Knots

My daughter handed me the dainty, silver-chained necklace.  It was a mass ball of knotted links. 

“Daddy! Can you get the knot out of my necklace?  It gotted tangled,” bequeathed the 4-year-old voice of my long-eyelashed third born child.

Upon seeing the incredible knots in the even more incredibly small chain, I didn’t see any possible way of clearing the constellation of twists, loops and ties.  However, when I glanced up from the jumble to see the big shining eyes of my sweet daughter, I knew that I had to at least attempt the job.  I figured, worst case scenario, I could throw it in the garbage and go buy a new one and she would never be the wiser.

“How did this happen?”

“I swinged it and swinged it while I was twirling in my ballerina shoes and it gotted tangled.”

“Maybe you should have your mom do it?” I asked, “She has finger nails.”

“She is making supper and she said you should do it because if you can spend all that time getting knots out of fishing line then you can fix my necklace.”

“Little does she know, I just cut the fishing line and start over,” I mumbled.

“What daddy?”

“Nothing,” I sighed and left to find a needle.

My eyesight has deteriorated over the years. It used to be that I would mock my father for complaining about low light conditions.  I would tease him about having to decide whether he should have his glasses on…or off, and how it seemed to make no improvement in his eyesight.  I then ridiculed him for needing bifocals and mumbling complaints under his breath about how he “couldn’t see.”  I no longer mock the man…as I am now the man. 

I used a magnifying glass, along with a light strapped to my head, to improve my eyesight and tackled the task, using a needle to carefully pull links apart.

I worked for DAYS at untying those chain linked knots.  It was excruciating.  The work made my eyes hurt, my neck hurt and it forced me to drink more coffee to heighten my senses…which, in turn, forced me to take a break and use the little boys room more than usual…another sign that I have become more like my father. 

Each evening, for days, I would attempt to untie at least one knot.  Each morning it was the same, night and day struggling with the knots, whenever I had a free moment.  After several days of effort, I finally cleared all of the knots, and laid the long delicate chain out before me in a moment of pleasured relief.

“Carissa?!, I got your necklace fixed!” I sang out from the depth of my soul. 

“You did it, Daddy!?”

“Yes, I did, sweetie!”

“Wow! You finally got it!?” my wife asked admiringly.

“I sure did!” I asserted with a deep throated manly voice.

“Thanks Daddy!” my daughter cheered as she took the necklace and began twirling it while spinning in her ballerina shoes.

I do not have to tell you…that I kept the needle handy.

My daughter’s actions are really no different from my own.  In her case, her decisions to mistreat her cheap necklace resulted in a messy series of knots.  In my case, my poor decisions in life have left my own life in a messy series of knots.  As difficult as those knots in my daughter’s necklace were to remove, the poor choices in my life have left me with even more difficult knots to reconcile.  Yet, it is astonishing to me how many times I walk away carelessly twirling the necklace of my life adding yet more knots into the already knotted mass. 

In 1 Thessalonians 4:1-8, Paul emphasized the importance of making good decisions to the people of the church in Thessalonica.  Specifically, Paul calls them to obey God.  That is the way to living a knot free life.  I fear that, too often… mankind… myself primarily, has made it a practice to justify our actions not caring about the disobedient knots that we are creating for our lives.  Jesus wants us to live lives that are free of knots. The free life is a life that is lived in obedience to God.

May we come to obey Jesus and pursue the knot free life that he desires for us to live.

 Family

 

“Hey you!?” chortled the pug-faced kid as he engaged me in the middle school hallway of the Wadena Jr. High School, “Remember when I beat you up? Huh huh huh…”

“NO! I don’t!” I aggressively retorted.  Though truth be told, I did remember. That is to say, I remembered the event…however…this ignorant clown was indeed mistaken.  I was not the young elementary school student who he had, ‘beaten up’…it was my brother.   

I stepped into his personal comfort zone and looked down on his forehead.  “That wasn’t me,” I exclaimed as I puffed out my middle school chest, “It was my brother!”

