The Real Story of the Boy who Lived

The Boy Who Lived (Chapter 1 of The Sorcerer's Stone by J.K. Rowling)

Yesterday was the 20th anniversary of a miracle that our family experienced early one spring morning in 1990. That was the day our son, Charles Harry, was born under circumstances that I cannot forget.

I don’t remember anything out of the ordinary of Linda’s pregnancy but then again I don’t think I’m the one to ask about this. I remember her being pregnant of course, of her regularly taking neo-vitamins (or whatever they’re called) and going to the doctor –a Dr. Kidd, no less - for check-ups along the way. But other than this, I’d say it was a fairly normal pregnancy as those things go. She got steadily bigger and the baby’s due date in mid-May got steadily closer. But the night she went into labor, I will never forget. For dread and grace met head on in a single hour and a life was born.

I was working nights then at Bethesda Lutheran Home in Watertown, Wisconsin and our home was in Whitewater, about 40 minutes away. The hospital in Fort Atkinson was about a 30 minute drive from work for me. Due to the fact that I was gone at night, Linda’s mom had come to stay with us until the baby was born. As I recall, it had been an otherwise quiet night at Bethesda when early Thursday morning the call came that Linda and her mother were on their way to the hospital. After quickly tending to some administrative stuff, I was in my car and heading south on Highway 26. I had no way of knowing the drama that was unfolding in the emergency room at Fort Memorial about 20-some miles away. For shortly after Linda was wired and situated in the delivery room, the baby’s heart-rate had plunged precipitously and had been lost altogether. In the terror-filled moments that followed, a specialist had been paged and brought in and a crash cart of sorts was standing by in case they had to perform an emergency C-section. And then for no known medical reason, the baby’s heart began beating normally again. All of this had transpired in my 25 mile drive to the hospital. By the time I got there, people were breathing again and a modicum of calm had returned to the room. They quickly got me up to speed of the situation but then contractions began in earnest.

And then, like a bass caught in the weeds, the baby got stuck. The umbilical chord was not simply around its neck. Rather, our child had become the center of an awful snarl. A forceps delivery ensued and finally at 7:01 a.m., Charlie emerged from the birth canal exhausted from his ordeal weighing 6lbs, 15 oz and measuring 20 inches long. Like all parents after the birth of their baby, we were a hodge-podge of emotions: grateful, relieved, thankful, excited. Charlie’s head looked like it had been squeezed in a vice but otherwise he checked out okay. As wonderful as the birth of any baby is, other than those brief moments of terror when his heart had stopped beating it had been an otherwise normal delivery.

Until the letter came the following week we did not realize that we had witnessed the strange workings of God. It was from Ella, Linda’s aunt on her mother’s side, and in her congratulatory card she shared the following story – that during the early hours of Thursday, May 18, she was awakened from her sleep with a compelling need to pray for her niece, not knowing that at that very moment she was in dire need. Now Ella was known as a “praying woman” and so strong did she feel the burden she interceded in her prayer language until it seemed the weight had lifted. She happened to glance at the clock before she went back to sleep. It was 4:30 a.m. Unbeknownst to her, this was exactly when Charlie’s heart began to beat again.

Our son, Charlie, has a form of autism officially referred to as Pervasive Developmental Disorder. Early on his life we knew something was amiss with him. A diagnosis was confirmed by the time he was four or five. But the trauma of his birth, the fact that according to the small size of his placenta he may have been in fact a month overdue, has nothing to do with his condition. It is – like so much of his life – a mystery, an enigma that defies explanation except that God’s hand is weaving the story that is Charlie.

You can call it coincidence if you like to or if that makes you feel better. You can call it strange coincidence indeed. But his mother and I believe that at the very moment things seemed to hang in the balance, God laid it upon the heart of a woman who knew him and her intercession saved our son’s life. The Apostle Paul said that “We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express. And he who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints in accordance with God's will” (Romans 8:26, 27, NIV). Charlie is not likely to ever discover the cure for the common cold nor bring lasting peace to the Middle East. He won’t ever star on a football team or make “the big time.” No, at the moment he’s a janitor who likes to ride horses. He loves Scooby Doo movies and playing Jedi out in the back yard with his only friend, Anthony. His is a simple life full of simple pleasures and I am so grateful to God and to Aunt Ella for the life of my son. “The secret things belong to the LORD our God,” so says Moses (Deut 29:29). So for purposes all his own God preserved Charlie’s life that night and decreed that he would be the boy who LIVED. And we have Aunt Ella to thank in part for that.

