church life | Elaine Olsen

sacred remembrance…

August 16, 2010

“Give thanks to the LORD, call on his name; make known among the nations what he has done. Sing to him, sing praise to him; tell of all his wonderful acts. Glory in his holy name; let the hearts of those who seek the LORD rejoice. Look to the LORD and his strength; seek his face always. Remember the wonders he has done, his miracles and the judgments he pronounced.” (Psalm 105:1-5)

I haven’t told you this story before.

Tonight seems a good fit for the telling. Why? Because tonight I need to remember. Remembering is one of the major mandates that God laid at the feet of his people throughout Scripture, thus becoming a lasting mandate for us as well.

To remember. To recall where we’ve been… where we’ve come from and the faithfulness of God therein. Remembrance is particularly helpful in a season where chaos abounds and our faith proffers more like a molecule rather than a mustard seed. As we become intentional with our remembrance—especially as it pertains to God’s everlasting faithfulness in seasons past when troubles assailed us and we couldn’t determine the workings of his hand only to be surprised in the end by a miraculous return to peace—when we recall those moments of grace and deliverance, then we’re better able to take hold of the doubts that overwhelm us in our current seasons of travail.

God knew back then, even as he knows now, the power that comes with our sacred remembering. Thus, tonight I remember… a day in recent history. A day dated April 14, 2010. But before we get there, let me set the stage.

In early February of this year, my husband received a call from our District Superintendent informing us that we were on the “move list.” No other details were offered, only that we were to begin making preparations for a move, both emotionally and physically. Over the next couple of months we did just that… not only preparing our hearts for a move, but also preparing the hearts of the congregation we’d served for six years. It was a difficult preparation from many different angles. That being said, we’re accustomed to moving. We’re a Methodist clergy family, wholly… holy committed to the itinerant lifestyle.

Fast forward to April 12, 2010. We received a call from our DS informing us of where our next pastorate would be. On paper, all made good sense. Great location; big enough parsonage; thriving congregation; a salary in keeping with expectation. We spent the day contemplating our “next,” but as the day wore on, so did our concerns. Before nightfall, we were a complete mess. We couldn’t put our finger on the pulse behind our concerns, but we knew something was amiss. The next morning, we received an answer.

A phone call arrived informing my husband of a situation surrounding our new appointment. In good conscience and after heavy deliberation with me and with God in prayer, my husband respectfully requested he be re-assigned to a new church. There’s always a risk that comes with making such a request of the Bishop, especially at the eleventh hour when appointments were being set in stone. To say that we were crushed in spirit with the recent revelation is to say too little. We had long felt this would be our moving year. Even prior to us knowing about our moving status, God had prompted our hearts along those lines. We were, however, content to let the process run its course, believing that God would move the hearts of the Bishop and his cabinet if he so desired to move us to a new place of ministry.

The day was fraught with anxiety. Hours went by before hearing anything. And then he called. Not God… the Bishop. He was sympathetic to our concerns and assured us that we could return to our previous appointment without any problem. And then, he offered a postscript.

“By the way, I have another appointment you might be interested in…”—something about a dying congregation, about our coming in as a first, test-case for a revitalization effort going on within the UM church and how our support would be generated in partnership between this new church and the conference. I wasn’t thrilled; I was confused.

Thus began an all night deliberation regarding a “move” not in keeping with our personal expectations. However, by morning, we’d decided to “go” with a few conditions attached to our “going.” Apparently, conditions don’t always mesh well with a Bishop’s offer, thereby creating another five tenuous hours of back and forth between my husband and the Bishop’s cabinet. Not handling the pressure very well, I did what all smart women do when confused.

I went shopping.

I told my husband that my phone would be on and that he should call me should something change. He did… a couple of times. His voice was tearful, his pain palpable. It didn’t look like a move was going to “press through” for us this year. During his final call to me, he said, “Elaine, the DS just called again and wanted to know if he should remove us from the ‘move’ list.” I hesitantly replied with my “yes.” We closed our conversation, and I headed to the dressing room.

