Vaya Con Dios

Dearest Jeremy and Tracy,

Nothing very poetic or profound is coming to mind right now. Silly as it is, I'd hoped to write you guys something that sounded a little like Frost wrote it, something with depth but also a little emotional, recalling the last several years and anticipating the great adventure before you. Alas, it's still my fingers at the keyboard, and despite my efforts not to be selfish, I feel a great deal of loss right now. I'd hoped that somehow plans would change, and that you would stay in Atlanta. I've put this letter off for weeks, but it is time to write.

Let me hasten to say that despite my melancholy I am very happy for both of you. Tracy, this move will be a great blessing to Evan and Garrett. I know you already create a wonderful environment for your children, but the benefit of your presence at home will be beyond calculation. I am very happy for the kids, and for you.

In Hauerwas' book, A Community of Character, he wrote: "...one of the most morally substantive things any of us ever has the opportunity to do is to have children. A child represents our willingness to go on in the face of difficulties, suffering, and the ambiguity of modern life and is thus our claim that we have something worthwhile to pass on." (p. 165)

I read Hauerwas' comment to mean that the bearing of children is a type of ethical dissent from the world's authorities. The world may thunder, "No!" but in Jesus Christ we are made bold to answer, "Yes!" We do more in becoming parents than merely say "there is something worth living for," although that is no small claim. We are also saying there is something worth dying for, something worth teaching, something worth handing down to our children. In short, we have children so that we might make them disciples of Jesus Christ - a mission clearly not lost on you.

Jeremy, do you remember when we were discussing forming a new Sunday school class? When you shared your vision of what the class might become I knew it was going to be tremendous success. By the way, is it possible that was really six years ago? Brother, thank you so much for your faithfulness to the Open Word. I've never seen a better Sunday school teacher, or one who thought more pastorally about his or her class than you. The members of your class have benefited greatly by your teaching and much more so by simply watching you follow Jesus.

It would be difficult to overstate how important the two of you have been in the life of PCC for the last several years. I am certain I couldn't overstate how important you've been in my life. You've been wonderful friends to me. At times when I needed friends, you've been there. The times we've prayed together, studied together and discussed theology and discipleship over lunch have been more important for my life than I let you know. You've both reminded me, and in many ways, that there is no disconnect between true theology and praxis; rather, they are two sides of the same thing. Your thoughtful ways of approaching issues not only helped me clarify my own perspectives, but also enabled me to be a better disciple. Thank you.

May you meet your new opportunities and challenges with the grace and faithfulness that have been yours through Jesus Christ. May your expectations for your lives and those of your children be as high (and as low) as the Father would have them. May your new home be a haven for those shoved to the margins. May your children grow up to be followers of the Way, and may you live to see their professions of faith and baptisms. May your new careers be a source of joy, not only to you and to others, but primarily to your King. And may you, my dearest sister and brother, be always and forever loyal subjects of "the world's true Lord."

Pax Christi,

RB

My Cheesus, I Love Thee

Apparently not everyone in the "show me" state is as hard to convince as the nickname implies. Kelly Ramey of High Ridge, MO recently opened a bag of Cheetos (presumably looking only for crunchy cheesy delectables) when she discovered the Lord of the Universe revealed therein. A seemingly ordinary sack of snack contained One very special Cheeto -- the Divine Cheeto. Cue organ music. As Mrs. Ramey feasted on the cheesy goodness one unique Cheeto caught her eye. It was wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in her fingers.

Just kidding. I made that part up, and I apologize. There is no need to get silly when discussing Jesus in Cheetos. Actually, Mrs. Ramey nearly ate the aforementioned epiphany when she noticed that her next morsel looked just like Jesus on a cross. She and her husband, unnamed in the report (which makes him the smartest person in the "news" story), named the Cheeto, "Cheesus." Perfect. I don't want you to miss this point (we preachers always have points): Mrs. Ramey actually had the courage to show Cheesus to her friends and neighbors and explain to them what she saw. In my estimation, this makes her, the boldest witness in the history of Christendom. Most agreed with her -- it looks like Jesus. Still others doubted. Go figure.