Denounced by Jesus

“Next Jesus let fly on the cities where he had worked the hardest but whose people had responded the least, shrugging their shoulders and going their own way.” (Matthew 11: 20, Msg)

In my personal reading of Scripture the other day I was reading along in Matthew when I stumbled over an adverbial phrase: “Then Jesus began to denounce the cities…” (v. 20, NIV.) I’ve read this passage plenty of times before but on that afternoon it stuck up like a lip of a slab of sidewalk which my big toe happened to collide with. In Luke’s Gospel, Jesus shushes the “Sons of Thunder” for wanting to call down fire on a Samaritan crowd that was driving them crazy. But in this instance, Jesus seems to want to do the same. This is not the speech of him whom Charles Wesley once wrote, “Gentle Jesus, Meek and Mild.”

This whole section is a bit unsettling when you linger over it. Think of the cities that Jesus cites – Tyre, Sidon and Sodom. Think of who comes to mind when you mention these places – the guys who wanted to rape Lot’s guests and Jezebel, to name a few. They are the epitome of centers of evil. And all of them were ultimately subject to the judgment of God. The original Tyre is beneath the waves of the Mediterranean. Sodom may be beneath the Dead Sea. But by comparison, things will be far “more bearable” for the Tyrians, Sidonians and Sodomites on Judgment Day than it will be for the Korazinites, Bethsaidaians and Capernaumonians. That statement in itself ought to cause us to say, “Huh?” After all what can be worse than idolatry, immorality and infanticide? Apparently there are worse sins than these.

Previous to this diatribe, Jesus had sent his disciples out on their first mission. In every knock about town and village they were to preach, heal and deliver. If they met resistance, they weren’t supposed to make a big deal about it but kick the dirt of that town off their sandals and move on to the next. For the town that doesn’t welcome the message he pronounces doom: “I tell you the truth – i.e., I solemnly swear – it will be more bearable for Sodom and Gomorrah on the day of judgment than for that town” (10:15). That is staggering. Given all the rhetoric that emanates from the conservative camp of Christianity (of which I am a member) leveled against the growing acceptance of the practice of homosexuality which seems to be increasing in our land, despite the way that heterosexual individuals are usually creeped out by just the thought of people actually engaged in such behavior, there is a sin which is worse. Namely, the sin of unbelief.

Despite the manifestation of God’s power through Jesus and his followers in these communities, they remain nonplussed and unconvinced of the authenticity of his authority as the Son of Man. Think on Matthew 11:24 for a second: “But I tell you that it will be more bearable for Sodom on the day of judgment than for you.” It makes me think of something a bus driver in town once said to some kids on his school bus who were teasing a fellow student with a cognitive disability, “He was born that way – what’s your excuse?” Jesus states that had he ministered in Tyre, in Sidon, or in Sodom they would have responded like Nineveh in the days of Jonah: in sackcloth and ashes, in total repentance and anguish over how they had justly incurred the wrath of God. By comparison, the good folks of Korazin, Bethdsaida and Capernaum are either irritated or – worse! – indifferent to his message and ministry. And what a fearful thing it is to be this way.

In our small city of Chetek, I am going to assume there is not a lot of homosexuality going on (per capita). Yes, there is a good deal of cohabitation, teen sex, bullying, stealing, and drunkenness that happens within our city limits. But percentage-wise, I’m going to guess there are far more nice and neighborly pagans who are generally indifferent to the goings on of God’s kingdom. I, for one, have never been told by anyone in this town, “I wish you would leave.” No one has ever burned a cross in my yard or threatened my life. No, there is just general indifference and apathy. This both inside and outside the Church. We believers tip-toe around not wanting to be scary or dangerous or impolite or rude. We are nice people going about our lives, cutting our grass, planting our gardens, minding our own business. If people come to our church, we generally welcome them. If they never come back, we don’t chase after them. “Good riddance,” seems to be our message. Or, “Sucks to be you.”

