No More CheeZeee Gifts, Just Your Heart

Good morning from the sparrow's perch.  I came in a little extra early so I could sit in my church office and enjoy the song of the sparrows and the cool morning breeze. 

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY!

I've been blessed to be a father.  Although I can truly understand why fathers would hate going to church on Father's day.  First of all, if you received the typical gifts of a BRIGHT, COLORFUL, and GARISHLY INDECENT tie, or whatever typical father's day piece of clothing innocent children are coerced by wickedly insensitive wives to buy for you,  you will be forced to wear it to church. Have you ever noticed how the women gather together on Father's day in little clumps of eight and snicker.  YES, they are admiring one another's ability to humiliate the man of their home through the loving hands of their children.  If you somehow escape the humiliation of having to wear a tie with cute little animals or cartoon characters, you will be forced to endure the Father's day sermon.  

NO WONDER MEN HATE TO GO TO CHURCH! 

We get lambasted at Christmas for not being able to secure a room for the night.  At Easter, we're chastised for crucifying Christ, on mother's day we're the heels in a loaf of bread, and on Father's Day we're sorely lacking as role models, and spiritual leaders. It'd be easier and less humiliating to stand out in the hot June sunshine and do primal cooking upon the outdoor cooking device.  This, a man knows how to do!  

With all that said, I am grateful that I attend a church fellowship where the men are appreciated, the sermons are never holiday oriented, and the men are good fathers. I'm also grateful that my children have finally learned the one basic truth I've been trying to teach them all their lives; Don't buy me cheezy gifts, just give me your heart. You see, as a father, I love my children whether they buy me gifts or not.  My daughters and my son, will never figure out to ask me what book I'd like to read, or what movie I'd like to own.  This is because somehow we've tied in the giving of gifts to the notion that we're all mind readers and know what each other really want.  It's kind of like when I bought my wife a vacuum cleaner for our seventh Christmas.  I won't repeat what was said.  After numerous ties, T-shirts declaring me to be the world's best dad, I took a cue from my wife and told my children just to give me a call.  Let me know you are thinking of me.  

Our heavenly Father knows that feeling.  He reminded me of it this morning as I prepared to leave for the church.  I was ruminating over the events of the past week and thanking him for bringing me through it all intact. I looked down at the seat of my truck and remembered that I'd forgotten to pull out my dad's card.  'Darn!  I forgot to give it to him!'  Suddenly, the Holy Spirit reminded me of the offerings that were supposed to be brought before Lord, by the Jewish people.  The scripture where He declares his distaste for the fat of bulls and rams sprang to my mind.  

WHY DID HE DESPISE THEM WHEN HE ORDAINED THEM?  

They weren't the gifts of appreciation!  They were the offerings for sin.  The Lord's favorite holidays were celebrations of relationship.  Passover celebrates the birth of a people out of a life of slavery, Pentecost celebrates the expectation of life, and faith.  The feast of Tabernacles is the celebration of provision in the desert and relationship through that provision.  For God, the garish, indecent, and continual sacrifice of animals for the wickedness of man was the farthest thing from what he truly wanted.  What he wanted, was what He had in the beginning; relationship.  

Thankfully, through the gift of Christ Jesus, we have the most awesome Father's Day gift of all, and it is the Father who provided it. After he paid the price, he told us; No more Cheezy gifts, just your heart.  That is all any father really wants.  That is ALL He wants.      

HERE COMES DAVE AGAIN

I'm not sitting in the sparrow's perch today, in more ways than one. I've taken on a job for a brother in the church, and the job location is in the opposite direction of the church. I'm sure very few people would understand, but I miss my time of prayer, bible study, and writing from the sanctified confines of my church office. I especially miss the sparrows tittering outside my window.

Spiritually, I found myself about a hundred miles away from the presence of God today, with no one to blame but myself. I let something someone told me this morning get in my craw, and couldn't let it go. I was like the old turtle who'd fallen off the stump only to land on his back. He saw a little boy walking toward the pond and started kicking and flailing in hopes the boy would pick him up and put him upright. Instead the boy grabbed the startled turtle by one leg, took it home, killed it and threw it in a pot. Moral: If you kick up a fuss, you'll end up in a stew.

