I get this desire from time to time to go out into the wilderness alone.  A year ago this month I solo climbed a fourteen thousand foot peak in Colorado.  A month ago I traveled to an alpine lake on the eastern side of the Cascades and spent three nights.  Then last week I felt the call again.  I call it the ‘call of the wild.’  I know Jack London coined the term first, but what did he know?  He lived in San Francisco.

I had planned to spend Thursday night and Friday night sleeping on the ground at Lake Serene on the western side of the Cascades here in Washington.  I packed all the necessary gear for a wet trip.  (This is not my first time to the rodeo.)

As I started up the trail last Thursday morning, it was foggy with a hint of mist falling.  But the trail was clear, my legs felt strong, my lungs felt full and I mentally went over my gear check-list before I got too far from the trailhead.  I am confident.

The autumn leaves were spectacular.  As I walked through the dark timber and broke into a meadow of Alders, their leaves shone so brightly I squinted at their brilliance as if they were transmitting liquid golden light.  Some of the leaves were small and others were the size of Thanksgiving serving platters.  Some of the large three-pronged leaves lay on the trail and had already turned brown with decay and looked like the foot imprint of some prehistoric reptile.

From time to time a leaf would release its grip from a branch above and flit this way and that, swinging back and forth in the air—hypnotic, looking for a place to land and decay and thus return to the earth’s compost to nourish its progeny.   I remember noticing and watching them fall and thinking that the only time these leaves are looked at individually is if they fall and dance and swing in the air as someone passes by on this trail.   I empathized for the leaf…wanted to tell it, “I see you.”

After a mile on the trail I passed underneath the Bridal Veil Falls.  The splashing water slapping the rocks stirred up even more mist that drifted away from the pool, clinging onto the surface of my fleece to make a thousand silver beads.  I stepped across the river one stone at a time, never touching the water that flowed out the pool to rush down the mountain.  Up the trail I trekked.

The next hour took me higher and higher up the trail towards the lake.  Wooden staircases in the trail made it feel as if I were climbing to the top seat of some forested stadium.  Thought, this feels like I am climbing the stairway to heaven.

Just before the lake, the canopy opens up and the slope is covered with tall grasses, brush and willows. Then the lake, emerald in color cupped at the base of Mount Index is right before me.  A sign near the lake said “No camping within a quarter of a mile of the lake.”

I sat at the lake, glass still.  Counted four waterfalls falling  from the north slope of the mountain to feed the lake.

Down through the ferns and off the trail, I made camp down the steep grade beside the tumbling water of the outlet.  I found the only flat place about the size of my dinning room table, and pitched my tent there.  The tumbling water just twenty yards away made for a loud but secluded place to eat and sleep.

It started raining about noon.  I decided to get my study material and climb into my tent and read while it rained.   It rained until noon the next day.

The falls next to my camp were getting louder, like an oncoming train.  Not fast, but steady.  I decided to pack up and climb up the four hundred yards to the lake and then start down the trail and out of the mountains.  When I got to the lake, I counted 25 waterfalls feeding the swollen lake.  The trail was full-fledged stream most of the way down.

The lower falls were angry now.   The roar was deafening.  I had no idea that falling water could create its own wind.  Standing at the foot of these falls the grasses were bent almost to the ground and the boughs of the trees were swaying as if surrendering to the pounding water or maybe waving at them to slow down or maybe they were encouraging them to fall faster and faster.

The pool the water fell into was much larger from all the rain and spilling down the mountain in such a fierce way that I wondered about my ability to get across.  I had lightly stepped across on smooth stones coming in, but now those smooth stones were two or three feet under rapidly moving water with a class 4 rapids dropping off down the stream bed to the valley floor.

I unbuckled my belt, loosened the straps so that if I was swept off my footing by the current, I could get out of my pack quickly.  I sat at the edge of the pool while the wind from the slamming water raged past my hooded face.  I planned my route through the foaming, tumbling white water.  This was not going to be easy or without risk.

To use as a third leg, I found a stick the thickness of my wrist and as tall as my head and turned to face the water spilling down from three stories up and began to side stepped across the current, careful to never cross my legs.  I felt large stones with the side of my foot and stepped over or around them.  I could feel smaller stones rolling along the bottom of stream bed and thumping and thudding into my boots.  The water rose to my knees and then thighs and finally to my groin.  With deliberate and steady strides I made my way across.

I remember pausing halfway across, taking my eyes off the frothy water swirling through my legs and panning my vision up to the top of the thirty foot fall, the wind blowing my hood off my face and seeing the silver waves of water silhouetted against the gray sky just as they crested the edge of the cliff and started their descent, and thinking two thoughts:

• I am glad my wife is not here seeing me do this.
• It’s a lot easier to get into some things than it is to get out.

