I’ve been in fulltime ministry since cutting and pasting was actually cutting and pasting. And through the years, I’ve met people who have shaped the way I think.  When I first began my first fulltime ministry position in 1995, I was a typical fresh-out-of-college type of punk; knew it all and couldn’t wait to school anybody watching on how ministry is really supposed to be done. Boy have I learned that I still have a whole lot to learn. Let me pause here and encourage you to ask God where pride is getting the best of you.  Because He detests pride so much, He’ll be more than happy to show you exactly where its at. And quick.

My first ministry post lasted 2 years.  In 1997 I moved on from Northern VA to Nyack, NY.  I loved Nyack (still do) and the new ministry context.  While I had learned so much in VA, I by no means had “arrived” anywhere.  Still with lots of gusto, I plunged myself into my new position head-first.  I had been there for 4 years or so when my senior pastor came to our apartment to tell me that he was about to go into a board meeting where he’d be resigning his position.  I was stunned, saddened, and inwardly devastated.  My mind and heart immediately asked God, “What about me? This is the man who led my hiring. Should I consider packing up, too?” I’m not sure how to explain it, but almost as immediately as I asked, I sensed an answer: “No.”  So, over the next 14 months I served as the only fulltime pastor on staff.  Can you imagine it?  The youth guy at the helm? Crazy, right?

During that time, I stepped even more into a leadership role; almost an interim of sorts.  I led board meetings, I preached a whole lot more, and I generally did more of the things a senior pastor would do. I was even approached with an inquiry if I would be interested in being considered for the role of senior pastor.  Those who know me already know the answer; even to this day student ministry is where I feel God wants me and I can’t get over how clear that has been over the years.

One of the things I honesty got more involved in was regularly planned prayer meetings.  And there was a guy there named Joe that always caught my attention. Remember, I’m still a young, spry, let’s-take-the-next-hill, why-are-we-standing-around, hurry-up-and-do-it kind of leader. But when it was Joe’s turn to pray…

“Heavennnly Faaatherrrrr…..” This slow, drawn out snail’s pace of his prayers would simultaneously irritate me and teach me.  Every syllable just seemed soooooooo ssssllllooooooooooowwwwwww.  While I was in such a hurry to get to the next thing on the to-do list, Joe was completely content to sit and simply talk to Jesus.  And honestly, at first I just didn’t get it.  I thought “How in the world can someone take so long doing something like this.”  Kind of reminds me of a couple sisters named Mary and Martha (Luke 10:38-42).  Martha was hurried, worried, and busy with the work at hand.  Mary wasn’t lazy, she just knew what should come first.  Joe taught me so much without even trying.  He taught me that I was (and perhaps most of us are) in a far greater hurry than God is.  He taught me that I’m far more likely to run ahead of Jesus than lag behind.  He taught me that I’m the kind of guy who’ll call back over my shoulder saying, “Hey Jesus, follow me!” while Jesus responds with, “Hey, that’s my line.”

So if you know me now in the place I’m at in ministry, you’ve likely noticed that I don’t tend to rush things….anything really.  And that’s in large part thanks to a wonderful friend of God named Joe.

My story may or may not be entirely unique, but it is uniquely my own. I was born in Goldsboro, North Carolina in 1973 and lived there until the age of 5 when my family (two older sisters, Mom and Dad) moved to Cape May, NJ as my dad had gotten a call to be the pastor of a small independent Baptist church there.

I grew up literally in the shadow of the church and as I grew, made my way through the ranks of Sunday School, children’s choir, Royal Ambassadors, and Boys Brigade. Along the way, I tried to have as much fun as I could while tolerating learning things like the books of the Bible, key stories in the Word, the hymns of our faith, and how to sit through an entire church service.

At the age of eight, I remember one Sunday evening service and my dad–weary from the days activities–wrapping up another meagerly attended service. (I observed and decided from a young age that only the real Christians came back on Sunday night.)  Closing the service as was typical for him, my dad had called for anyone who’d like to receive forgiveness of their sins to come forward. My eight-year-old mind knew just enough to know that I had sinned and needed forgiveness. As the closing hymn played, I made my way toward the aisle. I would find out later that this irked my dad because he saw me move toward the aisle and thought I was going to the bathroom. (In his defense, it was one of my better-known escape tactics.) But as I reached the end of the pew, I took a hard right and headed up the aisle toward my dad who was standing up front. It was that night that I decided that Jesus sounded awesome and if any God willing to forgive me of my wrong choices was willing to take a chance on me, then I was certainly willing to take Him up on his offer. That night: Forgiveness, full and free.

