Pray for surf

Since visiting my friend in Hawaii in high school, I've always wanted to learn how to surf. There's something that just draws me to it, a majesty, a mystery, and thrill of it all. Just coasting on the motor power of tide. You and the ocean. You and the water. You and God. My friend always said of surfing "for many, that's church." We even did a few of our own dawn patrols with body boards. (Never actually any surfing, but I began to get an idea of what it meant).
Yesterday was my first trip to a beach in almost a year. A rainstorm had just rumbled through and the last mists of drizzle fanned across the windshield just as I parked the car by the access. Greeted by sand dunes and the wave of sea oats, the beach was empty of human traffic (and rightfully so moments after a rainstorm). I had almost forgotten what it felt like to meander along the coastline with the ebb and flow of the tide and the gusts of wind passing over you. Flocks of seagulls were standing guard at the shoreline, staring out at a breathing ocean. Walking on, I now noticed several yards ahead of me the first signs of humanity. A man in a sleek, black, body suit, with board in hand, darted into the ocean and paddled away from shore. As I moved closer to that spot, looking out to sea, I realized I was not the only one on the beach after all. (Perhaps just the only one on the shore). As many as twenty or thirty guys in sleek, black suits bobbed up and down on the waves like buoys. They looked like a whole flock of pelicans floating along after their last meal and plotting their next move. Or, like a bunch of nondescript penguins staring out into an endless horizon of sea waiting for something, or watching intently for something they knew was there, but just couldn't see it yet. "What is this that even the wind and the waves he commands."
For several minutes, I too (stood from the shore) stared out taking it all in and remembered how my friend had associated surfing with church. Yes, the Church is just adventurous enough to leave the shoreline and paddle out into a watery abyss. Just vigilant enough to diligently keep watch for something they know is there and yet can't quite see it. Just audacious enough to try wave after wave and trust that the guiding power of the Most High will guide them through the foamy surf of life. But then again, the Church has also been known to be so focused on itself, waiting for the perfect wave, that it's oblivious to the life that carries on along the shore. And then again, how do you know which wave is the one, the one you've been waiting for? Who's to say it's this one and not that one? Why is it that all thirty surfers, respond to the tide and a different current? But then, there's something about the nature of each wave that assures that each ride ends with one emerging completely baptized and breathless from foamy waters - perhaps even commissioned to set out again for a moment of nature's raw communion. I'm not sure what it is, but for a few brief moments, I'm mesmerized and perplexed by this thing they call church. I've always wanted to learn how to surf. Maybe someday we will.

Filling Containers

Almost six months ago, I was running around from Dollar Tree to Dollar General trying to find appropriately sized storage containers (plastic shoeboxes) and 18 of them at that. After trips to Monroe, Rockingham, and Wadesboro, I had finally obtained all 18. Then came the announcements. I shared with our youth about the Project Agape initiative in Armenia and also with one of our United Methodist Women groups. Everyone seemed on board and excited to do something. I was determined that our youth and church would be involved in this mission to Armenia again and that this year we would write notes as well. Despite the deadlines set, it was like pulling teeth to get some of the boxes back. Some folks never returned calls, some dropped their stuff off by the garage the night before, some had only managed to get their container half full while others had containers overflowing, and one lost the container but had a tote full of gifts. The next 48 hours, I found myself scrambling to repack the containers so each were filled, sealed, and contents appropriately labeled (even adding a picture with the cards of our youth group). The plan was to deliver them to the Mission Response Center above Lake Norman on my way to Franklin, NC. By the time I was packed and my trunk filled with boxes, it was already after 5. So, I made a few phone calls and arranged to meet a friend in Denver that evening who would deliver them to the Mission Center the following morning. What a great guy. On the way, I found a CVS and purchased another container for 3x the cost of the others, just so the extra supplies someone bought could get to another child in Armenia. By 9pm that evening, I had successfully transferred the boxes from my trunk to my friend's and was on the road again with three hours of driving still ahead.

Flash forward 6 months... and I'm preparing to be away with Confirmands on a retreat this weekend. Despite being away, I had to somehow coordinate a few mission/outreach opportunities for Saturday so that everyone has an option or ability to participate in our District's "One Great Day of Mission." I know the concept and purpose of this event/effort is admirable. Yet, for me, it's just bad timing. It's really frustrating trying to organize others to be in some form of active mission on a Saturday, when I'm leaving town for a youth retreat. Then it happened. In yesterday's mail, I discovered a card marked "brought back to America for mailing from a friend of Armenia." My mind fluttered with ideas and flashed back to the crazy ordeal of boxes 6 months ago. And then came a beautiful peace and joy. I knew why we had done it and the card in my hand addressed to Lilesville UMC was worth it all. Giving of ourselves and reaching out in unfamiliar ways can be much like the experience of filling plastic containers for children in Armenia. We buy and arrange things we hope a child might enjoy or need and then pack them away in a plastic container, snapping the lid. What have we done and what will become of it? Somehow, I think whatever happens this Saturday God will be present. Even in the midst of doubt or anxiety, bad timing or poor planning. I hope somehow in six months, or even six years, from now we might look back and smile knowing it was worth it all. For now, my heart is strangely warmed and my prayers are with all those who will be filling containers again this Saturday. Thanks be to God

So what?