And then it happened… a moment I couldn’t have planned… a moment I didn’t anticipate. As I live and breathe, I was standing before the mirror in the Belk’s dressing room, arms extended into the air in preparation for trying on a blouse. As the blouse enveloped my frame, so did a warmth I’ve never experienced before (even typing this now, I feel the witness of the Holy Spirit running throughout my body). From head to toe, I was wrapped and energized in the marvelous light and life of God’s Spirit within. I immediately retrieved my cell phone from my pant’s pocket and speed-dialed my husband.

“Honey, text message the cabinet and tell them we’ll come… no strings attached.”

He thanked me and immediately sent this message to the cabinet:

“We’ll go and we’ll go with God. No strings attached.”

We were later told that with the receiving of that text, the climate in the conference room immediately shifted and every one of our “attachments” were not only met, they were exceeded. Now here we are, almost eight weeks down the road, and I’m telling the story again. Not only for your sake, but mostly for mine. Why? Because I need to remember tonight; need to be reminded that for all the unknowns that currently torment me, there was a day in recent history when God firmly and beautifully gave me his “go” to be in this place.

I’d be lying if I told you I haven’t wondered a least a thousand times “why?” over the past eight weeks. It’s been a difficult “fit” with my heart. That being said, I’d also be lying if I tried to deny that dressing room moment. I can ask “why” all I want, but the truth is, I cannot deny the Spirit’s presence on April 14, 2010, in Belk’s. It’s almost as real to me this day as it was then, and friends…

Who of us doesn’t want some of that?

Remembrance is a good thing. It keeps us moving in a right and holy direction, even when we cannot see our next step. Remembering the presence and faithfulness of God in our past better enables us to move forward with our future. It’s one of the strongest tools we have in our spiritual arsenal to fight the enemy’s schemes for personal disaster. Tonight, I’m wielding that sword. Tonight, I’m writing my faith, out loud and on display for all the world to read. I don’t know if you needed it, but I certainly did, and I happen to believe that there might be a few of you who need to remember as well.

Remember God. Remember him well. Remember where you’ve come from, where you’ve been, and where you’re headed. Remember how he’s been there each and every time. He’s in it all—past, present, and future, and his faithfulness never ends.

Remember God and find your thanks, sing your praise, and tell of all his wonderful acts of kindness toward you. Your deliberate remembrance this day will be the spontaneous hallelujah of your tomorrow! As always…

Peace for the journey,

~elaine

PS: Thanks to Sandi Patty’s wonderful marketing crew, I have three copies of her newest book to give-away. The winners are… Cheryl B., Teresa, and Joan. Send me your snail-mail girls, and I’ll get your book to you this week! Enjoy.

a view from my window…

April 21, 2010

I’m sitting in a place this morning where I’ve sat many times before over the past six years. I’m perched at my dining room table, looking out at the highway that runs in front of our home. The azalea bushes across the street greet me with their rich dressing of whites and pinks and corals—colors that will quickly fade in coming days. The rain is falling as cars are carrying their occupants to the busyness of a new day… this day… April 21, 2010. None of us—those who are on the road and those at home—can accurately forecast how this day is going to live itself out on the pages of history, but all of us have some expectations along those lines.

Mine are wrapped around the “big event” of the day. It may not seem like “big” to other people, but to me, it’s about as large as I want to live today. Tonight, I’ll be showing off the parsonage to the new clergy couple who will take up occupancy within these four walls come June. There’s not much “showing off” to do. The house is old, the rooms are small. To those accustomed to high class, this house wouldn’t make the cut. Still and yet, it has a beauty all its own… not because of its outward attractiveness but rather because of its inward pulse.

