Beattyville, Kentucky

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I’ve just returned from a week in Beattyville, KY.  I took 28 high school students there for lots of reasons, but I suppose the overall #1 reason was to serve those in need.  And while we did certainly do that, I believe that each of our hearts were served as well.  Each person who went on that trip returned changed in some way, perhaps in ways that won’t be overtly visible for some time.  Let me tell you about some of the things I did, saw, and learned…in no particular order.

I learned that I don’t like driving in West Virginia.  With apologies to my senior pastor, Jerome Hancock’s home state, I just can’t enjoy driving through hills like that on curves like those behind the wheel of a 15-passenger van while pulling a trailer full of luggage.  In our long caravan of vehicles, I was definitely “the slow one” of the group as we navigated those curves.  But you know what? I’m used to be “the slow one” in most contexts.  If you know me personally, stop laughing.

I love watching teens serve others.  All week long, I saw high school students give of themselves in a myriad of ways.  From painting, to repairing fire damage on a home, to installing lattice to protect small children on a home’s porch, to entirely replacing an unsafe porch, to cleaning up “the ravine” which was basically a dump set on the side of a steep hill, to playing with and laughing with children who exist daily in deep and desperate poverty, to restoring dignityand  honor to overgrown cemeteries where they walked among the headstones, noting the names and especially the ages of those who had died, to sitting and conversing with nursing home residents whose visitors are few and far between, to loving the people of an entire town while spreading the hope and love that God has for every creature.  All week long, I watched high school students work together to accomplish whatever task was in front of them; and not begrudgingly, but with enthusiasm.  Read Ephesians 6:7 and know that these students fulfilled it to the letter.

I learned that going “over there” shouldn’t be that different from staying “right here” when it comes to our perspective on serving, loving, and blessing those around us.  Mission trips do so much good for “that” place and “those” people who live a safe distance away, but the beautiful honor of God shines even brighter when we begin to live unsafe and gracious lives right here.  Its easy to bless a stranger somehow.  Its tougher when we’re called (and we are) to selflessly bless those that we see everyday.  There’s more risk involved, more accountability, and more scrutiny as they inspect our integrity.  But didn’t Jesus say that “you’ll be my witnesses and JERUSALEM, Judea, Samaria…” and isn’t Jerusalem (first on the list) really representative of “home” or “where you are right now”?  Often times we’re more comfortable going to “the ends of the earth” (last on the list) than we are going across the street.

I also learned that if you encounter a bear, you shouldn’t play dead, run away, or turn your back on the bear.  The week before our arrival in Beattyville, a man was mauled by a bear that was still on the loose.  So we received frequent reminders as to what to do should we encounter a bear.  The jist of what you’re to do when you see a bear is to “get big”.  Put your arms out, stand up straight, and make yourself look as big as possible.  Because what bear doesn’t like a challenge?  Thankfully, we never saw any bears.  If you’d like to see the bear we didn’t see, click here.

Another experience I had for the very first time was getting hit with a hammer in the chest.  Somehow God protected me from serious injury, but there was a split second that I thought “This is it. I’m gonna die right here in this backyard in Beattyville, KY.”  Thankfully, as you can tell, I’m still very much alive.  Long story short, one of our students was doing EXACTLY what I had told him to do, but on one of his full and robust swings of the hammer, he completely missed his target and since I was standing right next to him, the business end of his hammer swing found the right side of my rib cage.  Needless to say, he felt more than bad about it.  To him I’ll say again (because he’s beating himself up): You know who you are, and I COMPLETELY forgive you.  It was an accident, so really there’s nothing to forgive.  But to help ease your mind, I forgave you the instant it happened.

I learned a great synonym for prayer.  Prayer is a “longing”.  No matter if we are longing to be close to God, or longing for help in some way, or longing for a physical healing for a loved one, or longing to express our raw emotion to God, or longing for wisdom in parenting or some other area of life; how many times have I uttered a prayer without a sense of longing?  How many times was it just words and not heart?  The Bible tells us to “Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires (the longings) of your heart.” (Psalm 37:4)  When I pray, I will be mindful that I’m conveying the longings of my heart.

