The Ride Ain’t Free

“The door’s open but the ride ain’t free.” Bruce Springsteen

I am not certain, but I’m pretty sure I was the only one thinking theological thoughts as Bruce Springsteen performed to the sold-out crowd last week. During the captivating rendition of Thunder Road, I heard one of my favorite lines and thought only of the coming of Palm Sunday and how we are asked to consider the cost of discipleship. Yes, the door is open, but the ride ain’t free.

This Sunday, churches throughout the world will gather and lift palm branches as if standing on the roadside two thousand years ago welcoming Christ into Jerusalem. The moment was not a geographic one as much as it was spiritual, and, like them, we are invited to stand beside one another and welcome Jesus into our lives as if for the first time. Through God’s grace, that invitation is given to us all, or, to use the lyrics, the door is open.

The catch is, the ride’s not free. Yes, it’s wonderful to stand with others and celebrate God’s triumphant entrance into the gates of our hearts, but that’s only the beginning of the story. There are lessons to learn, tables to turn, and nothing short of death waiting inside. No wonder churches and people love to skip from Palm Sunday to Easter with little attention to what happened in between.

This week, as I make my way to Jerusalem, I want to think not only of the triumphant entrance, but of the cost of letting Christ enter the “city.” At times, the cost seems too great, but I know that on the other side of the work is an empty tomb and new life.

Finding Spring

“The world is your palette. What seems ordinary can, with the right verbal brushstrokes, become a thing of beauty or intrigue” Fred White

In the last stubborn days of winter, when the weight of darkness causes us to stumble toward the promised dawn, it’s time to lift our heads and look with new eyes. “With the right verbal brushstroke,” as Fred White said, we can see our ordinary lives in a new way. For some, to do this only takes a mental or spiritual reminder. For others, it requires deliberate action .

Trace your child’s bare feet and listen to the giggles.

Bend down and listen to the sound of your grandchild sleeping.

Reach out and grab a pine branch then lift your hand to your nose.

Call or meet up with a friend you haven’t seen, or someone you want to know better, and talk about something that matters. (Golf scores and what your children are up to don’t count)

Find a stream and sit by it.

Get up and watch a sunrise, or watch a sunset in silence.

Do something for someone who’s struggling, especially if they’re someone you usually pass or ignore.

The list is endless, and I offer these just to get you thinking. Our ordinary lives can be extraordinary not because we achieve something monumental, or a profound blessing comes our way. All it takes is for us to see our lives as the gifts they are and treasure each moment, each day, as if it were our last. With such a mind shift, with such deliberate effort, darkness becomes light, and winter gives way to spring, or, as White said, our lives become things of beauty or intrigue.

Lent II: The full armor of God

The look on his face was unmistakable. He’d been in the rooms of 12-step recovery for years, but his sitting off to the side, clutching his wife’s hand, and looking anywhere but at us, told me what had happened: He’d gone back out.

Eventually, he confessed. “I thought, ‘I’ve got this,’” he said. “I stopped going to meetings, stopped calling others and doing the work. I thought I was too busy to take time in the morning for prayer.” It was a sad and familiar tale, but it was the look of shame that squeezed my heart. The crowd did what it always does, welcomed him back and let him know he was not alone by telling their own struggles.

The apostle Paul writes about wearing the full armor of God, that we should put it on before making our way through the world. I remember hearing the passage when I was a child and liked the idea of being a knight and wearing armor. Back then, though, I pictured shiny, new armor, but I’ve grown more attracted to the dented, beat-up kind, the kind that’s been to battle, and those who wear it. I guess that’s why I’m drawn to the rooms of 12-step recovery, but the message I was reminded of that morning was one for us all.

The world in which we live is cunning and baffling. Although I think God wants only good for us all, there are people, places, and things that make that challenging. There are also ways we make the road more difficult on ourselves (and others) with the ambition we exercise, the fear we hold, and the insecurity we release.

It sometimes feels like temptations surround us! Whether it’s to eat what we shouldn’t, buy what we can’t afford, gaze at things that rot our souls, or bend the truth to suit our professional or personal wants, temptations dangle before us hoping we’ll take a bite.

No wonder we need help. No wonder we need the “full armor of God.” Without such armor, I go on automatic pilot and start thinking, “I’ve got this.” When that happens, it’s only a matter of time before I look like the man sitting off to the side full of shame.

Lent, for me, is a time to re-attach my armor. It’s dented and tarnished, but it’s all I need. One piece is to take time for morning solitude, so I connect to God and remember to whom I belong; another piece is to connect with like-minded souls who are willing to be vulnerable and real; a third piece is to perform an act of service to ensure I get outside of myself; and another is to study and learn from others further on the journey.

No one piece guarantees success, but, together, they’ll give me a chance to be the person I was created to be. Lent is a perfect time to remember that and do something about it.