You see, my family has crammed a lot of living into these four walls over the past six years. To date, our time here has been the longest tenure of our ministerial lives. All four of our children consider this “home” and rightly so. Many personal milestones have been achieved while living here, too many to chronicle in this moment, too many emotions for me to personally deal with and still be able to finish this post in tact. Safe to say, the best part of this house hasn’t been its amenities; the selling point of this house has been the history that’s been written by its occupants over the past seventy-two months.

Family is what gives a house its character… its worthiness and its value. Could this one use some cosmetic work on the exterior? You bet, but you’d have a hard time improving on its interior. And that’s what I will tell the new clergy family tonight when they come to imagine their lives living here within these four walls… not to major on the “externals” but to realize that for every way it might fall short in their expectations, God has expected bigger. That he can take the simplest of dwellings and make it into something extraordinary. That being a “home” has less to do with the four walls that encase it and more to do with the inward pulse that exists within it. That this place has been a good place to grow a family and to mark the passage of time with “stone upon stone” of God’s faithfulness.

Like the Israelites who were crossing the Jordan River in order to possess the promise of Canaan, we’ve collected and gathered a gracious plenty of stones from the riverbed along the way so that in days to come, when our children and our grandchildren ask us regarding the story behind those stones, we can sacredly and reverently say,

We have crossed the Jordan on dry ground. For the Lord our God did to the Jordan just what he had done to the Red Sea when he dried it up before us until we had crossed over. He did this so that all the peoples of the earth might know that the hand of the Lord is powerful and so that you might always fear the Lord your God (paraphrase of Joshua 4:21-24).

The memories we’ve made in this place will serve as our stones of remembrance for years to come. None of the six of us can accurately forecast the eventual depth and witness of those stones, but we can all be sure that they matter. That the collective life we’ve lived here beneath this roof has shaped us, strengthened us, matured us, and furthered us along in the pilgrimage of faith. What’s been lived here writes as history for tomorrow, and that fact alone, my friends, should make the living of our todays (wherever that might be for you) a worthy investment of our hearts.

Home truly is where the heart lives, and mine has lived here for six years. My family and I are better for having pitched our tent upon this soil and for allowing it to penetrate its worthiness into our history. It’s a good perspective to hold as I move throughout my day and begin the imaginations of my heart regarding my next home. I haven’t seen it yet, but I can feel its worthiness sight-unseen. Why? Because I’m bringing my home with me as I go. I’m bringing my family, and they are enough to warrant a substantial increase in property value wherever they reside.

Would you pray for me that I will be able to do this thing? To relinquish my hold on this temporary dwelling into the hands of another? I want to do it graciously, humbly, and considerately. God has been very good to me; I want to release that blessing and goodness to this new family with no strings attached. I want to leave a piece of my heart here so that in days to come, perhaps in a season when they’ve got a few questions regarding the worthiness of their ministry time here, the inward pulse of my family’s witness will reverberate within these walls reminding them of just how good a life can live upon this soil.

Thanks, friends, for taking this journey with me. For being willing to entreat these soul-stirrings of mine and for allowing me to flesh out my “faith” while still living with my “elaine.” All of “this” would be so much harder if I didn’t have you to come alongside me and lend me your strength for the road ahead. May the presence of our Father and the “endurance and encouragement of the Scriptures” (Romans 15:4) be the anchors that bring your heart hope this day. As always…

peace for the journey,

walkabout…

March 21, 2010

Loose ends.

We all live with some. I don’t imagine there is a day that goes by when a loose thread or two don’t dangle their insistence before our eyes and within our hearts, thereby challenging us to trust in something bigger, Someone bigger, to weave them into the fabric that we call our lives.

I’ve had a thread or two or five or ten over the past few months. Some of them still dangle before me. Some of them, thankfully, have been picked up by the capable hands of Jesus and have begun to add their color to my canvas. I can’t see the fullness of their beauty, not yet. But as a woman of faith—a woman who is learning the road of the “ancients” of Hebrews 11—I’m believing God for their worthiness. It’s all I can do when I cannot see the road in front of me. I can only see the One who leads me, and that is enough for me, friends, for He is my “next.”

