Rebellious Trust.

There are 2 kinds of Christian leaders. The ones meant to inspire us and the ones meant to guide us. The inspiring ones are the missionaries, the urban ministers, the guy who sold all his stuff to go build orphanages in Russia. The quiet assumption seems to be that these guys serve a concrete purpose when we publish their stories or put them in our pulpits: inspire people… but not too much! Most pastors don’t want their people quitting their jobs and hitch-hiking to Mexico to bless the poor. Keep your job. Serve at our food pantry instead.

The leaders meant to guide us can be church growth consultants, that latest book on leadership, the church council with more common sense than Spirit sensitivity. (After all, who wants a bunch of intuiting, emotional holy rollers making important decisions for a whole group of people?)

Now I love those people: the Dave Ramseys of the world that don’t mince words or hyper-spiritualize every decision. They challenge the dreamers and thrill-seekers in a healthy way. But there’s a double standard here. Let the radicals inspire you and increase your “buy in”. But let the middle-of-the-roaders guide your daily decision-making. The maxim here seems to be “God blesses those who act sensibly.” That’s in the bible right?

But I feel in my heart and in the heartbeat of my generation a quiet rebellion against these moderating norms. In the church today, a growing movement of restless hearts of all ages is calling the bluff of the Evangelical middle class. We are taking their faith heroes. And we are making them our day-to-day heroes. We are opting for purpose over glitz. We have seen the evil of too much. We are the Occupy Generation.

We are angsty, immature, and rebellious. And we won’t listen to timid pastors or the clerical bourgeoisie. We are looking for humble radicals with settled hearts and fearless belief to BOTH inspire AND guide us. We seek courageous souls who simplify their faith and take Jesus at his word. Rich or poor. Young or old. It doesn’t matter. Our souls are parched and yearning for authenticity, integrity, and hilarious trust. Who will lead us? Only those with the courage to practice what they preach.

Bill Ringold will lead us. Over 85 years old, he invited Debra and I to coffee to seek our input on how our church can become radically missional. He said, “I don’t have many years left on this earth to serve the Lord and make an impact. So I can’t waste my time.” Yesterday he had a cornea transplant but said, “if you want to meet up next week, I won’t let a little thing like surgery stop me. I’ll just come looking like a pirate!”

Steve Nicholson will lead us. I stood there sharing a painful experience with him in the lobby one Sunday morning while dozens of people vied for his attention. I kept apologizing for taking his time. He smiled and said, “are you kidding me? This is why I’m here!” He took me to Houston and encouraged me listen to the Holy Spirit and prophesy over a room full of people. But he went first. He taught people how to pray for the sick. But many Sundays, there HE was, praying for the sick.

Mike Lotzer will lead us. He got convicted by his own sermon series on social justice. So he sold his house and downsized.

Ben Swanson will lead us. He said, “The first year I pastored here, we just gave tons of money away just because we felt like it. We figured, “the church will probably die anyway. We might as well go out with a bang. Then the church started to grow and I woke up one morning and thought, ‘gosh. I hope I don’t wreck this thing…’ and I realized I’d become way too attached to the ministry. It was like, ‘my precioussss!”

I could go on and on. These men are radically flawed. But there is an otherworldly quality about them. That’s what I’m after: people who do stuff that makes no sense unless there is life beyond this one, and hope that can trump self-interest. These are the courageous hearts than can shepherd our generation.

It is yet one more reminder that my time is better spent following Jesus than teaching others to follow Jesus. It’s better for me to look at my heart than to look at my strategy. Yes. Even in the day-to-day.

We bought a house yesterday. God told us to move there next week and He's clearly arranged the timing with hilarious perfection. But excitement quickly gave way to anxiety as I crunched the numbers and realized that I don't have enough notches on my belt to tighten it that far! I literally have no clue how this is going to work. But we're committed to moving and I'm committed to WDA. Not because it makes sense but because I have 0% doubt that God spoke 3 years ago and has been speaking ever since about it. 

