The Mechanics of Change

Newton’s First Law of Motion states that an object at rest tends to stay at rest and an object in motion tends to stay in motion, consistent in both speed and direction, unless either is acted upon by a force greater than itself.

The law is fundamentally about change.

The implications extend well beyond physics.

In fact, we watch this law at work in just about every area of our lives.

We all have situations and circumstances in our lives that we would like to change. We want to change our bodies so we go on a diet and start exercising. We want to change our career so we take new jobs and move to new places. We want to change our relationships so we find new friends or get married or have kids.

When we want to change something about our lives, we simply exert the force of our will and that which has been at rest will spring into motion or that which was in motion will change directions.

While it may seem to work for a time, sooner or later we realize that a deeper change is in order.

We need more than an external change of behavior. We need an internal change of heart.

Our hearts, though, cannot be changed by the force of the will.

We need something greater than ourselves to act upon us, to set our hearts in motion.

God Himself has acted, not by impersonal force, but by personally stepping into history as one of us.

By living the life we should have lived. By dying the death we should have died. By offering to get our still hearts beating again. By shaping us from the moment we receive His forgiveness to the moment we take our last earthly breath.

We cannot encounter Jesus and not change.

How has He changed you?

Wrong Turns

When I was in high school, my friends and I ventured downtown for a concert one Friday night.

Since I’d gotten my license only a few months earlier, the half hour drive felt to me like a road trip, full of adventure and the sweet sense of freedom. The sound of the radio was blaring in my speakers as we sped down the highway. 

I was in the middle of belting out a solo when I realized that I had missed the last exit into the city.

The next exit took us across state lines and into one of the most dangerous neighborhoods not just in the city, but in the country. We ended up turning around in the parking lot of a strip club as we searched desperately for road signs that would get us back on course (this, sadly, was pre-smartphones and pre-GPS systems).

That was nearly two decades ago, but I still remember the sick feeling in my stomach like it was yesterday.

If I’m being honest, that’s not the only time I’ve gotten off track and ended up somewhere I didn’t want to be. More often than I’d like to admit, I’ve willfully ignored the directions laid out in God’s Word. I’ve chosen to go my own way, rather than to follow Him obediently. I’ve allowed myself to be distracted by lesser things. I’ve rejected the very guidance designed to protect and keep me.

Yet God still calls me back.

He provides the way out. He invites me to get back on track – to submit to His direction and guidance. He reminds me that His instructions are not to ruin my joy but to expand it.

C.S. Lewis once wrote that, “We all want progress. But progress means getting nearer to the place you want to be. And if you have taken a wrong turn, then to go forward does not get you any nearer. If you are on the wrong road, progress means doing an about-turn and walking back to the right road; and in that case the man who turns back soonest is the most progressive man.”

If you’ve taken a wrong turn – if you’ve gotten off track and ended up where you never intended to go – then take heart.

No matter how far of course we stray, there is always a way back.

Trust the Guide

I’ll never forget the terror I felt as the old, repurposed school bus rumbled down a dirt road towards the Rio Grande River. I was seven-years-old and about to go white water rafting for the first time.

The guide had just finished giving us the safety instructions, warning us, basically, that if we didn’t do as he said and follow his lead, we could die.

My little mind heard a definitive, “You will die.”

I innocently thought my life was about to come to an early end. I tried to hide my tears but I failed.

My dad, seeing the panic in my eyes, put his arm around me and said, “There is nothing to be afraid of. He’s been down this river a thousand times. He knows every bend and boulder. He knows how to navigate even the strongest rapids. All you have to do is trust him enough to follow his lead. If you do, this will be the adventure of a lifetime.”

It’s been decades since that rafting trip, but I’ve often felt like I was sitting on that bus again, paralyzed by what is to come. I don’t know what lies ahead. I don’t know the bends my life will take and I don’t know where jagged rocks and crushing boulders have settled just below the surface. I don’t know how to navigate the rapids.

But I have a Guide who does.

So do you.

Jesus has gone before you. He’s been down this river, crossed this road, descended this valley, conquered this mountain.

He knows you and loves you. He protects you and guides you. You can trust Him because He knows the way. You can follow Him because He is committed to bringing you safely through.