It’s difficult for to me to conclude if Chetek has reached Capernaum’s status because that requires outright rejection and how can you reject a message that you have never heard? You are left to draw your own conclusions and whatever “outsiders” may think of us, they are clearly not flocking to join our ranks. Last week Christians all across America and ones right close to home gathered at courthouses, churches, and city halls on the National Day of Prayer to seek God on behalf of our country. And obviously there is much to be concerned about: the ongoing tearing of the moral fabric of our society, runaway greed, abortion, self-centeredness, gross national debt. These are enough to make us anxious in their own right. But how many of us are gripped by a sense that rampant unbelief exists within our own house or in our own camp? That’s the stuff that should put the fear of God in us for it is what provoked Jesus to “let fly” on certain communities in the First Century. And I think we would all agree that to be denounced by Jesus is a fearful thing indeed.

In Search of Love

On an otherwise normal day at Knapp Haven I experience his love all over again.

Every nine weeks a fellowship in our town takes a turn leading the weekly afternoon worship services at Knapp Haven Nursing Home and last Sunday was mine. What this involves is 15 minutes of singing old hymns and gospel songs in the Special Care Unit (i.e., the Alzheimer’s wing) and a 30 minute service in the Activities Room which involves much of the same with a brief time of sharing. Over the nearly 19 years of my ministry here in Chetek my motives for going when it has been our turn have run the gambit from joy to obligation to duty to desire again. When we first came, Linda and the kids came with me. It was something we did as a family and fun to do. But as the years have passed it is only me now who every nine weeks tunes up his guitar, grabs his Bible and drives over to “Knapp” (as the locals refer to it) for church. Honestly, this past Sunday due to the fullness of the weekend I would have only been too happy to pass. But duty called and sometimes duty is all you have.

The residents in Unit 1 (i.e., the Special Care unit) were resting in the many recliners that line the walls. A few are up in their wheel chairs. One of the ladies has been blessed this day with a visit from a large gaggle of relatives and they are blathering away in the back of the room. It’s okay with me. Ministering in Unit 1 is sort of what I assume ministry in a coffee house is like: people are coming and going as they like. A few of the residents are assisted to sit in a semi-circle around me and I dutifully begin to play. I choose “Beautiful Savior” and a few lines in I hear a beautiful voice that is singing along with me. It is a woman named Helen with blazing white hair and I am sincerely blessed to have this day a participatory audience. She knows every word. When we come to the end of the song, her face brightens with a smile and she claps with joyous appreciation. And there is something in this small gesture that ignites my dull spirit with life. I sing “Jesus Loves Me” for a follow up and as Helen and I sing, the well-worn words become real to me all over again as if I’m learning them for the first time. When we complete the song, she smiles and claps again as if I were some famed troubadour who has come to grace these poor people with my presence. But it’s the other way round. I have been the one graced with Helen’s voice and smile and applause and I am sincerely humbled by her generosity.

In that moment I am reminded of something Duane had said in the midst of his message at Refuge that morning: “Our name is very special and calling someone by name is a way of honoring each other for God knows our name.” I share that and without a hint of patronizing pastorspeak, I remind them that they are all special to God and he knows them by name. At the close of our brief gathering, as I have done ever since I first began coming to Knapp Haven, I go around the room with Sue (the nurse in charge that afternoon), shake each hand carefully and call them by name.

A few minutes later I’m in the Activity Room which during the course of a given week is the place for daily devotions or Bingo or whatever the need may call. God’s presence, of course, turns the room into a meeting place. With my heart still warmed by what had just occurred on the other end of the building, after introducing myself instead of leading in the singing of a few hymns quite uncharacteristically I begin to preach. Marjorie is sitting in her usual place and it makes me think of her granddaughter, Stephanie. She’s a girl from Focus who presently is in New Zealand attending the Around-the-World in 80 Days Discipleship Training School. Right before Stephanie left, she shared at Refuge that the real reason she was traveling to the far side of the world was that she wanted to know that God loves her.

Now, Stephanie is a remarkably put together young woman. In 2007, she was not only crowned Miss Chetek but Miss Teen Wisconsin. She graduated in the Top 10 of her class in 2008 and carries herself very gracefully. In fact, as I told my audience that afternoon, if I could use one word to describe Stephanie it would be “grace.” She is a very beautiful young woman and yet equally secure (the two do not always go together). She has walked with Jesus for as long as I have known her and has been a model of integrity. But for all this she questions whether God loves her.

