No Rocking Chairs in Nineveh

Our church parsonage had remained vacant after our lead pastor had bought a new home. The living room was gifted to the youth group so we filled it with the most expensive bean bag chairs we could slip past the budget and finance committee. I sat in the corner in what could only be described as the most comfortable rocking chair that has ever been assembled. Solid oak, but seated with a cushion that must have been filled with decommissioned angels wings. Each Wednesday, we met in that living room for Bible study, surrounded by open windows to our sides that allowed us to see the sunset during our 6:00-7:00 study time and a high arching ceiling over our heads that allowed for some wonderful acoustics as we debated the most important biblical topics of the day, such as which teacher at school gave the hardest tests.

We were studying the book of Matthew. We had made our way to the infamous parable of the sheep and the goats. As we read the text from the page, I looked up to see some blank stares. Maybe my very Baptist youth group had never read this passage verbatim. Or maybe they had just reached the age where you begin to realize the weight of certain passages. Or maybe the Holy Spirit just chose this moment to speak so some hearts. I’m not sure. But the question rang out around the room and the acoustics from that high ceiling did their job like a pro.

“So where are we supposed to find the least of these? Because if Jesus is saying serving them is what separates the sheep from the goats, I think we better be looking for them.”

We debated and all said we would take a week to think about it and pray about it. Like good Christians do.

The Parable of the Sheep and the Goats can do some damage. Actually, the Parable of the Sheep and the Goats SHOULD do some damage. We tend to spend our time in church settings worried about things that WE worry about. Things like the color of the carpet, the exact temperature the thermostat should be set on, or which songs to sing. These topics dominate many conversations in church and yet Jesus never once discussed any of them. Sure, any talk of carpet, air conditioners, and whether or not Sunday morning worship should contain a laser light show would have really perplexed his listeners. But we get caught up on the wrong things. When was the last time we visited a prisoner? Maybe the last person to visit a prison in order to share hope should get to pick the thermostat setting. 

This parable was heavy on my heart the following week, whether or not I wanted it to be. And I could not help but feel like we were doing things all wrong. And that church had become something it was never meant to become. 

That following Sunday, a friend I had been inviting to church for some time happened to finally visit. He enjoyed his time during the service, but not being raised in church, he had some questions.

“So you all get together on Sunday mornings, sing songs, and study the Bible. That’s cool. What else do you do?”

“Well you can come back on Sunday Night. We get into small groups and study the Bible. And don’t forget Wednesday nights when we eat and then study the Bible. And if you get up early enough, you could come to Sunday school before the service starts. Where we also study the Bible.”

“You all do a whole lot of studying. Do you ever make time to do any of the stuff you study about?”

Well. I guess when we were studying James and he told us to be doers of the word, it was brought up but then I think we got sidetracked on how funny the word ‘doers’ looks when it’s typed out. Maybe we should revisit that text. 

After our study of Matthew 25 being followed up by my friends’ honest but brutal question, I decided it was time to mix things up. A housing project was located less than a mile from our campus. And I made the executive decision that we would go knocking door-to-door on Wednesday night. We wouldn’t invite people to church. We would not try to lead them down the Romans Road to salvation. We would simply offer them prayer. Whatever it was they had going on. Doctors appointments, arguments with family members, financial hardships. Didn’t matter. We would stand in the doorway and pray with them.

I announced this from the pulpit the following week and encouraged adults to come with us. This particular housing project has a certain reputation in the community and I did not want to be the only adult present in the midst of the drug deals that I was sure would go down. 

As Wednesday approached, I began to feel more and more uncomfortable with the plan I had made. No other adults took my invitation to come. And this place was dangerous. Rural Kentuckians have a fun hobby where they sit and listen to the police scanner and 99% of the calls that come across the scanner deal with this neighborhood. And I’ve just told this group of teenagers we were going to March through it and knock on every door. Bad idea on my part. So I decided to make this a one time visit and we would be back in the parsonage having our Bible study in no time. I would be back in the oak rocking chair. The air conditioner would be blasting and we could pray for everyone’s pets as usual.