I learned that pity alone is pointless and useless.  Look up the word “pity” and you’ll find this definition: “a feeling of sadness because of another person’s trouble or suffering, or the capacity to feel this.”  Believe me, there were plenty of opportunities for sadness this past week in Beattyville.  But if you looked around, sadness was actually quite hard to find.  The emotion of sadness was only a brief stepping stone that led our group to action, which brought change, which brought blessing, which brought gladness.

We had a wonderful week away in Beattyville, KY.  We loved the people that God loves, we were blessed by those people probably even more than we blessed them, and we drew near to God and to the concept that every person we saw is the object of God’s eternal affection.  This point was made most clear as we celebrated communion on a mountain top Friday morning.  As students and leaders took their turn pinching a piece of bread (the body of Christ) from the loaf and dipping into the bowl of grape juice (the blood of Christ), I listened to Bobby and Josh who were holding the bread and juice say to each person, “The body of Christ, broken for you.” and “The blood of Christ, shed for you.”  It struck me anew that if we could line up the entire population of earth, some 6 billion humans and have them each take a piece of that bread and dip it into that juice, and utter those words–it would be true for every one of them.  The body and blood of Christ was broken and shed for every person on earth.  If that’s true, then aren’t I called to treat every human with the grace of God that has been so freely shown and given to me?  Anything less puts me in the position of judge and decider as to who receives God’s grace and love–a position God never intended me to fill. 

My sole call and purpose is to love, bless, serve, and give myself away to others to this end:  “That they may see my good works and glorify my Father who is in heaven.”  (Matthew 5:16)

Fireworks and I…

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There are certain things in our culture I don’t understand the appeal of.  Two of them are parades and fireworks.  I don’t see the point.  I’m not trying to be a jerk here, believe me.  I’m just sharing my opinion. 

But just a little while ago, we returned from a July 4th fireworks display at our local county fairgrounds, having been invited by some friends to come along.   After a great cookout and laughter at their house, we all piled in the cars and caravaned over to the fairgrounds.  We meandered through the thick crowds until we finally found an open patch of ground to lay our blankets and unfold our chairs.  As darkness fell, we laid back on the ground, looked skyward and watched fireworks.  And you know what I thought when they were over?  I thought, “Yep, those were fireworks.”

I know, I know.  I can already hear some of you screaming at your screen, “But you’ve never seen the fireworks in MY town!”  Or maybe you’re thinking I should see the fireworks in New York City put on by Macy’s or in Washington D.C. over all those historic monuments, or in Boston where they thought up the ridiculous idea of having a live symphony orchestra play music synchronized to the explosions.  You’re thinking, “Jerry, you shouldn’t make up your mind until you see THAT.”  Maybe you’re right, but I’m guessing that you’re not.  To me, fireworks are fireworks.

What I DO love about the fourth of July is the freedom that we’re celebrating.  I can do without the explosions.  Give me a good piece of cheesecake and I’ll be just as happy–no, happier.  What I DO love about it all is the fact that we’re stopping and remembering what makes this nation so great: freedom.  Freedom that allows me to speak my mind, even when its something you think is idiotic, like my view on fireworks.  Freedom that lets me write a blog like this to share my thoughts on anything under the sun.  Freedom that affords me the greatest privilege I have as an American citizen; the freedom to worship the God I love so desperately; the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.  The God who cares enough about me to save me by dying on a Roman cross in my place, all while I was still sinning against Him.  The God who right now is both on His throne in heaven AND residing within this frail, flawed, faulty, and often faithless jar of clay I am. 

So I think about freedom on this day of the year more than any other.  I think about both my grandfathers and my dad who served proudly, heroically, and honorably for this great country.  I owe to them and to all service men and women an unpayable debt of gratitude for their gift of freedom.  Before them, I remember those who fought and died in the Revolutionary War, and the great minds and hands the crafted the Declaration of Independence which is perhaps one of the greatest if not the greatest document in all of human history.  I think about them and my freedom and how we are connected.  I’m thankful to live where I do, to be who I am, and to know what I know.  I understand that to be an American is not just a lucky break for anyone born here or immigrated here.  It’s a solemn responsibility to live up to our ideals, to handle our freedom with care, and to make the most of every chance we have to improve ourselves, both individually and collectively.

