Billy Died Saturday Afternoon

“Billy died Saturday afternoon. They disconnected life-support.”

That is how the prayer chain email started.

Billy was 17 when he went into a car and came out in a coma. Three weeks later he responded to the music played by a brother that I have yet to meet and hope abounded. But the next day, his brain stopped showing any activity on one of those machines that man uses to try and measure God, so the men that try to be god, unplugged the life-support. And Billy died.

I didn’t know Billy, except through the prayer chain. I don’t know Billy’s mother or father. But I am a father and I am the son of a mother. And the reality of hope flickering and dying in a cold gray hospital room hit me hard tonight. In a moment I am going to go into a quiet room. I am going to go into a quiet room to pray and to cry.

And for a moment it will be clear that all the worship band practices, all the church picnics, all the downloaded bible studies in the world don’t mean anything in the face of a humanity that real. All the fancy arrangements and well crafted harmonies won’t come close to filling the emptiness that Billy is leaving in the lives he is leaving behind.

But that to which we sing; the one to whom we pray and cry from the depths of our frail humanity opens His arms and says, “Come to me. Come and let me hold you.“ He opens His arms and says, “No you don’t understand. Don’t try. From the place where you look out, it doesn’t make sense.”

It doesn’t make sense that an image of God so full of life would stop becoming full of one to become more fully the other. It doesn’t make sense that hope would flicker and then go out leaving shadows disappearing against hospital gray walls.

But in some realm of our existence -- beyond the realm of our knowing; the place from which comes a peace that passes all understanding -- somehow it doesn’t have to make sense in these jars of clay.

Unspoken in the questions, “Why?” is the question “Where?” Where is God to be found in all of this?

“No one has ever seen God; but if we love one another, God lives in us and his love is made complete in us.” (I John 4:12)

Where is God to be found in all this? God lives in our love and His love is made complete in us. If Billy’s dying sparked a bit of love in the life of someone that knew him only as a name on a prayer chain, then Billy’s living gave that one man a precious moment to complete God’s love.

So still we sing. We sing of a love we don’t understand. We sing of a love that let Billy die for a purpose beyond our reason. We sing of a love that sent a Son to die beyond our reason that we might be loved beyond our deserving. That we might live and love. That we might live in love.

Because in the end, love is all that matters. And God so loved the world.

Praise God in all things and tonight may God bless Billy.

Thank you, Billy.

Thank you, God.

Unforced Rhythms of Grace

It started out simply enough. I had loved poetry since early in college and was going through an acoustic music phase in my life. And out of curiosity, I picked up Steal Your Face, a live Grateful Dead album in a record store. It wasn’t acoustic but the lyrics: songs like Stella Blue, Black Throated Wind, It Must Have Been the Roses were poetry. They told stories of vague adventures and hinted at feelings deeper than the words could quite carry. I was hooked. Next thing I knew (actually a few years later), I was a Dead Head. That is the name we give to someone who listens almost exclusively to the Dead and who spends all their vacation time going to “shows” (concerts).

I was originally drawn by the lyrics, then the music, but what really sucked me in was the community, a sense of belonging. In my life, I had never fit in. Largely by a choice of not wanting to be part of the “establishment” of not wanting to be typical, I spent most of my life alone and wondering why there weren’t other people like me. Other people who were different, but who could accept me as who I was.

In that community of Dead Heads, that is exactly what I found. I found people that were willing to let me be who I was and who were welcoming of me “Just as I am” so to speak. I once read a Bobby Weir (the Dead's rhythm guitarist) quote that said to the effect that the Dead and Dead Heads were a rollicking group of misfits that somehow fit together. We were a rollicking group of the strangest strangers. But a group where you could always find a smiling face, a helping hand, someone willing to share a drink, a meal, an orange or a song. And we were all focused, at least at times on the same thing, the wondrous show.

I’m not a dead head any more, so now I don’t fit in anywhere. And once again I am looking for that mystical community where I can be different, even failed and broken, but still accepted. As I type these words, I am forced to rethink my conception of the first apostles. Here was a rag tag bunch of ruffians, if ever there was one. I sometimes think that if Jesus came today, he would go first to dead shows and biker bars to call His followers, rather than the fishing towns. And I doubt very seriously He would take His first recruits from the places I go on Sundays.

But isn’t a mystical community of misfits just what He was starting when He said to Peter, “… and on this rock I will build my church.” (Mat 16:18). Wasn’t He looking to create a place of safety and acceptance; a place of people helping each other to live and to learn?

When He said “My Church”, did Jesus really envision our modern church? Did He dream of a place with so many rules that no one could really follow them yet where everyone had to pretend that they were following them at the risk of being ostracized from the group? A place where leaders tell us who to be, what to think and even how to vote? A place where we either get in line or get out? A place where the lost, broken, dirty and hungry are to intimidated to enter in?