With a new lease on life and my buddy Jesus tagging along with me wherever I went, you’d think I’d have instantly turned into a young Billy Graham in the lunchroom at school. Maybe standing atop the case of half pints of milk, inviting sinners to not let another recess go by without laying it all down at the altar. But oddly enough, not much changed. Not much at all as I recall. I remained more interested in Kool-Aid than Kingdom work and more into my bike than the Bible.

The years went by and I continued to go to church, even getting more and more involved with the nuts and bolts of how a church service happens. Show up early, unlock the doors, turn on the lights, straighten the hymnals, change the hymn numbers on the front wall, turn on the sound system, and pick up any leftover bulletins that may have found their way under the pews. Maybe I wasn’t Billy Graham, but I was feeling like Billy the janitor and that was a start. It was in those young years that I learned a very powerful truth: Most people wait for the service to start before they worship; but in reality, worship starts with service. I don’t think I’ve ever thanked my dad for teaching me that invaluable truth. Thanks, Dad.

A monthly outing that my dad always took me along on was his Sunday afternoon ministry to the residents at South Cape Nursing Home. It was a dreadful smelling place where old people gathered in the rec room (a few under compulsion by the staff) for a time of singing and a short devotional by the Reverend Ronald Varner.  Even now, if I stop and be quiet, I can still hear the tinny sound of that upright piano echoing down the halls, bellowing out “In the Garden”, one of the old folks’ favorite tunes…

“And He walks with me, and He talks with me, And He tells me I am His own. And the joy we share as we tarry there… None other has ever known.”

There is one man I somehow always looked forward to seeing; a man I know I won’t ever forget. I only knew him by “Frank”. Frank had an amputated leg and was wheelchair bound. Balding and severely hunched over, he’d lift his head as far as he could, cocked to one side, to give you a less-than-toothy grin. I don’t recall Frank ever saying one word. All I remember about Frank is that Frank loved to play the tambourine. No matter what song was playing from that piano, if Frank had the tambourine, you could always count on him playing along while smiling ear to ear. Frank had tremors, which made him a natural at the tambourine. Grasped in his arthritic hand, he’d gently shake that old wooden tambourine in time with the music. Most people wait until they have what they consider something special to give to The Lord. But Frank taught me that no matter what you’ve got in your hand, its exactly what God wants you to use to praise Him. I don’t think I’ve ever actually thanked my dad for dragging me to that smelly nursing home to learn that incredible truth.  Thanks, Dad.

I wish I could tell you that during my teen years my sense of selflessness just grew and grew. Sadly, I began to live as if one person alone mattered, and it wasn’t Jesus Christ. I became deceptive, disrespectful, disobedient, and destructive in nearly every relationship I had.  At one point, my parents literally confronted me with suspicion of drug use. That’s how erratic and nonsensical my behavior had become. I take full responsibility for my actions and the devastation they caused. I had driven my parents to the end of their rope and they had nowhere else to turn. If I close my eyes even now I’m transported right back to our small den, and I’m looking down at the carpet while enduring yet another lecture from my dad. I’d look over at my mom who’d be weeping quietly at the condition of her home, all thanks to her selfish teenage son. My parents had two very distinct approaches to communicating their displeasure with my choices: my dad was the talker, my mom was the…well…I don’t know what to call it. But I can tell you that the look of sadness in her eyes would convey volumes more than the endless stream of words coming from my dad. I don’t think I’ve ever thanked my mom for caring and showing her love (albeit heartbroken love) the way she did during that time in my life. Thanks, Mom.

I remember the last time we’d have a talk like that in our den. I remember the change in my perspective that came in the blink of an eye. I don’t remember much of anything else but the feeling of being struck in the face by my out-of-options dad. I remember the feeling of the carpet on my face, the shout of terror from my older sister at what she had just seen, and the recoil of my dad standing over me. I don’t know if that blow was open-handed or closed, and quite honestly I really don’t care. All I know is from that moment forward I saw things quite differently. I saw them through different lenses than the blurry, distorted ones I had been wearing. I began to see things from others’ point of view. Most people think it’s their own perspective (or rights, or happiness, or desires) that matters most, when in reality mine matters least. What matters most is where God is at, what He’s doing, and how I belong to Him.  I don’t think I’ve ever thanked my dad for knocking me to the floor of our den. From what I can tell, he more than likely saved my life. Thanks, Dad.

