Freedom, Not Furniture

Trusting God to provide all we need, even when it looks like that trust will cost us.

June 2018

“Buy some furniture and call us back.”– That’s what the SNAP (aka ‘Food Stamps’) representative told my wife over the phone. We just learned we lost $280 in monthly food stamp assistance. The reason? We had too much money in our saving account.

What’s the suggested solution? Blow through our ‘Dave Ramsey’ 6-Month Emergency Fund with purchases we don’t need. Then call back when we have less money in our bank account.

Rewind – March 21, 2013

It’s Thursday morning. My pregnant wife and I sit in my parents’ kitchen, pouring over income eligibility requirements for various government assistance programs: SNAP, Medicaid, ACA (‘Obamacare’) insurance, etc. Wednesday night we interviewed with a church board about a job as lead pastor.

The church leadership had already decided to close and offer the facilities to another church. But that plan suddenly fell through and, eight days later, I became the Pastor. [Eventually, our church did close. We’re now preparing to restart as Renovation Community.]

We clearly felt God calling us to leave Kansas City and begin serving this dying church. But we didn’t see how our family could survive without receiving government assistance. Since then, our children have been on Medicaid and we received food stamps.

December 31, 2017

I received my last-ever paycheck from my second job.  I had worked a second job the entire time I’d been a pastor. But that second job finally ended and, with it, a $500/month wage. But my wonderful wife helped us tighten our family budget so we barely missed that second income. (Ok…our family’s Chief Budget Officer might disagree with that last sentence).

Tuesday – July 24, 2018

A $500 check arrived in the mail on Monday. Checks arrive in the mail quite often around here. Two weeks ago our church received an unrequested $20,000 (yes, $20,000!) check. We’ll use it to cover long-overdue facilities repairs and salary for our longtime volunteer pastor. But all the previous checks we have received are either clearly for the church OR clearly for my family’s personal needs.

This check on Monday is confusing; it’s made out to me, but the memo line says it’s for our church’s summer day camp and feeding program.

I call Tuesday to thank the donors and carefully investigate where they intended us to use their donation. It turns out the donors addressed the check to me because they couldn’t remember our new church’s name.

So the check is for the church, not my family. Difficult news for my wife when we’re already over-budget on groceries. I hang up the phone.

In the silence, my mind lingers over this information. The check is addressed to me. So I could cash it at the bank. If this generous person’s check supports the pastor, the gift is still, ultimately, supporting the church. 

God gives me the strength to quickly text our treasurer the truth…a $500 check addressed to me was actually meant for the church and will go in the offering plate on Sunday.

Saturday Morning – July 28, 2018

Our two boys had a slumber party at grandparents. My wife and I take advantage of the child-free morning with a walk along the Trinity River. Eventually, our slim family budget takes over the conversation. It takes over the walk, the car ride home, and our next hour on the couch.

Should I find a second job?

Can we tighten our budget anymore?

Should I ask the church for a raise?

How can we get that Food Stamps money back?

Is it a wise financial decision to work for a church and host large ministries for the poor if we don’t have enough grocery money?

Is ‘waiting to see what God wants me to do’ a cop-out, given our tight our budget is? Should I act immediately?

My health isn’t good; how would a second job affect my energy levels for my family and church responsibilities?

I already take on more than I can handle (as I write this, I’m sick from juggling a painting project at a nearby elementary school, renovating a formerly homeless church member’s new home, and hosting our summer day camp). How can I possibly add one more task to my plate?

We finish the conversation at 11:50am. I have a special prayer journal I keep for ‘big’ prayer requests. I quickly jot down a prayer for God to give us a large financial gift.

Saturday, 1:00pm – July 28, 2018

Random questions begin arriving via text from a friend out-of-state.

‘Would you rather have a one-time gift for a certain amount of money or receive a recurring monthly donation continuing for an undetermined amount of time in the future?’

‘I want to give you money.’

‘Do you have a need right now?’

I tell my friend I only share needs with God and strive to never interfere with how God’s Spirit may direct someone to give.

My frustrated friend has to make decisions about his donation with absolutely no help from me.

He finally decides and sends me this text: “If it doesn’t come through, let me know. Should be a one-time $500 gift and $100 monthly recurring gift.”

That last text message arrived at 1:20pm, exactly 1.5 hours after my wife and I finished our stressful budget conversation.

Sunday evening, July 29, 2018

I gave that $500 check to our church treasurer.

After our worship service, I begin counseling a church member on personal finance. My counsel-turned-sermon addresses the freedom we feel when we relinquish all financial control to God.

I shared a story from a few weeks ago about turning down a job opportunity over lunch…

An old acquaintance toured our church’s summer day camp and then took me to lunch. As we left the parking lot, he asked where I’d like to eat.

This entire meeting, tour, and lunch was his idea, not mine. So, I explain to the church member, I felt no pressure to pay for our meal. I was, quite literally, just along for the ride.
I explained it feels the same way when we allow God to control all aspects of life. Of course God will provide for my needs if He wants me to serve at this church. I need only to follow his will and make sure I spend HIS money in ways that honor him. If it’s God’s will, he’ll pay the bill.

Jesus, I Am Resting, Resting

By Sunday night I felt exhausted. Exhausted from preaching. Exhausted counseling. Exhausted from speaking at an orientation for this week’s visiting youth group here at our day camp. My mind, soul, and body needed rest.

Our church’s summer day camp and feeding program, Camp FUSE, is 9 weeks, 5 days a week, 10.5 hours a day. The current small group of people who call Renovation Community their church home couldn’t pull it off without visiting summer youth groups and summer interns.

