Monett CommunityChurch - Chad's Blog

NEW BLOG

communitychurch@sofnet.com — Thu, 06 Mar 2008 15:24:07 GMT

I have a new blog. Please go here: http://bikerpreacher.wordpress.com/ to view it.

Oh, Oh, Pick Me

communitychurch@sofnet.com — Tue, 19 Feb 2008 21:36:52 GMT

I often dream that I am tagging along behind Jesus, longing for Him to choose me as one of His disciples. Without warning, He turns around, looks straight into my eyes, and says, “Follow Me!” My heart races, and I begin to run toward Him when He interrupts with, “Oh, not you; the guy behind you. Sorry

These words by Michael Yaconelli in his book, Messy Spirituality, confirm that I’m not alone. I have recently become more attuned to how incredibly insecure I can be in my relationship with Christ. I want so badly to be God’s “go to” guy. I want to be able to be counted on to go the extra mile, to love the unlovable, to be the one God can rely on when everyone else falls to the wayside. “Now what am I going to do? The world is going to Hades in a hand basket…everyone has left the faith…no one seems to care about Me and My plan to save the world…who can I count on? Wait a minute. I can use Chad, he never fails, he’s always faithful!” The trumpets blare, while someone in the crowd looks up and shouts, “It’s a bird, no it’s a plane, no it’s Super Christian.” (You already knew I’d look great in blue tights and a cape.)

The truth is that this daydream isn’t any more realistic then my other ones – idealistic whims whose only use is to help me momentarily avoid reality. I’m so glad Jesus is my perfection, because I’m not doing so hot at the perfection thing on my own.

“Father, thank you for your incredible patience; for accepting me as I am, knowing that I’m not all that much better than I was last year and my confessions of sin are mostly repetitious. Help me to not give up on seeking your strength to overcome my temptations. Help me to be a little closer to who you created me to be than I was yesterday. Above all, help me to focus more on intimacy than competency, and connection not perfection. Amen”

Beyond the Blue

communitychurch@sofnet.com — Thu, 14 Feb 2008 15:21:36 GMT

The sign over the entrance to the airport said, “Octoberfest at the ‘Ville: Polka ‘till you Puke.” I immediately realized that our family outing to the Roosterville Airport a few years ago had the potential of being less than I had planned. We went to look at airplanes and watch a few takeoff and land, but we were not expecting the festivities. We enjoyed the parachutists and radio controlled stunt planes, but I’ve never cared much for Octoberfest’s or polka music. I find beer and Bohemian dances to be an obnoxious combination. Throw in some airplanes and you’ve got an episode of “Rescue 911” just waiting to happen.

We removed ourselves from the section of the tarmac designated for merriment and made our way through the hangers. I was careful to teach the girls everything I knew about the planes (which took all of 3.2 minutes) and was proud when they could identify by name the differences between planes. I was as gleeful as my children when these manmade machines would make their way down the runway and defy the law of gravity by detaching themselves from the ground.

At the farthest building we peered in the open door of a hanger. We started to move on since its darkness seemed uninviting, but a man’s voice from inside beckoned us in. Once accustomed to the darkness of the room we found a beautifully restored Taylor plane. It had the aura of earlier and nobler days of flight, and its glistening paint job and obvious pampering had given it new life. The man who invited us in was not the owner, not even a close friend of the owner, just a fellow enthusiast who found delight in someone else’s passion and hard work. He had offered the owner some advice and direction about how to restore it, and was now thrilled to see the glorious outcome. For some length of time he talked with great excitement and personal satisfaction as he pointed out the numerous details and specialties of the plane.

There’s something about aviation enthusiasts. They are yearning for someone to share their knowledge and experience with. While I’m sure there are plenty of pilots who are self-seeking, I have fortunately only run in to ones whose desire is to share information, stories, and the joy that flight brings. If you haven’t flown then you probably would find them to be babbling fools. If you have been bitten by the aviation bug then you find them to be possessors of a dream.

Our visit helped me to better understand how people must view followers of Christ. If they have discovered for themselves the source of our joy, then they understand our passion and enthusiasm for sharing the dream. If they haven’t experienced the freedom of a relationship with Christ that tears us from the gravitational pull of mortality then it’s no wonder they define us as babbling fools. Hopefully, I will better understand their perspective so that I can more effectively help them experience for themselves eternal flight and freedom.

Nothing to Eat

communitychurch@sofnet.com — Tue, 22 Jan 2008 15:54:43 GMT

"There’s nothing to eat," I complained as I bent down to pick up a can that had fallen from the shelf of our crammed pantry. It had taken me several minutes of sorting through bags, cans, and boxes of food to come to that conclusion. It wasn’t that there was nothing to eat; it was that when I get the munchies it is comparable to the selective appetite of a pregnant woman.

I pulled out a recipe book and began to finger through the pages to find instructions on how to make a very specific snack that I had a hankering for. I propped up the book, retrieved the ingredients from the crowded pantry, and mixed accordingly. It was about that time that I realized that this snack was to be cooked at 300 degrees for 45 minutes. I wanted to be in bed within a half hour. My well-trained, intellectually-disciplined mind kicked into gear. If it takes 45 minutes to cook at 300 degrees, it should only take 30 minutes at 400. I turned up the oven and plopped down in the easy chair proud of my mental superiority.

For those of you who have more kitchen experience than I, you are probably not surprised that there was a putrid smell that filled the air long before the 30 minutes were up. Darla beat me to the kitchen and asked me why I had set the oven so high. It goes without saying that my answer was significantly less impressive than my hypothesis seemed just moments before.

When Isaiah wrote that "those who wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength" (Isaiah 40:31), I am certain that he was writing to people who didn’t work, have children, deadlines, or anything else that resemble the hurry of our modern lives. Surely God knows how busy we are and doesn’t actually expect us to wait on Him. Or does He?

I have made both a science and an art of finding creative ways to try to hurry God up. I have even tried manipulation on occasion to convince God that He really should answer my prayers faster. My attempts have been even less productive than my cooking.

I am convinced that God doesn’t ask us to wait simply because He hasn’t made up His mind yet or He doesn’t know what to say, but that having us sit and listen is often more pleasing to Him than us going and doing. When it comes to prayer, waiting impatiently is a contradiction of terms.

Spell-check

communitychurch@sofnet.com — Wed, 19 Dec 2007 19:29:13 GMT

As a slow, sloppy note-taker, listening to fast, disorganized seminary professors, it became pertinent to develop a speedier way to take notes. I soon developed my own shorthand: fx = family, the Greek letter Theta = God, (since the theta is the first letter in the Greek word for God), and the Greek letter Chi (X) for Christ (since it is the first letter in the Greek word for Christ). Soon Christian became Xn, Christology was Xgy, and Christmas became Xmas.

Yes, you can see where I’m going. If my understanding of history is correct, it was Christians who were the first to shrink the spelling of “Christmas” down to “Xmas.” For me personally, I’ve grown so accustomed to the word Christmas, that I often don’t mentally separate it into “Christ” and “Mass” remembering that the word “Christmas” means “the worship of Christ.” On the other hand, from several years of frantically taking seminary notes, the “X” in “Xmas” stands out loud and clear, reminding me that it is Christ who I choose to worship.

My personal conviction is that God is not nearly as concerned with how you spell it as He is how you do it. “Oh come let us adore Him, Christ the King.” Merry Christ-Mass!

Let it Rain

communitychurch@sofnet.com — Thu, 29 Nov 2007 22:05:12 GMT

Kneeling, he cups his hands and scoops up dirt. Lifting his hands toward his face, he slowly separates his fingers. The dirt falls through like flour in a sieve. The farmer looks across the field remembering when it was green and plush, ripened with harvest and full of life. Now deadened shoots and dried crevices are all that detail his land. He’s quit counting the days since the last rain.