Deep calls to deep at the roar of your waterfalls; all your breakers and your waves have gone over me. 8 By day the Lord commands his steadfast love, and at night his song is with me, a prayer to the God of my life.  Psalms 42:7-8 (ESV)

In December of 1980 or so I wrote my father a note asking him about going into the ministry.  I had sensed a “call” to preach when I wass 9 years old, but had found a lot of satisfaction and success as a young man working in the construction field.  I was confused about my vocation.  I have kept his scrall on an worn and faded peice of paper low these many years.  I post it now because my son is asking some of the same questions and maybe others are as well.

Your call to preach cannot be based on wheter or not you are happy working the job you currently have.  God made all of us to be happy when we are productive.  And you haven’t been productive in a long while.  Jesus is telling you that real joy comes when we have “entered into the joy of the Lord” which is being productive like God is productive.  (cf. Matthew 25:14-31)

A sense of fulfillment will come to you when you are productive.  For God made us to cooperate with Him in stewarding this good earth.  Your call to preach God’s Word must come from God, not a feeling of satisfaction from within.  It is a call to give up ones normal pursuits of life and make the wellbeing of the Church of Jesus Christ your vocation.

God may want you to be a bi-vocational pastor or a lay leader in the Church, but the call comes from God not through reason or any sense of fullfillment in your current job.  It is a call to build His Church.

Have a Marry Christmas,

Dad

Lynette and I were visiting the Plymouth Plantation in Massachusetts a few years ago and I had an interesting encounter with one of the actors that was participating in the interpretive museum.  He was in one of the replica thatched-roofed huts and as we passed by we could hear him reading scripture.  Nette and I walked into “his” house and listened to him read from the book of Ecclesiastes.

After a few minutes I asked him a question or two like what was the weather like and how was the voyage over on the Mayflower.  The actor speaking in a brogue accent stayed in character the entire conversation.  He was portraying one of the actual pilgrims that had made that arduous trip.  I was curious as to what “Isaac’s” trade in the New World was so I asked the following question:  ”Issac, what is your profession?”  And with the 1611 version of the King James Bible open on his lap he looked at me with incredulity and said, “Why I am a Christian sir!”

I smiled at the profundity of this actor and asked a second time what his trade was and he said that he was a tailor.

Calling and profession can be confusing.  I know this:  The Kingdom of God on this earth is the most important mission of which I can be a part.  I have been called to leave my “normal pursuit” of the world and dedicate myself professionally to preach and teach the Word of God.

But we all have a higher calling than that.  All who are born from above have been beseeched to walk worthy of the calling with which we were called.  We have all been called to be foot soldiers in the advancement of the Kingdom of Heaven.  So, whether you work as a teacher, and engineer, brick layer or a preacher we are all called to be Kingdom bringers to this sorry, dark world.

A job is an avocation and it exists only to provide a means to advance the vocation.  And that calling my friends is to bring “up there down here.”

That is my profession and it is yours as well.  How is that going for you at your job?

Funny the way it is, if you think about it
one kid walks 10 miles to school, another’s dropping out
Funny the way it is, not right or wrong
on a soldier’s last breath his baby’s being born
Funny the way it is, nor right or wrong
Somebody’s broken heart becomes your favorite song
Funny the way it is, if you think about it
A kid walks 10 miles to school, another’s dropping out.

—Dave Mathews Band

I like it when people see things at odd angels.  The lyrics to one of my favorite songs off of Dave Mathew’s latest album reflect the cruel irony of this world.  Irony is a painful thing.

Often the people who are able to do the most end up doing the least.

Politicians talk more than they do.  If they do anything it is always with an eye on how their particular action is going to play with their voters.  I read that the late Robert Novak once said, “I find that politicians as a class are up to no good. Sometimes they accidentally do the right thing.”  Hyperbole?  Maybe. But it underlines the idea that those who can help the most with the ills of this world often have other motives driving their actions.

Take the area of charitable giving. According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics’ latest survey of consumer expenditure found that the poorest fifth of U.S. households contributed an average of 4.3 percent of their incomes to charitable organizations in 2007. The richest fifth gave at less than half that rate, 2.1 percent.

I have been walking with Jesus for over four decades and if that means anything it should at least mean that I understand the gospel of the Kingdom of God enough to be a healthy ambassador for Christ.  I should be to be able to love somebody tomorrow that I couldn’t love yesterday.  Sin should have less and less hold on me.  I should be able to pray more deeply, speak more truly, rejoice more fiercely, and forgive more freely with every passing year.  But do I?