It made me think of a story from my daughter’s life. When Christine was a senior in high school, in the spring of the year Linda and she went prom dressing shopping with but $100 in their budget which, as anyone knows about these things, is akin to trying to buy champagne on a beer budget. In the parking lot of Oakwood Mall, however, my wife turned to our daughter and said, “Let’s pray first.” So they did and then in fear and trepidation made their way into the mall. Finding it was as easy as walking into the store which is what they did and there, as if waiting for Christine, was a beautiful black dress that, as it turned out, fit her perfectly. But that wasn’t the best of it for as they were going through the check-out line, the cashier scanned the tag attached to the dress and offhandedly said, “Oh, this one is on sale. It’s $85.” To her surprise, a mother and daughter were suddenly laughing and crying together having just tasted afresh and seeing again that the Lord is good.

I’ve told that story before. In fact, it’s one I’ve already blogged about (Extravagant Love 1, 4-14-08) and every time I retell it for me it is proof of God’s love for each of us. For not only does he love my daughter but he cares that she look her best for her senior prom even leaving enough left over so that she could accessorize. He’s that kind of God. Which reminded me of another chapter from Christine’s life which I then shared with all of them.

The summer after she graduated from high school, Christine spent four and half weeks in South Korea teaching conversational English. For a young woman who has struggled with a learning disability her whole life this was a remarkable undertaking. For two weeks she lived in the home of a Korean couple in a city the size of Rice Lake (about 8,000). Though she knew not a lick of Korean and only the husband spoke rudimentary English, they got along capitally. And, as she tells me, when the time came to move to another town she was sad to go and fearful as to what the next few weeks would bring. This time she would be living in the small village of Inje, a mountain hamlet of 17 buildings. When she arrived, full of fear and angst, what was her surprise when she heard, “Well, hello Christine. How are your parents?” It was Pastor Myoungdae Pyo, the Methodist minister with whose family Christine would be living. Pastor ‘Dae’ as he is known had been to Chetek five years before leading a small contingent of Korean middle school students who had lived in our city a month. We had him over for dinner during his stay in our city and during our meal together he had said to Christine, “You must come and stay at my home one day.” And now five years later she was standing outside the very place thousands of miles from Chetek but nearer to home than she could have possibly imagined. In my opinion, that moment was worth the trip – to find out for herself that while she may not always know where she is but He knows the way she takes and she is always in His care.

Stephanie’s whole trip to New Zealand and elsewhere has cost her $15,000. That’s a lot of money to find out if God loves you. Some might opine that it would have been better to spend these funds furthering her education and that this whole episode in her life is a waste of time and money. But what glorious waste. There is some knowledge in life that is essentially meaningless simply as concept or theory. To know that one is loved by God and to know it personally is perhaps the best knowledge of all and if need be worth spending $15,000 to find out. No matter what else happens to Stephanie Down Under during her stay there, regardless of the awesome sights and wonderful experiences she’ll enjoy, if she finds out for herself that Jesus loves her it is knowledge enough to transform a life. No wonder Paul prayed for a group of believers that

…out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through
his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts
through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love,
may have power, together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge – that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.
(Ephesians 3:16-19, NIV)


There are some people who travel through life and never know for themselves that they are loved by God. That afternoon I looked out on my small congregation and I wondered how many of them were just like that. Oh, they’ve been to church most of the Sundays of their days and been rightly catechized in the faith of their choosing but their hearts remain devoid of the love that Paul says “surpasses knowledge.” And so before picking up my guitar to fill the last ten minutes or so with singing, I prayed Paul’s prayer for all the residents gathered in that room that day.

As I drove home from Knapp Haven following the service that afternoon, I found myself grateful for the call of duty that had brought me there in the first place. Think what I would have missed out on - Helen’s smile, her enthusiastic applause, the poignant moment of silence which followed my sharing the stories of Christine and the sweet taste of God’s goodness which I feasted on all over again.

Abiding in the Vine?