Wednesday finally came and, on my commute to church, I began thinking of reasons to get out of this visitation plan. First of all, it’s not like I can offer any real help anyway. If someone wants to pray about their health, I’m not a doctor. If someone needs financial help, I’m not wealthy enough to have the means to help them. What was the point of this anyway? And the danger! Oh the danger. What if one of these kids gets offered drugs and becomes an addict all because their youth leader wanted to try something different? What if a shooting breaks out over a drug deal gone wrong and I have a group of kids there and we get caught in the cross fire? It’s time to call this off.

All I could think about was my rocking chair. The cushion that had been delivered from heaven. The ceiling fan of the parsonage on full blast, drying out my contact lenses and shaking the ceiling, like an Apache helicopter was landing in the room. That’s what Wednesday night church was supposed to be. How dare I challenge that notion?

I prayed and prayed for a way out. Just give me one excuse. Anything. 

I pulled into the church to find the church van was gone. Perfect. Too hot to walk. Let’s go to the parsonage.

Then the bus pulls up. They had been filling it up with gas for us (even though our destination was less than a mile down the road). They had even left the air conditioner on just for us so we would be comfortable on the way. Wonderful. 

I felt a great deal like the prophet Jonah, called to do something I really did not want to do. These housing projects were surely my Nineveh, home to the rowdiest and most violent people of my community. Jonah has a rough reputation among the prophets. After all, who would not want to be the voice of God to the people? But a quick google search of the city of Nineveh will tell you that it was home to some of the history’s first terrorists. Jonah most likely feared for his own life and safety. So he flees and goes in the complete opposite direction. I bet Tarshish even had rocking chairs with angel winged pillows waiting for him.

The kids had already began pilling into the bus before I could explain that we were NOT going to do this. No excuse could leave my mouth and, before I knew it, I was fastening the seat belt in the church bus, sweat somehow dripping down my fingers and lubricating the leather of the steering wheel.

We pulled in and parked in the administration parking lot. I gave the group a firm talk on safety and on staying together, and assured them next week, my posterior would be in a rocking chair and we would continue on with our study of Matthew, like a youth group is supposed to do.

Like a pack of animals, we walked up to the first door. The sun was setting behind it, which assured me that, were we in the parsonage the way we were supposed to be, we would be wrapping up prayer requests and flipping to Matthew. I yearned to hear the pages turning. Although this sunset was gorgeous, it would also make a beautiful front page cover story about a youth group gunned down at the housing projects. A tiny brick home on the corner awaited us. So I held my breath and with the whitest knuckles I had ever had in my life, knocked on the door. What would greet us as we knocked on the door? Drugs? Guns? Both? 

As My fist quickly gave the universal three taps on the door, the hinges quietly but quickly swung open. With an army of high school kids behind me, I saw a little lady standing in the dark, her blue hair with a Kentucky sunset behind it. Other than Gods natural lighting, a dim lamp in the corner of the kitchen was the only light allowing for anything to be seen. My muscles did not un-tense, however, and my fears did not subside, because little old lady’s in Kentucky can shoot a gun as well as anyone.

“We are from the Baptist church and we usually meet together for prayer on Wednesdays but tonight we wanted to see if there was anything we could pray with you about,” I shouted out my pre-planned speech with the cadence of an auctioneer.

The lady takes one step out into the light and begins to reply.

“I want you to know. I have lived here for over a decade…” and she starts to break. 

Where is this going? Is she a witch about to put a hex on us? Does she have a pistol in her night gown that she’s about to chase us with? Have we interrupted her favorite game show on television and she’s about to unleash the wrath of the Greatest Generation upon our youth group?

“…and I have prayed every single day that God would send me someone to talk to. I live here all by myself. No family and no friends. Some days I just pray God would take me. I’m all alone all the time. But you people have knocked on my door today and already answered my prayer.”

Floored. All the kids fell silent. I honestly did not know how to react because my mind and body were in fight or flight mode. So we just talked. Like normal people. Not like a church group attempting to seek converts. But like friends that were trying to catch up.

It turns out, this lady moved to our area years ago, leaving behind her family in Indiana. She has a twin sister still residing in the Hoosier state and, although they talk on the phone daily, they miss each other dearly and are both too old to drive and make the trip for a reunion. I turned around to see the majority of my youth group in tears. 

After talking with her for quite some time, we prayed for her and her sister and moved on to the next house. And the next house. And the next house. Time after time we found broken people just wanting connection and to find someone that someone cares. All of a sudden, I didn’t miss my rocking chair anymore.

