Archives For Getting glory

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A friend once told me that some early Christians thought the story of the Prodigal Son was really the story of Mary and Martha with a gender change. She offered examples:

  • with_mary_and_martha006 r1Martha seems like the older brother, irritated and “slaving” away in duty.
  • Mary sits “inside” at the feet of Jesus while Martha is “outside” in the kitchen.
  • The house doesn’t belong to both of them. Martha owns it, and the Prodigal was penniless because he had spent his portion of the inheritance on wild living.

I wasn’t sold on the interpretation but it tickled my curiosity. In casual conversation I mentioned it to several friends. They were furious at the idea and furious with me.

They were furious, but not because it was idle speculation (which would have been a fair criticism); they were angry because it sullied Mary’s reputation.

  •  “I hate how the church belittles women. Here they strip Mary of her goodness and turn her into some kind of whore.”
  •  “How dare you think of Mary with such dishonor and impurity!

The new interpretation had mildly tickled my curiosity; the ensuing, bitter, indignant, antagonism fascinated me. Mary’s adoration at the feet of Jesus is beautiful.

Could anything she ever did (or didn’t do) in her former life diminish that beauty? Continue Reading…

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A few years ago a client came into town for a series of meetings. He asked for a restaurant recommendation, and I suggested my favorite restaurant, The Gandy Dancer. The next day he came to my office Menuand raved about the restaurant. He was going to recommend it to every one of his colleagues.

I asked him what he’d ordered. “Nothing,” he said, he’d been too busy. But he had “stopped by and studied the menu, and everything looked incredible.”

I thought he was nuts.

But I’m beginning to think that most of us believers are equally “nuts.” We read the menu and miss the meal. We nourish our Christian lives by feasting on a cardboard menu of untasted truths.

The cardboard menu is a link to a spiritually nourishing banquet, but too often we simply chew on the cardboard. Is it any wonder our lives look like cardboard-cutouts?

Frankly, cardboard is neither life-giving nor nourishing. Even with a dash of salt.

The Christian life is more than the menu         Continue Reading…

The movie The King’s Speech tells the true tale of a shy prince who becomes a King. “Bertie”—as only his family can call him—is the frog who becomes a prince who is crowned the King of England and who will lead the nation through World War II.

Bertie’s road to the throne is filled with potholes. It is his older brother who is the heir, not Bertie; the scars of his past create fear in this future king of a scared nation; and he stutters in an age Speech at Wembley 2when live speeches are the new way to lead.

At one point he mourns, “I am the seat of all authority because they think that when I speak, I speak for them. But I can’t speak.”

The movie opens as Bertie stammers through a speech at Wembley Stadium, a speech broadcast to the world. We share the prince’s anguish in his painful pauses and repeating c-c-c-consonants, every stutter amplified for the listening ears of the world.

Bertie reluctantly turns to Lionel Logue, an uncertified speech therapist. Lionel sees in Bertie a vein of gold. Lionel unearths this gold by teaching, cajoling, and even provoking the shy prince, until Bertie finally shouts:

Bertie: L-L-L-listen to me

Lionel: Why should I waste my time listening to you?

Bertie: Because I have a right to be heard! I have a voice!

Lionel: [pause] Yes, you do. [stands] … You’re the bravest man I know. You’ll make a bloody good king.

In the movie, a commoner helps the king find his voice. And that is the way it works in the world, underlings give overlings a platform to be heard. Christ turned worldly wisdom upside down. Now it’s the leaders who help others find their voice.

The thing is, few Christian leaders know how to do it.            Continue Reading…

Several weeks ago I had an awful day in the middle of a horrible week in the midst of a bad month. A sniffle turned into post-nasal drip which turned into bronchitis—the third time in five months. When I inhaled, it felt like shards of glass shredding my lungs.

I canceled everything so6990615-sick-man-sleeping-on-office-table I could have some recovery time. Later, that same day, I ended up with six hours of unexpected, unscheduled, and exhausting meetings.

Now I was both sick and tired.

That same night an organization I belong to sent out its weekly email. Hidden in the email was the description of a decision that I considered a tactical blunder. So I dashed off a short email to the leaders asking them to reconsider.

Alas! I ended the email with this nasty, sarcastic dig:

Why don’t we think first? For a change.

The next morning several people emailed back, correcting me for my caustic comment.

My initial response was self-defense: I was sick. And their decision made little sense. And my day of recovery had been stolen. And besides, maybe they deserved it.

But that was just defensiveness. The truth was I had been a jerk. No one forced me to write those words.  They were unnecessary and inflammatory. And no one had a gun pointed at me when I pressed “send.” I was the one with a gun, pointing it at others.

Why didn’t I just think first? For a change.        Continue Reading…

About thirty-five years ago, I lived in a community of a hundred men who kept everything in common. We literally pooled our money. Out of that pool we paid for our clothes, food, rent, and even our cars.

Before we had a non-profit name, the cars we bought were registered in one of the men’s names (usually whoever was convenient at the time). We had a little fleet.

One day I was in a car with Bruce (the first time I’ve used a real name) when he was pulled over for speeding. Officer ticketThe officer sternly asked for a driver’s license and the car registration. We always kept the registration in the glove box; always … except this time.

Bruce told the office he didn’t have the registration, and the officer asked Bruce who owned the car. Bruce glanced at me red-faced, turned to the officer and stuttered, “Sir, I don’t know who this car belongs to.”

The officer replied incredulously, “Let me get this straight. You are speeding in someone’s car; you can’t find its registration. You don’t even know who it belongs to; but you don’t want me to think you are stealing it.” He strode back to his squad car.

