Jason

Jason was cool.  In fact, everything about him was cool.  He was the embodiment of everything that I wanted to be as a 5^th grade male, but wasn’t.  He was funny, athletic, witty, intelligent, well liked by teachers and seemingly all of the 5^th grade girls in Mr. Nelson’s class swooned over him.  In efforts to be like him, I attempted to take on his characteristics.  I mimicked the way that Jason walked, talked and laughed.  I even tried to dress like Jason.  When Jason began wearing pink shirts and white Miami Vice inspired sports coats, I too began to wear “hipper clothing.” The problem lied in the fact that I didn’t have any pink shirts and would have had to resort to either wearing my mother’s pink shirts which were too big or my little sister’s which were way too small.  Additionally the only “sport coat” I could get my hands on was my grandpas old suit coat which was gray and smelled like cigarette smoke.  In the end I settled for a blue pair of suspenders and a white t-shirt.  It did not have quite the same effect.

Needless to say my imitation of Jason was a perpetual exercise of failure.  I could not compete with his naturally suave mannerisms nor draw the attention of the attractive girls with big 80’s hair of the upper echelon’s of Wadena Elementary School. 

One day as I was practicing the fine are of Jasonism, the object of my idolatry dared me to enter the girls bathroom.

“Come on Ryan! Do it! There isn’t anyone in there…just run in and run back out!”

“Oh man, Jason…I don’t know.  Why don’t you do it?”

“Because I have done it lots of times! You need to do it! It is such a rush!”

“Ok…I guess…but you have to stand look out, ok?”

“Sure thing! I got you!”

I worked myself up into a frenzy and with my heart racing and a cold sweat running down my neck I ran into the girls bathroom.  I remember thinking as I turned around to run back out, “huh, what’s the big deal?  It’s just like the boys’ but cleaner and less stinky.” My stomach was fluttering wildly as I emerged from the forbidden room and back into the halls of lower education.  At the moment of my exit, I exhaled the breath that I hadn’t realized that I was holding and took in a deep refreshing breath of the cool stale elementary hallway air.

I had done it.  What a relief!  I was so pleased that I hadn’t gotten caug…  “RYAN! What do you think you are doing?”

It was Mr. Nelson himself.  I hadn’t realized that Jason was MIA.  In fact, all of my buddies were gone.  All that stood before me was Mr. Nelson and a half a dozen confused 5^th grade girls standing behind him.  I can’t prove it but I am pretty sure I had been ratted out.

“I asked you a question….What are you doing?”

“Huh?”

“What were you doing coming out of the girl’s bathroom?”

I didn’t know how to respond, so I went with the only think I could do…I attempted to cast the blame elsewhere.  “Jason told me to do it!”

“Did he? Tell me, If Jason told you to jump off of a cliff…would you do it?”

I told Mr. Nelson “No,” but in reality…maybe.

I find myself astounded as to who I have been willing to follow and even to what lengths.  My past has been far too littered with the following of others and far too seldom following the path of Christ.  Matthew 8:18-22 and Luke 9:57-62, reveal a picture of what it really looks like to follow Jesus.  Jesus does not shy away from the reality that there is a real cost to following Him.  Jesus never promises the life of ease on this journey.  In fact, the promise is just the opposite.  It is a journey of struggle and suffering. The difference between Jason and Jesus is that Jesus won’t leave me, and Jesus won’t lead me astray and Jesus is worth following.

I received my reward in full in following Jason, but now, I long for the reward that can only come in the difficult journey of following Christ.

May we come to choose to follow Jesus.  I guarantee that it won’t be easy…but he guarantees that it will be worth it.

 Wet Paint

 

We have all seen the signs…we find them posted on doors, walls, banisters, floors and even road ways. These signs reflect a caution…a warning…an alarm of sorts, drawing people’s attention to the danger of economic loss, when a less than observant person may suddenly find a white streak of paint running across their brand new Nike sweatshirt.  It may alert towards the avoidance of embarrassment of NOT seeing the white streak that has suddenly appeared across the backside of the dark washed jeans that they currently don.  The sign reads: WET PAINT.

It is likely that each American at some point or another has had a less than desirable encounter with wet paint.  Whether the encounter stemmed from the ill placed finger paints of 5 year old Tommy in kindergarten or falling from your ladder into a poorly place bucket of latex, we have all been scarred by painted memories…or perhaps paint brush impalements.

