Traveling Through Time: Harvey Style

Friday morning, we left Victoria, Texas, to drive to Tuscaloosa, Alabama, and celebrate our oldest daughter's 20th birthday. We drove up US-59/I-69 to Houston and then I-10 into Louisiana. The drive was surreal.

When Harvey hit Victoria, he was packing 100+ mile per hour winds. Between the storm's hurricane winds, and the tornadoes he spawned, our area received a lot of wind damage. You cannot drive far without seeing shingles that were fluttered and ruffled, like an old, mad hen. Trees - beautiful, old live oaks, pin oaks, and post oaks - met their demise as the wind caught their sprawling branches and pushed, shoved, and bullied the ancient trees down to the ground. Once green, they quickly died and dried into crackling piles of leaves and branches. Firewood will not be in short supply for years.

Driving along, further evidence of Harvey's power was seen: billboards were stripped of odd layers of advertisements, so the same sign tried to sell a Pennzoil 10-W-30 Big Mac with a F-350 Heavy Duty by calling 1-800-something for service on your septic system. Other billboards weren't as lucky, as hunks of steel and aluminum were strewn through a pasture, unable to sell anything. Roofs were ripped off, sheds were ripped down, and machine shops were ripped open, leaving electric cables and ceiling tiles dancing in the breeze while we drove by.

Yep...Harvey had sure done a number on South Texas.

Somewhere around El Campo, the scene began to change. There was less and less evidence of wind destruction. Fewer trees were laid over, bulletin boards knocked down, and buildings torn open. But, more and more, we began seeing water damage. Out in the country, at 75mph, it was hard to notice much, specifically; but I could see where debris had hung on fences. Then, there were piles of brush, hay, and other detrius that had been bushed off the highway so cars could safely drive by. In Wharton, while Buckee's was again open, with doors closed to preserve air conditioning, there were plenty of other buildings with doors and windows open for air flow.

And then there was Houston. I was busy driving, and concentrating on the traffic around me, to pay too close of attention to details, but with quick glances I could see debris...hanging on overhead power lines and light poles fifteen feet up. Driving through "The Canyon," it was humbling to look (peek) up and know that water was 20 feet above my head. And, when going over overpasses, I wondered how many had huddled there, dazed and confused, after a USCG MH-60 helo dropped them off to go find more people trapped in rising flood waters.

East of Houston - my old stomping ground - we drove over the I-10 bridge crossing the San Jacinto river. At one point the water had been at the top of the concrete median that was as high as the car window, but that morning as we drove over, tug boats were underneath the bridge - where they belong - pushing barges around. We drove past Cedar Bayou where the new CONUS rainfall record was set, 51.84" over 8 days, 24-31 August, 2017. And we drove across a dry road between dry fields where just a 20 days earlier you needed a boat to go down the same interstate...which was ten feet beneath you.

But what struck me the most was when we got closer to Beaumont: for miles and miles, in front of homes and businesses, were piles of debris: carpet, shelves, cabinets, appliances, and furniture. I could see the big stuff, but I couldn't see the little stuff that meant so much to people: pictures of the first day of kindergarten, a crayon drawing of the family hung on the fridge, a school note about open house, a son's Marine boot camp photo, a daughter's flag case from when she was laid to rest at the National Cemetery, grandma's box of secret recipes, dad's antique clock. So many memories and so many stories, all joined together in a pile, waiting for the garbage trucks to haul them off to landfills.

And there was a smell...a funky, sour smell that even the car air conditioning couldn't eliminate. I'm sure it was a combination of mold, rot, leaked chemicals...and death.

It was a humbling and eye-opening journey as we followed Harvey's path of destruction. What began as a violent, shearing and grinding of wind evolved into the slow -and then more rapid - rise of water. I was reminded of the old VBS song, "The rains came down and the floods came up..." except it didnt matter what the foundation was - the houses flooded with water's terribly unstoppable and fluid power and efficiency.

In the days after the storm, you heard phrases like Texas Strong, and We Shall Rise! Maybe, but for some, maybe not. As I put the hammer down, east bound and down, and was on the road again, I was guilty grateful to put the scenes of destruction in the rear view mirror. There, but for the grace of God, could have been me.

Forgiveness is For Giving

The Baptized Life of Being Forgiven and Forgiving

Matthew 18:21-40

(Please forgive typos and editorial errors. This was the product of a unsatisfactory manuscript when I went to bed, a restless night's editing in my sleep, and a re-write this morning. Since the subject is forgiveness, I ask that of the reader as well. -JFM)

I wonder why Peter asked the question of Jesus. What happened that he had to ask Jesus, “How often will my brother sin against me and I forgive him?” Did John take the last piece of grilled fish again? Did James leave the fishing nets tangled up in a wet ball on the boat floor instead of hanging them up to dry overnight? Perhaps Peter’s mother in law complained one too many times about the hours he was with Jesus and away from the family. Put yourself in Peter’s sandals for a second: your spouse, your parent, your child, your co-worker keeps doing the same thing to you and will continue to do it over and over and over again. How many times must you forgive him or her? What’s your answer?  

“How often will my brother sin against me and I forgive him?” Forgive… You’ve all heard the old adage, “Forgive and forget,” right? As if to say that to forgive, you should have amnesia of the event that took place against you. Forgiveness does not mean that at all. Your memory is a very powerful tool and a gift from God – even if it recalls things you wish you could forgive and forget. Some sins are, simply, so painful that they might never be forgotten. To forgive, as is used in today’s Gospel lesson, means to leave an issue alone and not concern one’s self with it any longer. Another way to say this is to refuse to take up the offense again in order to hurt the one who sinned against me. There’s a sense of letting the sin go, leaving the offense behind, and canceling the demand for equal payment. That’s what it means to forgive.