The event had taken place about 5 years earlier.  My older brother and I had walked to the park from my grandmother’s house on one Saturday afternoon.  We had not been there very long when the skirmish broke out.  To this day, I have no idea what caused the row, nor does my brother.  It seemed to come out of nowhere.  Suddenly Scott and his thugs appeared on the grounds and confronted my brother and began pushing him around.  Don’t get me wrong…I had done my share of bullying my older brother.  In fact, I was well known in the family to exert my will and authority upon all of my siblings.  I was the largest and most aggressive of my parents’ 4 offspring, and so I took advantage of both and bullied my way into the superior rank of sibling rivalries.  I even relished their suffering. It was not unusual for me to push my older brother around even to the point, though seldom, in the throwing of punches. 

At this moment, I suddenly found myself no longer ok with the abuse of my brother…at least from the hands of Scott.  Immediately, I began to hustle to the conflict only to be restrained by Thug 1. His strong arms wrapped around my chest and squeezed me from behind while Thug 2 gave me a threatening sneer and, minimally, toothy smile.  As my chest struggled for air and my arms yearned for freedom, it was the grief in my heart that weighed heaviest as I watched the suffrage of my brother under the authority of Scott. 

Finally, Scott released his torturous headlock from my brother, but only after several cries of “Uncle!”

My brother and I walked back to my grandmother’s house with our proverbial tails between our legs.  The only real bright spot was that my mother wouldn’t be mad at me because it wasn’t my clothes that were covered with dirt and grass stains.   

It is in this transformational experience that I see a parallel to Paul’s experience with the church in Thessalonica.  While Paul is in Athens, Timothy brings back a report of the incredible love…brotherly love…family love that the Thessalonians have for each other. 

The Church is the Body of Christ…it is a family.  Certainly in every family, there are conflicts.  Unfortunately, many of these conflicts do not result in a strengthening of the body.  Rather, they cut down, discourage and destroy the church family from within.  Yet, as the old adage states, “blood runs thicker than water,” and even in the most difficult times it is the family that sticks together and endures. 

I believe that it is this latter depiction that Paul esteems within the church in Thessalonica.  In 1 Thess. 1:4, Paul refers to them as brothers, and as children, mothers and fathers in chapter 2, vs. 7-11.  It is obvious that Paul believes that the church is to be a family. 

Paul, then, describes how this family is to love and interact and support one another as a testimony of the Lord’s grace in 1 Thess. 2:17-3:13.  It is this incredibly humble and challenging image that I desire to be a part of.

May we come to love the Church as Christ loves the Church…it is the family of God!

 Once is Enough

 

By nature I have never been much of an adrenaline junkie.  I was speaking with a friend, recently, who was all excited to go sky diving for the first time ever.  Normally, first time jumpers are required to leap from the plane in “tandem,” that is to jump harnessed to an experienced skydiver.  However, his wife was apparently able to somehow pay extra money, above or below the table, which would allow him to jump solo.  I can’t help but wonder if she had recently drawn a life insurance policy on the man.  Noteworthy to say…I have not seen from or heard from him since.  I wonder how it went?

My first real experience with thrill seeking came in 7^th grade, when I traveled to Valleyfair in Shakopee, MN.  It was my friend, Matt, who had invited me to be his guest on this excursion with his church youth group.  It soon became apparent to me that these youth group leaders must not have cared much for their students, as Matt and I, along with every other student under their supervision, was left to indulge in as many near death experiences as we could find ourselves in as we navigated the park. 

We began our journey on the Viking Ship…I hated it…I have not ridden the swinging boat since…once was enough.  We rode the Excalibur, Wild Thing, Cork Screw and every other roller coaster in the park which resulted in…hate, hate, hate. 

Years later I met the girl who would one day become my wife.  She took me to Cedar Point Amusement Park in Sandusky, OH.  It was pretty much the same story, ride after ride I was force to offer faux bravery and enjoyment on the high climbs and steep drops.  My favorite part became waiting in line.  Over the years, I learned to tolerate roller coasters, but I could never say that I have learned to love them. 