It's not the first time I've felt like that old turtle, and you'd think I'd know better than to kick up a fuss. To make matters worse, a rainstorm blew in about noon time, putting an end to my very productive day. Now, everything I'd planned on doing is delayed a day. On the other hand, we need the rain, so I felt guilty for grousing about the rain. As you can imagine, by the time I got home I was about a million miles away from the presence of God. So, I did what every man does in moments like this, I tore something apart. I've been working very slowly on our front bathroom in order to have it ready for my oldest daughter to come visit in July.

Today I ripped it up!

PROBLEM: I don't have the funds to put it back together as quickly as I tore it apart. So,not only was I in a stew about something someone said, but I now have a bathroom with a great big hole in the floor and no money to fix it. Worst of all, I have no one to blame but myself. Even more disgusting than that, I feel terrible inside, and simply want to sit quietly before the Lord and cry. Yes, I said cry. I know, 57 year old men shouldn't cry, but that's what I feel like.

If I lived in the days of the Old Testament, I would have to throw a lamb over my shoulder and head toward the tabernacle.

I can here it now,

“There goes Dave again.”

“Poor Guy, he's so messed up, he keeps the priests well fed single handedly.”

“That's about the fourth trip to the tabernacle this week.”

“At this rate, he ain't gonna have a flock left.”

“You'd think he'd just stop sinning.”

Yep, I feel pretty rotten. I know the grace of God will heal me through the night, and tomorrow will be another wonderful day. Still, I can't help but feel bad about this wasted day. Just when I think I'm over something in my life, it will sneak up and slap me in the face.

I'm just glad I don't have to carry a stinking lamb over my shoulders to the tabernacle.

Forgive me Lord Jesus, give me the grace to overcome, your love to love, and your joy to walk in.       

A CHURCH WITH IRON

It is raining! What a joy to hear the distant crack of thunder to the south and the occasional burst of light from lightning high in the cloud tops. It's been a terrible drought this past month and a half, and even as meager and light as this rain is, it is welcome. As I sit at my desk in the sparrow's perch, I am enjoying the gentle breeze and uneven rhythm of the rain drops as they land on the aluminum splash-guard below my window sill.

I'm feeling satisfied this morning after a time of prayer and communion with the Lord. He's already shown me some things this morning that I need to work on and has set within my heart some of what I'm going to write in the blog. I have to admit, this is my favorite blog to write. I have two others, but they don't reflect who I am as much as what I do. This blog is more intimate and personal. I draw from my life experiences, my children, my grandchildren, and my wife for the practical application and inspiration. Such was the case yesterday as I sat down to dinner with my youngest daughter to an after church dinner.

Normally, this would be a trying affair, but yesterday my wife and I went to separate locations. She took the oldest two grandchildren to McDonalds to enjoy the playground, while I took my daughter and her five month old to a local Mexican food restaurant. For the first time in a very long time, we had an adult conversation without it being punctuated by demands for her attention. Through the mercies of God, little Avery was content to play with her feet and bat at the toys hanging from the handle of her carrier.

You see, I actually do enjoy talking with my daughters, while I am sure they grimace and endure me. Both of my daughters are going through that time in their lives when the demands of children, husbands, and the uncertainty of the future weigh heavily upon them. My oldest daughter puts on a brave face, and her infectious smile, and you'd never know she was going through anything. My youngest has always been open and up-front about how she feels. She's always been this way from the day she came out of the chute. I'm sure the last thing she wanted on a Sunday afternoon, was for her father to sit across the table from her, and inject his ancient opinion into her modern life. So you can imagine my surprise when she blurted out, that she and her husband needed to find a 'good' church.

I wasn't surprised by the need for a good church. Parents know these things before their children do. It isn't that we're smarter, because the Lord knows I'm no where near as smart as my children. As parents, knowing these things is a matter of perspective. My vantage point is nearly twenty five years beyond hers. Time writes wisdom on any heart willing to receive the words.

Within the same sentence, she qualified her statement with something so powerful, I had to write about it this morning. She simply said that they needed to find a church with some iron in it.

I knew exactly what she meant, and in an instant, I was confronted with the consequences of past decisions. So, I hope everyone will forgive this moment of personalization as I explain to my daughter why she struggles so much to find a church home.