Where do you need to trust Him right now? What are you facing that seems insurmountable?

You are never alone. You have a trustworthy Guide. So, trust Him.

If you do, I promise it will be the adventure of a lifetime.

Monsters

There was a monster under my bed.

At least, that’s what I believed as a child.

When I turned out the lights, I would quickly scramble to the center of the mattress, trying to outrun whatever was sure to emerge from the darkness. Any stray limb dangling off the side of the bed put me at risk of being nabbed. So, each night, I would wrap myself in the blankets.

After all, everybody knows a monster can’t get to you if you’re under the covers.

As I grew up, I left behind my imaginary monsters, but found that there is, in fact, a monster at large – a very real and very powerful enemy.

He lures me with temptations. He entices me with his lies. He wants to steal, kill, and destroy all that is good and all that is right.

Yet, for those that belong to Jesus, for those that have received His victory, there is nothing to fear. Ours is a strong but defeated enemy.

Jesus invites us to take cover in Him, to wrap ourselves up in His strength, in His power.

After all, the monster – the enemy – can’t get to you if you’re under the cover of Christ.

Average

I’m pretty average.

I mean it. That’s not false humility or anything. I’m legitimately very average.

Most people like to think of themselves as “above average” (according to a number of surveys).

Not me. I’m as average as they come.

I barely broke a 3.0 GPA (in high school or college). I was on the varsity basketball team – but I didn’t start. I was second or third off the bench. I was a student council representative, but I never ran for office – and I for sure wouldn’t have won if I had. I wasn’t popular or unpopular. I lived in the middle.

My middle brother was the smart, hard-working one and my younger brother was the artistic, creative one.

I was, well, nothing in particular.

That used to bother me.

But I felt a lot better when I read about the disciples Jesus chose.

They were pretty ordinary. A handful of them caught fish for a living. One exploited his own people by collecting exorbitant taxes for Rome. Another was a militant knucklehead that wanted to overthrow Rome by force.

(Honestly, Jesus choosing those two to be His disciples and then calling them to love one another is a lesson in its own right.)

Here’s the point.

They weren’t the best and the brightest.  In fact, they were quite average.

If Jesus could use guys like that to change the world, then maybe He could use me too.

Think about it this way.

A paintbrush is quite an ordinary thing.

But in the hands of a capable artist, it can be used to create a masterpiece.

Most of us are pretty ordinary.

But an ordinary person in the hands of an extraordinary God can change the world.

If you feel ordinary, join the club. If you feel insignificant or insecure, get in line.

But – in the hands of a master Artist – what might God do in and through you? How might He turn your life into a masterpiece if only you’d submit to the guidance of His brush?

The End of the Story

I reread the Chronicles of Narnia every single year.

Yes, I am an adult. Yes, they still capture my heart and mind with every single time.

I know how the series ends. I’ve read through it more than a dozen times.

But every time I get to the final book – The Last Battle – I flip to the last page.

“And as He spoke He no longer looked to them like a lion; but the things that began to happen after that were so great and beautiful that I cannot write them. And for us this is the end of all stories, and we can most truly say that they all lived happily ever after.

But for them it was only the beginning of the real story. All their life in this world and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and the title page: now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story which one on earth has read: which goes on forever: in which every chapter is better than the one before.” (C.S. Lewis, The Last Battle, p. 228)

I know how it ends – but I want to know again.

Have you ever flipped to the last page of a book because you simply couldn’t wait to see how it ended? Everything changes when you know the end of the story.

I wish I could flip forward. I wish I knew where I’d be in twenty years. I wish I knew what I’d be doing. I wish I knew if what I was doing now mattered.

I wish I knew the friends I’d still have. I wish I knew what my nieces and nephews would grow up to be.

There’s a lot I wish I knew – and a lot I don’t.

I do know the end of the story, though.

God has written the last page of history. We know how the story ends for those that follow Jesus. In the end, God wins. In the end, there will be no more tears, no more pain, no more heartache. In the end, He will make all things new. 

How different would life be if only we remembered the end of the story? How would you think about your past? How would you trust in your present? How would you hope for the future?

Everything changes—or should change—when you know the end of the story.

Have you changed?

Rich and Generous

Alexander the Great is regarded as one of the most powerful rulers in history.