I remember coming home from a funeral one afternoon in which I was officiating a number of years ago to find my garage floor covered in a mass of smeared white streaks.  Upon stepping into the work space I gasped believing that I had inadvertently come upon the murder scene of one Casper the Friendly Ghost.  However, upon further examination I realized that it was not the un-bodily fluid of a ghost but rather…paint…and lots of it.

Painting almost always appears on the long list of jobs to do around the house and with my busy schedule it is hard to find times to fit all of the tasks within the 24 hours a day framework.  During my obligatory absence, my amazing wife had rallied some of the children to help with the painting of the shed.  Unfortunately the painting of the shed accidentally led into the white massacre of the garage floor.  The paint was everywhere, and as I walked through the garage in my “only wear at weddings and funerals dress suit,” I took a rag and carefully began to scrub at the paint stain trying to clean up as much as I could.

My wife had more sense than I did in those days and quickly reprimanded me from cleaning the white paint in my formal attire.

“You do NOT want to get paint on your suit!!”

Fortunately for me I adhered to her sensible advice.  Unfortunately for her and my children, I had a less than stellar response to the situation.

There is ONE thing that you especially DO NOT want to do with wet paint…touch it.  Once you touch wet paint, it spreads and spreads and ends up places that you never could have fathomed that it would or could reach.

In Matthew 8:1-17, we find Jesus do the unthinkable in his culture and context.  He knowingly touches the proverbial “wet paint,” of the society. In this portion of scripture, Jesus encounters three noteworthy people and does that which their culture would not consider doing…he touches them.  He touches some of them physically, but more so he touches their hearts and brings healing into their lives.  He touches an untouchable leper, a loathsome Roman soldier and a desperately sick mother. 

In this incredible passage, Jesus brings more than just physical healing, he also begins his healing work to the souls of people and the breaking of the curse of sin and death…which he crushes when he goes to the cross.

May we find Jesus as our healer. He has the power to heal our physical, spiritual, emotional and eternal needs.

 Gas Jockey

My first “real job” was at a local full service fueling station in Wadena, Minnesota.  Prior to entering into the realms of W-4 employment, I had spent a few summers walking behind a lawn mower giving mediocre effort to cutting grass for a few local business. This however was different.  I was initially hired as a Gas Jockey, in which, I would diligently tend to the vehicles that would drive up to the pumps looking for gas and other automotive services.

(Be-ding, Be-ding)

“Good afternoon ma’am, what can I do for you?”

“Could I get 10 gallons of regular? Oh, and would you wash the windshield, check the oil…and the tire pressure…maybe wash the headlights too…it would probably be a good idea to check the transmission fluid, power steering fluid, washer fluid, brake fluid…and then my son told me I should have you check the muffler belt and the blinker fluid too…”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Could you do it quickly…I am kind of in a hurry.”

“Yes ma’am.”

After I finished the extensive service I told her ‘thank you’ and held out my left hand hoping for a tip, but she just slapped my hand in thanks and drove off.

I remember one lady would come in on a weekly basis only to have me wash her windshield.  She sat in the vehicle and pointed to each bug that needed to be scrubbed off of the outer service until the windshield shone like new.  She would usually toss me a quarter as she shared her verbal appreciation and drove off.

Nearing the end of my first year, I was trained on a variety of other responsibilities that promoted me from part time Gas Jockey to part time Grease Monkey.  It was here that I was educated on the how tos of wrenching on vehicles, including oil changes, spark plugs, as well as muffler and alternator replacements.  I was even trained in the art of tire replacement and repair.

Tire work quickly became one of my favorites.  I would even imagine myself working for a NASCAR pit crew replacing tires on rims and cars as efficiently as possible. 

“Ryan! What do you think you are doing!?” The boss exclaimed one Saturday afternoon.

“Replacing tires like I am working on Richard Petty’s Pontiac Grand Prix.”

“Mrs. Floyd’s Ford LTD does not get racing slicks! Now put the white walled touring tires back on!!”

One of the great lessons I learned (the hard way) with this job was the authority of the Boss.

What the Boss said…is what I was expected to do.

