Real Faith

I was a visitor. I didn’t know what to expect. I was excited to worship in a different church and followed the parishioners into the sanctuary. At the appropriate moment, the minister read the scripture then began his sermon. It was a flowery, theologically-loaded opening which went in one ear and out the other never getting close to my heart. Then he paused, looked up, and admitted his opening was not his at all. “It was artificially made,” he said, “an A.I. introduction.” From there, he proceeded to deliver a refreshingly real and memorable sermon. His point was about the difference between artificial faith and real, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since.

I was struck by the difference between his opening and the rest of the sermon. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was a difference between the manufactured part and the real part. One was grammatically perfect and theologically accurate but sounded like cardboard. The other was less articulate but sounded like bread.

On the way home, I thought about our lives of faith. Like the sermon, some are manufactured, others are real. There are those who seem to have pushed a button and can utter formulaic declarations of faith and are eager to teach you to do the same. Others struggle to put into words what they believe, but when they do, it’s sometimes messy and awkward . . . but at least it’s real. Their armor of faith, to use Paul’s image, is not shiny but dented.

It seems to me, God wants us to mean what we say and say what we mean, as the song goes, even if it’s not perfect. At least it’ll be real, and that’s what God cares about most.

Easter 2024: There's More

Maybe I was dropped on my head as a child, or maybe I stayed on the Tilt-A-whirl too long, but for as long as I can remember I’ve believed there was something more to life than what I could see. Waterfalls and waves whispered the secret, sticks and rocks pointed me beyond. Sunrises and sunrises invited me to imagine what lay beyond the horizon, and each authentic conversation or genuine act of kindness suggested what the church could be.

Sometimes, the mirror I carry grows too big for me to see beyond its frame, the worldly sounds drown out the songs of the birds, but then something happens, someone comes along, and reminds me that beyond it all there’s more.

Of all that’s been said of Easter, all that’s been written or sung, this is the truth that lies beyond it all. Beyond the dramatic events of Holy Week – the triumphant entrance, confrontational teachings, solemn meal, heartbreaking betrayal, let alone the arrest, denials, and death – there lies an empty tomb. The body’s gone, a blood-stained cloth the only reminder of what happened. But it’s in that emptiness that God is most visible, in the silence of that morning that God speaks loudest: “Death’s not the end. There’s more!”

            Thanks be to God.

Lent 2024: God's Rennovation

It was there one day, all but gone the next. One of the finest homes in our neighborhood was purchased by a family with infinite means, and the wrecking crew arrived within minutes of the closing. They (supposedly) hadn’t told their intentions to a soul. It needed too much work, the owners later explained to our local paper. It was easier to start over.

As devastating as it’s been for our town, it’s also seared a lesson into my soul - one particularly fitting as we approach the final days of Lent.

Lent is a season designed by the Church to allow followers to dig deep and address unhealthy spiritual issues as we prepare for Easter. Whether it be greed, jealousy, or some other character defect (as they are called in 12-step recovery circles) or deadly sins (as the Church calls them), Lent is the season to go inside and look at such things. The work is as important, as it is difficult. A person can become overwhelmed and want to quit, but the torn down house down the street has reminded me of a more excellent way.

Yes, there are things within that need repair, but the house is structurally sound. Regardless of all the ways we fall short of who we think we ought to be, the psalmist reminds us we are marvelously made. Being human means we’re imperfect, but it doesn’t mean there’s nothing good in us, nothing God can’t use, nothing He can’t redeem . . . if we let Him.

More than once in my life, I’ve wanted to quit. I’ve wanted to call the wrecking crew and be done with it all, but that’s the easy way out. God’s more interested in renovation than destruction, and we need to be sure we “don’t leave before the miracle happens,” as my friends in recovery circles often chant.

We’re on a journey, and we need to see it through. The end is not a cross; it’s an empty tomb. It’s not death; it’s a renovated, or resurrected, life.