, cleansed by His Blood!
Except for the guy in the first pew, we’re not very odd
For I'm part of the family,
The Family of God.
Or how about this one:
I'm so glad I'm a part of the Family of God,
I've been washed in the fountain, cleansed by His Blood!
Our preacher’s quite boring, to sleep you will nod
For I’m part of the family,
The Family of God.
Or maybe this one:
I'm so glad I'm a part of the Family of God,
I've been washed in the fountain, cleansed by His Blood!
Won’t you come to our pot-luck, but don’t eat the cod.
For I'm part of the family,
The Family of God.
OK maybe the Gaither’s version was better after all. Even with the travelling on sod line, I really like the truth the song conveys. I really am glad that I am part of the family of God. Even if an odd guy is sitting on the first pew (Hey, wait a minute, I sit on the first pew!), and if the preacher is boring (that’s me too), and even if there are questionable pot-luck entrees (been there, ate that), I am still glad that I can be included in the family of God. Let the Biblical truth sink in: We are joint heirs with Jesus! WOW! As such, I’m glad that we can come together and laugh and sing and pray and cry and connect with each other and connect with the Lord. Yes, I’m glad I am part of the family of God!
Bug-sicles
I read an article this week that stated the FDA is considering a ban on a dye that is used in the making of red lipstick (That’s OK I told myself, I rarely wear red lipstick), red yogurt (I think I’ll miss the lipstick more than the yogurt. The way I do math, Yogurt = Yucky!), and red popsicles (Noooooo! Now, you’ve gone too far FDA! Why couldn’t it have been the dye used in making Orange popsicles? Who likes orange popsicles? Nobody! Red, as everyone knows, is the favorite popsicle of the people of the world. ).
The red dye in question is called carmine, and is made from the dried and crushed up body of a beetle. You read that right. Crushed bugs are in my popsicles (and lipstick and yogurt and other things I am sure). I do not know what beetle (hopefully not Paul or Ringo), still the notion that I’ve been lapping up crushed beetle parts with each lick of my red popsicle is a little unsettling. I thought I was eating a popsicle when all along it was a “bug-sicle”! Yuck!
I’ve eaten a lot of popsicles down through the years. Hundreds, maybe thousands of popsicles—and I usually ate the red ones first. It is impossible to know how many crushed up beetles I have consumed, but I fear the number is higher than the population of a small country. Excuse me while I barf.
And now, because of some reported cases of hives, sickness and otherwise bad happenings, the good people at the Food and Drug Administration are coming to the conclusion that eating dead, dried, beetle parts might not be the most healthy choice. Karla has wanted me to cut down on gluten intake and eat more salads, wait until she hears about the beetle gut popsicles I’ve been consuming for the last 45 years! Good bye popsicles!
You hear all the time about people finding gross things in their food. I have friends who have found among other things: mice parts in a dinner roll (yuck), ants in newly opened cheese popcorn (double yuck), a grasshopper in a can of green beans (triple yuck) and a tooth in a burrito (OK, that’s it… I’m making myself sick!) I guess the lesson through all of this “Oh be careful little mouth what you eat.”
You want to know what’s even grosser? (I know “grosser” isn’t a word, but in discussing the disgusting things that people have digested, I think it should be.) I’ve known people who have grossly and willingly fed their mind with even worse garbage. They have fed their brains a heaping helping of pornography and thought, “what does it hurt?” They’ve filled their head with disturbing angry music and reasoned, “It’s only music.” They’ve believed the anything but God lies of a science community and thought “Kind of makes sense.”
The Bible gives this simple instruction: “whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.” (Philippians 4:8) In other words, feed your minds with things that will lift you up and lighten your load and help your day and illuminate the truth. Fill your head with those things that will draw you closer to God and you’ll be feeding your soul with spiritual filet mignon But fill your mind with the trash our society so frequently offers and be ready for something far worse than a case of hives caused from eating a red Bug-sicle.
The red dye in question is called carmine, and is made from the dried and crushed up body of a beetle. You read that right. Crushed bugs are in my popsicles (and lipstick and yogurt and other things I am sure). I do not know what beetle (hopefully not Paul or Ringo), still the notion that I’ve been lapping up crushed beetle parts with each lick of my red popsicle is a little unsettling. I thought I was eating a popsicle when all along it was a “bug-sicle”! Yuck!
I’ve eaten a lot of popsicles down through the years. Hundreds, maybe thousands of popsicles—and I usually ate the red ones first. It is impossible to know how many crushed up beetles I have consumed, but I fear the number is higher than the population of a small country. Excuse me while I barf.
And now, because of some reported cases of hives, sickness and otherwise bad happenings, the good people at the Food and Drug Administration are coming to the conclusion that eating dead, dried, beetle parts might not be the most healthy choice. Karla has wanted me to cut down on gluten intake and eat more salads, wait until she hears about the beetle gut popsicles I’ve been consuming for the last 45 years! Good bye popsicles!
You hear all the time about people finding gross things in their food. I have friends who have found among other things: mice parts in a dinner roll (yuck), ants in newly opened cheese popcorn (double yuck), a grasshopper in a can of green beans (triple yuck) and a tooth in a burrito (OK, that’s it… I’m making myself sick!) I guess the lesson through all of this “Oh be careful little mouth what you eat.”
You want to know what’s even grosser? (I know “grosser” isn’t a word, but in discussing the disgusting things that people have digested, I think it should be.) I’ve known people who have grossly and willingly fed their mind with even worse garbage. They have fed their brains a heaping helping of pornography and thought, “what does it hurt?” They’ve filled their head with disturbing angry music and reasoned, “It’s only music.” They’ve believed the anything but God lies of a science community and thought “Kind of makes sense.”
The Bible gives this simple instruction: “whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.” (Philippians 4:8) In other words, feed your minds with things that will lift you up and lighten your load and help your day and illuminate the truth. Fill your head with those things that will draw you closer to God and you’ll be feeding your soul with spiritual filet mignon But fill your mind with the trash our society so frequently offers and be ready for something far worse than a case of hives caused from eating a red Bug-sicle.
Thursday, December 04, 2008
No Christmas Village at the Princes
We’ve been getting our house ready for Christmas—decorations, lights, the works…but I am not getting out our Christmas village this year. That doesn’t make me a Junior Ebenezer Scrooge, does it?
You’ve seen these villages before, haven’t you? Some ceramic maker or the good folks at Hallmark or a marketing guru somewhere decided that Christmas isn’t Christmas unless you have little ceramic houses and buildings with a little light bulb inside and little ceramic people in winter clothes and little ceramic snowmen all sitting on top of white polyester fluffy stuff that is suppose to look like snow.
Every year from the very first Christmas that Karla and I shared together as husband and wife, we have had a Christmas village. In those early years, it was more like a Christmas “widening in the road.” We had two houses, a church and a post office in our “village.” But over the last twenty years, we’ve added buildings and houses and little fake people and little fake street lights. We now have a full fledge ceramic metropolitan area—the only thing missing is a little ceramic greeter for our little ceramic Wal-Mart (OK, we don’t have a ceramic Wal-Mart. If we did, we’d have to board up all the other buildings in little Christmas village, since they would have gone out of business). Anyway, you get the idea. We have a full ceramic city now.
And this year, I’m not getting it out. It’s staying in the boxes in the basement along with the unused Christmas bulbs and the Christmas lights that don’t work (seriously, how come those little blinky lights only work one year and no more; and how do those blinky lights get so incredibly tangled just sitting in a box all year? Is there a Christmas blinky light gremlin that sneaks into my house in July and ties those strings of lights in knots and burns out one bulb on each and every string?).
I am not starting a campaign to rid the world of little ceramic villages. There will be no petition drives or boycotts. I am not hoping that President-elect Obama will put a ceramic village moratorium across the land. And if you have a Christmas Village and if you are setting it on your shelves this year, I am not trying to imply that you are akin to a terrorist or a Christmas distorter of the highest order. I am just saying that for me, this year (maybe next year I’ll feel differently), I am leaving the village and the polyester snow in the box.