It’s been a little over two weeks since I put the final punctuation on the manuscript I began back in August of last year. The idea had been stirring in me for some time, but after walking through a week-long, intentional time of searching my Father’s heart (thanks, Lisa!), God confronted my heart regarding my faith and the lack of it therein. It was during that time, that the topic of my next written work came into clear focus; I’ve spent the past seven months writing that focus and have now completed my thoughts. The tentative title?

On Walkabout with the King: stepping the path of an ancient faith. (You may remember me talking about it here.)

Fifty thousand words and forty reflections later, I am well-pleased with the resulting conclusion. Not the words necessarily, but the work that has been accomplished because of those words in me and that will continue to work through and out of me in the days to come. We cannot delve into the lives of our spiritual ancestors and remain the same. Not really. Certainly we can give them a casual glance, take note of their faith and their “settled confidence” in God, but if we dig deeper for further clarification regarding their faith and how their faith pertains to ours, then we will be changed. It is God’s promise to us.

“This is what the LORD says: ‘Stand at the crossroads and look; ask for the ancient paths, ask where the good way is, and walk in it, and you will find rest for your souls. But you said, ‘We will not walk in it.’” (Jeremiah 6:16).

I have found some rest for my soul. I’ve stood at the crossroads and asked for the ancient paths. I’ve seen their faith in living color and applied it to my daily walk. Why? Because I desire nothing more than to be a woman of faith… a woman who steps in the paths of her spiritual ancestors. A woman who isn’t just “all talk” and no “walk.” A woman who isn’t afraid to make the same journey that they made. A woman who is willing to pick up her tent, even as Abraham picked up his tent, pack up her family, in order to keep in step with her King’s directives.

Today marks the beginning of that odyssey, friends. Today, my husband and I stood before our congregation to make the announcement that the Bishop of the United Methodist Church has issued the call for us to move this June. It wasn’t an easy announcement. We’ve invested the past six years of our lives into this church and surrounding community. The work of our hands dwarfs in comparison to the investment that we’ve made with our hearts.

We love our people, and we’ve loved them fully.

It’s not always been perfect. Loving in the flesh always leaves the door open for mistakes on both ends. That being said, we’ve always loved willingly, kindly, and with enough open honesty to admit our frailties in the matter. When love loves that way, then love blooms, and today, my arms aren’t big enough to hold the bouquet that I’ve been given. Today, my bouquet overflows with the witness of the colorful blossoms that have been lavished upon me over the past six years. How thankful I am for the garden that God seeded on my behalf long before my moving van ever crossed the Wayne County line six years ago. How thankful I am for the seeds that he’s planting now somewhere else.

I don’t know where that somewhere else will be friends, nary a clue. We won’t know until the end of April. But God knows, and to a lesser degree the Bishop knows, and that is enough for me. Did you hear me? Just in case you missed it…

God’s knowing is enough for me.

Seven months ago, it might not have been enough, but today, his enough proffers as certainty rather than maybe. If I’ve learned one thing from the “ancients” who are listed in the Hebrews’ Hall of Faith, I’ve learned that our God can be trusted with our futures. Why? Because he is our future, he is our “next,” and I intend on keeping one hand on the hem of his garment and one hand around the waist of my family until his hem crosses me over that finish line, and I find a final and perfect rest for my soul.

It’s all I can do—keep holding on and keep believing in the One whose cloudy pillar is on the move. God has asked a great thing of me; it’s not easy to pack up six lives and move them in accordance with God’s directives. But God’s great asking is in keeping with my faith’s cultivation; he’s not asking anything of me that he didn’t ask of his people long ago. And so, like those from my spiritual lineage, I cast my eyes to the horizon this night and remember that I am but a stranger on loan to this alien country. That there is a better country coming, and that this one isn’t it. This one only serves as the bridge between what has been and what will be. And the steps taken in between the two?