Why not?

I have members of my family who are choosing to walk away from Jesus not towards him.  I have friends who are not hungry for the things of God.  I know people who seem bereft of any sense of purpose and meaning in their life.  They are questioning if walking in the Way of Christ is worth it at all.

We Christ followers have the best news this sorry, dark world has ever heard.  Are we excited about it?  Are we sharing it?  Are people asking us about it?  The Kingdom of God is available to anyone.  The irony is this:  the good news for me is that Jesus is Lord, the bad news is that that means I am not.  As the rabbi’s wife said to her husband, “There is one Messiah allocated per universe and you are not him.”  When I live like I am Lord and Jesus is just an “add on” then my character doesn’t change and I become more critical, petty, miserly, shallow, and irritated all the time.  Why would anyone want to be in that kingdom with that ‘Lord?’ Who wants a grumpy messiah?  I guess I do.  For when I refuse Jesus Lordship in my life, I assume that role.  I am lord of my little world.  But I don’t want to be this way at my deepest heart.  Not really.  At least not this morning.

I pray the old Puritan prayer:

Lord Jesus, I sin. Grant that I may never cease grieving because of it, never be content with myself, never think I can reach a point of perfection. Kill my envy, command my tongue, trample down self. Give me grace to be holy, kind, gentle, pure, peaceable, to live for Thee and not for self, to copy Thy words, acts, spirit, to be transformed into Thy likeness, to be consecrated wholly to Thee, to live entirely to Thy glory.

Deliver me from attachment to things unclean, from wrong associations, from the predominance of evil passions, from the sugar of sin as well as its gap; that with self-loathing, deep contrition, earnest heart searching I may come to Thee, cast myself on Thee, trust in Thee, cry to Thee, be delivered by Thee.

O God, the Eternal All, help me to know that all things are shadows, but Thou art substance, all things are quicksands, but Thou art mountain, all things are shifting, but Thou art anchor, all things are ignorance, but Thou art wisdom.

If my life is to be a crucible amid burning heat, so be it, but do Thou sit at the furnace mouth to watch the ore that nothing be lost. If I sin wilfully, grievously, tormentedly, in grace take away my mourning and give me music; remove my sackcloth and clothe me with beauty; still my sighs and fill my mouth with song, then give me summer weather as a Christian.

There are just some people I don’t like.  I try to be gracious.  I try to think positive thoughts.  But they just bug me.  Madonna irritates me; so does Vice President Joe Biden.  Bill O’Reilly—are you kidding me?  Ryan Seacrest and Paula Abdul are the reason God made the mute button on my remote.

There are people in my own family that drive me nuts.  Complete strangers can bug me.

When I fly from one city to another I usually put ear buds in and turn my iPod on.  This is suppose to be a signal to anyone brave enough to sit beside me that I do not want to engage in chit chat for the next 2-3 hours.

One time I was traveling from Phoenix to my home in Seattle and got my window seat, put the ear buds in, got my book out and got as comfortable as my 6’4” wide body can get on a plane.  Then a lady sat down beside me and ignored my warning signs of scowl, no eye contact, ear buds, book, etc and started talking to me.  I had to take my headphone out of one ear  to hear her.  She was nice enough but she was clearly not heeding the markers that I didn’t want to be bothered.

When she engaged the man in the aisle seat in a conversation,  I reloaded my ear with m Ipod and thought just open up your book, turn the music up, never look at her and she will leave you alone.

It worked for about 30 minutes.  She tapped me on the arm and asked me a question.  “What book are you reading?”  I held the spine up so that she could see that it read Encouraging the Heart by Kouzes and Posner.  “What is that about?” she asked.  I gave her a clipped and terse synopsis of the book and put my headphones back on.

She pulled out a paper she had brought on board.  It was a copy of the latest National Enquirer with headlines like “Hillary Clinton gives birth to Alien Baby” and other bizarre story titles.  She spread the paper wide and leaned towards me and made our arms were touch.  I had to move even further away.  The more I moved away from her the more she spread out.

Twenty minutes later she folded her paper up and went to the restroom.  I closed my book and put my head in my hands and sighed.  I was so weary of this person and it was only an hour into my two and half hour flight.

When she came back and saw me with my head down, she was re-belted she began to rub my shoulders.  “You must be very tense” she said over the whine of the jet engine.  What do you do at this point?  I let her rub for what I assumed was the appropriate time for stranger giving a neck rub on a plane and smiled and said thanks.  I opened up my book again, not reading—just staring at the page.   I can’t describe the bile that came into my soul if not my throat.

