A friend said to me recently. “Does it strike you that we often look back and see how God helped us overcome the worst obstacles in our lives? At the time, things seemed impossible. But we emerged and were wiser and stronger for the experience.”

How true! And you know what it comes down to? Learning to trust our Higher Power in the moment – this instant – not at some point in the future!

I have a vivid memory. It’s a summer day. I’m standing high on a mesa in New Mexico, looking out over painted cliffs towards Pedernal, the peak where Georgia O’Keefe’s ashes reside. A storm is approaching, the underside of its dark clouds level with my line of sight. On the horizon, lightning strikes in bright dendrites. A few seconds later, like an aural tsunami, booms of thunder roll over me.

Many of us have this in common. We can look back at extremely difficult times in our lives. We felt stressed, frightened, even desperate. We prayed for God’s help, but dread lingered in our hearts and minds. Friends said trite things like this too shall pass, but we wanted it to be over instantly!

Now we can see how God not only answered our prayers and brought us through those trials, but made us more mature because of them.

Do you see? The presence of God – like a lightning strike – was there in the moment, but it took a while for us to experience the power. I call it the time lag of trust.

Let me share a candid example from my own life.

When I went into treatment for my alcoholism, it was the darkest day of my life. I woke up to meet my new peer group – men who were transferred from prison, or were dumpster-diving the day before. The great leveler of our disease bonded us as one.

During my minimal free time, I would go out to a dirt circle at the back of the facility. It wasn’t a real track, just a path worn smooth by countless men and women working out their anxieties, repeating mantras of recovery, trying desperately to let go and let God.

As I made those circles, I prayed about three potent fears crowding my mind and heart. They spanned my vocation, finances, and dearest relationships. Every day I tried to release them with an attitude of trust. I made minimal progress.

Now, looking back on that valley of the shadow, it’s clear how God was there every second, working out a plan far better than I imagined. The evidence rolls over me in waves of thunderous gratitude.

I have a New Year’s resolution. I resolve to shorten the time lag of trust. I resolve to believe today, not later, that I am in God’s hands. I will welcome the peace this gives to my life as I seek to love and serve.

Will you join me, my friends?

For those who have spiritual beliefs, as well as those who don’t, here’s a question for the New Year: are we seekers or settlers?

By settlers, I don’t mean putting down physical roots. Remaining in one place can have long term benefits as we develop relationships and increase our influence.

I’m talking about our journeys toward actualization. Are we continuing on with the belief that there is more wisdom, joy, & purpose to be found in this short life? Or have we settled for a conventional existence, a Reader’s Digest version of typical human endeavors?

I urge us to be seekers in 2015, to press on to new liberation, new compassion, new ideals.

In the Christian tradition, this is the season of Epiphany, and there are a couple things we can learn from those three iconic Wise Ones who followed the star.

First, they recognized their inner thirst. The Magi were priestly nobles in Persia. This meant they had prestige, influence, and wealth. But ephemeral trappings were not enough. They longed for something deeper, and when that legendary star in the west appeared, they did not ignore their thirst. They set out on a quest.

During this Christmas season, with its annual barrage of ads, I reflected on the underlying premise of our commercial culture. We are encouraged to covet. And not just to covet the baubles that pass across our screens: cars, jewelry, tech gadgets. Clever Madison Avenue language whispers a more pernicious message. In his book “Wake Up, America,” Tony Campolo put it this way. “In all of this media hype, things are sold to us on the basis that our deepest emotional and psychological needs will be met by having the right consumer goods.”

Things, accomplishments, ego gratification – these are all pleasant, but ultimately fleeting. Most of us wake up to this truth some time in our lives. How sad if we don’t. We are meant for something far more than material gain or Self. Recognizing our deeper thirst is vital. It’s the first step for lifelong seekers.

The second thing we see in the Magi is their willingness to leave their comfort zones. The journey from Persia to Palestine was 1,000 miles, most of it through enemy territory. And this wasn’t travel by plane, train, or automobile. It was by camel, a decidedly uncomfortable ride, exposed to the elements.

We all like our comforts, but I like the saying a seeker friend of mine posted on Facebook: The New Year means nothing if you’re still in love with your comfort zone.