The walkabout of faith.

{lisa leonard designs}

I’m on it; so is my family. So are you, and so is our King. He can be trusted with the road ahead, so let us all take hold of his hem and press on, believing that the “what and the where” that is to come is exactly the journey he has intended for us all along.

Sweet trust. Sweet rest. Continuing…

peace for the journey.

~elaine

on "going public" with Jesus…

January 17, 2010

“As soon as Jesus was baptized, he went up out of the water. At that moment heaven was opened, and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and lighting on him. And a voice from heaven said, ‘This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased.’” (Matthew 3:16-17).

Today we celebrated “the Baptism of the Lord” in our worship service. I didn’t know that this particular event in Jesus’ life received a Sunday all its own, even though I’ve been doing this “liturgical” dance with the Methodists all of my life. Christ’s baptism certainly is worthy of remembrance as are all his moments, but this one in particular marked the beginning of something special.

It marked Christ’s beginning journey to the cross—his public ministry on this earth. What began in the Jordan would climax at Calvary. When John baptized Jesus in keeping with the fulfillment of Scripture, God introduced his Son to the world with a few words of sacred commendation. With his affirming love and with his “well-pleased.” The Holy Spirit lighted upon Jesus in the form of a dove, empowering him to walk the earthly road assigned to him.

Today, my preacher (a.k.a. “my man”) admonished us to “remember our baptism” as well. To acknowledge that moment from our past when we first “went public” with the grace of God. My public moment came as a young adolescent, kneeling at the altar railing of the Wilmore United Methodist Church. Dr. David Seamands spoke the moment over me. I remember my white dress, the one I desperately searched for because it was so very important to me to look pure—to be adorned in white raiment in keeping with the sacred occasion. A few friends joined me at the altar that day. They other details have long since faded from memory, but I do remember thinking that this occasion was something more than in keeping with religious protocol. It was a day that marked the beginning of something bigger in my own journey… a walk to the cross of sorts, where my heart and life identified with the heart and life of Jesus Christ at a deeper level.

Long before I ever felt the “wetness” of Dr. Seamands’ hands upon my head, God’s grace was working on my behalf. There has never been a time in my life when Jesus wasn’t real to me. He’s always been present; always been part of my thoughts. He began the sacred conversation with my soul at the earliest of ages. It continues to this day, and I cannot imagine my life without him.

I suppose there have been seasons when I tried… tried to live free from him. Times when I deliberately chose flesh over faith, but even in those moments of willful rebellion, the conversation continued. Muffled some days because of my freely chosen decisions, but present nonetheless. Jesus Christ has kept me, friends, all the days of my forty-three years. He is the reason I have peace in my heart. He is the reason I gather with the saints on a Sunday morning to reflect and remember, rejoice and relive the single truth that has claimed me and transformed me.

Today I remembered Christ’s baptism. I remembered my own. I dipped my hand into the water and clutched remembrance to my chest. I knelt at the altar again and considered my “long ago and far away.” I considered Christ’s as well, and I was thankful for his “entering into” that Jordan River so that I could, one day, enter into my very own moment of “going public” with God.

Please don’t misunderstand me. Baptism, for me, exceeds religious practice. I understand the huge denominational divide that separates our views along these lines. I simply don’t get hung up on it. God’s grace and his Son’s moment at the Jordan are too big to allow me to linger in my limited understanding therein. Some of you are dearly devoted to Jesus Christ and have never had a moment of “going public” with your heart. No water has sprinkled its wetness upon your head; your body hasn’t been submerged in a baptistery, much less the Jordan River. Let me assure you of this…

You are no less precious in our Father’s eyes. If Christ has entered into your broken and weary estate, if you have received him as your Lord and Savior, then you have “gone public” with your Jesus. You have been baptized with the renewing power of his Holy Spirit. When it comes to the matter of our hearts, we answer only to One. And if your heart belongs to the King, then all of heaven rejoices and bends low to offer their chorused applause. Your wetness on the inside far exceeds any public display of “wet” on the outside.