Legend holds that one of Alexander’s beloved generals had a daughter engaged to be married. Because Alexander so valued his general, he offered to pay for the entire wedding.

When the general sent Alexander the total, it was astronomical. He had booked the most expensive venue available and withheld no expense. The messenger delivering the bill feared that Alexander would be so angry at the extravagance that he would take his life for even bringing him such news.

When Alexander received the bill, however, he laughed and said, “Pay it!”

The messenger, surprised and greatly relieved, inquired as to the unexpected response.

“Don’t you see,” said Alexander, “by asking me for such an enormous sum he does me great honor. He shows that he believes I am both rich and generous.”

I think that’s how God feels when we come to Him.

He doesn’t care how big the “tab” is.

When we come to Him audaciously in prayer we do Him great honor, for we show that we believe He is both rich in love and generous in lavishing it upon us.

He delights in demonstrating His extravagant love.

He doesn’t always say yes to our requests. But when He withholds it’s for our best.

I wonder, though, how often He withholds simply because we didn’t ask – simply because we didn’t believe Him to be rich and generous in love.

He is, you know.

So ask Him.

He may say no – and if He does you can be confident it’s for your good.

But He might just say yes.

Shine

When Thomas Edison invented the light bulb in 1879, he had a particular purpose in mind. Namely, the light bulb was created to emit light. It was wired to work a certain way and perform a certain task. To use it for purposes other than that for which it was created would result in disaster.

Baseball, for instance.

Have you ever tried to play baseball with a light bulb? Me neither. That’s because we know it would end badly. The light bulb would break and no longer be able to provide light as it was intended.

Imagine that you decided to go ahead and try it anyway. Chances are, it would take about one pitch for the light bulb to shatter to pieces.

Now imagine someone came along, got down on his hands and knees in the dirt, and began putting the light bulb back together. Imagine that when he was finished, after hours of diligent labor, the light bulb not only worked again, but shone even brighter than before. Would you ever play baseball with a light bulb again? Of course not. Lesson learned.

The truth, though, is that we play baseball with light bulbs every day.

God wired us to work a certain way. He created us for a particular purpose – namely, to represent and reflect His heart and character every moment of our lives.

Sin willfully and purposefully goes against what God originally intended for our lives.

It’s like playing baseball with a lightbulb.

Our sin shatters us.

But on the cross, Jesus put the pieces back together.

He restored us to our original condition, able to once again represent and reflect the God who made us, to once again shine as we were meant to shine.

Let’s stop working against our design and begin working with and for our Creator.

He knows far better than we what He intended when He made us.

The Beauty in the Broken

The Japanese have been perfecting the art of pottery for around twelve thousand years.

In short, they’re really good at it.

But no matter how long you’ve been a potter, no matter how masterful you are, you end up with broken pieces.

I am no master potter - but I have taken a couple of classes. I have a handful of wonky bowls to prove it.

I’ve also broken a handful of those wonky bowls and into the trash they go.

That’s because I’m an American and what is one to do with a broken bowl but toss it out?

That’s not the Japanese way.

Enter kintsugi.

Kintsugi is the art of repairing broken pieces of pottery by applying - get this - a gold lacquer to rejoin the broken pieces.

It doesn’t try to hide the brokenness. Rather kintsugi draws attention to the brokenness - but it does so in making the brokenness beautiful.

“O Lord, you are our Father.” wrote the prophet Isaiah. “We are the clay, and you are the potter. We all are formed by your hand.”

There is nothing wrong with the Potter. He is a Master.

But we are broken pottery.

Praise God he doesn’t toss us out. He doesn’t cast us aside. He doesn’t deem us worthless.

Rather He picks up our broken pieces and puts them back together. He binds us together with the gold of His grace and goodness and faithfulness.

It’s not in our wholeness where His love shines most brightly. It’s in the broken seams that He is most evident.

I don’t know where you’re broken.

What I do know is that the Potter will not leave you that way.

He will put the pieces back together and those seams will prove to be the most beautiful parts of who you are because they were formed and fashioned by the One who has never once given up on you.

It doesn’t matter what you’ve done or what you’ve been through.

He wants to make you whole. He wants to make you something beautiful.

Trust the Potter.

