Jesus and the Death Penalty

The recent renewal of federal executions has prompted (in my circles, at least), a theological conversation about the death penalty. I’ve long been on the record (circa 2000) in opposition to the death penalty, based on my understanding of Jesus. The following is a slightly edited version of a piece I wrote for Christian Ethics Today in 2007 on that topic.

*****

Nothing could have prepared me for the day the sister and niece of one of my church members were murdered in cold blood.

The day was difficult. There were multiple family relationships to engage, law enforcement to encourage and pray with, and many town people to comfort. But the days following the husband's arrest proved to be quite difficult as well, for the district attorney questioned the family on whether or not he should pursue the death penalty. Consequently, the church member whose sister and niece had been murdered ended up in my office asking my opinion on the subject.

When Christians discuss the topic of capital punishment, the debate inevitably centers on reading and interpreting two chapters in the New Testament: Romans 12 and 13. Paul first encourages believers, "As far as it is possible, live at peace with those around you" (12:18). He also commends them to live without revenge, trusting God to hand out punishment in the end: "Do not take revenge, my friends, but leave room for God's wrath, for it is written, 'It is mine to avenge; I will repay'"(12:19). In short, Paul invokes Jesus' teachings in the Sermon on the Mount [vi] so that he might remind believers how to live peaceably.

Just as Jesus tells us to pray for our enemies and to bless those who persecute us, Paul reminds believers to leave vengeance to God. Based upon Jesus' teachings in the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5-6) and Paul's words at the conclusion of Romans 12, the New Testament ethic seems quite clearly to reflect a position of nonviolence, particularly with a punishment that might be construed as revenge.

But the very next section from Paul seems to contradict this position. Following his treatise on peace, Paul then writes that believers are to submit to the government, "for there is no authority except that which God has established. . . . Therefore whoever resists authority resists what God has appointed" (13:1-2). Paul concludes with a statement that has become a key text for those supporting capital punishment: "But if you do wrong, be afraid, for he does not bear the sword for nothing. He is God's servant, an agent of wrath to bring punishment on the wrongdoer" (13:4).

Thus on the one hand, Paul urges believers to exercise restraint from vengeance in Chapter 12, but on the other hand the apostle seems to validate capital punishment in Chapter 13, insisting that God has established the government to carry out divine vengeance. This creates a conundrum for those believers who interpret Jesus' commands in the Sermon on the Mount and Paul's words in Romans 12 as instruction against the death penalty on grounds of vengeance. Some might be tempted to say that Paul's words in Romans 13, particularly verse 1—"Everyone must submit himself to the governing authorities for there is no authority except that which God has established"—mean that the government has the final say in matters such as crime and punishment. Verse one, coupled with verse 4—"But if you do wrong, be afraid, for he does not bear the sword for nothing. He is God's servant, an agent of wrath to bring punishment on the wrongdoer"—seem to give a biblical mandate for the death penalty. Given this passage, how could a believer disagree with capital punishment? Hasn't Paul given a carte blanche approval to the practice in the name of God and divine justice?

But upon further review, it seems doubtful that few would concede that all governments across time have been good, much less God-centered. From Hitler to Hussein,[vii] dictators have exercised authority that may not necessarily reflect God's vision for governing. And if there have been governments that have, from time to time, not been God-honoring, it stands to reason that there have been governmental practices that also have not been God-honoring. To be certain, Christians in the United States make regular practice out of decrying policies supported and enforced by the government that are perceived to be contrary to the teachings of the Scripture. Capital punishment, then, may need to be further examined to determine its validity in light of biblical teaching.

Reading and interpreting Romans 12-13 becomes central to this discussion for at least three reasons. First, the passage is the only place in the New Testament that explicitly gives believers instruction on how to interact with the government aside from Jesus' injunction to, "Give to Caesar that which is Caesar's." Second, Old Testament passages dealing with capital punishment are often relegated to a midrash type status, given the multiple issues handled by the Hebrew Bible (dietary restrictions, death for dishonoring one's parents) that are no longer considered applicable for today's Christians. Third, this passage, at least on one level, seems to contradict the teachings of Jesus presented in the Sermon on the Mount regarding peacekeeping, nonviolence, and non-retaliation.

I argue that Romans 13 must be read and obeyed, but explicitly in light of Paul's comments in the previous chapter. It may prove helpful at this juncture to recall Paul's context. As Paul wrote to the Romans there were no—or at least exceedingly few—Christians in positions of power across the empire, particularly in the justice system (you will recall that even the politically savvy Sanhedrin had to ask permission from Pilate to kill Jesus). In fact, there are virtually no recorded accounts of believers being in positions of legal authority until after the conversion of Constantine. At the time of Paul's writing, and through the first three hundred years of Christianity, believers withdrew from political life, primarily because they refused to swear allegiance to the state.[viii] In Paul's day, Christians simply obeyed the government for they had no other options; resistance or revolution meant a swift punishment, most likely death. The Roman government was good in one sense: it provided an orderly and organized society in which Christians could practice and flourish. But the totalitarian power of the Caesar could also mean torture and ridicule, as believers discovered under Nero. Rather than cause problems, believers embodied Paul's instructions, intending to live in peace, and avoiding the political arena.

This is significant, for Paul could not have imagined our contemporary American political context in which almost every person running for office claims some sort of allegiance to the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. As a result, Paul could easily state that believers should leave punishment to the government. There were no believers in the government, and given the lowly position of believers at the time of Paul's writing, there was little hope that the church could reform the government. This is not to say that the church did not exercise civil disobedience; they certainly did. But the church had no voice in radically reforming governmental practices of the Roman Empire, particularly regarding capital punishment.

The contemporary American context in the early twenty-first century, however, is wildly different. Currently a professing evangelical Christian holds the most powerful position in the free world [George W. Bush was President at the time of publication]. He has appointed, with senatorial confirmation, a new member to the most powerful court in the land. Many conservative pundits have argued if our president appoints a judge that refuses to oppose Roe v. Wade then the Bush presidency has been a failure. And they state this for a singular reason: they believe the church, in a free state, should work to reform the state to better reflect the biblical ethic. The implications are simple; many Christians believe that one must take their faith with them into the workplace, even if that workplace happens to be the government. Those same Christians believe that if one happens to be the president-or another person of great influence-one should allow one's faith to shape policy. Today's American Christians, if they aspire to politics, can reasonably hope to influence policy based on their faith in a way believers in the first century Roman Empire would never have imagined. This contextual difference is important as we read Romans 13 through a contemporary American lens.

So the question regarding capital punishment becomes one of mercy and grace regarding death for those Christians who find themselves in positions of power. Professing Christians can now be found within almost every facet of the government on every level in most every community across the nation. Should these who profess to follow the teachings of the New Testament support capital punishment, even thought it appears to violate Jesus' teachings regarding vengeance?[ix] Can the group of people Paul exhorts to live peaceably as far as it is possible, be the same people that request the death penalty, argue for it in a court of law, rule in its favor from the jury box, condone it from the judge's bench, and administer it by injection in front of the watching victim's family?

I am certain that some believers would reply in the affirmative. They would argue that God has established the government to administer judgment and justice, and that Christians are allowed to do this. They would suggest that Jesus' ethic regarding violence and revenge are intended for personal, not social, issues. They would argue that a government without a sword is useless and emasculated.

But Jesus, it seems to me, created the church to be a peaceable force in a violent world. He intends it to transform the culture rather than condone it unilaterally, particularly in cases of exercising violence. Christians in government carry their Jesus ethic with them into office. And the rule of law cannot trump that grace-laden lifestyle. Some of my friends who support the death penalty cite God’s directive to Noah in support of their position: “Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed, for God made man in his own image" (Genesis 9:6). This, of course, ignores the command of Jesus who later called his followers to a higher ethic and moved beyond eye-for-eye thinking in Matthew 5:38-39. (“You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’ But I say to you, Do not resist the one who is evil. But if anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also.”)

Paul's words in Romans regarding vengeance are haunting for Christians serving in a land that exercises the death penalty with alarming regularity. If those who follow Christ are to leave vengeance to God, certainly we must allow space for grace within the punishment of those most serious crimes. Jesus has ordered us to love our enemies; it is difficult to kill those whom we are supposed to love. Therefore, those who take seriously a belief in the afterlife must ponder long and hard the consequences of ending the life of one they deem guilty. To put it more directly: is our desire to terminate a criminal's life done in order to fulfill God's justice or is it done, perhaps unwittingly, in order to speed someone's path toward an eternity apart from God?

The Bible tells of God's redemption of murderers named Moses and David. Moses killed an Egyptian beating a Hebrew; David ordered Uriah to the front lines in order to hide his adulterous affair with Bathsheba. Both were killers. But both became great forces for the furthering of God's mission in the world, despite their crimes. God often redeems the most unlikely of characters, and the Christian gospel is based on hope in such redemption.

From a Christian perspective, the hope of conversion and redemption may be the single greatest reason to stand against execution as a viable form of punishment; we hope that a person might encounter God and be saved.

I counseled my church member to refrain from encouraging the district attorney to pursue the death penalty. I did not do so based on the popular arguments against the death penalty—because it has a racial bias, because of the number of innocents put to death, or because of its failure as a deterrent of violent crime. Each of these points are true, by the way, and they certainly played into my reasoning. The death penalty does, ultimately, affect people of color disproportionately. The death penalty does execute a number of innocent people each year—about 4% of those executed are innocent. (Jesus himself was a victim of an innocent man being wrongly killed at the hand of capital punishment.) The death penalty is essentially useless in deterring violent crime. Capital punishment has plenty of problems, apart from the biblical reasoning against it.

In the end, however, I counseled them against pursuing the death penalty because Jesus and his apostle Paul instructed us to leave vengeance in God's hands, both in the Sermon on the Mount and in Paul's letter to the Romans—even if that directive runs counter to the prevailing wisdom of my government or my friends.

One day everything will be set right. The sins that were not punished on the cross of Christ will be avenged by the returning Christ. Until then, we trust the seemingly backwards way of Jesus and his grace.

[vi] Biblical scholars and theologians have noted the parallelisms here. See, for example, Richard B. Hays, The Moral Vision of the New Testament: A Contemporary Introduction to New Testament Ethics (San Francisco: HarperSan Francisco, 1996) and James McClendon, Systematic Theology, Volume One: Ethics (Nashville, Abingdon: 1988). McClendon's reading of Romans 12-13 is also immensely helpful.