Does that mean that “baptism” is nothing, that it accomplishes nothing, isn’t important or not an appropriate response to the working of the Holy Spirit within us? Not at all. Baptism is an outward and visible sign of an inward working of grace. It is one of the ways we “go public” with our Jesus and our profession of faith. And I happen to believe that “going public” with Jesus is always in keeping with his plans for the crucified life. A life that identifies, in part, with the Savior who went public with his commitment to the cross so that you and I could better walk our commitment accordingly.

Today I remembered my baptism, I remembered Christ’s as well. Tomorrow I pray to remember the same—to never walk a single day without the grace of Calvary pulsing through my veins. I want my life to be the lavish expression of the life that he lived and breathed and walked and surrendered some 2000 years ago on my behalf. To offer any less to him, is to live less. And the last time I checked, “less” didn’t fit with God’s agenda of more.

It’s been a long time since my “long ago and far away” moment of “going public” with Jesus. There are few remaining persons in my life who actually remember that moment. I don’t imagine they think on it very often. The water that poured down my head has long since dried up, and the godly man who put it there? Well, he walked home to Jesus not long ago. But there is One who thinks on it very often. His memory is clear, and his rejoicing still resounds throughout all of heaven to announce that I am his, that his working grace continues on my behalf, and that the indwelling power of his Holy Spirit has found a good and spacious rest within my soul.

{lisa leonard designs}

I am the living temple of God’s living Spirit. So are you. In wearing him, we wear our “going public” display of his witness for all the world to see.

Wear your baptism this week, friends. Remember it well, and walk it into a world that needs the pulse of Calvary moving through its midst. As always…

peace for the journey,

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PS: Friends, please refrain from allowing our comments to become a heated debate regarding the practice of baptism. This is not my intent with this post, but rather to allow us remembrance and reflection regarding the importance of wearing our “baptism”–whatever that has been for us–as a living witness to the world. Shalom.

a Sunday’s better…

October 25, 2009

9:10 AM. Wal-Mart. Check-out line. This morning. Sunday morning.

I didn’t want to be there. I try and avoid Sundays and Wal-Mart, but when my children informed me that today was the day they’d be packing their Samaritan’s Purse, Christmas shoeboxes during the Sunday School hour, well, what’s a mother to do?

I tried scrounging through drawers and all the places where I sometimes stash “extras”—left-over goodies for spare occasions requiring a quick gift. Somehow, I didn’t think the children in the remote villages of Africa would appreciate scented candles and bath salts while their friends were unwrapping toy cars, balls, and bubble gum. So after a brief “interior” debate with myself regarding a trip to Wal-Mart prior to Sunday worship, I loaded the kids in the van for the one-mile trip down the road.

Having a Wal-Mart close by is a great convenience for this mom, especially on a day when she doesn’t want her kids (umm… the preacher’s kids) to be the only ones not participating in the Christmas mission project. We quickly loaded our arms with some dollar goodies and made our way to the “express lane.” One of the advantages of going to Wal-Mart on a Sunday morning (if there could be an advantage) is that the crowds are sparse and the “express” check-out really lives up to its billing.

The cashier scanned my items and was bagging them when I noticed another Sunday shopper in line behind us. He wasn’t buying toys for shoeboxes. He was buying a black belt to go with his black suit and shiny tie—a pretty clear give-away that he was headed somewhere requiring more than the typical sweats and t-shirts of the other shoppers I’d seen. Not one for “quiet” check-out experiences, I took a chance on the fact that he was heading to church, and said…

“Would you look at this kids … here’s a man needing a new belt for church.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’ve got to give Sunday my best.”

“Of course you do; I’d certainly hate for you to lose your britches during worship!”