It's not your fault that it has taken you this long to realize the value of iron. Between the demands of the Air Force, the refining of my spiritual and doctrinal stances, and the pressures of satisfying a wife and children, you rarely stayed in a church home for more than three years. The nomadic lifestyle of the Air Force, coupled with my own insecurity in spiritual matters, didn't allow you to forge long term spiritual relationships. I was easily offended, overly demanding, and completely self-absorbed. I allowed things into my home that diminished our purity and holiness, and as you are well aware, I knew I was right, but rarely acted right. I pushed you to believe your gifting was special, and placed you on a pedestal. I've left more than one church, because they failed to recognize your talent. If things got too hard, or the Pastor demanded more than I was willing to give, I'd pack us up and move to another church.

Then you grew up. You were no longer in my life at the moment I needed you to be. I needed you to see the power of joining with a body of believers who hold you to a higher standard. I needed you to enjoy the joy of learning with others equally as hungry as yourself. You see, the interesting thing about iron sharpening iron, is that one submits and yields to the other, alternately gaining strength. It is the forge of the master blacksmith that heats us up and folds us into one another. The hammer of the Holy Spirit drives us together while at the same time leaving our individual contributions evident for others to see. Like the fold lines in a good piece of steel, you can see the forging process, but the work is one solid piece of steel. We have to be forged together to become strong. It takes a long time to forge the finest Damascus or Japanese blades. The firing and forging aren't easy. Submission to one another is essential, purity is crucial, and temper is everything. You didn't see these things when you were growing up. I know you look at me through the rainbow glasses of being my daughter, but I should have prepared you better, been more secure, and trusted God more.

You see, one thing I've learned over the years is that God loves you more than I do. He is infinitely concerned with your salvation. I can grow weary, become angry, live in frustration, but He doesn't. I can be mad at you, punish you, and push you away, but he doesn't. He is always right where we left him. You see, the things you are going through, can be blamed on me. I should have been more stable, more submissive, more pure in my devotion to others. So, when I hear you say; I need a church with more iron in it, I am grateful that you've found this out almost fifteen years before I realized it. It won't be easy, submitting never is. Finding a church home with iron in it won't be easy either. I was blessed to become part of this body we are in now. You will need to find a church that teaches straight up word and not watered down feel good stuff. If you're not challenged to grow, pray, be a participant, or know the Word, then it doesn't matter how much your children like it, how much they let you sing, how much they picnic together, it doesn't have iron in it. Duct tape churches are fine until the heat rises or the cold sets in. Churches built upon the personality of the pastor, the quality of the praise team, or even the amount of 'play' time they offer, isn't what church is for.

I have asked God to make you a Spiritual metal detector. Listen for the evidence.

My Wistful Dreams

The quiet hours of the morning are my favorite time to read the Bible and pray. I especially enjoy opening the window to my office in the church and allowing the cool morning air in while I read our daily reading. Outside my window this morning, there are a host of sparrows who dance and twitter across the metal splash guard below the window sill. I wish I knew what they were saying as they take wing and head out after another insect meal.

There was a time when I didn't concern myself with such things, that was until the day I came face to face with my mortality. (A story for another blog.) Now, I don't pack my days from one to the other with meaningless things that don't satisfy. I will be happier, when I can slow down and devote two or three days to mentoring younger men, chatting with brothers in the Lord over a cup of coffee every morning, and spending lazy afternoons with my wife talking about our kids and grandkids.

Don't get me wrong, I like to work. A matter of fact, the day I can't work will be a terrible day for me. I enjoy the gift of work. I love the feel of power tools, hand tools, and the thrill of a project as it takes shape by the work of my hands. I'd enjoy it more, if it weren't so compulsory. My father put me to work at his place of business when I was thirteen. From the time I was twelve, I took care of sixteen horses. My father is the kind of man who works from the moment he gets up till he goes to bed. He doesn't know anything else. Thankfully his need to keep moving and doing things was not genetic. I look for the day when I can awaken anytime I want and spend more time before the Lord. I'm not asking to retire, just slow down.