I was working the closing shift alone one Sunday evening and as soon as 9:00.01 rolled around I killed the lights and began closing out the till.  I wanted to get out of there as quickly as I could to go hang out with all of my friends…well…both of them anyway.  As I was closing out the till, a man in a pick-up truck pulled up to the pumps and looked in to me.  I looked out the window and shook my head.  He dropped his head, put the truck back into gear and drove away.

The next day the Boss invited me into her office and shared some ‘words’ with me. 

“When a customer pulls up and wants gas, we give them gas.  Even if you are closing out the till…you will give them gas and reclose the till afterwards.  Do you understand?”

“Yes ma’am”

“Do you like your job?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Would you like to keep your job?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Then you will do what I say.”

“Yes ma’am.”

And I did.

Our lives are filled with authorities.  The greatest authority of all is God himself.  Jesus (God in the flesh), concludes his Sermon on the Mount in Matthew 7, in which he powerfully states that we ought to hear his words…and do them.  If we are willing to hear and do what Jesus says, he insists that our obedience to him, will give us the foundation to endure anything that this life has to throw at us.  He is our Rock and our Hope.  Though this world may crumble, we still have Jesus for eternity. He gives us the foundation and strength to do what he asks us to do…follow Him.

May we come to see that His words offer our only Hope for eternal life with Him.

 The Fort

One of the advantages of growing up on a “pretend” farm is that it contained many of the enjoyable elements that a real farm would have, such as, an old barn, chicken coop, woods, climbable trees and other out buildings and garages.  Our barn was highly unsafe and we were not allowed to be in the loft of the barn…or more accurately…we were not allowed to let our mother to know that we were in the loft of the barn.  The floor was rotting through many places, which was covered with old hay and junk and it was difficult to know where to walk without falling through the floor and into the basement.  The roof of the chicken coop was falling in and many of the climbable trees would break you as they broke your fall when mis-stepping on a weak branch.

Fortunately, we had a father who not only cared for our safety, but also understood the adventurous spirit of boys and allowed us to build ourselves a fort in the attic of the garage. 

On the back side of the garage there was a small door that accessed the attic.  The door was about 2 feet wide, 3 feet high and around 20 feet off the ground.  He gave us a rickety old wooden ladder to access the porthole and supplied us with all of the old rusty nails we needed.  I have since then tried to keep safety as high of a priority as my dad did.  For example, just two week ago I fell from the rafters of my own garage while balancing with one foot on a boat, the other on a saw horse, and attempting to drive a screw into a 2x4 with a hammer.  My father has taught me so much!

 My older brother and I set to work converting the small elevated space into a fort of epic proportions.  We built a desk, a bench, a stool and some shelves.  I even found some old tiles and tiled the desktop surface.  To top off our elaborate investment, I channeled my inner “Stalag 13” and drafted a map of our entire property and secured it to an old roller shade.  I know that Colonel Hogan would have been proud and perhaps even a little envious.

The final touches to the fort included the rules.

1.      No sisters.

2.      No little brothers. (Though technically I was a younger brother to my older brother I was by size larger…not to mention I don’t think he caught on to the irony of the rule).

3.      There was only one way into the fort.

a.      Through the small door

b.      By invitation.

We had put a lock on the inside of the door to prevent any unwanted guests…however, without any lights and without any air circulation closing the door was only done in the most dire of circumstances. 

We cherished that space, relishing that fact that there was only one way into the sanctuary and we controlled it.

I am reminded of the similarity…and the stark difference that Jesus offers in the narrow path to eternal life.  Matthew 7:13-23 reveals Jesus’ words of this truth.  He says that there is a narrow gate that few find.  He says it is a difficult path, but the path will lead to eternal life.  In contrast, he speaks of a wide path that leads to destruction.  The difference between Jesus and myself is that he WANTS people to find and take the narrow gate, whereas, I as a child, wanted to keep it for myself. 

I think what concerns me the most in this passage are two of Jesus’ words…many and few.  Though Jesus has offered the narrow gate to all, we find that very few will take it.  In fact, many of us…most of us even…will avoid the narrow gate believing that we can make it to eternity with Jesus some other way...our own way…the wide way…a way of ourselves, that we control.

May we take an honest look on the path that we are on.  Are we on the narrow path and difficult path of following Jesus?  Or perhaps we are finding ourselves moving on the wide path of our own righteousness and pursuits of the world.