To be very fair, Peter’s answer of seven times is quite generous: the rabbis at the time taught that forgiving three times was sufficient. But while it may be generous in human terms, Jesus speaks of the generosity of grace that only He can give: “I say to you, not seven times, but seventy times seven.” Jesus doesn’t mean we should keep a score card and once we hit #490 we can take the gloves off for the next one. The point is made to the extreme: do you think you could keep track this long, Peter? Do you think you could count each and every infraction, Peter? Is it that important that you need to keep score? Of course not, Peter. Let forgiveness overflow. (Just a quick note…some translations say “seventy seven times.” The better translation from the Greek text is “seventy times seven.” Either way, the same point is made.)

To help explain, Jesus tells this simple parable. A king is owed ten thousand talents. If you’re curious, using modern comparison values, it would take a working man about 16 ½ years, with no time off, to earn one talent. Remember, he owed ten thousand talents. Again, Jesus is using the extreme to illustrate the point: how could one man accrue 160,000 years’ worth of debt? Only because the king has been that generous to begin with. That’s the remarkable point: the servant cannot pay, yet the king continues to deliver grace upon grace in extending both the time of the note and the balance due. Finally, the servant was summoned and accounts were demanded, and he begged for more time with the foolishly impossible pledge to repay the entire amount (remember, 160,000 years of work). And the king, generosity compounded upon generosity, takes the man’s unsurpassable debt and the king himself surpasses it by forgiving the debt: it will no longer be held against you.

This is the image of what God has done for us in Christ Jesus. He takes all of your sins away from you. All of them. We categorize them, don’t we – the Catechism uses words like actual sins and original sins; omission (when I don’t do what I should), or commission (doing what I shouldn’t); we speak of sins of weakness and sins of desire or deliberate, willful sins; we talk about public sins and private sins; we say we have sinned against God and we have sinned against man; we even admit there are sins we have done and we don’t even realize them as sins. Yet, all of them – however you might characterize or categorize them – all of them are a damnable debt. The Scriptures tell us that the wages – or, in this case, the debt – of sin is death; not merely the heart stop beating, but eternal deadly separation from God.

In the parable, the king takes the debt and, the text says, “released him.” That sounds so clean, doesn’t it? Like you see in the movies: a store owner takes a receipt and tears it in two, or a loan agency hits the DELETE button on the computer. No…that’s too clinical, to neat, too simple. If that’s your idea of forgiveness, then your understanding of forgiveness is way too neat and tidy as well. Forgiveness isn’t neat…well, maybe to the recipient, but not to the one who must pay the debt. Think about it…the store owner who tears up the receipt for his customer, he is covering the expense from his profits. The loan officer is paying the note from his own salary. But forgiveness? Who pays that debt? The debt is sin, remember? It can’t be just whitewashed away. It must be paid, in full, by someone.

 There is an unspoken behind-the-scenes story to the parable. This is the part that happens off-script: the part of the debt being settled, out of sight of our friend, the servant. There was another Servant – this one, with the Capitol S – who also enters into the King’s presence. In fact, he wasn’t even a servant, He was royalty Himself, but He made himself out to be nothing more than a common servant. This Servant was debt free, with no sins to be held against Him. No sins, no debt; no debt, no death was demanded. Yet, the Servant negotiates with the King: I’ll take my brother’s debt and in exchange he can have my freedom. I know the debt demands life; I’ll trade my life for his; I’ll buy his debt with my blood. That is what Jesus did at the cross. His death, in your place, paid the debt of sins – every sin you have ever committed in thought, word and deed, what you have done and what you have left undone, from not loving God with your whole heart to not loving your neighbor as yourself – in full. And there was nothing clean about this payment: there was spitting and swearing and nail-piercing and sword stabbing and total abandonment by God so that you – you – would not have to pay that terrible price yourself. The result? God remembers your sins no more. You are forgiven in the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

I imagine that the king expected this servant to become a deliverer of forgiveness, an ambassador of grace, if you will, likewise releasing all of the loans and notes that he had given out over the years. Having been freed from the inescapable burden of his debts, surely he will want to share this freedom with others!

The servant is heading home to tell his family the good news – “Hey, honey…we just avoided debtor’s prison…you can keep the good silver!” – and he runs across a fellow servant who owes him 100 denarii. A denarius was a day’s wage, so this is about 3 ½ months of work. Having been forgiven 160,000 years’ work, surely he’ll release this debt. He will forgive as he has been forgiven.  No… Not only does our friend not see the debt owed to him within the framework of the grace he has just received, he also sees himself as someone who is to meter out a sense of justice. He demand the cash immediately and, when it can’t be paid, he throws this servant and his family into debtor’s prison.

Who would do such a thing as this – having been forgiven so much, yet refusing to forgive so little. We would never do such a thing! Surely, not I! Yet we do exactly that thing, don’t we. We stand here, in front of the King of Kings and Lord of Lords and confess our sins and we hear the beautiful, sweet words that, baptized into Christ, our sinner’s debt is paid in full, removed as far as the east from the west. Yet, as we leave here, we see those who have sinned against us. We see the sister who insulted our potluck offering. We see the brother who did not let us sit on a committee. We see the Sunday school teacher who hurt our feelings. We see the people who didn’t accept our ideas, we see the people who voted opposite us, we see the people who left us out of the group. During the week, there’s the boss who called us in to HR for something we didn’t do; the team member whose mistake cost the contract; the former church members and former pastor who left Zion behind and began a new church just down the road. And when we see them, the anger flares, old feelings arise, and we want justice. We want what is owed us. We five times five (making fists), not seven times seven.