The other day, Joe, who serves our fellowship as youth leader of The Focus, and I got into a conversation on the subject of "abiding." He had recently been asked by another, "How was he abiding?" (or words to that affect)and he was perplexed as to how to respond to their question. What, after all, does it mean to "abide"? Is it something we do or is something that is done to us? Is it the application of certain spiritual disciplines or is it acknowledging a sense that we intuitively grasp that, yes, indeed we are?

In John 15, Jesus shares with his first disciples and with we his later ones that the secret of fruitfulness is "abiding."

Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself,
except it abide in the vine; no more can ye, except ye abide in me.
(v. 4, KJV)

At the very least, this verse suggests organic connection with Him. If I am to bear fruit "that remains," it can only flow out of my relationship with him. If the sap ceases to flow into me, then something positionally has ceased to be (and depending what camp you fall into, that may, in fact, be theologically impossible!)

Our conversation made me reflect upon my life, if I am "abiding" or just faking it. This from my journal entry on Saturday, April 24:

"It seems like I've been tending to everything but God's Presence this week. I've been present at prayer meetings (Mon night, Tues morning & night, Sat morn). I've prayed with several individuals (Mon night, Wed night, Fri morning and afternoon). I've been reading regularly in two books - Worshiping with the Church Fathers & Surprised by the Power of the Spirit. I've met with my deacons, my elder, my fellow pastors, my youth leader (and those who work with him). I've hung out with my wife, my kids & tended to my duties as MS track coach. I've read to my kids & blogged this week. I've been w/everyone but the Lord - or so it seems."

I read this paragraph and I think, "Pastorally speaking, it was a fairly productive week." But I wonder how others might read the same. Do they notice my lack of reference to Bible reading and are shocked by that (I did some personal reading later on Saturday if that is any consolation)? Do they wonder did I "spend" time with the Father? In the end, perhaps this reveals more about their definition of "abiding" than the truth of mine.

I realize that meeting with Him is not about checking boxes or "doing" things (i.e., reading my Bible, spending x-amount of time in prayer, etc.)Fruit on the vine, after all, do not grow of their own accord or by the sole exertion of effort. Rather, they are nourished by the life-giving sap of the Vine.

Joe's friend is concerned for him, to be sure. But what is it that they are ultimately alarmed at? His lack of spiritual performance? His (apparently) un-Mary like tendencies? Is it posture? Is it attitude? Is it activity (or lack thereof)? Frankly, I get their reaction. On a fairly regular basis I freak out at myself when I lapse into "un-abiding." But what I mean by that has more to do with my perception of the quality of what was once referred to as "my Quiet Time."

Perhaps one way to gauge the degree of "abiding" that is going on is to judge what kind of fruit is growing on the "tree." Am I behaving in a more Christ-like manner or less? Is my hunger for him growing or waning? Am I growing in holiness or is my spiritual conduct more motivated by the fact that my job requires it? Do I love people or do I simply fake it so that I will be perceived as a good pastor?

Joe doesn't think he's doing a good job of "abiding." For that matter, I don't think I'm doing a great job at it as well. I'm producing messages, conducting prayer meetings, encouraging leaders, holding meetings but the unsettling truth is I could keep a lot of plates spinning, at least for awhile, and maintain some degree of spiritual vitality. They, in themselves, do not prove or disprove the truth of my "abiding." Perhaps the best people to ask are those who know us well. In my case, ask my wife, ask my kids. They are probably better judges than most of the people at Refuge or myself as to how well Christ's character is being formed in me.

As far as I'm concerned, Joe is too hard on himself (and so may his friend be, too). I see a young man who over time is growing more hungry for the Word, more attentive to his area of spiritual responsibility, more concern for his co-workers who are without Christ. I see spiritual growth and development at a pace that doesn't necessarily satisfy him but it's progress all the same. And as Friedrich Nietzsche once wrote, "The essential thing ‘in heaven and earth’ is. . . that there should be a long obedience in the same direction; there thereby results, and has always resulted in the long run, something which has made life worth living."

That last quote was for you, Joe. Keep up the good work and may the Lord teach us both to abide and rid us all of performance-minded activity that we may live lives truly pleasing to Him.