We began to go back every week. I truly think that we saw miracles taking place. One time we were praying with a man who asked us to pray for his doctors appointment. His car needed repairs to be able to make the trip and he was not physically able to fix it and couldn’t not afford to take the car to a mechanic. One night, as we were praying, he broke our prayer circle and ran to his car. He had realized that the needed repairs could be done through the glove compartment and did not require him to get underneath the car. It was fixed before we left his driveway. Right there in front of us. On another occasion, a group of young ladies went and knocked on a door to offer prayer to find a crying mother that had just gotten some Devastating news and had just been thinking she could offer hope to her children if she knew a church in the area that could show them love. 

We had no expertise in anything but hope, so that is what we offered. And it turns out, that is all that people wanted. 

We fell in love with the margins. And once you get up and began to seek out the broken, you begin to find that the pews (or rocking chairs in my case) were causing some atrophy in some muscles that needed to get a workout. Once you look into the eyes and see the ‘least of these’ in your own community, the ceiling fans and bean bag chairs lose their luster. Once you begin to see the image of God staring back at you, desperately seeking hope in the midst of the housing projects, you realize that it was never about Tarshish to begin with…it was always about the Nineveh. And Nineveh has no rocking chairs. 

What it's Like to Hold a Microphone as a Woman is Caught in Adultery

"A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho as he was attacked by robbers..." I began to explain the familiar parable of the Good Samaritan.  

"Nathan Britt!  What has happened to you?!  You should be ashamed of yourself!"

As I heard this question reverberate from behind me, it shot through my ear canal like a smack across the cheek, exposing the thin skin that I had developed from years of reading from the Bible and receiving praises via pats on the back and well-wishes from everyone around.  I had heard that ministry requires you to develop thick skin, but I assumed that meant to be prepared when people get mad because you forgot to visit them while they were having a toenail removed or something.  Maybe I was not ready for this.  I was tempted to turn around and see who it was.  They obviously knew me, by name, at least.  And not to brag, but I'm pretty great with names and faces.  But maybe this was not the ideal time to check my 6 o'clock and see an old acquaintance.  

The sun was beating down on my face.  I could almost feel the blisters forming on my bald head in synchronization with the salty sweat stinging my eyes.  Probably should've worn a hat, but hindsight is 20/20, I guess.  

Regardless, I'm getting distracted.  I'm just here to tell people about God's love.  

"A priest happened to be down the same road when he saw the man..."

I was halfway through a sermon but I'm not accustomed to hearing my name shouted out while reading scripture.  There were actually many facets of this particular sermon that were new to me, though.  I had never preached a sermon while facing an armed militia across the street.  New territory.  My mind went back to a conversation with my wife.  She said that many churchgoers had threatened to bring weapons to this event.  I told her "If they want to point a gun at me while I read the story of the Good Samaritan, let them do it."  It seems they obliged.  I was not even about to turn around and attempt to count the number of semiautomatics that could be found behind me.  Let's chalk that one up to faith.  As in, I have faith that these people may very well shoot me.  

I had purposefully worn sunglasses, partially because this was an outdoor event in mid July so it seemed logical, but partially because I knew making eye contact with anyone would lead to trouble.  So as I raise my eyes and take in the scenery, the seemingly infinite number of firearms surrounding me begin to get a little overwhelming.  

Refocus.  Just talk about God's love.  Don't get distracted.  Not by people yelling your name.  Not by the DIY branch of the NRA that has showed up en masse to intimidate you.  Just focus on God's love.  

"So, too, a Levite, when he came to the place, saw him..." Back on track.  The Good Samaritan is on his way.  

I had also never preached a sermon while a man and woman, presumably a married couple, but this was no time to ask for a marriage license, screamed at me from a megaphone in an attempt to drown me out.  The feeling of being called a sinner, being commanded to repent, and being warned about the flames of hell, all while reading from scripture, is not a feeling I will soon forget.  I feel like the irony was lost on this crowd, but maybe I'm underestimating their capacity to understand concepts like irony.  

Who knew that the words of Jesus and the parable of the Good Samaritan could be so inflammatory?  