Debra turned to me with a twinkle in her eye yesterday and said, "It's going to be an adventure. And I'm excited to have this adventure with you." So here we go! 42% funding and a small trailer of furniture moving to an somewhat unappealing southern town for a life we know very little about. It's so silly in fact that it makes me laugh. 

But I'm dead serious. It's time to practice the trust I preach with the zany confidence that God will come through. Even if it's not the way we thought, we both feel certain that God will come through.

2:27AM

2:27AM. My heart is pounding. My stomach is churning. I can barely keep my eyes open but I can’t get back to sleep either. Might be the 4pm cup of coffee, or it could be anxiety. Certainly a lot of anxiety. Sitting in the dark on the floor “crying out” to God. Are you going to come through for us? Are you going to help us? I look at the future and come up with a blank. That’s what the future is from my view after all… a blank. I don’t know what He’ll do in the future. I really don’t know. All I know is what He’s done in the past. And in the past He’s taken care of us.

But it has sometimes come with insane amounts of unsettledness, hard choices, general discomfort. And right now, I’m not sure I have it in me to be waking up at 2:37AM several times a year to crunch numbers, contemplate the near future and ask myself yet again if I’ve completely lost my mind. I’m a train racing down an unfinished track. Do I trust the builders to finish the tracks before I go careening into some ravine somewhere?

When Annabel wants something badly and I’m not able or willing to deliver immediately, she tends to ask and ask with increasing distress. I might say, “honey, I’ll take care of you. You need to relax and be patient. I’ll help you soon. Do you trust me?” Clearly she doesn’t because she becomes more upset and asks louder and becomes hysterical as though her world was caving in. We reach the point where I become firm and say, “I love you. I’ll care for you. But this conversation needs to be over right now because it’s just making you more upset. If you keep bringing it up there will be consequences.” She hates it when I say that. But eventually, the screams turn to whimpers as she desperately tries to get a hold of herself… last week, it was a painful lesson in saying “thank you.” I had to forcefully cut off the conversation when she became hysterical. In the moment she said something painfully cute like “I’m trying SO hard to stop the tears but they just keep coming!” But the next day, she woke up and said, “Daddy, I decided it’s not so scary to say ‘thank you’ after all,” and she’s been saying it religiously ever since.

I kind of get how she feels. And in a sense, I’ve been sensing God say this week, “kid, I love you. But right now, this conversation is not healthy for you. You’ve become hysterical and we need to stop talking about it. I’ve given you my answer. I’ll come through for you. But it may not be when or how you expected. I guarantee, it WILL feel painful and unsettled at times. But I WILL deliver on my promises. So right now, you need to be quiet.”

Screams to whimpers. Whimpers to silence. Silence to contemplation. Not sure if this lesson is ever going to stick. But maybe 2:58AM isn’t the best time to make that assessment. I can only hope that one of these mornings I can wake up and say, “Daddy, I decided it’s not so scary to trust you after all,” and a new habit will be born.

35 Africans in a Musty Minnesota Basement

Today, I picked up my Malawian buddy and we went together to a conference in St. Paul. His friend pastors a multicultural church in St Paul which had (for reasons yet unknown to me) decided to fly several dozen Congolese pastors to Minnesota for a weeklong leadership conference. I know. It’s weird. But really, not much weirder (when you think about it) than sending a whole youth group overseas to paint an orphanage.

Speaking of weird, I just got BACK from Congo. So to be sitting in a musty Minnesota church basement with a bunch of Congolese pastors wearing ill-fitting suits, singing Swahili in 3 part harmony, clapping in syncopation, and all praying loudly and simultaneously… well it was very “out of context” for me.

The teachings were good and I met some good folks. In fact, an older man (incidentally a Ugandan) began inquiring about my work overseas. I told him some of the topics we cover: small groups, mentoring, inductive bible study, pastoral counseling, etc. “Oh we need you guys to come,” he said. “What would be required to get you to Uganda?” I told him a pastor with good connections with multiple churches would be helpful. “Well…” he mused. “I’m in charge of 65 churches!” As if to say, “does that count?” Haha.