He looks back to the house that once belonged to his father and his grandfather before. He hopes he can pass it on to his own son, but without rain, he’ll soon lose it all. He dreads going back into the house and having to face the silence. There’s nothing much to talk about. No one wants to approach the subject since there’s nothing new to say. They all have the same thoughts and fears. Without rain, they have nothing…nothing. Soon they’ll lose the farm, the house, their lives, their identities, and their purpose for existence. They live to farm and know no other life.

A tear falls from his eye to the parched earth. It is swallowed by the soil, like a famished child who’s been given a shallow bowl of rice. The ground is thirsty and begs for more. He’d water the field with his tears if there were any left to cry.

He looks across the horizon; pleading for clouds that don’t appear. His whole existence is dependent on rain. With it, he prospers. Without it, he perishes.

He stands, brushing the dust off his knees. He turns to the barn to check the tractor for the umpteenth day in a row. He’ll top off the fluids, tighten the bolts, and check the wires. Maybe tomorrow he’ll start it up again. His life has become the repetition of useless motions. There is no meaning or purpose without rain, so he waits.

“You heavens above, rain down righteousness; let the clouds shower it down. Let the earth open wide, let salvation spring up, let righteousness grow with it;” Isaiah 45:8

Top Ten Things NOT to do at Thanksgiving Dinner

communitychurch@sofnet.com — Wed, 21 Nov 2007 14:49:11 GMT

10. Make a sculpture of the Mayflower out of your sweet potatoes.

9. Tell the hostess that the dinner is almost as good as the Thanksgiving meal you had yesterday at the school cafeteria.

8. Invite the clan over to your house for next years Thanksgiving Dinner, without conferring with your wife.

7. In front of her new husband, ask your sister about all her previous boyfriends.

6. Suggest that next year everyone goes vegetarian for Thanksgiving Dinner.

5. When wanting more turkey ask, “Please pass Aunt ______.”

4. Before leaving the table, belch the names of all the 13 original colonies.

3. Tell your husband that if he really loves you he’ll give up football for the day.

2. Ask your Aunt Carla if she’s just hungry or eating for two.

And the number 1 thing NOT to do at Thanksgiving Dinner….

1. Forget that God is the guest, host, provider, and reason for the celebration.

With a Thankful Heart, Chad

Pennies from Heaven

communitychurch@sofnet.com — Wed, 07 Nov 2007 16:47:16 GMT

While sorting through the possessions left behind by my grandmother, who traded those possessions for eternal ones about seven years ago, it was discovered that she had saved a 1943 steel penny. It was in perfect condition, still wrapped in the protective covering that it had when it came from the mint. My relatives were told that it was quite valuable, but it was uncertain exactly how much it would fetch. My mother placed the challenge before me to determine its worth. Finally, I had the chance to prove to the world my extraordinary detective capabilities.

I imagined myself being the bearer of good tidings of great joy that was to be for all people of the McKinley household. The vast wealth that this treasure would bring would forever be associated with me. Generations to come would remember my name: Chad Daniel Bennett “the great.”

After I had completed my sleuthing, I had discovered that in 1943 the U.S. Treasury had determined that copper was more valuable than steel during war efforts, so they started minting the pennies in steel. These pennies, while not common, are not considered rare and are valued at around $6. Since most of the 1943 pennies were steel instead of copper, those made from copper are worth around $1/2 million.

Things don’t always turn out like we plan. I hate being the bearer of bad news. When I sent the information to my mother I tried to convince her that I wasn’t her 2nd son Chad Daniel Bennett “the great,” but in fact a (fictitious) 3rd son named “Toby” who had long been forgotten for dishonoring the family name. I don’t think she fell for it.

Two truths rise to the surface. Good news is always more palatable than bad. Isn’t it great that what we get to tell people about Jesus is good news? Why then do we treat it like we are telling people that they have a new strain of the black plague? When sharing Christ with others we are actually telling them that they are in line to receive a huge inheritance. What they have to trade in exchange for this birthright is sin, guilt, death, and hell. No fine print, no soft-spoken disclaimers, the simple truth.

I also can’t help but wonder how many people, while sorting through their change have kept a steel 1943 penny because it looked rare and valuable, and tossed a copper 1943 penny because it looked too ordinary and worthless. The difference is only $499,994. I also wonder how often, in our search for treasure, we cast aside the everyday blessings of our loving Father. The difference is only peace, joy, and love.

This is a Job for Manly Dad!

communitychurch@sofnet.com — Thu, 25 Oct 2007 13:57:42 GMT

There’s something manly about home improvement stores. They always make me feel that I belong, even if I don’t have a clue what I’m looking for or what to do with it once I find it. The sound of power tools, the smell of lumber, the feel of leather tool belts…oh, the joy of being a man.

I was in my element, looking for a doohickey to put in the back of the commode so that I wouldn’t have to keep yelling, “Somebody go wiggle the handle!” I had found my way to the plumbing department, without asking directions, of course. (Have you ever noticed that hardware stores have much bigger directional signs than department stores? A thought to pursue later.)

Looking around at the plumbing hardware, I couldn’t help but eavesdrop on a conversation that was one aisle over. A lady was asking one of the store employees about a plumbing problem she was having. Being the he-man that I am, I couldn’t help but wonder, “Where is your husband. If he were half a man, he would be here himself.”

I was shamed when it became evident that she was the mother of several small children that were there with her in the store and her husband was no longer living with them. It was not about masculinity, or proving oneself, for her it was about survival. For whatever reason, she was no longer only wife and mother, but also father, provider, and home repairwoman as well.

It was clear that while she was getting a little more comfortable in her change of roles, she was still somewhat frightened at the immense challenge that lie ahead. She was doing more than just fixing the plumbing; she was trying to provide a stable home life for her kids.

With her questions answered and her purchases selected, she turned and walked toward the checkout lines. As she past my aisle, I looked her way. “Mom, what’s for lunch?” the kids asked, and with calm assurance she answered their question. It took a woman to teach me that being a father is not the same as being a man.

In Her Own Words

communitychurch@sofnet.com — Tue, 09 Oct 2007 18:22:55 GMT

Rebecca Browning and her fiancé Scott have been attending our church for the last few months. You may know them as the welcoming faces that greet you when you eat at the Bayou Lunchbox. Rebecca finds expression in writing and recently sent me the following letter. I thought it was profound and poignant and asked her permission to share it with you. (Obviously, she said, “Yes.”)

Hello. My name is Rebecca. I don’t know that much of what I am going to say will make much sense to you. But I feel as though I have been on a journey in my life and that journey has led me to you. It has led me to believe that it was meant for me to touch people in a way that will inspire healing, peace, and acceptance of who you are and of your own journey. As many of us did, I came from an abusive broken home and in my mid twenties discovered that I suffer from bipolar mental illness. An illness that can be debilitating in many ways. There are some non-believers in this illness, but take from me, it’s as real as it gets. I am lucky to be alive today.

Many times it seems that speakers get up on a stage to talk about their stories. To talk about their woes, stumbles, falls, and feelings of misplacement in society. I suppose I am one of them because, I’d be lying if I said I haven’t stumbled. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t felt like a failure, a loser or that I had no direction in life and that this depression would kill me sooner or later. Perhaps it would be better if I just ended it myself. After all, I was meant to suffer and no medication could cure me, just hide who I really am. Mask the creative, compassionate person that lies within me. Yet the contrary is to be miserably depressed, unpredictable with my moods and in the end hate myself because I again, felt like a failure and misplaced in society. Or, learn to live with it and pray for healing.

