I woke up Tuesday feeling like I had the flu, which is why I had to walk the dog.

No, I didn’t actually have the flu. If I had, I would have stayed in bed longer than noon. I’ve been diagnosed with three auto-immune disorders. Tuesday’s illness was just another Fibromyalgia flare-up: flu-like symptoms (without the fever), extreme body aches, deep bone pain, muscle weakness, mental fog, debilitating fatigue. These flare-ups come often when the weather gets cold. [In fact, I typed most of this two days later as I lay in bed from another mild flare-up].

In my case, only two things help a Fibromyalgia flare-up: Rest and Exercise. I don’t know why exercise helps. But that’s with most things about Fibromyalgia.

I’d already been resting since noon. That’s why it was time for me now to walk our dog, Bear. Everything in me wants to get back in bed. But I will myself to go.

We drive to the park. Our 100 pound chocolate Lab begins excitedly whimpering like a baby as we pull into the parking lot. I put on Bear’s leash, put my headphones in, and start the newest audiobook I downloaded from the library…The Practice of the Presence of God by Brother Lawrence.

---

In 1640 Nicolas Herman joined a Discalced Carmelite monastery in Paris. “Brother Lawrence of the Resurrection,” as he became known, was a humble monk who is most famous for learning to pray at all times, regardless of situation. He spent most of his years in the monastery as a cook, where he learned to “practice the presence of God” while preparing a meal or washing dishes.

People recognized this godly man’s spiritual discernment. They began learning from him in-person and through written letters to and from him. The Practice of the Presence of God is mainly a compilation of letters Lawrence wrote to others. Shortly after Lawrence’s death, his letters were compiled and published in 1692. For centuries, this little book has influenced Protestants and Catholics. As I read about the book’s history, I often saw that both John Wesley and A.W. Tozer recommended this book to others. Read a short Wikipedia bio on Brother Lawrence here.

---

I checked the temperature before we left home for the park. It was 56 degrees and a little windy. But this wooded area next to the Trinity River is often several degrees lower than the official temperature.

The cold makes Bear frisky; it makes my bones ache. Cold weather is always hard on my body. The audiobook plays in my ears. The fall air feels wet. The trees are turning all around us. Many of their leaves already lay on the ground. Various shades of green, red, yellow, and brown squish beneath my feet.

Before I awoke that morning, my body’s pain sneaked into my subconscious brain. I had just finished running a marathon on uneven terrain. My feet and legs were throbbing. Then I woke up.

Nope. No marathon. Just a night sleeping in a soft bed…and pain…pain from a ‘hidden’ illness without any known cause or cure.

Centuries-old wisdom from a lowly cook and dishwasher, letters written to those seeking spiritual counsel, speaks into my ears for several minutes as I force my tired legs to move. I begin listening where I stopped the day before. I listen to the Eighth Letter. The Ninth Letter. The Tenth Letter. And then I hear these words :

“Eleventh Letter: I do not pray that you may be delivered from your pains; but I pray earnestly that God gives you strength and patience to bear them as long as He pleases. Comfort yourself with Him who holds you fastened to the cross. He will loose you when He thinks fit. Happy are those who suffer with Him. Accustom yourself to suffer in that manner, and seek from Him the strength to endure as much, and as long, as He judges necessary for you.
Worldly people do not comprehend these truths. It is not surprising though, since they suffer like what they are and not like Christians. They see sickness as a pain against nature and not as a favor from God. Seeing it only in that light, they find nothing in it but grief and distress. But those who consider sickness as coming from the hand of God, out of His mercy and as the means He uses for their salvation, commonly find sweetness and consolation in it.
I pray that you see that God is often nearer to us and present within us in sickness than in health. Do not rely completely on another physician because He reserves your cure to Himself. Put all your trust in God. You will soon find the effects in your recovery, which we often delay by putting greater faith in medicine than in God. Whatever remedies you use, they will succeed only so far as He permits. When pains come from God, only He can ultimately cure them. He often sends sickness to the body to cure diseases of the soul. Comfort yourself with the Sovereign Physician of both soul and body.