But being around these men (who I’m sure are godly, wonderful guys) dredged up some strong emotion that I had during my Congo trip: deep personal grief over the state of Christian ministry there. Let me explain…

A young preacher in alligator-skin boots welcomes my colleague Dave to the pulpit after an hour of running around the stage, yelling into the microphone between songs. Dave stands up from his chair on the stage where they put all the “important people”. He gets down on the congregation’s level where he stands right before the front row of all elders and deacons (slightly “less important” people). In his characteristically quiet, unassuming voice, he preaches a fabulous little sermon on humility. Personally, I am deeply convicted. Then, young Alligator Boots gets back up. He surveys his congregation with soul-piercing eyes as though the most profound nugget of truth was tucked away just behind his tongue. Clearly, he is about to drop a doozy on them. “Who in this room is prideful?” he begins slowly with almost comedic gravity. “Who is not humble? Raise your hand! We’re going to REBUKE THAT PRIDE TODAY!!!” He reaches a fevered pitch. Strutting around the stage (in an unmistakably avian fashion) and wielding a torrent of zealous, spiritual-sounding words, he draws pride out of their souls like venom from their unsuspecting hearts. He seems quite satisfied that he has so quickly and efficiently changed their lives. I nearly puke.

Next story… In the Congo, a man builds a church with his own hands on his own personal plot of land. Then he is the chief, the absolute monarch of the church. Presumably he has access to all the funds and controls the church’s assets. If the pastor dies, the church disbands. After all, it’s his land, his building, his church. Discipleship is a dicey topic because some have tried to raise up young leaders who in turn divide the church and steal members (and thus tithes) for their own ministries. If all goes well however, discipleship can be seen as a franchise opportunity, as it is appropriate for a pastor to expect his disciples to share their profits with their mentor so that he too can be prosperous.

In Congo, no cross-country bus ride is complete without a rogue preacher standing up to give an evangelistic message. Even if he is subtle enough NOT to elicit cash from the innocent travelers after his oratory, the expectation is clear: here is a man of God. Let’s give him something. So money is passed peacefully to the front and the preacher receives it with a benign smile.

Greed. Pride. Self-centeredness. Ministry with an ambitious capitalistic twist. Is it any wonder that I’m skeptical when I hear of Congolese denominations that want to “double our number of churches in Congo by such and such a date”? How many of these men would preach to a bus full of Muslims? How many would refuse payment for the sake of the gospel? How many would suffer and die for it?

Part of what’s so disgusting to me about these people is they hold a mirror up for me to see (in very unsubtle ways) what I often look like inside. I can talk about humility with the best of ‘em. But if you look at my demeanor, the way I carry myself, you may doubt that I have an ounce of the stuff! I can strut around sounding pretty wise (and congratulating myself the whole time) but does my life display that same wisdom when my mouth is shut and I’m going about my business? Well, lets just say I regularly have moments where I’m glad nobody is watching me.

Confession: I really dislike pastors. When a pastor starts talking, my first reaction is suspicion and cynicism. And the only thing that melts my cynicism is the moment that the pastor first demonstrates his humility. I’m not impressed by the title because I know the trap of pride and hypocrisy is real one, even for seasoned ministers. Even for me. And THAT’S where all the emotion comes from. They are a mirror of what I sometimes am… of what I could so easily become.

Today I’m happy that I don’t have a nifty title, a big ministry, and a whole lot of bragging rights. I’ll be honest with you. I don’t think I could handle it. Not yet. I have too much vision, too much zeal, and JUST enough charisma to fool myself into thinking I can do something really special all by myself. If I ever have any hope of handling that sort of pressure, it’ll only be because God disciplined me now and I let Him. It’ll be a lot of this guts-inside-out kind of feeling. So I’m cozying up to that feeling today and letting it challenge my whole demeanor. Even if it means poverty or suffering or whatever, I just can’t stomach the idea of quietly compromising to hypocrisy. I would just kinda disgust mysef like, all the time.