Here is the Christian life of discipleship: having been forgiven much, all of our sins, all of our debts, completely forgiven by God’s grace through faith in Christ Jesus, we are called to forgive those around us who have hurt or harmed us. Forgive…easy to say, hard to do. That’s because, in large part, forgiveness is no longer something that is natural to mankind. It’s ironic, if you stop to think about it --- before the fall, forgiveness wasn’t needed; now, after the fall, we are unable to do it by ourselves. In Christ, we are called to be ambassadors of the King of King’s grace and mercy, forgiving as we have likewise been forgiven. Yet, out human nature, in what is a very logical, rational, and understandable frame of mind, demands what is owed to us. With our eyes centered only on what is owed us, we lose sight of what has been forgiven us. If my forgiveness is grounded in my own heart, my own mind; if your forgiveness is grounded in your own heart, your own mind, you will find this part of discipleship a terrible burden – another debt that is impossible to keep. So, Christ rushes in. By the power of the Holy Spirit He exposes our unforgiving heart.  He performs radical heart surgery, using the Word of God, sharper than any two-edged sword. He doesn’t just tweak what is within us, tuning it up a bit. He creates a new heart within us and renews us with His Spirit. He delivers baptismal grace into our lives so that, filled with Christ’s love, we life fully, freely, forgiven.

This is the life of repentance: confessing our sins and being absolved; and then living in joy-filled, sanctified life day in and day out, returning to be forgiven again and again to a King of Kings who never tires of forgiving our sins against Him and against others. And that sanctified, forgiven life transforms not only our hearts, but also our eyes so that we are able to see others through the cross-centered eyes of Jesus. Through the eyes of Jesus, we no longer see a servant who owes us. Instead we see a fellow sinner who also stood before the King, who was also called to give account for his debts, and who also received the amazing news that his debts have been released. He, too, she, too is forgiven. And here we stand, a new heart beating within us filled with the love, mercy and grace of Christ – what else can we do except be an ambassador of that same love, mercy and grace to those who are around us?

There is a big difference between, “There’s just no way I’m about to forgive that so-and-so for what he did to me” – in other words, “I won’t forgive,” and “I wish I could forgive, but the pain is just so deep, I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to really forgive” – in other words, “I just can’t forgive.” “I won’t forgive,” is what the unforgiving servant said and those are very dangerous words. “Then his master summoned him and said to him, ‘You wicked servant! I forgave you all that debt because you pleaded with me. ³³ And should not you have had mercy on your fellow servant, as I had mercy on you?’ ³⁴ And in anger his master delivered him to the jailers,^[e] until he should pay all his debt. ³⁵ So also my heavenly Father will do to every one of you, if you do not forgive your brother from your heart.”

But to the Christian who says, “I can’t forgive,” and does so with sorrow, humility, and the desire to be able to forgive – in other words, this is the real anfechung where faith and world are grinding together; a new heart that says “I forgive,” but an old heart that beats right next to it unable to forgive – dear Christian, confess that as well. Just as the disciples prayed, “Lord, I believe! Help my unbelief!” we join with a similar petition, “Lord, I forgive! Forgive me my unforgiveness.” And sometimes you will do that day after day, hour by hour. You may do that for the rest of your life. Pray for that brother or sister who hurt you – not about them, “God – you need to make them sorry…” – but about them – “Heavenly Father, look with mercy upon…” What you discover is that your own heart will begin to soften as you look with cross-centered eyes. And, to strengthen you as you wrestle with this life of forgiven and forgiving discipleship, the Lord Jesus gives you His own blood to strengthen you in the sanctified life of forgiving. But He doesn’t leave it there. He also reminds you, dear brother and sister, to depart in peace for your sins have been forgiven.

Depart in peace. And, in peace, be an ambassador of forgiveness.

The Least of Us is the Greatest of All - Matthew 18:1-20

Zion Lutheran Church
Mission Valley, TX

The Least of Us is the Greatest of All
Matthew 18:1-20

This morning’s Gospel lesson is probably going to make you uncomfortable. And that is good. Sometimes we need the Scriptures to make us uncomfortable because we have gotten too comfortable in our modern, North American lifestyle and culture which does not always line up with where we should be as children of God. We need to be shaken up a bit, stirred up a bit, so we can be re-focused and cross-thinking. But doing that – necessary though it might be – can sometimes be uncomfortable.

You have been warned.

It begins simply enough with the question, “Who is the greatest in the kingdom?” It’s asked by disciples wanting to know who’s the best disciple, who has bragging rights, who gets to wear the #1 on their Team Jesus jersey.

I can relate to that. After all, “Who’s the greatest?” is all around us. When I go up to the school, I can’t park in that spot – it’s for the Teacher of the Month. Look above the water cooler at the store – there’s a photo of the Associate of the Month. The University of Alabama each week announces at a post-game press conference who the offensive and defensive players of the week are, and those are coveted announcements, I assure you. I walk into a pastor’s conference and look around and wonder, “Who’s the best preacher here?” It’s all around us. So we argue about who’s the greatest Dallas Cowboy quarterback of all time, or the greatest pitcher in baseball; we wonder who is the greatest cook or the greatest CEO; we ask ourselves who’s the greatest mom at the PTA meeting; we wonder who the best student or child is.