It doesn’t add to my Christmas cheer or joy. Sometimes when the little bulbs don’t light or the cords get tangled or the little ceramic people take a dive onto the hardwood floors and break into littler ceramic pieces or when the white fluffy polyester snow is either too fluffy or not fluffy enough—it adds to my Christmas frustrations. But even when all goes well, I am not sure how a little ceramic village sitting on white fluffy polyester snow contributes to my celebrating the birth of my Lord. A nativity scene, I get. A beautiful well lit tree, I understand. But a ceramic village sitting on top of fake polyester snow? Bah Humbug. (Maybe I am a scrooge… yikes).
After spending last Christmas in St. Luke’s Hospital, I think I am viewing Christmas a little differently this year. I think some of the things I used to think were essential to having a happy Christmas are not so essential any more.
I don’t remember the gifts I received from last year (except for a pair of slippers, that Alex promptly claimed as his own), but I do remember the family gathering around the hospital bed and the boys opening a few presents and eating a meal provided by a nice family so we wouldn’t have to eat hospital food on Christmas day. I remember feeling blessed to be alive and thankful to God for his miraculous touch upon my life. There wasn’t a tree or stockings or a ceramic village in the room, instead I was surrounded by what was truly important: family, friends, and the grace of a loving and healing God.
If you are like me, every year we say things like: “I want to keep Christ in Christmas,” and “Jesus is the Reason for the Season.” But then we go on doing the same things we’ve always done and we are just as busy and our lives are just as crowded as they have always been. And too often at the end of the holiday season we say, “Whew… I’m glad we don’t have to start thinking about Christmas until August when Wal-Mart puts the Christmas displays back up and starts playing carols over the loud speaker again.”
Well, I am hoping that this Christmas will be different. I want this Christmas to truly be more about Jesus and less about all the stuff that crowds Jesus out. I know there will be parties and gatherings. I will still be shopping and preparing for Christmas too. But I want my focus, my devotion and thoughts and prayers to be on Christ. When I read the Christmas story (that I’ve read thousands of times) I want to approach it like it’s the first time. And when we sing carols in church or when I hear them on the radio or my MP3—I want to sing maybe not with the same beauty or the same majesty of the angels in the Bethlehem sky, but with the same desire to praise the God who came as a baby born in a barn and ultimately died for me.
As I celebrate Christmas this year I want to be faithful and generous. I want to be joyful. I want to be triumphant. I want this Christmas season to truly be one that daily rejoices—even moment by moment rejoices-- in the glorious news: “For unto us a Child is Born, unto us a Son is given… and he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.” (Isaiah 9:6)
And for this year anyway, I don’t need a ceramic Christmas village with fake polyester snow to help me celebrate the birth of Jesus.
You’ve seen these villages before, haven’t you? Some ceramic maker or the good folks at Hallmark or a marketing guru somewhere decided that Christmas isn’t Christmas unless you have little ceramic houses and buildings with a little light bulb inside and little ceramic people in winter clothes and little ceramic snowmen all sitting on top of white polyester fluffy stuff that is suppose to look like snow.
Every year from the very first Christmas that Karla and I shared together as husband and wife, we have had a Christmas village. In those early years, it was more like a Christmas “widening in the road.” We had two houses, a church and a post office in our “village.” But over the last twenty years, we’ve added buildings and houses and little fake people and little fake street lights. We now have a full fledge ceramic metropolitan area—the only thing missing is a little ceramic greeter for our little ceramic Wal-Mart (OK, we don’t have a ceramic Wal-Mart. If we did, we’d have to board up all the other buildings in little Christmas village, since they would have gone out of business). Anyway, you get the idea. We have a full ceramic city now.
And this year, I’m not getting it out. It’s staying in the boxes in the basement along with the unused Christmas bulbs and the Christmas lights that don’t work (seriously, how come those little blinky lights only work one year and no more; and how do those blinky lights get so incredibly tangled just sitting in a box all year? Is there a Christmas blinky light gremlin that sneaks into my house in July and ties those strings of lights in knots and burns out one bulb on each and every string?).
I am not starting a campaign to rid the world of little ceramic villages. There will be no petition drives or boycotts. I am not hoping that President-elect Obama will put a ceramic village moratorium across the land. And if you have a Christmas Village and if you are setting it on your shelves this year, I am not trying to imply that you are akin to a terrorist or a Christmas distorter of the highest order. I am just saying that for me, this year (maybe next year I’ll feel differently), I am leaving the village and the polyester snow in the box.
It doesn’t add to my Christmas cheer or joy. Sometimes when the little bulbs don’t light or the cords get tangled or the little ceramic people take a dive onto the hardwood floors and break into littler ceramic pieces or when the white fluffy polyester snow is either too fluffy or not fluffy enough—it adds to my Christmas frustrations. But even when all goes well, I am not sure how a little ceramic village sitting on white fluffy polyester snow contributes to my celebrating the birth of my Lord. A nativity scene, I get. A beautiful well lit tree, I understand. But a ceramic village sitting on top of fake polyester snow? Bah Humbug. (Maybe I am a scrooge… yikes).
After spending last Christmas in St. Luke’s Hospital, I think I am viewing Christmas a little differently this year. I think some of the things I used to think were essential to having a happy Christmas are not so essential any more.
I don’t remember the gifts I received from last year (except for a pair of slippers, that Alex promptly claimed as his own), but I do remember the family gathering around the hospital bed and the boys opening a few presents and eating a meal provided by a nice family so we wouldn’t have to eat hospital food on Christmas day. I remember feeling blessed to be alive and thankful to God for his miraculous touch upon my life. There wasn’t a tree or stockings or a ceramic village in the room, instead I was surrounded by what was truly important: family, friends, and the grace of a loving and healing God.
If you are like me, every year we say things like: “I want to keep Christ in Christmas,” and “Jesus is the Reason for the Season.” But then we go on doing the same things we’ve always done and we are just as busy and our lives are just as crowded as they have always been. And too often at the end of the holiday season we say, “Whew… I’m glad we don’t have to start thinking about Christmas until August when Wal-Mart puts the Christmas displays back up and starts playing carols over the loud speaker again.”
Well, I am hoping that this Christmas will be different. I want this Christmas to truly be more about Jesus and less about all the stuff that crowds Jesus out. I know there will be parties and gatherings. I will still be shopping and preparing for Christmas too. But I want my focus, my devotion and thoughts and prayers to be on Christ. When I read the Christmas story (that I’ve read thousands of times) I want to approach it like it’s the first time. And when we sing carols in church or when I hear them on the radio or my MP3—I want to sing maybe not with the same beauty or the same majesty of the angels in the Bethlehem sky, but with the same desire to praise the God who came as a baby born in a barn and ultimately died for me.
As I celebrate Christmas this year I want to be faithful and generous. I want to be joyful. I want to be triumphant. I want this Christmas season to truly be one that daily rejoices—even moment by moment rejoices-- in the glorious news: “For unto us a Child is Born, unto us a Son is given… and he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.” (Isaiah 9:6)
And for this year anyway, I don’t need a ceramic Christmas village with fake polyester snow to help me celebrate the birth of Jesus.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Openin' Day
November 15th is this Saturday. Back in my home state that is a very important day—the opening of firearm deer season. The roads heading north (where there are more deer than people) will be filled with men and women ready to locate a majestic, beautiful trophy buck. And shoot it dead.
When I pastored in the Great Lake State there were a few years, when I went out with some fellas on the holiday known simply as “Openin’ Day.” My intention was never to shoot one of God’s creatures; I went more for the coffee before the “hunt” and the stories of misses after the “hunt.”
Someone would loan me the necessary hunting items: a gun; a bullet to keep in my pocket like Barney Fife; and an orange hat (When I protested that orange is not my color, I was informed that state law required every human in the woods to wear orange. The thinking is that a deer would not be caught dead wearing orange, hence if a trigger-happy hunter saw something moving and it wasn’t wearing orange, it must be a deer. That was mostly bad news to rabbits and raccoons who rarely dress in orange unless they were still wearing their Halloween costume.).
I never used my bullet. Never shot a gun. Never killed a deer. (Please know that my not shooting a deer is not because I am a card caring member of PETA and think there are some moral issues with shooting a deer. Some of my best friends love hunting. Love eating venison. Love the thrill of being in the woods on the hunt. Love the camaraderie of deer camp. I have no problem with any of that—I’m just not a hunter and venison makes me puke.)