In addition to working long hours, our interns have to read…a lot. One of their assigned books is a biography on Hudson Taylor, British missionary to China and founder of the China Inland Mission. Before ever stepping foot on foreign soil, Taylor prepared himself for future hardships by practicing various forms of fasting.

He fasted from all but the simplest and cheapest food, fasted from warm clothing, fasted from using comfortable sleeping mattresses, fasted from using enough coal to actually keep his small apartment warm in the winter, and fasted from asking anyone other than God for financial assistance.

Taylor worked for a doctor who regularly forgot to pay his one employee in a timely manner. But Taylor always entrusted the man’s memory to God, alone.

I’ve just finished another Sunday night without asking church leadership for a raise. In five years of service, I’ve never asked for a raise.

Hudson Taylor’s favorite hymn, “Jesus, I Am Resting, Resting” played on repeat in my head all day, and most of the week [included at the end]. I enter our quiet parsonage. Our boys are asleep. Most of the lights are out. My wife is already in bed.

I walk into the kitchen. The light over the sink shines on my weekly paycheck resting on the counter. Next to it is another check for $1,100.00. In the memo line, our treasurer’s handwriting reads “$1,000 Bonus, $100/month salary increase.”

Freedom, Not Furniture

After five years of serving the poor in our church’s neighborhood, I’ve met hundreds of people who receive some sort of government assistance. It is a wonderful blessing to many, including my family.

But I’ve also seen a few recipients embrace a mentality and lifestyle of Enslavement to that assistance. The longer they receive government assistance, the more difficult it is for these few to believe in Divine Assistance.

Their High Priests become the employees in the Benefits offices, like the woman who told my wife to make ourselves poorer by spending money on furniture we don’t need. Truly, you cannot serve both God and money.

The God of the Bible teaches us to spend money wisely. The Book of Proverbs especially teaches us to save and work hard. But Scripture is also abundantly clear that my hard work, a Savings account, and Food Stamps don’t ultimately pay my bills. God pays my bills.

The Bible also teaches I have Freedom because of Jesus Christ’s atoning work. The Apostle Paul, an early church leader, wrote to a group of Christians in the ancient territory of Galatia (modern Turkey). Paul explained, “For freedom Christ has set us free; stand firm therefore, and do not submit again to a yoke of slavery” (Galatians 5:1).

Paul’s words remind me about the freedom I have in Christ, including financial freedom. I am free to follow Christ wherever he leads. If following Christ leads me away from receiving government assistance, he will provide means some other way along the journey

Christ may choose to provide for my family in any way he chooses, including from friends out-of-state and generous church leaders.

Christ is my High Priest, not some faceless government employee.

Christ offers freedom.

I choose Freedom, not Furniture.

Jesus, I Am Resting, Resting

Verse 1

Jesus, I am resting, resting,
In the joy of what Thou art;
I am finding out the greatness
Of Thy loving heart.
Thou hast bid me gaze upon Thee,
And Thy beauty fills my soul,
For by Thy transforming power,
Thou hast made me whole.

Verse 2

Oh, how great Thy loving kindness,
Vaster, broader than the sea!
Oh, how marvelous Thy goodness,
Lavished all on me!
Yes, I rest in Thee, Beloved,
Know what wealth of grace is Thine,
Know Thy certainty of promise,
And have made it mine.

Verse 3

Simply trusting Thee, Lord Jesus,
I behold Thee as Thou art,
And Thy love, so pure, so changeless,
Satisfies my heart;
Satisfies its deepest longings,
Meets, supplies its every need,
Compasseth me round with blessings:
Thine is love indeed!

Verse 4

Ever lift Thy face upon me
As I work and wait for Thee;
Resting ’neath Thy smile, Lord Jesus,
Earth’s dark shadows flee.
Brightness of my Father’s glory,
Sunshine of my Father’s face,
Keep me ever trusting, resting,
Fill me with Thy grace.

Refrain

Jesus, I am resting, resting,
In the joy of what Thou art;
I am finding out the greatness
Of Thy loving heart.

–Jesus, I Am Resting, Resting

Jean Sophia Pigott, 1876

Photo Credit: Federica Campanaro

Toilet Paper Treasury

toilet paper treasuryA good audio book distracts me from my frequent body pain. I put in my headphones and began to work around the house. As I work, I feel a deep ache throughout my entire body. For weeks, every morning is the same routine. I awake with the type of pain, muscle fatigue, and mental fog common with the Flu. My wife brings a cup of strong black coffee. I barely move until I’ve finished the cup. The symptoms slowly decrease as I begin moving around.

Of my three auto-immune disorders, Fibromyalgia is my greatest enemy. Often, physical movement is an act willpower. Hence, an audio book to distract me from the pain and fatigue. Last summer I started a summer ministry intern program. This summer’s interns will read 22 books in addition to their hard work in our summer day camp. I’m currently re-reading (or, in my case, listening to) all the books I’ve assigned.
I’m listening to The Pastor’s Wife by Sabina Wurmbrand, wife of Romanian pastor Richard Wurmbrand. The couple founded Voice of the Martyrs, an organization that spotlights Christian persecution throughout the world. In his famous book Tortured For Christ, Richard recounted cruel punishments in communist prisons for 14 years. He became famous in the U.S. when he spoke before Congress in 1966 and removed his shirt to show scars from those tortuous years.

But Richard’s wife, Sabina, also suffered in cruel communist prisons. Her words act as a salve to my stressed soul. Her writing style reminds me of Corrie Ten Boom, or some wise rabbi from the Jewish Talmud.