Prayer Walking in Barron

It is a warm spring night and no one has shown at our monthly intercessory prayer gathering in Barron. We are never more than a handful but this night we are, apparently, just a finger - me. We gather at a place called The Well in our county seat to pray regularly for our Somali neighbors and for those who are in relationship with them. We've been praying for this slice of Africa that moved to our nearly all-white county a little over ten years ago for some time now. But this night other priorities must be taking precedent in the lives of those who share the same burden as I.

After about ten minutes and no late-comers have pulled up, it's such a pleasant evening I decide to go on a prayer-walk. I head up 14th Street and then turn left on LaSalle heading toward the business district of the city. I have walked no more than 500 feet when I notice Salem Lutheran's sign which reads: "Jesus said, 'Listen to Me.'" And so I pray silently, "Lord, help me to listen to You as I walk."

Though it is about 6:45 p.m. there are few cars on the road. The birds are trilling louder than the hum of the traffic a block over on Highway 8. People - all white - are out walking their dog or working in their yard. There is not a Somali in sight. Barron has the feel of a town that has seen its better days. The homes on LaSalle - especially as you get closer to down town - were glorious, imposing edifices in their day. But now there is a feel of general decay all around as if the city has succumbed to old age. As I get closer to the Post Office, there are more and more empty storefronts. I look in the window at the Barron Bakery and it looks like how I would imagine a bakery in the former Soviet Union would appear - empty shelves, empty racks and no goods in the window to incite a potential customer to come in and take a gander at their wares.

I reach Safari, the "Somali restaurant" as it is known to the locals, and go in. A few old ones are listening to some man speaking in what I assume is Somali on a lap top. I say "Mafiantahi" ("Hello" in Somali) to them and they either do not hear me or do not care to acknowledge me. I order a Chai tea and wander a bit through the few aisles of groceries just to pass the time while I wait. I pay for my tea, thank the man and exit and continue on my walk. With the exception of the four guys I saw in Safari, there are no other Somali about. Just white people - and not many of them, either - enjoying the evening air. A young dad ahead of me pushes a jogging stroller with a couple of kids in it. He is stopped by a Somali man walking with his two young daughters. As I come upon them, he is asking the young man about his children and the stroller that clearly intrigues him.

I pass some Cub Scouts and their leaders who are out on the lawn of the courthouse batting a beach ball around. Later on, I pass a group of kids playing what we refer to as "blob-tag" out on the lawn of First Lutheran. It must be some kind of kids' program as a number of adults are shouting instructions and generally looking on.

I have been walking for about a half hour now and have not really prayed anything of substance other than, "Lord, I don't know how to pray so please teach me to pray for Barron tonight." I walk on. I notice a block or so ahead of me what must be a Somali woman out walking for she is in traditional dress. She turns down another street. I reach First Baptist and I begin to think again about the sign at Salem Lutheran: "Jesus said, 'Listen to me.'" So I begin to imagine what a city would look like if they listened to Jesus.

When Jesus was transfigured, the Father is reported to have spoken "This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased. Listen to him!" (Matthew 17:5)So I pray that Barron would listen to Jesus. That they would bless those who treated them poorly; that they would pray for those who spitefully use them; that they would forgive their enemies and love their neighbors. I arrive at the Copland's home on Lake St and stop in.

Wade & Jessica have lived in Barron for three years now and came from sunny California due to the call of the Lord to work with the Somali. They head up The Well and are doing a wonderful work at incarnating the Gospel among their Muslim neighbors. In fact, recently Wade had the opportunity to pray with one of them who has professed faith in Jesus Christ (the first one in Barron to do so to our knowledge). They are sitting in their living room having just finished their dinner. We visit about "the work", about the two Mormon guys who have been dropping in for lengthy conversations, and about Jessica's doctor-prescribed bed rest due to a baby who is too eager for its own good to join his or her family. She is due in August - a long time from now - and as you would expect from someone who is doing a lot of sitting, she seems tired. I stay about 30 minutes and then pray with them and then resume my walk.

I'm walking eastward on Highway 8. Traffic is steady. I pass one house whose owner is trying to get his yard cut before it is completely dark. After a few blocks on "8", it's too busy for my liking and I cut over to LaSalle again which by contrast is completely deserted. A kid on his bike is heading either home or on a quick errand. Dark is coming rapidly. The Somali man with the two little girls is heading my way. I quick pray that God will help me as I greet him only to see him duck into a building. I have LaSalle again to myself.