What makes the greatest? In football, it’s yards or touchdowns or tackles. In baseball it’s strike-outs or home runs. Cooks compete for coveted Michelin stars. Mothers compare mother’s day flower bouquets. Dads, it’s tacky ties. Pastors, it’s the fewest snores on a Sunday.

Ah…to be labeled the GOAT – the Greatest Of All Time… It’s a human desire, a need, to be the best of the best. Just ask Mohammed Ali.

So, apply the logic to the disciples’ question. Who’s the greatest disciple? Peter…now there’s a contender, right? Big, bold Peter…the spokesperson of the disciples. “You are the Christ the Son of the living God,” Peter said; Jesus replied, “Blessed are you, Simon Bar Jonah…You are Petros, and on this rock I will build my church.” Peter - he’s a lock, right? Or at least a contender? Nope…it’s not him. He’s not the GOAT. He’s just a rock.

How about John, after all, he’s the disciple whom Jesus loved, right? Da Vinci paints him leaning against Jesus’ chest in his painting of the Last Supper. Or Luke, who writes the first history of the Church in the book of Acts? Or maybe James, who will become the first bishop of Jerusalem?

When Jesus is asked the question, “who’s the greatest?” you better be ready to get a big surprise because it’s not going to be who you think it will be.  He doesn’t name Peter, or James or John, or Mary or Martha. Instead, St. Mathew records, “² He called a little child to him, and placed the child among them. ³ And he said: “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. ⁴ Therefore, whoever takes the lowly position of this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. ⁵ And whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me.”

To understand this, I need you to set aside our modern, Romanticized Western idea regarding children. We view children as innocent; we see them as precious little ones who need to be protected, coddled and preserved. We picture them with cherubic, angelic innocence floating on clouds. I need you to take all of those romantic notions and toss them out. Instead, I need you to see children as they were in Jesus’ day: children were tolerated, and not much more, while parents waited for them to grow up to start working or get married and have babies. Children were not coddled; they were not seen as cute or innocent; they were not precious. They were at almost the same level as a slave.

With that understanding, Jesus choice of the greatest should be shocking. The greatest wasn’t the strongest; it was the weakest. The greatest wasn’t the most eloquent; it was the simplest of speech. The greatest wasn’t the most boastful; it was the most humble. The greatest wasn’t the bravest; it was the most afraid. The greatest wasn’t the toughest; it was the neediest. The greatest wasn’t the most giving; it was the most needy.

In other words, the greatest was actually the least. This little child - who is the lowest in society, who is tolerated and not much else, who is needy and weak and insignificant – the child is the greatest in the kingdom.

To be the greatest in the kingdom, you must become like a child – not in age, not in “innocence,” but in the complete inability to do anything to help, rescue, save, or redeem yourself. The least are the greatest, not because they can offer anything to the kingdom. In fact, that inability is what makes them great! They are great because they have complete and total reliance upon Jesus. In the rest of the Gospel lesson, Jesus explains they are great because they are in the greatest danger of wandering from the faith, or being seduced by the devil, or being lost into eternity not even realizing the danger they are in. They are great because they are in the deepest physical, emotional and especially spiritual need.

This is who Jesus came to save: the weak, the broken, the wounded, the ones despairing of their sins, the ones repenting and crying out “Help us, O Lord.”  Don’t misunderstand me – Jesus did indeed die for the world, John 3:16 is the simplest proof of that, “For God so loved the world…”, but Jesus identifies the weakest – or, the greatest as Jesus says – as those who realize their need for Jesus. “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick,” He said earlier (9:11). But those who look to themselves, to their own greatness, to their own strength, to their own worthiness, they deny the need for Jesus. They miss the point: the can’t save themselves anymore than Peter or James or John could. Instead, to humble onself under the cross of Jesus is to be as a child who trusts in Christ alone.

With this new understanding of who the greatest is in the kingdom, who do you know who fits the example of the child?

You saw one this morning: Baby Harper. A newborn child of God through water and word, the devil will do his best to lure her into temptation and deny Jesus, already at this early infant age. That is why the church has sponsors who will help the parents rear Harper in the faith, remember her in their prayers, and encourage the parents to teach Harper the good news of Jesus.

But who else do you know may be the greatest? Close your eyes for a second and think who it might be. Let me help you… It’s not the friend who just got the promotion, but the friend who just got laid off of work and doesn’t know how they’ll make it. It’s not the man who just found out that the cancer is in remission, but the woman who is afraid to go for her next doctor’s appointment to get the latest test results. It’s not the athlete who scored the winning point in the game, but the one who has worked hard all summer long just to sit on the bench without a second of the coach’s attention. It’s not the mother who’s child will make the honor roll for the 12^th consecutive time, but the mother who cries because her child is in prison for twenty-to-life. It’s not the child who is elected most friendly and most outgoing, but the child who tries to hide in the shadows of shame at what’s been done to her. It’s not the pastor who preaches in front of hundreds of people on a Sunday morning, but the pastor who stands in the rubble of what used to be his church in Rockport, TX, without anyone gathering for Word and Sacrament, and who weeps “Lord, have mercy.” It’s the child of God who thinks God has abandoned him just like everyone else and doesn’t see any benefit in trusting in this Jesus who seems so far away. Who else? Close your eyes for a moment and think…until this moment, who did you think are the least important people in your world? Now, open your eyes, so that the next time you see them, you see them as the greatest in the Kingdom. 

