According To Dale

A Purpose Driven Prayer for the President Elect

2008-12-18T08:02:00.001-08:00

Well, well, my favorite cup of now institutionally brewed coffee, Seattle's Best Henry's Blend, was slightly tainted by the news that the Human Rights Campaign, the largest homosexual rights group, sent a scathing letter to our President Elect for choosing Rick Warren as the inaugural invocator. I quote the HRC: "We feel a deep level of disrespect when one of the architects and promoters of an anti-gay agenda is given the prominence and the pulpit of your historic nomination." Architect Warren, it seems, doesn't draw any sympathy from the group for his and his wife's contributions to the Global AIDS issue here. But what I find most frustrating—and tainting to my morning coffee—is once again the flaw in the doctrine of what we now call tolerance in our country. Again I quote: "By inviting Rick Warren to your inauguration, you have tarnished the view that gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender Americans have a place at your table." Warren's stance against "gay marriage is a sign of intolerance." Are they saying that Warren's seat at an Obama table means that they no longer have a seat there? Or, and most likely, is it a statement: We aren't eating with that guy?

My fellow Americans, please wake up. To adopt a view of tolerance alone, merely leads one to a bankrupt application. The "tolerant" will never tolerate the intolerant. It makes much more sense for Warren, and our President Elect, to bring people together who can speak their minds even when they disagree. What we have here is a tipping of the hand by this particular group, which shows that they are not "liberal" at all. Followers of Jesus, those who view him as the perfect man, the ultimate relater (and he is much more than that!), know that they are flawed people—we are all flawed people—in need of life transformation from the inside out. It is therefore possible—even Christ-like—to adopt the mindset that we desire to please God—even when we do not, and we love others even when they do not. The doctrine of tolerance mandates that I embrace another's view as my own—even when it's not. That is neither safe nor sane. In this way of thinking, I cannot love or care for someone if I disagree with their worldview or lifestyle. From what I see of Jesus, he was not tolerant if that is the marker. If our soon to be President is sincere, and this is not just political posturing, his demonstration of an influential base of balance-- in this day and time—is encouraging. It's when the balance of power gets out of balance—even when I agree with where the skew is heading—that I am most frightened of authority. To me, the necessity of accountability for those in authority is as much an argument for the existence of a personal God as natural revelation itself. But that's another entry.

Waffle House Wisdom

2008-08-28T08:20:00.001-07:00

Cruising across I-85 out of North Carolina and into Georgia, a hungry traveler cannot help but be enticed by the numerous Waffle Houses located in convenient proximity to the interstate. This particular trip I lasted until Cumming. My father introduced me to these fixtures of the southern roadside when I was a boy. One might think that after the palette develops the desire to visit such relatively Spartan eating establishments would be a thing of the past—perhaps blanked even from memory. After all, how can you keep them on the farm once they've been to the city? But not me. I've been to the finer eating establishments in New York, and had what must have been the most overwhelming eating experiences of my life in Napa Valley at Thomas Keller's "French Laundry". Still, I cannot pass but a few Waffle Houses in the early morning hours before I'm compelled to stop for coffee, a waffle and sausage. My friend Mark, an Atlanta native, and I still chuckle about our addiction.

And yet there is another reason I visit. I'm drawn to the folks who make up the bulk of the Waffle House clientele—old men with plenty of stories. It's not just me. These places are always scattered with Saturday morning dads who bring their kids in for more than just the food, it's the atmosphere in general that keeps you coming back. I think we long as fathers to tell our kids stories. Real stories—not just the cartoon versions. And yet I wonder if most of us dads feel as if we live such uninteresting lives to our kids. We are compelled by our lack of enthusiasm in our own personal histories that we reach outside ourselves to look for greatness. It's sad really that we so very much underestimate our own lives. So we take our kids to the Waffle House where they like the food, so do we, but we are also on a mission of another sort. We are longing to tap into a story I believe. The story of regular Jim's and Joe's who have become old souls. That's what I was looking for in Cumming, Georgia that day. I found it sitting on a barstool, drinking coffee.