[vii] Saddam Hussein was sentenced to death for crimes against humanity and hanged in a now infamously videoed manner on December 30, 2006 while I was working on this article. The manner in which the execution was carried out is currently a source of debate and unrest in Iraq.

[viii] Cf. Joe E. Trull, Walking in the Way: An Introduction to Christian Ethics (Nashville: Broadman and Holman, 1997), 271.

[ix] Jean Lasserre, War and the Gospel, trans. Oliver Coburn (Scottdale, Pennsylvania, 1962) 162, 171, makes the point quite well by noting the that Sixth Commandment's injunction against killing was not only endorsed by Jesus, but make more serious by the directive that believers ought not speak against or harbor hate against another individual. It seems impossible, from a Christian perspective, to execute one whom we love. This love, particularly coupled with any sort of responsibility toward conversion, or at least hope of conversion, makes capital punishment absurd for those who believe Christ has come to redeem.

Being There

“The church is only the church when it is there for others.”—Dietrich Bonhoeffer

I haven’t written much lately. I’ve been writing sermons, of course. As we say in my line of work, “Sunday comes every seven days.” But I haven’t been writing much on this site, or for our church’s blog, or on my other writing project. To put it candidly, I haven’t known exactly what to say.

One thing I do know: We are—almost to a person—angry.

And we are angry because we are divided—deeply divided.

Like many of you, I’ve watched the happenings around our nation over the last few months with alternating moments of astonishment, fascination, and horror. We seem to have a national split personality—capable of both the heroic and the grotesque. We move seamlessly from shouting to serving.

Perhaps it has always been this way. Perhaps our better angels, as Lincoln called them, are simply in sharper relief against the background of our more angry impulses. Perhaps this is the way it is in a world marred by the Fall.

And, to a degree, this is the certainly the case.

But why does it feel worse than at any time in recent memory? Why do we hear talk of an impending Civil War in some social media circles? Why do we believe the worst about those with whom we disagree? Why have we so quickly shifted from believing those with differing ideas are racist or fascist or socialist or communist or terrorist?

*********

In August of 1944, Pastor Dietrich Bonhoeffer was less than a year from being hanged by the Nazis at Flossenbürg concentration camp. He didn’t know this, of course, so he was busy working on a short book. Although the book was never finished, we know a little bit about it. He gave a brief overview in the outline he produced. “I would like to write an essay—not more than one hundred pages in length,” he said.

What did he hope to achieve in this little book?

Bonhoeffer hoped to re-envision the German church that had failed so spectacularly under Nazi rule. The church had failed the German people, in his way of thinking, and they needed a fresh start to become effective again.

There is much in this book outline to consider, but there is one sentence that always jumps out at me. In the concluding chapter of the outline, he flatly states, “The church is only the church when it is there for others.”

This is, I think, why many American Christians are angry and divided right now.

We have forgotten to be there for others.

********

In 2017 our church was ravaged by Hurricane Harvey. It was an intensely difficult time for our church and city.

It was exceptionally difficult. In fact, prior to 2020, I would have said that it was the most difficult leadership challenge I had ever faced.

As difficult as it was, it was never demoralizing.

We were unified in our desire to serve others.

The church was the church because it was there for others.

I don’t know how 2020 is going to play out. I don’t know what the future holds with COVID or politics. But I know this: I want to be part of the healing process in our city, and I know that begins by caring for others. As a pastor, I’m recommitting my vision to serve others. As a neighbor, I’m recommitting to know and love others. As a family member, I’m remembering to check in on others. I’m going to stop worrying. I’m going to stop thinking about myself first. I’m going to be there for others, as best I can.

Would you join me? Would you be willing to raise your gaze a bit? Off of your own concerns and onto that of your neighbor, your church, your school, your city? Would you be willing to think less of what is best for you and what is best for someone else? I do not know why, but when we stop thinking of ourselves, we start experiencing healing.

I’m ready for some healing.

Let’s heal together. Let’s look to be there for others.

The Attraction of Antifa

Like many in our nation, I’ve watched the burning and violence of Portland, Oregon, with varying amounts of frustration, anger, and confusion. These things aren’t happening just in Portland, of course. Rioting, burning, looting, and violence have happened—and currently is happening—in a number of American cities this year. Portland, however, has been especially interesting to me, because it is, in my mind, Ground Zero for one of the larger failures of the American church.

In Portland we find a hub of the violent organization, Antifa—an abbreviation for “anti-fascist.” Dressed in all black, wielding skateboards as weapons, Antifa fancies themselves as warriors for economic justice, crying that all corporations are evil and the way forward is only found through descent into anarchy. Admittedly, its philosophy and the group’s behavior are not entirely cogent. Members tend to film the action of the day using their iPhones (so much for evil corporations) and demand complete conformity (so much for anarchy). And yet droves of young—predominantly white—people have joined, and they continue to join.

Across from Antifa we find the resurgent armed militias. Most recently, a caravan of MAGA militia members rode into Portland and an armed showdown of sorts took place, leaving a member of the militia dead in the Portland street—presumably dead at the hand of Antifa member, although that remains unclear, at least to me. Just days before that, a similar sort of confrontation took place in Kenosha, Wisconsin, where a white 17 year-old, Kyle Rittenhouse, killed two rioters (also potentially Antifa members) and wounded another. These militia members see themselves as defenders of good, of right, of the American Way. Similar to Antifa, there is no shortage of young—predominantly white—people joining these armed militias.

For all of the ideological differences these groups might represent, they are in many ways quite similar. They are mostly white. They are violent. They are extremist. And—most notably—they provide meaning to their members.

And there we find the failure of the—predominantly white—American church I spoke of earlier.

Why are so many of our young people finding their ways into the arms of extremists?

In a word: Meaning.

Humans stand alone among the animal kingdom in one significant way: We hunger for meaning. We want to know why it is that we exist. By extension, we are story-ing creatures. If we live to be old enough, we each will adopt a story in order to make sense of the world. The stories may vary, but the act of adopting a story in which we see ourselves as participants is universal.

Some adopt the story of pure chance. This world is without purpose, the story goes, so I can do whatever I want. Others adopt a more politically-motivated story—existence is driven by amassing—or redistributing—capital or power. And on and on it goes. If you’re reading this, chances are you have a story you are following, a story you are attempting to live. It’s the most human thing we do.

Antifa and the armed militias also have stories—stories of a conflict of right versus wrong, of good versus bad, of something larger than self. These are compelling stories, so they attract followers—particularly people who are searching for a story.

Which leads me to the church: I am a Christian by choice. By that, I mean that I went through a complete deconstruction of my faith when I was a much younger man, and I re-examined everything I believed about, well, pretty much everything. After mountains of reading, hours of question-filled conversations, and plenty of soul searching, I re-settled my heart on Christianity.

Why? Two reasons: First, I became firmly convinced that Jesus was indeed God Incarnate.

Secondly, and more importantly for this discussion, I believed the Christian Story to be the most compelling way to live in this world. The Christian story says that there is a God who has created, who has given us love and meaning and purpose, who intends the redemption of all things (including us!), and that we are part of that redemption as we bring proclamation of Jesus and as we carry love, peace, beauty, and truth into this world in his name.

If it is such a compelling story, then, why are so many finding alternative ways of finding meaning? I present two thoughts:

First, the church has too often not trusted her own story. She has—over the years—attempted to combine her story with different theologies assuring money and health, or with politics and power in order to be part of setting a policy agenda, or with various aspects of culture in an attempt to maintain relevance, or with a hard rejection of culture in an attempt to appear holy. In each of these—and yet others—the church has forgotten the power and the beauty of the gospel—that God is in Christ reconciling the all things—and that such a reconciliation does not need to be combined with any other narrative. The Christian story is enough, because the work of God in the world is enough. It is enough to find purpose and meaning in bringing His light and love and gospel into your sliver of the world, because in this bringing, you have the Presence.

Second, the church has too often proclaimed another story instead of Jesus. The story, at its root, is that of Grace—of a God that is so radically accepting of people that His acceptance is scandalous. Too often we have forgotten this scandalous, promiscuous grace of Jesus. When I read the gospels with fresh eyes, Jesus is incredibly controversial. He crosses every imaginable social line in order to bring people into the knowledge of the goodness and love of God. When he is harsh, it is not with “sinners,” but instead with the religious people of the day for attempting to limit the boundaries of grace. But this cannot be done. Once you have truly encountered grace, you realize there are no boundaries, no limits.

You’re looking for meaning? Grace is the ultimate. Grace is free. Grace is unmerited. Grace is there for the taking, no matter who you are, no matter what you have done. I can see no purpose or meaning higher than Grace. Grace is John Coltrane; it is a love supreme.

Grace will take anyone in her path—even members of Antifa and armed militias. Those individuals may be bent on violence today, but grace has a way of changing us once we truly taste it. Grace rolling over our lips rewires the way we think, overturns the way we interact, clarifies the way we perceive others. And it is Grace alone that can do this. As Robert Farrar Capon says, “Grace has to be drunk straight: no water, no ice, and certainly no ginger ale.”

It is grace alone that gives us the eyes of God, that allows us to love those in our paths with the heart of God.

It is grace alone that fuels our own transformation, discovering how God deeply loves us.

It is grace alone that drives God to reconcile the world unto Himself.

It is grace alone that fuels our Story.

May we tell it. May we live it.

Grace alone.

What We Become

We moved to Houston seven and a half years ago. Joy and I were both 37 at the time. Our boys were still somewhat young—3rd and 6th grade. We wanted to remember the move and commemorate the moment, so a friend of ours took some family pictures. They were fun and silly. We still have those pictures in frames in our house.

I took one of those pictures and decided to use it as my profile photo for all of my accounts on the Internet: Facebook, Twitter, etc. I also used it as my Zoom profile photo so that if I turned off my camera, people would see that young, hopeful face staring back at them.

A lot has happened in the last seven and a half years. Most notably, Houston was ravaged by the floodwaters of Hurricane Harvey in August 2017. That event—coupled with the two-plus years of recovery that followed—are among the most difficult seasons I’ve ever endured. I use the word “endured” intentionally. There were stretches of days where the only thing to do was to focus on the next task at hand. I held on for dear life at times, white-knuckling through the curves of life.

As the roller coaster ride continued, my body began to reflect the stress. My hair grayed. My skin leathered. My face aged.

About two years after Harvey, I was on a Zoom call with some of best friends. They are my brothers in the faith. For some reason, I had to turn my video feed off for a few seconds, and that old profile picture popped up. My friends immediately howled with laughter. “Who is THAT?” one of them said. They were joking, of course. They knew it was me. But they were right. I didn’t look like that picture any more.