"Barron, listen to Jesus," I pray again. I pray for the Church of Jesus in this community to listen to their Lord. I pray for the Muslim people to listen to Isa. I pray for the LDSers and the pagans as well who reside in this city to "Listen to Him", to heed his voice, to walk in his way. As I walk the final quarter mile or so back to my van, I pray that God would root out all manner of division between the various Christian fellowships in Barron which seems to have two of everything - two Lutheran congregations, two Baptist, two Methodist as well as a group of Mennonites, Four Square, St. Joseph's and the various Christians no doubt living in this city who are disaffected and do not find the present structures of any of the fellowships life-giving to say the least. I pray for them that they will bless their brothers, speak well of each other and love each other as if their lives depended on it so that "the world will know" that the Father has sent Jesus and loves them as much as he loves Him (John 17:23).

I'm back at my van. I drive up 14th Street but this time turn right on LaSalle, past the mosque and onto Highway 8 heading for home. It has been pretty - well, dare I say it? - pedestrian as intercession goes I suppose. But it was a beautiful night for a walk and I trust as simple as my prayers were, God led me and taught me how to pray for Barron on this warm night in April.

So now it's real: I am on Sabbatical leave officially June 1

Yesterday at Refuge we went "public" on the decision that the Leadership Team had agreed upon in principle a year ago and reaffirmed in January: to send their pastor on Sabbatical leave the Summer of 2010. While we have been slowly letting the air out of the bag, as it were, for some time - after all, most of our leaders have spouses, some have kids and most of the pastors I pray and generally hobnob with are all in the know - when you announce it from the pulpit its official. It's no longer an idea or a dream. It's for real.

Seven weeks from now, I am officially off line. I will have no office hours to keep, no services to conduct, no meetings to attend. Pastorally speaking, I will be unavailable. After 18 and a half years of faithful plodding, my field will lay fallow. Am I excited? Frankly, as I type these sentences I'm getting a little weirded out. For almost 30 years I have either dreamed about being in ministry, looking for a post in it or been busy working at it that I can't recall what consumed my time before all this. Obviously, I'm not leaving the ministry. It's more like a pause - and a healthy one at that - before the next chapter. But it's the pause that's got me spooked a bit and for all kinds of reasons.

What will I do with my time? Yes, there's yard work - mine and the others whom I cut for, the trim on the house needs painting and other odds and ends Linda will find me for me to tend to. Sure, I'll spend a lot more time with my wife and kids (but having hinted all these years that they would love my company more, they may find out that too much of a thing may not be good!) And I'll hike. And run. And read. And sit in the sun. But that still leaves a lot of time in my day and week.

With whom will I fellowship with? Some of my most significant conversations over the years involve people from Refuge or the Breakfast Club or The Well as we try to discern the Lord's will on a particular matter. But now I must withdraw from all these relationships for a season. I'm such a people person that the thought of having to go into seclusion of sorts scares me.

How will they do without me? A lot can happen in three months. In a real way, this pause is a referendum on how well I'm doing at the task God has called me to do: to raise and nurture healthy Kingdom leaders to carry on ministry. I believe in the people it is my joy to serve with but in my absence will they sink or swim? Which inevitably leads me to another question...

What if they do so well without me that they won't want me back? What if I'm the "x" factor that is holding them down and now while I'm away they soar? I realize this is what I'm supposed to be preparing them for. But I'm human enough to admit I like the feel of being, er, indispensable.

Who am I? As every man can testify to, we draw our identity from what we do. Around here, I'm "Pastor Jeff." "Everyone" knows me and frankly, I love that. But if I go down State to attend, say, the fellowship we were originally from, I'm just a guy with no position, no job, no task to perform. I'll be a man who takes his family to worship with the other saints in a given locale. I'll sing and pray and listen to the pastor preach, shake a few hands, perhaps, and then go home. I can imagine one week of that. But 13? Oi veh.