But I did like hanging out with my friends. So they would take me to the woods and set me up in a prime hunting spot. Usually I would take a pocket full of candy and my Bible and while I waited for Bambi, I would pray and sing and read and munch on chocolate bars and hope that everyone else in the woods could see my orange hat.
There was one occasion when (what I can only I assume) a deaf and blind deer walked within a few feet of me. I could hear her coming through the woods, so I sang a little louder (that has been known to send humans running for cover. Maybe I should have started preaching… she would have fallen fast asleep), but she kept coming in my direction. With my heart beating a mile a minute, I had a decision: Will I live and let live? Or will I be like Dirty Harry and say, “C’mon Doe Make my Day.” I put down my candy bar and Bible, located my gun—it was on the ground covered with candy wrappers, grabbed my bullet, wrapped by finger around the trigger and …. couldn’t do it. Even though the whole purpose for me sitting in the woods wearing a dopey orange hat was to shoot such animals, when the time came, I just couldn’t do it.
I think there are plenty of times we have the goal within our sight, our finger is on the trigger, but for whatever reason we can’t pull it. Unfortunately, this happens in things that matter a whole lot more than a freezer full of venison.
We know we need to start exercising or start attending church or start tithing or start eating better or start reading our Bible in a more consistent way or take steps on improving our marriage or call a friend and ask forgiveness or call a lonely person and offer encouragement, but we just can’t seem to “pull the trigger.”
In most cases, this is not a decision that we even have to pray: “Is this God’s will?” Of course, it is God’s will to live healthier; of course it’s God’s will to reconcile relationships; of course it’s God’s will to make improvements in our Christian practices and disciplines. The question isn’t “does God want me to do it,” but rather “am I willing to do it”. Am I willing to step out and do what I know God wants me to do? Am I willing to see the goal and move forward in faith?
The Bible says: I've got my eye on the goal, where God is beckoning us onward—to Jesus. I'm off and running, and I'm not turning back. So let's keep focused on that goal, those of us who want everything God has for us. If any of you have something else in mind, something less than total commitment, God will clear your blurred vision—you'll see it yet! Now that we're on the right track, let's stay on it. (Philippians 3:14-16. The Message). Like Paul let’s determine to stay focused on the goal and when opportunities to move forward and improve our walk with God arise, we will pull the trigger and do what we know is best!
When I pastored in the Great Lake State there were a few years, when I went out with some fellas on the holiday known simply as “Openin’ Day.” My intention was never to shoot one of God’s creatures; I went more for the coffee before the “hunt” and the stories of misses after the “hunt.”
Someone would loan me the necessary hunting items: a gun; a bullet to keep in my pocket like Barney Fife; and an orange hat (When I protested that orange is not my color, I was informed that state law required every human in the woods to wear orange. The thinking is that a deer would not be caught dead wearing orange, hence if a trigger-happy hunter saw something moving and it wasn’t wearing orange, it must be a deer. That was mostly bad news to rabbits and raccoons who rarely dress in orange unless they were still wearing their Halloween costume.).
I never used my bullet. Never shot a gun. Never killed a deer. (Please know that my not shooting a deer is not because I am a card caring member of PETA and think there are some moral issues with shooting a deer. Some of my best friends love hunting. Love eating venison. Love the thrill of being in the woods on the hunt. Love the camaraderie of deer camp. I have no problem with any of that—I’m just not a hunter and venison makes me puke.)
But I did like hanging out with my friends. So they would take me to the woods and set me up in a prime hunting spot. Usually I would take a pocket full of candy and my Bible and while I waited for Bambi, I would pray and sing and read and munch on chocolate bars and hope that everyone else in the woods could see my orange hat.
There was one occasion when (what I can only I assume) a deaf and blind deer walked within a few feet of me. I could hear her coming through the woods, so I sang a little louder (that has been known to send humans running for cover. Maybe I should have started preaching… she would have fallen fast asleep), but she kept coming in my direction. With my heart beating a mile a minute, I had a decision: Will I live and let live? Or will I be like Dirty Harry and say, “C’mon Doe Make my Day.” I put down my candy bar and Bible, located my gun—it was on the ground covered with candy wrappers, grabbed my bullet, wrapped by finger around the trigger and …. couldn’t do it. Even though the whole purpose for me sitting in the woods wearing a dopey orange hat was to shoot such animals, when the time came, I just couldn’t do it.
I think there are plenty of times we have the goal within our sight, our finger is on the trigger, but for whatever reason we can’t pull it. Unfortunately, this happens in things that matter a whole lot more than a freezer full of venison.
We know we need to start exercising or start attending church or start tithing or start eating better or start reading our Bible in a more consistent way or take steps on improving our marriage or call a friend and ask forgiveness or call a lonely person and offer encouragement, but we just can’t seem to “pull the trigger.”
In most cases, this is not a decision that we even have to pray: “Is this God’s will?” Of course, it is God’s will to live healthier; of course it’s God’s will to reconcile relationships; of course it’s God’s will to make improvements in our Christian practices and disciplines. The question isn’t “does God want me to do it,” but rather “am I willing to do it”. Am I willing to step out and do what I know God wants me to do? Am I willing to see the goal and move forward in faith?
The Bible says: I've got my eye on the goal, where God is beckoning us onward—to Jesus. I'm off and running, and I'm not turning back. So let's keep focused on that goal, those of us who want everything God has for us. If any of you have something else in mind, something less than total commitment, God will clear your blurred vision—you'll see it yet! Now that we're on the right track, let's stay on it. (Philippians 3:14-16. The Message). Like Paul let’s determine to stay focused on the goal and when opportunities to move forward and improve our walk with God arise, we will pull the trigger and do what we know is best!
Friday, November 07, 2008
A Bad Day
I had one bad day! (Well, actually it was a bad 42 hours— which technically is more than a day).
My bad day started when we returned home following dinner with friends, and discovered that all the technology stuff in our house had gone “kapooey.” (“Kapooey” is not a technical term, but I think it adequately describes what had happened. Nothing was working). No Phones. No Internet. No TV. No problem, right? I called our technology provider and they told me that a fine technician would be at our house the next afternoon. I can live without phones until the next day I assured myself. It’s not so bad, I said. In fact, I might welcome the silence.
The next day, a fine technician arrived at my door ready to restore all of our missing services. (Here’s a handy piece of information: If a computer technician shows up at your house sporting a college baseball hat, it is preferable that the college of choice would be Stanford or MIT or Harvard— a school that knows a thing or two about technology. You do not want the technician wearing a hat from a certain school south of here that is known for football, paying recruits under the table and hog tyin’. You guess it. Not only was my tech wearing the afore mentioned school’s hat, I think he might have been the “hog tyin team captain). Even still, he assured me that he would have our phones, TV and computers “up and runnin’ in no time.” Well, to quote the famed theologian Meatloaf, “Two out of three ain’t bad.” Our TVs and phones were up and running quickly— but our computers were another story. He worked. And worked. And worked. Until Karla came to me and said those fateful words: “Rob, the tech guy just crashed your computer.”
NOOOOOOOOOOO! That is bad.
And it was true. My computer that contains most of my life from the last three years crashed. By the way, it appears it crashed really bad, really, really bad. This was no fender bender. This was a full blown semi truck meets Ford Pinto type of crash. Best Buy’s Geek Squad couldn’t fix it, neither could the “disaster data recovery guys,” (if the guy whose job tile is: “disaster recovery guy” can’t fix it…. Then my friend, you are in trouble. Make that, I am in trouble!). So as I type on my makeshift computer, my real computer is at some mysterious lab undergoing some top secret computer recovery procedures. They tell me I will know in a week what (or “if” something) can be recovered.
If you are keeping score at home— that’s one crashed home electronics system and one crashed computer. It gets worse.
The next morning I went to the ATM machine to get out my weekly allowance. The ATM machine informed me that my card had expired. Like a scene from a horror movie, the machine laughed at me (well, it seemed like it was laughing) and said in a voice that sounded eerily like Newman from the old Seinfeld show, “There’s NO MONEY FOR YOU. HA HA HA….”