Soon after the one-punch knock-down episode, I remember laying in my bed one night. I wish I had the foresight at the time to write down the date, but I know that it’ll be seared in my memory forever. I was lying there thinking back over the recent events in my life, how I had messed things up so badly with my parents, how thankful I was for their willingness to forgive and how I felt completely devoid of any spiritual worth; that God was fed up and that I was useless to Him. I had simply gone too far. Now, you need to understand that I grew up in a very conservative church setting. We didn’t have any snakes, hot coals, or tongues of fire. Heck, if you were clapping at church it was only after that special duet of the old husband on his violin and his old wife on the piano. Needless to say, “weird” stuff didn’t happen because God wasn’t weird. He was God.

And there’s really no other way to put it than to just say that my God came into my room that night. In a weird way that was beyond unmistakable, I knew that God was with me, not far off and sitting somewhere, disgusted by me, saying “Tsk, tsk, tsk…I had such high hopes for him, too.” It was a moment that still today is one of my most dearly held moments of awe. I couldn’t do anything but slide out from under my covers, drop to my knees next to my bed, bury my face in my mattress and sob. The room was almost lit with the presence of God. And I knew exactly what He wanted me to know. It’s the same thing He wants you to know, no matter who you are, where you are, or what you’ve done:

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

I forgive you.

I want you.

I restore you.

I heal you.

I’m with you.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Months later at a music festival in Altoona, PA I listened to a message by a man named Tony Campolo. Have you ever been in a church service and even with people all around you, it was as if you were the only one there? Like the message was just for you? Well, I was surrounded by 12,000 people and as far as God and I were concerned, it was just God and I. At the end of that message titled “Radical Conversion” (which I still have on cassette and listen to), Tony gave an invitation to respond. My prayer in that moment, (and still is today) was:

“God, wherever you want me to go, I’ll go. Whatever you want me to say, I’ll say. Whatever you want me to do, I’ll do.”

That day stands as a “stake in the ground” declaration for me. I’ve never once forgotten that decision, and I’ve never once regretted it. Not once. Ever.

Most people think that they need to “get their act together” before coming to God. But I’ve learned that not only does God still use screw-ups, it seems to me that He ONLY uses screw-ups.

This was the start of my story.  A story that every day God continues to write.

This blog started ironically in Hobby Lobby (a decidedly NON-masculine place) where I was with my oldest son, buying supplies for his science experiment when I saw this sign: 

In the interest of full disclosure, my immediate thought was: “Ridiculous…who the heck is buying that?!?”

I’m all about guys being guys and ladies being ladies.  But I’ve got to admit something: I’ve always been confused by the concept of “The Man Cave”.  Before you call me Nancy, hear me out.

The idea behind a man cave is for a dude to have a space for himself, for his friends, and for his interests. It’s the adult equivalent of the childhood tree fort with the “no girls allowed” hand-painted sign hanging on the door. Poker table, beer fridge, flat screen, dartboard, gun rack, deer heads, and anything else that gives that dude a place of solitude, a place of recess, a place of retreat, and a place all his own.  What could I possibly (especially as a guy) have against such a guyish euphoria?

It’s silly.  I know that silly has its place, but dedicating an entire room in the house for the dude to have fun?  Call me crazy but for me, that room is my bedroom.  *winkwink*

It’s selfish.  I think its good for married men to have a sense of “this is my house” and “I’m the king of my house”, or whatever else peps them up to stand up and lead.  But saying “this is my room” and “I’m the king of this room” seems a bit…well…self-serving.

It’s sad.  Really? You need space between you and your family? You need peace and quiet where you can watch the game? Ugh.  So sorry for you.  I guess I’m the kind of guy/husband/dad that actually CRAVES as much time with my family as I can get. 

I know this blog post is perhaps uncharacteristically rant-like, and I know you might think I’m just whining because I don’t have a man cave so I’m jealousy ripping on those who do.  And I further know that it probably crushes any invitations that were forthcoming to man caves worldwide.  

I can live with all three of those.

A friend recently sent me a picture of my youngest daughter at a bowling event our church’s children’s ministry had this past weekend.  She had rolled the ball, was seeing the ball take a turn she didn’t want it to take, and dropped to her knees in prayer. 

What I didn’t notice right away in the picture however was the fact that the lane she was bowling on had those “bumpers” that block the ball from going into the gutter.  So, in essence no matter what, at least she could know that the ball WASN’T going in the gutter.