The story did not say whether Cheesus has healing abilities. You have to wonder, though. The whole thing raises for me another, less exciting question: where should we expect to find Jesus?

Enter the expert. Knowing at least that you can't leave these things in the hands of the untrained, someone in High Ridge, MO summoned the local pastor. When asked, the preacher said he saw nothing "theologically special" about the Cheeto Thank you, Cheesus. What a relief! But, does that mean there could be something theologically ordinary about the Cheeto? It's worth considering.

Anyway, Cheesus, it turns out, is not for sale. The Ramey's intend to put Cheesus in a box (don't we always?) and have him/it on display for all to enjoy. Mrs. Ramey added, "I think the bottom line is the joy that it is bringing; I really do." Maybe she's right, but I disagree. To me, the bottom line is that they are cooked to a crackly crunch and are yummy beyond description.

Of course, people have seen Jesus in a lot of things over the years. I once served in a church camp where kids were encouraged to see Jesus in everything -- Jesus in the bark of a tree, Jesus in the dung left by wild animals (it was a raccoon), Jesus in the gravel dumped the day before by a big truck, and Jesus in weeds winding their way up a pole. So, to me, seeing Jesus in Cheesus is not so big a stretch. Isn't that the way God works? Always surprising us and appearing where we'd expect him least.

Call me a fundy and hand me a big black Bible, but my suggestion is that, instead of looking for Jesus in Cheetos and raccoon poo, we might try seeing him in the poor. Take the Cheeto (or maybe something a tad more nutritious) and hand it to the homeless man sitting by the curb. Make some sandwiches and deliver them to a shelter. You may well be surprised whose face you see there. While we're at it, maybe we should also look to see Jesus in the word of Scripture. It is a dusty, archaic old book, but it has served us well for a long time and delivers far more nutrition at funerals than Cheetos.

Someone said of the whole Cheeto ordeal, "This is not a divine discovery, but some good could come from all of this." Um, I'm not so sure. Especially not if you swallow it.

The "Take Up Your Cross" PJs, on the other hand, aren't selling so well.

Open House?

"If they so much as start toward the bedrooms I will tackle them on the stair case or yell, 'Fire! Fire!' and run out of the house."

Wendy knew I wasn't kidding. It had been one of those weeks (or one of those months) in which we'd had meetings or ballgames every night, and ballgames all day on Saturdays. No one had done any laundry or made a bed or picked up a stitch off the floor. The last thing we wanted was for anyone to see what pigs we were, so of course, you know precisely where this story is going.

The phone rang; I answered, and the conversation went something like this:

"Hey Rev.! We're right around the corner, and just wanted to make sure you were at home. We'll be there in a couple of minutes. We can't stay long. I hope it suits..."

"Well, as a matter of fact, this is not a good... [click! bzzzzz]. Hello? Hello!!?? Awww @#$%! Wendy!"

The next two minutes were spent trying to close bedroom doors, tidy up the downstairs bathroom, which was hopeless because we have two boys who, when they were younger, thought using the toilet was sort of like horse shoes. Just get it close... Thank goodness the kitchen and downstairs were semi-respectable.

The doorbell rang roughly 30 seconds after the phone call ended. I swear they were already in the driveway when they called. Panicked that someone might just see us as we really are or at least as we are when we haven't cleaned up for company, I turned to Wendy with a big smile (because our "guests" could see me through the glass on the front door): "If they so much as start toward the bedrooms I will tackle them on the stair case or yell, 'Fire! Fire!' and run out of the house."

Like Adam and Eve covering themselves with fig leaves and hiding from God, we spend much of our lives not wanting anyone, not anyone, to see us as we really are. How far removed we are from Eden.