Or did He maybe envision something more like a Dead show? A place where people struggling in their brokenness, as different from each other as night and day could somehow blend together like dusk. Did He, just maybe, envision a place of sharing, giving and helping. A place of acceptance where, who ever you were, you were welcomed and all you had to do was be open to the possibility of directing your focus on that one thing – not the wondrous show, but rather the wondrous Cross.

"Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you'll recover your life. I'll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me--watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won't lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you'll learn to live freely and lightly."

That is The Message translation of Matthew 11:28-30.

But when was the last time that church felt like an unforced rhythm of grace. Where was the last church where someone didn’t try to lay something heavy or ill-fitting on you? Maybe we need to rethink what we are doing in His name. What we created and are perpetuating. Maybe its time to knock down the walls in our lives and the barriers we put up to keep the others out and just love each other.

“I am giving you a new command. You must love each other, just as I have loved you.” (John 13:34).

Because if God is love and we were created in His image, then what else do we really need to do... except love each other and dance... to the unforced rhythms of grace?

I used to be a runner

I used to be a runner. I wasn’t really good, maybe in the upper end of mediocre, but I loved it. I loved to run.

Of all the thousands of times I ran, though, I remember one special time, one magical summer run with Dave Murphy. Murphy’s dead now, a long time, but I still remember that run. He was a little better runner than I was. A little faster, a little more endurance, but every runner hits tough spots during a run.

I suppose it’s the true champions that can run hard even through the tough spots, but not me or Murph. And when Murphy would hit a tough spot, if I wasn’t hurting, too, I could pull ahead and I could push him for a while, until he got his wind and his legs back.

It was fun. At times we felt like we were flying; down the hills, especially. But other times, oh it hurt. Your heart pounded, your lungs burned, your legs felt all at once like rubber bands and humongous wooden logs – that somehow morphed into these things you had to drag up the hill with you.

But I kept up. Close anyway. I pushed it and I knew, up the road, before too long, there was going to be a cool spot, I was going recover, or there would be a dip in the road. And for a while I would run right with Murphy. And it would feel like I was flying.

I might be the only person in the world like this, but to me, that is what it feels like to follow Christ. It feels like a hard run. I hear people talk about walking with Christ, but not me. Maybe I’m not that good, yet, because for me, it’s a hard run. And I can’t quite keep up. But I am trying. Sometimes it’s easier than others. Sometimes it feels like I’m flying. It feels like it did when I would catch up with Murphy and he would look over at me and say with his eyes, “I knew you could do it. Isn’t this fun?”

But then there is, “Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect.” from Matthew 5:48. Man, when I hit that one, the hill seems to shoot straight up. At exactly the same time, my legs start to go. I stumble and I slow down. But Jesus just keeps running, and running. And so do I. But it’s hard and I struggle and I fall behind. Sometimes, it even crosses my mind to give up. But I keep running.

Because now, trying to keep up is all I know. And even that knowing is a gift from God. It’s called grace. To me, grace is an invitation, an invitation to run with Him.

Sometimes, I feel bad about myself, because I can’t keep up. I feel like I should be able to do better. Well, I should. And I will; for a while. For a short stretch I will be right off His shoulder. How strange that a moment later, I lose Him for a while as He rounds a turn, too far ahead of me to be seen.

I still don’t know if He slows down so I can catch up, or if I get stronger at times, but more and more I am coming to grips with the fact that this isn’t a walk.

But even Paul felt that way; the same Paul who sang hymns with Silas, in chains - after being beaten; the same Paul who was blinded and called to service out loud by the Lord. There is even a story that Paul was so righteous, when they cut off his head, it bounced three times and made a pool of pure, sweet spring water every time it touched the ground. But even Paul in Philippians (chapter 3) says,

12”I don't mean to say that I have already achieved these things or that I have already reached perfection! But I keep working toward that day when I will finally be all that Christ Jesus saved me for and wants me to be.”

Even Paul hit the wall, sometimes.

I guess in the end, there was only one perfect person. He’s that One up front. The one we are all running behind, striving to keep up.

¹³Friends, don't get me wrong: By no means do I count myself an expert in all of this, but I've got my eye on the goal, where God is beckoning us onward--to Jesus. ¹⁴I'm off and running. And I'm not turning back.

Even Paul hit the wall sometimes. So it’s okay. Hitting the wall is not the goal, but you are going to do it. You and are going to hit the wall more than once. What it all comes down to is who you are focused on, who you are following, and that you never give up

¹⁵So let's keep focused on that goal, those of us who want everything God has for us.

As long as I am running with Jesus, as long as He lets me run with Him that is, I will be okay -- eventually. I pray often, that He never runs completely away from me. I know He could. He could decide that I am not worth the wait. He could just kick it into Olympic gear and go. And I would be lost. I was lost before and I don’t want to be again. So I pray often that He never leaves me.

Sometimes it almost feels like He has. I say almost, because by faith I know He is just around the turn. By faith, I know that as soon as I get around that clump of trees that blocks my view, I will see Him again. I’ll have to really kick into gear to catch up (and He will have to slow down a little bit), but then I will at least know He is there. And I will remember why I am running. Because sometimes, it almost feels like you are flying.