I'm finding one of the most rewarding ways to start my week is in prison. There is something about the biblical text that comes alive in new ways when studied and interpreted among a group of inmates. I'm new to this experience of facilitating Disciple Bible study at a state prison, but the guys I work with have remarkable spirit. We were discussing the significance of call and covenant in the Biblical narrative (especially with regard to Abraham). Someone piped up..."well you know, God's call is for everybody, not just a few. God calls everyone of us." As our discussion continued, we found ourselves trying to answer how we know God is calling us to this and not something else. I suggested we try to tackle it from the narrative of Abraham. Were there times for Abraham or Sarah when they questioned whether or not God was actually calling them to something? The responses were varied and vibrant but perhaps the one i'll remember most was this: "So what! So what if I have to wait around 15 or 20 years for God's promise to become real. So what if I have to sacrifice. God's put me here for a reason and I can complain or rebel about the fact that I'm in here and all that I've lost, or I can give thanks to God that he is doing something in me and that he is shaping me and that I can be in here and study his word. So what if I have to go through all that like Abraham. I'm not going to miss my blessing."

What was on the wood

Chances are, you probably never heard of him. Few have. But, John Odom was a beautiful young man. Today my heart grieves for him and for his family. Make no mistake about it, John was far from perfect. Like many teens, he had his share mess ups and altercations. By the time he was 18, he already had an aggravated assault charge and was also known to have tried his share of alcohol and drugs. But, he loved music and he loved baseball. He was a better guitarist than most and an even better baseball player. Yet, sometimes he’d report to practice with a bad elbow because of extensive guitar practice. Unlike many, however, John had the distinction of being drafted to play professional sports. He was drafted in the 44th round by the SF Giants and spent almost four years moving through their minor league system with less than stellar results.
Last year, in an unusual trade deal, John made a few headlines by being traded to the Laredo Broncos by the Calgary Vipers for 10 maple bats (black, 34”, double-dipped, maple bats). The bats were branded with “John Odom Bat Trade” and were later sold to Ripley’s Believe It or Not to raise money for charity. John smiled and made the most of it as news crews and reporters picked up the story. It wasn’t intended as a publicity stunt or to take a shot at John. Nevertheless, when John changed teams, something of himself changed too.
He packed up and drove nearly 30 hours to Laredo and when he arrived everyone wanted to know about the bats. In one of his first outings, the home team cranked up the Batman theme song as John warmed up on the mound. He was taunted and mocked for three ruthless innings until his manager knew he had to get him out of there. When he realized John becoming more and more withdrawn, a team meeting was even called to alert everyone that there would be no more talking about the trade or bats. After his third successful start, John told his coach he just couldn’t take it any more and he was going home to get his life straightened out. Five months later, John was found dead at the age of 26 by an accidental drug overdose. The Broncos and his coach only found out two months later when they tried to call and see if he was interested in pitching again.
I don’t presume to know by any means what all was going on in John Odom’s life. Nor do I presume to know what’s going on in yours. And I don’t presume to know why such a remarkable young man died at the age of 26. I do only wish he had died knowing that he was precious child of God. So many people we encounter everyday go through life being told they aren’t worth the space they’re taking up. Many sometimes feel they’re about as useful as a piece of wood. But God tells us that each one of us were formed for an eternal and divine purpose. Whether we are living in the slums of Mumbai or dusting the furniture in a penthouse on 5th Ave - Each one of us has sacred worth. Each one of us was given life at a great cost. The trade involved a piece of wood. But it wasn’t so much the value of the wood as it was what was on the wood. In the fullness of time, God offered his Son, stretched out on a piece of wood, for the redemption of the whole world. For everything else there’s MasterCard, but for you, and me, and for John, it had to be priceless. It reminds me of the old violin parable “The Touch of the Master’s Hand.”

It was battered and scarred,

And the auctioneer thought it

hardly worth his while

To waste much time on the old violin,

but he held it up with a smile.

"What am I bid, good people", he cried,

"Who starts the bidding for me?"

"One dollar, one dollar, Do I hear two?"

"Two dollars, who makes it three?"

"Three dollars once, three dollars twice, going for three,"

But, No,

From the room far back a gray bearded man

Came forward and picked up the bow,

Then wiping the dust from the old violin

And tightening up the strings,

He played a melody, pure and sweet

As sweet as the angel sings.

The music ceased and the auctioneer

With a voice that was quiet and low,

Said "What now am I bid for this old violin?"

As he held it aloft with its' bow.

"One thousand, one thousand, Do I hear two?"

"Two thousand, Who makes it three?"

"Three thousand once, three thousand twice,

Going and gone", said he.

The audience cheered,

But some of them cried,

"We just don't understand."

"What changed its' worth?"

Swift came the reply.

"The Touch of the Masters Hand."

And many a man with life out of tune

All battered and scarred with sin

Is auctioned cheap to a thankless world

Much like that old violin.

A mess of pottage, a glass of wine,

A game and he travels on.

He is going once, he is going twice,

He is going and almost gone.

But the Master comes,

And the foolish crowd never can quite understand,

The worth of a soul and the change that is wrought

By the Touch of the Masters' Hand (by Myra Brooks Welch)

10 maple bats stamped with the words “John Odom Trade.” It wasn’t so much the value of the wood as it is what was on the wood- John Odom. And John Odom, yes, you are a child of the Most High. People are dying to know they are a child of God. And not just to hear it, but to know it and to experience it. It’s time for the Church to be the Church! May those to whom love is a stranger find in you generous friends. Yours are the hands and feet of Christ! Choose this day to transform the world with the hope of Jesus Christ.