About this time the man in the aisle seat pulled a much worn Bible out of his briefcase and began to read.  This caught her eye and she began to ask questions about God, faith and spiritual things.  The older man smiled and answered every one of her questions with grace and aplomb.

She shared with this kindly old man some of her pain and struggles.  He nodded, listened and gently asked if he could pray for her.  She allowed that he could and then took her hand and pressed it between both of his knobby hands and prayed so sweet and low that this lady began to weep.

You would think I would have rejoiced that the old man had distracted her from bothering me.  You would have thought I would have paused and prayed for this woman to hear the Gospel from this kindly man.  But I found a strange thing happing, I began to see some of my resentment that had reach a saturation point with this irritating woman start to leach toward the gentle man.

Now I had two people with whom to be frustrated, an irritating National Enquirer reading sinner and a irritating King James Bible reading saint.

It was about this time when I felt a metaphorical thump on the back of my head that the Holy Spirit so often does with me when He wants to get my attention.  It hurt.  That was all I needed; a solid spiritual thump.

This was about six years ago.  The memory of the darkness of my heart that day serves to remind me that I am a long ways away from the man God has in mind.  I have to keep surrendering, stay with my training, keep remembering that I am on my way to Christlikeness.

Irritating people need extra grace.  But the most irritating person to the Holy Spirit that day was the guy typing these words right now.  So I pray…

Hide Your face from my sins,
And blot out all my iniquities.
Create in me a clean heart, O God,
And renew a steadfast spirit within me.
Do not cast me away from Your presence,
And do not take Your Holy Spirit from me.
Restore to me the joy of Your salvation,
And uphold me by Your generous Spirit.          Psalms 51:9-12 (NKJV)

Anyone bothering you?

My seventeen year old Caleb had to write an final essay for his English class and turn it in today.  I post it here because I of the depth of the pain he talks about and because it is encouraging to me. Thought it might be to you as well.  He titled it “What do I Believe?”

One of the many things I believe is that no matter what, good things can come from bad experiences, even if at times you can’t understand what they are. People go on about their lives after something bad has happened and they act as if nothing had ever happened.  At first they can’t come to realize it, but sometimes bad things happen for a reason.  You can blame it on God all you want, but the truth is, it’s all his doing. Take for example, the terrorist attacks on 9/11; even though it resulted in the deaths of over 3,000 American lives, it brought our country together on a level not really seen since the attack on Pearl Harbor back in World War II.

My cousin Josh was my best friend and in many ways my third brother.  We did everything together and were rarely seen without each other. We spent every summer together and had the greatest times together. Then, in 1999, my family had to move when I was only eight years old.  I was separated from my best friend and brother, all that I knew in Colorado, my home state, along with my friends, family, and the house I grew up in. Even though we made yearly visits to Colorado every summer for vacation and recreation, as time went by, we grew up and grew more distant due to the 700 mile gap between our two states. The time that we did spend together was always like we had just seen each other yesterday instead of the year we had been apart.  The two of us would always relive the old days when we were just ten years old, and play and play until we couldn’t anymore.  Even though we knew our time together was going to be cut short we made the best of every moment we had together.

Just two years ago the worst thing imaginable happened.  My cousin Josh, the best friend I had ever had, died.  He committed suicide due to depression and other unknown reasons. When I was informed about what had happened to my cousin, I felt the most pain I ever felt in my entire life.  It just hit me like a 3,000 ton weight on my heart.  It was the most pain and sorrow I had ever experienced.  I didn’t know even know how to deal with the tragedy, so I just cried and cried like I never had before. At first I couldn’t even believe it.  I just kept repeating in my head, “No this couldn’t have happened; not to me. This kind of thing happens to other people, not me!” I was so angry at him for what he had done to my family and me.  I was angry at God, and I blamed him for what happened.  It just didn’t make any sense to me why he would let this happen. The meaning of things like this is extremely vague and hard to understand. My mind was so blown away at the fact that my best friend and cousin Josh was no longer a part of my life.

During our childhood, my cousin and I always dreamed of one day becoming police officers and being partners in the same department. As kids we played with toy guns and killed bad guys and criminals on a daily basis. We watched the TV show Cops a lot, and we loved reenacting the scenes from the show. During our years apart, I drifted away from the idea of one day becoming a cop.  But after my cousin died, something inside of me was triggered; and I just knew that when I grew up I wanted to be a police officer just liked we had planned.  His death motivated me to again pursue what we both had wanted to do. That’s what I intend to fulfill for him and for myself. My cousin Josh will always be one of the biggest influences on why I want to be a police officer.  I wish that he had never died, so that we could do what we wanted to do, and I would still have my cousin in my life.  But, I have learned to find a purpose in what was a tragedy.