There came a day when I was leading my own youth group to Valleyfair.  I had every intention of sitting on a bench somewhere in the shade and reading a book, or perhaps taking a nap.  This pleasant anticipated Eden never took place.  The driver for the other vehicle…who happened to be about twice my age and the Lead Pastor of my church had other plans.  As soon as we stepped foot into the park the 68-year-old man asked, “What are we going to do first?”

“Well…the Imax theater is always nice this time of year.”

“Which one is the favorite?”

“I guess most people prefer the Wild Thing.”

“Ok…let’s do it!”

“Oh…Ok”

I was transported back to that pioneering experience of 7^th grade as Pastor Phil insisted on my participation with him on every ride in the park.  After trying many “favorites,” we concluded our time at the…Power Tower…Drop of Death …The Tower of Terror …High Rise of Hades…Plummet to Pandemonium…it really makes no difference what you call it…it is death upon exit.  Of all of the rides in the park ,this was “THE ONE” in which I never wanted to ride.  Yet, how can I tell a 68-year-old man that I am scared, not interested or too tired. 

The pimple faced teenage worker buckled us in and read to us the warnings, dangers, cautions and had us sign waivers along with our last wills and testaments.  The open air chairs hauled the two of us up 275 feet to the top.  This is easily the highest point in the park, and I am quite certain that I could see my vehicle in the parking lot, and the headlights are on! 

“Hey wait!…let me down…I left my headlig….” 

Then…you drop.  Of all of the times I wondered if I would ever get the chance to hear a preacher swear I thought that this must be it…but no…I was wrong.  The silence gripped us both as the bottom dropped out and we fell.  Finally, I hear a shrieking voice screaming like a frightened little girl.  I looked to my right where Pastor Phil sat expecting to see him screaming, but his mouth was closed…at which time I realize the sound was coming from me.  Upon the end of the ride, I stepped onto the hot pavement with my legs shaking like Thanksgiving Jell-O.

“Wow! That was a ride!” Phil exclaimed.

For me, however, once was enough and I am proud to say that I have never been on a ride like that since, nor do I intend to ever ride one again. 

For Jesus, “Once is Enough,” means something entirely different.  Hebrews 10:1-18 delivers a picture of the repetitive obligations that the Law required, year after year, to deal with the problem of sin.  Every year it had to happen…the High Priest needed to make atonement for the sins of Israel.  It never lasted. It was an unending obligation that was never fully adequate. 

Jesus changed all of that.  Jesus is our Great High Priest and what He did…just once…was enough for eternity!

Jesus died once.

He rose once.

He paid for our sins once.

And once…is enough.

May we come to see that Jesus’ life, death, burial and RESSURECTION…are enough!

Happy Easter, He is Risen!

 The King

 

“Hooray! Dad’s HOME!!”

These were the cheers that filled my ears for years as I entered my home.  Whether having been gone for a week on a ministry trip, or just the afternoon at the office, it was a common experience to be celebrated upon walking through the door.  My children would scream my name. They would chant. They would run to me and jump in my arms…sometimes 2 or more at the same time.  I was the hero of the home!  I felt like a king! After I was able to peel the hanging children from around my neck, I would gather them together and give them hugs and kisses.  I would wrestle with them on the floor.  I would sit in my chair and they would hop into my lap and I would ask them about their day.  With a smile on my face and contentment in my heart I would take my book from the end table…flip up the foot rest of the recliner and lean back to relax while doing some reading.  My four children would continue to run around the house screaming songs of joy and celebrating Super Dad’s arrival. 

It would happen that about this time I would look over toward my beautiful wife who was standing in the kitchen working hard to cook supper. I would smile at her and our eyes would meet, and seeing the look in her eyes…I would swallow hard…put down my book…lower the foot rest…raise the recliner back and stammer nervously…”Ummm…how was your day Dear?”

“…” silence, “…”

“ummm…do you need any help with supper?”

“No…just engage with the children and keep them out of the kitchen while I finish up.”

Interestingly, things are now different in our home.  I am no longer celebrated in the same way as I once was by my children.  I cannot pinpoint the cause of the transition, but somehow in the age of preadolescence, I lost my coolness.  As I enter the home today, I find that my children…at least the ones that are home…have their faces glued to their phones, laptops, tv’s or pillows. 