He had a pack of Pall Mall cigarettes peeking out of the center-breast pocket of his worn denim overalls. Underneath he wore a slightly newer red/black plaid flannel shirt. His feet were well protected by what looked like steel-toe workboots, and he capped his fine gray hair (what was left of it) with a red mesh ball cap. I thought it odd that his hat was unbranded. I expected a man of his age to identify with Peterbuilt or Kenworth, Pioneer or John Deere, Dale Earnhardt, anything other than a simple solid red face. But there he sat without a logo. Even the waitresses referred to him by a nickname, not his given name. They called him "Old Goat" and he didn't seem to mind. In fact after listening to their conversation for a moment it was obvious that he was a daily customer with lengthy stays. It looked like an inviting place so I took the stool beside him.

"Boy, it sounds like they're being hard on you", I said to his right ear. "Yeah, I let 'em think they've got the best of me", he replied with a glance at the one behind the register. "Looks like you've been coming in here for a while?", I asked. "Longer than you've been alive, probably", was his reply. It was all he needed to prompt him. He knew he had another soul who would listen to him—and without further delay, he took off into sharing his past with me. He was raised "just down the road" and worked around Cumming for most of his life. In World War 2 he was a member of the 82^nd Airborne in the "European Theatre" where he did a 37 month tour. He met the love of his life before his stint as a soldier but waited until after he returned to marry her "because I just couldn't see dying over there and leaving a widow back here."

So in 1944 they married, went on to have three children (the latter two were twins) and settled down in Cumming. For 55 years she woke up with him, fixed his breakfast and "took car e of things." He went off to work each day and provided for the family. "We had a real good life", he said as he sipped the last of a cold cup of coffee. "Lost her in '99, haven't been the same since", he went on. "We were home together, sittin' and talkin' after a walk together. She got up and kissed the top of my head, went toward the bedroom and just dropped. Dead before she hit the floor." He said this staring out the window, obviously reliving the shock of the scene in his mind. He turned and looked at me. "You married boy?"

"Yes, sir", I said. He leaned in. "You'll see one day. You live with a woman that long…..You just really depend on them being there….Don't know what to do with yourself after they're gone……Wonder why you don't go before them….Doesn't seem right to do that to 'em…..You'll see." I nodded. "Yes sir, I think I do." He was quiet for a moment and his eyes grew a little misty. I began to wonder if I'd trespassed somewhere in the memories of this man. Memories he may not have dealt with for a while. We hurry so quickly to heal from the pain of such losses. Maybe he'd done that because he was a soldier. Maybe the pain of many losses were attached to his tears, the pain of his wife's passing as the capstone of all his hoarded anguish (He also experienced the death of his oldest child 2 years later). I don't know. Mustering a final act of courage, the old man looked again at me, leaning in as he'd done before. "Son, if there ain't no heaven then there ain't no point."

I never got his name. I don't recall he ever said the name of his wife, though he spoke heartedly about her. He simply laid $1.37 on the counter and with cracking knees ambled out of that Waffle House. No need for good-byes. He planned on seeing them the next morning. But if he didn't, I gathered, his hope rested in another place—a place where the story could continue. I believe it's that hope which keeps him alive—keeps him going. If there ain't no heaven, there ain't no point. Something in him wouldn't let him believe otherwise. Even at times when he couldn't make sense of it, he refused to believe his story was pointless. So do I.

"Therefore, since we have been made right in God's sight by faith, we have peace with God because of what Jesus Christ our Lord has done for us. Because of our faith, Christ has brought us into this place of undeserved privilege where we now stand, and we confidently and joyfully look forward to sharing God's glory." Romans 5:1-2

Breakfast with John Owen 1

2008-07-23T13:02:00.001-07:00

What do Coldplay and John Owen, the English Puritan, have in common? Maybe nothing other than I am listening to the one while considering the other. I'm quite sure it's not what Owen had in mind, but it's not all that's changed. In Communion with God, he writes in Chapter 1: "Human wisdom sees such an infinite disparity between God and man that it concludes there can be no communion between them. The knowledge that God and man can live in fellowship together is hidden in Christ. It is too wonderful for sinful, corrupted human nature to discover. Human wisdom leads only to terrors and fears when it thinks of coming into God's presence. But we have, in Christ, the way into God's presence without fear."