I went to the church— with no money for my morning coffee. No money for lunch. It gets worse.
Speaking of lunch, the staff went to a local eatery. Of course, I had no money so I used my credit card— which I promptly forgot to take with me when we left the restaurant. After much worrying and searching I finally remembered where I had last seen Mr. Visa. I guess I will know in next month’s billing cycle if the fry cook was an honest fry cook after having my credit card for about 30 hours. I sure hope he was an honest fry cook.
Still keeping score? One crashed system. One crashed computer. No working ATM card. One lost Credit card. It gets worse.
After the grueling day, I was ready to go home. My sermon preparations were not going great. (Hopefully, by Sunday it will have gotten much better). The news on my computer was not great. My back up computer did not allow me to receive e-mails or print or have some necessary programs. My gluten free diet must not have been gluten free enough— I was having some tummy troubles. The election talk was getting me down. My dentist called to remind me that this week he is going to “crown me with many crowns.” My head was hurting. Enough is enough, I figured. I just needed to get home— at least at home my family would remind me that none of that stuff matters. That stuff is just stuff and it’s relationships that matter. So I slowly walked to my car, a little beaten up maybe, but not knocked out. I got behind the wheel, turned the key….. and nothing. That’s right— my car would not start. Like Howard Cosell in the Thrilla in Manila, I think someone was yelling, “Down goes Prince. Down goes Prince.”
AHHHHHHHHHH!
Ever have a day like that? Nothing seems to be going right. Everything that could go wrong does go wrong. You’ve told yourself, “Nobody died. No one is in the hospital… things could be a whole lot worse. Blah. Blah. Blah.” Still the day stinks, stanks, stunk. Yea, we’ve all had days like that. So what do we do? Go home, get under the covers and say: “Wake me up next Tuesday”? I suppose that’s one option.
I have a better idea. How about focusing on my favorite Bad Day Bible Verse: Isaiah 41:10. It says: “Don’t be afraid for I am with you. Don’t be discouraged for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you. I will hold you up with my victorious right hand.” It’s good to be reminded that we are not alone. When cars and computers breakdown— we are not alone. When things are lost and trouble mounts— the One who created the Universe is close by. We all need to be held up by God from time to time. We all need to be strengthened and reminded to not fear. Isaiah 41:10 is a good reminder that even on the lousy days God is still God and He is still Good.
My bad day started when we returned home following dinner with friends, and discovered that all the technology stuff in our house had gone “kapooey.” (“Kapooey” is not a technical term, but I think it adequately describes what had happened. Nothing was working). No Phones. No Internet. No TV. No problem, right? I called our technology provider and they told me that a fine technician would be at our house the next afternoon. I can live without phones until the next day I assured myself. It’s not so bad, I said. In fact, I might welcome the silence.
The next day, a fine technician arrived at my door ready to restore all of our missing services. (Here’s a handy piece of information: If a computer technician shows up at your house sporting a college baseball hat, it is preferable that the college of choice would be Stanford or MIT or Harvard— a school that knows a thing or two about technology. You do not want the technician wearing a hat from a certain school south of here that is known for football, paying recruits under the table and hog tyin’. You guess it. Not only was my tech wearing the afore mentioned school’s hat, I think he might have been the “hog tyin team captain). Even still, he assured me that he would have our phones, TV and computers “up and runnin’ in no time.” Well, to quote the famed theologian Meatloaf, “Two out of three ain’t bad.” Our TVs and phones were up and running quickly— but our computers were another story. He worked. And worked. And worked. Until Karla came to me and said those fateful words: “Rob, the tech guy just crashed your computer.”
NOOOOOOOOOOO! That is bad.
And it was true. My computer that contains most of my life from the last three years crashed. By the way, it appears it crashed really bad, really, really bad. This was no fender bender. This was a full blown semi truck meets Ford Pinto type of crash. Best Buy’s Geek Squad couldn’t fix it, neither could the “disaster data recovery guys,” (if the guy whose job tile is: “disaster recovery guy” can’t fix it…. Then my friend, you are in trouble. Make that, I am in trouble!). So as I type on my makeshift computer, my real computer is at some mysterious lab undergoing some top secret computer recovery procedures. They tell me I will know in a week what (or “if” something) can be recovered.
If you are keeping score at home— that’s one crashed home electronics system and one crashed computer. It gets worse.
The next morning I went to the ATM machine to get out my weekly allowance. The ATM machine informed me that my card had expired. Like a scene from a horror movie, the machine laughed at me (well, it seemed like it was laughing) and said in a voice that sounded eerily like Newman from the old Seinfeld show, “There’s NO MONEY FOR YOU. HA HA HA….”
I went to the church— with no money for my morning coffee. No money for lunch. It gets worse.
Speaking of lunch, the staff went to a local eatery. Of course, I had no money so I used my credit card— which I promptly forgot to take with me when we left the restaurant. After much worrying and searching I finally remembered where I had last seen Mr. Visa. I guess I will know in next month’s billing cycle if the fry cook was an honest fry cook after having my credit card for about 30 hours. I sure hope he was an honest fry cook.
Still keeping score? One crashed system. One crashed computer. No working ATM card. One lost Credit card. It gets worse.
After the grueling day, I was ready to go home. My sermon preparations were not going great. (Hopefully, by Sunday it will have gotten much better). The news on my computer was not great. My back up computer did not allow me to receive e-mails or print or have some necessary programs. My gluten free diet must not have been gluten free enough— I was having some tummy troubles. The election talk was getting me down. My dentist called to remind me that this week he is going to “crown me with many crowns.” My head was hurting. Enough is enough, I figured. I just needed to get home— at least at home my family would remind me that none of that stuff matters. That stuff is just stuff and it’s relationships that matter. So I slowly walked to my car, a little beaten up maybe, but not knocked out. I got behind the wheel, turned the key….. and nothing. That’s right— my car would not start. Like Howard Cosell in the Thrilla in Manila, I think someone was yelling, “Down goes Prince. Down goes Prince.”
AHHHHHHHHHH!
Ever have a day like that? Nothing seems to be going right. Everything that could go wrong does go wrong. You’ve told yourself, “Nobody died. No one is in the hospital… things could be a whole lot worse. Blah. Blah. Blah.” Still the day stinks, stanks, stunk. Yea, we’ve all had days like that. So what do we do? Go home, get under the covers and say: “Wake me up next Tuesday”? I suppose that’s one option.
I have a better idea. How about focusing on my favorite Bad Day Bible Verse: Isaiah 41:10. It says: “Don’t be afraid for I am with you. Don’t be discouraged for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you. I will hold you up with my victorious right hand.” It’s good to be reminded that we are not alone. When cars and computers breakdown— we are not alone. When things are lost and trouble mounts— the One who created the Universe is close by. We all need to be held up by God from time to time. We all need to be strengthened and reminded to not fear. Isaiah 41:10 is a good reminder that even on the lousy days God is still God and He is still Good.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
TacoBellpalooza
Ben and I decided to have a “TacoBellpalooza” on Tuesday. “What is a TacoBellpalooza?” you ask. Good question.
On Tuesday, from 2 PM until 6 PM most of the 5,800 Taco Bell restaurants in the USA were giving away a free taco to anyone who came in and asked for one. And I got the bright idea that it would be fun to see how many Taco Bells we could visit (that’s the palooza part… it was kind of a Taco Bell extravaganza, a festival of Taco Bells). There would be no drive through windows for us—the plan was to dine in and munch down our free crunchy taco and then move on to the next Taco Bell. (Alex could not participate in our TacoBellpalooza because he had to work. Karla also was at work, but she joined us at Taco Bell stop #3). The TacoBellpalooza was a great idea on Sunday when Ben and I first discussed it. It was truly inspirational before we started wolfing down taco after taco, but now that the TacoBellpalooza is over my tummy tells me it wasn’t such a great idea at all.