What are you facing today?  If you’re facing it while loving and following Jesus you can know that no matter what, the outcome is going to be good.  (Key truth: your “good” and His “good” don’t always look the same. In those cases, go with HIS “good”.)  Why? Because HE’S good.  And God can’t not BE good, DO good, and GIVE good things.  

So, pray with confidence knowing that the loving Heavenly Father is hearing you, guiding you, and answering you.  And know in faith that His answer is good.  And rest assured, the bumpers are up.

 

 

A few verses on God’s goodness…

Matt. 6:8: “…for your Father knows what you need before you ask Him.”

Matt. 7:11: “If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!”

Psalm 107:1: “Oh give thanks to the LORD, for He is good; for His lovingkindness is everlasting.”

There are some people in your life that make an indelible, remarkable impact. Markelle Elise Dumm was one such person for me.  I remember being introduced to her in 1991 and how incredibly similar she looked to my girlfriend at the time. Markelle was my girlfriend’s sister, the girlfriend who would eventually become my wife, making Markelle my sister-in-law. And a more amazing sister-in-law I could never have asked for.  Kind, gentle, strong, precious, caring, genuine, authentic, honest, loyal, peaceful, smart, hilarious, thoughtful, creative, articulate, curious, adventuresome, and loving.  These are just a few of the adjectives that flood my mind when I think of Markelle.  Anyone who knows her is right now adding their own words to that list; because there are certainly more.

Nearly 8 years ago, during a cesarean  section delivery of Chris and Markelle’s second daughter Elena, a ruptured cyst was discovered and later found to indicate the presence of stage 4 colon cancer.  Stage 4 colon cancer–to those who know–is pretty much synonymous with a death sentence.  Statistics show that 5 years of life from diagnosis to death is the top end of the time someone with that type of cancer gets.  But Markelle never seemed to listen to that.  Its not that she didn’t hear it, and its not that she didn’t believe it, its simply that she didn’t live it. 

We started a tradition 4 years ago, between my family, Chris and Markelle’s family, and my in-laws. We’d take a week in the summer, rent a beach house on an island on the Gulf of Mexico and occupy ourselves with 4 primary activities: eating, swimming, laughing, and sleeping.  And this past summer was no exception.  Just this past August we once again converged in a little slice of paradise and shared that precious time together.  No one said so, but we began to sense that perhaps this might be our last time at the beach with Markelle.  Just as with the 3 years prior, we soaked up every second of that week together.

It was soon after that week at the beach, and after 100 chemotherapy treatments over the years that Chris and Markelle were told by doctors that there was nothing more that could be done for Markelle.  Upon receiving that news, it became even more important for me to give my wife as much time with her sister as I possibly could.

My wife went to Missouri to visit Markelle for a week in September.  Then for another week in October. Then for 20 days in November, including Thanksgiving.  With so much of life to be thankful for, I was so glad these 2 sisters were together.  During Merritt’s September visit, she was able to go out to lunch a few times with Markelle. During her visit in October, Markelle could only get out to a doctor’s appointment. And during the visit in November, Markelle struggled to get from the bed to her bathroom and back.  Clearly Markelle’s health was declining.

During Merritt’s visit in November I was able to have a poignant, vital conversation with my oldest daughter regarding Aunt Markelle.  With Markelle’s earthly life seemingly coming to a close I wanted–needed–my own children to understand and embrace an important truth.  They had all prayed for Markelle daily for nearly 8 years.  For her full health, for healing, for recovery, for remission, for whatever way God could heal Aunt Markelle and give her back a “normal” life again.  8 years of asking.  But what if Markelle died?  What would that mean for all those roughly 3,000 prayers each person offered?  Were they wasted? Unheard? Ignored? Did those prayers not make it past the ceiling?

As my wife and I lay in bed on Friday December 14, 2012 we received the phone call that for nearly 8 years we had hoped and prayed would never need to be made.  At 10:33 p.m. Markelle Elise Dumm finished her race and fell into the arms of Jesus her Savior.  My wife sat on the edge of our bed as she received the news from her mother that her only sibling, her only sister had gone home to be with the Lord.  I remember her mom’s words flowing through the phone line and into my wife’s ear: “Her battle is over.” Shortly after, Merritt hung up the phone and collapsed on the bed next to me, her feet still on the floor.  I just held her.  There’s nothing to say.  If you’ve ever been in that solemn, sacred moment you know there’s not one thing to do but cry and embrace.