I am wondering whether or not Owen would say the same to mankind today? I've written previously about approaching God with what Nichole Nordeman (in her song Tremble) identifies as the tension between the causal and reverential approach toward God. We now live in a culture that has removed the exclusive nature of the Christian religion and substituted a hearth-like cultural warmth, a comfortable spirituality that is casual if not downright cavalier (Nordeman's term). Should I be listening to Coldplay and contemplating the theology of Owen?

In Owen's day humanity was terrified of God and longed for the mediation of Christ. In our day it seems that most live a practical atheism at the very least where to be in the presence of God (if he does exist) is like bumping into Mickey Mouse at the Wal-Mart. Or it's like God is in some room of the house (if He is there at all), probably watching the news and drinking coffee or tea. He is accessible when needed but unnoticed like a fire hose behind easily broken glass. Even there, who needs a mediator? Just ring the servant's bell. This would be the Grand Creator of all mind you. Making that assumption, maybe the "professors" state their point by wearing their God-understanding on their sleeves. Take note and beware. When it comes to God, we're all experts then-- and let no man become our teacher. We'll treat God as we know best and call it a private matter. We have our beliefs and prefer them unchallenged-- for to question an expert's assessment is the height of disrespect and intolerance.

Or maybe it's just my perspective tainting what is true about this posture of humanity. Perhaps the masses are afraid of God's presence. Maybe Owen is current. Maybe our society has forced the issue too much, so much so that we tip our hand and show our fear. To have God on our terms without further examination leaves us in the comfort zone. To consider a relationship with Him on His terms—to even entertain that he would have terms—brings the unknown into view and that is far too unsettling. To keep this fellowship devoid of definition through Christ allows one the ebb and flow of relativism. Only when I admit that God is not marginalized, that he owns and occupies not just the TV room, but the entire estate do I see him as he is. He owns my life. I was born to live for His purposes. My life is not my own. I am loved but not excused. Guilty but pardoned. Accountable to his authority. Yes, that would be terrifying. "But we have, in Christ, the way into God's presence without fear." Such a progression of thought would make Owen's point a current event. Let's deal with it.

For Barb, who knows this all too well

2008-07-16T13:45:00.001-07:00

I think it human nature to want to discover an area where we can shake our fists at God and say, "You don't know what it's like to be me right now!" I also believe we desperately want to find no such thing. Until recently I never thought about this drama in the context of what the apostle Paul calls his "thorn in the flesh" (2 Corinthians 12). Paul states: "So to keep me from becoming proud, I was given a thorn in my flesh, a messenger from Satan to torment me and keep me from becoming proud." (v 6-8) He goes on to say that he pleaded with Lord three times to take this perturbation away, whatever it was. And that has always been the issue. We, read "I", have spent tons of time trying to figure out what this "thorn", this "messenger of Satan" was—so much so that we miss a great parallel from the life of Jesus.

In Mark 14, we read:

32 They went to the olive grove called Gethsemane, and Jesus said, "Sit here while I go and pray." 33 He took Peter, James, and John with him, and he became deeply troubled and distressed. 34 He told them, "My soul is crushed with grief to the point of death. Stay here and keep watch with me."

35 He went on a little farther and fell to the ground. He prayed that, if it were possible, the awful hour awaiting him might pass him by. 36 "Abba, Father," he cried out, "everything is possible for you. Please take this cup of suffering away from me. Yet I want your will to be done, not mine."

37 Then he returned and found the disciples asleep. He said to Peter, "Simon, are you asleep? Couldn't you watch with me even one hour? 38 Keep watch and pray, so that you will not give in to temptation. For the spirit is willing, but the body is weak."

39 Then Jesus left them again and prayed the same prayer as before. 40 When he returned to them again, he found them sleeping, for they couldn't keep their eyes open. And they didn't know what to say.