A few minutes later he marched back with a speeding ticket. After handing the ticket to Bruce, he leaned in the open window and he dead-panned,

“By the way, sir, just in case you’re curious, this car belongs to you. You own it.” Continue Reading…

My kids and I used to have a small Lionel train set in a corner of my tool room. Ten years ago we dismantled the small set with dreams of a bigger and better train set in a newly created basement room called the Train Room.

We dreamed of the perfect train layout with switches, freight yards, and realistic scenery; with a moving crane, sawmill, draw-bridge, and coal dump; and with cities, tunnels, mountains, and farms. It would fill the new 15 by 18 foot Train Room.

Our quest for perfection derailed us. We dreamt of glory, and for ten years we did nothing. We ran out of steam. The Train Room became the junk room, a closet in which to hide things that belonged nowhere else.

Dad - train setIt also stored the dusty train set that we dismantled ten years ago.

The day before Christmas, my kids suggested we re-assemble the train set in the new Train Room. We cleared the “closet” out (never mind where all that junk went), we put the table up, we rewired the accessories, and we set the trains back on track once again.

It was a blast. Doing something adequately was far better than doing nothing perfectly.

Continue Reading…

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I was at Panera waiting for a friend when I overheard a three-way conversation at the next table. I didn’t mean to listen, but they were loud and seemed unaware of others.

One person complained—just a little—of his spouse’s odd eccentricities; another found fault in a boss’s stupidity; and the last grumbled a bit at her grown child’s ingratitude. Just normal middle-class Americans griping at everyday discomforts.

Then the first told of a documentary he had seen on tribal peoples in the South American Rain Forests, people who had little to no contact with the rest of the world.

The threesome turned out to be Christians, and they wondered about the eternal future for such people. One asked, “If someone never heard the gospel, do they have any chance of heaven? Or is hell their only option?”

Another had just read a book which claimed that everyone is going to heaven. After all, if God really loves the world, wouldn’t he save the whole world? Everyone at the table seemed swayed by this argument (which I think is faulty), and everyone sighed in relief.

Then someone asked, “If God is going to bring everyone to heaven, why on earth would anyone spend any time trying to evangelize anyone?” They concluded there is no need, and frankly no reason.

They collectively breathed another sigh of relief. I too was relieved. Not because of Universal Salvation—which I don’t believe.

I was relieved that these three would never try to evangelize. Continue Reading…

[To listen to a reading of this article, click here.]

Last Sunday night was a dark night. I woke in the dark, thinking dark thoughts, unable to stop my mind from wandering the shadowy paths of self-condemnation. I lay awake,

  • Remembering my unfulfilled promises to my kids when they were young,
  • Regretting my mistakes made as a boss to good employees,
  • Wondering if my life had made any difference for good in the world.

Sunrise came. I stretched and tried to shake off the phantom spirits of despondency. I looked for something to cheer me, something to help me forget the darkness.

My wife has been reading (and rereading) Ann Voscamp’s book, One Thousand Gifts. It’s a book about gratitude. I hoped it would do the trick. The first nine words were a quote,

Every sin is an attempt to fly from emptiness. (Simone Weil, Gravity and Grace)

I read those words and stopped.  I almost felt the wind knocked out of me. I lay the book aside and prayed. I meditated the next thirty minutes on this simple statement: Every sin is an attempt to fly from emptiness.

It was just what I needed but not what I wanted. It stripped my soul and breathed in life.

That morning I woke, hoping to escape from sadness, but the sadness was really an emptiness that I feared to face. I prayed, and confronted, and heard this. Continue Reading…

[To listen to a reading of this article, click here.]

Ten years ago, I was on a plane heading for New York to give a presentation. The man next to me was a professor of public speaking at a major university.

Somewhat sheepishly, I asked for advice, “What is the key to great public speaking?”

After some preliminary comments, he said this: “At the beginning of World War II, when Winston Churchill became Prime Minister of England, he said, ‘I felt as though my whole life had prepared me for this moment.’”

“Sam,” he continued, “the best public speakers feel as though their entire lives have prepared them for this moment.”

His words pierced me more deeply than had any other past comment or deliberate insult.

I was devastated. I didn’t feel prepared for anything of significance.

Why?

My soul longs—and I believe every soul longs—for a purpose, for a deep meaning, to know that we matter. We long for something transcendent.

Yet I believe most of us fritter our lives away with little dreams. We eagerly await our next vacation or our next car. We squander our money—or our dreams—on the next new iPhone or matching shoes and purse. Continue Reading…

Today didn’t go as planned. Not even close.

Our dog Puzzle didn’t eat a bite on Sunday. I woke up today (Monday) to find two large pools of diarrhea in the family room and a cowering dog in the kitchen. I called the vet. They had an opening in one hour. For the next forty-five minutes I scrubbed and scoured the cesspools in our carpet.

When I coaxed Puzzle to the car, I discovered a flat tire. I pumped it up and sped to the vet. I had missed the “window” and sat for an hour amidst yapping dogs and a shivering Puzzle. (He’s fine; he just ate something bad.)

I dropped Puzzle off at home, and I limped to the tire store. They said it would take twenty minutes. An hour and twenty minutes later they said a nail and punctured the sidewall and I needed a new tire. But it wasn’t in stock. I’d have to come back.

I rushed to Panera’s for a lunch appointment, but my friend didn’t show up. He texted, saying that he had a toothache and was dashing to the dentist for an emergency visit.

I hurried home only to discover that my website was down. Apparently there had been a “massive DDoS attack on GoDaddy.com” (whatever that means) which affected thousands of sites. Including mine.

While talking with technical support, my wife came home with a kidney stone episode, so I ended the call and ran out to buy her some painkillers.

By mid afternoon my friend had a pain in the mouth, my wife had a pain in the side, and my day had been a pain in the ____ (fill in the blank). Continue Reading…