Finding comfort in the company of the Bible's baddest dudes

Since I was barely out of the womb, I've been in church. Sunday school, bible studies, small groups, sermons. I figure I've got several years worth of hours of teaching soaked in there somewhere. I'm still amazed that I'm still not getting it.

But as I've looked at the familiar Bible characters lately, I'm seeing them differently as I read with an open mind. All those great heros of faith were also involved in the most sordid of sinful ways. Murder. Adultery. Bribery. Lying. Cheating. Gambling, Addictions. The Bible doesn't hold anything back, so why should we? This rosy picture that the world presumes upon the bible and it's adherents just isn't so. We aren't a bunch of goody two shoes.

We are broken, needy people. Just like them.

Why does the bible talk about Noah's drunkenness, David's adultery and Elijah's depression? Why does it show Samson's lust, Adam's complacency and Peter's cowardice? Why not just talk about the good parts. It's because it wants our heroes to be real – and for God’s redemption and grace to shine through.They are real men, with real weaknesses. And they serve a real God, who offers restoration. 

Romanian 7-year old Julian Stroe has better abs than I do.

We each have our own story. There are some successes, some failures and some utter disasters. I have my own story. And for years, I've been dragging my tail around in defeat. But I'm starting to find some good company in the Good Book.

If you’ve screwed up, you might feel that that one act defines who you are. But it doesn’t. A single chapter doesn’t make a whole book. You’re still breathing right here, right now.  So that means the story is still being told.

Bad Boys. Bad Girls. Unite!
Care to comment?

Looking for God in all the wrong places

If you ever think the Bible is from ancient days and really doesn't apply to modern society, read Ecclesiastes. Solomon was a king. He had thousands of women at his beck and call. He had gold and rubies, silver and rubies. There wasn't a cubic zirconium to be found in his house. He had vineyards and horses, a different house for every day of the week, and  a garage full of gleaming chariots. It's like watching MTV, or Hollywood insider or just watching your neighbor..


So how does Solomon start his magnum opus?

"'Meaningless! Meaningless! Utterly meaningless! Everything is meaningless," he wrote.

Talk about a bad mental outlook. With all that he had, the man just wanted to stay in bed. He simply didn't want to face the rat race, wondering if life was worth the battle. He didn’t want to look the world in the eye is because he didn't think anything he did mattered.

"Vanity of Vanities", he says in the olde English. 

He heard some of the same voices that speak to all of us. He looked for purpose in the world systems, in learning and in accomplishment.  He looked for meaning in his vast empire.  He looked for purpose in relationships and pleasure.  What he was really looking for was a replacement for God. 

It was Pascal who said this, "There is a God-shaped vacuum in the heart of every man which cannot be filled by any created thing, but only by God, the Creator, make known through Jesus."


Oh how we spend our existence, trying to fill the ache, the empty void. But nothing fits quite right.
Like Solomon, we're looking for God in all the wrong places. The radio shrill screams says, "We can't no satisfaction."

I'm wondering, if I'm chasing the wind? Am I pursuing all the wrong things, and finding frustruation? What about you. What do you chase after, only to find it terribly unsatisfying in the end? I would love to hear your thoughts here.

"I did not restrain myself from getting whatever I wanted; I did not deny myself anything that would bring me pleasure. So all my accomplishments gave me joy; this was my reward for all my effort. Yet when I reflected on everything I had accomplished and on all the effort that I had expended to accomplish it, I concluded: “All these achievements and possessions are ultimately profitless – like chasing the wind!"

(First of Five posts. Tune in for the four more posts over the next few weeks about the ways we are trying to replace God)

When Doubt is Good

“There lives more faith in honest doubt, believe me, than in half the creeds” -- Lord Alfred Tennyson


A few years ago, I entered a fishing derby. These derbies are traditionally filled with anglers who look for the proverbial “whopper” in hopes of winning the big prize.

I was excited to see a friend from church there. Bill was a man that I developed a great deal of respect for. He was smart, articulate and confident. Although he never struck me as the fisher type, I surmised that he had entered the derby more for the camaraderie of fellow man, rather than the machismo of going for a trophy trout.

Regard for Bill extended beyond my own perceptions. He was a noted apologist – one who could the reasonableness of his faith to new heights. He was an expert in the proofs behind creation. He could literally rip out evolutionary thought by its hair strands – one at a time or in chunks if necessary. He could quote Scripture and debate the pundits. He owned a business and had a great family. This was a man who had it all together.

My big whopper on the Gulkana River in Alaska

However, as the weekend progressed, my perception of this perfect man crumbled. He could not fish.

As a boy, he had fished a small pond near his farm home with a great deal of success. He always used the same lure with the same setup casting to the same hole. It was a sure thing. Each Saturday he would come home with a stringer full of fish. Like money in the bank, little Bill could be counted on to bring home the finned creatures.