“Hey kids!” I exclaim excitedly.

“Uh.” One may reply.

“How was your day?” I ask.

“I dunno.”

“What don’t you know?”

“I dunno.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I dunno.”

It is obvious that things have changed.  Perhaps I am not the father that my children expected me to be, or perhaps I was not the kind of father that gave them everything that they wanted and more. 

“Dad can we have Doritos?”

“If by Doritos you mean nacho flavored corn chips placed in an all white bag with bold black lettering…then sure…when it goes on sale.”

Perhaps it was moments like these that let my children see that I may not be who they want me to be. 

In a much grander scale do I see the remarkable moment of Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem, (Luke 19:28-42).  Here, Jesus enters the city on the colt of a donkey, and he is celebrated as the coming King of Israel.  As the crowds were calling out “Hosanna, Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord,” some of the religious leaders call on Jesus to make them be quiet.  At this point Jesus says that “If they remain quiet…the rocks will cry out.” I have often overlooked the significance of this statement.  Jesus is the King of Kings.  He is creator God.  He is coming into the city that he created among people that he created and if the people will not acknowledge him as King…then the very earth that he created will cry out and proclaim the truth of who he is. 

It would be as if my Microwave began to celebrate my arrival into my own home upon the silence of my children. 

May we come to see who Jesus really is.  He is the creator. He is the Savior. He is the King!  May we cry out in praise to the King!

 The Trap

I once played high school football…that is if you count 9^th grade C squad as “high school football.”  I had spent the previous two years honing my football skills, which consisted of…hitting other kids very hard…over and over again.  That was the full gamut of my football abilities.  Despite the lack of an array of skills…this is what I loved most about football.  I knew the bare bones minimum about the game. 

Since my 7^th grade team, I was regularly placed on both the offensive and defensive lines.  This was likely because I was the tallest player on the team…but with the simplicity of play of 7^th grade football…it could have been my inability to comprehend much more than basic play.

On offense, my sole job was to push my opponent…and to know which way to do it.  If I pushed to the left, the running back would go to my right and if I pushed to the right the running back would be running to my left…simple.  While on defense, I was given the simple task of ripping the guy in front of me to little tiny bits and pieces…and then…attack the quarterback.  The coach noticed that I was too dense to know which player was actually the quarterback, so I was instructed to attack the guy with the lowest number.

The game of football was great!  Every play was another opportunity to destroy any opponent that stood in front of me. 

In 9^th grade, things began to change.  My coach asked me to start “reading” the offense and shifted me to linebacker.  He liked my aggressive play…but he was unaware of my poor reading ability…not only in class…but especially on the grid iron. 

“Ryan! You can’t always attack the quarterback! There are times when you need to drop back and cover the receivers or tight ends!” 

“But coach…the quarterback has the lowest number.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

My coach also began to make changes on offense.  He introduced me to what was known as the “trap.”  He instructed, that when the ball was snapped, I was supposed to leave the opponent in front of me and run to my left.  This struck me as very counter intuitive.  If I left the guy in front of me, there would be no one to stop him from attacking our player with the lowest number.  Additionally, he instructed the guys on the other side of the line to let the linebacker come through the line untouched. 

I became convinced that this 9^th grade coach was not going to see another season of football…he was an idiot…a lot like my 4^th grade teacher.  In fact he had the same name as my 4^th grade teacher. Now that I think about it…he WAS my 4^th grade teacher.

“Ryan…when the ball is snapped…I want you to leave your place…run to your left and smack the guy that will be standing right here,” he stated as he pointed to a specific point left of the center. 

“But coach…”

“No buts…just do it…”

We practiced the play for the remainder of that week and when our next game rolled around, sure enough he called for the “trap.”

The ball was snapped…I did as I was instructed and ran to my left, feeling very uncertain as to what would transpire.  I apprehensively left my opponent and ran to my left.  Just as I reached the point where the coach had pointed a linebacker appeared.  His eyes were like snake slits focused on digging his fangs into our own low numbered guy.  Just before the two of us met, I saw his eyes become hard boiled eggs of surprise as I blindsided him into the next county.  (Just to be clear…we were already in the next county).  As I blew him up, our running back exploded through the gap that was left behind us and scampered for a 65 yard touchdown.