41 When he returned to them the third time, he said, "Go ahead and sleep. Have your rest. But no—the time has come. The Son of Man is betrayed into the hands of sinners. 42 Up, let's be going. Look, my betrayer is here!" (NLT)

Did you see it? When facing the cross, Jesus appeals to his father three final times for another route to redemption. The Passover cup of wrath is now to be poured out not on Egyptian first-borns, but on the Son of God nailed to a Roman cross. Jesus saw that road map to Golgotha, a dark and lonely path which would end with his Father no where in sight. Could there be another way? Mel Gibson captures this side of Gethsemane with Satan's appeal to Jesus: "Surely this is a burden too great for you to bear?" In a vivid burst of victory after his agonizing moments in prayer, the heel of God crushes the head of the serpent (Genesis 3:15). What did Jesus hear from heaven that gave him such strength to mount the cross?

I believe we have the answer to the three questions Jesus asked in the answer he gives to the three questions Paul asked: "My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness." His grace is all we need. When the thorns won't come out. When we scream at heaven with the injustices of the world. When we shake our fists and say, "You don't know what it's like to be me right now." It is then we find ourselves with him in the garden. He does know what it's like to be us—in every way. He knows. And the same thing he says to us, is the same thing he said to that great apostle. It is, I believe, what Jesus heard from his own Father in that hour of deep despair. "My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness." It may not be the answer we are looking for but it is usually what we get. I am trying to trust that it's also what we need.

Out of the Fog

2008-06-18T14:45:00.000-07:00

Millstone offers a great name for its morning medium roast--Foglifter. I've never had it but I'm willing to cut it some slack due to this fantastic name. I wish I had it on that fateful day back in February 1980 when my neighbor Todd Parson and I went into the woods beyond Greasy Creek to hunt quail. There was a dusting of snow on the ground which makes birds stick longer before they break to flight. Quail are hilariously funny to watch when they are on the run.
After spending an hour or so shrouded in the beauty of frosted timber it was time to leave for home. We'd made the trip many times but this one was different. A fog came across the lake and settled into the entire acreage. We knew exactly where we were, but not where we were going. Our bearings were entirely off kilter--lost in a whiteout of snow and fog. If we walked too far west, we could fall through the ice on the creek, too far south and we would be on a thinly frozen lake. It was terrifying.
I grew up hearing my Grandfather preach about Jesus saving those who were lost. I was quite certain that I could only be sure of heaven if I first knew I was lost. That frightened me initially because I didn't feel particularly lost. The only other time I was lost was when I was 5 at a Christmas parade in Providence Ky. It was a three minute eternity of horror that was immediately remedied by the sight of my mother. The contrast in emotions when one is lost and then found is forever etched on the soul.
As I've gotten older, I'm more comfortable with the feelings of lostness. On the occasions I get lost (Hey, I'm a guy!) I still don't like it, but I always sense an assurance for coming through it. In matters of salvation, I wasn't lost because I didn't know where I was, I was lost because I didn't know where I was going, and my options were far more perilous than I wanted to entertain. And just because I didn't feel lost didn't mean I wasn't.
Todd and I determined that day to stay put and stay calm. But the fog didn't lift and it was getting darker. I'm quite sure that moments before we both died from heart failure, through the fog, we heard a voice calling our names. It was my father's voice. He suspected our predicament so he made his way up the trail and called to us from the ridge above the bottoms. We immediately had our bearings. We knew where we were going.
I still get lost from time to time. The fog rolls in and though I know where I am, I don't know where to go. I think back to that day in the whiteout, and I listen for my Father's voice.

A midlife crisis?