I came to preach the gospel.  The good news.  God created us in His image and He loves us so much that He came to die for us.  The rally was called "No Hate in Our Holler," and considering this is my hometown, and that I'm against hate, and that I preach from time to time, it felt logical to offer a sermon and preach the love of God from the courthouse square.  

Other people came to preach a gospel of their own creation.  It was the good news as well.  Good news for anyone from the Bible-belt south.  A little less inclusive, sure.  But to each their own.  

Just focus on God's love, I remind myself yet again as the comments are becoming more and more personal and directed toward 'this boy who thinks he knows the Bible."  

"But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came to where the man was..."  Let's do this.  

It's getting harder to focus, but just talk about Jesus and the Bible, right?  What can go wrong?  

Or at least that's what I tell myself.  From the looks of these guns, a lot could go wrong.  

The amount of thoughts passing through my mind would not fit into a blog post.  Or probably even a book, save some works of classic literature that I don't have the attention span to read.  Who will take care of my kids if I don’t make it out of this? What about life insurance? Do I have enough to cover my debts? Are you ready for my most random thought?  Brace yourself.  

What if these people are right?  What if Jesus did not come to meet us in our sin, forgive us, and give us new life?  What if he came to establish a culture; southern, white culture? 

The entire Bible.  All the stories.  All the poems.  All the letters.  Meant for no one but people living in the Bible Belt in the year 2020.  Everyone else?  To hell with them.  Literally.  God's love only applies to people that love Toby Keith, NASCAR, and Copenhagen long cut.  The entire Bible, from 'In the beginning,' to 'Lo, I am with you,' to 'the grace of the Lord Jesus be with all the saints.'  Every word.  Was meant to point us toward the salvation found in biscuits and gravy every morning and fishing every Saturday.  That's what Jesus really came to die for.  

The oppressive regimes of Nero?  Those didn't really matter.  The book of Revelation is actually about how the Confederate flag belongs on diesel trucks.  Wisdom on how to deal with issues in the church?  The letters addressing those were actually about how upstanding followers of Jesus would actually participate in at least one demo derby per year.  

Obviously there is no scripture to back that up.  I would never believe any of that.  But boy, oh boy.  These people sure seem to.  With all of their hearts.  And souls.  And minds.  And with all of their strength.  They have gathered to worship their culture, put on a thrown and exalted above all.  And from the size of the crowd, idolatry was the popular ticket of the day.  

For the record, this thought was ridiculous.  A fleeting thought that surprised me about as much as the word 'Samaritan' surprised the teacher of the law in this story.  

I know Jesus said to love God and love your neighbor.  That's the law in a nutshell.  Genesis tells us that we're all created in God's image.  Jesus even says that what we do to the 'least of these,' we have done unto Him.  So I'm having a real hard time balancing exactly what is going on with these people.  I truly think that they love the idea of God.  In their defense, the god they have been taught about may very well be pleased with them.   The god they were raised to worship may be taking delight in their actions and words.  I'm just not real sure it is the same God that I know.  Otherwise, I feel that this scene would look much different.  

I'm really trying to take the high road.  

"Repent," a lady yells at me.  Through a bullhorn.  Repeatedly.  During my prayer.  A solemn time with God.  I wish that I could reply with, "Can you say that in Hebrew?  Or Aramaic?  Or any language that the actual Jesus would have spoken?  Because I can.  Sorta.  I'll mispronounce it, sure.  But let's hear you give it a whirl."

I bit my tongue.  I'm just here to talk about God's love.  Not ignite a riot.  

"He went to him and bandaged his wounds..."

"You think you know your Bible, boy?  Well where is your Bible?"  Well.  Where's yours?  I have written it's words upon my heart.  Like it tells me to.  

But I don't say it.  Stay focused on God's love.  That's why I'm here.  

"Then he put the man on his own donkey..."  We're getting close to the end.  Hopefully the end of the parable.  Not the end of my life.  

"You're headed straight for hell, boy!"  Well.  Do you mean Sheol?  The Old Testament place of the dead?  Or Hades, the Greek equivalent?  Or did you mean Gehenna, the valley that Jesus was standing in where he proclaimed it's gates would not prevail against His church?  Could you be more specific?  Or did you simply mean some word that your dementia ridden grandpa told you about on his back porch as he explained the dangers that other races posed to your way of life?  I'm confused.  Could you clarify?  Or are we just shouting?  