As much as my mind has been on the idea of national freedoms today, I must admit that I am also in thought about the words of Jesus regarding freedom as well.  Jesus spoke those very well-known words in John 8:36: “So if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed.”  Free from what, though?  What is Jesus referring to here?  Here are a few things…

1. Freedom from sin’s power.  As a willing recipient of God’s forgiveness and grace, I am also in the position of having been freed from sin’s grip and power.  I am now free NOT to sin.  I now have a choice.  I am no longer enslaved to the power of sin in my life any longer. 

2. Freedom from sin’s penalty.  Imagine yourself convicted and on death row.  Imagine your execution day quickly approaching.  Imagine waking up the morning of the day prescribed by the courts for your death.  Imagine hearing the sounds of the guards shoes as they approach your cell.  Imagine hearing the sound of the key slide into the lock of your cell door, turn, and release the bolt holding you in.  Imagine looking up to and hearing the guard tell you that you are free to go.  Your debt has been paid.  You are free. 

3.  Freedom from sin’s guilt.  Satan is a trash-picker.  He spends lots of time going through the trash of your past and bringing things back to your attention, even things God has forgiven you for.  He will keep you paralyzed in guilt and shame while Jesus only wants you to experience freedom.  Not only freedom from guilt, but freedom from having to pretend any longer.  Knowing that you are accepted by your Creator, you are set free from having to earn the acceptance of anyone else. 

There is much more to say, but I hope that this has encouraged to to live fully in the freedom that comes from Jesus Christ, the lover of your soul, the redeemer of your eternity, and the purchaser of your freedom.

Why I Run.

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I don’t really.  The only times I do are when my hot wife says, “You want to run with me?”  The entire time I am running, I am asking myself “Why do people do this?!?  I just don’t get it!”  But man do I love my wife, so anytime with her (even running/trying not to die) is always welcome.

Way Overdue.

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Getting entrenched in life is something that I highly recommend. 

However, it’s not so good if you hope to keep your blog current.  And for those who have been checking daily, weekly, monthly, or centennially….I’m back now and hope to get my blog groove on.  At least for now.  We’ll see.

Maybe I should rename my blog to “We’ll see.”  It reminds me of the intramural basketball teams I led in college; one year our team name was “Maybe next year” and another year our team name was “Yeah…whatever.”  We wore plaid button-up shirts with the sleeves cut off.  Collars and everything.  We took all the players the other teams didn’t want.  We were terrible.  It was great.

So, in the past couple of weeks, I’ve been immersed in our annual middle school mission trip and all the details revolving around that.  All in all, it was a fantastic experience.  We took a new step in our leadership development plan this year and took along high school student leaders who I have worked with over the past year.  I can confidently say that they brought SO much to the table as it relates to influencing our middle school students.  Even as young and spry as I am, middle schoolers consider me “old” (anything over 25 qualifies), so having high schoolers whom they idolize speak into their lives for the week did immeasurable good.  No doubt about it, Student Leaders rock.

We had an interesting thing happen one night while on the trip.  If you’re up for a quick story, read on.

We had rented a YMCA camp for the week and spent most of our time there.  But with one of our “sister” churches right up the road, we thought it’d be fun one night to have a change of scenery, and take our students there for some dodgeball. The youth pastor there was totally down with it and asked if he could invite some of his students to join in. I’m a “the more the merrier” kinda guy, so I thought that was a great idea.
We arrived at the church and as we began to gather all the students together, I noticed that their students looked more like high school and even college age or perhaps even inmates.  (reminder: our students were middle schoolers). I thought to myself, “No biggie, I’m sure it’ll be fun.”
As one of their youth leaders began to explain the rules, I noticed that “head shots” were allowed. “No biggie”, I thought. “I’m sure it’ll still be fun.”
Then it was decided that we’d have a church vs. church battle for round one. This is where I should have stepped in but didn’t. Because after all, “No biggie, I’m sure this will be fun and a healthy competition.” I still had no reason to believe otherwise.

At the sound of the starting whistle I learned exactly what kind of nightmare we were in for.