Now, fishing in the terrain of the Rocky Mountains in deeper, colder water, the old faithful lure let him down. It was a bust. Cast after cast brought no strikes, no nibbles. He dragged weeds and caught sticks but nary a fish. Still, he insisted on “Ole Trusty."

Needless to say, Bill did not win the derby.

There's a reason he did not win. You see, fishing calls for a certain amount of trial and error. It calls for literal faith – that what you offer is what the fish will take. But within this faith is a degree of doubt.

Doubt presses you to change patterns and use different imitations.

Doubt causes you to try the perfect combination of weight, line, depth and presentation.
Doubt is the reason fishermen have such large tackle boxes.

If you did not have doubt, you would do as Bill did – cast the same thing over and over again, regardless of results. Doubt is the perfecter of fishing.


And life.

Care to comment?

My chosen mediocrity

I remember my first bad grade. In my home, it was a major event. I coolly dropped the card next to my Mom's purse, hoping she would just sign it off.

No such luck. She saw the C in social studies and for an hour it seemed, we talked about what “Average” meant. And there would be no average in our family. We came from a proud line of immigrants who fought and struggled to survive. The men in the family were Sailors and farmers and gas station owners. None of them were rich, but none of them were "average." She reminded me that they worked hard and succeeded no matter what their lot in life.  I yes ma'amd and no ma'amd and just prayed the speech would end.

And the next day, Mom went down to the school, without an appointment, to visit the teacher.  I cringed inside. I hoped my teacher would be okay, that she wouldn’t have to sit in the corner or be the recipient of my mother’s laser eye to cut to the heart.

The truth came out that day. I had been slacking, more concerned with being a kid than being a scholar.

Photo by Claire Burge

I learned my lesson. In fact, I haven't slacked often since, constantly chasing the prize, the desire to be top dog. I've sought the leadership slot in nearly every role I've been in. I wanted to succeed, to be the boss and to take charge. God gave those skills, but I didn’t always use them correctly. Sometimes I bullied, manipulated and talked people into my way, or it was the highway. Pride went before my fall. 

The High Calling means I do all things as unto the Lord. That’s why I’m a good employee, a good neighbor, a loyal friend and family man. In some things, we need to be above average.

Then there’s the rest of life. I must admit, I am now finding a joy in selective mediocrity. For example, this blog doesn’t get the promotion it needs. There are power tricks to drawing in readers and some go from zero to 100 in no time flat. I plod along, figuring if people read any of this, then that’s fine. And I’m good with that.

At work, I don't have to be the first or the one recognized. Let others get the glory. 

And there’s a patch of grass in my lawn that’s faltering. It needs to be dug up and reseeded. Or not.  I have a filing cabinet at work that has become a catch all. Now it’s stuffed to the hilt and needs a good cleaning. Later.

I don’t know if its age or focus, but I want to chase the pure and noble things with vigor. And the rest of the stuff, I'm trying to figure out what's really important.

Care to comment?

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I'm alive. At least, I think I am.

Last week a Greeley Colorado man was surprised to hear of his own death. Apparently, his obituary had run in the local paper, placed by a family member upset with Edgar Balderrma's .

Friends and family were calling  Balderrma's wife. Well-wishers descended on the family. People even brought money to his not-widowed wife, to help raise their two children.

And since he was out working at the dairy, he missed out on dozens of frantic phone calls and text messages, wondering what had happened. 

The guy was oblivious to the second-most important event in his life. He came home to a house-full of family and friends. Tears flowed and everyone was smiling. 

He was taken aback by the whole thing, but then mildly happy at the reception his near-death brought. "Everyone missed me," he said. 

In a few minutes I'll walk out to get today's paper. And I normally do read the obituaries. There is something honoring about the act, noting the final words of a life. But what if my name were there? 

What would be said? Who would rush to my home, to comfort my family? Would my affairs be in order, my relationships peaceful, my secrets all told? Could I look God in the eye, face-to-face, and honestly tell him I was ready?

Like Edgar. I'm not dead yet. And Lord willing, I'll have today to get the story straight.

Come Spring! Things the groundhog doesn't know.

Yesterday is was 50 degrees. Today it's supposed to snow 10-12 inches.

“Will it be the winter of despair or the spring of hope?” asked Charles Dickens. In a thousand different ways in a thousand different times I've asked that very question in my heart of hearts. I'm not alone. It even comes out in playful traditions, like Punxsutawney Phil, the erstwhile groundhog in Punxsatawney, PA, who saw his shadow this morning.

These days we stand on the precipice of seasonal change. For some, winter was harsh with its cold and snow, wet and wind. It seems like it never ends. For years, I lived in a Wyoming climate that guaranteed five months of snow on the ground.  There was nothing like the day when the sun broke through, mud was everywhere, and although the temperature was no more than 40 degrees, college kids were in the parks throwing Frisbees with their shirts off.

Dickens continued to write of in aTale of Two Cities.