Twelfth Letter: If we were well accustomed to the practice of the presence of God, bodily discomforts would be greatly alleviated. God often permits us to suffer a little to purify our souls and oblige us to stay close to Him.
Take courage. Offer Him your pain and pray to Him for strength to endure them. Above all, get in the habit of often thinking of God, and forget Him the least you can. Adore Him in your infirmities. Offer yourself to Him from time to time. And, in the height of your sufferings, humbly and affectionately beseech Him (as a child his father) to make you conformable to His holy will. I shall endeavor to assist you with my poor prayers.”

---

I rewind and listen to these words again. Then I rewind again. I meditate on these words. I’m still meditating on these words.

How do I view my illness? Do I “find nothing in it but grief and distress?”  Or do I “find sweetness and consolation in it?”

I reflect on Lawrence’s prayer “I pray that you see that God is often nearer to us and present within us in sickness than in health.” I picture my wife when our little boys are sick, as she holds them in her arms. Our busy 4 and 1-year old boys have no time for snuggling with momma…until they are sick. In sickness, she is happy to hold them against her chest. And they are happy to be held.

When did I become ‘too big’ to be held during sickness? Have I unknowingly done the same with God? I remember how John 13:23 reads in some older translations: “There was reclining on Jesus’ breast one of His disciples, whom Jesus loved” (NAS).

Does God allow (send?) some illnesses? Does he long for us to climb into his arms, resting our head (and “all our cares”) on his chest?

I remember when our 4-year old was younger, mixing up his pronouns as he learns. When he wanted us to hold him, he’d stretch up his arms and say, “hold you.”

I think of our 1-year-old. When he sees me as I walk through the door, he crawls over, gets up on his knees and raises his arms up toward me.

I think of God’s people in the Old Testament. Even in the midst of pain, famine, suffering, and siege, Israel and Judah still did not turn to the arms of God. Am I so different? How often have I relied “completely on another physician,” or medicine, or Internet tip, or more sleep, and gave no thought to relying on God during my pain?

---

Lawrence’s words gave me new perspective on my illnesses. I will “offer Him my pain.” I will “adore Him in my infirmities.” As I use science, medicine, and exercise to seek healing, I will remember “they will succeed only so far as He permits.” When I am sick, I will climb into God’s lap, let Him wrap mighty arms around me, and consider this frailty from my Father.

A few weeks back, I had a short conversation with a famous Christian expert/author/professor. I shared my difficulty finding young people preparing for ministry who are willing to serve in churches if the positions don’t pay well.

I attempted to share how I’ve tried obeying God, regardless of how that obedience may affect our bank account. I attempted to share how God honors our obedience by continually surprising us with special donations from generous people, how he provides all our needs.

Instead, he interrupted me. He said I would understand when I was older (or, more precisely, when our kids were older and had expensive extracurricular activities).

A singing group from another church asked if they could lead music at Renovation Community’s worship service tonight. I agreed to the idea.

I kind of thought I was doing them a favor, the chance to showcase for an hour and a half the talents God gave them. The group brought about 35 people from their church to attend with them. Then, these 50+ people took an offering, designating 100% of the money to my wife and me.

I didn’t ask the group to come. I wasn’t strategizing how to increase our giving. I didn’t ask them to take an offering. And I certainly didn’t ask them to collect $909 for my family!
“When I get older,” I pray I never “grow out of” how I now understand God…that he loves his children and faithfully provides all we need as we obediently follow him.

Money comes from God, not people. The best way to make sure my family has the money we need is to do exactly what God wants me to do. God is faithful.

 

“And my God will meet all your needs according to the riches of his glory in Christ Jesus.” Philippians 4:19

I first heard about George* from our husband-and-wife youth directors. They had recently met this new homeless man who moved into our area. A few months later, I finally met George in March 2015. Since our first meeting, I’ve washed his clothes, shared a meal with him at our kitchen table, and spent hours with him in conversation. I’ve invited him to worship with us several times. Occasionally, he joins us.