Despite what motivational speakers, fitness coaches, and positive thinking preachers say, change isn’t easy. It isn’t easy in our faith lives, our relationships, or our vocation. It requires a letting go, a moving into uncertain territory, and a persistence towards goals through whatever obstacles.

But this is what seekers do, because we believe there is more freedom, more purpose, more love and unity on the horizon.

This year, let’s be seekers, not settlers.

I always teach the difference between righteous and self-righteous anger.

Righteous anger is a God-given, empathetic response to injustice. It sees the harm visited upon the innocent and rises up to protest. Its purpose is restorative, aiming to bring about change in solidarity with others.

Self-righteous anger usually stems from our egos, our pride, our need to be right. We can cloak this reaction any way we want, but it often comes down to US – our smugness and superiority.

One of the things that fascinates me is the constant barrage of rhetoric that flows across Facebook on any given day. Since I have friends on both ends of the political and theological spectrum, the words get super-heated.

As a self-proclaimed liberal, it’s easy for me to shake my head at conservative diatribes. How narrow-minded! How short-sighted! How un-evolved! I find the tone of their words to be harsh, judgmental, morally superior.

Yet here’s the thing. Too often, when I – or my liberal friends – have responded, our tone is pretty much the same. This has been especially throughout the turmoil of 2014. One liberal rant after another.

I have three dogs at home. They can’t understand my words. Instead they tune into my tone. I can say, “Come over here. I’m going to throw you out in the freezing cold with no food or water.” But if I say it in a soothing, loving voice, my canines wag their tails. If I say, “Come here. You are such a good, good dog!” but my tone is harsh, they cringe warily.

Does our tone matter? YES! The entire notion of nonviolence calls us to model the change we want to see in the world. When our words are devoid of love, when our righteous anger crosses the border into self-righteousness, we undermine the unity we say we long for in this world. At that moment, Paul reminds us we are like noisy gongs and clanging cymbals. We perpetuate the cycle of action/reaction.

Listen, liberal friends. I see the systemic evils of racism. I see the patriotic cloaking of militarism and the abdication to torture. I see the American Jesus used to justify homophobia and intolerance. I am doing what I can, serving with the wonderful folks of my church to help the addicted, feed the hungry, welcome the lonely, advocate for refugees and immigrants.

But there’s an old adage that has proven rock-solid throughout my life as a pastor. People don’t want to know that you have to say until they know you love them.

Our tones can speak so loudly that our words fall only on the ears of compatriots. This is not the inclusive love Jesus championed on the cross.

So, Merry Christmas to all, but especially my righteous liberal friends. As we celebrate Christ’s birth, let’s remember these words from Ephesians 2:14 – “For he himself is our peace, who has made the two groups one and has destroyed the barrier, the dividing wall of hostility…”

Have you had recurring dreams?

In my youth it was nocturnal flying. With carefully calibrated movements of my arms and legs, I maneuvered vertically, horizontally, even hovered like a hummingbird. I dove like a Peregrine Falcon, my supernatural vision bringing every inch of ground into sharp relief. I soared over vast, lush landscapes, galloping on currents of wind. Breathtaking! I would awaken with this great sense of promise, the future looming luminous with hope.

Somewhere over the years that Technicolor glory got cancelled by my subconscious and replaced with a shabby rerun, a black and white nightmare that always has the same basic components.

I’m on my way to church, obliged to preach and lead worship, but I’m sorely unprepared. I don’t know my topic; it’s a meager outline, something I haven’t practiced. I try to tell myself I can just open my mouth and “let it rip” through the Holy Spirit. Then I remember that the Spirit has always flowed most freely when I’ve lived in the message, internalizing its points, its illustrations, its contextual drama.

I arrive at the Sanctuary, always a slightly Cubist version of a place I’ve actually served. My feelings of inadequacy inflame when I look around. Hardly anyone is in the pews. The sound system isn’t on. The musicians aren’t in their places. I try my best to pull it together, but to no avail. Then there’s a flutter of hope. Maybe this time my message will rise with those wings Isaiah spoke of. I open my mouth and the words are like noisy gongs and clanging symbols; or if Paul were writing today, traffic noise from the freeway, the hissing of a tire slowly deflating. People start to leave in the First Act.