[As Christians,] we aren't meant simply to invite people into our homes, but into our lives as well. Having guests and visitors, if we do it right, isn't an imposition because we aren't meant to rearrange our lives for our guests—we're meant to invite our guests to enter into our lives as they are. It is this forging of relationships that transforms entertaining (i.e., deadly dull parties at the country club) into hospitality (i.e., a simple pizza on my floor). As writer Karen Burton Mains puts it, "Visitors may be more than guests in our home. If they like, they may be friends."

I don't find inviting people into my life much easier than inviting them into my apartment. At its core, I think, cultivating an intimacy in which people can know and be known requires being honest—practicing that other Christian discipline of telling the truth about where we live and how we got there. Often, I'd rather dissemble. Often, just as I'd rather welcome guests into a cozy apartment worthy of Southern Living, I'd rather show them a Lauren who is perfect and put together and serene. Often, telling the truth feels absurd (Lauren F. Winner, Mudhouse Bath, p. 50f).

So you see, asking people into my life isn't so different from asking them into my apartment. Like my apartment, my interior life never is going to be wholly respectable, cleaned up, and gleaming. But that's where I live. In the certitude of God, I ought to be able to risk issuing the occasional invitation (Mudhouse Bath, 53).

Axe Murderers, Angels and Alex

"Dad, pull over and pick him up! He's just a kid."

I had seen the hitchhiker way over on the right side of the highway, but since we were in the far left HOV lane and moving sort of fast, and since I knew it would be dangerous even to try to stop, I had not considered it. The fact that I don't want a knife planted in the back of my neck may have also played a role in my decision to keep going.

"He's probably an axe murderer," I said. "Plus, I am needed at the hospice," - a beautifully played religion card.

"Dad!" Andrew would have none of it. "Pull over."

"Ugh. " I said, the love of Jesus evident in my groan. Pulling over I promised Andrew that when this guy drew his knife or gun or whatever he surely had in store for us, he would need kill only me because the first thing I was going to do was dive for Andrew's neck! Andrew smiled as if happy at making the old man live up to all that Jesus stuff he's endured since birth.

So, at great peril to myself (not unlike St. Paul enduring raging seas en route to share the gospel in new territory, I might add), I cut across four lanes of I-75 and pulled over to a stop - about 200 yards past the hitchhiker. I could see him running toward us and I sized him up all the way. My car was still in gear. He had one small blue duffel bag and an extra long skateboard that was nearly as big as he was. He stood all of 5'6" and weighed no more than 100 lbs. Red, unkempt hair and pimples. He wore tattered jeans and a green tank top. A checkered scarf lay round his neck. It looked like it needed a broach on it. A very skinny kid, he looked real young - 15, 16 maybe.

"Where you headed?" I asked as he got to the car. "Please say 'next exit'. Please say 'next exit'," I thought.

"Far as you can take me," he said.

"But specifically where are you going?"

"Salt Lake City, Utah" he said with the faint sound of resignation in his voice.

Relieved that we were going different directions - soon - and that we thus couldn't take him very far at all, I replied, "Well, we'll be heading East on I-285," gesturing toward the large green sign above us. "That's only about two miles, but I guess we can take you that far." I must have sounded quite chipper. It feels good to help people.

"Every little bit helps," he replied, quoting the hitchhiker creed.

Turns out he was actually 18 years old though he did not look it. He'd been on vacation in West Palm Beach with his (soon to be former) roommate and some "friends." Three mornings earlier he'd awakened to find the room empty and his wallet gone. He had four bucks on him. Hitchhiking for three days, sleeping in the woods, eating whatever he could, he was now in my car. Ugh.

We hadn't traveled 100 yards together when I knew we were going places I would not choose. I hate admitting it, but I wasn't really excited about helping this kid. No warm feeling of the good volunteer swept over me. This was an interruption. I had important God-business to do. I was on my way to the PCC Hospice to visit a dying friend and I was in a hurry to get there. Further, I was delighted that my college sophomore son Andrew had been willing to accompany me, and I was looking forward to some rare time alone with him. But this hitchhiker kid was small, frail looking, and had the proverbial deer-in-headlights look. Ugh. Every once in a while Jesus gets in the way of my serving Jesus.