2008-06-09T14:46:00.000-07:00

I'm such a schmuck. Two days before we went on vacation-- that would be two weeks ago-- I bought a motorcycle. Not a month earlier I had poo-pooed the idea with Gary the Globetrotting Evangelist that I'd never risk endangering my life--not to mention the future of my children's image of my death--by riding a motorcycle. That went out the window for reasons that I'm not certain of at this point. Simply put, I want to conquer my fear of riding this machine on auto infested roads. Being a country boy I rode nobby-tired dirtbikes over the open spaces of my rural upbringing. City riding is more of a challenge-- a fear I want to put to rest. Too much of my life is controlled by fear of stuff..and people. I want to check this thing off my list.
Second of course is all the hullabaloo I hear from riders who speak of how it makes one feel to embrace the elements on two wheels-- words like freedom, relaxation and young-again come to mind. Thirdly, four dollar gas! Though many have told me I'm wasting my time pursuing the cost benefit by the time you buy the bike and all that goes with it.
I have yet to feel any of these presumed benefits but I did take a ride through McCutchanville today and the wind under my helmet and against my shirt gave me some sort of satisfaction. Right now I'm just struck with the "coolness" of it all. I haven't felt cool in a long time. Maybe that's why old guys like me do this thing. Maybe it's a ploy to keep me chasing the cool of my youth while forsaking the wisdom of age. I hope not. That would be a tremendous regret. So right now I'll settle for conquering a fear. That seems noble enough. I'm celebrating with a cup of Myron's Kilimanjaro blend!

Lipstick on the Rim

2007-07-04T05:39:00.000-07:00

The cafe of the day is my kitchen table. It's the 4th of July, my family is visiting Grandparents in Louisiana, and I'm alone, in the quiet, to take a personal inventory, a life self-exam, which is very scary. The flavor of the day is Starbucks Tarrazu (a gift from Donna Zinn), which is superb—even though I got the grind wrong! Drinking from Andrée’s Rooster Mug (it reminds her of France), I feel like I have her close to me. Chuck Loeb is playing a great riff in the background (the house was too quiet!).

I was told to never drink after anyone, and by no means should I put my mouth to a water fountain. The warning always came with the tag: “You’ll get trench mouth!” As I got older, I realized that I never knew anyone who contracted trench mouth, so my best friend, John Wimsatt, and I started drinking out of each other’s glasses. There were no apparent side effects. My mother was still horrified. I’ve often wondered if she was more worried that I’d catch “Catholic”, which John was, more than any biological disorder. No trench mouth and I remain pretty firmly Protestant.

So I sip from Andrée's mug and think about having her close. Even when you aren’t fully engaged in a house with people, there’s proximity with them that is always, shall we say, “streaming”—to borrow a net word. The stream is broken when they leave. Like most mugs that belong to females, this one has been through the dishwasher but still has a slight remnant of her Revlon Coffee Bean #101 on the rim.

She’s tortured me with that lipstick ever since we dated. My first encounter with it in a personal way was just after I’d professed my love for her. Before making my 7:45 Greek class, I put a note on her car that read “Good morning Sweetie! I love you!” Later that day, I found a note under the wipers on my car. She had taken my note, blotted her lipstick on it in the shape of a kiss and wrote, “I love you too!” I went through a molecular destabilization on par with that of mutated superheroes. I still have that note.

I write this entry, I think, because my heart is preoccupied with the events of the past few days. A husband and father from our church, very much like me, buried his soul mate yesterday. He had tons of time to prepare for it, but how can you prepare for what it does to you when the house is too quiet? Would you still listen for the garage door to open as if she’s returning from the grocery? How does one ever stand at a sink again to brush your teeth or comb your hair? She was always there—either right there, or “streaming” somewhere around the house. What do you do with all the stuff? Her stuff? Everything you touch tells a story. The story of you, together. I wouldn’t get past the lipstick drawer for years.

I drink great coffee from a special mug, tainted with just a tinge of lipstick, a tinge of her. Our dog likes to lounge on an article of her clothing. The 3-year old wants to sit in her lap and touch a mole on her neck. I understand now. We need contact points when those we love aren’t around. We need them with God too. The patriarch, Jacob, needed some rocks at Bethel to remind him of God’s presence, a tangible reminder. My dog needs something from the dirty clothes. I need to put my mouth to a ceramic utensil that bears the imprint of my wife's lips. To do so is to have her here, with me in the quiet.