They are great because they may be in danger of losing faith – whether it is stumbling because of life’s struggles, wandering amidst temptation, or in danger of completely turning away from Christ’s baptismal gifts – these are the greatest. It is tempting for a church to look to the strong ones and consider them to be the greatest. It is easy and, perhaps natural, for our attention and focus to be drawn to people with powerful personalities, strong voices, great wisdom, and gravitas. Those are the people our world admires, and it carries over to the church as well. But Jesus would have our attention turn elsewhere: from whom the world considers great to whom He considers great -- to widows and widowers; to the poor and unemployed or underemployed; to the children and youth; to the aged and infirm; to the sick and depressed and broken-hearted.

Repent of the times you overlooked these brothers and sisters in Christ. Repent of the times you did not show the mercy of Jesus to these who needed to see and hear of Jesus’ love for them. Repent of the times you passed by with not as much as a glance or a prayer or a word of hope. Repent, and change your thinking; change whom you see as the greatest.  And show the love of Jesus to these who are least in the world but greatest in the kingdom. Don’t just say, “Gimme a call sometime,” – you pick up the phone and call; don’t just say “Swing by one afternoon,” – you stop by and visit them at home, or at the hospital, or at the nursing home; if you can’t do that, drop a note in the mail; remember them in your daily prayers; seek them out on a Sunday morning and offer a word of encouragement; resist the temptation to walk by and say nothing; offer a loving hug (if appropriate) or a gentle handshake; remind them in simple words, “Jesus loves you and so do I.”

Now, I know, sinful minds being what they are, someone is thinking to himself or herself right now, “But when is it my turn to be the greatest?” Just wait. Something will come along and it will humble you, it will shock you down to your socks and it will leave you reeling. And you will cry out, “Lord, have mercy.” And He will answer. And we will come along-side you in the name of Jesus.

This was written with deepest of appreciation to the teaching of Rev. Dr. Jeff Gibbs, both in his commentary on Matthew and the video Bible study he did at Concordia Seminary called, "Who is the Greatest: It's Not Who You Think." 

After the Storm - A Homily based on Psalm 13

Psalm 13
September 3, 2017
The Weekend After Hurricane Harvey

“Why did this happen? Why did God allow this storm, this river flooding, to happen? Why didn’t He spare us from this disaster?”

These are the questions we are only starting to hear. You will hear it again and again. You might even hear these words from your own mouth, or your child’s mouth, or your spouse’s mouth. You might even hear it from me, on occasion.

The first thing I want you to know is that phrases like that are not sinful when they are cried out to God in distress, in the time of loss, in the time of catastrophe. This is the human condition: we realize our frailty; we recognize the majesty of God. We know God is good; what we see is something that is terribly, terribly wrong. And, in our mind, God’s goodness stands in opposition to this…this…this  mess. And we try to make A equal B: If God is good, He wouldn’t let this happen. But, this did happen – I lived through it! I see the destruction all around me!- so is God good? It doesn’t make sense. And we try to square it and we simply do not understand. “Why, O Lord?”

Here is why I say this is not sinful: these words are echoed similarly in many of the Psalms. Called the Lament Psalms, they show the cries of the faithful people of God of old. Take Psalm 13 for example. In this Psalm, the writer cries out “How Long, O Lord, will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me?” (v. 1)

God desires, wants, openly asks us to come to him in all of our griefs and sorrows and so, we do. And to cry out to him in agony, in distress, in loss, in tragedy with the cry of hopelessness - this is not wrong.

But, we must be careful to not demand an answer: “God, you owe me an answer because I’ve been a faithful church goer; I’ve been helping the needy; I give a weekly offering; I’m really a pretty good person and don’t deserve this…” You will note in verse 2, the Psalmist does say, “Consider and answer me,” but he stops there with his request. To go any further and demand an answer from God attempts to place us as His equal, and we are not. To elevate ourselves to a position where we think we deserve answers and explanations is to break the 1^st and 2^nd Commandment. This we cannot do.

But, what we can do – what we will do – is humble ourselves before the power and majesty of God and repent.

Repent? What do we need to repent for? Are you saying that this storm is our fault? That Port Lavaca, or Rockport, or Victoria, or Goliad, or Wharton, or Kingwood, or Houston, or Crosby are as modern Sodom and Gomorrah? Is God punishing our state for our Texas sized egos, or chicken fried steaks that aren’t good for our cholesterol, or the “evil” big oil industry, or corporate and political greed, or the invention of Astroturf?  

No – I am not saying that at all, and anyone who dares to claim God caused this because of Texas’ sins is foolishly (and incorrectly) daring to speak for God where He has not revealed His word --- and that is dangerous ground. Just ask Job’s friends. But I will say this: God uses times like this to humble us, and to let us see ourselves for who we are, and God for who He is. And, with the crystal clear vision accorded us in the Bible, we are left one conclusion: Repent, for the Kingdom is near.

Repent is not a popular word. It is not an easy word. But it is a necessary word, for it reminds us of our place before God. He is God; we are people. He is creator; we are creation. He is holy; we are far from it. We are sinful beings.  And, seeing the terrible destruction of these past few days, we are reminded that even creation itself suffers under the burden of sin, see Romans 8:22, “All creation groans as if in childbirth...” God did not create the ocean to storm – but it roared to life. God did not create the winds to shear apart trees and buildings – but it huffed and puffed and blew the buildings down. God did not create waters to flood and destroy life (human, animal and plant) – but it swirled and rose and overwhelmed. Creation is fallen; we are fallen; and we repent as we acknowledge our sinfulness before the Almighty God. Lord…have mercy.