Have you ever driven passed a salvage yard? Full of unwanted cars? Cars piled so high, strewn across a lot that seemed vacant of spirit and life? There’s a head light dangling by one thin wire and if a swift wind came it would be blown off only to come crashing to its death. Shattered in many pieces without the possibility of being put back together. The light would never shine again. Ever. Have you ever felt so disregarded as that head light? Thinking the possibility for you to shine was gone? Maybe you could relate to any of those car parts. Just plain lying and waiting for someone to come salvage you? Have a use for you? Buff you up and place somewhere to be prized yet again? I know I have. I have been broken. I have felt broken and thrown in a salvage yard. And what started out as hours and turned into days, then months, and finally years, I begged to be salvaged. I begged to be brought into someone’s life again and like new. There were many people I turned to including family, friends, co-workers, partners, and I even turned to myself. But to no avail. Don’t get me wrong here. My family, friends, co-workers, and partners have all been there for me. They have all been supportive and walked me through my darkest hours in order for me to see the light of the next day. But…there was one person I failed to completely give myself to. One person who was there all along and had NEVER let me down. And although my family, friends and so on helped me through, I know now, that the real reason I made it through because of GOD! He was the almighty behind my every dark hour. HE is who got me through. HE is who saves us from ourselves and our demons. Demons don’t only taunt and make us lose our way by murdering, doing drugs, drinking alcohol, judging, and committing adultery. They also try to get us to surrender ourselves to hopelessness . To try to get us to believe we are worthless and that we should just succumb to the ugliness of the world because there is no other way.

But it is then, when we pray. It is at that time we must realize that God will get us through. HE IS OUR SALVATION. HE died on the cross to forgive us for our sins and to teach us to love ourselves no matter what hand in life we were dealt. And it is then, when we are also taught to reach out and love others unconditionally. Do you ever stop and think that every situation and predicament we find ourselves in in life, that it’s because it’s a chance for us to understand what somebody else may have experienced. And again, we learn compassion, sympathy, and empathy. There are so many tests in life and if we stop for a moment to realize that God is testing us. He wants us to ask for his guidance. He doesn’t want us to suffer. He wants us to stop being prideful and ask for his guidance and to seek a path walking along his side so that we can get a better grip on our own lives, walk the life of a Christian like we were meant to, so that we might be able to reach out and help someone else by leading them to Him. Teaching them how to pray and ask for forgiveness. Teach them to forgive. Forgiveness is key. God forgave us, we need to forgive. Not only do we need to forgive those who have hurt us in any way, but to forgive ourselves. We are all the same. We may have different stories to tell, but we are all the same. Our stories may consist of different characters, whose lines and roles are much different than our own. But again, they are all the same. We can all relate. And we can relate even more when we accept the Lord Jesus Christ as our savior. Jesus wants us to be close. He wants us to be friends and have compassion, and not form judgment. How many times have you been in a conversation with someone and they tell you about something that happened to them? And the first thing in your thoughts are ‘Oh, I can relate because…” . I think sometimes instead of really listening to what someone is saying, we are too busy waiting to respond.

I did it for years. I was too busy waiting to respond to my emptiness. Waiting to respond to my loneliness even in a crowded room. Too busy waiting to respond, which ultimately leaves us feeling unimportant and unheard because we are all too busy waiting to respond. Take the time to listen. Please. Take the time to listen and in your heart, not your head, feel the words being spoken to you. You might learn something. I know I did. I learned that God was trying to help me for all of these years. He has made many, many attempts to get through to me. And you know what? I finally listened. He answers prayers. You just have to be ready to listen. I wouldn’t be standing here today if I hadn’t listened. I actually, about two months ago started praying for help and for God to lead me to people who walked in his path so that I might learn something. Have a closer relationship with God. And one day my fiancé and I took the car for an oil change and while standing outside waiting, I noticed a pretty little house across the street. As my eyes scanned the area, I thought about how that house was probably here way before all this industrial stuff was. But despite all the new additions to the neighborhood , this little house was not so bothered by it. Or maybe the owner did not feel so defeated by it because it was pretty with flowers, and angels, and so pristine. Then, a cute little lady appeared on her porch to vacuum perhaps a leaf or two. From my distance I could see no reason to vacuum a porch. But it apparently made her happy. The service for the car was done and we left and I had forgotten about that house. And the lady vacuuming its porch.

But remember I said I had been praying for God to please lead me to his followers? Well, long story short (not possible for me, but anyway). A very sweet lady started coming to my place of work and I befriended her. Eventually I opened up to her and told her that I felt a sense of spirituality emanating from her. I told her I liked her company. She came more frequently and eventually invited my fiancé and I to her house and then to church. This is the church she led me to. You are the people I asked to be surrounded by. Her house? The one across the street from the auto place that I so adored.

My message is to convey how important is to listen when God speaks. And to never give up. To listen and perhaps you’ll hear God answers your prayers like he did mine. And when you drive by that salvage yard in your mind and see that head light dangling close to ruin? Remember, God is your light and he will always shine in order to guide you and be within you.

Without Excuse

communitychurch@sofnet.com — Wed, 03 Oct 2007 18:57:49 GMT

I doubt you want to see my vacation pictures any more than I want to see yours of your recent family reunion. I won’t bore you with maps or stories, but maybe a moment of epiphany would be of interest to you. I returned early Saturday morning from my trip and on Sunday, while walking toward my office I passed a tiny bird on a concrete ledge. After a week of seeing gorgeous mountains, moose, elk, deer, pronghorn antelope, buffalo, and one grizzly, I was somewhat less than moved by the birds appearance. Once you’re acquainted with grandeur, the ordinary is, well…just that…ordinary.

I passed by without stopping but then asked myself, “Why will you stare for an hour at the wildlife you’re less accustomed to, praising the creator for His magnificence, but will ignore other aspects of His creation, no less magnificent, simply because you are familiar with it.”

Maybe short-term memory loss wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all. To wake up each morning experiencing creation as if it were your first day with sight, smell, taste, hearing, and touch. Somehow I figure heaven will be that way. Not without memory, but without the kind of familiarity that looses appreciation of beauty simply because we’ve already been there and done that.

Romans 1:20 states it this way, “For since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities—his eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that men are without excuse.” I have no excuse for not stopping to praise God in all things, the simple and the complex, the mundane and the spectacular, the ordinary and the grandeur.

I turned around, cautiously walking back to the bird on the ledge and watched him. It wasn’t for an hour, but it was for a minute or two…maybe two of the best minutes of the day.

With All Sincerity

communitychurch@sofnet.com — Wed, 19 Sep 2007 19:17:24 GMT

Dear Friend in Christ,

A few moments ago, in the midst of weighing decisions and completing tasks, my mind was halted at the thought of you. It wasn’t merely the inscription of your name or even the appearance of your face in my mind that refocused my thoughts. It was an awareness of the joy and added meaning that your friendship brings to me. After thinking of the way your eyes become translucent when you smile and remembering the sound of your laughter at my silly jokes, I couldn’t help but smile too.
          I had recently finished spending time talking with God and it just seemed natural to talk with Him about you. I’m not sure that “talking” really expresses what we did. It was more the look that passes between close friends when they find an old photograph of a special occasion that they shared together. Words seemed unnecessary. A mutual smile expressed the remembrance. It does my heart good to know that He feels the same way that I do about you.
          At first I imagined that I had brought you to His attention in prayer, but He reminded me that He hasn’t stopped thinking about you since He first decided to lovingly create you. I realized that He was the one who brought you to my mind today, not the other way around. The One who thinks of you the most is also the One who thinks the most of you. His Son expressed your value in a way that no one else could.
          You are deeply loved. While my love for you is immense and your place in my life is immeasurable, it is a frail comparison to the fondness God has for you. You are precious to us both. Thank you for the blessing to us that you are.

With All Sincerity,
Chad

Moments of Greatest Significance

communitychurch@sofnet.com — Wed, 22 Aug 2007 13:26:22 GMT

(I came across these thoughts that I wrote on August 27, 2001. They seem timely.)