He chuckled; we small talked a bit more, and on my way out the door, I shouted back to him…

“Enjoy your Jesus today.”

“Back at you, ma’am. Back at you.”

We parted with smiles and as friends, knowing that we shared some common ground on this Sunday morning. At Wal-Mart. At 9:10 AM. In a check-out line. On a day when we shouldn’t have been worried about such inconveniences, yet a day when we both made a decision to give God our best.

Not our left-overs. Not scented candles when toys would be better. Not a frayed piece of leather when some fresh rawhide would look better … serve better … present itself better because Sundays are intended for our better.

I’ve been thinking about that “better” for the better part of the day; it has both annoyed me and delighted me.

Annoyed me because, in many ways, I think we’ve gotten away from “better” on Sundays. It seems as if “good enough” and second-rate has become the accepted norm rather than the exception. When did that happen? When did we first decide to trade in our “best” as it pertains to our worship for a watered down approach to the process? When did “raggedy and rumpled” replace “spit and polish”? Why is it we don’t bring our “better” to worship on Sundays?

Delighted me because, in many ways, I realize I don’t hold the answers to it all. What I deem “better” is somewhat relative—a personal application regarding my expectations for the Lord’s Day and how I think it should be approached, should be absorbed, should be celebrated, should be revered. I can tell you that in my thinking about Sundays, there is little room for a Wal-Mart run. Still and yet, I’m delighted by the fact that I’m not bound by legalism, but a bit bothered that I’m not—

bound to something better. Some way of “doing” the Sabbath better that exceeds the world’s view of a Sunday’s worth.

As I stood with my young children this morning in the front pew singing “How Great Thou Art,” tears filled my eyes and stung my heart. My arms cradled their shoulders as I watched each one of them run their fingers along the stanzas of the hymn, trying their best to keep up with the pace of the piano. We’ve been working on this for a long season … this learning of how to sing a hymn from an actual hymnal and how to join our voices in unison with the other congregants who’ve come to worship. It may sound a bit rustic, a bit perfunctory to some of you, but it seemed to me that they were giving God their best … “doing” their best to understand this tradition of church worship that I hold dear, and one that I fear will soon be obsolete.

While standing there, I also thought about him. My new Wal-Mart friend standing somewhere in a church of his own in another part of town, wearing his new belt and worshipping the same God as me. I imagined his worship being a bit different from mine, but his heart? Perhaps more similar to mine than the world would imagine. A heart that was willing to make a pit-stop prior to worship in order to “give Sunday his best.”

To give Jesus his best. Not because he had to, but rather because he wanted to. Because somewhere in his past, at some point in his “growing up” years, someone took the time to teach him about Sundays and about giving Sundays something more than his “good enough.”

God is worthy of more than our “good enough’s,” friends. Worthy of more than our disheveled approach to approaching his presence. Certainly, God invites us to come as we are to the throne of grace, knowing that his grace is the only worthy covering for our sin-stained hearts. But when our “coming as we are” is based on our laziness rather than on our desire for holiness, then we’ve missed the mark. We’ve misunderstood the hugeness of the “Who” it is we’ve come to worship. If we really “got” that, then I imagine our check-out lines would be filled with our endeavoring to give God our best.

Annoyed and delighted. That’s where I am in the matter of worship. Wanting to do better, realizing that my better could never be enough to match the honor and glory my Father deserves. I’m going to work on this, this week. Would you be willing to do the same? To examine your worship and your Sundays and your “giving it your best” before the heart of our Father? If we truly want to live better, than we must be willing to examine our hearts further. Otherwise, we meld into a Christian cultural norm that no longer stands out, but rather blends in with a world that was never intended to serve as our norm.

Enjoy your Jesus this week. And should your feet find their place in a check-out line, take time to notice the people around you. To speak to the people around you. To give them some of your time, your conversation, your laughter, your prayers. The kingdom of God happens there just as much as it does in our pews. Perhaps even more so. As always…

peace for the journey,

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