Cleaning

In February 2017 we closed our church in Southwest Fort Worth where I served since summer 2013. A small group stuck with me to help start a new church, Renovation Community, which launches October 14, 2018. Our leadership team now regularly meets with a coach who helps us plan our new church. My wife and I are busy cleaning. Another round of weekend coaching meetings begin at our place in a few hours.

I’ve listened for about 15 minutes Friday afternoon when focus on the Amazon boxes by the door. I move the diaper box to our youngest son’s room. My hands ache as I begin opening the toilet paper box; they always ache lately. I often first notice the pain in my hands when I awake each morning.

I take the toilet paper to the guest bathroom. We should win an award for the amount of toilet paper we use. With weekly prayer meetings, leadership team meetings, and pastoral counseling meetings, our guest bathroom sees plenty…guests.

My wife has expertly adjusted our toilet paper subscription on Amazon to fit with our high usage. Every once in a while, however, we run low before the next shipment arrives. But the nearby Wal-Mart makes up for our shortage.

Husbands,

Do not question decisions about your toilet paper’s brand, the toilet paper’s softness, the amount of toilet paper, etc.

This is dangerous.

Just do what you’re told and put away the toilet paper.

I practice what I preach and begin removing the toilet paper from its plastic wrap. I open the cabinet door.

Oh my goodness.

Have you ever played Tetris?

I’ve been given one task. I must not fail.

The store-bought toilet paper is a different size than the Amazon-ordered toilet paper. How do I even figure out how many rolls fit? I begin stacking, then rearrange, then stack again.

Victory.

I close the door on our toilet paper treasury. Should a siege come, we are ready.

No Bucket

Sometimes, God’s providential timing feels mysterious. Other times…not so much. At the moment I painfully stand up from the low cabinet, I hear Sabina Wurmbrand recount another prison memory:

“Days later I was moved into solitary confinement. My cell contained only an iron cot.

No bucket [to relieve yourself]…the first thing a prisoner looks for.

How I mourned the missing bucket. It meant more than food, or warmth, or light.

Stomach upsets caused by food or by interrogation fright on hearing your name called meant nothing to the guards. You were let out at 5:00 am, 3:00 pm, and 10:00 pm.”

I read biographies of great Christian men and women to hear reminders like that.

Do I pray to God about my Fibromyalgia?

Sometimes.

Do I thank God that my country’s government does not imprison pastors for their faith?

Rarely.

Do I thank God for plenty of toilet paper, clean toilets, and indoor plumbing?

Never.

I remember how the New Living Translation words Psalm 103:2, “may I never forget the good things He does for me.”

But I especially love Eugene Peterson’s earthy paraphrase of the same verse: “don’t forget a single blessing!”

Thankfulness

New praises fill my heart as I leave the bathroom.

Sure, I can focus on my pain and stresses in life, or I can remember every single blessing God provides, no matter how small.

I thank him for religious freedom, for indoor plumbing, and clean toilets.

I thank him for His many blessings, including our tightly packed toilet paper treasury.

 

Now thank we all our God
with heart and hands and voices,
who wondrous things has done,
in whom his world rejoices;
who from our mothers’ arms
has blessed us on our way
with countless gifts of love,
and still is ours today.

O may this bounteous God
through all our life be near us,
with ever joyful hearts
and blessed peace to cheer us,
to keep us in his grace,
and guide us when perplexed,
and free us from all ills
of this world in the next.

All praise and thanks to God
the Father now be given,
the Son and Spirit blest,
who reign in highest heaven
the one eternal God,
whom heaven and earth adore;
for thus it was, is now,
and shall be evermore. 

–Martin Rinkhart, “Now Thank We All Our God” 1636

Like Mama Packs Your Bags

My wife, Kelly, woke me up around 5:30 Christmas morning. She turned on my bedside lamp and sets down a strong, black cup of coffee. I grunt, “It’s too early.”
I used to be a morning person. In college, a classmate nicknamed me “Early Riser.” As my health has deteriorated over the years, however, I’m no longer a morning person. I’m not a night owl, either. Each morning I awake with pain, muscle fatigue, and mental fog. It usually dissipates to a manageable level by late morning. I then have about 6 good hours in me for the day.  I believe God will heal me one day. Until then, I praise Him for coffee.

I sit up and begin watching my wife scurry around. She’s busy getting dressed, fixing her hair, and packing her bag. She cleaned our house, unloaded the dishwasher, and packed our boys’ suitcase the night before.

We’ll leave town as soon as the boys each open their one present from Santa. I finish sipping my coffee in about 40 minutes and slowly get out of bed. But I move at a snail’s pace.
For some reason I’ll never understand, my wife believes a 32-year-old man should pack his own suitcase. She’s already packed for 3 people. What’s one more suitcase? So… I pack my suitcase and set it by the garage door.

Our boys awake at 7:00. They each have a gift from Santa in front of the fireplace. My wife shopped online and in stores until she found the perfect gift for each of them.

Kelly makes trips in and out of the cold garage to pack up our minivan [correction–her minivan– I also now drive a minivan, but we won’t talk about that].

She packs everything you could imagine: toys for our 1-year-old, our 4-year-old’s new bicycle, his helmet, a new wagon from my parents, snacks, entertainment for the car ride, new Christmas toys, older standby toys, toys to play inside, toys to play outside, pillows, medicine if either boy gets sick, warm-weather clothes, cold weather clothes, jackets, hats, mittens, spare shoes just if one pair gets wet, stuffed animals, sound machines, baby monitors, spare pacifiers, baby soap, toothbrushes, children’s toothpaste, hair combs, sippy cups for milk, sippy cups for water. You name it, Mama packed it.