When Paul wrote that we are to rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep (Romans 12:15), I wonder if he intended for us to do them simultaneously. This morning I was flooded with emotions, both great sadness and great joy, as a response to Sabrina starting all day Kindergarten. I tried to keep the feelings separated and had designated times when each would be appropriate.
          She had been fairly anxious about being away from mom all day until a few evenings ago when she met her teacher and visited her classroom. She has been in prime form ever since; uncontrollable energy, uninhibited laughter, and unrestricted playfulness. She’s ready for school, but her mom and I aren’t. Our lives were recreated at the creation of hers. When our girls were born, it was as if everything previous was the taped music before the real concert begins. I have never laughed so much, played so hard, dreamed so immensely, and loved so freely.
          Mikayla has been of immeasurable help. She has paved the way and raised the standard. She has been such an encouragement, letting Sabrina know that she can do it, she is loved, and she will never be alone. Having a big sister walk you to your classroom on the first day of Kindergarten has got to be one of the greatest privileges of being the younger sister. Getting to walk your little sister to her classroom on the first day of Kindergarten has got to be one of the greatest privileges of being the older sister.
          Darla and I have been preparing her for this day since she was born. We have tried to implant in her heart that she is a person of value, that she can make right choices, and that she can do anything that she sets her heart to. Yesterday the testing was over, today we see if she can fly. She has already proven that she is airworthy.
          I smiled as we went out the door, gave her high fives in the bus line, and made stupid faces at her as the bus pulled away. She never saw my sadness, my hurt, my fear, or my loneliness. She will learn all too soon that there is no rewind button for life so we all must press forward.
          I’m not sure what the point of my article is. Maybe it’s that writing newsletter articles is much cheaper than therapy. Maybe it’s that life doesn’t slow down for anyone, so seize the day. Most probably God is using today to teach me that many of life’s moments are filled with both laughter and tears. These are the moments of greatest significance.

The Deepest Wounds

communitychurch@sofnet.com — Fri, 03 Aug 2007 15:09:00 GMT

He has taught himself well how to make the situation a little more bearable. Never show fear, never express doubt, and never stop smiling. The scenario is repeated several times each day. He reaches out with cheerful hands as he says, “I finally get to hold the baby.”
          Taking the child from her parents he quickly moves with his entourage of assistants toward the door. With high-pitched voice and childish expressions he says “goodbye”, waves the child’s hand back toward the parents, and walks around the corner hoping and praying that mother and baby won’t hear or see each other cry.
          He had always wanted to be a Pediatric surgeon from the day he had his tonsils removed. A compassionate doctor had considered a little boy’s feelings as more important than medicine or procedures. He’s never looked back.
          Once out of view of the family, he knows the hardest part is over and wonders why they didn’t spend more time at med school preparing him to deal with distraught parents. Sometimes it’s a broken bone that needs to be reset, other times it’s a physical malfunction that needs to be corrected. He makes every effort to separate his feelings from the task.
          At times when the trauma or disease is greater than his years of training and experience, his emotions get the best of him. He often wishes he could find someone else to have to face the family. But to be able to have a part in increasing a child’s capacity for joy, and to be able to return a healthy child back to frightened parents, is worth it all. He’ll face the outermost limits of the pain that comes with mortality, as long as he gets to share in the utmost joys that come with it.
          But, all of his training, internships, and experience could never prepare him for today. The mother that is waving goodbye with tears is his wife, and the child in his arms is his son. Kurt had been playing in the junkyard where he had been told not to go. He fell and broke his ankle. It will require resetting the bone, reattaching ligaments and maybe even tendons. If all goes well, a skin graft won’t be necessary. He had considered having someone else perform the procedure, but he knows that no one else is as capable or as knowledgeable of the patient.
          I know that my story seems a little extreme, but how is it different from God’s. The story of His existence is one of a physician healing the hurts of the children he has created. How gut wrenching it must be for Him to be the only One capable of mending our wounds. Yet, even if He could, He wouldn’t trust the task to anyone else.
          How blessed we are in our times of deepest pain and confusion to find ourselves in His arms. He hurts when we hurt, even if the pain we feel is deserved and due to our disobedience. Trust yourself in His arms. If you question the hands of the surgeon, look at them more closely. The wounds you will find there are always deeper than your own.

Heaven In Her Eyes

communitychurch@sofnet.com — Thu, 26 Jul 2007 20:53:28 GMT

I think I saw the Kingdom of God this morning. Not how it is experienced in ordinary life, but rather how it was intended to be back in Eden’s garden. I didn’t encounter it through a trancelike vision, revelatory Bible study, or a transforming moment of prayer. I saw it in the eyes of my daughter. Neither sleep nor the sleepy’s were fully removed from them yet they were bright and clear.
          I asked a few typical morning questions about how restful her night was and if the bed bugs bit. She was slow to answer but quick to smile. Somehow a sleepy face is quicker to express than a sleepy tongue. Our conversation was neither long nor profound but it was then that I got lost in her eyes. They pulled me into the sanctuary of her heart like a fresh pie beckons you to the kitchen.
          There was something lovely in them, even lovelier than the numerous other moments that I have found myself lost in them. Something about the unspoiled morning and the slow pace of her wakening made the moment serene and truthful. As her eyes slowly focused outside the kitchen window on the swaying trees blown by invisible winds there was a movement in my own heart that was perceived yet indescribable.
          In her eyes I saw trust without fear, happiness without guilt, and love with no regard to whether it would be returned to her or not. I saw heaven, not with pearly gates, and golden streets but a place where the words and actions of God are so purely experienced that life flows with them in seamless beauty - each moment so precious that it cannot be compared to or defined by the previous moment.
          Her head turned from the window toward me. She smiled at me almost as if she understood my experience, like the wink from the elder when his apprentice finally catches on. Her eyes took me back to last night where during our family Bible reading from Luke 11 Jesus tells us that our eyes are the lamps of our soul and His light should shine through them. I had tried to explain to her what Jesus meant but I’m not sure she understood. I’m not sure I really understood until I experienced the inviting captivation of her innocent eyes.

Tuesday, July 3, 2007

communitychurch@sofnet.com — Tue, 03 Jul 2007 21:34:49 GMT

“Yes! I finally have the house to myself,” he whispers under his breath as he waves goodbye to the wife and kids who are going to grandma’s for the weekend. He tries to mask his exuberance by frowning as he waves. The van turns the corner and the mask comes off. They don’t see him skip through the garage and inside the house. He hasn’t skipped in years, but one never forgets how.
          “What shall I do first,” he asks out loud even though there is no one there to hear or respond. He plop’s down into his recliner and claims the remote with the grandeur of one placing their national flag into the ground of an unclaimed island. He surfs through channels without concern that a child will pipe up when he passes over a cartoon, or a wife wanting to watch a romantic drama. “As the king of the house, I hereby declare that I will not watch any show that does not have more action than romance or more laughter than tears. Arrggh!”
          After surfing the tube for 23 minutes only to discover that the more channels you have the longer it takes to convince yourself that there’s nothing on, he turns it off and leans his chair in full recline. With arms folded behind his head he smiles and burps without saying, “Excuse me.” The silence is golden.
          When he wakes he thinks through the mental list he had made of what he was going to do with a free weekend. “Nap…check. Clean house…yeah right?!?. Work in wood shop…there you go.” He heads to the garage, strutting his freedom like a peacock with full-feathered tail.
          For all of Friday he enjoys being alone. He finishes a full bag of potato chips, doesn’t eat anything that doesn’t have microwave instructions, and cleans nothing. Ah, the joy of being a bachelor again. He stays up late until there’s nothing on TV but infomercials. He thought that he was staying up as an act of freedom, but he soon realizes that he has been avoiding having to sleep in an empty bed. He tries not to miss tucking in his children and kissing them goodnight. He lies awake wondering why the woodworking wasn’t as much fun as he had dreamed it would be.
          Saturday is lonely. There should be kids laughing and asking to be tickled. He misses eating without having indigestion even if it means not eating junk food. Last night he even longed for the sleepy whine of a scared child wanting to share his bed.
          He finally has the opportunity to choose to do anything that he wants without concern for how it will affect the rest of the family. It’s in this freedom that he remembers why he wanted to be married in the first place. He knows that when he chose to have a family, he gave up the freedom to ever choose again. But even if he could, he would readily trade freedom for family.
          In similar fashion, when we chose Christ, we gave up the freedom to ever choose again. When we rebel we are under the illusion that we are free, when in fact we have enslaved ourselves once again to sin. It is in the consequences that follow that we are reminded of why we gave up the pretense of sovereignty in the first place. As a servant of Christ I surrendered all personal rights. If I could have one back it would be freedom, and with that freedom I would choose once again to serve.