After all that has happened in this world and in my own world, I still believe that good things can come from bad things, and everything has its purpose in life whether we can figure it out or not. Life is a learning experience and sometimes we have to learn to accept what happens and learn to find our own purpose and meaning through those experiences.

See what I mean?  I dare you to not believe in hope and the ultimate goodness of our God after reading that.  Caleb might not know it but he was expressing exactly what the Apostle Paul said when he wrote, “And we know that all things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are the called according to His purpose.”  Romans 8:28 (NKJV)

So get your head up and pay attention to what the Lord is up to in this world.  Have hope.  Believe.

A college friend came to see me a few weeks ago.  He was celebrating 25 years of marriage by taking his wife on an Alaskan cruise.  As part of the celebration he didn’t tell his wife that Nette and I were to pick them up from the airport and take them to our house to spend the night.  We hadn’t seen them in almost 15 years.  When they came down the walkway through security the wife looked right at me and instantly recognized us.  How could that happen?  We laughed and hugged and laughed some more.  They have aged well.  A little grey here and there, a pound or two more than when they were in their early twenties.  We laughed and bragged about our children.  

The next morning  we took them to Patty’s Eggnest for breakfast before we drove them to Vancouver, BC to board their ship.

One thing about growing older is that you have wonderful memories.  When I was the pastor of my first church, this friend and his wife came and joined our little country church.  I knew back then that he would be very successful at whatever he decided to do, but at time he was working as a recruiter for our Alma Mater.  I asked him to be in charge of opening our worship services with a greeting and sharing upcoming announcements.  Jokingly we came up with the title, “Minister of Announcements.”  He went on to get a couple of graduate degrees and is now in his 10th year as pastor of a large church in Oklahoma City.  

But when they were with us this last week he wasn’t the pastor of a significant church, they were just our very precious friends.  I now pastor a small church in a very secular culture.  In fact, it is the same size as that little country church during my college years.  My friend is pastoring a large church in the middle of the Bible belt. 

We drove the 4 hour trip across the Canadian border and dropped them off at the port in Vancouver, hugged them, took some pictures and then Nette and I drove away.  We sighed and said almost in unison, “That was so much fun seeing them again.”  

I reflected on our conversations over the course of our time together.  He asked me a few questions about the worship style of our church, and other minor things. But there was one question that was conspicuous because of it’s absence.  

My eyes burned with a tear when it dawned on me what he didn’t ask.  He broke the unwritten rule between preachers.  All of us do it.  It is ingrained.  Whenever preachers get together they always ask the same question.  Oh, they are coy about it sometimes.  They demur.  But sooner or later the question get’s asked.

But not my friend.  Maybe he didn’t ask it because he didn’t want to put me on the spot, embarrass me for where I was and where I had boasted I would one day be when we were younger men.  Perhaps he didn’t ask because my church didn’t matter to him. (not a chance)  Maybe he didn’t ask because it never occurred to him. Or maybe he didn’t ask me the question because he is a large-souled man who does not measure his place in the world by comparing himself against where his friends are.

I smiled and let the tear well up.  I mentioned to my wife THE question that he didn’t ask.  She smiled and said he is too big of a man to ask such a small question.  I agreed and then decided to text him while we drove away and thank him for not asking.  

Sometimes the best answers come from questions that are never asked.

In Luke 15 Jesus tells three interrelated stories to prove a point about who God favors. A shepherd went out looking for a sheep until he found it.   A woman went all out looking for a coin until she found it.  A father while he didn’t go out to the far country looking for his son…the son needed to learn some lessons on his own…the father actively looked for him every day until he came home.

When you value something and it winds up missing you go after it right?

Several years ago Lynette had done a load of laundry and had several more to go. There were clothes strewn all over the laundry room floor. Right in the middle of the floor was a drain.

Our bedroom was next door to the laundry room and I was in it trying to do some reading. Suddenly I heard a shriek as if someone was being assaulted coming from the laundry room. I ran into the room and my wife had her eyes wide open, horror etched on her face and her left hand up. I said, “Hey, I am trying to read in here!” She pointed to her hand and said, “It’s gone!” I looked. Her hand was still there. Her fingers were still there. Her ring was still there. What is gone? I asked. She said, “My diamond!”

She started to cry while she ran her hand around the tub of the washer. Frantically, she started looking everywhere tossing the piles of clothes aside as if they were guilty of this thievery. I just stared at her. She snapped at me, “Why aren’t you helping me? I said, “What makes you think you are going to find it if you have been poking your hand down in a churning washing machine? All of that water, soap and anything the size of that diamond is washed away. It is gone.” I wasn’t too upset about it. (I knew how much I had paid for it.)