So, instead of pulling off the road at the junction of 75 and 285, I continued north. "We'll get you just a few exits up the road, but then I have places to be," still lying to myself about how this was going to turn out. I immediately dialed FREE-411 and got the 800 number for Greyhound. After pushing a few buttons, I discovered that it would cost 183 bucks to put this kid on a bus to Salt Lake City.

"You interested in a bus ticket to Utah?" I asked.

"Sure!" he said, "but I've only got four dollars to my name." He was unable to suppress his smile.

"Well you're going to have to ride with us for a while, because I have to visit someone in a hospice," I said. I wanted him to know my visit was more important than whatever business he might have. "Then we'll see about a bus ticket. By the way, what's your name?"

"Alex."

We made it to the hospice and I spent about a half an hour there. A wonderful saint has leukemia; she's dying. We talked about that a little, though I'm not sure how much she really understood. She was pleasant as she has always been. I prayed with her, and then we left.

We drove straight to the bus station in downtown Atlanta. If you've ever been to the Greyhound station, you know the scene: a lot of people milled about on the sidewalks, both sides of the street. Talking, smoking, some sharing brown bags. Weather beaten faces and dirty clothes. A guy asked me for my spare change. Alex and I walked into the station and waited in line for about thirty minutes before he got his ticket. The bus was going to leave at 12:45AM (Monday morning), and in just under two days, he'd be home. He felt good. I felt good. And just as I was about to shake Alex's hand and wish him well, I got the impression that Jesus was not done yet. Next thing I knew I heard this voice that sounded strangely like mine saying, "You need to come home with us until time for your bus." Ugh. We stopped at WalMart to buy Alex some snacks for the trip. Two days is a long time when you've got four bucks, and Alex loaded up on drinks, cookies, crackers, trail mix and slim-jims.

Wendy has always been pure gold when I pull these stunts, and Sunday night was no different. Sh had an unmistakable delight in her voice when I informed her I was bringing Alex home for a few hours. I know you're thinking that I should have asked Wendy first, but I know her. It was a gamble, but not much of one. She got out ham for sandwiches along with all the trappings. A bag of those little baby carrots, a couple of bottles of water. She kept shoving food at Alex until he said, "Ma'am, I don't have anywhere else to put any food."

Alex took a shower (his first in three days) , and Wendy found him a pair of fresh socks. He plopped down on the sofa and watched TV. It turns out Alex was a really bright kid who made good grades in high school, graduated early, and even had a year of college under his belt. At eighteen, however, he was completely on his own in the world. We chatted a bit about life, religion, his family -- such as it was. He had, as he put it, "lots of 'dads' that were [his] mother's friends." His birth father abandoned them when Alex was about 5 years old. Alex said he had reached out to him in recent years only to hear, "I'm not your father. I just got your mother pregnant a long time ago." Alex just stared out the window a while after telling me that.

When the time came for me to drive Alex to the station he thanked everyone in the family. Wendy slipped him a twenty, and he gathered his few things. We drove in silence for a while until I could bear it no more. I began the parent routine: do not leave the Greyhound station for any reason. Do not leave your bag unattended for any reason. Do not look anyone in the eye, and if you do, don't lock in on them. Did he still have that twenty? I forgot to tell him not to accept candy from strangers. I was very caring and quite impressed with myself.

Alex's response was perfect: "Do you mind sitting in the car while I stand just outside to smoke a cigarette? This doesn't look like a safe place."

"Sure."

A man came up to Alex while he smoked and offered to sell him something. I think he was selling crack, but neither of us could understand him. Alex finished his cigarette in a hurry, and opened the back door. Before he got all of his stuff out of the car, I asked him if I could pray with him.

"Oh yes," he said, "would you please?" I was surprised to hear that.