Tuesday, June 12 2007

communitychurch@sofnet.com — Tue, 12 Jun 2007 14:39:42 GMT

“Which one looks better, this one…or, this one?” I hesitate for a moment. They are both way out of focus. Trying to decide which one looks less blurry is like trying to decide which tastes less dreadful, brussels sprouts or lima beans.
          Moving the dial on the side of the machine he asks, “O.K., how about this one?” “Hey, I think I can read the bottom line, let’s see…I…M…A…I…D…R”
         He scribbles on a piece of paper. I’m not sure if he’s writing down a new prescription for my glasses or if he’s tallying up how much he can get away with charging me. “The strength of your glasses is fine, the problem is your astigmatism has changed.” My eyes have changed shape probably due to too many times of slapping myself in the forehead and saying, “Oh, now I get it.”
          Several weeks of headaches, strained eyes, and squinting made it clear that a trip to the eye doctor should be scheduled. A change of lenses in my glasses and immediately everything came into focus.
          The shape of my eyes affects the way I see the chart on the wall. The shape of my heart affects the way I see the world. I find that the world seems more in focus when my heart is in tune with God. When my sins are forgiven and my worship is purposeful I certainly see the glory of God more clearly in the world around me.
          Is it time for a checkup? Are you in need of a clearer perspective? Do you desire to see the glory of God more visibly? Set an appointment today. Spend time in worship of Christ and see how it changes your perspective. They came to Philip…and said to him, "Sir, we wish to see Jesus." John 12:21

Wednesday, May 30, 2007

communitychurch@sofnet.com — Wed, 30 May 2007 20:39:39 GMT

          She only allows herself the luxury once a year. She knows that he would scold her for anything more, if only he could. She carries a kitchen chair into the bedroom and places it in front of the open closet door. Stepping onto the chair with tipped toes she stretches for the top shelf. She reaches for the clothes rod to momentarily steady her self. Her aging body isn’t as agile as it used to be.
          Each year it seems harder to reach it but finally her fingers touch a front corner of the box and she is able to wiggle it out until she can get a better hold of it. As she pulls it down from the shelf she squints her eyes, ruffles her nose and sneezes as dust falls into her face.
          Sitting on the edge of her bed she brushes her hand over the top of the box. Her grandkids have always teased her about how finicky she is about keeping an immaculate house, but she doesn’t even seem to notice as a years worth of dust gathers on the edge of her hand then falls to the floor.
          Removing the lid, the musty smell from inside the box floods the room and all the associated memories flood her mind. She removes the contents and neatly places them on the bed in a specific and orderly fashion. She relives the memories in chronological order, first by opening the shoebox. From inside she removes the stack of love letters then the rubber band that holds them together. She reads them in the exact order that he wrote them.
          Next, she opens the medicine bottle and brings it to her nose. She remembers sneaking into his room after their third date and pouring some of his cologne onto a Kleenex. She kept it in the medicine bottle and every night before they were married she’d smell it and dream of him. After all these years its aroma still lingers. For a moment she is drawn back to where she remembers the fragrance most strongly; when her lips would meet his cheek. She replaces the rubber band and puts letters and bottle back into the shoebox.
          Next, she reaches for the small jewelry box. Its velvet appears more gray than purple and a few fibers come loose in her hand. It creeks as she opens it, but their wedding rings are just as brilliant as the day they exchanged them. As she looks at the reflections in the gold and diamonds, she remembers herself as seventeen and misses her innocence and his embrace.
          She reaches for the wedding album. While the photographs are colorless and fading the memories are vivid. She smiles somewhat sadly as she pauses at each turn of the page. It all had happened so quickly and seems so distant.
          She opens a taped envelope and carefully removes the brittle lock of hair from the first time he trusted her enough to let her give him a trim. He had been called into service and wanted her rather than the sergeant to cut his hair. Two days later she said “goodbye,” at the train station. She still can see him hanging out the window waving and blowing her a kiss as his train pulled away. She gently places the lock of hair back into the envelope and presses on the tape wondering if it will hold for another year.
          She squeezes the two tabs together on the brad on the back of the manila envelope. For the first time today tears fill her eyes. It’s been over fifty years and she still can’t open it without tears. She gently removes the metal, newspaper clippings, and the document officially notifying her that her husband had lost his life fighting for freedom. She doesn’t read the papers she just gently rubs the metal until its coldness is lost in the warmth of her fingers.
          She places the items back into the envelope and puts it along with the other objects back into the dusty box. She reaches for the last item on the bed; a folded flag. She gingerly places it in her lap then pulls it to her chest. She has gone on with her life quite well. She remarried, has four kids, eleven grandkids, and the fourth great grandchild is on the way. Her life has turned out pretty well. She doesn’t talk much about her first love. It’s not that she’s forgotten or even that she wants to. It’s just that she doesn’t want her family to think that she loves them any less. She remembers who he was, what he sacrificed, and knows that the happiness she has today is a result of what he was willing to die for.
          She returns the flag to the box and replaces the lid. She climbs onto the chair, steadies herself, and then stretches to place the box back on the top shelf. Stepping back down she knows that she’ll be sore tomorrow. She wipes her eyes and turns toward the living room to rejoin her family. Glancing down she sees the clumps of dust on the floor just under the fringe of her bedspread. Fighting the urge to vacuum them up, she smiles and knows that every time that she sees them she’ll remember.

With a Joyful Heart

communitychurch@sofnet.com — Wed, 09 May 2007 13:22:15 GMT

The hot-dogs and hamburgers had been grilled to perfection then devoured indiscriminately. The paper plates and Styrofoam cups had been disposed of in a garbage bag that now sat by the curb waiting for the truck. Necessity was giving way to amusement.
         In addition to tractors and dolls, the children went to the basement to play with other toys that were all somehow more fun at grandpa’s house. Grandma and the aunts talked around the kitchen table while all the uncles sat around watching the game. The kids were close enough to the adults to feel secure, but far enough away to be as noisy as they pleased.
         Everyone was in the house and accounted for except for Grandpa and Scott. The hot humid July afternoon was enough to cause them to handcuff themselves inside to a window air conditioner, but not today. Summer afternoons at Grandpa’s require a game of catch. Scott grabbed the glove he got for Christmas from Uncle Pat while Grandpa rubbed and twisted the hardened old glove that he had played with in his younger days. He would normally massage oil into it before Scott came, but Grandma had too many errands for him this time.
         Topics of conversation were many and changed rapidly, moving back and forth as quickly as the ball moving from glove to glove. They talked about Grandpa’s trip to Florida to see his brother Carl, the record temperatures that hadn’t let up since late June, and who would win the World Series.
         After the first lull in the conversation, Scott said, “You know, Grandpa, the problem with being young is that I spend all my time waiting to grow up. It seems that everything I want to do has to wait until I’m older.”
         Grandpa chuckled and replied. “You know, Scott, the problem with being older is that I spend all my time remembering when I was younger. It seems everything that I want to do I haven’t been able to for years.”
         Their gloves continued to pop each time the ball landed smoothly in the glove’s web. Several moments passed as they rolled over in their minds the words the other had spoken.
         Grandpa spoke first, “It’s too bad we live for experiences just beyond our reach. We focus our eyes and attention on what we cannot have; tomorrow and yesterday. In between our dreams and memories we find the only place where life is lived…today.”
         Scott caught the ball almost out of instinct. Grandpa’s throw hit the glove with less force than his words. After a pause, he replied, “I guess the best thing I can do today is to enjoy playing catch with you.”
         Grandpa said, “I guarantee there’s nothing I’d enjoy more.”
         The conversation went back to its earlier flow. Words about airplanes, schoolgirls, and movies filled the time between throws and the day seemed to stand still.