There are things in this life that change us—not necessarily for the better or the worse. They simply change us. Life comes in waves, and if you live long enough, eventually one of those waves will be so large that it will pick you up and carry you to a place you did not expect. It will carry you long enough and far enough that when it finally puts you down you are different. These are the sorts of waves that wash away ideals and sentimentality. These are not the waves you enjoy like a day at the beach. Theses are tsunamis, bringing crushing weight, moving at breakneck speeds. These are white waters.

The emotions I’ve experienced in the last three years are unlike any other time period in my life. I’ve doubted my calling. I’ve thought about quitting more times than I can remember. I’ve experienced some of the lowest lows I’ve ever known.

My faith has changed, too. It’s more rooted than ever. As the waves came crashing, many of the platitudes I had long held close couldn't withstand the weight. Several of the simple answers I have often clung to in a storm were nowhere to be found. I had to go deeper, to read the Bible with fresh eyes, to see the God that comes alongside of me—the God who can calm the waves, but the God who also sometimes naps in the front of the boat while the waves are rough. I now see why some walk away in these moments. It’s hard enough to hold on, much less press in.

Pressing in, however, is what I did. And pressing in is what saved me. As I write, another hurricane is approaching. Political division is scorching the country. A pandemic continues to create confusion and anger. Election narratives are rampant.

I see these things differently now—more clearly, I think. I see them—mostly—as expressions of a broken world. And I see the Kingdom of Jesus as something far more sustaining, far more glorious than anything this world has to offer. The waves aged me, to be sure, but they helped me see the beauty and glory of Jesus more clearly than ever. Maybe that is the way it has to work. Maybe only when we are being crushed will we look up with true need. Maybe only when we are helpless will we see the true nature of Help.

For the last year or so, each time I was on one of my Internet accounts, I paid attention to my profile picture. I knew it needed to be updated. I looked older and grayer, yes. But I was also different.

I updated my pictures this week.

I would like to tell you that I can hardly wait for another wave like that, to ride again to discover more about who God is. But I can’t. I’m not there yet. But I know when the next wave comes, no matter how hard the crushing or how fast the carrying, I’ll find even more Glory in the depths.

Suspicious Minds

By this all people will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.—John 13:35

Division and hatred mark our world. It has always been this way. Some say it is worse now than ever before. That may be true. I tend to think it is simply more public now than it has ever been. From Twitter to TikTok, we are able to say exactly what we think, whenever we think it—to whomever cares to listen.

We are divided, and we are hateful—I think—because Americans are suspicious. We believe there is always a hidden agenda, and we are on a quest to discover what, precisely, that agenda might be. We are suspicious of the media. We are suspicious of our government. We are suspicious of other governments. We are suspicious of politicians. We are suspicious of liberals. We are suspicious of conservatives. We are suspicious of any category of people of which we are not a part.

I am not certain why we are as suspicious as we are, but I feel comfortable in saying that we are approaching Peak Suspicion.

I am in favor of shrewdness, of realism. I am opposed to naïveté, to Pollyanna-ish thinking. But I must wonder: Is this level of suspicion helpful?

******

Most people reflexively believe the answer to suspicion is hyper-vigilance. If I hold them accountable, then they can’t fool me. “They won’t take advantage of me again,” we say. And, yes, there is something to that.

But I want to make a daring assertion:

The antidote to suspicion is love.

Love is to be the defining characteristic of Christians. If I allow myself to spend too much time on social media or watch too much television, I’ll find myself slipping towards a deep sadness. There I’m regularly confronted with clips of people using the name of Jesus and yet behaving in absolutely unloving behavior. There’s the clip of the woman in the grocery store calling employees demons. There’s the clip of the Congressman admitting to calling another member of Congress a degrading profanity in front of others. And a seemingly never-ending stream of others.

In part, I think it is because we have forgotten what love truly is. Love is—in part—a full and complete acceptance of someone, no matter what they have done. But love is not one-dimensional. Love is not the tablecloth we unfurl to cover the scuffed and scarred table. Love has real shape, real substance, and a thickness. Love is the table itself, the place we invite others to sit, to encounter them in their glory, their goodness, their brokenness.

Instead of simple acceptance, love is a deep respect—a respect almost approaching reverence—for the image of God imprinted upon every face you encounter. The Trumpiest conservative is worthy of this respect. The snowflakiest liberal is worthy of this respect. The crazy uncle spouting tin-foil hat nuttiness is worthy of this respect. The stereotypical flamboyant gay cousin is worthy of this respect. Their ideas or behaviors may rub you the wrong way, but God has made them in His image, and He has declared them worthy of love. While we are busy cataloguing a list of reasons that certain people are beyond such respect, Jesus gently removes the list from our hands and reminds us that, “Love your neighbor,” transcends categorization.

Even further than respect, love is the desire to see the very best for each of these people. What is that “best”? For the Christian, wishing others the best is to wish that they would know the love of God and would be conformed into the likeness of Jesus. For those of us who are Christian, this means a daily process of transformation, of working to become more like Jesus. The theological term for this is Sanctification, but it is better understood simply as Maturity. As we grow into Jesus, we grow up. The world needs maturity; the world needs fully-formed people who live and behave as Jesus.

If you know people in this way, it is difficult to be suspicious.

This is love.

This is how Christians are to be distinguished from the world.

“By this all people will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”—John 13:35

What Comes Out

Somewhere along the way I heard a bit of wisdom I have returned to many times. It goes something like this:

If you want to know how you are doing spiritually, pay attention to what comes out when you are squeezed.

Just as an orange cannot help but surrender its juice when pressed, neither can we disguise how we are truly doing when we are pressed by the vice of life. When disease, financial distress, or other traumas bear down upon our shoulders, their weight is impossible to escape. And the added weight eventually reveals what is happening inside of us.

In short, trauma reveals what is within in our hearts.

I am not the first pastor to observe that the pandemic is bringing about a sort of spiritual discovery for many of us. As we are subjected to more isolation, self-examination begins. Personally, I am actively plumbing my personal depths during this season, and I have been somewhat dismayed at what I have discovered. I have found anger lurking just below the surface. I have also found that I have a handy justification for my anger. Furthermore, I have found that my justification for my anger is, in fact, not what I am angry about at all.

I’ve been squeezed. And I’ve seen who I truly am. And I imagine you have, as well.

Recent events have squeezed more than individuals. They have squeezed our institutions. More importantly, they have squeezed our churches.

Churches are experiencing epochal squeezing. The combination of the pandemic, race discussions in the wake of George Floyd’s death, and an election year are unlike anything I have seen in my lifetime. Churches are responding to the combination of these cultural vices in a variety of ways. I have been dismayed at what I see coming out—both on the Left and the Right.

From some I see a renewed and heightened nationalism bordering on fanaticism. They run to paint Jesus and America into the same historical mural, brushing over the portions they do not like. Others are defending violence and destruction in the name of what they call justice. They are ready to burn down civilization, but they have no plans for how to build. Others adamantly and publicly declare that racism does not exist today—and they claim it may never have existed. Still others see complex political conspiracy theories behind current events—while these current events affect those far beyond American politics. Vitriol is high. Civility is low. Love is almost absent.

The church is being squeezed. I don’t like what is coming out.

One helpful aspect of being squeezed is the benefit of diagnosis. You suddenly see yourself as you truly are. If you are honest and willing to do the work, you can begin to experience healing. It is not pleasant, but it is beneficial.

I wonder if God is squeezing His church so that we can see just how broken it is.

I wonder if God is giving us a moment to see what is coming out—from our public personas, our pulpits.

I wonder if God is allowing us to diagnose how sick we are so that we will seek to become well.

I cannot help but remember what Jesus asked the man who had been sitting by the Pool of Siloam:

“Do you want to get well?”

I am not convinced many in the church believe she is sick. But from what I see, we are in desperate need. I am committing to faithfully pastor my church as best I can through this season, because I want us to emerge from this much stronger than we were—healthier than we were. I also want other pastors to watch—honestly—at what is happening to the American church. I want them to assess what they see coming out of their congregations in this moment of squeezing. I want them to ask, “Are we honoring Jesus? Are we furthering His Kingdom? Or are we serving as pawns in culture wars?”

The diagnosis will likely be painful. Being squeezed often is.

But the Lord loves to redeem. The Lord loves to heal.

I pray He is doing so again.

Why Pastors Are Dying (and Quitting and Burning Out)

Another pastor died a few weeks ago, this one from an apparently self-inflected gunshot wound. There is uncertainty surrounding Darrin Patrick’s death. We do not know if the death was accidental or intentional. Pastors who heard of his death, however, almost immediately assumed it was intentional. Most of them greeted the news of his death in the same way I did:

“Oh no. Not another one.”

If you are not a pastor, you may not have noticed, but there has been a surge of pastoral suicide in recent years. This is why, despite the confusing circumstances surrounding Darrin’s death, most pastors assumed he had taken his own life. The recent suicides have prompted pastors to huddle and ask pointed questions. Most notably, we are asking: What about our profession is leading us—the ones who are supposed to help heal—to feel such despair? We must figure this out, or the quiet devastation will only continue to build. I am writing about this today, because I am still emotionally raw from Darrin’s death. I know if I wait until I feel better I won’t write at all. At the same time, I am afraid of what I am about to write, because I do not want my words to be taken as anger or ungratefulness. I am not angry. And I am extremely grateful to have served as a pastor for these twenty-five years.

I love being a pastor. But I need to say these things.

Some caveats: First, I have never felt the need to take my own life. I have, however, considered quitting. Second, I do not represent all pastors, but I think I know the hearts of many of them. Finally, I am affected by my particular experiences and personality type, so my comments will likely have many blind spots. With those admissions behind me, I’ll note a few of the reasons I believe pastors are taking their own lives (and quitting and burning out) at what appears to be an unprecedented rate.

Inability to Separate From the Office. I am a pastor in Houston. I love the city and the people. But I am not from Houston. Most every person in Houston who knows me has only known me as Pastor Steve. Unlike family and old friends, to my fellow Houstonians, I have always been a member of the clergy. Yes, of course, they know that—theoretically—there was a moment when I wasn’t reading theology and writing sermons. They simply have never seen it. This means that when I go out into town, people see me as my office—as a pastor. In one sense, this is like many professions. My wife is an educator, so I have watched small children wave shyly at her in the grocery store for twenty-one years. She is always a teacher, at least in their eyes.