All the while, I sit at the table with our boys to make sure they both eat their breakfast. What would this family do without me? 😉

Closed. Kind of?

Almost a year ago, our church officially closed. We entered into this weird transitional time. The 501c3 still exists and owns the facility, but the public “face” of the church closed. Our new church, Renovation Community, meets each week and organizes a massive summer day camp and feeding program. But our “public church” won’t officially launch until fall 2018. Our leadership team meets with a “church planting” coach to help us plan out our new church.

We had a planning meeting Saturday, December 2. At one point, our treasurer shared some financial details with me. Massive facility expenses (utilities from an old inefficient building, property insurance, large repairs, etc) and my salary have forced us to spend more than we receive for several months. We were quickly eating away at our savings. Renting our facilities to multiple other groups definitely helps with the expenses, but we charge all of those groups very little rent. We want to bless them with a low rent that they can’t get anywhere else. Should we raise everyone’s rent? That would help us. But would it hurt the other congregations?

Ending One Journey

Two days after seeing that financial data, I had a phone call with my boss from another job. In October 2010 Kelly and I began working with a Christian non-profit that places teams in apartment communities. We no longer live in an apartment, but I’ve supervised other teams for several years.

I haven’t been a good supervisor. I just haven’t had time to work a second job. But my gracious boss kept paying me $500 each month even though I couldn’t keep up with the work.

In recent months, however, organization has grown in other markets. We’ve launched in multiple new cities. It was finally time to reallocate my salary towards hiring a supervisor for this new growth. My salary would end December 31.  In 2018 my family would lose $6,000, before taxes, this job had provided. My 7+ year journey with this great non-profit was ending.

What should we do? Should I ask our church for a pay raise? A raise would help our family. But how would that loss of budget money hurt our church‘s ability to help others? Should I find another job? Income from a second job might help our family’s budget, but how might it hinder me in performing church and family responsibilities?

My auto-immune disorders prevent me from overworking like other 32-year-old men might; I soon end up sick in bed (maybe that’s a blessing). So taking on a second job probably won’t end well for me.

Since our large house, internet, and utilities are provided by the church, our expenses are much lower than the average family’s. And, if you’ve read my Facebook wall, you’ve seen countless stories of surprise financial gifts from others. I also receive a monthly housing allowance, and get some unique tax breaks as clergy. It’s not like we live as paupers. But our taxable wages are still below the federal poverty line for a family our size. So a $6,000 annual loss of income still felt a little scary. Still, we were trusting God to provide. We didn’t tell anyone, but we definitely talked to God about it.

To top it off, we’d just paid cash for a new minivan. We’d been saving for 2 years. God gave us a miraculous deal but, still…that chunk of cash was now gone.

Gifts

Five days after hearing I’d lose my second job, I was speaking at another church. An adult Sunday school class church had scheduled me to speak at their class Christmas party. I shared how God had worked in our church and in my heart (A few days later, I turned this message into a blog post – 15-passenger sanctuary). For weeks, the class had collected a love offering for us. They presented us with a $400 check.

A week later, I opened a small box – hidden away among some other items – it was a $2,000 check from family members.

A few days later, a church member stopped by the Parsonage (the house on church property) where we live to deliver $100. And couple we haven’t seen in over a year also dropped by to deliver a Christmas card with $100.

Almost every day in December, we also received Christmas cards from sweet friends around the country. Many cards included surprise checks to our family. $25. $50. $100. $200. $250. On Christmas Eve, our dear church family surprised us with a $400 Christmas bonus.

To Great-Grandmother’s House We Go

We back out of the garage at 8:30 Christmas morning and begin our 5 hour drive to see family. I finally wake up after a couple of hours of driving. As we get ready for bed that night, Kelly found a small card in her purse. Kelly unknowingly received it almost two weeks earlier, when a friend hid it away inside another gift. As Kelly opened the card, she found a $3,000 check to our family. These same dear friends surprised us with a $2,000 check two years ago.

The following day I receive a message on social media from people who have known me since birth. They asked for Renovation Community’s mailing address. Their letter arrived in the mail December 29. I opened it to find a $400 check for my family and a $14,000.00 check for our church. Another $19.00, and their donation would have equaled my entire taxable church salary in 2017!

On December 4, we learned I was losing a job that paid me $6,000.

By December 29, God had miraculously replaced (and surpassed) that income through surprise gifts from generous friends.

In 25 days, we received $6,500.00

God provides like Mama packs your bags.

You didn’t see her pack it. But when you suddenly need it along the journey, it’s there.

Our 4-year-old son paid no attention to what Mama packed in his suitcase. As our one-year-old grows, he won’t care either. The boys continued their evening and following morning as little boys and girls should on Christmas Eve and Christmas morning. They played with new toys, excitedly prepared cookies and milk for Santa’s arrival, took baths, put on pajamas, went to sleep, and woke up the next morning reveling in the magic of Christmas morning. Well, at least our 4-year-old reveled in the magic. Our 1-year-old reveled in torn wrapping paper and cardboard boxes.

They gave no consideration to what Mama packed. No doubt entered their minds about whether Mama would remember to pack their necessities. They weren’t hovering over Mama while she packed, coaching her on all the important items. In fact, our 4-year-old only cares about a few unnecessary items…

“Don’t forget the wagon Meemom and GDad gave us!” “Don’t forget my new bicycle with training wheels!”

