Letter to America

Even though you can’t stand my exclusive cries for true freedom; even though you’d rather I show more toleration with my mouth shut; even though you hear my sermons as an assault upon the things you hold sacred; even though you’d haul me to court to make me fall in line; even though your movies typecast me as the blundering hypocritical monster; even though you’d dig in your nails to stop other people from hearing my prayers in the name of a man who died 2,000 years ago; even with all of that, I can’t stop loving you.

Even though you’ve been charmed into believing that the sexual revolution was somehow liberating; even though you’ve given yourself at the altar of instant gratification; even though your body shows the scars of lovers torn from your arms; even though you feel the sting and hot anger over being cast aside and sing those radio songs with grit; even though you cry when no one can see how empty you feel in a roomful of friends; even though you’ve gone numb from rivers of meaningless promises; even with all that, I can’t stop loving you.

Even though you parade through the streets with banners rejecting the ancient chains of a book you detest; even though you throw yourself into the endless revels of the night; even though you churn out words meant to destroy; even though you suck, inhale, inject, consume fire into your veins and visions in your head; even though you scream and rage against the light; even though you hate the very One who longs to make you see; even though you refuse peace inside; even though you discard Truth in your search for meaning; even with all that, I can’t stop loving you.

Even though you defame the boundaries of what God joined together; even though you explore every dark corner of human connections; even though you raise equality as your golden calf; even though you brand those who disagree with spiteful epithets; even though you push the faithful from your midst; even from out there, I can’t stop loving you.

Even though you call the life growing inside nothing more than tissue; even though you reject the divine spark created in your womb; even though you tear out limbs and snip spinal cords; even though you spit on those who fight to save your child; even though you suffer the labor pains of regret for the rest of your life; even then, I can’t stop loving you.

Even though you hate me, I can’t stop loving your sin-soiled skin. I can’t stop loving your blinded eyes. I can’t stop loving your idol-worshiping hands.

He died for you, and that makes you lovely.

Pro-Life Is Not Enough

I’ve never accepted abortion. Even when God seemed nothing more than imagination, babies being ripped from wombs made me sick. Atheism didn’t blind me from that, at least.

But Christ made me see that my revulsion at doctors hacking babies to pieces isn’t enough. Even voting “my values” doesn’t go far enough. That’s because being pro-life (or anti-abortion, if you prefer) doesn’t stop with saving children from death. There’s much more.

There’s the root.

Women and men make the choice to rid themselves of pregnancies because they lack vision—vision of a world with them as parents. They see stalled careers; they see dead-end relationships; they see poverty. But they don’t see the lifetime commitment it takes to raise a child.

Passing laws, posting pictures of aborted babies, pushing ultrasounds—all of those have power, but none of them suck the fear out of the unknown. None of those give prospective parents a vision of a successful life for themselves or their child. They may see what’s inside, but they don’t see a way forward.

If we call ourselves pro-life, we have to go all in. We have to lay out a vision for single mothers that doesn’t involve poverty, drugs, and abusive boyfriends. We have to provide a road forward that doesn’t seem bereft of help. If we save a child from abortion, we’ve done well. But if we leave a mom without any support, if we’ve left her to fend on her own, we’ve shown her neighbors that abortion may be the better choice.

If we call ourselves pro-life, we have to take up with the young men of our nation. We have to provide them with examples of what it means to take care of others. We have to show them that love comes down to serving, show them a vision of responsible fatherhood. Otherwise, many of them are stuck fatherless and broken, which only empowers abortion providers.

If we call ourselves pro-life, we must adopt young parents as our own children—even if they aren’t married. Many of them have only TV shows and movies for instructions on raising kids, since their real parents weren’t around. They lack faith in lasting relationships; they have no idea that marriage can reveal Christ’s love for us. They need you. They need Him.

If we call ourselves pro-life, we can’t stop at the picket line. We have to take Christ to the core of the problem. We have to give vision and hope to those who see none beyond the abortion clinic.

Enough Already!

“The man from whom the demons had gone out begged to go with him, but Jesus sent him away, saying, ‘Return home and tell how much God has done for you.’ So the man went away and told all over town how much Jesus had done for him.” Luke 8:38-39

I knew I’d feel inadequate, but once they slapped the Journeyman mic on me and the congregation sauntered in, the word inadequate became inadequate. Over my head, crazy, off my rocker—those shot through my mind a time or two.

Yes, I had notes. Yes, I’d practiced. Yes, I’d taken public speaking courses. But none of those really prepares you to face a congregation on Sunday morning. Nothing gets you ready to reach into Scripture and yank out the good stuff. You’re dealing with potent material here, the kind of thing you don’t want to get wrong. And out there are the faces of those who may never come back through the door of a church again.

No pressure.