Reality Roast bites!

2007-06-18T14:03:00.000-07:00

“Remind me to come and visit you when I want a break from reality.”
Walter Matthau, Grumpier Old Men

I was awakened tonight with indigestion and acid reflux. It was due to a meal that I didn’t need to eat, followed by stronger coffee than my aged gut should have been forced to withstand at such an hour. Like a painful conversation that takes awhile to process, so is strong coffee taken too late in the evening.

I woke up thinking about the retirement fund that my employer won’t contribute to for another year, and wondering if I am worth more money. Of course, I have these thoughts just a few hours after finishing a day where I’m not sure I contributed to the kingdom of God in a substantial way. Typical.

I don’t think that I’ve ever been comfortable with reality. While an optimist may be applauded for his positive contribution to family and work, an honest look at what needs to be embraced in the moment can go completely ignored. I have the capacity to enjoy a moment but feel disconnected to what its implication may have on the future. I am afraid it borders on irresponsibility at times. Actually, I know it does but I'm optimistic!

I am also amazed at how people are quick to come to my rescue when verbalizing this sort of internal examination. People do not seem to want me delving into those thoughts of potential character flaws. I have often been forced from those depths if introspection at just the time when I thought I was making progress. I wonder if Christians don’t want other Christians to deal with inauthentic issues because they don’t want to admit their own shortcomings as well.

Yesterday I sent my family, each of them, the appropriate messages that I love them and desire to be with them. I showered and shaved, more closely than the day before because someone commented on my shadow. I dressed in the usual blue and khaki and came down for oatmeal. The boys were taken to school. The truck sent to maintenance and repair for some rusting u-joints. My wife collected me during the wait and drove me to the office. I say “to the office” because I couldn’t say “to work.” I went back and forth between a desktop and a notebook, listening and reading but very little responding or initiating.

The idea of entertaining a change of employment, a move to a different location, does not interest me in the least. And yet, there is this deep dissatisfaction with where I am professionally. I just finished a book, if you can call it that. I feel like I threw something together at times. I desire a real sense of attachment to my work, yet possess no burning desire for anything. I want to change, but find no rope to latch on that would pull me toward something that would balance my life between work and family. I know I am gifted but feel trapped in some ways from letting those gifts out. It’s easier to blame a system than to look at where I may be self-sabotaging my life.

At times, reality is so foreign to me that I wonder if I truly know what it looks like. At first glance, I appear to be lost in some way, drifting. I wonder how much I must surely frustrate my wife and kids with this. So often I just don’t feel like I know what to do, and when I do act the potential for nobility or irresponsibility is a coin toss. I have often cloaked utter disregard for reality by calling it risk-taking, or worse, faith.

So I sit here in the dark, on a couch that is less than comfortable, at 2:41 am, and enter these random scribbles about personal reflection and wonder if I’ve done any good, made any progress. The optimist in me wants to believe I have. In an honest look at the reality of the moment, however, I see a mocking return. It is just that I seem to have been at this so long.

If I possess any sense of drive, it is to make certain that my children don’t fall into the same trap. Of course I am only attempting to steer them away from these pitfalls, I have no real assurance that I’m doing such a thing. I can handle them falling into junk by their own choosing, but not from a lack of preparation on my part. I don’t want to minimize this purpose but is there more? There’s reality, ...........and there’s grace to face it.

Window Shading

2007-06-18T13:11:00.000-07:00

Do you ever think about how the American custom of going to lunch with others isn’t actually conducive to deep conversation? I am convinced that another reason coffee and conversation go so well is the practical and simple idea of looking at the person you’re with. For a whole host of reasons, I don’t make eye contact with someone while I’m eating. Conversely, I can sip coffee and never look down. Most of us aren’t so self-conscious with sipping. Eating is, of course, another story.

How are you with eye contact in general? When I was a young man, my businessman/grandfather told me that there were two keys to first impressions: eye contact and a firm handshake. One was formed by a physical connection, a clasping of hands. The other connection was much more vulnerable because it was so subjective. The locking of eyes with another can send an abundance of messages very quickly.