George has hardly ever asked me for anything, which is rare for the homeless I work with. But he does come to our church building every day to refill his water buckets.

George knows he’s safe on our property. He’s safe to use our water without questions from us or the police. Our city’s police department learned long ago we do not view homeless men on our property as a “nuisance.”

If I’m working in our church gym and suddenly hear the outside water spigot turn on, I know George is outside filling up his buckets. He uses this water to drink, bathe, and do laundry.  When his buckets are full, he walks back to his homeless campsite. For years, George has been content to live in homeless shelters like this. But George finally decided he’s ready for different life.

One of my pastoral colleagues, who serves at a different church, recently contacted me.

“Do you know George?”

Yes, I know him. Is he ok?

“Yes. He told me he wants help.”

Then this dear friend began looking for ways to help George. She contacted Catholic Charities’ Street Outreach Services. Their “SOS Team” would soon make a visit to George, and assess how they could best help him. In case they visited George’s tent when he wasn’t home, they would contact me. A few weeks passed.

One day a few weeks ago, two women arrived at Renovation Community‘s summer day camp and feeding program, Camp FUSE. It was the SOS Team. They tried locating his camp but couldn’t find it. They asked if I would lead them to George.

We crossed a road, knee-high weeds, railroad track, and more tall weeds. We finally walked up to George’s campsite, hidden on one side behind many overgrown bushes and a fence on the other side.

It strikes me that two pastors from Protestant churches and two women representing a Catholic organization all worked together to help this man. Clearly, God does not regard our human-made divisions.

I invite George and the two women to meet inside my office, instead of standing out in the heat. A few days after this meeting, George joins our church’ worship service. We all gathered around him and prayed God would free him from the addictions that have enslaved him many years.

---

In the Bible’s Book of Luke, Jesus tells a parable (a story created for teaching) about a man who plans a great banquet. He invites many people to his banquet. But the invitees all send back the (stupid) reasons they can’t attend.

Luke 14:21 says “The servant came back and reported this to his master. Then the owner of the house became angry and ordered his servant, ‘Go out quickly into the streets and alleys of the town and bring in the poor, the crippled, the blind and the lame.'”

The man’s servants obey and return with the new guests but explain there is still more room at the banquet. So the master again sends out his servants. This time, the servants have to travel outside the city’s walls to find guests.

I specifically remembered Luke 14:23 as I came upon George’s camp hidden behind the bushes. The New International Version of Luke 14:23 reads “Then the master told his servant, ‘Go out to the roads and country lanes and compel them to come in, so that my house will be full.”

But it wasn’t the NIV translation I recalled. As I illegally trespassed on railroad property, traipsed through tall weeds, and passed overgrown bushes, I remembered that Bible verse as translated in the old King James Version:

“And the lord said to the servant, Go out into the highways and hedges, and compel them to come in, that my house may be filled.”

The overgrown bushes reminded me of the “hedges” in Luke 14:23. But a “hedge” in Jesus’ day wasn’t a bush that needed trimming. In Jesus’ day, it was usually a low wall (picture something like an old stone wall in rural England). And highways in Jesus’ day were well-traveled roads outside of ‘city limits.’ Highways were dangerous places in ancient times.

It wasn’t advisable to travel on a highway unless you were in a large caravan of travelers. In the ‘Good Samaritan’ story, the man beaten and left for dead was found on the side of a highway. Robberies (think of ‘highway robbery’) often occurred on highways.

Yet the Master in this story tells his servants to invite disabled and homeless  people they would in the streets and alleys and those they would find along the “highways and hedges.”

Who on earth would hang out along dangerous highways and low walls?

Answer #1: Criminals and the homeless.

Criminals hung out along highways to rob people. Just like today, we tend to carry extra cash when we’re traveling long distances. So highway travelers were great people to rob. And, since most of the Roman soldiers were stationed in cities, deserted highways were great places to commit crimes, away from a soldier’s watchful eye.