I suppose I'm not sounding like a man who is thrilled that he is in fellowship with a group of people who love him and his family so much they are willing to bless him with such a gift so that "when I return I will strengthen my brothers." I am grateful. Extremely so. But I'm also melancholy because for the first time since the fall of 1991, I won't be at Vacation Bible School nor at Sand Hill Lake Bible Camp. I will miss the fellowship of The Breakfast Club. I will miss "my" tribe and the place I have among them.

I think they'll do fine. It's me that I'm worried about. But if I am sincere in believing that the Lord led us to this decision than I must believe that he will be faithful to shepherd them and us through this particular season. Lord, in Your mercy, hear my prayer.

My Soul Sings: A Post-Easter Meditation

Yesterday was Easter. It was a good day but then again, why shouldn't it be? Resurrection Sunday (as we at Refuge refer to the day)brings people to worship gatherings who haven't been "in church" since Christmas. Many people dress up for the day and sport new dresses and shoes or suits. At fellowships everywhere it's like "old home" week as siblings, some-time prodigals and assorted relatives make their way to their old spiritual stomping grounds if only for family's sake if for no other. There is excitement in the air of family feasts and get togethers that will follow the morning religious activities. Worship - or the worship experience - is "better." At some gatherings there are special numbers. Or maybe the choir presents their cantata. Most pastors preach a message pertaining to...well...Easter and Christ's victory over death. Sanctuaries are fuller. (Sometimes offerings are, too). Faith is greater (especially if the sun is shining). And all these things coalesce and make preaching much more anointed.

But for me, the best part of yesterday's worship gathering came in the last five or so minutes. The Word had been preached, worship and prayer had taken us to the table of the Lord, Communion had been shared. And then Kale, our worship leader, led us in one more song ("Jesus is the Lord" by Robert Fuller and James Mark Gulley).

Jesus Christ crucified
You bled and died to save our lives
Giver of boundless love
Faithful One to You we run

Our fellowship loves this song and so very quickly I sensed that subtle but very perceptible shift from singing along to worship. Though the hour was late, spirits who had been quietly steeping in the presence of the Lord for the last two hours began to swell as the song moved through their souls. But then another shift occurred more subtle and yet distinctly perceptible because it seemed to me suddenly we were not just having an anointed worship experience but we're enveloped in a song that grew longer, wider, fuller. The worship team singers began to weave their own harmonies around Kale's melody and though their voices remained at the same timbre, the sound became richer.

Every knee will bow, every tongue will shout
Jesus is the Lord
Jesus is the Lord
Every eye will see the coming of the King
Jesus is the Lord
Jesus is the Lord

It was as if the uber-thin veil that separates us from the heavenlies was pulled back a tab and for the briefest of moments we joined the worship set presently going on there. And in my spirit I "heard" the words of John once again:

After this I looked and there before me was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, tribe, people, and language, standing before the throne and in front of the Lamb. They were wearing white robes and were holding palm branches in their hands. And they cried out in a loud voice:
Salvation belongs to our God,
who sits on the throne,
and to the Lamb.
All the angels were standing around the throne and around the elders and the four living creatures. They fell down on their faces before the throne and worshiped God, saying:
Amen!
Praise and glory
and wisdom and thanks and honor
and power and strength
be to our God for ever and ever.
Amen!
(Revelation 7:1-12)

There was nothing "out of the body" going on. But our spirits in touch with God's Spirit were relishing in the moment, reveling in the song of heaven that for shortest of spans filled a room and a people.

I'd like to think I'm a spiritual man. I love the Lord Jesus, his Word and his ways. But I have a difficult time grasping a verse like Revelation 4:8 referring to the four living creatures around the throne who "day and night" never stop saying "Holy, holy, holy" or the uncounted choir of angels who sing for ever before the throne "Worthy is the Lamb, who was slain" (Rev 5:12). Who hasn't thought at one time or another of the incessant worship that goes on in the heavens with a little bit of consternation (i.e., "IS THAT ALL WE'RE GOING TO DO THERE?") But a few minutes on a Sunday morning enveloped in the music of the place where He is reminds me that when we're there it will be more wonderful than words can articulate. In fact, there is no real good vocabulary known to man to best express what our spirits already know.

Son of Man, Great I AM
Healing power is in Your hands
Risen One, it is done
Sin and death are overcome

You’re worthy of worship You’re worthy of praise
You’re worthy of honor You’re worthy of thanks