From the eyes of another we can detect the beginning of stories, the first step of a request, the heat of anger, and confidence—the presence or lack of it. When was the last time you really made eye contact with someone? How long did you maintain it? Was it someone you love, or a stranger?

Every now and then I watch this relational exercise between individuals. I have learned that those with power and influence do not readily give eye contact to others. Walk beside a famous athlete through a crowd of adoring fans and you will see her autograph an abundance of paraphernalia but never give eye contact. She will focus on the task and keep walking. It’s like, if she stops and really engages, she will die.

You don’t have to be famous to neglect this powerful contact point. At some level, we all keep the window to our souls shaded from would-be peeping toms. We get really good at it over time. I’ve been married for 15 years and it doesn’t get any easier to peer longingly into my wife’s beautiful brown eyes. Is it because I fear she might see something I don’t want her to know?

I have talked with men who almost have this “window shade” dynamic as a part of their job description. They aren’t professional poker players but you would think so by how well they guard their gaze around society in general. I think they do it because of all the demands placed upon them. If they give others eye contact, it becomes a pause that leads to obligation.
The problem with this behavior is that they cannot flip a switch and give such connection to those who deserve it. Having counseled those desiring deeper intimacy, I ask them to preface any conversation with an intentional gaze, and not to begin until eye contact is established. It can be a very frustrating exercise. I can’t even get my 3 year old to do it.

Deep down, I am afraid of captivation. In Proverbs 6:25 we are admonished to avoid sexual immorality: “Do not lust in your heart after her beauty or let her captivate you with her eyes.” For men and women, the eyes are powerful instruments of charm. Law enforcement officials tell us that only the sickest individuals can kill while looking into the eyes of their victims. They eyes of a victim possess the plea of one who is created with eternal value—the soul speaks of the image of God and its’ connection to one who would do harm. The wiring of life’s sanctity, no matter how corroded, can be sparked by the divine in those moments—a captivating call to the precious value of an image-bearer.

Now, what about Jesus? Can we even begin to know what it would feel like to have eye contact with the Son of God? The gospel of Luke, chapter 6, tells us that before Jesus gave the greatest sermon ever preached, “He brought the disciples before him, and he looked at them.” Were they captivated or repelled by this act of invitation and examination? What would it look like for you to attain an encounter with Christ that captivated you? What would it feel like for you to be caught in his gaze?

Deep Java 3

2007-06-06T07:19:00.000-07:00

Recently I had one of those deep conversations in which coffee was on the table. It was a pastoral conversation. Like Andree, she is a beautiful woman as well, but today the redness of weeping mars her blue eyes and milky complexion. She has been wounded deeply by the best friend she has ever known. Deception. Betrayal. She is out for justice. The tears she cries are mixed with rage and pain. The friend has confessed and repented. She knows what she has to do, but the doing of it escapes her. “I’ve read the Bible, I know what it says. ‘Forgive as you have been forgiven.’ And I know I have been forgiven. I love my friend and want desperately to forgive, but practically, so much is in the way. I want him to hurt like I hurt, and I just don’t think that he does. I understand confession and repentance, but I want there to be consequences. I want him to feel great pain before I forgive”, she nearly chuckled at the closing remark. I sipped my coffee. She stared at hers.

As she stalls a moment, I think back to my conversations with Andree, years earlier, about the sovereignty of God in a shattered and scattered world. Then she spoke. “I just don’t think he has suffered enough. Is that it? Does he go back to normal just like that? There are no consequences-- just like a man to want it fixed and done with-- no consequences.” “Oh but there are”, I said. She doesn’t see it-- “Where? Show me because I don‘t see them.” I sipped again (for courage maybe?) then spoke. “Do you remember all of those pictures of Jesus on the cross? All the images of the crown of thorns? Remember what you saw in movies about his crucifixion? Do you really believe that happened?” She fumbled with her sweater, nodding affirmatively to the inquisition. “Of course”, she replied flatly. I paused letting her connect the logic. “It’s hard putting the crucifixion in such an immediate crisis, isn’t it? And yet, it is our immediate crises that required such a horrible consequence. As long as God allows this world to turn, people will live with the need for the cross of Jesus. You have now experienced this provision as acutely as an attack of appendicitis.”