Ours boys didn’t make a backup plan, in case we arrived at our destination only to find out Mama failed to bring their favorite stuffed animal, or toothbrush. They didn’t waste mental energy on where to buy a jacket, in case Mama forgot to pack theirs. Surely, this is what it means to have faith like a child

In Matthew 7 Jesus uses a rabbinic teaching method. It’s the “if this (is true), then how much more is that true” statement. We read him use this type of statement a few times in the Gospels.

In Matthew 7 the teaching makes an analogy with earthly parents and our Heavenly Father. If earthly mothers and fathers “know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!”

It was unusually cold once we arrived in Houston.

What did our 4-year-old do when he wanted his jacket?

“Mama, where’s my jacket?”

What about when he wanted to ride his new bike?”

“Can you please get my new bike from the van?”

What about when he’s thirsty and wants his favorite cup?

“Mama, can I please have my drink?”

Once we reached our destination, our oldest son knew Mama had packed whatever he needed. He didn’t watch her pack all these items because he knew Mama wouldn’t forget them. He has faith in Mama.

Packing for Eternity

When our GPS said we were 15 minutes away from great-grandma’s house, my wife began some more packing. She’s especially brilliant at it. Over and over, she packs kindness and gratitude into our 4-year-old’s heart.

My wife understands that the Heart, like any other suitcase tidily packed by human hands, doesn’t stay tidy for long. The items are soon strewn around the floor with dirty clothes heaped in a pile. So, too, the kindness and gratitude she carefully packs in our son’s heart must regularly be tidied, re-folded, and packed again.

“Now, a lot of people worked really hard to buy you Christmas presents. So what are you going to say when you open your presents?”

“What if you open a present that someone else already gave you? Are you going to say, ‘I already have that!’?”

“Why do we give presents at Christmas, anyway?”

Diaper cream, jackets, socks, and toys. Yes, we need all these items along the journey. But Mama understands what she packs into our sons’ hearts holds eternal significance.

For weeks this blog post’s title kept floating in my head. The lens through which I view my journey with God is now tinted with new color from this phrase… God truly provides for your life, “like Mama packs your bags.”

Trusting God to Provide

No matter how much Life surprises me with unexpected “weather,” God packed a warm jacket. I need only ask him for it.

Am I hungry? He’s packed food to nourish my body but also has bread from Heaven to nourish my soul.

Do I want to play? He lovingly provides toys with which I can play under his safe supervision, toys that bring no regret or harm to me, or anyone else. And how often I’m concerned with my new toys while He’s trying to pack eternal truths deep in my heart. But that’s a post for another day.

Do I need something that costs money? He is able to pay.

Am I sick? My Heavenly Father packed just the thing to bring healing. Even if the medicine is bitter going down, he would never administer anything that doesn’t ultimately bring wholeness and Life.

Am I sick with sin, with a sinful heart turned in on itself, selfishly thinking of my own desires before anything else? He packed the remedy to that problem 2000 years ago when he bore my sins on the cross. “And by his wounds, I have been healed” (1 Peter 2:24). That, friends, is Good News.

Now, off to buy Mama a coffee.

15-passenger Sanctuary

Worship Without Service…Isn’t.

I spend two hours most Friday nights in a sanctuary. It seats 15.

November 2017

It’s nearing midnight as I drive down the highway at 70 mph (okay…75 mph). The driver’s side window motor on the church van broke month’s ago. We’re finally trying to fix it. Wires and hardware from inside the door are visible next to my leg after removing the door panel. A wood 2×4 sits wedged vertically inside the door panel, preventing the van window from slamming to the bottom. But I mis-measured. The window has a 1-inch crack in the top, so loud wind is blowing inside. The smell of delicious home-cooked Indian curry still clings to our clothing. My ears fill with sounds of English and various dialects from India. On my right sits a soft-spoken young Indian man, curious about all-things-American. I concentrate on understanding simultaneously understanding his accent without being able to read his lips, my eyes directed on the highway.
At 11:30, we drop off the last Indian college student and drive 30 minutes back home to Southwest Fort Worth. We pull into the parking lot. My Indian friend and pastor opens his car door to drive home. It’s cold outside. I reach for my house keys to quietly slip inside, wherever my wife and little boys are sound asleep.

Summer 2013
I’m driving to our church building on a Saturday morning. We don’t yet live in the parsonage house on church property. We’re in apartments a mile away, working for an apartment ministry that plans resident activities. On my short commute, I pass a park and see Indian men playing cricket in the field. They play every Saturday and the occasional Sunday. At least, I think they’re Indian. But they could be Pakistani. I guess I should find out.
(A year ago, I planned to walk my dog at the park when I knew the men would be playing. As I pass by, I yelled out what must have sounded like an extremely strange question, “Are y’all Indian or Pakistani?” Indian).
I see many Indians in our neighborhood. I see the Indian women taking strolls in their saris, traditional Indian clothing made with abundant amounts of colorful fabric. I pass them in the grocery store. Occasionally, I see them walking slowly with a deer-in-the-headlights look and assume they must have recently moved to the United States. And we even serve them food during events in our apartment clubhouse. With our Indian apartment neighbors, we’re privileged learn their stories. Most traveled here on short-term contracts with their companies. They’re happy to take unfamiliar assignments in the United States, because it looks good on their resumes when they travel back home to India.
Whenever I see them, I smile warmly and then offer up a short silent prayer: “Lord, give me a pastor who can help me tell these dear people about Jesus.”

Summer 2017
God answered my prayer for an Indian pastor. I’m driving our church’s 15-passenger van. But it’s lately been a 2-5 passenger van. The bench seats sat in our gym much of the summer. We removed them and transformed our van into a furniture delivery vehicle.

