A few years ago I was sitting in a church history class in seminary. The professor was lecturing on the debate between Athanasius and Arius regarding the divine nature of Jesus Christ. A fellow student raised his hand, identified himself as a future missionary, and asked with, no small level of disdain, how this would help him be a better missionary. The professor did a fine job of explaining how theology undergirds ministry--but I'm not sure the student bought it.

I never saw another incident like that while I was at seminary. I remember it because I understand it. My mind gravitate toward that which is obviously and immediately relevant. Being a Christian (and certainly a Christian serving as a missionary) requires us to reflect upon who Jesus is and what he has done even before we answer how this affects us. We must answer the latter, but we must first dwell on the former. Read more

He sat on the curb near the west-bound on-ramp to I-10 with a ratty duffle bag at his feet and a sign in his lap. As I pulled closer to make a right hand turn, I imagined I knew what his message would be. I anticipated "hungry, please help" or "need work" or "homeless vet." But his hand-lettered SOS had only one word, and it wasn't a word I expected. It simply said "West."
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Bloodshed is not really a pretty subject. Sure, we see it pretty often on CSI and the shoot-em-up action of our movies and even video games. Still, bloodshed is a somber topic because it is not only about the loss of blood but also the loss of life. Yet in the Baptist churches of my youth I must have sung on the subject at least a hundred times:

What can wash away my sin?
 Nothing but the blood of Jesus;

What can make me whole again? 
Nothing but the blood of Jesus.

Why all the talk about blood? I must admit the college-educated, more urbane side of me squirms a little at the mention of the blood. I worry about what a thoroughly secular friend of mine would think about the song. In his mind, such a song would prove his point that Christian folk are strange people obsessed with strange ideas. What good is there in such bloodshed?

The rough streets of Houston provided the answer.Read more

My sister once told me that she had no idea when I'd get married (I'm sure my well-carved independence made many wonder if I ever would), but that when it did happen, it would go fast.

Still, this didn't seem to reduce my sister's confusion when--two days after I stepped off the plane from a three-month sabbatical in Australia--I announced to her that I was getting married. Had I been dating someone when I set off on my travels, it might not have seemed so ludicruous. But I hadn't been. In fact, I decided to skip the whole dating part entirely.

It all began at the Starbucks on 96th Street somewhere during the spring of my senior year of college.
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At my very core, I am an adventure seeker.  I don’t necessarily mean this in the sense that I enjoy action-packed theme park rides or death-defying undertakings.  In fact, I’m probably not your go-to person for stomach-turning, terror-evoking exploits.  But I do believe in exploring the unknown.  Perhaps this is because, as a Christian, I’ve endeavored to embrace Jesus’ words in Matthew 28:19.  There, Jesus adjures the remaining eleven disciples to “go” and “make disciples of all nations.”   In considering this instruction and the individuals who have followed it, I have come to a certain understanding regarding the Christian life.  As a Christ follower, it seems that life sometimes includes taking risks, exploring uncharted avenues, and traveling to far-off places.  And even though I seek out and mostly enjoy all of these things, I occasionally have a longing (and even a need) to revisit familRead more

I’m going to go out on a prophetic limb here and state that the postmodern zeitgeist is hung over. Gone are the heady, intoxicated days of liberation from transcendent norms and meta-narratives. The all-too-early wake up call of a deep economic recession and Gulf ecological disaster has the next generation groggily taking stock of itself and it’s coming up all zeroes.
 
Teddy Thompson is the only son of British folk-rock legends Richard and Linda Thompson. Two summers ago, Teddy released A Piece of What You Need for Verve. My favorite track on the album is “Where To Go From Here,” partly for its gentle acoustic rhythm and brush-on-snare sound, partly for its existential angst that demonstrates my aforementioned point.
 
The safe lie of the in between
I never lose but never win
I wait at the edge of lifeRead more

Does a true Christian watch TV?  I'm hit with the question once again.  Intersecting with all the hubbub about the LOST series and its deeper meaning is the question some of us still raise, and one I haven't answered:  are we supposed to watch this stuff or not?

I was looking at Marva Dawn's book, Keeping the Sabbath Wholly, last week while preparing for a sermon and was reminded that she doesn't watch TV.  I also read John Piper's reasoning behind rejecting TV: "Why I Don't Have a Television." 

When I was in seminary, my wife and I rejected TV one year for Lent.  It was the year that X-Files was at its peak, and was a favorite of ours.  We had decided we wouldn't watch TV, but we did allow ourselves to rent movies.  So here's how we did it...Read more

I recently had the privilege of performing with Sandra McCracken her new album, “In Feast or Fallow”, for her cd release show in Nashville.  If you aren’t familiar with her music, do yourself a favor and check it out on iTunes or visit her website, www.sandramccracken.com. You will not be disappointed. This is her latest project comprised of mostly old hymns, which you likely haven’t heard, set to new music.
            For the record, this is not a review. The project is amazing and beautifully done on every level from writing and arranging to producing and mixing.  But, my interest is in communicating that my heart is stirred by this album.Read more

I expected him to come with wailing. Instead, he came with eyes open wide in quiet wonder. I now know that raw joy feels like a warm, squirming life clutched naked to the chest. It is alive and more beautiful than you’ve imagined.
 
He pulled a tiny fist to his mouth as his steely blue eyes met my own. We stared at one another, him blinking thoughtfully, me babbling words of delight and praise—my speech suddenly reduced to the stammered fragments of a child. I admired his long slender fingers, his soft skin, his head of downy dark hair. And my eyes bounced between his and my husband’s, like light dancing on the water on a still day.
 
When I suddenly remembered it was Sunday, nothing could have felt more fitting. For when you’ve prayed like Hannah, and been given a gift of grace like Samuel, holding that long-awaited treasure makes your heart swell with the gratitude and worship of a thousand Sundays. And you know deep within that this gift is a gift that can only be quickly offered back to the Giver in praise and adoration.
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The curse resonates.

I'm part of a bible study/discussion group, focused around the content of a workbook on sexuality & emotions, which has participants from across the spectrum.  We have folks who are vague theists; men and women who are married and who are single; people who are living together; folks who are committed believers; representatives spanning 4 decades (20s to 50s), from Asian, African, and Caucasian descent, and with a PhD, Master's degrees, college, some college, and no college.
It's a really unusual group.

Last Tuesday evening we read through Genesis 3, and the strangest thing happened.  The curse:  "her desire shall be for her husband and he shall rule over her" resonated with everyone.Read more