It was at this moment that I went from believing my coach’s words to trusting in them.

Paul reveals a similar transformation in 1 Thessalonians 2:13-16.  Here Paul expresses a powerful exhortation to these people who have not only “heard” the message of the Gospel and believed it…but they were transformed by it.  Oh, may we become like the Thessalonians, who not only believe in the Word, but are transformed by the Word! 

May the Spirit of God transform our hearts to become “owned” by the Gospel of Grace.

 Starfish

 

Boldness can come in many forms.  For example, an overconfident 17-year-old boy might respond to his mother’s request to clean his room  or be grounded…with, “Oooo, scary!” in a mockingly shuddering tone. 

Bold? Yes.

Smart? No.

Rude? Absolutely.

Boldness could be seen in a Green Bay Packers’ fan braggingly strutting in front of a Vikings fan, boldly calling, “In your face!” after the overrated “blind rat” quarterback accidentally finds the cheese headed receiver in the end-zone…all hypothetical…of course.

Bold? Yes.

Smart? No.

The Result? Vikings win.  All losses are quickly wiped from my memory.

Other bold comments might include telling a pregnant woman that she looks, “terrible,” “tired,” “sleep deprived” or any statement drawing any attention to her physical growth.  Sometimes it is just better to not be quite so bold.

In 2013, my family visited one of the many water parks in the Wisconsin Dells.  These parks are nothing but cesspools of recycled water sanitized with heavy doses of chlorine and algaecide.  These parks are filled with daring and downright scary opportunities to approach death by plummeting into bacteria filled waters at inhuman speeds and death defying angles.  Somehow my brother-in-law convinced my 6-year-old daughter, Carissa to engage in the highest, steepest, scariest and most dangerous slide in the park…the Durango Drop! (cue the dramatic Indiana Jones style music).

As you approach the yellow, 350 ft., fiberglass chute of doom, you will find the warning signs.  “People with heart conditions should not ride,” “Pregnant women should not ride,” “Cowardly people should not ride,” “People with sensitive skin should not ride,” the lists of warnings seem endless.  After an infinite climb of the switch backed stairs, a red suited lifeguard, who seems to care more about their own perfect tan, than the well being…or age…of the would-be riders, gives instruction to each rider.  The words come in a monotone robotic voice, “Cross your feet and cross your arms over your chest.  Do not sit up during the ride and never uncross your arms or your feet or you may die.  Have a nice ride and enjoy your day on the Durango Drop!”

My 6-year-old daughter sat down at the top of the near 90 degree drop of the yellow shaft.  She crossed her legs.  She crossed her arms.  She laid back and began to slide down…at which time…in a panic she immediately uncrossed her legs, threw her arms out to each side, stretching to try and slow her decent, while sitting up to somehow flee from her imminent demise.  It was at this time that I, standing near the bottom, looked up to the top of the slide and saw what looked like a tiny starfish accelerating through the stream of water toward me.

As she splashed and tumbled to the bottom, she is pulled out of the water by another bronze skinned and red suited teenager.  The teenager set her back on her feet and pushed her in my direction.  She approached me like a drowned and drunken cat that had just climbed out of the muddy waters of the Mississippi. 

“Oh hello, Daddy!”

“Wow, Carissa! That was you going down that big scary slide?”

“Yes, Daddy!”

“Are you going to go again?”

“No, Daddy!”

I fear that perhaps I have been guilty of misunderstanding what boldness really is, especially in the context of Paul’s call to boldness in the Scriptures.  For most of my life, I have believed boldness to be an ability of a person to tell another person, with attitude, what they think, or what they believe, or what they think that you should do.  This boldness seemed to avoid taking into account how the other person may feel or think in response to the message or the attitude in which it was given.  I often see politicians attacking one another in aggressive boldness that is cutting and demeaning.  I have observed professional athletes present themselves in an elevated and egotistical boldness that leaves me un-attracted to associate with their fandom.