Somewhat differently, however, when my wife is not at school, she is not expected to be an educator—at least not professionally. This is the way it is for most people. When they are not at work, they are not working. For pastors, however, we are almost always clergy. I am a pastor, both to those in my congregation and to those who simply know I am a pastor. People approach me in the movie theater, in restaurants, at school events for my kids, and at parties. They have spiritual questions; they need counseling; they want to understand part of the Bible; they want to find out information about the church. This, of course, is separate from the normal “business” of the church, the questions from members, deacons, staff and elders. Again, let me be clear: I do not begrudge this. I love being a pastor. But a reality of pastoring is that pastors are almost always “on.”

In short: Pastors are always pastors, and, over time, it wears many of us down.

This inability to separate the person from the office leads to the next occupational hazard I see:

Inability to Make Deep Friendships. If every person in your relational sphere knows you as a pastor, then it impairs the ability to have deep friendships. It’s difficult to explain this dynamic. Most everyone likes their pastor. Most everyone wants to be able to have access to their pastor. Most people even want to have the occasional social interaction with their pastor. But most people don’t want to truly know their pastor. Think about it: If you know your pastor too well, then you will soon discover that your pastor is not perfect. And, for most of us, we need to maintain the illusion that our pastor is at least a better person than I am. (News flash: We aren’t.)

In most churches the clergy/member relationship is quite complex. It is close enough so that we can have a high degree of familiarity, but not so close as to produce intimacy. For this reason, Joy (my wife) and I may have dozens of social engagements on the calendar, yet few (if any) of them will be by our design and few (if any) of them will be with the same people. Different personality types handle such arrangements differently, but for my wife (an extreme introvert) and me (someone who yearns for relational intimacy), social bouncing leaves both of us emotionally exhausted. Joy is exhausted from the unnatural extroversion; I am exhausted from maintaining dozens and dozens of relationships at a level that is something far beyond shallow but never quite approaching deep. I know them; they rarely know me.

I imagine some of you are thinking, “Well then. Why don’t you just make friends with some of your congregational members?” Great question. And, honestly, I am working towards doing so. Unfortunately, pastors have learned that it takes several years in a church to discern individual relational motives within a congregation. I speak from experience. Over the last twenty-five years I have learned the hard way that some church members simply want to feel special. Others merely want some sort of emotional connection that many pastors (often more emotionally attuned than other individuals) can provide that can’t be found at home. Others simply want to be close to the pastor so that they can influence decisions within the church.

Blessedly, not every person—nor even the majority of people—in a congregation is like this. But you can see why many pastors move slowly and cautiously. We are often wondering: Where can we be ourselves? Where can we be a normal person and not face reprisal? Where can we take off our pastoral hat, if only for a couple of hours?

Unlimited Accessibility. There are exceptions, but almost every night I am messaged by at least one person: “Hey, Steve. Sorry to bother you, but I need to talk to someone.” I count this as a divine and holy privilege. Over the years I have counseled individuals through marital issues, suicidal thoughts, addictions, abusive situations, and any number of other situations over the phone—both calls and texts. Now that is expanded to social media. I have fielded questions through Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.

To be clear: I love doing this. To also be clear: This is sometimes overwhelming.

When a suicidal person messages you during family game night, do you answer? When the man who has been teetering at the edge of addiction and infidelity reaches out to you while you are on family vacation, do you respond?

The advent of the Internet means anyone from my past can find me. And they do. Friends from high school and college reach out. The portability of cell phone numbers means that those who had my number in 2005 have my number today. I have pastored hundreds of different individuals during that season. And they all have immediate access.

You might see how some 21st century pastors often feel overwhelmed by the relational demand.

Political Divisiveness. I am not the first person to note that our world is divided sharply among political lines, especially in recent days. This hyper-politicization means that sometimes pastors find themselves making proclamations that are thoroughly biblical, yet under scrutiny. In the last decade or so I have had people ask me why I was getting political after mentioning we should care more about poor children. The Bible clearly says God defends the cause of the poor. I have had people wonder why I was being political when I spoke out regarding race. The Bible clearly says God has created all people in His image and that He desires the redemption of all nations. I have had people ask me why I was being political when I said we should love refugees. The Bible clearly says we should love the sojourner. You can add any number of issues to the previous mentions: abortion, sexuality, etc.

Issues that were once considered “biblical” are now regularly categorized as too “political.” This creates a tension in the act of preaching that, in my opinion, is not healthy. It is always uncomfortable to tell the truth. But I think our hyper-politicized society makes many issues controversial which have complete biblical grounding. As Eugene Peterson said (paraphrasing here), “The Kingdom of God is more political than anyone believes, but in a way that no one expects.”

What To Do? If you have read this far, thank you. You clearly have a heart for pastors and want to help them. So do I. So what should we do about these things? I don’t have any silver bullets in my gun belt, but I do have a few slugs to shoot at the target. Here are a few of my thoughts:

Counseling/Therapy. Most every pastor needs to regularly see a counselor. Most of them don’t for a variety of reasons: fear, shame, confidentiality concerns, or something else. But a man who is flailing in deep emotional waters without help will, eventually, drown. I am currently seeing a counselor, and I have zero shame in that. I personally believe that we need to create a norm where pastors can see a counselor and talk about doing so openly from the pulpit. I find that a large percentage of pastors are pastoring with massive wounds from the past, and those wounds prevent them from becoming personally healthy, and, consequently, those wounds prevent them from helping others.

Rest. I think pastors need a regular time to “take off the pastoral hat.” I also think they need permission to turn off their phone, to not answer e-mail. Rhythms will vary depending on the congregation, but I can envision something like:

Sabbath Seasons. Another leader (staff or other) takes all pastoral calls. An e-mail is sent to the church letting them know that the pastor will be unavailable during that weekend. Or the pastor is allowed to turn off his phone on the same day every single week, likely on Saturdays. Or some other system that makes sense within that church. In short, the pastor needs to not only be able to get away, but the church needs to know that this is good and expected from other leaders (elders, committees, etc.).

Sabbaticals. I once had a sabbatical to write my doctoral dissertation, so I don’t know if that counts, as I wasn’t a lead pastor at that time. But I think that the rhythm of pastors having a season every seven or so years to step away for three or four months is a good idea. I think there should be design to the sabbatical—planned readings, counseling, exercise, and the like. To be clear, this does not mean that the pastor should simply “be out of the pulpit.” This means that he should be recharging by getting out of the weeds of day-to-day operations in addition to getting out of the pulpit. The goal is recreation in order to re-create the pastor’s passion for the pastorate.

Refresh. Once or twice a year (maybe on one or two of those Sabbath weekends referred to above) the pastor needs to go see old friends or family members where there is no pastoral expectation. Pastors needs to go be with people who do not expect him to be “on,” who do not need a service from him. He needs to be completely at ease, to simply be a person, to simply be. If he is married, he should take his wife and see old couple friends—if possible. Relational health is only created when space for healing is carved out.

Shepherding/Accountability. My experience as a pastor tells me that pastors are very good at taking care of others but are not very good at taking care of themselves. Someone—a team, an elder council, a trusted advisor—must take on the job of intentionally shepherding the pastor. They need to ask questions: How are you spiritually? How are you emotionally? Are you in counseling right now? Do you need to be? How are things at home? Are you having any dark thoughts? Shepherds, too, need a shepherd. They need someone to reign them in when they are out of line. They need someone to speak the truth to them, in love.

Thanks for reading. These thoughts are somewhat unformed, and they are raw. But I am also tired of watching pastors die and quit. I am convinced that we have a problem in the pastorate, and I am further convinced that we must do something. I hope these thoughts help begin a conversation that will promote health and, hopefully, save a life.

Why My Church Will Wear Masks

The reasoning for wearing masks is simple—to love one another. This is the command of Jesus: Love your neighbor. And who is my neighbor according to Jesus? Well, everyone.

We don’t know much about this novel coronavirus, but we know some. We know the virus spreads through respiratory droplets (in addition to spreading via surfaces and touching). Some studies have suggested that singing—yes, singing—spreads respiratory droplets further than coughing. And singing is essential to most church services, particularly ours. Since many COVID-19 carriers are asymptomatic, they can feel great, come to church, sing…and infect numerous others. Masks prevent respiratory droplets from traveling via coughing, sneezing, and, yes, singing. Here is one (of many) articles that explain the way the virus spreads through singing, if you’re inclined to read a more detailed/scientific breakdown from an expert.

If you don’t have time to read the article, here is the money quote: "Singing, to a greater degree than talking, aerosolizes respiratory droplets extraordinarily well. Deep-breathing while singing facilitated those respiratory droplets getting deep into the lungs.” This article refers to one incident involving a choir you can read about here. While practicing social distancing, hand sanitizing, etc., an outbreak occurred (as best we can tell) through singing, and singing alone. There are other articles about how the virus spreads through singing, as well. Read here, here, or even here.

Other issues compound the singing problem. Namely: air conditioning. Air conditioned environments circulate the air of an enclosed area, potentially spreading aerosolized respiratory droplets even further. This is why those who study the virus are most concerned about large gatherings that take place indoors over extended periods of time. Now add singing to the mix. How do you feel? Mildly concerned? Me too. This is why we are encouraging masks for those who are attending our services. If you want to read about how the virus can spread in an enclosed environment through HVAC, read here.

Point being: Singing appears to add risk. HVAC appears to add risk. So masks are necessary. Additionally, I have heard through my wife (who is an educator) that schools across Texas may eliminate or adjust choir until a solution is found because singing is a problem for which we have yet, as a society, to find a solution. Unless you count masks. Because masks help us love our neighbor.

How is it loving? 

Primarily, it is loving to those who have underlying issues or are in the vulnerable category. I have heart failure, and yet I pastor my congregation. I don’t have the luxury of not attending worship and watching from home unless my church chooses to make some special stipulations. Another one of my staff members has diabetes. This staff member is essential to Sunday morning, as well. Others have other underlying issues. And then, of course, there are those who don’t yet know they have underlying health issues. Will we choose to love them or not? The elders of my church have deemed the simplest way for us to love those who gather is to ask everyone to wear a mask.

We know many see masks as political. They are not political. They are practical. We know many see them as an infringement on their rights. Perhaps, if you are wanting to go to Target. But not if you want to come to church. The church is a family. We are to love and protect one another. If you won’t wear a mask, you’ve made your statement, “I think I am more important than you are.” Wearing a mask is an act of service; it is a way to wash the feet of my brother and sister in Christ.