A couple days ago, after they got home from evacuation, a young girl was riding in the back seat of her momma’s car when she spotted a cross standing resolute in a field. Pointing it out, she correctly declared: Dat’s a kwoss, mommy. Dat kwoss is whehe Jesus died. And dat means God’s gonna take kawe of us.”

That little girl spoke with the voice of a prophet and did not even know it. She points us all to the cross of Jesus where all of the destructive chaos that has been caused by sinfulness has been accounted for in full. There, at the cross, the entirety of man’s failures and shortcomings has been paid in full by the blood of Jesus Christ. And at the Cross, Christ not only redeemed you and me, and our fellow Texans and Louisianans, but even creation itself. Jesus died to rescue even the Gulf, and the coast, and wind, and the trees, and all other things that cry out for His mercy.

This is what the Psalmist means when he says: “But I trust in your unfailing love; my heart rejoices in your salvation. I will sing the Lord’s praise, for he has been good to me.”

He has been good to me. You know, it is no small thing that the same water that caused so much destruction is also used to baptize and give life. It was through the water that God saved Noah; it is through the flooding of your baptism that God saved you. It is no small thing that the same wind that caused so much loss is also the same breath of God that gives faith. It was the sound of the wind that brought the Jerusalem Pentecost crowd to hear the Gospel preached in their own language. It wasn’t by Hurricane Harvey, but through Water and Word, by grace through faith, our Lord Jesus Christ has taken care of you into eternity.

And it is no small thing that our Lord Jesus Christ is working through you and me and through all of you who have lent a hand this past week…whether cutting trees, or picking up an extra bag of ice for a neighbor, stretching an extension cord from your generator to the widow next door, patching a roof, delivering a hot meal, or simply listening, Christ is at work in you and through you. It’s very simple: it’s called, “Love your neighbor.” And in doing that thing that seems oh, so insignificant to you, it is tremendously huge to whom you help. And whether they are a Christian or not, whether they know Jesus or not, in that moment what they see – even if they don’t fully realize it – is God’s love, once shown on the cross, is again being shown to them through you.

As I close, let me say this: if I can help you, please don’t hesitate to call, email, text, or just drop by. I am not a therapist, but I am a parish pastor. I cannot promise that I will show up as a Divine FEMA loaded with cash – I wish I could. But, by the grace of God, it is my privilege to listen, to pray, to encourage with the Word of God and to bless – all in the name of Jesus Christ. If I can do any of those with you or for you, please let me know how. I am happy to do so.

Now may the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in Him, that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Blood is Thicker Than Water

This evening we had a post-Harvey dinner and get together at Zion. It was a good evening filled with food and laughter, stories of hurricane survival and clean-up, and prayers of thanksgiving and intercession for those who suffered so much.

A couple days ago, I had posted a picture on my Facebook page of my previous congregation, Our Shepherd in Crosby, sitting about 3 feet deep in a lake of water formerly known as Gum Gully.

Tonight, as we were eating, one woman came up to me and said she had seen the picture and wondered if I would consider it appropriate to take a door offering for Our Shepherd. "Others want to do this, too" she added.

So, with a lump in my throat that was part humility and part pride at serving these people, I watched the offering plate make its way through the crowd. I don't know what all made its way from people's hearts to that offering plate, but there were gifts given out of compassion from one congregation to another, joined by a pastor and a shared knowledge of what suffering entails.

I thank God for the saints in Crosby, even as they are suffering faithfully under the cross of a flood. I thank God for the saints in Mission Valley giving lovingly to fellow suffering brothers and sisters in Christ.

And I pray that the gifts of the one will bless the other, that they may continue to be a blessing to those around them.

Psalm 46 – A Meditation for the weekend of Hurricane Harvey landfall

Psalm 46 – A Meditation for the weekend of Hurricane Harvey landfall

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy. Amen.

It’s been an interesting week of observing God’s creation around us over the past ten days.

For months we have heard about the eclipse that happened this past Monday. If you were outside, and if equipped with solar glasses, a welding helmet, or a pinhole camera, you saw the moon partially cover the sun for about 15 minutes. Even those of us who don’t pay much attention to the sun, moon, or stars had our eyes drawn to the heavens – if only for an hour or so of the afternoon. And, in those moments you saw the vastness of God’s creation. Humans generally look down: we look where we walk, where we drive, where we are heading. Rarely, I suspect, do we look up except in times of agony when we look to the heavens and cry out with the Psalmist, “How long, O Lord? How long?” (Ps. 13:1) On Monday, your eyes looked up and saw something that was, quite literally, out of this world. You saw the sun, just under 100 million miles away from you, blocked out – at least, partially - by our moon that is roughly 250,000 miles from you. Did you know it took almost 8 ½ minutes for the sun’s light to reach your eyes when it was released from the sun’s nuclear core? That’s right…the light that we see by, that warms the earth, that plants use to produce energy, it’s already old by the time we ever see or feel it.  It was a unique experience, an incredible view, a sight that led us to give thanks to God for the wonder of His creation.