Linguistic Fingerprints

There is a fluidity to language.

Sure, there are linguistic rules that provide structure and proper grammar and all that, but the truth is that we each use language a little differently.

Scholars call this "linguistic fingerprinting."

My particular use of language is unique to me and yours is unique to you.

For example, I lived In the South for a while and picked up “y’all.” I still say it - even though I now live in the Midwest where no one says y’all. I also have a slight St. Louis accent which means I pronounce “both” with an “l” - as in “bolth.” It’s an odd combination.

Linguistic fingerprinting is usually done by computer, as the subtle variances in language are nearly impossible to detect in daily conversation. But that linguistic fingerprint still leaves a mark.

Chances are, no one will pick up on your linguistic fingerprint. They won’t notice your use of pronouns versus proper nouns. And no one will notice how often you end a sentence with a preposition on any given day. They may notice how you pronounce that one word a little differently (as in my example - “bolth” of which have been pointed out to me), but that’s about it.

They will, however, remember how your words made them feel.

They will remember the tone with which you spoke.

They will remember if you communicated with love and grace or criticism and callousness.

"Let your speech always be gracious, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how you ought to answer each person,” wrote the Apostle Paul.

Your linguistic fingerprints are left on every conversation, every encounter, you have.

What kind of a mark are you leaving?

Brush Strokes

A couple years ago I spent an afternoon at the Art Institute of Chicago.

I’ll be honest. I know nothing about art – but I know enough to be impressed and rightly awed when I encounter a piece by Monet.

I don’t remember the piece, but I do remember standing for several minutes admiring the beauty of his craftsmanship.

I took a step closer and looked at the individual brush strokes.

It was incredible to think that each of those strokes was made by Monet himself.

But the longer I looked at the brush strokes, the more I lost the big picture.

It occurred to me that there was nothing particularly masterful about any one of the streaks of paint.

But when you put that stroke alongside hundreds – maybe thousands – of equally unremarkable strokes, you get a masterpiece.

I don’t know what brush stroke you’re on right now.

It may be the warm yellow stroke that tells of a sweet season bursting with possibility. Or the blue tones of a restful season inviting you to slow down. Or the anxious red that speaks to a tense situation still unresolved. It may be the dark grays of a storm that threatens to engulf you.

Whatever it may be, don’t mistake one stroke for the whole masterpiece. There’s more to you than the stroke you’re on now.

Learning to Walk

Have you ever watched a father gently hold the small hands of a child as they tiptoed their way across a kitchen floor? The child is learning the motion, the rhythm of walking, even if she does not yet have the strength to do so on her own.

But there comes a day when the father does let go and watches anxiously as the child pauses to regain balance and warily takes her first step. And then another. And then another.

The father is never far, always ready and waiting to catch his little girl should she fall.

She may scrape her knees, but the father is there to wipe the blood and kiss away the pain. She may cry, but the father is there to hold her and rock her until she knows that she is safe. She may be afraid, but the father is there to whisper, "You're doing beautifully, my daughter. You're doing beautifully."

Of course, the father could never let go of her hands. He could never let her to fall, or to scrape her knees, or to cry, or to stumble.

But then, she never would have learned to walk. Or run. Or jump. Or dance.

And so the father takes away his hand.

Somedays, I feel as though I am that little girl, taking one awkward step after another, but always in the care of a good Father. Though He takes His hand away, I know that He is never far. He is watching me, cheering me on, delighting in the ways I am growing and learning and experiencing more of this life He has given me.

It is out of love, not neglect, that God lets go.

Maybe you've felt that way.

Maybe you feel that way now.

If it seems as though God has removed His hand, take heart. He is never far.

Now, trust him.

And take a step.

Worth It

In 2008, Bryan Clay won the Olympic gold medal in the decathlon, arguably the most difficult athletic feat in the world.

“How did it feel to win the gold?” asked one reporter.

(Side note. Don’t you love the insightful questions reporters ask? I just want one athlete to say, “Terrible! I hate winning! I was so hoping to lose but, by golly, here we are.” Anyways, I digress.)

Clay said what you’d expect him to say. It was the moment he crossed the finish line.

Clay laid down on the track and closed his eyes.