And that’s how my first sermon started. Actually, I don’t remember much of it. It just kind of started and then ended. If there weren’t a recording, I don’t think I’d even know what I said. But, alas, said recording does exist (no chance of being linked here), and the final verdict is… let’s just say mixed. At least no one left, and given the size of the church, I would have noticed.

In many ways, I felt like that formerly demon-possessed man whom Jesus told to go tell it on the mountain. Jesus didn’t give him much in the way of lessons or practice. He just sent the man home to talk about God healing him. And as far as we know, the man went and did just that. Since it made it in the gospel accounts, I’m chalking that up as a success. All the man needed to know was that Jesus healed him, and—boom—he started sharing the good news.

Too many times, I’ve been shut down by the notion that I need to know more before I can say more. I can’t tell this person about Christ because I haven’t finished my study on Galatians. I can’t share how God changed me because I only spent 15 minutes in prayer this morning. I can’t start a small group in my house because I’m not the perfect husband or dad.

It’s hard for me to say, “Enough already.” I know enough already to preach a sermon, even if I’ll keep learning and growing for years. I know enough already to share that God wrenched me out of depression, even if I don’t know how to answer every question about the Bible. I know enough already to share my home, even if I’m still working on keeping my smart phone off during family time.

After all, I know enough to know that Christ is the one who does the saving, not my faulty words.

I’m a Hypocrite

“And when you pray, do not be like the hypocrites, for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and on the street corners to be seen by men. I tell you the truth, they have received their reward in full.” Matthew 6:5

The college me would call the current me a hypocrite. That’s what I did back then. Anyone claiming to be a Christian automatically earned that prestigious title. I could judge, after all, because I sat in my lofty seat in the college library and weighed such grave matters in my head and in my poetry. My pencil could strike down any Christ-follower with a witty rhyme. I knew they were all fake.

So, I had a lot to learn about love. But I was right about the hypocrisy thing. The current me is, in fact, a hypocrite.

Jesus warned us not to be like the hypocrites, those who put on a show but don’t let the show touch their hearts. And when I’m honest, that’s exactly what I do sometimes. My worship becomes a series of movements, a tentative toe-tap into the spiritual waters. All the while, my mind has drifted off to my bank account, my schedule, and my Instagram feed.

That type of worship isn’t worship. It’s a show put on for my own gratification, one that makes me feel better about doing the “Christian thing.” In those moments, I’m exactly what my college self accused me of.

Hypocrite.

Thankfully, Jesus warned me about all this ahead of time. When my body and mind get out of sync, when my devotion becomes a demonstration, His warnings inevitably hit me in the chin. Matthew 6 cues up on my audio Bible, His admonitions pop up on someone’s blog, or I just catch myself in the act. That’s when I see just how much I’m simply going through the motions.

Unlike my college self, who judged to feel superior, God unmasks hypocrisy because He wants me to get real. His gentle (and not-so-gentle) nudges snap me out of my one-man show.

Let’s Redefine Marriage… the Right Way

In America, we come at marriage the wrong way. We assume that marriage legitimacy depends upon a sheet of paper. This sheet of paper, which often gets tucked away in a drawer, serves as proof that we have, in fact, said some vows.

But at the first wedding, there was no paper. There was God, a man, and a woman. No one signed a sheet of paper, got a notary stamp, or surrendered money to a clerk. And when Isaac married Rebekah, there was also no solemn, sealed piece of parchment necessary. (There wasn’t even a cake.)

You see, the biblical view of marriage dispenses with paper altogether. And that’s not because it’s somehow lesser than government-sanctioned unions. In fact, this lack of paper means that God intended more.

A marriage the Bible way is about covenant, a promise that only ends when hearts stop beating. Paper marriages can get tossed out by the same legal machinations that set them up. Covenants are serious. So serious that God gets involved.

We too often get this backward. When we think of marriage, we think ceremony and paper and tax benefits. But God’s intention for marriage is a three-fold cord—with a man and a woman joined together in Christ.

When we say that the government is destroying the sanctity of marriage, this isn’t completely accurate. Civil marriages are not God-marriages. They’re legally recognized unions. An “evolving view” of civil marriage simply means the government is altering what it does and does not accept for tax purposes. They’re changing forms and paper.

But no government can change what God made. A true covenant marriage has nothing to do with taxes, and everything to do with God revealing Christ through us, through the joining of the husband and wife. Covenant marriage points to Jesus like this: husband + wife = Christ + Church. It’s a big deal.

Let’s be blunt here. The governments of this world have long condoned marriages that had nothing to do with covenant, nothing to do with what God meant. When two unbelievers marry, for example, they’re not revealing the mystery of Christ and His Church. The supposed “redefining” of marriage isn’t new; it’s old. Since Noah’s day, according to Jesus.

Things called marriage have existed for thousands of years. But not all things called marriage are true covenants with God involved.

We need to put this in the right perspective. Covenant marriages have nothing to do with a government. The justification is higher—way higher. Governments like to get involved so that they can gather the profits and regulate such unions, but they can’t change what God intended.