My wistful dreams go to things that have been in my heart as long as I can remember. I long to spend unconcerned hours discussing the Kingdom with my Pastor. I long to share the things of God to those who are hungry to know him and want to explore the mysteries of God together. I wish to expose the love of Christ to those who don't know him. My spirit has desired to walk foreign shores and bring the Kingdom of God on earth. I long to see the lame walk again, the blind see again, and the deaf hear once more. These things thrill me more than anything I've done in my life, and I've done a lot of things.

In my lifetime, I've stood on the shores of both the Pacific and Atlantic oceans, looked out into the Great Lakes, stood on the banks of the Mississippi river, stood on ancient dried up lake beds, walked prehistoric Native American pueblos and sat on the meeting stones in their Kivas. I've seen things and worked on things I can't talk about. I've talked for hours with Saudi men and women, while dangling my bare feet in the Persian Gulf. I've walked through Frankfurt, Germany, and stood in places I wasn't permitted to put a name to. None of this, absolutely none of it compares to the joy of watching a child hear for the first time as Jesus opened their ears. Nothing I've ever done has ever brought me more joy than watching a little boy or girl give their heart and life to the Lord for the very first time. I've seen so many addicted and bound young people get saved, that they had to have two forty gallon trash cans to haul away the drugs and alcohol given up by them. I've seen cancer fall off someone more than once. I've thrilled to the enthusiasm as a blind girl saw her own face for the first time. These are the things I want to see more and more as my days on this vale grow shorter and shorter. You see, I'm not one of those people who have a death wish or are miserably unhappy in this life. Actually, I would like to live another 40 years to see the goodness of the Kingdom of God explode on this earth. I would like to be there when my great grandchildren see the power of God split the sky and reveal the Christ.

As I write this, I watch with amusement while a sparrow pecks at an unfortunate bug just below the window sill. I want to be like the little sparrow that King David wrote about. I want to flit in and out of the tabernacle of God without fear, safe in secure in the knowledge that God has my every need taken care of. I live for this day, and like Job, I know I shall see it in the land of the living.    

BEING GRATEFUL

In many ways, I am enjoying this time in my life, more than any other. Things are clearer to me now than they've ever been. I'm not overrun by testosterone, pride, anxiety, or any of the other trappings of my younger days. Sunrise and sunset move me to tears. Right now, I'm looking out my office window of the church toward lake Harrison and watching the sun rise. Suddenly, I'm tearing up. The noise from the street wafts up over the edge of the second story and echoes softly. I have the window open, and a sparrow is bathing himself in a puddle on the roof made by the early morning dew. It is the antics of these little birds that caused me to name this blog the Sparrow's Perch. They don't fret about what to wear, where to live, where the next meal will come from. It is a place of complete trust. Listening to them talk to one another, I feel an amazement at how patient our God must be with us silly humans. It's as if they are saying: Trust God, Trust God, Trust God. You see, the sun came up. Don't start laughing and go all scientific on me. I know all about orbits, fusion reactions that power stars, gravity, and other mechanical factors that hold this rock in place around our sun. The mechanics don't impress me.

The sun 'rose' long before I was born, and for the sake of my children and grandchildren, I am sure it will continue long after I'm gone. What goes unsaid in the machinations of everyday life, is gratefulness to the creator for sustaining this physical universe he created for us. Gratitude doesn't come easy for us humans. We are so cocksure of ourselves that we are the center of the universe. For a large part, the modern world has dismissed the idea of a creator and embraced the lunacy of extraterrestrial guidance. It's easier to be angry at long forgotten alien species than to humble yourself before a loving and ever mindful creator.

Withholding gratitude is one of the most selfish acts we commit. We withhold it from our God, and from one another. Sure, we give one another a polite “thank you,” and move on quickly with our life, but being grateful is a step above. Gratefulness takes our appreciation of God to another level. In our relationships with one another, gratefulness absolves the other person of any debt or responsibility. Gratefulness says: “I am pleased and content with what you did for me.” It is deeper than the cursory 'thanks.' Once we express our gratitude, we can't call them back in anger and say; “what'd you give me the piece of crap for?” or “I can't believe you only went that far in helping me when I needed more help.” Gratitude is the most freeing thing we can give someone else. It means we give up ownership or any future claim to dissatisfaction. Why do I say that? Because we all know from our childhoods when we became bored with a toy or a friend and would begin to complain, our parents would say; “you sure seemed happy with it when we gave it to you.” Or, “what happened, you were playing with your little friend just fine a few minutes ago?” What we learn early on in our life, is that gratitude is forever. Stinginess offers a stifled “thank you,” and moves on quickly to the next thing it wants.