Our Indian pastor and his family arrive from Kansas City in a couple of days. With the help of summer interns, we’ve moved furniture countless times. We’ve filled the van with donated items from homes and storage units, purchased used furniture from storage lockers, thrift stores, and Craigslist. The interns and I load it in the van, and then carry it upstairs in our gym, where a few rooms sit filled with household items. Children from our summer day camp and feeding program ask why we’re carrying mattresses into the gym.

I spent hours hunting for a rental house for the family. Two days before they arrive from Kansas City, we fill their new home with furniture.

Fall 2017
I’ve introduced our Indian pastor, Premal, to a contact I have with Baptist Student Ministries at a university where an estimated 4,000 Indian students attend. Premal’s entire family begins making the 30-minute drive to the BSM’s weekly International Student night. God gives them great favor. They play ping-pong, eat pizza, and meet invite Indian.
In October Premal began their weekly Friday night meals in their home. Which brings me back to this cold November night…

Each week, we make the 30 minute drive to pick up a van-full of Indian students and drive 30 minutes back to southwest Fort Worth. We then spend hours eating authentic Indian food, a real treat for these young people so far from home. We close our time as we began it, with prayer. About half the students are Christian. The either half either claim Hinduism or no faith at all. Premal has carefully planned these fellowships. The opening and closing prayers to Jesus make clear his family follows Jesus; the casual intervening time makes clear the family will not force their faith upon their guests.

My status during these weekly visits ranges between “honored guest” and, my preferred status of, “silent observer.” This time was not created for me. Non-English conversations swirl around me. Smells from recipes which originated thousands of miles away fill the air. The customs are Indian, not American. The goal is to make the Indian students feel at home, not me. This is as it should be. I’m simply the van driver.
And as I drive, I worship.
Sometimes I worship when I walk into a building intended for Christian gatherings, such as a church building. Such times are vital to the Christian faith.

And I enjoy the times I’m overwhelmed with emotion as I worship through song. The emotions that spill out through my tear ducts as I sing praise to God remind me of the One who created my emotions. Why shouldn’t I express love to him with the very emotions He created?
Other times, however, I’m invited into worship in thoroughly non-churchy environments…such as an unattractive 15-passenger van with a broken window, missing a door panel…while I’m chauffeuring college students who don’t own vehicles.

I drove a school bus while college and grad school. And my training kicks in when I drive the van. I drive with a laser-focus on the road and cars around me. I dedicate all my mental effort to safely transporting a van full of people on a busy interstate. In other words, it’s a rather emotionless time. Tears never well up in my eyes. I have no wish to raise my hands in worship. I don’t get ‘Holy Spirit goosebumps.’ I can’t say I’ve ever “felt” God’s presence in the same way I’ve “felt” it during a worship service. There’s never any worship music playing on the radio. And, yet, I know God is present. I know I’m in a sanctuary. I’m worshiping Jesus.

Friday, I started volunteering at an elementary school. I helped two first graders, quite behind in Reading, work on alphabet recognition and simple sight words, like ball, cat, and dog.

Minutes before I meet with my first students, I’m in a 10-minute meeting with the school principal. When I shake her hand to leave, I’ve agreed to find more volunteers, start a School Dads program, and adopt a family of 6 children who need Christmas presents.

A first-grade teacher gave me two packs of flash cards. In two 30-minute segments, I tutored a child in the school library. Both children fidgeted non-stop in the sturdy oak chairs. It’s as though the little girl’s legs were a wind-up toy. Her feet cover every imaginable inch of territory, other than directly on the floor beneath her chair.

My second student was a 6-year old boy with a speech impediment. I assumed we’d breeze through the alphabet flash cards and move on to the sight words. He recognized about half of the alphabet.

Our oldest son has known his entire alphabet since he was 3. I suddenly realized how humbling it is to volunteer my time helping others learn a concept that is entirely fundamental for me.
For one hour, I got a taste of Jesus’ entire life. Jesus came to be our Teacher. The entire human race couldn’t understand the Fundamentals their Creator laid out for us long ago.
God-In-Flesh came to teach us the ‘Remedial Humanity.’

Long ago, we should have learned such fundamental concepts as “God is Love,” “love your neighbor as yourself,” and “it’s better to give than to receive.” Even a people group who walked with God for centuries, the Jews, needed to re-learn basic concepts about the God they worship.
The night before Jesus died, Philip, one of his disciples asks Jesus to show him the Father. But Jesus replies, “Don’t you know me, Philip, even after I have been among you such a long time? Anyone who has seen me has seen the Father.”

It’s as though Jesus’ entire life was a living flash card with the word “God the Father” below it.

But Philip doesn’t make the connection.
Jesus of Nazareth, the very embodiment of God, came to earth to serve. In fact, he says this very thing: “The Son of Man came not to be served, but to serve” (Matthew 20:28).
On the same night of Jesus’ famous last supper, he washed his disciples’ feet. Few tasks were as humbling in ancient times as washing sandal-clad feet that may have just waded outside through animal or human waste.

And then, in John 13:14, Jesus spoke these words: “Now that I, your Lord and Teacher (emphasis, mine), have washed your feet, you also should wash one another’s feet.”

While leaving the elementary school Friday morning, I passed a Nativity display in someone’s front yard. Mary, Joseph, and the Shepherds gathered around baby Jesus.
I remembered the angelic heavenly host who first sang in earshot of those Shepherds, “Glory to God in the Highest.”