My counselors have had field days interpreting these icons. A self-centered need to be affirmed. Old feelings of shame, of being “found out” and left alone. The eternal footman holding my coat and snickering. A persistent fear of failure, unable to shoulder the great responsibility I promised to uphold with my ordination vows.

But let me tell you what happened the other night. The nightmare began with sickening familiarity. But this time the sanctuary is full. The Praise Band is waiting eagerly, primed by heavenly sound checks. They launch into Spirit-filled worship that fills the space and our hearts, inviting me to bring the Good News.

I look down at my outline. NOT AGAIN! It’s more meager than ever. But suddenly I’m not afraid. I begin, and every time there’s an awkward gap, someone from the congregation says, “Yes, it’s like…” or “That reminds me of…” or “This is what faith has taught me…” or “The word of God is alive for today!”

We’re in dialogue as a community, letting the Spirit bind us as we share discoveries on our mutual journey of faith.

And how do I describe the atmosphere in the Sanctuary? Simple. Love.

I’m hoping those flying dreams will return from their winter migration. Stay tuned.

(Whether you consider the narratives of Jesus’ birth symbolic or literal, they have many levels of meaning. This is part two of an Advent series called Nativity Snapshots)

Forbearance is an old-fashioned word, rarely used in modern parlance. It means “patiently refraining from enforcing your rights.” Think of it as compassionate restraint. It defines Joseph, the man at the center of this week’s Nativity snapshot.

These are the skeletal facts we know about him. A descendant of King David, he worked as a carpenter in the backwater town of Nazareth. He was betrothed to a young peasant woman named Mary, a yearlong engagement as binding as marriage.

Sounds like a promising future, doesn’t it? But as we pick up Joseph’s story in Matthew chapter one, he faces a painful dilemma. Mary reveals she is pregnant, and her explanation seems preposterous. The Holy Spirit is the father, she says, a divine conception announced by the Angel Gabriel.

What? Are you off your medications, woman? Did you fall from a donkey and hit your head?

How would you have reacted? Joseph must have thought, “How dare you tell me a bizarre lie to justify your adultery!”

Think of the betrayal he felt. Scripture says Joseph was a righteous man; in his dealings with God and others, he had an honorable reputation. But we can be upstanding in the world’s eyes and still harbor secret malice, can’t we?

Not Joseph. Despite the pain of rejection, he showed amazing forbearance. He had every right to humiliate Mary. Under oppressive patriarchal law, he could have hauled her into public and stoned her, venting his hurt in a vengeful rage. Instead, he resolved to divorce her quietly, releasing her without shame.

Imagine him lying in bed that evening. In his mind he is already letting go, grieving the loss, envisioning his life without a companion. His heart is heavy as he nods to sleep. And in a dream that very night, an angel tells him Mary’s story is real; Joseph will be stepfather to the Messiah.

None of what happened next would have occurred without the calm forgiveness, acceptance, and protection of this man of God. He has much to teach us.

We can be so quick to retaliate. When someone gossips about us, we return the foul favor. In arguments, we match harsh words with vitriol of our own. If people judge us unjustly, we nurse resentment, letting it fester in our hearts.

In short, we like to get even.

This Advent, let’s honor Joseph by practicing restraint, even if we have the right to do otherwise. Let’s refuse to criticize our critics. Let’s counter with soft words in a conflict. Let’s learn the sublime practice of praying for those who hurt us.

Romans 3:25 describes God’s purpose in sending Jesus. “God did this to demonstrate God’s righteousness, because in God’s FORBEARANCE God left our sins unpunished.”

We last hear of Joseph when Jesus is 12 years old. The older man did not live to see his son fulfill destiny. But remember those final moments of Jesus on the cross as he utters “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

What miraculous forbearance! And Jesus learned it not only from his Heavenly Father, but his earthly one, a Nazarene carpenter named Joseph.

Even if we’ve never read the Tao Te Ching, we’re familiar with the Yin-Yang symbol, a symmetrical interlocking of dark and light. It’s a summary of one of Lao Tzu’s fundamental principles: life is a totality in which disparate parts are necessary for wholeness, for the dance that makes life precious. Night and day, birth and death, male and female, summer and winter – all these opposites sharpen and highlight each other through infinite interplay.