So, as I watch the little sparrows splash with joy in the puddles on the roof, I will be grateful to God for the sound of their chirps, the rumble of cars in the street below, the whir of the fan on my computer, and the soft ticking of the second hand on the mantle clock. I will praise God for the sun rising in a blaze of light behind a curtain of lush green trees. I will breathe and be grateful that my heart still beats within this frail earth suit which holds my spirit.

WHY?

This I know; somewhere this morning there is a hormonally challenged young man weaving through traffic and cursing everyone who gets in his way. There is a mother cursing a crying child because she can't figure out what the child wants. There is a businessman shaving himself and wondering if he will be able to pull off the business deal of the year. There are people everywhere, doing what people do, oblivious to what God is doing to keep them alive. Scientists eagerly search the macro and micro to disprove God, only to come back to the most basic question: where did it all come from? This is a moot question for me. I've chosen to live in the sparrows perch, close to the Holy Place, in the shadow of the Almighty. Yes, I know the mechanics of the universe, because I know the creator. I don't have to be grateful for the mechanics, but I choose to be grateful for the next heave of my chest, the dance of my fingers upon the keyboard, and most wondrously of all, the mind which allows me to do all of it and still hear the little sparrows chirping outside my window.

I am so grateful Lord God for who you are and all you do.       

THE CREATIVE CHURCH

I've never apologized for being a Christian.

There were times when I've felt embarrassed for those who call themselves Christians, who allowed themselves to be drawn into the media spotlight to defend some aspect of their faith. From the sparrows perch, faith appears foolish and childish in the cold hard glare of the media camera. There is nothing logical or scientific about faith. There is no apologetic argument that can prove God just as there is also no logical or scientific argument that can disprove Him. He exists above and beyond our futile attempts. Ever since I was a young man, I've always loved science and the exploration of our universe. I've always stayed at the far edges of the Christian paradigm, but have never lost my faith in a creator who created me to be creative. Actually, my heart breaks for those who've divorced science from the one who created it. It must be sad to spend your days in hot pursuit of an answer beyond the one given to us. You see, at the end of it all, the physical death of this fleshly vessel resolves all issues. It requires just as much faith to believe there is no God, as it does to accept the internal knowledge that he does exist.

I'm always amazed at the anger and malevolence of non-believers toward those who believe. Our liberal universities with all their claims to free thinking, will not tolerate or entertain the idea of intelligent design. Christian speakers are lambasted and ostracized before they ever appear. Scientific papers can't even allude to the divine. It is no wonder our universities, technical sector, and manufacturing giants are bemoaning the lack of science graduates. By their very antagonism, they are pushing away one of the most creative block of thinkers to walk the earth. By it's very nature, science doesn't imagine. That would imply faith. The life and light of faith moves beyond the mathematical construct into a dimension of thought beyond the numbers. Faith will always align with the numbers, but numbers don't always align with faith. That is the power of a creative spirit. It is the spirit God himself put in us. It is the spirit the church needs to regain.

I believe the church should be the most creative, talented, and innovative people on earth. We claim to hold the Spirit of God in these earthen vessels, yet we stifle that creative spirit by our dogmatic rush to “a better place.” The better place is now! The Kingdom of God doesn't begin on the day of our death, it began on the day of our spiritual birth. On that day, we became infused with the life giving, creative power of the Holy Spirit. Yet, as quickly as the newborn babe in Christ is put in the spiritual bassinet, the old heads who've had the light of creativity stolen from them, begin to bind up the newborn. Statements like; “You can't think that way.” “It'll never work.” “That's heresy.” echo up and down the spiritual maternity halls we call churches. The dogmatic, fearful, and those who lust after power, poison any attempt to express the joy of new birth.

Creativity should be one of the hallmarks of the Christian walk. We should be the ones who dream upon the stars and see new worlds at our fingertips. For example, Science Fiction writers don't create fantastic worlds for the sake of creating worlds we'll never see, they see them now, and they long for our world to be a greater place of understanding and creativity. They create an extraterrestrial world to resolve a terrestrial conflict. Christians live in an extraterrestrial Kingdom and we have the answer to the terrestrial conflict.