Ben, Ben’s friend, Cole, and I started our adventure at about 3:30 on Tuesday afternoon. We went to the following Taco Bells:
• Santa Fe by Hobby Lobby in Olathe,
• Blackbob and 119th in Olathe
• Quivira across from the Oak Park Mall in Lenexa
• 87th Street across from the Police Station in Lenexa
• 87th Street in front of the Sear’s Grand in Lenexa
• Santa Fe west of I-35 in Olathe
• And finally, the Taco Bell in front of the Great Mall of the Great Plains in Olathe
If you are counting, that’s seven Taco Bells and seven tacos each. Let the record show that Karla joined us at the Taco Bell visit #3 and ate a taco at the next three stops. She refused to eat one at the final destination. Wise lady, she is. But your honor, let the record further show that the boys and I ate the whole taco and nothing but the taco at all seven stops. Burp.
I discovered yesterday I am no Takeru Kobayashi. You know him—that’s the skinny hotdog-eating champion guy from Japan. I was feeling a little green under the gills at taco #5 (I can’t politely describe for you my feelings after taco #7, but suffice it to say, “It wasn’t good”.)—So how does that dude eat fifty dogs in ten minutes? And how does he stay so skinny?
I like Tacos. They are tasty and crunchy and meaty and yummy. But after taco #7, I was referring to them as greasy and messy and icky and yucky. In fact, according to the rhinoceros that now occupies my tum tum, I won’t be visiting Taco Bell for quite some time. Too much of a good thing is not always a good thing.
There could never be too much of a good thing in the church could there? We could never pray too much or read too much of our Bible or worship too much-- right? I’m not so sure….
Do you remember when Jesus and a few of the fellas hiked up the mountain for what had to be the world’s greatest worship service of all time? There was not a song sung or an offering taken, but check this out: Jesus’ faced glowed; his clothes became whiter than anything Clorox Bleach could ever do; a couple of guys who had been dead for only several hundred years showed up—Moses and Elijah; and the crème de le crème of the whole deal was when God Himself said, “This is my Son… listen to him!” Only one word could describe all of that: WOW! (Read all about it in Matthew 17 or Mark 9 or Luke 9).
Do you remember Peter’s response? He was ready to stay there forever. He wanted to build a retreat center—or at least build three shacks one each for Moses, Elijah and Jesus. I can imagine old Pete saying, “This is the coolest thing ever Jesus! Let’s never leave!”
But Jesus knew that his mission wasn’t to hang out on a mountain top and with a glowing face, rather his mission was to save the world. His mission was to reach out to the hurting, the poor, the messed up and troubled. The Bible says, he came to “seek and to save that which was lost.” (Luke 19:10) So as awesome as it must have been, I think we could say too much of a good thing would have been a bad thing—had Jesus followed Peter’s suggestion and stayed on the mountain, he would not have accomplished his mission.
It’s the same with us. Jesus doesn’t call us to simply sit in pews and “do church” and glow. He calls us to make disciples. He calls us to make a difference. And if the extent of our commitment to Jesus is simply sitting in a pew (even if it is an awesome service with a fantastic sermon and the greatest music ever—in other words a typical Sunday at Central. hee hee! ), then we are simply experiencing too much of a good thing.
Don’t get me wrong—worship services are important, and I think we should be in one every week (see Hebrews 10:25). I love to worship God with God’s people. But that cannot be the extent of our Christian experience. Worship is meant to be a place to express our praise to the Lord and to prepare our lives to reach the world for Him. Every Sunday should be a celebration of the Resurrected Lord—but we can’t be content to keep the celebration to ourselves. We’ve got to break out of the pews and get out of the church and start rubbing shoulders with those who are getting beat up in the world and share with them that Jesus cares and Jesus loves and Jesus is the answer to life’s deepest needs.
Anything less is just filling up on tacos while the rest of the world starves.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Blue Prince?
When my #1 Cherub was born,Karla and I had a very difficult time naming the boy. Truth be told, he didn’t have a name until day five of his life. On that day a somewhat perturbed nurse burst into Karla’s room at the Bay Medical Center (in beautiful Bay City Michigan) and informed us that we had to name the baby. I guess the nurses were getting tired hearing all of the other newbies in the nursery calling him “hey you” (or whatever it is that babies call one another when they are hanging out in their cribs.). Looking at us like we had committed some hideous crime, Nurse Meany of the Maternity Ward glared and sneered and said, “You have to name the child!”
It wasn’t my fault the boy had no name. I had plenty of names. Great names. But Karla did not like any of my suggestions. I don’t know why. My favorites were Foot, Finger or Blue.
In my thinking, if one day our child became a beach bum what better name could he have than “Foot” Prince? I know it would have been better if we spelled our last name “Prints” instead of “Prince” but if you say it quick enough “Prints” and “Prince” sound exactly the same.
Or maybe our off-spring would be a famous police detective one day, wouldn’t “Finger” (Prince) be an awesome name for a super crime fighter?
Or what about “Blue” (Prince) for an aspiring architect? I thought it was perfect. Still, Karla said, “No!”
When Karla failed to see the wisdom of those choices, I suggested that we could give our boy a “normal” first name-- on the condition that his middle name would be “Isa.” Of course, his official name would have been something like Harold “isa” Prince. Again she said no.
Karla had names she liked too—mostly dumb names. She said she like the name “Austin.” Austin? Why would anyone want to name their precious child after the home city of the University of Texas Longhorns? Are you kidding me? I vowed to call him some other Texan city—any other Texan city but Austin. “Come here, El Paso, it’s time for supper,” I threatened to say. My goodness, if we were going to name him after a college town wouldn’t it have been better to name him Ann Arbor.
Unfortunately, as all Johnny Cash fans know, naming him “Ann Arbor” would have been akin to naming a boy “Sue.” That’s probably not a good thing. Especially given the fact that Karla and my child’s gene pool would never be such that we would be buying him “Husky” Toughskin jeans from Sears and Roebuck, I worried that naming a boy “Ann” would not be beneficial to his health. If we only knew that one day we’d be living in Kansas we could have considered naming him “Lawrence.” That’s a college town and a boy’s name.
Finally on day five, with the prodding of Nurse Meany, we decided the young Prince should be “Alexander.” I think it’s been a good name… it doesn’t have the same pizzazz as if his name were “Finger,” but I don’t think Alex is heading toward a career in law enforcement anyway.
Why the walk down memory lane with you on this cold October morning?
Parents, we have a responsibility to our kids. To give them a decent name that won’t cause them bodily harm on the playground is only the beginning. We have a responsibility to show them the love of Christ. We have a responsibility to point them to the things of God and keep them from the things that will hinder their walk with God. I don’t know any perfect parents. We all make mistakes. Still we should strive to model before our kids someone who loves God, loves them, loves our spouse (if married), and really strives to provide a healthy loving Christ-centered environment.
The Bible says, “You must love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, and all your strength. And you must commit yourselves wholeheartedly to these commands… Repeat them again and again to your children. Talk about them when you are at home and when you are on the road, when you are going to bed and when you are getting up.” (Deut 6:5-8).
Moms and dads, let’s not stop showing our kids and telling our kids and retelling them about the great the love of God. It’s a never ending, 24 hour job…. But you can do it!
It wasn’t my fault the boy had no name. I had plenty of names. Great names. But Karla did not like any of my suggestions. I don’t know why. My favorites were Foot, Finger or Blue.
In my thinking, if one day our child became a beach bum what better name could he have than “Foot” Prince? I know it would have been better if we spelled our last name “Prints” instead of “Prince” but if you say it quick enough “Prints” and “Prince” sound exactly the same.
Or maybe our off-spring would be a famous police detective one day, wouldn’t “Finger” (Prince) be an awesome name for a super crime fighter?
Or what about “Blue” (Prince) for an aspiring architect? I thought it was perfect. Still, Karla said, “No!”
When Karla failed to see the wisdom of those choices, I suggested that we could give our boy a “normal” first name-- on the condition that his middle name would be “Isa.” Of course, his official name would have been something like Harold “isa” Prince. Again she said no.
Karla had names she liked too—mostly dumb names. She said she like the name “Austin.” Austin? Why would anyone want to name their precious child after the home city of the University of Texas Longhorns? Are you kidding me? I vowed to call him some other Texan city—any other Texan city but Austin. “Come here, El Paso, it’s time for supper,” I threatened to say. My goodness, if we were going to name him after a college town wouldn’t it have been better to name him Ann Arbor.