But she was beside herself. So we looked. She tried to get me to undo some plumbing, but I balked and distracted her by looking intently down that drain into Mordor. Nothing.  After what seemed like an hour of searching I decided the practical thing to do was to get some sleep. So I went back to bed and I talked her into going to bed too.  I tried to comfort her, but she cried and cried.  I remember thinking that I don’t really understand my wife very well.

Later she told me that while in bed she whispered, “God, I know it is just a little thing. But could you help me find my diamond?”

Directly, she got up and went back to look again. I was almost asleep when I heard screaming and shouting. I bolted out of bed again thinking she had lost something else. But she came running into the bedroom, grabbed me hugged me and kissed me and said. “I found it!” Right in the middle of the laundry room floor on top of a pair of blue jeans laid her diamond.

Oh, the power of prayer, passion and persistence!

If you are a Christ follower it is because someone went looking for you.

Every Christian I know can look back on their life and see how someone searched them out.  God put a Christian in their department at work.  They stumbled over a book that made the claims of Christ seem reasonable.  They were invited to worship service and everything became clear. 

There is a diamond in your world just waiting to be found this Easter. 

Will you pray and look?

Forrest Gump is the life story of a physically and mentally challenged man (Tom Hanks), who accomplishes the incredible with his simple reasoning and persistence.

In one scene, Forrest and his childhood friend Jenny are walking down an old gravel road shaded by hardwood trees. Jenny carries her sandals, and the walk seems pleasant until they happen upon an abandoned, weather-worn house. The sight is horrifying to Jenny. It is her childhood home, a place where Jenny had been abused by her alcoholic father.

Forrest sees the pain etched on Jenny’s face as she walks ahead of him toward the old abandoned house. Suddenly, Jenny throws her shoes at the house and then begins picking up rocks and furiously throwing them towards the house. Years of pent up anger are unleashed. When nothing is left to throw, Jenny falls to the ground crying. Forrest sits down in the muddy driveway beside her, and says, “Sometimes, I guess, there just aren’t enough rocks”.

I am not telling you something new when I say that there are probably some folks reading this who would like to throw a few rocks.

Maybe not at the house that they grew up in and felt pain, maybe they would like to throw a few rocks at the cancer they just found out about.  Maybe a rock at a dissolving relationship that no one knows about.  Maybe you would throw the rock at depression or at the pain that can’t even be named. 

Let Jesus encourage you with these words. 

“… To him who overcomes…I will give him a white stone, and on the stone a new name written which no one knows except him who recieves it.”  Rev. 2:17

In the Bible, names are very important.  It has to do with a person’s identity.  And if they get a new name, it meant they were going to get a new identity, or a new destiny.

Abram became Abraham

Jacob became Israel

Simon became Peter

Jesus looked at Simon and said, “Everybody else calls you Simon; Hot and cold.  But that is not what I see.  I see a Rock!  I think I will call you Rocky.  That is your new name.”

A new name is coming your way.  Not a new label but a new identity; a new character.  It’s about you becoming a creature of unimaginable splendor.

But you’re not going to just get a new name…a new secret name.  This is about intimacy with God.  In close relationships, people often give each other private names.  It’s a way of saying, “I have a special connection with you.  You are special.”

New names can mark your life and go to deep places in your soul. 

About five years ago I took my oldest boys backpacking in the mountains that I grew up in south central Colorado.  We went to some very remote alpine lakes named Deadman.  In order to get there it takes two days of intense hiking and climbing with full packs of about 60 pounds over a 13,200’ foot pass.  Once you get above tree line there are no trails.  The air is remarkably thin.  We cross a narrow ridge no wider than your kitchen table with a 1,000’ steep drop on one side and a 1,500’ foot drop on the other.  From the look of the unweathered rock lightning likes to strike this narrow part of the ridge so you need to time your passage over it to avoid the afternoon thunderstorms.

The ground is so steep in places that you can reach out your hand perpendicular to your body and touch the ground that you will be walking on in a few minutes.  On our descent I have often gotten blisters on the tops of my toes from the friction inside my boots.

But when you get to these lakes they are breath taking.  Only about 6-8 parties make the trip to the lakes per year, therefore the cutthroat trout fishing is some of the best in Colorado.  It is truly a pristine wilderness experience.  It is a painful and invigorating place.

I first went there when I was about 13 years old with my dad and brother.  And since that time I have gone back about some 20 times and five years ago I took my oldest boys, one of their friends Ian, and my dad.  At that time he was 65 years old. 