It’s Christmas, so let us continue loudly singing our praises to God. When we sing the majestic Christmas hymns, we follow in the footsteps (or wing flaps) of those angels.
And let’s reenact the great Nativity scenes. Let’s exchange gifts, remembering those first Wise Men who understood it is better to give than receive. Let us raise our hands in worship. Let us shout and weep with joy at the forgiveness Christ provides.
But, let’s remember it is our “God in the Highest” who chose to act as lowly Foot Washer…and commanded us to do the same.
Let us also remember our worship is incomplete if we do not obey Jesus’ command to serve one another.

Yes, ‘imitation’ really is the ‘best form of flattery.’ And, when it comes to Jesus, it’s also the best form of worship.
When I spend hours driving a beat up church van to pick up lonely Indian college students who don’t know Jesus, I am worshiping the Newborn King, who came to seek and save the lost and commanded us to make disciples of “all nations” and not just “my nation.”

And when I, a white man, spend time teaching little Black boys and girls how to read, I am worshiping Jesus (my teacher), by following his example of lovingly interacting with all people, not just his own race.

When I serve others with no expectation of being served myself, I am worshiping Jesus. When I visit someone sick and lonely in the hospital or nursing home, just to be with them, I’m following the example of Immanuel, “God with Us.” When I serve the least of these, I am serving–worshiping– Jesus.
When you understand that ‘Service to others’ is ‘Obedience to Christ,’ then the simplest acts become opportunities for worship.

A deck of flash cards becomes your hymnal. A library chair becomes your pew. Your steering wheel becomes an instrument for praise. And a church van becomes your sanctuary.

Brothers and Sisters,
This Christmas season, and all our lives, let us worship not only through song, but through service in the name of Christ.

For Fleas and Floods, I’m Thankful.

Sunday, 6:46pm – One of the congregations that uses uses our church’s building Sunday evenings calls me. The main building is flooding. It’s bad. Real bad.

I text our youth director. He’s over in the gym with a few teens from our neighborhood. He walks to the building to help. I walk over a few minutes later, after I’ve helped my wife with our nightly bedtime/bathtime routine.

I walk in to see about an inch of standing water in a hallway. Our youth director, two members from our church, and the man who first alerted me to the water all working. They’re using shop-vacs and mops. It’s bad but could be worse. And then I open doors to our sanctuary.

It’s worse. Much worse.

Throughout the facility, an area larger than my entire house is now wet.

Over an inch of water stands at the base of our sanctuary platform.

I send out some texts and phone calls to our church members and leaders from the church that rents our sanctuary. Within 30 minutes, our associate pastor and a deacon from another church are working with us.

The deacon had made a phone call on his way over. A man in their church owns a company with carpet extractors. The man arrives an hour later to deliver two commercial carpet extractors and then leaves to pick up more equipment.

First, we focus on our sanctuary. We must work fast to dry carpets around the wood pews. Replacing drywall is cheaper than replacing 16-foot pews.

We’re a motley crew of carpet cleaners, using a commercial carpet extractor, a home carpet cleaner, and two shop-vacs. Our associate pastor is working barefoot in the inch-deep water.

Eventually, our youth director and associate pastor leave for home. They both have other jobs to pay the bills. We mainly pay them with appreciation!

By around 11pm, it’s just me and the two men from the church that rents our sanctuary.

The powerful shop-vac I’m using starts hurting my ears. Our equipment is loud. We have to off our machines to hear each other talk.

I’ve already been in here 4 hours. I’m bent over on my knees with a vacuum hose pressed tightly against the carpet. My body is always in pain, but my knees, back, and hands especially begin to ache.

I put in my headphones to quiet the noise. I continue listening to the newest audiobook I’ve borrowed from the library. I read The Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boom a few years ago, but I wanted to read it again.

I’ve just heard Ten Boom’s account of 80 women jammed into a small freight car and transported to Ravensbrück concentration camp. Many women panicked in the claustrophobic space and fainted, “although in the tight-wedged crowd, they remained upright.”

I hear her explain how sitting required coordination with the entire group. All at once, each woman sat down with their legs outstretched around the woman in front of them, like a bobsled team.

The train made a slow trip from Holland into Germany over several days. A foul stench filled the smothering boxcar as the trapped women had to urinate and defecate where they sat.

And then, with my knees on the hard floor, I hear Betsy Ten Boom’s words of thankfulness. Betsy was Corrie’s sister.  They were both arrested for helping hide Jews in Holland and placed in the same prison and concentration camp. Always a frail woman, Betsy quickly developed a high fever on the train.

“Do you know what I am thankful for?” Betsy’s gentle voice startled me in that squirming madhouse. “I’m thankful that father is in Heaven today.”

The sisters’ elderly father had also been arrested by Nazi SS, but died only a few days into his imprisonment.

My body is sore but I continue extracting water, encouraged by Betsy’s attitude of gratitude. A little water is nothing.

Extract. Dump the water. Extract. Dump the water.

About 30 minutes later I hear Corrie describe their medical inspections, which occurred every Friday. The doctors only look down each woman’s throat, examine their teeth, and then check between each finger. Yet the malnourished women must strip naked for each inspection:

“We trooped again down the long, cold corridor and picked up the X-marked dresses at the door. But it was one of these mornings while we were waiting, shivering in the corridor that yet another page in the Bible lept into life for me: “He hung naked on the cross.”

I had not known. I had not thought. The paintings, the carved crucifixes showed, at the least, a scrap of cloth. But this, I suddenly knew, was the respect and reverence of the artist. But oh, at the time (itself on that other Friday morning) there had been no reverence, no more than I saw in the faces around us now.