“Go, eat your food with gladness, and drink your wine with a joyful heart, for it is now that God favors what you do.” Ecclesiastes 9:7 (NIV)

Tradition

communitychurch@sofnet.com — Wed, 25 Apr 2007 14:22:34 GMT

If a tradition is "a continuing pattern of culture, beliefs, or practice," then the most traditional thing we do at Monett Community Church is Biker Sunday. We've done it for three years now and have done each almost identically the same. When I’ve asked my biker friends what we can do to make it better, I get two responses, "Don't mess with it, it's perfect," and "Do it more often than once a year."

There's rebelliousness in me that wants to change things as a way of asserting my power and control. To follow a tradition is to relinquish control to something that may not be based on the same beliefs and values of which I subscribe. To be totally honest, if Biker Sunday was something that we did for ourselves, I’d be a major fan of trying to change it up a bit. But, since its purpose is to reach a segment of our society that are not typically connecting with God, since they seem to be very comfortable with it, and since that comfort is crucial if we expect to connect them more deeply with God, then I guess I’ll have to release the reins and surrender control.

Maybe that's my deeper issue: Since I don't like to surrender control, even to God, maybe my attempts at controlling things in church (In God's Name) is a manifestation of my lack of true surrender. In church, we can assert influence in ways that seem noble, and it appears that we are doing it as a sign of our submission to God. Ugh, am I really that shallow?

Besides my obvious need for therapy, what else can we glean from these musings? 1) Traditions aren't bad if they are the best way to serve the biblical purposes of the church. 2) Rebellion against tradition may be healthy, or it may be the result of pride and insubordination to Christ. 3) The decision to continue or abolish a tradition should be based on the biblical purposes of the church, not the preferences of any one person, or group of people. 4) If we're going to have a tradition, one that expresses grace in an effective and fun way (like Biker Sunday) has got to be the coolest tradition I can imagine.

Missing the Leathers Already,
Chadly

True Story

communitychurch@sofnet.com — Wed, 04 Apr 2007 21:04:35 GMT

True Story – I’m walking into the Men’s bathroom at the St. Louis zoo… OK some explanation is needed. We were in town for the opening day game between the WORLD CHAMPION St Louis Cardinals and the team they beat to go to the World Series, the New York Mets. Unfortunately, we lost the opener to Tom Glavine who pitched a great game for the Mets (6 innings, 1 run, final score 6-1).
          Back to the zoo – I’m walking into the bathroom, and a guy walking in at the same time looks familiar. While I’ve never been accused of being modest or debonair, I did wait to approach him until he was washing his hands.
          “Do I know you?” I ask sheepishly
          “I don’t know, do you?” he answers even more sheepishly.
          “Do you play baseball?”
          “Yes”
          “Are you Tom Glavine?”
          “Yes”
          I went on to tell him I used to be a big Braves fan when he pitched for them in their glory years. However, I did let it slip that I’m now a Cards fan. He figured.

Two things to note:
1) Glavine was in town for opening day, pitched a good game, beat the home team, and still showed up the next day at a public place with his children for a fun day at the zoo. There’s no way on the planet that Chris Carpenter (Cards pitcher) would set foot in the New York zoo, even with a bodyguard, let alone, only his children. I love living in the Midwest.
2) I was honored to meet a great pitcher even if he plays for the visiting team. I love the Cardinals – La Russa signaling for a suicide squeeze, Molina throwing out the runner at first for leading off too far, Puhols’ pointing to heaven after hitting a home run 2/3 of the way there, and Eckstein’s boyish grin as he realizes his childhood fantasy of playing with the big boys. But, while I love the Cardinals, what I really love is baseball.

A slight change of subject. I love Monett Community Church. I love expressing my worship to God in a way that is freeing and honest, I love our dialogue and theological discussions, I love the great fellowship of believers that share more than a pew but a common heart, and I love seeing the change in your lives after encountering grace. But, while I love MCC, what I really love is the Kingdom of God. Our churches, theology, and worship preferences will differ but we have one thing in common – a loving Savior who walked out of His grave as Lord of Life.

Cranial Fodder from Leonard Sweet, “Reason Versus Experience”

communitychurch@sofnet.com — Wed, 21 Mar 2007 18:55:16 GMT

“The dominant tradition in modern Western thought has regarded emotion as a burden to human existence and an impediment to reason, the nucleus of human nature. How we acceptably expressed our emotions in the modern era without being thought a theological troglodyte was through music and museums in the same spirit which our ancestors went to church and went on pilgrimages…We went from privileging religious practice and religious experience to privileging religious belief and critical thought. The mind took ascendance over the soul and spirit. Christianity became a “belief system,” with a distinct worldview. Things once seen as religious were no longer found at the core of faith, things such as relationships, practices, embodiments, and experiences. The aim of premodern faith was union with God, and the path to that union was desire. But in the modern era, the longing that fed the divine pursuit and the motion that drove it lost their religious cachet. Modern faith was rational. The aim of modern faith was knowledge, especially scientific rationalist knowledge, and the path to knowledge was through the question. This explains why Christians in the West become more interested in beliefs about prayer than prayer experiences and practices….If Christianity really wanted to get radical, the first thing it could do would be to stop privileging Western rationalism.”

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

communitychurch@sofnet.com — Tue, 13 Mar 2007 21:07:49 GMT

Last week, I spent several days experiencing the vast need of the Nicaraguans and the exemplary effort that Rainbow Network is investing to give villagers the opportunity to better their lives with food, housing, education, and medical assistance. I saw high school students thanking Rainbow, with tears, for the opportunity to attend school. Those same students were working with elementary school children, helping them learn to read and teaching them songs about Jesus. I watched children courteously devour the one nutritious meal they would receive that day. I met adults with life-long respiratory problems due to cooking over an indoor open fire and breathing the volcanic gases that polluted their air.

It is easy for me to loose peripheral vision. If I ever do look past the narrow focus of my life in Monett, Missouri, I typically assume that the rest of the planet experiences a mundane daily routine equivalent to mine. The world beyond our city limits is vast. There is far more need and hurt than I was aware of.

On the other hand, the process of getting from here to Nicaragua required only 6 hours of flight time, which is less than one more hour of travel time than when I go to visit the in-laws. Whether through Rainbow Network, denominational mission agencies, or other organizations like Compassion International, we have endless opportunities to invest in the lives of others through financial support, prayer and mission projects. These organizations make it simple and efficient to express God’s love in practical and much needed ways proving that maybe our world isn’t so huge after all.

Last week, my world got larger and smaller at the exact same time, and I’m a better person for it.

Tuesday, Februrary 27

communitychurch@sofnet.com — Mon, 05 Mar 2007 16:00:01 GMT

As he closed the door behind him the bell jingled proclaiming his entrance. No matter how many times he closed it, it never seemed to get any easier. There was a feeling of finality, of being trapped. He knew that he would not be comfortable until he closed that same door behind him to leave. He hoped the next hour would pass quickly but knew from experience it will be the longest hour of his week.

He looked around the room at everyone’s stare. They wondered why he was there. He wondered the same about them. There was paranoia in the room as everyone looked over the newest constituent. With each visit, he wondered if it was the commonplace people or the noticeably abnormal that he should worry most about. Maybe their reasons for being there were similar to his, surely not.

He spoke his name to the receptionist in a voice just above a whisper. “The doctor will be with you in a minute,” she said with a practiced voice and a condescending smile. “Please have a seat.”

All the corner chairs were occupied, he always felt so conspicuous in the center ones, but he had no choice. He noticed that all the magazines had dog-eared corners, missing pages and old news – much like the people in the waiting room. He picked one up to pass the time and noticed the irony once again. Each person that has ventured into a friendship with him in the last 17 months seemed as if all they were doing was passing time.

“Twenty-One Tips to Make Your Marriage Last,” the article’s title read. He wondered how many of the twenty-one he had broken. In his own mind he wondered why she didn’t leave him earlier. “How to Know If Your Mate is Cheating On You,” screamed the next title. He put the magazine down in disgust and grabbed another one. It wasn’t long before the second one was just as direct.