We experienced a great week of fishing and exploring.  We decided to come out a different way than we went in because my Dad’s knee was weak and hurting.  It was a route we had only heard about but never tried.  All went well until we came across a cliff wall about 75 feet high.  I searched and searched for an easy way down.  There was no easy way down.  I rarely get anxious in the mountains, but with the responsibility of these boys and my Dad, I admit I was nervous.

Finally, I found a cut in the rock that had been filled with snow.  I decided to kick step holes in the steep snow wall.  I descended with my pack and left it at the bottom.  Then I went back up the 75 foot climb, careful to position my feet in the same holes I had made coming down.  I put one of my boy’s backs on my back and then kicked stepped under him, helping him put his boots in the exact step.  Step by step by step all the way down. Then at the bottom put the pack down and climb up and get another pack for another boy.  First Cole, Clint, and then Ian all successfully ferried down the snow ribbon.

The only person left was my father who had watched me carry the boys’ packs down one by one.  I sat down beside him at the top of that cliff.  We didn’t say a word to each other.  We just sat there.   Then he said, “You are really good with those boys.  You made them feel safe in a dangerous situation” I said thanks.   Then we just sat there staring at Sand Creek Valley stretching out before us as if we had no place to go.  The boys were below us laughing and enjoying the last rush of adrenalin that was coursing through their veins.

Finally I asked, “How is your knee?” 

He barked, “Not good.”

Silence; Long silence.

“How do you want to do this?” I asked.

“I want to take my own pack down” he said.

Silence.

“But you better take it” he said.

“Okay” I said. 

I got up put his pack on (which was heavier than mine) and headed towards the snow bank.  I put one foot on the snow and suddenly my dad grabbed me by my sleeve, turned me to face him, looked me in the eye and said, “Son, you are my hero”.

I can’t tell you what those words did for me.  All I could do was look at him, look down and nod my head.

We slowly descended the cliff and have never spoken about it since.

I never imagined in my wildest dreams that my dad would ever call me ‘hero’.  Those words penetrated places deep inside my soul.  As incredible as that moment was…it will fade into a distant memory the day Jesus hands me my white stone and calls me by my special name.

Here is what Jesus is saying, “One day you will stand before the One who made you; the One who thought you up.  And He is going to hand you a white rock, and on that rock will be the single word you have wanted to hear and be for your whole life.

It might be “Courage” or, “Beauty” or, “Faithful” or, “Beloved”.  That’s your name.  That is who you are.  That which you’ve most longed to be but never came close to because sin has messed you up so much in this world will be realized beyond your wildest dreams.  You will be a creature of unimaginable splendor and this is your destiny!

Jesus will say, “This is just between you and me.  It’s our little secret.  That’s how close we are.  That’s how special you are to me.”

You will experience intimacy with God that no one else will share.  Not Billy Graham, Mother Teresa, Chuck Swindoll, not the Apostle John himself.  They will have their own name—but not yours.  You will have the intimacy, belonging and love that you have craved your whole life. You will be made whole by love. 

Some rocks are made for throwing; some rocks mean something altogether different.  So you just hang on.  You just put one foot in front of the other.  You will be home soon enough.

My first Bible as a preacher is a brown leather New King James Version.  It is cracked, wrinkled and worn thin in places.  I let it fall open where it would and it opened to Nehemiah.  There were underlined places, checks, stars and one word comments.  Words like, “opportunity” beside chapter 2:4 and “Because of Obedience” beside 8:17c.

Here are some underlined verses:

“The strength of the labors is failing, and there is so much rubbish that we are not able to build the wall.”  4:10

“Do not be afraid of them.  Remember the Lord, great and awesome, and fight…”  4:14

“Our God will fight for us.”  4:20

When I held this precious old bible in my hands open to this Old Testament book, I ran my fingers over the pages.  I traced the underlined words like I might brush a strand of hair away from my wife’s face.  I rubbed the corners of the sacred text like I did my sleeping grandson’s dimpled hands as he slept on my lap last Saturday. 

What struck me the most—more than the underlined verses, more than the comments in the margins—was the brown stains from the oils left by my thumbs and the small of traces of dirt on the edges of the pages.  When I saw those stains—my eyes burned with tears.  I remembered the Wednesday nights of preaching verse-by-verse though this Old Testament book to a little country church in Shawnee, Oklahoma twenty five years ago this month.

I turned to Ephesians and there were the stains again—and I remembered teaching through that book on Sunday mornings.  Then I found the same stains in 1 Corinthians, the Gospel of John, Romans, 1 John, and 1 Peter—and I remembered the way it used to be, when I preached the Bible. 