"It was the best of times, the worst of times.
It was the age of wisdom; it was the age of foolishness.It was the epoch of incredulity; it was the season of lightIt was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness "

We all live in that contrast. If not personally, we certainly experience it interrelationally.

When things are going well for me, I’m often cautious about expressing my joy. Someone may be in the throes of despair and I don’t want to be only one living a party. Conversely, when darkness descends on me, I’m reticent to talk about for fear I’ll extinguish their hope.

Most of the time, I can endure my own despair, but I can’t really handle someone else’s hope.

We walk in a world of contrast, light and dark, good and bad, beautiful and ugly. The great philospher Arlo Guthrie once said, “If you don’t ever know the darkness, man, you’ll never really appreciate the light.”

That’s why the first bulbs of spring give such delight. We have seen the short, cold days of a long winter and we just don’t like it. The buds of promise push through to our hearts and warm us up to tomorrow.

Come Spring!

Comparing Scars

I remember sitting on the front step with my buddy, Rodney. Our bikes were leaning against the house, caked in mud. He had a "Don't Tread on Me Flag" mounted behind his seat. I had a stick mounted on my handlebar like a spear. We picked at our scabs and talked about our adventure for the day. We wore our hats backwards and burned ants and threw rocks at jars for target practice.

He stuck his knee out and traced a two inch scar with his finger. A grin spread on his face, "Cool, huh?" Last year, he had jumped from a back deck and landed on a piece of metal. He wanted to forget the tears and cries for his mother and the wincing at the doctor's office. Now, it was a badge of honor.

The only scar I had was on my scalp. When I was nine, I was in a car wreck and went through the windshield. I was angry that the long gash was covered by thick head of hair.
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I'm older now and I've accumulated some other scars. An elbow surgery, a nasty fall from a rock, and a wild wallboard knife all cut deep into my flesh, leaving marks. And there are those hidden scars -- Angry stares from those who once cared for me, friends who turned their back, and a love who chased after foolishness

There are the scars I have accumulated, and those that I have imposed on others. I have my share of selfishness, painful words and deceit toward others. I have hurt more than a few, and some for a lifetime.

When I am alone, I run my fingers along those scars, recounting the moment of the cut, remembering the searing pain and the long recovery. I hurt for those I've hurt.

For a long while I thought my scars would keep me from ever being complete. I thought a true man of God would have lived his life in such a way to keep away from such things. Never going too close to the edge, there are those who have endured a lifetime with no marks. Not me.

I find comfort in Paul, who was a biblical bad dude. A political and religous powerhouse, he wanted to eliminate Christians from the Jewish culture. From house to house, he pursued them. His driving passion was to dismantle and extinguish this Jesus talk. Until he was stopped in his track, confronted with truth and the fire was lit.

He had some scars to show and plenty that he had caused. He rolled up his robe and pointed to the scars, one by one. Showing off his cred, he almost bragged. "I don't deserve any of this." That's how I feel, too.When I compare my life to his, I guess I'm pretty good. But that's not the point. It never was.
"But by the grace of God's, I am what I am," he writes. "His grace toward me was not in vain."

If I laungish in the muck and the mire, I'm telling God that his mercy simply isn't enough. I'm overriding his grace. It's the ultimate act of pride to dismiss his gift..

He has scars to show off. There's one on his side. Another in each wrist and his feet. Kevin Burgess at Chaotic Soul reminded me that Christ's scars remained after the resurrection. Whenever I start feeling small, he shows them to me and I remember. I can't even come close to comparing mine to his..

Amazingly, A couple of other bloggers are tracking on this same theme today. Julie, write, "He Loves me Anyway" at a Journey to Beloved, and Sheila LaGrand, who writes about The Red Velvet Dress at Godspotting.

What's better for kids? Taekwando, or church?

My next-door neighbor, Bob, is a good guy. He's a kid's doctor. He drives a motorcycle and has tatoos, but has a gentle nature that children ... and their parents ... adore.

In summers past we have leaned on rakes and talked politics and weather. We have shoveled the shared sidewalks in the freezing cold and dug out fence posts that blew over with strong spring rains.

He has two great kids who are polite and fun-loving. They look adults in the eye when they speak and always say thank you and please.

But there is a chasm in our beliefs much wider than the 15 feet between our houses. We've talked about eternity, and meaning and purpose. We've talked about sin, and the need to fix our human condition. He'll have none of it.

My Sunday family tradition is a quiet morning and a couple of hours of worship, praise and teaching. It's been that way since I was a child. But for the neighbors, every Sunday morning the kids run out to the SUV with the Darwin fish on the bumper,  dressed in white pants and  a long shirt tied off with belt. They come home and eat a breakfast with bacon -- I can smell it wafting on the wind.

Bragging about his kids one day, Bob told me how well they are doing in Taekwondo . "It teaches them discipline."

It might teach you how to say please and thank you and how to respond to bullies. But it doesn't give one iota of insight into eternity.

What do you think? What kinds of things do you see your neighbors doing on Sunday? Comment here.