Remember that rule that “headshots are allowed”? Well, it turns out that’s pretty much all they threw. And when I say “threw”, I mean “shot” or “launched”. I’m not joking–I’ve NEVER seen dodgeballs move that fast. Within seconds I had a few of our students in tears, gripping the side of their head, and all of our students looking like the proverbial “deer in the headlights” Leaders were consoling the casualties (which turned out to be more in shock than in pain). The game didn’t last long, even though we outnumbered them almost 2 to 1. As it turns out, a 6th grade girl is no match for a 22 yr. old man when it comes to dodgeball.
Leaders came up to me, voicing their discomfort with the situation, but I barely heard any of that because I was mentally rehearsing a) the earful I was about to give the other youth pastor and b) the angry phone calls I would receive Monday morning after we get back.
After speaking with the youth pastor and voicing my concern in no uncertain terms, he apologized and assured me there was no intention to harm, and that we should mix up the teams and even them out. I could not have agreed more.

(I’ll say here that there really was no malicious intent from the other team, they were just really REALLY good at dodgeball! We still love them and many of our kids have dedicated the next year to training and steroids, looking forward to a rematch!)

After we evened out the teams, most of my students actually BEGGED to keep playing, even after 3 more rounds.

This was a situation where no one was “wrong” per se; we just had 2 very different approaches to the same game. And I also learned that their students play dodgeball religiously every time they get together.
That would explain the special shoes and the tattoos.

So, since returning from that trip, I’ve been sleeping, reminisching, and thanking God for the fantastic time that we had.  Hopefully that explains my absence from blogging as of late.

Cool by Association

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Not many people know this, but I’ve had my fair share of celebrity run-ins. 

I asked Ollie North a question and got an answer.  I saw Alan Ruck (“Cameron” from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off) TWO different times at the grocery store when I lived in NY and I even talked to him (inviting him to one of MY performances).  I’ve been to the Conan O’Brien Show (the first, much better one) where I also saw Kelsey Grammar and more notably Max Weinberg.  I held a door open for Rosie Greer, I’ve been on The Today Show (well, in the crowd outside but still), I’ve been literally run into by Barry Manilow, I’ve had a conversation with Rosie O’Donnell, and I was personally introduced to Kathie Lee Gifford backstage after a performance.  And I’ll just throw in for free that Phyllis Diller once stepped on my mom’s foot.

Yep, clearly I am where I am in life because of these chance encounters with greatness.   Or not.

While it may be true that I have been just as affected by the aforementioned celebs as I would have been had I merely thought about them, there is a truth that I’ve been thinking about recently.  And it has much more to do with the real truth in the old saying “Its all in who you know.”

Take a gander at what Paul said to the church in Rome (8:16,17): “The Spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are God’s children. Now if we are children, then we are heirs—heirs of God and co-heirs with Christ, if indeed we share in his sufferings in order that we may also share in his glory.”

We usually only ever hear the word “heir” when we’re reading a will or we’re watching Antiques Roadshow and its immediately followed by “loom”.  It’s no wonder then that the depths of what is being said here is lost on our 21st century ears, enlightened as they may be.

The easiest way to understand the legal term “heir” is to use the term “entitled”.  Someone named heir is someone who is entitled to all that is laid out in the legal document.  This verse is telling us that if you are a “child of God”, then you are “heirs of God and co-heirs with Christ.”  Just before Paul wrote these words, he wrote about the concept of adoption; a fitting parallel to what God the Father has done through God the Son.

So, welcomed into the family of God as an adoptee is what puts us, His children in the position of heirs.  We now stand alongside Jesus Himself as beneficiaries of every blessing, every gift, every supply, everything that God can give and does give to His only Son, He now gives to every son and daughter that enters into His family.  Paul says further that we are “blessed with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places.” (Ephesians 1:3)

“What’s the dif?”, you ask?  Well, I believe it is primarily one of attitude, perception, and ownership of all that we have in our adopted sonship/daughtership state in God’s family.

In my junior year of high school, our family decided to host a foreign exchange student.  So all the way from Holland, we welcomed “Wouter” into our home for an entire year.  I remember vividly picking him up from the airport, awkward first moments of silence, and that first morning at the breakfast table when he put unimaginable things together for breakfast, out of sheer ignorance of what he was and wasn’t supposed to eat together.  To this day, I still can’t forget that mashed potato sandwich.