The poor also hung out along highways. What better place to beg for money than a busy road filled with travelers with full money-bags? The more people who pass by, the greater the chance someone will give you money. It’s the same reason you often find panhandlers standing at the intersections of interstate off-ramps. But what about those hedges?

I don’t have much experience with homelessness, but I’ve learned a little in the last few years. The best place to sleep at night is somewhere with a roof over your head. If you can’t find that, the next best place to sleep is somewhere against a wall. Walls provide protection from wind and weather. They also provide protection from those who would do you harm. If you sleep with your back against a wall, you know there’s only one direction from which an attacker might come.

Answer #2- Gentiles (In the ancient Jewish mind, ‘people far from God.’)

To make sure this blog post doesn’t become as long as a book, I’ll keep this answer short. Jesus’ listeners almost certainly imagined “Gentiles” as he described these people. To many ancient Jews in Jesus’ day, Gentiles were “outside” God’s territorial walls, so to speak.

In Jesus’ parable, all the “normal” and “godly” people choose not to attend the Great Banquet. But the Master is determined. One way or another, people will fill his banquet hall. So he tells his servants to invite all the unwanted, disabled, poor, dirty, ungodly, and bad people to his banquet.

---

This is the God I serve. The Jesus who died on the cross loved the robber dying on the cross next to him. The Jesus who walked this earth touched the dirty homeless people of this world. The sinless Jesus of Nazareth invited himself to a dinner at sinful Zaccheus’s house. The “spotless Lamb of God” wasn’t afraid to gently touch the leper. The Jesus who invited me to his Great Banquet also sent me across the street, through the weeds, over the tracks, and behind the overgrown bushes to George’s camp, inviting him to rest in the Master’s House.

The Master’s Servants are called to this kind of work. This is what I try teaching the people I serve, both through the words I share and the ministries we plan. Renovation Community doesn’t officially launch as a church for several months, but we’re already working hard to set our new church’s identity. We want to be a church filled with the “outcasts” from that parable. We want to be a church full of ‘fixer-uppers’ – broken and run-down people transformed by God’s renovation work in our lives.

Jesus commands his servants to invite all the unwanted of this world to eat at God’s great Banquet Table. I’m learning that all the world’s “unwanted” are actually God’s “dearly beloved.”

They are out there. My Master calls me to invite them in.

 

*Not his real name.

The gun handle stuck out from his waistband as he stood by the slide. He quickly pulled it out, showing it to my son and me.
“It’s not real. See.”

Memorial Day. I took my oldest son to play at the park. I heard the music blaring before we opened the car doors. A large group gathered in the park pavilion. They brought a high-powered, professional sound system.. My 4-year old son and I were at least 600-700 feet from the speakers, yet we could clearly hear the N-word and F-word countless times over the speakers. The music was also filled with language about having sex with multiple women. An immediate reminder I live in an area very different than that of my childhood. Thankfully, my son paid no attention to the music and began playing with children on the playground.

A little black boy came from around a slide. He wore jeans and a white tank top undershirt. He fidgeted with the bottom of his shirt, pulling it up so everyone could see what he held in his waist band. He walked with a swagger, obviously trying to look like the tough guys he saw on TV (or maybe real life). The gun handle stuck out from his waistband as he stood by the slide. As soon as I saw it, I told him he shouldn’t play with a toy gun like that. I explained it was dangerous to make someone think he had a real gun. He quickly pulled it out, showing it to my son and me.
“It’s not real. See.”

But it looked very real. The orange tip on the end was only visible sign this gun was a toy.
It hit me how dangerous this situation could have been for this boy. Did you catch it?
He quickly pulled it out and showed it to me and my son. What if I had been a police officer? What if this boy had quickly pulled out his realistic gun to show the officer the gun was a toy? “This is how tragic accidents happen,” I thought. “I need to tell his parents.”
I look for the boys’ parents. I can’t find them. It appears he walked from nearby apartments. The boy quickly left. My son and I spent the next 15 minutes playing with other children on the playground. We played with two little black girls. Their loving father kept a watchful eye nearby. He soon had the girls stop playing so they could take big drinks of their water. It was hot that day. This dad and his little girls were not part of the loud party happening on the other side of the park. After I heard the F-word for the umpteenth time, I told my son it was time to go. We said goodbye to the little black girls and hopped in the car.