I experienced this profoundly during my 32 years as pastor, a profession that placed me in the nexus of daily contrasts. There were even poignant 24-hour periods when I performed a baptism, a wedding, and a funeral, rites of passage that spanned our human timeline. It certainly sharpened my appreciation of life in all its fullness!

I have always been acutely aware that parenting a special needs child is an emotional Yin-Yang. It’s hard to describe: a combination of grief and joy, denial and acceptance, fear and courage.

My son, Kristoffer, is now 26. He holds a volunteer position, uses his Xbox and phone like a pro, helps with household chores, and is developing a cadre of friends at the day rehabilitaton program he attends. For over a quarter century, I’ve had ample time to adjust to our life together.

But still, there are many days when his disability pierces my heart. I see his uncomprehending stare. I see his inability to accomplish tasks as simple as making change for a dollar. I watch him struggle to read at elementary levels. I notice the pitying glances from others as they view him in public.

All this exhumes feelings that stem back to his birth and diagnosis. It was a death experience as Donna and I began adjusting to a future in which our son would never have the same opportunities as others.

I don’t mean to be melodramatic, but I think of my paternal grandmother. She had six sons and one daughter. The daughter, Mary Ann, died at age two from severe Scarlet Fever. Even in her 80s, when Grandma remembered her baby girl, tears would flow freely.

Some sorrows you just live with; they are like a stone caught in the gnarled roots of a cypress, a sharp grain in the oyster’s soft flesh, the phantom pain of a lost limb.

Yet my pain is set against such great contrast. Kristoffer has brought us so much joy! His spontaneous displays of affection, his kisses planted on our cheeks, his innocent grasp of life’s simple pleasures – all these are priceless. He has been an unintentional guru in our home, teaching us patience and the supreme value of each human being.

Will this interlocking of emotions, this sometimes daily tension, ever dissipate? I don’t think so. Honestly, I don’t want it to. I believe both our wounds and our strengths give us our power. As the late Henri Nouwen once said, “We all are wounded people, whether physically, emotionally, mentally, or spiritually. The main question is not ‘How can we hide our wounds?’ so we don’t have to be embarrassed, but ‘How can we put our woundedness in the service of others?’”

Today, I embrace the Tao of raising Kristoffer.

(Part one of an Advent series called Nativity Snapshots)

Christmas photos are timeless: loved ones surrounded by decorations, food, unwrapped gifts. But look past the abundant smiles and remember the circumstances. Can you recall both the joys and heartaches your family experienced that year? Can you savor how important it was to support each other through every trial of life? Pictures indeed speak a thousand words.

For the next few weeks, we will look at Nativity snapshots from scripture. No matter how you view the Bible – literally or symbolically – these images reveal the deeper meanings of Jesus’ birth, truths to prepare the mangers of our hearts for Christmas 2014.

Today we remember those shepherds tending their flocks in the hills above Bethlehem, recorded in Luke chapter 2.

Imagine this distant night. Jesus was born in spring, not winter, so it is likely mild and clear, the sky flooded with starlight. A smell of meadow grass hangs heavy in the air. Crickets trill, interrupted by the occasional bleat of a restless lamb.

Suddenly a shaft of light pierces the night. An angel appears to announce the advent of the Messiah, flanked by a heavenly choir. The terrified shepherds fall to their knees in reverence, then joyfully run to Bethlehem to see a Savior born in a feeding trough.

Now freeze the frame. Take it off the Christmas card. Peer beyond its familiarity and hear these words from I Corinthians: “Take a good look, friends, at who you were when you got called into this life. I don’t see many of ‘the brightest and the best’ among you, not many influential, not many from high-society families.” (Message version)

Orthodox folks of the first century looked down on shepherds. Never mind that King David was a herder in his youth. Forget Psalm 23’s delight in God as our heavenly pastor. Shepherds were considered smelly and unclean, unable to follow proper rituals for cleanliness.

Yet where does God announce the Savior’s birth? Not at the temple in Jerusalem or the Roman courts of Caesar. Not at the lighthouse in Alexandria or the Parthenon in Greece. Nope, the words ring out on a lonely hillside to a group of scruffy laborers.