By mid-morning the following day we had rented a van, kenneled the dog, and packed the van for the 17 hour drive to southwest Missouri.  Arriving there under those circumstances would be for me like stepping onto holy ground.  Being so close to someone you loved so much and knowing that at that moment they are with the Savior you both love and live for is almost like being with Him yourself.  Loving someone who stands in the presence of the King is akin to standing there yourself.  Hard to explain, but that’s how I felt and still do.

Markelle’s viewing was a testimony to the incredible number of lives that she touched.  For hours a long line of friends made their way through the doors of the church and up the aisle to where Markelle’s body was laid.  Her husband Chris stood there and greeted each one warmly and lovingly.  In many respects I think that Chris who was among those devastated the most by Markelle’s passing was a great comfort and encouragement to so many who came to comfort and encourage him.

During Markelle’s funeral the next day, her life was honored and celebrated and her love for Jesus was heralded.  Chris and Markelle’s pastor Tim did an incredible job of spotlighting an extraordinary life while putting most of the attention right where she wanted it: on Jesus her Lord.  I was honored and humbled to serve as one of the six pallbearers for my sister-in-law.  This may sound strange to most, but I considered it one of the most powerful acts of worship I will likely ever participate in.

Now, back to that conversation I had with my daughter (and perhaps the point you need to pay closest attention to).  We talked about how long we had been praying for Aunt Markelle, and if it happened that Aunt Markelle passed from this life into eternity, we needed to understand and embrace this one truth: God did not ignore our requests. He did not turn a deaf ear and do nothing with our prayers. What God did was to answer our prayers in the most complete and perfect way possible!  We had prayed earnestly and faithfully for Aunt Markelle’s healing and God in His great goodness had given her the full healing her body so desperately needed!  As I talked with my daughter about this, it was a truth that I myself needed to be reminded of.  It was just as much for my own good as it was for hers.

To know that God in fact had  heard our prayers. He had  listened. He had  answered.  And His answer was holy. Complete. Perfect.

 

Below is a poem I wrote for my wife while she was with her sister last month.  Maybe it can be an encouragement for you.

 

When the road you feel under your feet

Turns to rocky ground from solid street

When the skies above that were once so clear

Turn from blue to gray like joy to fear

When what you thought was sure and true

Turns to unending questions in front of you

When more seems lost than what is gained

When you’re tired of standing in the pouring rain

When the life you’re living you’d rather not

When one last breath seems to be all that you’ve got…

 

Please turn your face to the One holding you.

Please hold out and grasp what He says is true.

Please take your heart beyond the moment you’re in.

Please let God remind you that He calls you “friend”.

Please know that while you feel defeated, He has won.

Please remember that Jesus, God’s only Son

Has taken your pain, your hurts, and your tears;

He’s taken your questions, frustrations, and fears

And has swallowed them down along with your strife

He is the Truth, the Resurrection, and the Life!

 

So please stand on the Rock that He is for you.

Please know that all that He has said is true.

Now please lean upon His loving chest,

And find within His grace your perfect rest.

Have you tried Altoids?  They’re overboard in their mintiness.  It’s uncalled for really.  The tin says “Curiously Strong”.  I disagree.  I think they’re inappropriately strong.

But there is something about Altoids that I love, and that is the usefulness of the empty tin.  The possibilities are endless, really. I’ve got a vintage Star Wars “Snaggletooth” action figure.  The Altoids tin is the perfect coffin.  Or cryogenic sleep pod.  Next time I play with my Star Wars figures the tin will surely serve one if not both of those purposes.  See what I mean?  Endless possibilities.  You want 22 more ideas for your empty tin?  Click here.

Probably my favorite way to reuse an empty Altoids tin however, has got to be the use our 8th grade guys small group came up with: to bless people.

Last night as I was walking through our church building during our middle school small group hour, one of the adult leaders of the 8th grade guys small group came to me with an urgency in his step.  He said, “Jerry, could you come to our room? The guys have a presentation they want to make.”  I knew exactly what it was.  You see, this wasn’t the first time these guys have reused an Altoids tin.

I stepped into their room and Joseph (one of our stellar 8th grade guys) handed me an Altoids tin.  Its weight sunk into the palm of my hand as I took it from him.  I knew exactly what was inside.  These guys had collected their coins and dollars for the sole purpose of encouraging, equipping, and supporting our missionaries in Southeast Asia.  I took the tin, gave a word of thanks for their gift, and arm-in-arm with Joseph we prayed that the money would quickly find its way to God’s most effective place where it could be used to help anyone in need in another part of the world; a part most of those guys will never even see.