On every page of every magazine there it was. Each article was a confrontational reminder of his failure, and each story broadcasted his betrayal. He gave up on reading, closed his eyes tightly and tried to block it all out. If only he could do so for just a day. Twenty-four hours without the feelings of guilt, failure and betrayal, he’d trade his soul for a day like that. He had tried it, but that was a failure too.

His name was called. For fifty minutes he poured his heart off the couch onto the psychiatrist note pad hoping to find something that would make the hurt go away. He had tried everything the doctor had suggested. The anti-depressants, support groups, writing exercises, and self-help books had done little more than drain his wallet and his hope. He had already given up on feeling happy or normal again, being numb would do.

The bell jingled once again as he closed the door behind him. He had tried to empty himself of the shame but knew that every thought that entered his mind would fill the vacancy with scorn. He hoped that this time it wouldn’t refill so quickly.

"'Though you wash yourself with lye and use much soap, the stain of your guilt is still before me,’ says the Lord GOD.” Jeremiah 2:22

Ark-aic Chaos

communitychurch@sofnet.com — Tue, 20 Feb 2007 19:05:40 GMT

She had to be quite patient
          when her husband took her hand
And told her that he needed
          all the den, garage, and land.
It wasn’t mere remodeling
          or a hobby on his mind,
Noah had to build an ocean liner
          and there wouldn’t be much time.

Her job would be to fetch
          the hammer, nails and lemon aid,
And with all the trees cut into boards
          there wouldn’t be much shade.
When she wasn’t at the hardware store
          or busy in the kitchen,
He’d have her digging big fat worms;
          they’d soon be going fishin’.

She kept her wits about her,
          but she lost her cool the day
That he told her all the extra room
          was not so mom could stay.
He handed her the blueprints
          and then asked her to create
A plan that kept the rats, the mice,
          and frogs away from snakes.

She soon became the hostess
          of the world’s first floating zoo,
That swayed from Dumbo shifting weight
          or jumping kangaroo.
The hyena’s stayed up half the night
          laughing at the monkey’s jokes.
And the boa was reminded
          not to cuddle penguin’s throats.

When the land was fully dried up
          she could finally stretch her toes,
And once again breathe deeply
          with the clothespin off her nose,
She bowed her head and thanked
          the Lord for keeping them afloat
Then climbing over the walruses,
          raced cheetahs off the boat.

Sometimes the church is like the ark,
          chaotic but intact
It’s easy to get discouraged
          by the way some Christians act.
The church is still not perfect
          even though we have been saved
Still thank the Lord you’re in the boat
          and not inside the wave.

Earnest Hemingway – Part II

communitychurch@sofnet.com — Mon, 29 Jan 2007 19:32:25 GMT

Hemingway seemed to be liberally generous. His friendship and possessions were very openly distributed. He treasured the former foremost and the latter minimally. Both are enduring challenges for me. How do I invest in a friendship without intending to be the beneficiary? How can I properly enjoy and value my possessions, without finding my value in my possessions?

In A.E. Hotchner’s biography, "Papa Hemingway," Hotchner records the following conversation with Hemingway: "I gave my Christmas boots to Jackie," Earnest said, "my Christmas tie-holder to Bertin and my money clip to some infant. I like to start new every year. Anyway you don’t own anything until you give it away." Earnest was forever giving away his possessions to make sure he would never be possessed by them; outside of his hunting equipment and his paintings, he kept very little of value. "You can have true affection for only a few things in your life," he once told me, "and by getting rid of material things, I make sure I won’t waste mine on something that can’t feel my affection."

Earnest Hemingway

communitychurch@sofnet.com — Wed, 14 Feb 2007 19:47:05 GMT

Without question, my favorite secular author is Earnest Hemingway. I love his short declarative style of writing, the depth of his characters and the adventures they endure. I'd loved to have joined him at the bull fights, African safaris, or deep sea fishing. I'm especially drawn to the invisible emotional scars of his protagonists. I've read all of his short stories and most of his novels. He is the only non-Biblical author I've read where once finished with a book I'm immediately drawn to read it again.

I began to see how autobiographical Hemingway's writings are when I read a biography written by a friend and journalist. He certainly lived an adventuresome life marred by invisible emotional scars dulled by excess. Throughout his life, his suicide continued to be foreshadowed. Once he believed his ability to write was gone, so was his desire to live. He died on July 2, 1961 from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.

His life was a ship at sea facing peril, adventures, and vitality. He had a full sail, but no anchor. Hebrews 6:19 "We have this hope as an anchor for the soul."

Monday, January 08, 2007

communitychurch@sofnet.com — Mon, 08 Jan 2007 19:50:27 GMT

DISCLAIMER: The writer of the following blog takes no responsibility for any behavior on the part of the reader that results from the reading of said blog. Parents or guardians are to analyze the concepts within before allowing minors to be influenced by its content. The author will not refund purchases of motorcycles. The writer is not responsible for any accidents or bodily harm that results from riding a motorcycle even if the reader believes that he or she was encouraged to do so by this blog. The author is not responsible for any distress that is inflicted upon wives and mothers as a result of their husbands or children agreeing with him. While marital counseling will be offered by the writer, free of charge, on a first come first served basis to any couple whose marriage is adversely affected by this blog, the author does not claim responsibility. Upon reading this article, you are agreeing to the above terms and are taking full responsibility for your own actions.

A while back, I went to a Harley-Davidson store to purchase a new helmet with some money that was given to me as a gift for that purpose. There’s something about motorcycle shops that bring out a very raw and animalistic response from deep within me. They’re the only place that makes me want to grunt more than when perusing the shelves at Bass Pro. I find myself slowing my pace and strutting a little as I cruise down the aisles looking at all the Harley paraphernalia.

You don’t have to own a motorcycle to appreciate them. In fact, the inability to hide your smile as you ogle over the jackets and the multitude of chrome accessories immediately makes you one of the club. No initiation or club fees are required, just an admiration for the machines and the freedom that pulses through your veins when you sit on one. (Arrr…Arr…Arrrrrr!!!). Just walking through the shop with my cool strut and black leather jacket made me feel as though I was born to ride.

While the odds of running into a church member at a motorcycle shop seem to be growing, they’re still one of the few places I can go and feel inconspicuous as a pastor. I went to the counter to purchase the helmet (known within riding circles as a "brain bucket"), and reached for my debit card only to discovered that the one that I had was Darla’s. I asked the lady at the register if that was a problem, she looked me over and said, "It’s OK, I trust you." I can’t help but wonder if she would have trusted me less if she had found out I am a pastor. We are most likely to be trusted in circles where we appear to fit in. If a group of bikers, complete with leather chaps and tattoos, entered a typical church the odds are most of the congregation would be more than slightly uncomfortable. Is it any wonder that Jesus was never trusted by the religious of his day?

If I could wade through my thoughts enough to get to a point, it would probably be this: look around at church this Sunday and identify people that don’t seem to fit in. The odds are they are more uncomfortable about being there than you could imagine. Let them know that the true mark of a follower of Christ is not for their clothes, hairstyle, skin color, or religious affiliation to match yours, but the love for our Savior that compels us to take up our cross daily and follow Him. Christianity is not about fitting into a group, but fitting onto a cross.

Wednesday, January 03, 2007

communitychurch@sofnet.com — Wed, 03 Jan 2007 19:55:57 GMT

Last night I blew it. Not so much in what I did or said, but how I did it and how I said it. I was starting back on the diet so my stomach was rebelling; I had exercised hard the night before so my muscles were rebelling; we were completing the most dreadful task of taking down the Christmas decorations so my spirit was rebelling. Needless to say, being tired, hungry, and grouchy does not make Chad a pleasant person; it makes him rebellious. My wife and children practiced tolerance or maybe it was fear-based avoidance. Either way, we all survived my mood and the decorations are now boxed and filling one quarter of our attic for another eleven months.

Starting a new year means you have to do something with what’s left of last year – last years decorations, soreness, and excess weight. Starting a new life with God is much the same way. You have to do something with what’s left of your previous life. While the sins are forgiven, the shame removed, and the hollowness filled, you still have the decoration, soreness, and excess to get rid of. Old friends still want you to party, old words still want to creep into your vocabulary, and old behaviors are still well-trained habits.