Are you on the Fortune 500 list? Does your name rise to the top of Google searches? Do you have political notoriety? Does your title scroll by on movie credits? When was the last time you got an invitation to the White House? Is Mensa clamoring for your membership?

God bypassed the rich and famous to announce this birth that changed history. And God still chooses you and me, my friends, to reveal this miracle every day. No matter our status in the world’s eyes, God values us this much! God has entrusted us with a timeless gift of love.

This Christmas, how will we respond? Let’s take our cue from those shepherds. After kneeling before the manger, Luke says they “Spread the word…praising God for all the things they had heard and seen.”

In the depth of our compassion, the generosity of our time, the sincerity of our forgiveness, and the joy of our identity in God’s eyes, let’s shout out the Good News this Christmas!

We were settling in for our feast. I was fifteen, my mind elsewhere, longing to cut loose and rendezvous with friends. I glanced around the room at the Van Tatenhove clan. What a cast of characters! Grandparents, uncles, aunts,
cousins – all vying for attention with loud voices. Presiding over the circus was my Mom, the iron lady herself. She called on Dad to say grace, which we knew Grandma would punctuate with tears and whispers of “Yes, Lord, yes…”

Suddenly the doorbell rang. I didn’t know it, but the next moments would change my Thanksgiving perspective forever.

I’ll return to that scene. First, consider this. Diamonds in a white setting are pretty; against black velvet, they’re brilliant. The same is true with giving thanks. Context makes all the difference.

The Mayflower Pilgrims knew this. After arriving in the winter of 1620, nearly half of them died from starvation. When the harvest of 1621 proved bountiful, they found their appreciation heightened by memories of hardship.

Lincoln’s original Thanksgiving decree came during the Civil War. Surrounded by suffering, he still called Americans to render “Praise to our…Father who dwells in the heavens.”

Maybe you never take things for granted. As you enjoy God’s abundant blessings, you pause daily to give fervent thanks.

But for many in this land of lavish privilege, it’s easy to forget our context. It’s easy to become complacent in our gratitude. This is what changed for me on that Thanksgiving Day of my youth.

I accompanied Mom to the door. She opened it to find Uncle Jerry standing there with a loopy grin. Jerry was schizophrenic, a gentle giant who rarely attended family affairs. When he did, he hung in the background, smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee, holding court with the voices in his head. Jerry was crazy, but he had a heart the size of Texas. He forever found people less fortunate than himself, spending his meager disability checks to help them.

Standing next to him was a stranger, a thin man with greasy hair and rumpled clothes.

“This is Ray,” Jerry said. “I met him on the street. He has no family for Thanksgiving. Can he eat with us?”

Mom swallowed hard. Strain showed in her eyes. I knew this was the turning point. She had veto power over all variances, and she did not cotton to change.

Suddenly her countenance warmed.

“Of course, Ray. Come in and have a seat.”

So, his hunger ravenous, Ray ate with us. He also laughed and shared his story. My teenage cynicism morphed to admiration as I watched my family treat our guest with grace. When Ray left that evening, my Mom stuffed extra food in his backpack, even hugging him goodbye.

To this very day, my family sets an extra chair at our Thanksgiving table. Sometimes we fill it with struggling people we’ve invited. Sometimes it sits by itself. Either way, it ALWAYS changes my outlook, setting my context of gratitude, sharpening my focus.

And I think of Hebrews 13:2 – “Remember to welcome strangers in your homes. There were some who did that and welcomed angels without knowing it.”

(Offered at the end of a very challenging week)

I’ve been encouraging us to enter each moment and savor its beauty. This is the “art of mindfulness.” It takes practice, but the effort brings miraculous benefits. One of these miracles comes through the power of acceptance. We learn from past mistakes, recognize the futility of trying to change others, and come to value ourselves as awesome children of God.

Entering, accepting, and now, PRAISING!

The first step in praising is a piece of folk wisdom that almost goes without saying: count our blessings. At Thanksgiving we remind ourselves to spill our cornucopia of positives: food, shelter, loved ones, vocations and avocations, faith in God, the free beauty of nature. We cherish stories of gratitude, like the Pilgrims giving thanks after a bitter winter, the Ten-Boom’s praising fleas in their death-camp barracks, or Jesus pausing to bless bread even with his cross on the horizon.