But what if I’m not afraid? Why can’t those who are afraid wear a mask and leave me alone?

If it worked that way, that’s what we would do. But the mask is most effective at keeping aerosolized droplets IN. Once infected respiratory droplets have gone out, a mask is not very effective at stopping them from being breathed in. If you want to read up on the science of how masks work, you can read here. If you don’t have time to read the data, here’s the bottom line: If you are infected and don’t wear a mask, even if I do, my risk of infection is very high. If we both wear a mask, my risk of infection is very low. So we will be wearing masks.

By the way, some churches have been meeting for a few weeks, choosing to employ social distancing, but not choosing to wear masks. And we know that some of those churches have already seen outbreaks. Here’s one example of a church in Georgia that has already shut back down. Here’s an example of a church in Galveston. I also know of another one in DFW, but have been asked to not mention the church’s name, as it hasn’t gone public and they have already shut down in-person worship. I can tell you that they met in person, employed social distancing, and 8 of the 100 attendees have COVID now. That took two worship services. They did not ask their members to wear masks.

Other churches of size in our area are doing the same, by the way. We are not the only church who has seen this data.

Finally: Some are saying that the original purpose was to “flatten the curve,” and that now we have moved past the danger zone with regard to hospital capacity. Yes, that was—and is—the purpose. But remember this: Just because we are re-opening our economy and churches doesn’t mean that the pandemic is over. It simply means that the ICU has room for you if you were to need space. If we want to re-open, we should do so wisely. Masks are a great tool, especially if everyone wears them while in public. Some studies say that if 80 percent of the population wore cloth masks while in public, the pandemic would end, because the R-number would drop below one. Why is this pandemic continuing? Not because we have yet to achieve “herd immunity.” We still have a pandemic because most Americans are too proud to wear a cloth mask.

You may find my reasoning (or the reasoning of our church elders) to be flawed. But do not think that we have not thought through this a great deal. We may change our minds as more data comes out, but as of today, this seems to be our wisest move to protect the Body.

It is also the best way to love our neighbor.

This is the Way.

For The Love of Life

“I have come that you might have life and have it to the full.”—John 10:10

Baseball helps with theology.

Hang with me.

I’m not very good at baseball, but I love the game. I love the strategy. I love the sounds. I love the history. And let’s be honest—I love the hot dogs (despite the fact I can only smell them these days).

Even if you don’t love baseball, you may remember the 1998 season when Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa famously chased the MLB home run record. During that historic season, I took a theology seminar from Dr. Ron Smith. The course was 20th Century Theology, and we were reading the theology of German theologian Karl Barth at the time. Barth’s theology struck me as exuberant, almost joyful. Barth loved Mozart, painting, cigars, and, generally speaking, human pleasure. As a young seminarian, these loves struck me as somewhat “unspiritual.”

During the week McGwire broke the home run record, I asked Dr. Smith about Barth’s lusty love of the world. His eye twinkled. “Barth would have been in the scrum in the stands fighting for the record-breaking baseball if he’d have been there,” Dr. Smith quipped.

He laughed when he saw the surprised expression on my face.

*****

Christians, particularly those who grew up in my tradition, have often feared the world. I grew up skeptical of pleasure itself, particularly things which seemed to be excessively pleasurable (food cooked by my mom and grandmothers was an exception I allowed). I feared pleasure, because pleasure was the road to sin, and I didn’t want to give in to sin, obviously.

Yes, taken wrongly, pleasure can be perverted and lead to sin. Point taken.

But our hollow theology of enjoyment has led us to miss out on the beauty of the gospel.

God made this world good. He made it filled with beauty, wonder, and variety. He made it filled with delicious fruits, vegetables, and plants. He made it filled with stunning fish and animals (many of which are also delicious). He created humans with the ability to paint, to sing, to build. JRR Tolkien noted that we are sub-creators, modeled after our Creator, making all sorts of things. Although we may not immediately realize it, music and mathematics, poetry and pottery are all extensions of the goodness of God. God made us to enjoy this world. He made us to taste, to sing, to love. God could have created a reproductive process without physical sensation; yet sex feels immensely pleasurable. God could have made us without emotional responses to film, to story, to love. And we often weep when we are moved in a certain way. There are no (good) scientific reasons for this. But yet these things are.

The world is a sensory experience unlike any other.

*****

In John 10:10 Jesus says, “I have come that you might have life, and have it to the full.”

That is a bold verse. It flies in the face of of those who believe faith to be only about life after death.

Instead, it says that Jesus did not simply come to give us life after death. He, of course, did that. But Jesus also came to give us life before death. Jesus has come so that we can rightly enjoy the creation he has set before us, living by the power of the Spirit what it means to be Truly Human. There are a number of ways we can mis-use creation—we can hate; we can do violence; we can be stingy. But God has created us to love this world, to have life. Creation is fallen and broken, yes. But it is also filled with beauty and goodness. And we were designed to soak it up.

We are to love the world. Just like God loved it.

Those of us who are living in light of Easter see the world with the eyes of Jesus. So, yes, we work for its redemption. And, yes, we strive to build the Kingdom. But it is not all work.

We also play. We also sing. And cook. And dance. And laugh.

And enjoy baseball.

Of course, there’s no baseball these days. The pandemic has prevented that. But the absence of baseball has reminded me what it is that I am created for—life. So I am working to enjoy the things to which I do have access—family, phone conversations with friends, grilling, my yard, cooking dinner, jazz music filling the house, reading, writing, my lemon tree, my fountain pens. They are small little gifts—just like baseball. These gifts are reminders that God has filled this planet with pleasure—a sure sign that he is a God who is good.

Enjoy this world as God has designed it.

Soak it in, in Jesus’ name.

Play ball.

What’s Old Is New Again

And he said to them, “Therefore every scribe who has been trained for the kingdom of heaven is like a master of a house, who brings out of his treasure what is new and what is old.”—Matthew 13:52

They say fashions cycle.

I’ve reached the age where the clothes we wore as a teenagers are cool again—at least some of them. In recent months I’ve seen high-waisted jeans, Swatches, checkered Vans, along with Nirvana and Rage Against the Machine t-shirts. (One of my favorite pastimes is asking the young people wearing these shirts their thoughts on the music of the band shirt they are wearing. We’ll save that for another time.) Our fashion memories are short. In the search of the new, we inevitably come back to what we’ve already tried.

It’s not just fashion. This is why Hollywood remakes movies. The older among us want to relive the nostalgia. The younger among us will find it new and fresh.

Sometimes we return to the old simply because it’s better. I’ve been cooking more lately, rediscovering some of the recipes we used to make when I was a young man. There’s no arguing: butter is immensely better than any attempt at substitution. Over the years I’ve tried margarine, Pam, and any number of other cooking fats, but diced onion sautéed in butter creates an angelic magic that cannot be replicated. My arteries may harden, but older is undoubtedly better.

I’ve watched this return to the old play out in my personal faith, and, in some ways, the larger evangelical church. There have been any number of innovations—from music to lighting—in the way churches have operated. The church has tried earnestly to take her message to the masses using any number of available methods.

I’m in favor of that—keeping fresh methods in order to reach new iterations of culture. I love plenty of the new songs; I appreciate creative approaches.

But I discovered that while the methods may change, I need the story to stay the same.

Confession: Fifteen or twenty years ago I “explored” a bit theologically. In one sense, I think such exploration is a normal part of maturation. Young people often explore, testing the foundations upon which they have previously built their lives. And for a season, I was the stereotypical young person. I marched into the ideological underbrush, hacking away, looking for any sort of theology that was new, that was fresh. At first many of the new theologies I discovered seemed new and exciting.

But in the end they turned out to simply be recycled philosophical fashions. They had new names, but the ideas were the same. They were just old theologies gussied up in fresh window dressing.

When I returned to Jesus, in all his glory, his message seemed like something I had never heard before. Looking back, I am not certain. Maybe I wasn’t paying attention; maybe I had selective hearing, or maybe I had never been fully exposed to its beauty. And it was beautiful. It was a treasure house, and I was bringing out old and new treasures—the old ones I remembered and the new ones I was finding in orthodoxy for the first time.

Once I found it again, I knew I would never leave.

Once I found it again, I knew I would tell everyone its beauty.

Here, in Eastertide, I find myself contemplating truths of the Resurrection I never contemplated when I was young. In fact, in discovering the depth of the Resurrection, those other “theologies” I once “explored” to find now seem like faddish fashions. Meanwhile, Jesus seems timeless, bottomless—impossible to fully fathom. The Resurrection alone is incomprehensible. Think on this: God plans to one day resurrect the cosmos and, in the process, to bring the church along for the ride. Yes, you read that correctly. God plans to resurrect our bodies, to involve us in the eternal work of remaking the universe. The new heaven and new earth will somehow be better than anything we have ever experienced on the day we first arrive, and yet we will work together—forever—to make it even more glorious.

The Resurrection of Jesus is stunning in its implications: if the Resurrection of Jesus is true, then Jesus is God. If the Resurrection is true, then we can live the Kingdom of God with full faith. If the Resurrection is true, the very Spirit of God has entered us and given us power to live with freedom. If the Resurrection is true, I do not fear death. If the Resurrection is true, I can fully live now, and I will live forever. And that’s just one plot point in the Old Story.

Take that, recycled and faddish theologies. I don’t need you.

What’s old is making me new all over again.

Digging Wells of Generosity

Open your mouth, judge righteously, defend the rights of the poor and needy.—Proverbs 31:9

35 families in our congregation have lost jobs since COVID-19 changed our lives. More are soon to come. Little can be done. The community sees the freight train coming, but we are tied to the tracks. We are simply waiting to see just how bad the damage will be. As my grandmother used to say, “It’s all over but the crying.”

A silver lining has appeared in the midst of this grim economic reality: our congregation continues to be stunningly generous. I can take very little—if any—credit for this. Our church is almost 47 years old. I have been here little more than seven. Many of them have lived this before, in the 1980s. In those days Houston was an economic wasteland; the oil bust and the S&L scandal bled many dry. I was a kid at the time, but I’ve heard the stories. It hit hard in my hometown, too, like it did in many Texas communities. During my time in Houston I’ve heard how the people of my church learned to depend on the provision of God in those lean years. I’ve heard how they shared everything they owned. The economy was barren in those days, but they were sustained because they were led to dig wells of generosity and to share what they found within.