Unfortunately, as all Johnny Cash fans know, naming him “Ann Arbor” would have been akin to naming a boy “Sue.” That’s probably not a good thing. Especially given the fact that Karla and my child’s gene pool would never be such that we would be buying him “Husky” Toughskin jeans from Sears and Roebuck, I worried that naming a boy “Ann” would not be beneficial to his health. If we only knew that one day we’d be living in Kansas we could have considered naming him “Lawrence.” That’s a college town and a boy’s name.
Finally on day five, with the prodding of Nurse Meany, we decided the young Prince should be “Alexander.” I think it’s been a good name… it doesn’t have the same pizzazz as if his name were “Finger,” but I don’t think Alex is heading toward a career in law enforcement anyway.
Why the walk down memory lane with you on this cold October morning?
Parents, we have a responsibility to our kids. To give them a decent name that won’t cause them bodily harm on the playground is only the beginning. We have a responsibility to show them the love of Christ. We have a responsibility to point them to the things of God and keep them from the things that will hinder their walk with God. I don’t know any perfect parents. We all make mistakes. Still we should strive to model before our kids someone who loves God, loves them, loves our spouse (if married), and really strives to provide a healthy loving Christ-centered environment.
The Bible says, “You must love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, and all your strength. And you must commit yourselves wholeheartedly to these commands… Repeat them again and again to your children. Talk about them when you are at home and when you are on the road, when you are going to bed and when you are getting up.” (Deut 6:5-8).
Moms and dads, let’s not stop showing our kids and telling our kids and retelling them about the great the love of God. It’s a never ending, 24 hour job…. But you can do it!
Thursday, October 09, 2008
Calgon, I think I'll Stay
You didn’t ask for it, but I’m going to give it. Today is my official day to complain. So buckle your seatbelt buckaroos, because boy oh boy do I have a list!
• All of my favorite professional sports teams stink. (If you’re from Kansas City, then your favorite teams stink too. Sorry for pointing out the obvious, but I believe in the old adage “Misery loves company.”)
• The stock market stinks (even worse than all of our team’s locker rooms combined).
• My office stinks. I had a small chili from Wendy’s yesterday and our usually terrific janitors missed my trash bucket and now my office smells like yesterday’s chili. I assure you it smelled better yesterday.
• Speaking of my office, when the toilet in my office is flushed it is really loud… really, really loud. Sonic boom loud. So when “nature calls” not only does everyone in the office know but half of Johnson County and parts of Wyandotte County know it too. That stinks!
• Speaking of things loud and stinky, I awoke this morning to a zit on the end of my nose. For someone who is already quite “nasally endowed,” the new real estate on the end of my beak is an unwelcomed addition.
• Speaking of awaking, I didn’t get enough sleep last night. (Can you tell?) My dog thinks my bed is her bed. It’s not, but just try convincing her of that. She is not very reasonable.
• I’m having a bad hair day (my hair is not very reasonable either).
• I spilled my lunch on my shirt.
• I’ve got a headache.
• The Presidential mudslinging gives me a worse headache.
• So does the Vice Presidential mudslinging.
• In fact, this whole political season has given me a headache. When will November 5th arrive?
• Blah, Blah, Blah! “Calgon, take me awayyyyyyyy!”
OK… I’m done complaining. Do I feel better? Not really. Do you feel better from reading my complaining list? Probably not.
So why complain?
Good question.
Looking back over that list… every complaint is dumb. (Am I complaining about my complaints? I think I am… wow that’s weird!) Here’s the scoop on complaints: If I can’t fix the problem, if it is out of my control-- then why complain? After all my complaining, the problem will still be there. And if I haven’t tried to fix those things that I can fix—then why complain? I need to quit complaining and fix the problem. Bottom line… why complain?
The Bible goes so far as to say: “Do everything without complaining.” Philippians 2:14
When we complain, aren’t we in a roundabout way saying: “God can’t take care of me”? Listen, if God is in control (and He is) and if I complain (and sometimes I do) am I not saying during those moments, “I don’t like the way you’re running things, God. I think I could do a better job.” News Flash: I can’t do a better job. Not even close. I don’t want to be a complainer, I want to be faithful—even when the skies are grey and the stock market flops.
So instead of counting my losses, I want to be a person that counts my gains. Instead of making a list of my woes, I should be making a list of my blessings. Instead of seeing all the problems—I want to look to the Ultimate Problem Solver. And when I do those things— whether the problem is the stock market or a zit on the end of my nose, I know that my troubles aren’t forever, but God is. My troubles will soon be gone, but God will be by my side. So, never mind Calgon, I think I’ll stay.
• All of my favorite professional sports teams stink. (If you’re from Kansas City, then your favorite teams stink too. Sorry for pointing out the obvious, but I believe in the old adage “Misery loves company.”)
• The stock market stinks (even worse than all of our team’s locker rooms combined).
• My office stinks. I had a small chili from Wendy’s yesterday and our usually terrific janitors missed my trash bucket and now my office smells like yesterday’s chili. I assure you it smelled better yesterday.
• Speaking of my office, when the toilet in my office is flushed it is really loud… really, really loud. Sonic boom loud. So when “nature calls” not only does everyone in the office know but half of Johnson County and parts of Wyandotte County know it too. That stinks!
• Speaking of things loud and stinky, I awoke this morning to a zit on the end of my nose. For someone who is already quite “nasally endowed,” the new real estate on the end of my beak is an unwelcomed addition.
• Speaking of awaking, I didn’t get enough sleep last night. (Can you tell?) My dog thinks my bed is her bed. It’s not, but just try convincing her of that. She is not very reasonable.
• I’m having a bad hair day (my hair is not very reasonable either).
• I spilled my lunch on my shirt.
• I’ve got a headache.
• The Presidential mudslinging gives me a worse headache.
• So does the Vice Presidential mudslinging.
• In fact, this whole political season has given me a headache. When will November 5th arrive?
• Blah, Blah, Blah! “Calgon, take me awayyyyyyyy!”
OK… I’m done complaining. Do I feel better? Not really. Do you feel better from reading my complaining list? Probably not.
So why complain?
Good question.
Looking back over that list… every complaint is dumb. (Am I complaining about my complaints? I think I am… wow that’s weird!) Here’s the scoop on complaints: If I can’t fix the problem, if it is out of my control-- then why complain? After all my complaining, the problem will still be there. And if I haven’t tried to fix those things that I can fix—then why complain? I need to quit complaining and fix the problem. Bottom line… why complain?
The Bible goes so far as to say: “Do everything without complaining.” Philippians 2:14
When we complain, aren’t we in a roundabout way saying: “God can’t take care of me”? Listen, if God is in control (and He is) and if I complain (and sometimes I do) am I not saying during those moments, “I don’t like the way you’re running things, God. I think I could do a better job.” News Flash: I can’t do a better job. Not even close. I don’t want to be a complainer, I want to be faithful—even when the skies are grey and the stock market flops.
So instead of counting my losses, I want to be a person that counts my gains. Instead of making a list of my woes, I should be making a list of my blessings. Instead of seeing all the problems—I want to look to the Ultimate Problem Solver. And when I do those things— whether the problem is the stock market or a zit on the end of my nose, I know that my troubles aren’t forever, but God is. My troubles will soon be gone, but God will be by my side. So, never mind Calgon, I think I’ll stay.
Thursday, October 02, 2008
The 100th Anniversary Celebration
I know there are other good churches besides the Church of the Nazarene. I know entry into heaven will not require a Nazarene membership card or the ability to name all of the General Superintendants or know the secret Nazarene handshake (you don’t know the secret Nazarene handshake? I can’t tell you, it’s a secret). I know there are lots and lots of people who have never heard of Phineas F. Bresee or Pilot Point, Texas and don’t know the difference between NMI and NYI that will still make it through the pearly gates. Still, I am thankful for the Church of the Nazarene.