As he did, he said it was as if he was seeing a slide show of his life. All these scenes were flashing through his head. Then it would stop on one and he’d think, “Oh yeah, that was worth it.” Fast forward again. Stop. “Oh yeah, that was worth it too.”

He lay there until the slide show ended and, once again, he was on the track having finished the race and claimed the gold.

“And let us run with endurance the race God has set before us.” wrote the Apostle Paul. “We do this by keeping our eyes on Jesus, the champion who initiates and perfects our faith.”

I don’t know what it will be like when we cross that finish line.

But if you get a chance to lie down on the track, remember those moments, those decisions, that wore you out and stretched you and almost made you quit.

I have no doubt that you too will be able to say, “Oh yeah, that was worth it.”

Keep running hard, my friends. It is worth it.

Drawing Targets

There once was a little boy that received a bow and arrow set for his birthday. He excitedly ran outside to practice his shot on the side of an old barn that stood on the property. After he’d been at it a while, he ran back in to get his parents. “Mom! Dad! Come look!” he shouted.

They followed him out to the barn and were amazed at what they saw. Along the side of the barn, half a dozen targets had been drawn in chalk, each with an arrow lodged in the center.

Every single one had hit a perfect bullseye.

“That’s incredible! How did you manage to hit the bullseye every time?” his father asked.

“It was easy!” said the boy. “I shot the arrow first and then drew the target around it.”

You’ve got to admire his creativity.

Did you know, though, that the word “sin” is an archery term?

It means to miss the mark. It doesn’t matter if you miss by an inch or a mile – it’s a “sin.”

I’ve gotten really good at drawing circles around my sins. I’ve gotten good at justifying the miss by simply changing the target.

But the target isn’t mine to draw.

God has already done that.

And the target He has given me is Jesus.

If it’s not in obedience to Jesus, I’ve missed the mark. If it’s not in alignment with His heart and character, I’ve missed the mark. If it’s not how He would love and serve, I’ve missed the mark.

Instead of drawing our own targets, let’s spend a little more time improving our aim at the only target that matters.

Between the Notes

“C’mon,” my two-year-old nephew said as he took my hand. “Play me.” (Let me translate for you. Play with me.)

“What do you want to play, buddy?”

“Pano,” he said. (Let me translate again. “Piano.”)

So, we sat down at the piano together. I started to play and, for a moment, he just listened.

Then he joined in.

Now, I’m a mediocre pianist at best but let’s just say it got a lot louder and lot more chaotic when he started banging on the keys.

That, of course, didn’t bother me. We were just spending time together. We weren’t trying to make a masterpiece.

But as I listened to him play – or rather, make noise – I thought about how so often my life is just that. Noise.

There’s nothing beautiful about it. It’s chaotic and cluttered – and usually that’s my fault.

I choose chaos and clutter by what I allow in.

See, ours is a culture that wears busyness as a badge of honor. We boast of our full calendars. We brag about our frazzled lives. We are worn out and proud we are.  If I slowed down long enough to think about it, I'm sure it would sound crazy. But, alas, I rarely slow down, so it seems perfectly sensible to me.

What if God never intended our lives to look like that? What if when He told us to rest He actually meant that? What if by grasping for more we were actually experiencing less?

"It's the space between the notes," says Noah benShea, "that make the music."

Without the space between the notes, music disintegrates into noise.

There will always be more notes we could play. That doesn't mean we should.

Allow for space between the notes.

Stop making noise. Start making music.

Still in the Boot

Near the end of my brother’s freshman year in college, he broke his ankle. He had a buddy – let’s call him Dave – who saw him limping in his boot around campus those final days of the semester. When they came back for sophomore year, their paths no longer crossed. Michael lived at a fraternity house on campus and Dave lived in a house off-campus. They didn’t have any classes together. An entire year passed without the two seeing each other even once.

Then, in Michael’s junior year, he sprained his ankle and, once again, ended up in a boot.

He ran into Dave.

Dave hadn’t seen him since freshman year – when he was in another boot. It didn’t occur to Dave that Michael had a different injury.

“Are you still in that boot?” he asked.

It’s kind of that way when we run into a friend from a past season of life, isn’t it? They assume we are who we were then. They assume we haven’t changed, haven’t grown, haven’t healed. And we assume the same of them.