I leaned toward Betsy, ahead of me in line. Her shoulder blades stood out sharp and thin beneath her blue mottled skin. “Betsy, they took His clothes too.” Ahead of me, I heard a little gasp. “Oh Corrie, and I never thanked him.”

A few minutes later, I hear Betsy’s most famous expression of gratitude recorded in The Hiding Place. Corrie describes their entrance into their barracks. She recounts straw beds that are “soiled and rancid,” an overflowing toilet, a horrible stench, and wooden platforms for sleeping stacked so tightly together that women could not sit up without hitting the platform above them:

Suddenly I sat up, striking my head on the cross slats above. Something had pinched my leg. “Fleas!” I cried. “Betsy, the place is swarming with them!” We scrambled across the intervening platforms, head low to avoid another bump, dropped down to the aisle, and edged our way to a patch of light. “Here. And here another one!” I wailed. “Betsy, how can we live in such a place.”

“Show us. Show us how.” It was said so matter-of-factly, it took me a second to realize she was praying. More and more, the distinction between prayer and the rest of life seemed to be vanishing for Betsy. “Corrie,” she said excitedly, “He’s given us the answer before we asked, as He always does! In the Bible this morning…where was it? Read that part again.”

[Read The Hiding Place to learn the miraculous way God kept their Bible from being confiscated upon first entering Ravensbrück.]

I glanced down the long dim aisle to make sure no guard was in sight, then drew the Bible from its pouch. “It was in 1 Thessalonians,” I said. We were on our third complete reading of the New Testament since leaving Scheveningen [their first prison in Holland]. In the feeble light I turned the pages. “Here it is. ‘Comfort the frightened. Help the weak. Be patient with everyone. See that none of you repays evil for evil, but always seek to do good to one another and to all.’ “

It seemed written expressly to Ravensbrück.

“Go on. That wasn’t all.”

“Oh, yes – ‘to one another and to all. Rejoice always, pray constantly, give thanks in all circumstances. For this is the will of God in Christ Jesus.’ “

“That’s it, Corrie! That’s His answer…’Give thanks in all circumstances!’ That’s what we can do. We can start right now to thank God for every single thing about this new barracks.”

I stared at her, then around me at the dark foul-aired room.

“Such as?” I said.

“Such as being assigned here together.”

I bit my lip. “Oh yes, Lord Jesus.”

“Such as what you’re holding in your hands.”

I looked down at the Bible. “Yes, thank you, dear Lord, that there was no inspection as we entered here. Thank you for all the women here in this room who will meet You in these pages.”

“Yes.” Said Betsy. “Thank you for the very crowding here, since we’re packed so close that many more will hear.”

She looked at me expectantly.

“Corrie?” She prodded.

“Oh, alright…Thank you for the jammed, cramped, stuffed, packed, suffocating crowds.”

“Thank you,” Betsy went on serenely “for the fleas…”

“The fleas!!” This was too much. “Betsy! There’s no way even God can make me grateful for a flea.”

“Give thanks for all circumstances,” she quoted. “It doesn’t say ‘for pleasant circumstances.’ Fleas are part of this place where God has put us.”

And so, we stood between piers of bunks and gave thanks for fleas, but this time I was sure Betsy was wrong.”

I continue working. The work is monotonous. I’m exhausted. I keep listening.

If you’re familiar with the story, you’ll know the women later learn the reasons Nazi guards never enter their barracks… the fleas. This particular barracks was notorious among the guards for its severe flea infestation. No guard ever wanted to enter, for fear of getting fleas on themselves.

But Betsy and Corrie could keep their contraband Bible, hold Bible studies multiple times each day, and even sing worship songs, all without fear of inspection, confiscation, or punishment.

Yes, Betsy Ten Boom. I agree with you.

Thank you, Lord, for the fleas. For many years I have remembered this story. It has reminded me to thank God for all circumstances. It has reminded me our loving God may use even our most severe trials inconveniences as an unknown gift of grace to us.

I finish the audiobook that night and finally succumb to my weak body. I go home at 2:30am. I’m 32 and feel embarrassed to leave 55-year-old and 70-year-old coworkers to continue working.  As I walk in the dark early morning the few feet to my back door, I thank God for all my circumstances.

Thank you for a church that meets in our main building Sunday evenings. Without them, no one would have caught this flood until Monday morning.

That church’s pastor and leaders were away on a mission trip. But thank you, God, that you gave me the idea to share my cell number with the man in charge that night. You saved us precious time when that man immediately called my cell upon seeing the flooding.

Thank you, Lord, for three church members on the property who could immediately start working.

Thank you for our volunteer associate pastor, (a young man who accidentally entered our building two years ago when he meant to visit a different church!), who immediately drove to help upon receiving my text.

Thank you, God, for the two men from Abundant Life (the large African-American congregation that uses our building’s main sanctuary) and the men who came to help. And thank you for the commercial carpet extraction equipment they brought.

Thank you that our church, a historically ‘white’ church, have such a beautiful relationship with two Black churches that use our building.

Thank you for multiple churches and a funeral home who rent this building, allowing our congregation to keep the building when we, otherwise, would have had to sell it just to pay the bills.

Thank you for the simple ways you help us practice racial reconciliation, such as working next to these men, as we share this space.

Thank you for fibromyalgia. It daily reminds me my strength to endure comes from you.

Thank you for a frail and weak body. It reminds me I, alone, can’t save this building. It truly keeps me humble when men old enough to be my father and grandfather can work longer than me.

Thank you for the chance to serve you as I clean a building used by your Church.

Thank you, Lord, for the fleas. And thank you for this flood.