I believe that my daughter gave me perhaps a more accurate picture of the beauty of boldness.  Here, I saw a 6-year-old girl approach something very scary and intimidating and not back down.  If I had been there at the top of that slide, looking down…especially as a 6-year-old…I am quite certain that I would have turned around and gone right back to where I had come from. 

She did what was scary, and yet, was bold enough to tell me that she was unwilling to do it again.

I believe that the boldness that we see in Paul, Silas, Timothy and the Church in Thessalonica is in no way an arrogant, prideful, rude or in your face boldness. Rather, I see in their boldness of speaking the Gospel…a boldness to love in the gentleness of a mother and as one who cares as deeply as a father.

May we come to speak the Gospel with this kind of boldness.

 The Chore

When I was growing up, my older brother and I had to do ALL the chores in our home. It was he and I that had to feed the pigs and water the pigs and mow the lawn and wash the dishes and dry the dishes and put the dishes away and haul wood into the house to burn for heat.  My older brother and I were the ones who had to dig a 6ft x 8ft hole, 6 ft deep into the ground and then fill it with garbage…and then light it on fire.  My older brother and I did EVERYTHING! Our little brother and sister did NOTHING! I was pretty sure that my mom and dad didn’t do anything either.  When it came to laundry, house repairs, auto repairs, sweeping the floors, cooking, earning money and the other stuff that sometimes happens in a home…they just happened by themselves without anyone having to do them.  That is how it was in my home as I was growing up.

I remember telling my mom and dad at one point in my childhood, “I can’t wait to have kids of my own!”

“Oh really!? Why is that?” My mother asked.

“Because then I could make them do all the work like I do.”

My parents both laughed.

And they laughed.

And they laughed some more.

I have come to see that my perception and the reality were not aligned at that point in my life. I have come to see…that my older brother didn’t do anything either.

Now that I have children of my own, I too require them to do chores.  It is only fitting that I make them do all of the things that my parents made me do….except digging a large hole in the ground for burning garbage.  I am pretty sure that is illegal…and would be highly noticeable to the neighbors…and local law enforcement.  Any holes will have to be dug in the basement…under the cover of night. 

In my early parenting years, I differed from my own parents in that I attempted to divide all of these chores evenly among my children…as it seemed that that is what a good, highly-educated parent would do.  This is no longer the case.  I now assign jobs with whoever is nearest me, or who I see first or whoever has most recently upset me.

Like my own days as a child, my offspring also carry an aversion to chores.  Additionally, their perception about such chores is rock solid as a pogo stick in a rowboat. 

Just this morning I asked my son to do a job.  Not only was he the first child I saw, but he was also the one who stole my Snickers bar.  Upon the request of the task, you would have thought that I had asked him to dig a 6ft x 8ft hole 6 ft deep…with a teaspoon…in the basement of course.

“Ugh! Why do I always have to do it!?” He raged.

“Because you need more responsibility in your life!” I rebutted.

“My sisters do NOTHING around here!”

“I know…but you are the ONLY one I can trust with this job.”

“What!  That’s dumb…anyone can let the dog out to go potty.”

“Exactly!  See how simple it really is? Now stop acting like you need to climb Mount Everest, barefoot and without food and let the dog out.  It takes less than 60 seconds…I’ve timed it.”

He did it.  The dog did it.  It was over…until next time.

It astounds me how quickly we can lose sight of reality.  I am, likely, the guiltiest.  My perception of the events in my life can so easily become skewed.  It is at times like these in which I feel that everything in life is terrible and my world is collapsing around me.  Certainly there are some real sad and destructive events happening worldwide from, wars and famine and infanticide and violence and hate.  I believe that what God says is true…”the world is wearing out like a garment.”  Yet, there continues to be an ever present unchanging reality and that reality is that God is in control, He has a plan and He has a purpose…AND…He loves us more than we can ever imagine. 

Paul calls believers to the realities of life in 1 Thessalonians 1:1-10.  Paul wants the believers in Thessalonica to hold to the Truth…the Truth about God and to not be swayed by the perceptions of the world or the false perceptions that we often allow to misalign our thinking.

May we come to see the reality of God’s Truth!