We bowed our heads, held hands, and prayed a long time, street toughs just a few feet away, watching. I squeezed his hands when I finished. When we finished praying Alex looked me in the eye and said as sincerely as I can imagine it being said, "Thanks." And with that he was gone -- the 183 dollar Greyhound ticket in his hand.

I believe that was gospel money well spent. I hope you do, too. But this was no good Samaritan type story. Rather, looking back, it gives me the odd impression of having been oblivious to an angel in my presence.

Whether we realize it or not -- and we need to realize it! -- we are more intimately connected to those with whom we share worship and prayer -- rich and poor, black and white, American, Asian, African, the immigrant crossing the border, the victims of violence, the reviled, the outcast, and the pariahs, heterosexuals and homosexuals -- than to partisan allies or compatriots. That might sound like a dangerous notion, but Christian discipleship is a venture filled with difficult risks and demands. The love that is perfectly lived and share in God is the same love felt, tasted and celebrated in the church, and because that is true, the members of the body of Christ, citizens in the Kingdom of God, live according to a different standard than political loyalty and personal preferences. (Charles Marsh, Wayward Christian Soldiers: Freeing the Gospel from Political Captivity, 118)

Who Will Be Saved? (Continuing our discussion of Will Willimon's book)

Chapter 4 -- Christ Triumphant

Will Willimon wants to believe that everyone, believer and unbeliever, Christian, Jew, Muslim, Hindu, atheist, agnostic and all those in between will be saved. I join him in that hope.

We don't know the fate of those who reject Jesus. I'm aware it doesn't take even a modicum of humility to write that sentence, so I don't offer it looking for admiration. Only those who claim to know what God knows may profess also to know who will be "in" and who will be "out" in the end. But the sentence above says more than just that. It's not that we don't know the fate of this or that individual. Of course that's true. Rather, we do not know if any human beings who decide not to follow Jesus will be damned. Yes, the Bible teaches there is a place or state of eternal punishment, but we do not know if it will be populated by any human beings. We do know it wasn't made for humanity. We do know that "with God all things are possible," and that we serve a God who is, it appears, less than impressed with our failures and utterly determined to be triumphant in his effort to redeem all of creation -- human beings included.

To reject the salvation that is offered in Jesus Christ would be a tragic decision, a slap in God's face. Yet it is hard to know just what such a human decision means, in the final scheme of things. Scripture is clear that our human decisions are relative to all the decisions God is making for us (55).

God's "yes" may, in the end, trump our every, "no." Over and again the God of the Bible demonstrates his determination to have his way with us, not because of us, but because of His nature, His love, His prodigal nature. Ultimately, Willimon concludes "something like 'universal salvation' is a fair implication of what we know of Jesus as well as what he taught" (66).

Will God save everyone? There is an awful lot in the Christian scripture and tradition which indicates otherwise even if the good Bishop chooses not to dwell on it in his book. As much as Willimon hopes (as do I) that in the end God welcomes everyone, receives and saves everyone, I'm not so sure that is the most complete reading of the Bible. I admit, however, it is the most appealing.

July 4th, Indepence, and true Freedom

The Second Continental Congress voted to adopt the Declaration of Independence on July 4th, 1776. It was then that the colonies formally and most decisively declared that they would be under no one's rule, save that government created by the "consent of the governed." Today is the day citizens and friends of the United States celebrate socio-political freedom (I borrowed that phrase, but I can't recall where). Let Christians in the United States of America join with others in this nation to celebrate the great value of that freedom. Can anyone disagree that it is better to live under a democratic/republican form of self-government than it is to live under a totalitarian regime of any stripe? At the same time, let believers be clear: as wonderful as socio-political freedom is, it is not the freedom won for us in Christ Jesus. It is not that for which Christ died. Neither is the success of the gospel is tied to, or dependent upon an American form of freedom. God is God whether socio-political freedom exists for us or not. Let us be thankful for this freedom, but let us never confuse it with anything lasting -- or anything distinctively Christian.