You see why that re-use of an Altoids tin is my favorite?  

 

What are some ways you’ve reused YOUR Altoids tin?

(What that you say? You want even more empty tin ideas?  Okay.  Click here.)

‘Tis the season to want what everyone else wants.

A crazy thing happened when our family moved across town 4 years ago.  In our previous house, we got free cable (despite the fact that we had cancelled it, the signal still got through).  When we moved, we knew that we’d be forfeiting our free cable.  We told our realtor it would be nice to add that detail to our house listing.  We didn’t.

But when we bought a slightly larger house (to fit our kids that seemed to be growing) and moved across town–to a house with NO cable, we witnessed quite an interesting phenomenon during the Christmas season that first year: Our kids had no idea what they wanted for Christmas.  We concluded that was because they had no commercials telling them what they wanted for Christmas.

We’re creatures who are often fixated on what others have, aren’t we?  Yesterday my oldest daughter was in one of her high school classes and the teacher was loaning a workbook to any student who needed one.  The catch was that the teacher wanted some collateral in return to ensure the books were given back at the end of class.  The teacher told students, “give me your phone, and if you don’t have a phone, I’ll take your backpack.”  A large percentage of the class’s students made their way to the front of the classroom and one by one they dropped their iPhones into a basket.  When the dust settled, the teacher had a literal basketful of iPhones….and one backpack. Guess who’s.

When that story was relayed to me last night, I had a couple of emotions almost instantly.  First, I felt pity.  I thought, “Oh, that’s so sad. My daughter had to endure the shame of having to be the only one in her entire class without an iPhone. I really wish she had one. I really wish she didn’t have to stick out like that. I really wish her dad wouldn’t blog about it the very next day.”  Okay, so I didn’t think that last one but you get the idea.  I was feeling sorry for my lone iPhone-less offspring.

Next, I felt frustration.  I felt irked-ness bordering on anger with all the parents of all those iPhone-toting teens.  I thought back to the late 80s/early 90s when I was in high school and the only phone we had was attached to a wall in the kitchen and even then you couldn’t go anywhere because of the coil-leash that robbed you of any chance for privacy.  I envied my friends who’s parents installed one of those 50-foot long coils on their phone.  Sure, it created a pile of phone cord when not in use, but when you needed it, you could stretch it to your room.  Or at least the hall coat closet.

So I thought, “Ugh. Why do all these parents give their kids their own phone? Don’t they know they’re making me look bad?!?”  And there it is.  The heart of the matter.

You see, I don’t really care (that much) about the moronic decision to give an 11 year old their own phone.  Go ahead.  This is America.  You’re free to be wrong.  And I’m free to say so.  Really, the issue for me was more that I felt inferior as a parent because my daughter was seemingly the only one in the room without an iPhone to drop in the basket.  That somehow that reality reflected poorly on me.

The whole situation led my mind to a larger issue; that of our insatiable desire to “keep up with the Jones’s”.  You have a Jones family in your world. Probably several of them.  Maybe you’re surrounded by them. Or maybe it’s you.  Its this reality that drives human mobs to trample humans in an attempt to get their hands on an Elmo.  Its this reality that tempts me to shell out money I don’t have for stuff I don’t need to impress people I don’t like.

Here’s the kicker: To keep up with the Joneses is to become a Jones.  Think about it.

Have you ever noticed that the people who aren’t grasping at stuff seem to be the most satisfied?  Crazy, right?  Now, I don’t think giving (or receiving) gifts is a sinful thing.  I’ve gotten gifts for my four kids this Christmas season and I’m excited to experience Christmas morning with them.  I’m not saying that stuff is wrong.  I’m saying that grabbing stuff is wrong.  I’m saying that wanting more stuff for the sake of having more stuff is wrong.  I’m saying that stuff isn’t going to ever make you satisfied. Because you weren’t created for stuff.  You were created for way more than the race for having the most, biggest, or best.

Paul said it perfectly in Philippians 4:11 when he said, “…for I have learned to be content in whatever circumstances I am.”  

Contentment doesn’t come from knowing my daughter isn’t left out in the next iPhone pile-up at school (because she will be). It doesn’t come from the acquisition of anything seen.  It only comes when I “learn” that everything I need is found in my love relationship with my wife, in the parenting role I have with my children, and in the faith walk I have with Jesus.