Okay, so… Book recommendation for you and me:  http://www.pharisectomy.com/

Apparently, God Didn’t Major in PR.

I read Habakkuk today. Crazy book. Prime example of God’s unique strain of attractive, untamable wildness. I think 2:20 sums it up: “The Lord is in his holy temple; let all the earth be silent.” Here’s my unscholarly paraphrase of the book:

Habakkuk: God, are you seeing this? The bad guys are winning! How can you just sit there and watch while evil prevails? Aren’t you going to do something?

God: It’s worse than you think. I’m personally raising up those evil people to punish Israel.

Habakkuk: How can you do that?! Why would you tolerate these people? You know they’ll only worship their own strength at the end of the day. Answer me!

God: The judgment is coming and the wicked will pay for their crimes. I will have justice. But you must wait. “Though it linger, it will certainly come and will not delay” (2:3).

Pause…

Habakkuk: …I can see that in your timing, you will come with horrible anger, sifting the hearts of people; rescuing the righteous and destroying the wicked. “I heard and my heart pounded, my lips quivered at the sound; decay crept into my bones, and my legs trembled. Yet I will wait patiently for the day of calamity to come on the nation invading us. Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines… yet I will rejoice in the LORD, I will be joyful in God my savior. The sovereign LORD is my strength” (3:16-18).

God doesn’t pander to people. He doesn’t scramble to salvage His reputation. He is obstinately, unapologetically Himself. I find He is very honest with us when we hit rock bottom and cry out to him. “Yes. Your fears are justified. You are going to lose your house, your job, your loved one… Now what? What will be your response? Will you find strength in me or pursue your own strength?”

When I’m in a season of depression, doubt, and questioning, He usually doesn’t “answer” my complaints in the way I want. Clearly, His motto is not, “The customer is always right.” He doesn’t wring His hands or bustle around pulling together inspirational maxims to placate us. (Sometimes Christians get really self-helpy on each other.) Rather, he speaks the truth and watches to see our response.

If our hearts can accept his sovereignty and wildness, then his brutal honesty will refresh us and give us a painful but sure way out of our spiritual paralysis. Put another way, “The truth will set you free.” (I think the same is true with emotional healing...

But if our hearts will not accept His sovereignty and wildness… if we prefer a tame God who will be our savior but not our Lord, who must answer for all his actions and explain himself to us… Then our hearts will harden and our depression will deepen and perhaps we will find some happiness and strength in ourselves or our other relationships for a time. Maybe we’ll learn to follow our hearts or stand up on our own two feet.

But in the end I think it’s a doomed path; one that gets narrower and narrower for all eternity until our choices are all made for us in the worst way. I think it’s a less-honest path and ultimately a less liberating one, even if it feels liberating now.

And truth be told, I’d rather “risk it” with God than risk it on myself. The God-follower says, “even if my life is dry, and stark, and painful, I have cast my lot with the Lord. I have no other Strength besides Him. Even if all the promises seem to crumble and I am led weeping to the altar to surrender Isaac, the son of promise, I can do nothing else… I will do nothing else but trust the power and promises and character of God.”

“Lord, to whom will we go? You have the words of life.”

I believe it’s a blessed path; a narrow and non-intuitive one that gets wider and wider for all eternity and a more liberating one in the end.

I told a friend the other day, “I’m terrified that this one area of my life will be really difficult and painful for the next several years.” To which my friend replied, “Yes. That area of your life will very likely be painful and difficult for the next several years….” After which I felt a strange relief. “Oh,” I thought. “Well okay.” And in a sense, it felt good to have someone say, “Your fears may be justified. But that doesn’t mean you have to live in fear.” I can’t totally explain it, but somehow it’s liberating and it helps me move beyond the paralyzing dread to a humbler place of relying on God.

I think God just built us that way.