But it didn’t take long before “Woody” (we couldn’t pronounce his real name) and I became fast friends.  We became truly like brothers in the same family.  We laughed, we wrestled, we shared secrets, we talked about girls, and we enjoyed sharing a room together for the year.  And just as vividly as I remember his first day in America, I remember his last.  I remember standing at that airport checkpoint, hugging him with tears literally pouring down my cheeks.  I remember standing there holding my brother, this brother I never had, for what seemed like an eternity.  We held each other and wept because of the deep sense of family that we had come to know in one another.  We cried and cried and we actually never said the word “goodbye” to each other.  We couldn’t bring ourselves to say it.

As strong as that bond was for the both of us (and I have never seen Woody again since that day), the bond of the Heavenly Father on those who call Him such would make my feelings for my exchange brother seem trite and silly.  We ARE all that He says we are.  We HAVE all that He says we have.  We WILL BE all that He says we will be. 

Just as God the Father embraces, prizes, touts, and honors God the Son, so He does for you His child. 

Now, what was it that you wanted to ask Him?

Just another manic morning.

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Dietrich Bonhoeffer is recorded to have said, “The prayer of the morning determines the day.”

But for most people, it’d be more accurate to substitute the word “prayer” with “crisis”.  Yesterday, as we were in the final moments of getting kids (we have 4) out the door for the school bus, we decided that our youngest would wear his new slip-on style “Crocs” sandals to school.  Halfway to the bus stop I realized that was a mistake the would shape my next hour or so.  My youngest loves to run and his sandals (with no backs) were not allowing him to run like the wind the way he wanted to.  He’d take a few schlepping steps, get frustrated, stop and cry.  He’d take a few more schlepping steps, sandals scraping the ground as he tried to run and also keep them on his feet, get frustrated, stop and cry.  I soon learned that the sandals weren’t the best idea.  After all, shoes that are “slip-on” must also by their very nature be “slip-off”.  But finally we made it to the bus stop.  He had stopped crying, but was still not too keen on the sandals.

Now, I want to stop here in the story and point out a type of parenting that I call “helicopter parenting”.  When any crisis arises, some parents (myself included at times) swoop in and save the day, providing the perfect solution/rescue from trouble  just in the nick of time.  In that vein, I leaned down to my son’s level and said, “Hudson, would you like me to go and get your sneakers for you?”  Through whimpers, he quietly said, “Yes.”  So I fired up the rotors of my parenting helicopter and flew home as quickly as my feet could carry me, only to see the bus coming up the street as soon as I reached our front porch.  I knew instantly there’d be no way on God’s green earth that I’d make it back to the bus stop in time.

Now, I had a decision to make.  Would I shut down the blades of the helicopter; the parenting helicopter I’d come so accustomed to flying, or would I go the distance and ultimately bring the sneakers to the weeper?  What would you have done?

That’s what I figured.

Since going back to the bus stop would have been useless, I went to his room, grabbed his sneakers out of his closet, grabbed some socks, and climbed back into my parenting rescue copter, which looks suspiciously like a minivan.  Off I drove to the elementary school parking lot, landed the rescue copter, and walked over to where I figured his bus would stop and let him out.  Yep, “Plan B” was working out just fine.  I’d see him get off the bus, swoop in with socks and sneakers, and fly off into the clouds until the next crisis arose. 

And as I stood there for what seemed like an eternity, I thought about what other parents in their parked copters must be thinking while looking at me standing there near that bus loop, under that tree.  Here was a dad who, from all indications looked quite sane and yet was standing in a bus loop holding a pair of child’s socks and sneakers.  I can’t help but think that someone must have seen me standing there and thought, “Oh good Lord, that dad is so inept, he didn’t even put shoes on the kid before sending him out the door!”