I know it’s not always popular these days to claim denominational loyalty. I suppose some folks even view denominations as an out dated expression of the Church. And I know the Nazarene church isn’t perfect. (They let a guy like me be a member for crying out loud, and I am far from perfect). It has some flaws. Still, I don’t know where I would be if not for the Church of the Nazarene. Yes, I am thankful for our 100 year old church.
On Sunday, we will be celebrating the 100th Anniversary of the Church of the Nazarene. We’ll have cake and celebrate the anniversary, and like all Nazarene churches around the world we will celebrate communion together. We’ll still have Sunday School and I’ll still continue on our “Elephant in the Church” series (This week it’s the “Mean Elephant” of judgmental attitudes), but Sunday will also be a day for us to say “Thank You” to God for the Church of the Nazarene and ask for God’s blessing for the next 100 years.
I know it’s not always popular these days to claim denominational loyalty. I suppose some folks even view denominations as an out dated expression of the Church. And I know the Nazarene church isn’t perfect. (They let a guy like me be a member for crying out loud, and I am far from perfect). It has some flaws. Still, I don’t know where I would be if not for the Church of the Nazarene. Yes, I am thankful for our 100 year old church.
On Sunday, we will be celebrating the 100th Anniversary of the Church of the Nazarene. We’ll have cake and celebrate the anniversary, and like all Nazarene churches around the world we will celebrate communion together. We’ll still have Sunday School and I’ll still continue on our “Elephant in the Church” series (This week it’s the “Mean Elephant” of judgmental attitudes), but Sunday will also be a day for us to say “Thank You” to God for the Church of the Nazarene and ask for God’s blessing for the next 100 years.
A Bus Hit the Church!
Last Thursday, one week ago today, life was quite normal within the hallowed confines of Central church. I was putting the finishing touches on my Sunday morning sermon. The secretaries were busy getting the Sunday worship folder ready, the food pantry was about to open for business, the other pastors were taking their well deserved day off— so it was mostly quiet around these parts. When we received a phone call from next door-- it was the friendly police dispatcher. (If you have never visited Central Church, the Lenexa police department is our neighbor. Biblically speaking, I suppose one could say our stretch of 87th Street is “Romans 6-8” Law and Grace. Don’t you love theological humor? Hee hee!).
The dispatcher explained that as she was entering the Police Station, she observed that a Johnson County Bus smashed into our building. You read that right— a bus hit the building. How does a bus hit a building? Ram a car speeding through an intersection? I’d say, “Accidents happen.” Strike a jaywalking pedestrian? It would be tragic, but understandable. Flatten a raccoon, bunny or squirrel? By the road kill I’ve observed—sadly it seems to be a frequent occurrence in the animal kingdom. But how can a bus run into a mostly stationary building? I don’t know, but it did.
Apparently the woman driver (with every ounce of my being I am resisting the temptation to tell a joke right now) was planning on delivering some people across the street at the Social Services building and was in the wrong lane on 87th Street, so she proceeded into our parking lot. Unwilling to make her U-turn in our wide open parking lot that is relatively free of buildings (and I don’t think that there were many cars in it either…it was a Thursday morning after all), she decided to go through our carport (unfortunately she literally tried to “go through” our car port). In her turning around, she apparently did not realize that her 10 foot high bus probably couldn’t squeeze under our 9 foot high carport. (Hmmm… maybe that’s why it is called a “carport” and not a “busport”). I guess buses can’t duck… who knew? So as Karla would say to our pre-potty trained boys, “We had a little accident.”
A bewildered bus company inspector came to examine the damage, pick up the assorted bus parts that were still lying on the ground, and assure me that the bus company would make our building “good as new.” I’m sure they will. (The first estimate for the building damage is over $5,000—I didn’t get a look at the bus, so I don’t know the cost of its repair.).
I tell you that to say— I long to have the Holy Spirit crash into this place. I long to have God—unexpectedly maybe, from “out of the blue” possibly-- so break up our routine that we would be forever impacted. Of course, when God smashes in there isn’t collateral damage—when God breaks in there is power and glory. I heard of one meeting (a few years back) when 120 people gathered in an upper room and were praying for God’s Spirit to come and God came in such a powerful and unmistakable way—that the world was forever changed! Read all about it in Acts 2.
I believe God still wants to impact his followers. I believe God still wants to fill us. I believe God still longs for us to be in such a place that we are forever moved. I still believe in the Pentecostal Power! And believe me, when God comes it is no accident!
The dispatcher explained that as she was entering the Police Station, she observed that a Johnson County Bus smashed into our building. You read that right— a bus hit the building. How does a bus hit a building? Ram a car speeding through an intersection? I’d say, “Accidents happen.” Strike a jaywalking pedestrian? It would be tragic, but understandable. Flatten a raccoon, bunny or squirrel? By the road kill I’ve observed—sadly it seems to be a frequent occurrence in the animal kingdom. But how can a bus run into a mostly stationary building? I don’t know, but it did.
Apparently the woman driver (with every ounce of my being I am resisting the temptation to tell a joke right now) was planning on delivering some people across the street at the Social Services building and was in the wrong lane on 87th Street, so she proceeded into our parking lot. Unwilling to make her U-turn in our wide open parking lot that is relatively free of buildings (and I don’t think that there were many cars in it either…it was a Thursday morning after all), she decided to go through our carport (unfortunately she literally tried to “go through” our car port). In her turning around, she apparently did not realize that her 10 foot high bus probably couldn’t squeeze under our 9 foot high carport. (Hmmm… maybe that’s why it is called a “carport” and not a “busport”). I guess buses can’t duck… who knew? So as Karla would say to our pre-potty trained boys, “We had a little accident.”
A bewildered bus company inspector came to examine the damage, pick up the assorted bus parts that were still lying on the ground, and assure me that the bus company would make our building “good as new.” I’m sure they will. (The first estimate for the building damage is over $5,000—I didn’t get a look at the bus, so I don’t know the cost of its repair.).
I tell you that to say— I long to have the Holy Spirit crash into this place. I long to have God—unexpectedly maybe, from “out of the blue” possibly-- so break up our routine that we would be forever impacted. Of course, when God smashes in there isn’t collateral damage—when God breaks in there is power and glory. I heard of one meeting (a few years back) when 120 people gathered in an upper room and were praying for God’s Spirit to come and God came in such a powerful and unmistakable way—that the world was forever changed! Read all about it in Acts 2.
I believe God still wants to impact his followers. I believe God still wants to fill us. I believe God still longs for us to be in such a place that we are forever moved. I still believe in the Pentecostal Power! And believe me, when God comes it is no accident!
Monday, September 29, 2008
A favorite time at Central!
Yesterday services were really good.
I especially liked our Connecting Service at 6PM. If you haven't checked it out-- plan on it. We meet in the Student Center-- with everyone-- and the goal from start to finish is Connecting-- with God and each other. I think that is happening. It's becoming one of my favorite times at Central.
I especially liked our Connecting Service at 6PM. If you haven't checked it out-- plan on it. We meet in the Student Center-- with everyone-- and the goal from start to finish is Connecting-- with God and each other. I think that is happening. It's becoming one of my favorite times at Central.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
My Day at the Nazarene Publishing House
I was asked to speak at the Nazarene Publish House chapel service this week. It was fun to be back at the ol’ Pub House. Twenty one years ago during my seminary days, I was an NPH employee: A sanitation engineer and building cleanliness expert (a janitor). Some of the people, who were in the chapel service, were my fellow employees back in the day.
I confessed to those fine folks of eating some of their candies off their desks while cleaning, after they had gone home for the day. I admitted to playing Wiffle ball past my break time. And I even confessed to my only foray with tobacco.
Here’s that story: One of the tasks of the janitorial crew was to clean the Nazarene Bookstore, which at the time was located by the Headquarters building (a few miles from the Pub House). It was always a treat to be chosen to clean the book store—it was akin to a field trip because you got to leave the premises, get out in the fresh air, take the Publishing House van, and usually there was time for a little detour for a Wendy’s Frosty.
One time we were going over to the Bookstore, and as it happened the previous night my co-worker’s wife had given birth to their firstborn child (why he was working and not at the hospital with his wife and new baby I do not know). Anyway, to celebrate this fact, he brought cigars for everyone. Not bubble gum cigars, mind you— cigar cigars. Real cigars.