Many of my church’s families have come and gone since the oil bust of the 80s, but the wells of generosity continue to mark our congregation’s life. Newcomers, too, have heard how we have been—and aspire to be—a generous people. They, too, have heard of the ways God provided for His church through the generosity of His people. The days ahead will likely be financially difficult for many, yet I am encouraged by the fact that we continue to give, just as we always have.

Generosity, I have discovered, is a trait that is usually formed in the crucible of lack. I speak from some experience.I have had specific moments in my adult life when my household was rescued by someone who decided to give from their surplus, to share from their well. Joy and I decided many years ago that if we ever had extra we, too, would be like that. We would be generous; our well would be for sharing. We have tried to live up to that decision. When I encounter generous people in my church they almost always have a similar backstory. They give because there once was a time when they couldn’t. There are occasional exceptions, but, for the most part, I’ve discovered that those who are generous were once people in need.

Most Americans love random acts of kindness, but true generosity is rare. We like the way we feel when we slip someone twenty bucks, but we rarely like to live as one ready to help those in need. Maybe this is because many of us have never truly experienced need.

The Bible commands the people of God to care for the poor dozens of times. There is some disagreement as to the exact number of times, depending on how one chooses to translate certain verses, but the number of commands well exceeds 100. Generosity is not an option for those who claim to be followers of God. We are commanded to be generous, and we are commanded to care for the poor. It goes even further, in fact. We are commanded to care for any of those who are in a position of weakness or vulnerability. Those who find themselves in a position of strength are to flex their muscle in order to defend those cowering in the corners of society.

But why? Why would God want us to be generous? To stand up for the weak? To defend the outcast? The answer, of course, is because such behavior is how we display the love of God to the world. The gospel declares that we were once needy, that we were poor in spirit, that we were unable to save ourselves from destruction. The gospel says that we were living in the margins, far from the center of His will. The gospel says that we were outcasts, the sort of people who run away from home voluntarily and yet blame our situation on others. We were pitiful and in need. Even those who have never tasted material poverty have experienced this sort of weakness. This condition is universal in the human cosmos.

And so God was generous. He gave us His Son, and He brought us into the family. And this changes us—from stingy into generous. This is why we should care for the poor. Those who savor the generosity of Jesus should be quick to give.

I do not know if the coming economic situation will be as bad—or worse—than the 1980s. I do know that God will use the barren conditions to motivate his people to search for cisterns, to dig wells, remembering what we value. I imagine we will discover many important truths in this season—the centrality of human connection; the value of community.

But I imagine one of the wells God wants us to rediscover flows with the refreshment of generosity. Perhaps we have grown too wealthy, too accustomed to having all we need. And perhaps we must rediscover what it means to be in need again. Or perhaps we must rediscover what it means to finally see those who are in need, to give freely as we have been given.

In the process, we may rediscover God’s grace.

Voices in My Head

Follow me as I follow Christ.—1 Corinthians 11:1

I hear voices in my head.

These aren’t the voices of schizophrenia or mania. These are the voices of influence—past and present. These voices range from the seemingly insignificant taunts of childhood bullies to the mentors who have lovingly spoken wisdom. They include the foolish comments I read on social media and the powerful proclamations of preachers. They are the voices of family members and of friends.

These voices make up a Great Conversation, a Conversation taking place inside of me. In times of stress or need, I find myself listening to any number of those voices, allowing my own actions to be guided by them. I am a people-pleaser by nature, one who values his ability to listen to others, to see their perspectives. But I do not think I am alone. I think you, too, likely have a conversational moment you cannot shake—words that you want to shed but instead cling to you. Like a wet t-shirt clinging too closely, revealing my middle-aged belly, those words fit to me tighter than I want, they shape me more than I want, they reveal more of me than I want.

Those voices have an oddly powerful sway over me. They have been with me for what seems my entire life. They have worked their way into my Being in some way.

I no longer wanted to be guided by those voices. So I started noticing their origin. I started putting them in their rightful place. I started getting healthier.

But there are other voices, too.

Many of those voices are pastors of influential churches and teachers of the Bible. Many of them you would know by name. I was once held rapt by the size of their churches, the sales of their books. I once wanted to be them, to stand on a stage, to have people hang on my every word. But as I have grown older, I have realized that those who are the most like Jesus are rarely the ones in the spotlight. There are exceptions, and I am happy to say so. I know some of them personally. But that is what I want—Jesus-likeness. I do not want notoriety. I want faithfulness. I want fruitfulness.

I resolved some time back—maybe ten years ago—that I would not support spiritual bullies, that I would not give credence to those whose words and actions did not look like the words and actions of Jesus. This means I have—over time—had to prune some voices from my life. There are books and conferences I have missed—but I have not missed them. I have happily filled those spaces with those who craft Beauty, with those who speak Truth, with those who do those things in the name of Jesus.

No regrets.

Jon Tyson recently tweeted, "The sort of people that we become is, in large part, determined by the voices that we choose to listen to."—Adam McHugh [I’m] going to do an audit of whose voices I am paying attention to in this crisis. We can be disproportionately susceptible in times like these.” Wise words. His words remind me of the oft-quoted statement that you become like your three closest friends. Is this true? I do not know. It makes sense to me.

I choose to listen to the ones I most want to emulate. I want to let their words form me, their fruitfulness be a guide. Paul said to follow him as he followed Christ. Centuries earlier, Socrates said similarly said that in order to be a good person, you should find a good man and do what he does. Both Paul and Socrates knew: We are moldable creatures. We become what we esteem. The human heart is molded on the potter’s wheel of relationship.

Who do you look to? Who do you listen to? Who do you trust as authoritative? Chances are you will become as they are.

Choose the voices in your head carefully. They are making you.

This is why Christians must—first and foremost—listen for the Spirit. And listen we must. This Voice does not come loudly—at least, not usually. The Spirit likes stillness. The Spirit likes intimacy. The Spirit likes to whisper, like parents when the kids have just been put to bed, sitting close, talking in low levels, with painstaking care. The Spirit likes to whisper, like friends laying on their backs looking at stars, heads close together, afraid loud voices might spoil the galactic vista. The Spirit sits close. The Spirit takes care. So the Spirit whispers. I need this Voice. This is why I rise early and go to the Scriptures when it is still dark. This is why I read prayers in the pre-dawn hours awaiting the dawn chorus. This is when the Bible comes alive. This is when the Spirit shows me—perhaps— one verse or even one phrase. Yesterday it was one word: “zeal.” I thought about that word for some time. The Spirit whispered, “You’re tired. And your tiredness is affecting your leadership. Rest. Regain your zeal.” I needed the Voice to whisper. So I came to draw near.

You cannot hear a whisper from across the street. You cannot hear a whisper when you are sprinting.

And yet the Whisper is the Voice you most need.

The Tide Comes In

This is Easter Week. The tomb is empty. Jesus has demonstrated definitively that he is God in flesh, that his way of living, his Kingdom is the supreme way of living. The church has long called the season immediately following Easter by the name of Eastertide. I love that name, if only for the image it evokes—the wave of love and power crashing onto the shore of humanity, filling it with the hope of a New Creation, a New Kingdom that has now come.

What will you do with the Living Waters of Easter?

Yesterday was the celebration. Yesterday we sang. Yesterday we gathered (virtually) in worship. Yesterday we discovered the empty tomb. Yesterday we feasted.

But what do we do now, on Easter Monday, awash in the tide that has come in among humanity?

Sunday is the day of discovery, the day of celebration.

But Easter Monday is the day we begin swimming in the tide. Easter Monday is the day we declare ourselves to be Easter People. It is quite easy to make Easter only about Jesus—only about his resurrection, only about his New Life. But to make Easter only about Jesus is to miss the point of Easter.

The tomb is empty, meaning that we need not fear death. Jesus has shown us that the way to defeat death goes straight through it, and on the other side we will be resurrected into the glory of God. Death—the thing that most people fear more than anything else—no longer holds sway over Easter People, for we know that we—like Jesus—have New Life. Easter is about Jesus—of course. But Easter is also about a church that now has her marching orders.

If we have New Life, we can live the Way of Jesus without fear. So let’s get about it on this Easter Monday.

We can love enemies freely. Will they kill us? Perhaps. But we are not afraid of death.

We can forgive those who have wronged us. Will they betray us? Perhaps. But we are not afraid of betrayal.

We can build peace among warring factions. Will they hate us? Perhaps. But we are not afraid of hatred.

And the list goes on, for we know that we can live the life given to us in Easter.

How can we do these things? Because Jesus has shown us the way forward. And so we follow him, knowing that this way of living—awash in the tide of Easter—is the way we were created to live from the very beginning, because the church was created to be a Easter People—people living the Resurrection every single day.

Easter Sunday is the day we celebrate the Empty Tomb.

Easter Monday is the day we begin to live the Empty Tomb.

The church awakes this morning to discover that she is awash in the tide of Easter.

Let’s go swimming.

Seven Stanzas at Easter

I am not at the church campus this morning, but I am living my Easter traditions, anyway. I rise before daybreak, make coffee, read passages and prayers about Easter. I pray for my friends who are proclaiming the Easter message. I usually eat a Reese’s egg, but they didn’t make the pandemic grocery cut. I did, however, do one more thing. I stopped to read John Updike’s “Seven Stanzas at Easter.” I make a point to read it each year.

“Seven Stanzas at Easter,”" by John Updike

Make no mistake: if He rose at all
it was as His body;
if the cells' dissolution did not reverse, the molecules
reknit, the amino acids rekindle,
the Church will fall.

It was not as the flowers,
each soft Spring recurrent;
it was not as His Spirit in the mouths and fuddled
eyes of the eleven apostles;
it was as His flesh: ours.

The same hinged thumbs and toes,
the same valved heart
that-pierced-died, withered, paused, and then
regathered out of enduring Might
new strength to enclose.

Let us not mock God with metaphor,
analogy, sidestepping, transcendence;
making of the event a parable, a sign painted in the
faded credulity of earlier ages:
let us walk through the door.

The stone is rolled back, not papier-mâché,
not a stone in a story,
but the vast rock of materiality that in the slow
grinding of time will eclipse for each of us
the wide light of day.

And if we will have an angel at the tomb,
make it a real angel,
weighty with Max Planck's quanta, vivid with hair,
opaque in the dawn light, robed in real linen
spun on a definite loom.

Let us not seek to make it less monstrous,
for our own convenience, our own sense of beauty,
lest, awakened in one unthinkable hour, we are
embarrassed by the miracle,
and crushed by remonstrance.