Ok.  Now my thought train is derailing.  This isn't Christlike.  I'm here to show love.  

"Which of these three do you think was a neighbor..."

Maybe if I spent every day like I was preaching to a hostile crowd demanding I shut up before they end me, focusing on God's love would come a little easier.  Why did it take this moment to make me remind me that I should always be focused on this love?  And when things begin to distract me, I should always make an attempt to refocus?  

I've nearly made it to the end, but I'm not even sure if I can make it to my vehicle.  It has been encompassed by an army large enough to invade a small country.  This scene sounds familiar.  I've heard about a guy that was caught in a mob of religious people.  He had been preaching about love while the religious chanted for his execution.  He, too, was surrounded by a mix of law enforcement and religious scholars (and man, oh, man I am using that term loosely here) of his day.  And I remember how his story went.  Safe to say, it worked out well for the rest of us, but for him, on that particular day?  I have to say that I am now officially fearing for my life.  

This scene looks familiar for other reasons as well.  I remember distinctly in John 8, a woman was caught in adultery.  The religious pulled her away from the act, brought her to Jesus, and suggested that she be stoned, in order to fulfill the law.  I look at the crowd that's actually listening to my story.  They are holding up rainbow flags and smoking cigarettes.  I'm looking at the crowd chanting through the megaphones for my demise.  They are holding signs with scripture.  It sure doesn't feel like I'm on the right side of this.  But if it was the side Jesus was on, maybe I'm in pretty good company.  The rich in spirit had shown up with their megaphones.  They have their good deeds, sure to punch their ticket to eternity.  But I am surrounded by the poor in spirit, acknowledging their sin and their need for grace.  I heard somewhere before that theirs is the kingdom of heaven.  So regardless of the fact that every righteous, upstanding citizen in town is on the opposite side, holding a stone in their hand, albeit in the form of a sign or a megaphone, I'll stick with the side that I'm on.  

"...go and do likewise."

Changing the World Requires More Paperwork Than I Thought

Changing the world at the click of a button sounds like a pretty sweet deal. In fact, doing anything ‘at the click of a button’ has become a proverbial way of saying that you’re making something easier. Minimal effort is required to do something big, possibly even life-changing.

But here I sit, clicking buttons. And it sure doesn’t feel like the world is changing. 

In reality, the proverb should probably be changed to say something like ‘change the world, then click a bunch of buttons to document how you made the changes, when you made the changes, the people involved in making the changes, and how you will do it differently in the future, based off of what you learned about changing the world THIS time.’

The button clicking is endless. Like, I think my right index finger may get carpal tunnel soon, if that is even anatomically possible. I feel like an explorer from The Age of Exploration, but rather than seeing a vast sea before my eyes as I set sail, I see buttons on a keyboard. The white crest of a massive wave in front of me looks an awful lot like a data report. Spreadsheets as far as the eye can see. I’ve got three screens pulled up and I’m logged into a different program on each screen to ensure efficiency. I won’t bother to mention the names of the programs or what they do, because it is such inside jargon to my particular career that it would be nonsense to anyone outside of it.

I am a school counselor by day. We used to be called guidance counselors before our state professional union changed our name. They felt as if the term ‘guidance counselor’ did not convey what we actually spent time doing and that it sent a message that we were only available for academic counseling. I appreciate their thoughts, but the name change has had little impact on my day to day life. I’m not sure that even the term ‘school counselor’ conveys that on any given day, I could be a teacher, a principal, a social worker, a case manager, a mental health therapist, a parent to a child that isn’t mine, a bookkeeper, and a college/career guide. 

I chose this career because I wanted to change lives; to have an impact on someone’s present and future. I wanted to be able to help students overcome obstacles when there was no one left to turn to. And yet here I sit, clicking buttons.

There are plenty of moments that have felt heroic; romantic in the way that you think life-changing will be. I remember the time a student that had grown up in poverty was offered a great financial aid package from a nearby college. When they found out, they ran to me and embraced me with a hug and said “I get to go to college. Can you believe it?” I fully realize that you had to be there for that statement to give you cold chills. But I WAS there. And trust me. It does give you chills. If you were there. And it’s always great to tell kids that they’ve won the status of valedictorian or that they’ve been awarded a scholarship. But you know what makes all of that possible? Button clicking and paperwork. It’s the backbone. And most days, those idealized moments seem pretty distant as I wear out the mouse on my computer. 