Certainly, part of our training to live in the present is harvesting thanks for God’s abundant gifts. But I want to close this series with an even more powerful reason to give praise in this moment.

We find it in the 17th chapter of Luke as Jesus heals ten lepers, releasing them from lives as hideous outcasts. Only one, a Samaritan, kneels and gives thanks. Jesus says, “Has no one else returned to give praise to God except this foreigner?” Then he says to him, “Rise and go; your faith (expressed in thankfulness) has made you well.”

Do you hear that? The other nine were healed, but only one became truly “well.” What did Jesus mean? The key is to understand the Greek word used for “well.” It is sozo, and it describes someone who has become whole in body, mind and spirit, a person made right with God, humbly delighting in the gift of life!

Friends, please realize this. God’s presence is especially strong within our praises. Our hallelujahs release divine power. Positive people experience greater physical health and endurance. They know peace of mind and spirit. They enjoy healthier relationships, and have an uncanny ability to overcome life’s challenges.

Praise that flows from our hearts literally shapes our environments with supernatural joy. Why? Because the promises of God become our lifeblood. We see that our Creator wants only good for us. We realize God will help us shape a future that plumbs our deepest desires. We align ourselves with healing mercy that can restore us on every level.
I don’t know about you, but I want this kind of “wellness” in my life. I want my cup of praise to overflow. I want a life filled with contagious joy.

And it begins in a moment. This moment!

As we conclude this series, I have a simple Thanksgiving prayer for all of us: Loving God, all good things come from you. Open our eyes this moment to see your glory. Give us wisdom to know how everything that has happened to us can be used by you for our benefit. Stir our hearts with praise and lift us up with the healing power of your love!

Have fun IN THE MOMENT!

As we learn to enter each moment with new mindfulness, all is not joy. We may become acutely aware of our personal baggage, or perhaps certain painful circumstances in our lives. This is when there is no substitute for the power of acceptance. I pray that each of us will learn to accept our present lives in the following ways.

First, accept the mistakes of our past. Which one of us wouldn’t make different choices in retrospect? If we regret our lack of wisdom, we leave the present and dwell in futility. We need to reiterate a simple truth until it burns into our consciousness: there is absolutely nothing we can do to change the past! Regret is a vampire on our life’s blood. We can choose not to let it drain us.

The fellowship of Alcoholics Anonymous has a list of promises that resonate with beauty for everyone, not just addicts. One of them is, “We will not regret the past, nor wish to shut the door on it.” Why? Because everything that has happened to us, even brutal failures, can ultimately work for our benefit.  Seen as learning experiences, we can accept the wisdom they offer, and we experience spiritual growth that leads to hope.

Second, accept the people in our lives. Some of us drive ourselves insane trying to change others! It might be a spouse, child, co-worker, or neighbor. We disapprove of their behavior. We sit in judgment. We think that by confronting or lecturing them, we will get what we want. This only undermines our own serenity. We have absolutely no real control over other people. Only they can embrace the necessary self-awareness that can alter the course of their lives. That choice is theirs! Live and let live; see how much freer you feel!

Finally, accept ourselves as God accepts us. Remember how Jesus condensed over 600 Jewish laws into two basic commandments. First, “Love the Lord, your God, with all your heart, mind, and strength.” Second, “Love your neighbor as yourself.” It’s those words, as yourself that often trip us. We can be so hard on ourselves! No matter how many admirable attributes we possess, we focus too often on what we lack.

I pray you will forgive yourself as God has forgiven you. I pray you will be kind and gracious to yourself. I pray you will realize that when John says, “For God so loved the world…” it means, “for God so loved YOU!” Accept your precious identity as a child of God. There has never been, and never will be, a person on this planet exactly like you. Celebrate your awesomeness!

Enter the moment; then accept the moment. Acceptance is not resignation. It is deeper and more powerful, a platform for lasting change. As a recovering brother says: “Until I accept life on life’s terms, I cannot be happy. I need to concentrate not so much on what needs to be changed in the world as what needs to be changed in me and in my attitudes.”