So, no matter what presidents (or even priests) say marriage must be, they’re only commenting on civil, temporary, and earthly matters. They’re changing what can be allowed on a piece of paper. Paper that may one day be shredded or burned or stuck in a birdcage.

But God’s definition for the covenant of marriage never stops being the same. It’s continued through floods and towers and rising-to-fall empires. It’ll stand through “tolerance and equality” just the same. We’d do well to remember that.

Marriage doesn’t start with paper. True covenant marriage starts with God.

Cold Showers

Every morning for as long as he could, my grandfather slid out of bed before the sun rose and took a cold shower. Now, granted, he lived in the warm climes of southern Alabama, and the waves of heat there appear more like tsunamis of heat. But let me tell you, cold showers in the early morning of southern Alabama feel pretty much the same as cold showers anywhere else. They’re cold.

Every evening, my grandfather came back to a house without air conditioning. He did prop a fan in the window, but that seemed more like a concession to his wimpy family than anything he needed. In a house he’d built himself that had little insulation and a tin roof, the fan pretty much blew hot air around.

But he just made it work. These inconveniences weren’t a challenge; they were opportunities. No water heater? Take cold showers. Three channels on TV? Talk when nothing’s on. No clothes dryer? Hang them up on a line. No phone? Go to your daughter’s house and use hers (though I can’t remember him ever doing so). Something breaks? Don’t buy a new one; fix it.

When I pull myself away from my iPhone, I’m sometimes struck with how different my life is. There’s never a drop of cold water anywhere near my shower. My first instinct is to buy what I need, never to make it. In the evenings, I have to force my mind to stay present on my family instead of drifting away to what important social media updates I’m missing.

But it’s not really the technology differences that hit the hardest. You see, there was a depth to my grandfather that I’ve found much harder to emulate. I’m often too distracted to get there. He just moved and breathed faith; it naturally flowed from his character. Yet I struggle to stay afloat in an ocean of distractions.

Perhaps those cold showers really would do me some good.

Love… and Other Mysteries

There are two things you need to know about how I met my wife. These two inevitably surprise or shock; so, we’ll just get them out of the way first. We met on eHarmony (back when it was still a Christian site), and from the first date to the date of the wedding was four months. Yes, four—and that was actually longer than we wanted.

Okay, so maybe there are three surprises here. You see, I knew I wanted to marry her before we had even seen each other. No pictures. No hints. Nothing. The beauty of eHarmony back then was that you didn’t have to show your face to the other person. You filled out a personality profile, and then found yourself knee-deep in a pool of potential matches. Well, that was supposed to be how it worked, and that’s what happened for my wife-to-be.

But I only had one match. Her.

You could call it providence. You could call it “finding the one.” Or you could call it a decided lack of women on the site. Whatever the case, we asked each other a few questions, and then started emailing. Emailing led to phone calls. Phone calls led to a first date. And a first date led to a second date on the same day.

But I was gone well before that point. Tucked away in our phone conversations about high school nicknames (I’d tell you hers, but she’ll read this) and our faith stumbles and triumphs, I came to know that I’d need to hear those stories—well—for as long our brains could dredge them up. Hers were mine. Mine were hers. All we needed was a place to drive away from with our car covered in toilet paper and chocolate letters. (Wedding tip: never give miniature chocolate candies to your wedding guests.)

When the apostle Paul talked about marriage being a mystery in Ephesians 5, I’m pretty sure he had mine in mind. Of course, by mystery, he didn’t mean Sherlockian intuition wringing meaning from a peanut shell (or whatnot); he meant God opening our eyes to something. Where once the darkness smothered understanding, God turned the flood lights on. And it was ten times as awesome for being revealed at just the right time.

And that’s why I’m thankful for the type of courtship I had. Not because I kissed dating goodbye, but because I went in blind. I had understanding of this feisty woman who lived an hour away, but I’d never seen her red hair or green eyes. I knew her spunk, but not her spark. That all changed when she climbed out of her car at the Brick Oven Grill. The mystery came flooding into non-mystery territory. And my jaw dropped. She truly blew away what I thought I knew.

Mysteries should do that: make our minds explode, knock things into place, jack our wonder up to a new level. God hinted at them and then brought full understanding suddenly and perfectly and with a kick-up-your-heels-in-a-hoedown kind of way.  And it was worth the wait.

We live on the other side of the Cross. From our perspective, it’s a done deal. We know what happened. We know what went down to bring Jesus from heaven to earth, from the hill to the grave. That’s an old story.

Because of that, we often take mysteries for granted. But Jesus was a mystery. The Cross was a mystery. The gospel was a mystery. Not because there’s no foreshadowing or hints or suggestions that Jesus would be coming, but because no one could really imagine something so crazy-good. And when it did come, people got just a wee bit excited.

We should still be.