---

11 months ago, I shared my journey as a white pastor trying to faithfully serve and love my black neighbors.
I’m still playing “catch-up” a year later. In my formal studies, I ignored conversations and elective classes about racial diversity, holistic economic development, racial equality, etc. I recognized how important such issues were (or maybe I didn’t). But I naïvely believed God would call me to pastor in a setting similar to my upbringing…white and middle-class.
The same racial issues I addressed in that blog post last year are in the forefront of my mind today. I am a white, male pastor who came from a privileged, middle-class two-parent home. Yet, most of the neighbors on my street are Black. To my knowledge, our two boys are the only white children on our street. Our block has many duplexes and small apartments serving those in lower-income brackets. Few households seem to have two parents. Several on the street face unemployment, or under-employment.

God definitely called me to an area that looks different from my upbringing.

Our church attendance leans more to the “white” side than when I wrote that blog post last year. We’ve lost diversity for a few different reasons, most of them have nothing to do with Race. Some people moved away. Some weren’t happy about our church closing and preparing to re-start.

But I do think Race has been a contributing factor. Multicultural churches are a difficult environment for many. “Cultural Fatigue” is real; it becomes most evident around stylistic issues in church (music style, leadership style, clothing style, preaching style, etc). One thing hasn’t changed since last year…our summer day camp and feeding program.
In the summer of 2014, God called our church to step out on faith. On paper (especially our church treasurer’s papers!), our church had no business starting this ministry.  Our 4th annual summer day camp and feeding program is now in full swing. In partnership with the local food bank, we give breakfast, lunch, and a day camp to as many children as our volunteers can handle. Our goal for this ministry has always been the same…provide Christ-centered summer childcare for the poorest families in our community. Families of all socio-economic levels are welcome, but we started the ministry for our poorest neighbors.
Every summer our day camp (Camp FUSE, as we now call it), mainly serves non-white families. The vast majority of those non-white families are Black. Naïve white pastor that I am, “Race” never crossed my mind when we started the camp. I honestly never considered the demographic makeup of our camp attendees. But God has used our summer day camp as a beautiful tool to break down racial barriers.

---

 

I walked into the gym the other day during camp. Almost instantly, I received a surprise hug from a sweet little black boy. I scan over the group that day. Our white volunteer associate pastor and camp director is playing with the kids. Our two white ministry interns (a third intern is Hispanic) are at the check-in table. A mainly white church youth group is with us for the week. I see the teens throughout the gym, playing with our campers. I’m bothered by the “optics.”

It bothers others, too. A black mom, who sent her daughter to camp last year, emailed me. She asked, “Will there be any African-American adults there this year?” My reply is honest: I hope so, but we don’t have any African-Americans scheduled to volunteer with us; can you help us find some? The woman did not register her daughter.

I keep praying God gives us church and camp volunteer leadership that looks as culturally diverse as our camper attendance. One day God will give us that diversity.

I pry the little black boy’s arms off of my body. He loves giving hugs. He’d give hugs all day long, to every volunteer here, if we let him. He’s mildly autistic and doesn’t always understand expected social norms. This sweet boy asks us to make him paper airplanes. But if they’re not perfect, he throws the airplane away. He then returns and asks we make him another one.

But his autism is mild. My mind begins to consider hypothetical future scenarios. So mild, in fact, he may grow up to be an independent man…a man who can drive a car. But he would still be a mildly autistic black man driving a car. What would happen if he gets pulled over? He’s not good at making eye contact. Would that make him look suspicious? Could he obey the commands he’s given? A few years ago, such questions would have never crossed my mind. But Jesus called me to serve in a place where I’m now constantly thinking about such questions.