Now I have to use a new version of the bible because today’s Church goers have calloused ears to listening to the poetry of the King James Version.  I have to preach in short topical “high impact series” with catchy titles to attract a crowd.  Sermon Series like “Desperate Sex Lives” and “Rock God” and “Text: U asked 4 it!”  These scintillating series can only be about 4 weeks long or the folks lose interest.  Because attracting a crowd is the only measure of success.  Apparently size matters.

But I long for the day when I just preached the Bible: line upon line and precept upon precept.

Those stained pages meant I spent time in those precious books of God’s Word before God’s people who had an open Bible on their laps.  Today folks don’t bring their bibles to church.  They don’t need to.  We provide the verses on PowerPoint’s or print them on a handout.  We entertain.  We are cute.  We go for the cheap laugh.  We dress in blue jeans, flip flops and untucked shirts.

Where are the stained pages?

I heard a complaint from an attendee about my preaching recently:  “If I wanted a Bible Study I would host one in my home.  I don’t come to church for that.” 

At first that comment hurt my feelings.  (All preachers like to be heard and admired.  Those who say differently —lie about other stuff.)  But as I reflected on that, I think I am getting to the place where I don’t care.  I want stained pages again.

I want the sacred text I hold in my hands to come alive and find lodging in the hearts of the folks that dare to come to church and bring their Bibles.  May there be underlined verses again, in marked up margins; in Bibles that look as worn as grandma’s hands. 

Spurgeon said, “The Bible that is falling apart usually belongs to someone who isn’t.”

Then I go back to my old Bible and older friend, Nehemiah and read these underlined words:  “Do not sorrow, for the joy of the Lord is your strength.”  8:10

The following is stuff that I meant to say in a recent sermon…but ran out of time…

No matter how much you grow spiritually, you will always be you. An acorn does not grow up to be a rose bush, just an oak. It might be a healthy oak, it might be a sickly oak, but it will never grow out of its oakness. You will never grow out of your youness.

I read recently about the myth of 180-degree change, that if I really grow spiritually I would become a completely different person, different personality, and different temperament, all that kind of stuff. It doesn’t happen. Those of you who are raging extraverts and you know who you are, don’t you get tired of putting your foot in your mouth all the time, of saying things you regret. Don’t you wish that you could become more like those of us who are introverted? More wise, more calm, more restrained, more prudent. It’s never going to happen. It’s too bad because we all wish that you would become more like that.

Here’s the deal, some things about you will never change no matter how much you grow spiritually. Your raw material, your basic wiring, your metabolism, your DNA, they’ll just get redirected. Before the Apostle Paul met Jesus, he was a brilliant, passionate, zealous man who persecuted people. After he met Jesus, guess what? He was a brilliant, passionate, zealous man who sacrificed himself in order to serve people and God.

Before Chuck Colson met Jesus, he was a man marked by drive and high levels of motivation and ambition, and he used it to gain power. After he met Jesus, guess what? He was man marked by high levels of drive, motivation and ambition, and now he used it to serve Jesus by helping prisoners all around the world.

You will always be you. That means the stuff that you wrestle with is what you will always wrestle with. When I look at my journal from 10 years ago I noticed three words kept describing the stuff that I wrestled with, and I realized that those three words…ten years later…are still my words, still my struggle. At first that was kind of depressing until the realization came, you’ve got words, I’ve got words, as long as I’m alive that will be the stuff I wrestle with. You wrestle with sin patterns that are kind of unique to you.

Now here’s the good news: What happens when you grow, what happens when you flourish is you become more you. You see, God created you, God created everything. This part’s real clear in Genesis, everything God made, it said God would look at it and God saw that it was good, and that includes you.

Redemption is always the redemption of creation. God doesn’t say, “Well, this is the stuff I created, but now I’m going to get rid of it.” In fact in Romans 8, it talks about how creation itself is groaning for the revelation of the sons and the daughters of God so that creation itself can be set free from its frustration because God intends to redeem what He created.

That means He intends to redeem, to liberate, to set free you, and you as you grow spiritually will become more you. You just won’t get holier, you will get youier. Sounds like Dr. Seuss, doesn’t it? You’re going to become more and more the you that He thought up. That’s a real good thing, and part of what you need to do to grow spiritually is embrace that God made you to be you.

One of the great barriers to our growing spiritually is we are not grateful that there is someone like me on this planet, someone like you. I know we’re all junked up. I know there is sin, but see we are the creation of God and redemption is the redemption of creation, and God’s plan is just for you to get youier and youier and youier throughout all eternity, and that’s a good thing.