And now, at the end of the week, we are dealing with Hurricane Harvey. While we knew about the eclipse years ahead of time, the hurricane just sort of popped into our radar – both figuratively and literally – this past week.  A sloppy African wave that traversed the Atlantic simply would not die. It sprang back into life after a nearly terminal collision with the Yucitan Peninsula and is now roaring outside your windows as you read this. Wherever citizens of Victoria might be – in your Victoria-area home, in North Texas, or somewhere between - we are all praying the waters do not rise, roofs do not fail, windows do not shatter, and the electricity is able to be restored sooner than later. We pray that lives and livestock are spared, property damage is minimal, and people’s ways of life is not harmed. But with sustained winds of over 120MPH and rain fall rates that will be measured in feet, not inches, we experience a very different side of creation than we saw on Monday. The eclipse was peaceful; the hurricane is, in Hebrew, tohu wabohu – the abomination of desolation. Wonder and amazement, to be sure, are part of what we are feeling, but there is true fear at what might happen as well. And then, there is the sheer humility of mankind standing in the bullseye of a storm of this magnitude: how can anything stand against this kind of force? Again, we are finding ourselves looking heaven-ward, but this time not out of curiosity but out of angst and concern, and with a cry for God’s mercy.

One force of creation is a spectacle that drew our curiosity with amazement and curiosity. One force of nature is a spectacle that draws our attention out of fear and concern for ourselves, our homes, and our well-being.

I wonder what the writer of Psalm 46 was facing as he wrote the lines of this Psalm. Was it a natural disaster? Was it a political coup? Was it a warring enemy? It could be any of those things – it could have been all of those things. The text doesn’t say what his issue, his struggle, his Sitz im Leben, his situation in life was when he wrote the Psalm. Whatever it was, it must have been significant as he turned to God in prayer.

Here, the unknown writer speaks with confidence and certainty: “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble,” (v. 1). Notice the verb and what is says about God: God is a present-tense reality, an immediate, timely, and positive source of assistance. He is not distant, far-off, and aloof; He hasn’t wound up the earth like a clock and sits back to wait for it to die; He doesn’t demonstrate schadenfreude – pleasure in someone else’s pain. He is a present help in time of trouble.

Good thing, too, as there is plenty of trouble. The Psalmist explains the trouble as he uses several violent pictures: first, forces of creation - an earthquake that both splits the land and tumbles mountains; rivers that turn into storm-driven white-frothed waves; mountains that threaten to stand; second, forces of man – warfare and governments overturning. You are seeing these pictures first-hand, whether it is from The Weather Channel or from your living room window. You are seeing the pictures of the sky being torqued into ribbons of black and grey, the surf salivating angrily as it slams into the beach, and trees bowing down in forced obeisance to the wind. You are hearing the moans of the wind as it demands you be afraid of what it is capable of doing. You are feeling something that can only be described as surreal, unnatural, and, well, beyond description to someone who hasn’t been through a hurricane before.

It would be easy to let these terrifying scenes enwrap and control us – after all, they are a present reality.

But to you, dear friend – to you, riding out the storm on the Coast and to you, awaiting the storm in relative safety away from your home further inland – to you, the Psalmist speaks. He speaks clearly and distinctly so there is no confusion in the midst of all that is going on around you – the things your eyes are seeing, your ears are hearing, your body is feeling. He speaks of the power of God over and against the powers you are seeing, hearing and feeling.

Even though all of these things are happening all around us, the Psalmist says, “we will not fear” (v. 2). Pull your eyes away from the scene in front of you; turn a deaf ear to the sounds around you; lay aside the feelings your body is experiencing. Turn your eyes, your ears and your heart to the Word of God and hear His Word.

Three times, the Psalmist declares “The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our fortress.” In the midst of earth-riving events, God Himself is with you even in the midst of this chaos outside. In the Scriptures, Jesus is given many names one of which is “Immanuel.” Immanuel means “God With Us.” In the person of Jesus Christ, God Himself is present with His people. He knows full well what it is to live in a fallen world. He even knows what it is to experience nature gone sideways as He calmed the storm that threatened to sink the disciples’ boat (Matthew 8:23-27).

Know that even in the midst of this storm, God is your refuge and strength. The roaring of the wind and the foaming of the waters do not change that, for God is the God of creation. He made it, speaking it into existence. He controls it so that it will not completely overwhelm us. He directs it so it is for our blessing and use. He protects it so that even in the midst of terrible flooding, it will not be the end of creation.

Remember this: the world was once rescued through a flood as God destroyed everything but Noah, Mrs. Noah, their sons and their families, and the animals on the ark. You have been rescued through the waters of Holy Baptism. You have been carried through that Flood in the ark of the church. In that church, you have been taught the faith that is able to say, “I believe.” This side of heaven, in the face of this storm, you may have to add, “…but help my unbelief.” And He will. He will as you open His Word and read His promises contained therein. Read the Psalms – the prayerbook of the church. Join with the Church on earth and in heaven who implores the mercy of God. Pray for protection of body and  soul, property and animals and all of creation. Pray for those in harm’s way and for those who will come in to rescue those who are hurt when the storm passes. And know that those of us who are well out of the path of imminent danger are remembering each of you in our prayers as well.

God will carry you through this storm and through this flood. But, then again, that’s nothing new for Him. He’s already done it.

God is your refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy. 