A Way of Being in the World

“For you have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God.”—Colossians 3:3

Today is Good Friday, a day Christians commemorate the crucifixion of Jesus. Because of the pandemic, we will be celebrating the day at home. I rose, read from the Good Friday liturgy from the Book of Common Prayer with my coffee in hand, and baked unleavened bread for our Communion later this evening. Rhythms matter in this season.

The pandemic has brought a host of questions from humanity, not the least of which being, “What does this all mean?” People are searching for meaning in this moment—as they always are. But the search is currently quite pronounced. Acts of kindness are permeating the normally hard shells of our secularized sensibilities. The Internet is lighting up with ways people are striving to be unusually kind in this season. Bible sales are skyrocketing. Religious services—not simply Christian ones—are experiencing spikes in viewership.

People are asking: “What am I supposed to learn right now?”

Some are responding by leaning into weight loss and exercise. Others are baking the bread packed schedules never seem to allow. Others are reading copious amounts, trying new hobbies, or reconnecting with friends. And of course others are binging Tiger King.

At root, however, we are grappling with the Why? behind this pandemic. We wonder if there are cosmic forces at play, if God is trying to teach the entire globe a lesson at the same time.

Others scoff at such a notion. The world is as it is, they say.

And so we walk, torn between a desire to find meaning or to grasp the cold possibility that all of universe is an accident—a Happy Accident, perhaps, but an accident nonetheless.

I have many friends who have chosen to believe the Theory of the Happy Accident over the course of their lives, but, in my estimation, it escapes explanation. The universe is far too vast, far too complex, far too beautiful. Life is far too rare, far too stunning, far too precarious. I cast my lot with Faith long ago.

Faith does not mean I am without questions. Nor does it mean I am without doubts. I cannot understand why a disease would emerge and take thousands of lives. I cannot comprehend why there would be an economic downturn that will—by all accounts—be significant. There are pieces of this life that do not always make sense to me, that do not always fit neatly into the Sunday school version of Faith. This does not deter me from Faith, but instead makes it something much more mysterious, which, I think, is what Faith ought to have been in the first place. I decided some years back to continue to learn, to ask questions, to allow myself to have doubts, but to also trust that there are some things I cannot—nor ever will—understand, all while God is on His throne. That is Faith.

Those who choose the Theory of the Happy Accident also have parts of the universe they do not understand.They simply opt for nihilism—the belief that all of existence is the cosmos is random, by chance, and pointless.

That never made sense to me, no matter how much philosophy or science I read.

And so I live in a tension: I have Faith, but I do not always understand. I have Faith, but there are many moments where doubt creeps in. If you are a person of Faith, you understand.

I have a friend who is a rabbi. His name is also Steve. One day Rabbi Steve and I were having lunch, talking about faith. As part of that conversation, I was looking for language to explain why Faith had led me to follow Jesus. I do believe in Heaven, so that is certainly part of it. And I am incredibly grateful for the forgiveness and grace given me in Christ, so that is also a large part of it. But on that day, our conversation was exploring how Faith informed our lives in the Here and Now, so that was on my mind. And, in the midst of that conversation, I formed these words:

“Following Jesus is the way of being in this world that makes the most sense to me. The Kingdom of God is the only way I have ever lived in which I truly felt the peace and joy I believe humans were created to experience."

Faith leads me to believe that after my final breath on this Earth, my next breath with be with Jesus in resplendent glory. But Faith also leads me to believe that the innumerable breaths between now and that final breath have purpose and meaning. Each of those breaths are to bound up in the story of Jesus, with the Kingdom he proclaimed. By the power of His Spirit and with His grace, I strive to live that Kingdom each day. I regularly fall short. But each day I rise, drink my coffee, pray, and I choose Faith.

I choose love instead of hatred.

I choose forgiveness instead of grudges.

I choose peace instead of anger.

I choose fidelity instead of wandering.

I choose eternal life instead of death.

My life is hid with Christ on high, as the song says. Or, as the Scripture says, “For you have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God.”—Colossians 3:3

Faith has not led me to lose my personality or my identity. I’m still the one who loves books and baseball, Star Wars and smoked meats. I still have passions, interests, and adventures. But each of those are now in alignment with the Kingdom, with how Jesus would have me live. Faith does not rob me of my individuality. Faith brings it into full vibrancy and appreciation. I see the Good, the True, and the Beautiful as I walk in Faith. I am living in forgiveness now. I am living in grace now. I am, to the best of my knowledge, living Heaven now.

And that’s where I’m finding meaning.

My Faith in the grace shown me by Jesus on Good Friday some 2000 years ago gives me the Way to live in this world. So I’ll continue to pray. I’ll continue to worship and bake my own Communion bread. I’ll look for ways to serve and love my neighbors. I’ll continue to grasp the identity given me in Christ. I’ll continue to embrace grace and peace.

And I’ll continue to invite others to join in.

In the search for meaning, it’s the best Way of being in this world I’ve discovered.

Why Bonhoeffer Matters Now

Today is the 75th anniversary of Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s death at the hand of the Nazis in the Flossenbürg concentration camp. As he was concluding a worship service for inmates, the guards took him, stripped him, burned the manuscript of the book he was writing, and hung him. He had been found guilty of treason, implicated in the plot to assassinate Hitler. He had also, however, been a vocal critic of the Nazis and the state church, publicly using his preaching and teaching to criticize the Führer movement. His execution was likely personal, in some way, to some of the more powerful German citizens.

Since his death, his legacy has been disputed and appropriated by both the Left and the Right. It’s certainly easy to understand why, given the nobility of his death. He is the unique historical character into whom we each love to read our "better angels,"canonizing him. It makes sense, of course. Each of us wants to believe, that in the moment, we would stand up to power, to put our own life on the line for the sake of truth.

It’s important to remember, however, that Bonhoeffer wasn’t perfect. While he did many courageous and admirable things, he had his demons. He was, by many accounts, somewhat of a diva. His first biographer notes that he was very particular about clothes and food. He didn't enjoy working more than a couple of hours a day. He certainly didn't enjoy sweating. His personal relationships were, at best, complicated. He annoyed many with his obstinate approach. Some have described him as a spoiled rich kid.

But God used him anyway. This fact, alone, ought to encourage many of us who struggle with our own demons. It certainly encourages me.

And yet, he had a vision of the church that lived honestly with Jesus as the true Lord. He saw this in Harlem, among the Black Church. He saw a people who had every reason to turn their backs on Jesus, and yet they chose not to. The Black Church allegiance to Jesus inspired him. He saw their joyful singing, their almost-stubborn insistence on Jesus, and he was encouraged. Their oppressors also called themselves Christian, but, almost miraculously, the Black Church had discovered the true gospel and lived it in plain sight in Harlem. In the pews of Abyssinian Baptist Church, Bonhoeffer heard the gospel preaching of Adam Clayton, Sr. In the streets of Harlem he saw the gospel living of the black community. Both of those factors, it seems, converted him to becoming a Christian. (This point is debated in Bonhoeffer scholarship. I find such a conversion reasonable. Others think he meant that he simply started embodying what he already believed intellectually. Bottom line: Harlem radically changed him.)

Yes, there were other influences. He also deeply appreciated the Bruderhof community (founded by Eberhard Arnold) and their radical adherence to the Sermon on the Mount. He loved the Daily Texts (Losungen) of Moravians. The Harlem church, the Moravians, and the Bruderhof all made him more “baptist,” pushing him away from state church allegiance and towards a more free expression of faith. Be it the Black Church, the Bruderhof, or the Moravians, Bonhoeffer’s central concern was the exaltation of Jesus to the place of true Lord in every interpretive action of the church. Jesus--and his church--was the be the lens by which reality was interpreted.

This is why the Nazi government applied pressure to him, going so far as to shut off one of his Berlin radio addresses mid-broadcast. This is why his seminary community in Finkenwalde had to be underground. The State Church of Germany had bought into an ideology that put politics and power higher than Jesus and His Kingdom. If you look, you’ll find pictures of the German bishop, Ludwig Mueller, giving a Heil. You’ll also find Nazi propaganda posters in which the cross of Christ is morphed into a swastika. Even worse, you’ll find church altars draped with the Nazi flag, with the Bread and the Cup placed atop.

Bonhoeffer dreamt of a church that wanted Jesus and the Kingdom at the center of proclamation and action, not political power or action. This meant that the New Testament (namely the Sermon on the Mount) and the radical love of enemies had to be first and foremost. The church needed to be different from the state, Bonhoeffer reasoned. The Kingdom needed to place itself in sharp relief to the Nazis. Meanwhile, many German church leaders believed that influence would come by cozying up to the Nazis, making friends with those in power. That, they reasoned, would protect the church.

Bonhoeffer knew that true influence came not by being friends with power, but by serving (timely, considering that today is Maundy Thursday).

While Bonhoeffer was in prison awaiting execution, he wrote a letter on the occasion of the baptism of his nephew stating that the church would have to regain legitimacy after aligning itself with politicians instead of the Kingdom. He argued that the post-war church would need to sell its property and rely on freewill offerings rather than be aligned with the state. In a sentence that has stuck with me know for over twenty years, he wrote that the church would now have to rely on "prayer and righteous action before men." Pray and serve. That's how you show Jesus and His Kingdom. Not by walking the corridors of power.

At his seminary, Bonhoeffer somewhat famously asked his students to spend each morning in silence, meditating on Scripture, often the Daily Texts of the Moravians. He thought the first word of the day and the last word of the day belonged to God.

Many his students complained about the practice. They found it too esoteric, too challenging. And while most of them eventually came to love the practice, there was something of a quiet mutiny in the initial implementation of this daily meditation. Supposedly, one day, one of the students asked Bonhoeffer why they needed to spend so much time reading the Scripture, praying, and meditating. He believed they needed more “practical” training.

Legend has it that they went to the beach and got in a boat. They went down the shoreline for a long distance. The student was perplexed but kept quiet, rocking back and forth in the waves, awaiting their destination. Finally, Bonhoeffer brought the boat ashore, near a hilly area. They walked some distance up one of the hills. And there, from that high perch, they could see a Nazi military base. Down below, Nazi soldiers were training.

Bonhoeffer and the students watched the soldiers training, marching, and drilling for some time. They watched the planes take off and land. They saw the preparations of the machines of violence and war firsthand.

They were silent for a while, taking in the sight.

Finally, Bonhoeffer said, "That's why."