From my place on the sparrows perch, I see the unending parade of people who seek to know God, and the happiest ones, are the ones who are creative. These are the ones who recognize the impossible and will it to be done by faith. I see those things we wish we were, as guides to those things we will be. This brief stay upon this earthly vale isn't even our childhood in an eternal time line, it is more like the blink of an eye. I just think that the blink should sparkle with the light and life of a creative God.        

My Grandson Brendan, and The Place of Intimacy

From the sparrows perch atop the posts of the tabernacle, one thing becomes abundantly clear; there is a true desire among most men to have a place of relationship with the creator of the universe.  The ebb and flow of mankind through the gate of the tabernacle fence demonstrates the desire for the presence of God.  As our little sparrow flits from perch to perch in the courtyard, he can't help but notice that there is one place that only a handful of people go to.  When they enter, they wear ornate dress and carry blood stained items in their hands. It is a place he is intimate with, but very few men can enter.  For our little sparrow, it is the shadow of the almighty, the tender place beneath His wing, a refuge from the storms, the Fowler, and pestilence.  It is the holy place.  

One of the pleasures of growing old, is that while life seems to move in a frenetic dash toward the exit at stage left, there are these marvelous moments of extended clarity.  These moments can be held in breathtaking moments of contemplation and meditation. One of these moments happened for me recently as I thought of my grandson Brendan playing in our tub.  I'd long forgotten the pleasures of a large bathtub filled to scuba diving depth.  Along the ledge of the tub were swimming goggles, buckets, floaties, and other necessities for swimming in the tub.  Just a small amount of bubble bath, takes it up to another level.  At my age, taking a shower or bath has a distinct purpose; to get clean.  Having fun in the tub. . . . lets just say I'm not as small as Brendan.  He gets on the edge of the tub and with a quick thrust of his legs, slides down the slope of the tub into the water.  The splash of water bathes the floor and the walls (all tiled of course.)  This goes on for at least an hour, until his grandmother tells him it's enough.  He is animated as she towels his shivering little body and he dances on his toes in joy.  In one unrehearsed moment, he pecks her on the cheek.  "I love you, grandma Bragg."  he says.  "Can I sleep in the waterbed with you and grandpa tonight?"

What do you think the answer was?   

One thing I think happens to us in our Christian walk, is that we forget what it is like to take a bath in the Lord. We forget about our silly spiritual swimming goggles, our joy at sliding down the slope of his presence and feeling the joy of His love splashing all over everyone and everything. We forget the moments when all we wanted to do, was kiss His lovely face and ask if we could sleep with Him.  Too quickly, we forget the thrill of diving into the safety of his love and the warmth of his Spirit as he dries us off from our experience with him. Our failures, filthiness, mistakes, or just plain fun, begin to make us pull away.  The innocence that is the hallmark of intimacy is exchanged for the shame of occasional visits.  

The sparrow can't help but notice it either.  The Lord has never refused to feed him, has never pushed him away from His presence.  Mankind picks people to go in to the Holy Place who on the surface appear to have it all together.  The tender embrace of intimacy is exchanged for the rights and rituals of cleansing.  The cross and its work become the focus of their religious existence instead of staying in the tub of his presence. It's no wonder our services are relegated to simple formulas that leave us clean, cold, and longing.  We run the water of the Spirit by singing two or three hymns or choruses.  Of course, we can make the water as hot or cold as we want, until someone complains. We don't want to run the water too deep, that would be a waste of . . .time. Then we pull out the soap of the word, lather up and let the man of God pronounce his inspection of our lives.  Yes, we could grow sinful potatoes in our ears, get the crud from under our fingernails, and wipe the poop off our rear ends.  Now, we dry off with our Spiritual towel, knowing there is one thing we would really love to do if we had the time;  jump back in and splash around awhile.  Instead, we head off toward our Sunday meal, make excuses to ourselves for not having fun, and then take a nap to dull the pain of knowing there was more fun to be had in the presence of God.  

As we grow older, our two man spiritual tub is replaced with a more economical model, or we simply take showers.

Enough said.