College Dreams and Broken Hearts

Two years ago, I was a dead man walking. No…I hadn’t been diagnosed with a terminal disease, been Hope Solo-ed by a Zika-infested mosquito, or been chomped on a zombie. I felt like a dead man walking because our oldest daughter had graduated from high school and, after a busy summer, was a few days from heading off to the University of Alabama, ten long hours from home. Every click of the clock, every digitally back-lit change of the minutes and hours, each check mark on the count-down calendar, every breath was taking me closer to – with apologies to Raymond Chandler – the long goodbye of a parent and child in front of a college dormitory.

We do have two other children – please, know they, too, are deeply and dearly loved – but this would be our first and  therefore, presumably, hardest goodbye. How would I let go of the hand that used to eagerly grab mine and demand I hold it while we walked along? How would I let go of the girl who would grab my neck in joy when I got home from work? How would I be able to help her if she couldn’t snuggle next to me as she told me about a life crisis? How does a dad say goodbye? I felt like I was dying…and it was a little more each day.

Fast forward… The night we dropped her off at Riverside Dorm took approximately ten lifetimes from our 3pm assigned move-in time until we had everything unpacked and organized. I had tried to stall…parking further away from the doors, walking slower, taking fewer things each trip (granted – some of that was a trifecta of fatigue, being out of shape, and not being quite as young as I used to be), but finally, the boxes were unloaded. We had eaten dinner – well, to be more accurate, we all pushed food around our plates, like Minnesota snow-plows in the middle of a snow storm, not really making progress but putting on a good show for those who watched – while being very careful to not look into each other's eyes, lest the dams burst and a flash-flood of tears overwhelm us all. We had made a last Wally World run for those little things we wanted to get. And, knowing the stitches holding our breaking hearts would hurt like hell no matter how long we delayed, we decided we would say our goodbyes that night and leave in the morning for our long drive home.

We pulled up to a spot near the dorm and got out of the truck. Hugs were long and surprisingly quiet, no one trusting their voice. All around we heard laughter, music, and the bright sound of playfulness but it sounded in our ears like clunking cast iron. We were surrounded in grief: it was goodbye time. When it was my turn, I hugged her tight, then held her head between my hands. Squeeking out the Aaronic benediction, I blessed our daughter even as she cried, “No, daddy…” With a tear-moistened thumb, I traced the cross that was placed on her head in baptism. And, with a final kiss from both Momma and me, she turned and walked-ran away.

I am writing this for all parents who are preparing to part from their first child who is heading to a college or university, whether its across the county or across the continent. I am especially writing for dads. Too often, dads are expected to be the stoic block of emotional granite, neither shaken nor stirred by the drama of a child leaving home. It’s the moms who are expected to be wrecks, emotionally speaking, while their first-born leaves the nest for the first time. Around me, the men whose children had gone off to college were these Spartan-like macho characters, albeit with more gut and less guns than portrayed in movies. When I would try to express to them what I was feeling, I got strange looks and more than a couple of snide comments about my feminine side, a slap on the back, and with an unstated “suck it up,” I was told its gonna be OK.

They were right, of course, but in the summer of 2015 it was far from OK, and neither was I. I needed someone to listen and desperately wanted another dad, whose heart had broken and then mended, to share their survival story with me. Had just one man, one dad, talked to me and listened to my pain, I might not have crashed and burned, emotionally, the way I did a few months later. (I allude to this in “The Devil is in the Dumbassery” on this blog.)

My brother-in-law, Josh – who, by the way, is one of the smartest and deeply God-fearing men I know – offered me some words of counsel from his own experience of a daughter leaving home the previous year. He said this is what we have been readying our daughters to do: be smart, thinking, deliberate women of faith who are ready to step out into the world. We have done our part, now we trust in God's Fatherly hand to do what we are unable to do. And then, he listened to my story and my grief, and with his “been there, done that” counsel, we commiserated together as dads and as family.

I tell this story so that you, dear reader – and especially those who are looking at a day when you have to tell your own son or daughter “goodbye” – are not alone and so you kniw that some of us are willing to admit how hard it was. I hope your story never becomes as dark as mine did. I pray that you do experience a grief of sorts – that is a demonstration of love and affection at your child who waved his or her own goodbye. I hope you miss your DS or DD (Dear Son or Dear Daughter. Unless, of course, they call at 2am because they ran out of money at Taco Bell and want you to transfer $7.89 to their account to cover their late night need to munch on tacos. In this case, the D might stand for something less adoring…but I digress…) And if you need someone to listen, call your pastor, your brother-in-law, or someone who loves you. If need be, drop me a line – I’ll listen.

If you reach out to me, what I'll tell you is what my pastor shared with me as he went through this feeling two different times: as Christian parents, we already gave our son or daughter away – well, more accurately, we returned them to our Father in heaven through the waters of Holy Baptism. Through that holy washing away of sins and adopting as sons and daughters, God pledged His eternal faithfulness to that child sealed in the blood of Jesus. God will not abandon His children. More than that, He will not break His promise. So, even as I struggled with my feelings and thoughts (many of which were lying to me), I clung to God's promise for my daughter given in her baptism. And, without even realizing it that night in front of the dorm, I did the best thing for us: I blessed her with God's own Word and reminded us all of His baptismal promise to all of us.

She will be leaving, again, in a week and a couple days to begin her junior year. Time is flying by. And as days come and years go, there will be more tears and choked-out goodbyes. But they’re grounded, now, and in faith I trust that no matter what there will always be at least one more “Welcome home,” into the eternal homecoming of the resurrection. 

Love you, Kiddo. Have a great year. And, you can come home whenever you want. Except Tuesday. Then, call first. -Poppy