We see this a lot in the media. Reporters dredge up a clip from twenty years ago that “proves” the subject doesn’t mean what they said today. Are we really assuming that there is no difference? No growth? No change of mind?

I wouldn’t want to be held to that standard. Twenty years ago, I was fourteen. I would respond differently to almost everything. Shoot, five years ago I was twenty-nine. I wouldn’t want to be held to what I said and believed even then.

I’m not suggesting that there aren’t consequences to our words and actions in the past. That’s not at all my point. My point is simply that if we really believe that people can change and grow, we ought to extend grace. We ought to take people as they are now and not as they were then.

People change. People grow. People heal.

Not everyone, of course. We can all probably think of high school friends that never really graduated.

But let’s give folks the benefit of the doubt. Let them prove us wrong, rather than never give them the chance to prove us right.

Let’s allow people to think and believe and behave differently.

Let’s not assume they’re in the same boot.

Run Your Race

There’s Usain Bolt and then there’s everyone else.

He claims nineteen Guinness World Records – second only to Michael Phelps in the sports arena. He holds eight Olympic Gold Medals and eleven World Championship golds.

When it comes to sprinting, Bolt is in his own class.

There was no doubt that he won the 200-meter dash in the 2008 Beijing Olympics.

But there was a lot of doubt surrounding the silver and bronze medalists.

Churandy Martina – representing the Netherlands – took second. Wallace Spearman – representing America – took third.

Spearman, though, was immediately disqualified. Apparently, he stepped outside his lane.

The United States contested the call and meticulously reviewed the race footage.

As it turns out, Spearman did step outside is lane – but so did Martina. Both were disqualified and the silver and bronze medals when to, effectively, the fourth and fifth place contestants (both from the United States, as it happens).

That didn’t sit well with Shawn Crawford – the would-be silver medalist.

He gave his silver medal to Martina.

As Crawford put it, “If a guy is 10 meters in front of me, I don’t care if he stayed in the middle of his lane. He was going to beat me anyways. He didn’t impede anybody’s race.”

How many of us would do that?

It would have been so easy for Crawford to claim his medal on a technicality. He could have touted all the years he spent training and preparing for the Olympics. He could have argued that he deserved to take home the silver.

But Crawford wasn’t content with a participation trophy.

He didn’t lose because Spearman or Martina stepped out of their lanes. He lost because they were faster than he was.

Here’s the point.

I don’t care who you are or what you do. There will always be people more gifted than you.

Don’t delight in their stumbles. Don’t use their slip-ups to claim your medal.

Run with everything you have.

But don’t try to claim anyone else’s race as your own.

Run your race.

Be a Goat

The Kentucky Derby is, of course, the most famous horse race in the world. Attendees don elegant hats and bowties for the occasion. Even among those who otherwise wouldn’t pay any attention to horse racing it’s a coveted experience.

What you may not know is that the racing horses can be a bit nervous. They’re intelligent animals and they can sense when the stakes are high.

Enter the goats.

Churchill Downs not only houses horses – it houses goats.

When a racehorse is showing signs of distress, the caretakers will place a goat in the pen. The goats have nothing riding on the day and so their non-anxious presence calms the horses.

Churchill Downs has one particular goat – Roxanne – who seems to have a knack for finding the most anxious horses. She’ll join them in their pen and simply be there. She doesn’t do much but sit. But inevitably her steadying presence proves calming on the horses.

I found this absolutely fascinating.

It made me think about my presence.

Am I calming? Does my presence in relationship serve to alleviate anxieties or does it exasperate them?

I don’t often have the right words. I can’t often “fix” it.

But I can be there. I can listen. I can be still.

There’s a time to push, of course. There’s a time to challenge. There’s a time to confront.

There’s also a time to just be silent. There’s a time to listen. There’s a time where the best you can say is, “I’m so sorry” – and nothing more. There’s a time to suppress your opinions.

That’s hard for a lot of us.

But if a goat can do it, how much more are we called to do it?

I’ve tried to “fix” a lot of problems when all that was needed was compassion. I’ve tried to be an adviser when all that was needed was a friend.

Odds are, you’ve done the same. You spoke when there should have been silence. You’ve given an opinion when there should have been an “I’m so sorry – that is so hard.”