And of course I always love helping kids through their moments of crisis. Both the developmentally appropriate ones (I don’t know what I want to do with my future, this boy doesn’t like me, etc...) as well as the ones that you feel completely unprepared for (don’t eat gum you found under the table, don’t take your shirt off in the middle of class, etc...). But again. Each of those meetings is followed by, you guessed it, button clicking. 

Daily, routine moments can seem mundane. We look for God in the big moments. Graduations. Weddings. Funerals. His presence is rarely felt while we’re doing laundry. Or paperwork. Or anything that has become a daily habit. Such as clicking buttons. 

But that’s not really the story that we see painted in scripture. Sure, God spoke before battles. And met people on mountaintops. And spoke through burning bushes. There were plenty of big moments when God showed up that can’t be forgotten. But His presence is also found in the everyday. The mundane. The routine.

In John 4, we have a lady who has gone to fetch water from a well. Pretty routine task. It would be my equivalent of going to the grocery store, doing dishes, or folding laundry. And Jesus shows up. During her routine task. No mountaintop needed. And her life was changed in a seemingly mundane moment.

And we can all probably quote the verse from Luke, where we hear that there were shepherds ‘keeping watch over their flock’ when an angel of the Lord appears to them. The Bible doesn’t tell us how often they kept watch over their flock. But considering they were shepherds, I’m guessing it was often. It was routine. It was ordinary. And in that moment, Gods messenger shows up and alters the course of their lives and, quite literally, changes the world.

So I’ll just keep clicking my buttons. And who knows? Maybe an angel will appear and give me a life changing message. Or maybe Jesus Himself will show up and alter the course of my life. Maybe I don’t need a mountaintop or a burning bush or a battle to fight. Maybe I can simply go about my routine day and still find the presence of God around me. Maybe I can even hear His voice over the button clicking.

Because sometimes God shows up in majesty, but sometimes He shows up in the mundane.

Urine on Cement and Veils Getting Torn

And God said “Let there be light. And there was light.” 

I had gotten up early and made my way to a gazebo with the intention of reading this familiar passage from the Book of Genesis as I watched the sunrise. While you’re on a mission trip and surrounded by beautiful scenery, why not worship God in the midst of His creation? So I had my Bible app open to Genesis as I eagerly awaited the sun to begin its approach over the trees.

But then I heard a voice approaching.

Potash! Potash!

I bet I had heard this nonsensical word at least 500 times in the last 48 hours. I knew who was coming.

Potash! Potash!

I heard it again. Only this time, it was being yelled directly into my face. 

Potash! Potash!

This word left George’s mouth with the frequency of a drummer hitting a snare drum. You could almost keep time by it. And now the nonsense was ruining this time I was planning to spend with God in the midst of His creation.

This time, though, George was making motions as well. Rolling up his sleeve and pointing to the veins in the bend of his elbow. “Potash,” as I was hearing it, actually meant “blood test.” And George was trying to tell me, yet again, about the time he had to go and get blood work done. Before his blood test, he was not allowed to eat. I know that, partially because fasting labs are not an uncommon occurrence in the medical world, but also because George retold the story every few minutes.

George is going to turn 50 soon, but he has the mind of a three year old child. When George was an infant, healthy as any baby you’ve ever known, his parents grew tired of hearing him cry one night. So they put him in the chicken coop, where the chickens pecked his head until his skull was exposed. And they didn’t stop pecking. Consequently now, George is afraid of loud sounds such as sirens and fireworks. And of course, chickens.

George has lived in a community operated by Mennonites since he was taken from his parents at the age of four. Along with 18 other residents, each with varying degrees of disabilities, this is the only home he has ever known. 

I had helped plan a small mission trip to go and spend some time with the residents of this facility. Play games, make arts and crafts. You know. Do whatever needed to be done that wouldn’t require a long stay or any specialized skill whatsoever.

And now I sit attempting to read my Bible as George proceeded to tell me the same story that I had heard. Over. And over. And over. And over.