So, I finally see buses start to roll in and I keep my eye out for my youngest son’s bus.  There it was!  Rolling in, and rolling by way too quickly to be stopping anytime soon and anywhere near me.  I watched it finally roll to a stop at the opposite end of the bus loop from where I was.  Undaunted and still committed to save the day, I started hoofing it down the sidewalk and into a sea of children, in the hopes to find mine or one that looks like mine.  By that time, I was tempted to grab any kid wearing sandals, sit him down, take them off, and squeeze my kids shoes onto his feet.  But while I was having that thought, I heard a stern, “May I help you?”  But while those were the words coming from this militant mother’s mouth (volunteering as security guard), I was reading between the lines; what she was really saying was, “You don’t belong in this sea of children. I don’t like the looks of you. I don’t trust your intentions. You make me uncomfortable.  You’re not supposed to be here and the fact that you’re here makes me feel and act like a mother hen.   No, a mother mongoose.  No, a mother bear.  No, a mother dragon.”  I quickly tried to explain myself, and the sandals, and the shoes, and the helicopter, but she didn’t care one bit about the sordid details.  She just wanted me to march my trespassing heiney to the front office, go through the retinal and rectal scan like every other visitor has to, and hope to gain entrance into this fortress of security.  So I did.

Did I mention that at this point I’m still a grown man carrying a child’s socks and shoes?  So, I get to the office, punch my name into the computer, sign some legal documents that I think contractually obligate me to surrender my soul to gain entrance, wait for my picture badge sticker to print out, slap it on, and head toward my son’s classroom. 

And then came the payoff.  I walked through the door of my son’s classroom, he looked up from his morning work, and……wait for it…….smiled.

There it was.  There was the sole reason any of us parents do anything.  All that work, that running, that dragonfighting, all for that one moment when my son looked up at me with eyes that said, “I recognize the lengths you have gone through to bring me my socks and shoes.  I esteem you highly and vow from this moment on to never take you for granted, always to appreciate and respect the position of loving authority you hold in my life, and to constantly remind you of just how wonderful I think you truly are.”   But it sounded more like “Hi Dad.”

With pride in my heart, joy on my face, and I think maybe my chest puffed out a little, I took off those dastardly sandals and replaced them with soft warm socks, and lace up sneakers, double-tied.  Now my son could face the day not having to schlep.

Fast forward 24 hours to this morning.  We’re at the bus stop (sneakers on this time), and my two youngest are playing tag while waiting for the bus.  Just as I heard the roar of the bus engine around the corner, I look down just in time to see my son trip and fall on the asphalt street.  Immediate tears and crying ensue.  I think to myself, “Oh good Lord, can I have a normal morning, please?!?”  The answer clearly being “Nope”, I picked him up, tried to convince him all was well and quickly realized he wasn’t buying it.  So, while all the other children climbed aboard the school bus, my youngest and I begin the walk home, with one out of four knees bloodied and needing a band-aid.  After peroxide and some attention from mom, he seemed no worse for wear.  So we got in the minivan once again, put it on auto-pilot from the day before, and enjoyed a nice ride to his school.

I’m not saying that as parents we’re supposed to save our kids everytime they fall, forget, or fail.  In fact, I’d contend that there are definitely times when the good ‘ol “you made your bed, now lie in it” method is completely appropriate.  But at least for now and in instances like these, I’m enjoying building that foundation of trust with my youngest son.  So that in the future when he needs to stand on his own, he’ll know he can do so with the love and support of his parents.

Most comfortable.

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I’ve heard that most people are deathly afraid of public speaking.  I love it.  I find myself looking forward to the next time I get to communicate to a crowd.  As a kid, when other kids wanted to be firefighters, policemen, and astronauts, I wanted to be a stand-up comedian.  It’s true.

I recently had another opportunity to be in front of and speak to a large crowd.  As usual, I was in my element.  I hope that doesn’t sound too egotistical, but I suppose I can’t help it if it does.  I don’t mean it to be, it’s just that the more people I’m in front of, the more comfortable I am.  It’s weird, I know.

I got a comment from someone in the crowd the other day that he just couldn’t believe “how comfortable I seem up there.”  It’s true.  I love it.  And again, I’m not sure how this is coming across, but I feel like its something like a gift from God.  Its a gift I’m so thankful for, because it ignites my insides. 

What is it that makes you come alive inside?  What is the gift of God in your life?  What is your talent, your unique ability?  What is that thing that brings you joy simply because you recognize it comes straight from God’s hand?