Here’s how I want to challenge you – and myself.

Be a Churchill Downs goat.

Before you speak, before you challenge, before you offer advice, just be there. All of that other stuff is easy. It’s our natural tendency. Listening – trying to understand – is hard.

But do the hard.

You wouldn’t want others to speak into your situation if you didn’t trust that they were listening to you, trying to understand you, and seeking to love you, right?

Right.

Neither do they.

Start by being there.

Be a friend first.

Red Carpet

Tom Haverford is a low-level government employee in the fictional town of Pawnee, Indiana – in the brilliant and hilarious Parks and Recreation series.

But Tom has big dreams. He imagines for himself a glamorous future. He dresses audaciously.

In one episode, he’s tasked with preparing a press event for Leslie Knope – a candidate for city council. He insists on getting her a red carpet for her grand entrance for her speech at a local ice rink. Unfortunately, his budget doesn’t allow for a carpet that will actually reach all the way to the podium and, of course, disaster ensues.

That’s not the point.

The point in that Tom justifies his decision by explaining that everyone should get to make an entrance. There is nothing that says “I matter” like a red carpet (I’m paraphrasing).

Then, he holds up his shoe to reveal custom inserts made from – you guessed it – red carpet.

“Everywhere I go,” he says, “I’m walking on red carpet.”

That struck me.

You may not have custom inserts made out of red carpet (though if you do, I would love to see them and high-five you).

But when I come into your presence, I come into the presence of someone that might as well be walking on red carpet.

I come into the presence of someone that matters.

I come into the presences of someone made in the image of God.

I come into the presence of someone purposefully created – to be amazing and glorious.

I come into the presence of someone formed and fashioned with inherent worth.

How would it change the way we treated people if we thought of them as walking on red carpet?

You may not be impressed by celebrity – I’m not either.

But what if we were impressed by God? What if we were impressed by what He’s done – by who He has made? What if we were impressed that though we’re all made in Him image we all bear that image differently?

What if we treated one another as the most important person in the room?

I’m not talking about stroking egos or coddling pride.

It’s nothing we’ve done, nothing we’ve accomplished, nothing we’ve achieved.

I’m talking about showing deference and dignity.

I’m talking about stripping our love of conditions.

I’m talking about loving people simply because they’re worth loving.

Always Take the Cookies

I’ve had the privilege of spending a good bit of time in the Middle East.

I’ve learned a lot about the people and the culture and, let me tell you, there is no hospitality like Middle Eastern hospitality (and I’ve lived in the South).

I was in Jordan a handful of years ago under the leadership of an incredible guide named Muhanned (yes, I spelled that correctly). We stopped about midway through a long drive from the southern to the northern part of the country.

Muhanned graciously bought our entire group (about sixty people) barazek – Jordanian cookies made primarily of honey and sesame seeds.

I was a couple rows back on the bus. As Muhanned handed out the cookies, the girl in front of me, quite loudly, refused to take one. “Oh gross!” she said. “Are those sesame seeds on cookies? Ummm… no. Pass.”

I saw Muhanned deflate a little. He wanted to serve us. He wanted to give us – literally – a taste of his country.

I’ll be honest. I don’t really love barazek. I’m not a huge fan of honey or sesame seeds.

But I always take the cookies. I always accept the hospitality.

Now, before you think I’m simply being polite in conforming to the cultural norms, that’s not exactly it.

It’s that I don’t really love barazek – and I also don’t really love being served.

I’ve been independent for a long time. I’ve gotten used to doing just about everything for myself. I am terrible at letting people serve me because it challenges my prideful notion that I can do it all on my own.

Taking the cookies reminds me – in a small way – to embrace the love and service of others. It reminds me that there are people that want to serve and care for me. I don’t have to do it all. I’m not supposed to do it all.

I’m called to be hospitable. I’m also called to accept hospitality.

We, as Christians, talk a lot about the humility of serving others – as we should. Jesus came to serve – not to be served.

But we rarely talk about the humility of being served.

Being served takes humility. It means admitting that our time, our resources, our capacity is limited. It means acknowledging that we need one another.

If we can’t accept our need for others, how on earth will we ever accept our need for Jesus?

Serve.

But learn to be served.

Always take the cookies.