Beyond Christmas dedecorization (for some reason my spell check doesn’t recognize this word), a trimmer waistline, and tighter abs - a more dynamic relationship with Christ has made my list of New Years resolutions. As with those previously stated, I don’t expect it to be easy. The residue from last years less-than-healthy decisions will remain. I must trudge on. Keep up the daily Bible reading, even through the “begats.” Keep praying even when I don’t have anything left to say to God that sounds theologically impressive. Keep living my faith even when no one seems to be noticing. My hope is that, in contrast with last night, I can do it without sporting an attitude.

A Not-So-Silent Night

communitychurch@sofnet.org — Mon, 11 Dec 2006 13:00:00 GMT

A Not-So-Silent Night
By Chad Bennett

It is 6:07 pm, the cookies are in the oven, her hair is primped and with a quick retouch of lipstick her face will be done. If they can be in the van in 13 minutes they'll make it to school without getting one of those glares from the music teacher. "I don't know where your other mitten is Matt. I didn't wear it you did," she calls from her the bathroom trying to be patient but direct. She wonders to herself why getting a family prepared for an elementary choir presentation isn't part of the winter Olympics.

She power walks back to the living room and checks the wing of Darlene's angel outfit. Every time it's the same, the kids never tell her they need a special costume until the night before the presentation. She blows on the hot glue hoping that the third application will hold. As she burns her finger on the tip of the hot glue gun, she says under her breath, "Even Mary didn't have this hard of a time on Christmas Eve."

Tom walks into the living room, "Does this tie go with this shirt?" Can't someone get ready on their own? "Honey, there is no blue in your shirt or pants, that tie will never go. Try the one I set out on the bed for you, it'll go fine." He hadn't seen the tie because he threw his coat on top of it when he came home. He heads back to the bedroom with the look of a scolded puppy. He always feels clueless when it comes to matching clothes and wonders if women change the rules every other Thursday.

"Six minutes and counting!" she hollers as she lays the angel costume on the back of the couch so she won't forget it. First Darlene wanted to be Mary, then it was a camel, finally she ended up as an angel. She reminds herself to quiz Darlene on her lines in the van. "Five minutes! If we're late Santa will never stop by here again." For a moment she thinks how nice that would be. No shopping, no arguing over toys, no getting up at 4:26 on Christmas morning. For the first time she wishes that it wasn't the Christmas season. "Four minutes!"

On the way to check on Matt's progress in finding the other mitten, she stops in the kitchen. Just another minute and the cookies for the reception will be perfect. She's got to learn to say "No" more often. The doorbell rings. "Who would come at a time like this and how fast can I run them off," she wonders. She peers through the peephole at 5 teenagers bundled to the hilt. As soon as she opens the door they begin singing, "Silent Night." She almost laughs out loud. What is silent about tonight? What is silent about any night for a mother, even Mary?

At the close of the first verse she starts to thank them, hoping they're through. The second verse isn't heard. She's too busy thinking of how to hurry them along, but her tactful smile is all the carolers need to encourage them to continue. During the third, she notices the effort these kids are putting into it. Their breaths frozen, cheeks reddened, and arms shivering in the winter air. No harmony, a few accidental key changes, and a monotone tenor, but it doesn't really matter. For a moment she is reminded by the carolers efforts that the only thing that does matter is the good news of thepromised Savior and that it's not how you share it, as long as you do. For just a moment her night is silent. She doesn't hear the carolers, Matt complaining over a lost mitten, or a husband asking if he should wear the black or brown shoes. She experiences the heavenly peace that is only found in the Christ child.

The choir waves goodbye and wishes a Merry Christmas. She closes the door behind her and hollers, "Wear the black shoes! You weren't born in a barn were you?" She rushes to the kitchen remembering that the cookies have been in too long. She groans as she pulls them out of the oven, each one burnt and smoking. "To the car, NOW! We have to stop by the store to get some cookies." It's not until they get to school that she remembers that the angel costume is still laying over the back of the couch.

Tuesday, November 21, 2006

communitychurch@sofnet.com — Tue, 21 Nov 2006 09:39:21 GMT

I've come to the conclusion that my greatest fear is not the fear of death, but the fear of not living. Life wasted is an invitation for the grave; life experienced is regenerative. Somehow it seems easier to measure the fullness of life by the tangibles. It could be argued, however, that a truer measure is the fullness of one's heart. How often we seek the tangibles of religion over the mystery of God. If we are not careful, seven days without neglecting our reading about God can bring a greater satisfaction than one day of true connectedness with God.

All too often I find myself with my hand in the cookie jar. A relaxed hand easily fits in, but one gripped around a cookie is too large to be removed. Or as the proverb says, "A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush." The painful reality is that to measure life by a full heart requires one to first release what is presently filling life.

As I seek to know God, I continue to hear a whisper. "Release the tangible in order to grasp the Mystery." My hesitation is that it appears to be both an invitation and a warning. A Trappist Monk wrote, "Once all depended on east or west, or up and down. But once my moving began to stop 'twas then it was my start began."

Cranial Fodder: (Picking up where we left off last week)

communitychurch@sofnet.org — Thu, 16 Nov 2006 09:39:21 GMT

Cranial Fodder: (Picking up where we left off last week)

The two boundaries that most define our human existence are time and space. When we begin to question the validity of our purpose and personal identity, our first response is typically to dress up our fences. We fill our space with more material wealth, and our time with busyness, both of which are fragile attempts to fill life to these boundaries with quantity without quality.

How do we overcome these trappings? While time and space are the fences of this existence, they are merely the gate for the next. (Jesus walked through walls with His resurrected body, overcoming both human limitations.) While the only way to exile these earthly boundaries is through death, remember that these fences do have hinges and only keep us corralled for a singe and short lifetime. The book of Revelation serves as a stepping stool to get us to peer over these temporary boundaries and dream of the greater reality that awaits us.

Live for heaven not earth; eternity not today. Life is truest lived beyond the fences.

First Blog

communitychurch@sofnet.org — Mon, 06 Nov 2006 09:39:21 GMT

Blog (as defined by webopedia.com) (n.) Short for Web log, a blog is a Web page that serves as a publicly accessible personal journal for an individual. Typically updated daily, blogs often reflect the personality of the author. (v.) To author a Web log. Other forms: Blogger (a person who blogs).

OK, so I'm new at this "blog" thing. I love to write and love to peruse the internet, so why is this a new arena for me? Maybe I'm still amazed that at least half the people that show up on any given Sunday stay awake to hear me drone for 30+ minutes; so why would I assume they'd want to read something I write. Maybe, I'm afraid that if I don't write anything worth reading that somehow it calls to question the validity of my life. Or just maybe, I'm still feeling that the techno conversations (email, text messages, instant messages, and yes, maybe blogs as well) are substituting breadth for depth. I'm not a traditionalist that longs to return to manual typewriters and rotary phones, but there are days I miss deep personal conversation without being interrupted by a cell phone or a seemingly urgent email. New habit; letting a call go to voicemail rather than interrupting a mutually edifying conversation.

So, I'll write something here from time to time. Read it if you find it useful, ignore it if you don't. You aren't even required to act interested (as you might on Sunday mornings). Feel free to email me questions and I'll try to respond as my schedule permits. I'll even post some dialogues if they prove to be of interest to a broader audience.

Brain Fodder (what is presently feeding Chad's brain); "In the womb, surrounded by the beating of our mother's heart marking time, we begin to sense that we are 'someone' as we stretch tiny arms and legs to the beat of swimming like rhythms. But at birth, we are exiled; destined to a lifelong sojourn through time and space. For some, this pilgrimage is an impossible effort to 'return.' For others, it is a frightening but exhilarating search for an unknown land. Kansas or Oz, Eden or the Kingdom; our life becomes an ongoing pursuit of that place called home." From W. Paul Jones, A Season in the Desert: Making Time Holy

So, what's feeding your brain?