I had never smoked a cigar before. I had never smoked anything before. I had been taught many lessons on the dangers and evils of the tobacco leaf—in one Vacation Bible school we even learned this cheer:
T-O-B-A-C-C-O
Do we use it? No. NO. NO.
Big Green Worms upon it grow.
T-O-B-A-C-C-O
I think big green worms are occasionally on a variety of good for you foods like tomatoes and corn too, but I guess big green worms are especially gross on the T-O-B-A-C-C-O. Still, I ignored the warnings, and on the way to the bookstore— falling to a peer pressure I had not experienced since Jr. High, my co-worker and I lit those babies up like we were some Wall Street Fat Cats. We were puffing away, puffing away, puffing away, when it dawned on us— “We are in the Publishing House Van! You are not supposed to SMOKE in the NAZARENE Publishing House van!” We tossed those half smoked cancer sticks out the window faster than you could say, “Bud Lunn is watching you.” (Bud was the long time manager of the Publishing House, and rumors were that he had been given special abilities to know everything that happened within the confines of NPH). Although it was the middle of winter, we rolled down the van windows and desperately tried to air out the cheap cigar fumes. We were convinced the next day would be our last day as employees of the Nazarene Publishing House.
But our secret was never discovered, and until Tuesday morning’s chapel service, no one at the Publishing House ever knew that my one and only time of lighting it up like a Marlboro Man was in the Nazarene Publishing House Van.
Thankfully, the NPH employees were gracious and kind and forgiving (and Bud Lunn is now in heaven and can’t fire me even if he wanted). We had a wonderful chapel service. As they say, confession is good for the soul.
In a much more serious look at confession-- last Sunday, we began our new sermon series, “The Elephant in the Church,” and our focus was on the Fake Elephant of hypocrisy. Rather than being frauds and phonies, we stated that the path to authenticity was confession. Our key verse for the morning was James 5:16: Make this your common practice: Confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you can live together whole and healed. (The Message)
At the end of the service, rather than a traditional altar call, we provided confessional cards to everyone in the sanctuary and asked people to confess attitudes and/or behaviors that were less than pleasing to God. We called on people to admit to those things that we keeping them from having the “mind of Christ.”
The response was overwhelming.
Approximately 250 people moved forward and dropped their confessional card into one of two boxes. One box was labeled “JUNK” (I promised that no one would read those cards), and the other box was labeled “SHARED JUNK” where the confessions would be read. In the SHARED JUNK box there were 195 cards. WOW… 195!
This week I have read and prayed over all 195 cards from the SHARED JUNK box. Some people confessed to selfishness, anger, worry or greed. Others confessed fears and various sins. Nineteen confessed to an addiction to pornography.
If you were one of the 250 people who stepped out from your seat and dropped a card in the JUNK or SHARED JUNK box or if you are simply reading this e-mail and are reflecting on your own “junk.” Then hear this: GOD’S GRACE IS BIGGER THAN ANY SIN or problem or worry or fear. Confession is the first step to freedom. In fact the Bible says: If we confess our sins to him, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all wickedness. (1 John 1:9-10. NLT).
You need not be gripped in the debilitating grasp of sin, God’s grace is greater! He is able to cleanse all that junk and all the guilt and give you the mind of Christ!
I confessed to those fine folks of eating some of their candies off their desks while cleaning, after they had gone home for the day. I admitted to playing Wiffle ball past my break time. And I even confessed to my only foray with tobacco.
Here’s that story: One of the tasks of the janitorial crew was to clean the Nazarene Bookstore, which at the time was located by the Headquarters building (a few miles from the Pub House). It was always a treat to be chosen to clean the book store—it was akin to a field trip because you got to leave the premises, get out in the fresh air, take the Publishing House van, and usually there was time for a little detour for a Wendy’s Frosty.
One time we were going over to the Bookstore, and as it happened the previous night my co-worker’s wife had given birth to their firstborn child (why he was working and not at the hospital with his wife and new baby I do not know). Anyway, to celebrate this fact, he brought cigars for everyone. Not bubble gum cigars, mind you— cigar cigars. Real cigars.
I had never smoked a cigar before. I had never smoked anything before. I had been taught many lessons on the dangers and evils of the tobacco leaf—in one Vacation Bible school we even learned this cheer:
T-O-B-A-C-C-O
Do we use it? No. NO. NO.
Big Green Worms upon it grow.
T-O-B-A-C-C-O
I think big green worms are occasionally on a variety of good for you foods like tomatoes and corn too, but I guess big green worms are especially gross on the T-O-B-A-C-C-O. Still, I ignored the warnings, and on the way to the bookstore— falling to a peer pressure I had not experienced since Jr. High, my co-worker and I lit those babies up like we were some Wall Street Fat Cats. We were puffing away, puffing away, puffing away, when it dawned on us— “We are in the Publishing House Van! You are not supposed to SMOKE in the NAZARENE Publishing House van!” We tossed those half smoked cancer sticks out the window faster than you could say, “Bud Lunn is watching you.” (Bud was the long time manager of the Publishing House, and rumors were that he had been given special abilities to know everything that happened within the confines of NPH). Although it was the middle of winter, we rolled down the van windows and desperately tried to air out the cheap cigar fumes. We were convinced the next day would be our last day as employees of the Nazarene Publishing House.
But our secret was never discovered, and until Tuesday morning’s chapel service, no one at the Publishing House ever knew that my one and only time of lighting it up like a Marlboro Man was in the Nazarene Publishing House Van.
Thankfully, the NPH employees were gracious and kind and forgiving (and Bud Lunn is now in heaven and can’t fire me even if he wanted). We had a wonderful chapel service. As they say, confession is good for the soul.
In a much more serious look at confession-- last Sunday, we began our new sermon series, “The Elephant in the Church,” and our focus was on the Fake Elephant of hypocrisy. Rather than being frauds and phonies, we stated that the path to authenticity was confession. Our key verse for the morning was James 5:16: Make this your common practice: Confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you can live together whole and healed. (The Message)
At the end of the service, rather than a traditional altar call, we provided confessional cards to everyone in the sanctuary and asked people to confess attitudes and/or behaviors that were less than pleasing to God. We called on people to admit to those things that we keeping them from having the “mind of Christ.”
The response was overwhelming.
Approximately 250 people moved forward and dropped their confessional card into one of two boxes. One box was labeled “JUNK” (I promised that no one would read those cards), and the other box was labeled “SHARED JUNK” where the confessions would be read. In the SHARED JUNK box there were 195 cards. WOW… 195!
This week I have read and prayed over all 195 cards from the SHARED JUNK box. Some people confessed to selfishness, anger, worry or greed. Others confessed fears and various sins. Nineteen confessed to an addiction to pornography.
If you were one of the 250 people who stepped out from your seat and dropped a card in the JUNK or SHARED JUNK box or if you are simply reading this e-mail and are reflecting on your own “junk.” Then hear this: GOD’S GRACE IS BIGGER THAN ANY SIN or problem or worry or fear. Confession is the first step to freedom. In fact the Bible says: If we confess our sins to him, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all wickedness. (1 John 1:9-10. NLT).
You need not be gripped in the debilitating grasp of sin, God’s grace is greater! He is able to cleanse all that junk and all the guilt and give you the mind of Christ!
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Turning Central into a House of Prayer
The Church Board Meeting was last night-- and we spent most of the time in prayer. One of the most important aspects of leadership is knowing the absolute necessity of leading from one's knees.
We split up and prayed for the ministries of Central. We prayed in the classrooms and in the meeting places. We prayed for the children, students, everyone else. We prayed for the finances and the mission pledges. Then we all gathered in the sanctuary and prayed around the altars. If Central is going to be the great church that God calls us to be-- it will be as we renew our efforts to be a house of prayer." The Board is leading the way!
We split up and prayed for the ministries of Central. We prayed in the classrooms and in the meeting places. We prayed for the children, students, everyone else. We prayed for the finances and the mission pledges. Then we all gathered in the sanctuary and prayed around the altars. If Central is going to be the great church that God calls us to be-- it will be as we renew our efforts to be a house of prayer." The Board is leading the way!
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