Today, there are many who believe the church’s greatest influence comes in the corridors of power, lunching with lobbyists and praying over politicians. Jesus, however, said that the greatest influence comes through the washing of feet, through prayer, through "righteous acts before men."

Here's to a Jesus-centered Christianity. Here's to the Kingdom.

It’s our only hope.

In My Defense

Here’s one of the professional hazard of being a pastor: You’re rarely afforded the opportunity to truly say what you think, nor are you afforded the opportunity to defend yourself.

And certainly not publicly.

I’ve been in a pastoral role (of some sort) since I was 19 years old. I’ve worked in small churches, large churches, churches in cities, and churches in small towns. And no matter where you pastor, you soon discover that you’ll be required to make some difficult decisions, painful decisions, unpopular decisions.

As a general rule, I’m the Likable Pastor. I always have been. I can get along with most anyone, from most any background. I’ve loved pastoring cowboys and corporate executives, learning something unique from both sets of people—and all the many groups in between. Some have pointed out this is a personality feature—both positive and negative. It’s positive in the sense that it makes me appear affable and approachable. It’s negative in the sense that it may signify I don’t have a strong enough sense of self to really “fit” in any one location. Perhaps both are true. I’ve certainly been at home in the nation’s fourth (third?) largest city and in towns of just a few thousand. I’ve usually attributed it to an aphorism—bloom where you’re planted.

But the truth is I might simply be one to blend in where I’m planted.

I can be a social chameleon. I know this about myself. I can slide easily into the roles of Scholar, Professional, or Good ‘Ol Boy, often not stopping to ask which of those personas is actually the God-created version of Me.

The desire to be loved, to be wanted, and to be liked is my great Achille’s heel. It has been for some time.

And it has often made it difficult for me to be a pastor.

If you’re the one who is always nervously—almost unconsciously—morphing yourself into the version you think will be most effective for the moment, if you are always almost reflexively and intuitively calculating your words and actions so that others will find you Likable, you will find that most of your life is excellent.

Most of it.

But—as in all lives—there comes Unavoidable Conflict. And it is not possible to navigate Unavoidable Conflict and to maintain the persona of Likable.

I know this from experience.

All too real of experience.

And so, at some point, you must make a decision. Or have a hard conversation. Or tell someone no. Or whatever.

When you do, you must stand on principles and wisdom. You must be guided by what is right and what is good, not on what will make you Likable.

After the fact, you believe that others will understand, even those who were opposed to your decision.

That belief is misguided. Because those people will not understand. Those people will say things. They will revise what actually took place in conversation. They will talk to anyone and everyone who will listen. They will seek to garner support. They will take to social media.

And, most of the time, you cannot defend yourself.

It’s not that I am incapable of defending myself. I’m quite good at arguing. I know because both my mother and my wife have told me so—albeit twenty years apart. It is instead that I know when I defend myself, I usually have mixed motives. I know that defending myself will usually veer me into the territory of gossip. I know that defending myself will usually require me to denigrate others—and I usually love those others (Ephesians 4:29: “Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen.”). I know that defending myself will usually only extend the argument, and I’m to work for peace (Romans 12:18: “As far as it depends upon you, live peaceably with others.”) I want to defend myself, because I want to be Likable. “If people only knew what really happened,” I’ll think to myself, then everyone would like me. They wouldn’t take the side of that other person. That wrong person.

Of course, then there’s the other part, the professional hazard. Anything I say will be used against me. Pastors are supposed to be the example of Jesus. And when you start pointing out the flaws in others, you’re suddenly held to a standard that others are not.

It’s a tightrope, to be sure.

I want so desperately to be Likable…and yet there are moments when that isn’t possible.

What to do?

Thank God for wise friends. I talk this over with one of them. He’s older than me, a role model—someone I look to when I need guidance. He’s been a pastor. He knows the ropes.

He puts it simply.

“Steve, you can’t say anything. But you can turn to this Scripture. I have, many times, over the years. And you should, too.” I was anticipating Exodus 14:14. But no. He points me to 1 Peter 2:23, instead. “When he was reviled, he did not revile in return; when he suffered, he did not threaten, but continued entrusting himself to him who judges justly.”

Not reviling and not threatening are good. It’s like me not gossiping, like me not insisting on defending myself.

But in those instances I’m still clinging to myself, to my being Likable.

I’m still making it about myself.

I need to entrust justice to the One who judges justly.

I’m not always able to do that well.

But I’m going to keep trying.

Serving Over Services

The other day I was on one of many Zoom calls. This one was with a group of pastors I call my brothers in the ministry. We were all trained in church planting by the same mentor—Bob Roberts, the founder of Glocalnet. (Bob turned all of our lives upside down years ago by teaching us about the Kingdom of God. More about that later.)

These calls are a personal highlight for me. They range from the serious to the silly. You never know exactly what will come out of them. On this particular day, we happened upon some profundity. Somewhere in the midst of the call, my friend, Nic, made a profound statement. We were talking about how the coronavirus pandemic has forced many pastors and churches to embrace technology in ways they had not done previously, and, by extension, the anxiety that was causing for many of them. That was when Nic spoke up and said something to this effect:

“I was on a Zoom call earlier this week,” he said, “with pastors from another network. All they could talk about was when they were going to be able to worship in person again. It felt like to me they were missing the big picture. If you have the Kingdom, you may not be able to meet in person, but you’ll never lose influence.”

What was Nic driving at?

In the wake of Hurricane Harvey, our church was upended. We lost the ability to meet as we had for almost two and half years. Our student ministry (led incredibly well by our Student Pastor, Rylan) met in four (five?) different locations—including a literal tent. Yes, a tent. Like you would picture for an old school revival. Our kids met in portables and behind thin dividers. Our adults—even our most senior adults—moved into houses. It was chaos.

And yet our church’s influence skyrocketed during that season.

Why?

Simply put, we focused on serving our neighbors, because that is the Way of the Kingdom.

When Jesus was facing death—a death he knew that was coming, he chose to wash the feet of his disciples. Me? Over the years I’ve joked around about what I’d do if I knew I had 24 hours left to live. I’d eat junk food. I’d go on a trip. I’d do something crazy.

Jesus knew. And he washed feet.

The King of the Universe chose to wash feet as his last great gesture, because, as he put it, he wanted his disciples to know that if he—God in flesh—would wash feet, then those who follow him must do so, because they are not greater than he is. Jesus said, “If I then, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet.” (John 13:14)

Jesus was leaving his followers and his last great command was this—serve others.

Wash feet.

Many churches today are known for their services, for their preaching. And—just to be clear—I love preaching! And I love great worship services! In fact, I think we have some pretty incredible worship services at my own church. The worship service brings God glory He is due. It is important. It is central. It is the work of the people. And the worship service is a moment to remind the church of who we are. We preach the gospel of Jesus so that we can invite others to join—and so that we can remember who we are. We do this because the church will scatter after the worship gathering. And, as they scatter, they will influence people and domains I will never see.

And this is where the church can change a city.

When church members feed the hungry, the Kingdom is displayed.

When church members donate blood, the Kingdom is displayed.

When church members run errands for the elderly or vulnerable, the Kingdom is displayed.

In this season, no one is going to remember my highly produced live stream. They may remember the Scripture or the way the Word is preached through the movement of the Spirit across lens and screen. But they aren’t going to care about video production. What will they care about? They will care about the churches who served. They will care about the churches who loved their neighbors. This is one of the most effective ways to preach the gospel in the season of the pandemic—to serve and give selflessly, like Jesus.

Because the ones who wash feet are the ones who—counterintuitively—gain influence.

When you serve, people are more interested in your message. When you serve, they are more interested in the God-Man we emulate.

Most preachers think it’s about the service.

Jesus knew it was about serving.

In this season, the motto is simple: serving over services.

Interview with Reform Austin

Today a reporter from Reform Austin reached out for comment on whether I agreed with Governor Abbott’s inclusion of churches in the category of “essential” businesses and organizations and how our church would comply. You can read the interview here.

Managing the Weight

Turns out the third week of quarantine is when it starts to get real.

This week it seemed the word I saw everywhere was “lament.” There’s nothing wrong with lament, of course. The Bible has Psalms of lament. There is a book called Lamentations. God gave us the emotion. And yet, lament at this time of year is jarring. This is the week leading up to Easter. The weather outside is glorious. Greenery is lush, and colors are bursting from the ground.

But we are lamenting. Because we are losing much.

COVID is causing our church to miss Palm Sunday celebrations. No small children singing, no waving palm branches. There be no packed services for Easter this year. We will not be chanting, “He is risen, indeed!” in raucous unison as the throng gathers. I assumer there will be few, if any, egg hunts outside of immediate families. Our 21st anniversary is next Friday, and we will be celebrating it much the same way we do every evening these days—at home. Many of my friends are losing graduations, birthday parties, trips, reunions, and gatherings. My parents drive in for Easter every year and we celebrate with a Honeybaked Ham and JB’s homemade banana pudding.

Not this year.

This year I am counseling my pastor friends who are concerned they will close their doors for good, due to the lack of financial support as the economy trends downward. I am having more and more calls with friends who find the disease has crept into their neighborhood. I am talking to at least one who find the disease has bounded in like a storybook giant—leaving 250 dead in his immediate neighborhood. Another friend has a child with leukemia. I know a COVID death will eventually come to our congregation, and I do not know exactly how we will manage a funeral, or if there will even be one.

This year is different.

It’s heavy.

One of my friends told me that I need to recognize the season, that I needed to stop holding myself to excellence, that I needed to underperform.

God, why do I struggle doing that? I would say that it is theological reasons, but we also know that is not the truth. I am far too worried about what others think to underperform.

But when you carry all of these weights, it turns out that you will feel them. You will find them to be heavy, not just as metaphor, but as emotion.

It’s a heavy season.

This is when I am reminded that I need Easter. I do not need Easter as a gathering. I do not need Easter as a family meal. I do not even need the music or the preaching.

But I do need the Resurrected Jesus. I need a Jesus that can take my weight. And I need a Jesus that can conquer death, because God knows there is a refrigerated truck full of it on the streets of Queens right now, and it may be barreling towards Houston.

And I need the Resurrection. I need to rest in the knowledge that I am not saved by my productivity, my excellence, nor my pastoral performance. I am saved by grace—the grace given at the door of the Empty Tomb.

I need Easter, because I need to drop the weight I am carrying.

And, with God’s grace, that is what I plan to do.

Maybe you should, too.