When almost all the campers have gone home for the day, I bring over our 4-year-old son. Our fair-skinned redhead plays on a chalkboard with a little black girl. He loves coming to play with the remaining campers. Every day, he asks Momma when he can join Daddy in the gym for day camp.

As my son is playing on the chalkboard, a few older black boys are playing basketball. They’re funny, kind, rambunctious boys. I have a shtick with them. I take the ball and tell them I’ll teach them how to really play basketball. I make an exaggerated granny shot, and completely miss the goal. They love to laugh at me.

---

An older black boy in our neighborhood is part of our church family. He and his two sisters hardly ever attend our Sunday services. But they rarely miss youth nights with our white husband-and-wife youth directors. 

We invited the youth directors over for dinner a few weeks ago. I live in the church parsonage (the church-owned house on church property). As we sat in our living room, our front door was open. This teenage boy saw our youth directors and came inside our house. We teased him about wearing a hoodie. He always wears a hoodie. It can be 95 degrees outside, but this boy will still wear a hoodie. He stays for an hour, talking and joking with us. Then he leaves… with his hoodie. I would trust this boy to house-sit for us. But I know others may judge his appearance and assume his stroll in the neighborhood spells trouble. I pray for him as he walks out into the evening dusk. Lord, please let him not be wearing that hoodie if he ever gets into trouble with the Law.

---

August 28 marks 54 years since Martin Luther King, Jr.’s famous “I Have A Dream” speech. Of late, I’ve thought much about one line in that speech. It’s the line where Dr. King dreams of a day when “little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.”

My wife and I face “cultural fatigue” as we serve where God has called us. Following Jesus is good, but it is rarely easy. We’re in a setting dissimilar from our neighborhoods as children. I believe God called me to serve our church and community for at least 20 years. This means, our boys will grow up in a church, and on a street, where they will always have opportunities to join hands with “little black boys and black girls.” I look forward to the day when the church their daddy pastors (and the pastoral staff) is just as diverse as our neighborhood.

Social media fills my news feed with tragic stories. Black boys, black men, and some black women are shot and killed. Their faces remind me of the black boys, black dads, and black moms in our day camp. I read the stories of their deaths. I read the stories of the court cases to follow, and the rulings juries and judges give about those who caused the deaths. I am a white pastor, striving to lead a multi-cultural church, with a summer ministry that serves predominantly black families. And my heart hurts. I know God’s heart hurts.

I wish I had paid attention many years ago to discussions about Race. I wish I had more answers. I wish I knew how to help our white church members understand our black neighbors. I wish our black neighbors understood the heart of this naïve white pastor who desperately wants them to feel loved and welcome in our church, but who can’t figure out how to make that happen.

---

My mind daily swims in a sea of questions for which I have no easy answers. I think of Jesus’ disciples. One time, he told them to all get in the boat to travel to “the other side” of the lake. But then a great storm happened while they were on the lake. If they hadn’t followed Jesus, they could have weathered the storm from the safety of land, inside a dry building. Instead, they’re on a small boat, with hardly any shelter from the rain, in the middle of the lake.

I imagine those disciples on the boat each time a well-meaning friend recommends I pastor a different church, a safer church, a suburban white church. When denominational leaders or other churches with a strong budget (whatever that is) recommend I submit my resume for review, I picture Jesus asleep on that rocking boat.

Jesus does not call everyone to the same work; it’s dangerous to assume otherwise. Jesus has called others to serve in those churches; He has not called me there. Amidst the racial storms taking place in our nation, and in my own community, I see Jesus with me in the boat. No, I do not have answers to all the questions such racial storms have created. But know with certainty I am following the correct path Jesus laid out for me.
I grew up on one side of the “lake,” a side with people who all looked like me, lived like me, thought like me, and talked like me. I’m on a pastoral journey to the “other side,” a side filled with (sometimes, uncomfortable) diversity, serving and worshiping with people who do not look like me, live like me, think like me, or talk like me. Rarely is this journey easy.  But I know Jesus is in the boat with me, calling me to participate in Dr. King’s dream, one that involves being the best pastor I can be to “little black boys and black girls.”