I thought perhaps I could still glance down at my Bible as George told his story. I was familiar enough with the details of George’s bloodwork that I could probably repeat some leading questions and make him think I was paying attention while I was actually reading.

And then I heard it.

Mama. Mama. Mama.

And up walks Butchy. Mama was the only word that Butchy could say. Ironically, he can only say ‘mama’ because his real mama did not know to give him milk as an infant and only provided him with Kool-Aid. His brain never got the nutrients it needed to develop correctly. So now the one word is all you hear.

As Butchy walked up, I locked the screen of my phone, seemingly throwing in the white flag on this special time with God in the morning. With George on one side going over his story and Butchy on the other side repeating his one word constantly, I probably couldn’t get much reading done.

So I decided to clear off the app. Save some battery. Why waste it now, after all, if I’m not going to get to read about God’s creation in the midst of His creation?

But instead of clearing off the app, I accidentally just scrolled down a few verses. And instead of reading Genesis 1:3, I found myself reading Genesis 1:26. Let us make man in our own image.

Then I got it. I was, in fact, reading about God in the midst of his creation. After all, that sunrise was created by God, but not in His image. But George was created in His image. Butchy was created in His image. Their presence was more beautiful than the sunrise.

So I gave it another shot. Until it happened.

Butchy begins to visibly urinate. I’m not sure sure how adult diapers work. Maybe it was too full. Maybe it had burst. Maybe his business had made its way to the portion that was not absorbent. I’m not sure. But I am sure it was happening. 

I immediately flashed back to my questionable decision to wear sandals, as I curled up my toes to avoid getting them exposed to Butchys urine as it began to make its way down his leg and onto the cement.

Mama. Mama. Mama.

My holy moment had been interrupted by the profane. My sunrise had been interrupted by urine.

Or had it?

My mind went to Matthew 27. The veil that kept the holy from the profane was ripped. Upon the death of Jesus, the old system was done. No longer was it the perfect that were allowed in God’s presence. His presence was not just for the physically perfect. The mentally perfect. The spiritually perfect. The ones with perfect genes. Or the ones with perfect jeans.

The holy had not been interrupted by the profane. The holy had invaded the profane. And that’s exactly what was happening in my presence. Now. The veil was ripping as Butchy’s bodily fluids approached my feet.

The sound of the urine trickling down the cement sounded an awful lot like a veil being torn. The words of Matthew 25:40 were ringing true right in front of me, as I watched Jesus wet himself.

So there I sat. Still trying to allow my feet to avoid the urine flooding ever closer to my foot. 

But still worshipping God. Only now, it was worshipping with His most prized creation. George and Butchy. Made in His image.

No Answers Allowed

No Answers Allowed

A question is essentially an invitation. 

Well obviously some questions are invitations. 

Wanna come over? Most would interpret that as an invitation to come over.

Will you marry me? That’s typically an invitation to be wed. 

But sometimes the invitation is more subtle. And regardless of the depth of the question, the invitation remains. The invitation to grow closer together. The invitation to know one another on a more intimate level. The invitation to hear someone ask another question in return.

What’s your favorite ice cream? What are your thoughts on God? Who was your favorite band when you were a teenager? What part of the political spectrum appeals most to you? What do you think Jesus meant when he said all those things he said? 

All questions are really an invitation to dance. Dance a verbal dance, of course. But dance nonetheless. And nothing kills the invitation of a question quite like an answer.  The answer is the final note of the song, ensuring that the dance is over.

But what if I want to keep dancing?

A question is asked and hangs in the air like a cloud. But not one of those clouds that seem to move through the sky, but one of those clouds that seems like you have it tied to a string and the other end of the string is firm within your grasp. 

And then the answer is given. And it’s final. And that’s it. The cloud dissipates before your eyes.

When the question is asked, the possibilities are endless. Infinite, really. Maybe not infinite. I’m sure someone much smarter than me has made an algorithm to tell exactly how many possible answers every question has. But I don’t care to know it. Know why? I’d rather ask the question ‘how many answers could a question have’ and then sit back and wonder about it.

So this will be a place for questions. Infinite possibilities. Where the dance just keeps going. But if you’re needing a final note, the last chord to play so something will resolve, you may want to look elsewhere.

No answers allowed.