It was a watershed moment for her. Finally-- practical theology in the present tense. The cup holding her latte finally reached her lips. It was an image of drinking more than just a caffeinated beverage. The gateway from her mind to her heart had been opened. Her soul was flooded with what a personal relationship with God looks like—vividly, and at great cost.
“I feel like the ball is in my court and it’s my move", she said. "But I don’t want to move right now. I’m in shock, and so vulnerable. Vulnerable to the trust I must place in Christ to help me apply a work he completed." I told her that I understood.

Embracing the truth of a thing doesn't mean that there is instant adjustments or applications. Forgiveness is a very difficult destination, but it's the difficulty that makes it great. Much like the liquid result which finally finds its way into the cardboard cups we hold, the refinement of forgiveness is a tedious process, attained by thorough grinding and extreme heat. She's enduring the process to attain the result. I am very confident of her commitment to do so. "He who is forgiven much, loves much." Such is the promise to which she clings.

Deep Java 2

2007-06-06T07:17:00.001-07:00

Andree also loves coffee. The following year, Andree Gates from Louisiana, enchanted the hearts of many would-be pulpiteers and seminarians. When you attend a school where men are trying to fit in a world where their trade is rapidly losing admiration, the love and respect of a desirable woman becomes a very hot commodity. It was a small school where the ratio of men to women was depressing.

As a result, I heard about Andree long before I ever saw her. Men ran into doors—walked upright into fountains—fell into ditches trying to behold her. They blubbered and stuttered through a simple “Hello.” I listened to these stories of shock and awe with constant amusement. We finally met in the laundry/exercise room of Lincoln Hall—an old YWCA converted into a male dorm. The rustic exercise room and laundry were combined, and women students could use the facilities as well as men. I was trying to wash 5 cubic feet of bedspread in 3 cubic feet of washing machine. My language was not appropriate but it caught Andree’s attention. She was attempting to lift dumb-bells—and I felt like the largest one!

Weeks went by until I finally got the nerve to ask her out. “Whadya wanna do?”, I asked. “Let’s go for coffee”, she said. We went to a French bakery sort of establishment with several choices of coffee. Much fancier than what I grown accustomed to with Tim. We sat in wooden chairs at a small farm table and we talked. We talked a lot. And we went back again and again. It felt like the first time in my adult life that I truly had a friend who was a woman. We talked about absolute truth, and our callings to ministry. She was on her way to France to be a missionary, and she deeply loved Paris. I wanted to go back to Kentucky and pastor a rural church, maybe help other pastors. The soul stuff that I had learned to exchange with my buddy Tim was now being communicated to a woman. Was it the coffee?

We would laugh too. A couple of times I remember even crying with her. We’d sip coffee out of fine china cups, and spread marmalade onto French bread. I learned what a baguette was, and the simple delicacy of fresh butter. I learned that coffee and cocoa beans are closely related—and should be kept so!! My life was enriched, and my soul expanded, from those dates inside a Paris brasserie ala’ Texas.

I hear that Andree still enjoys coffee very much. She should anyway—for several years now I have made it for her every morning at 7:00. A couple of times a week our four children even let us drink a cup…….. before it gets cold. Just the other day, our 12-year old decided to have his first cup. This sacred ritual between husband and wife has now been compromised!

Cappuccino Sex

2007-06-05T13:56:00.000-07:00

When you meet a Nascar driver for coffee, it can be a slightly intimidating thing. He may expect more admiration than you want to give, or he may not want any at all. Having known those guys for many years, I was pretty stable, but like I've stated before, java-- especially the mere notion of espresso-- has the potential to infuse the system with courage. Mustering my adventurous spirit, I decided to go in a direction I'd never gone before. You see, I'm from a place where coffee is simple. I wasn't raised in the Starbucks era-- Len Sweet calls my era "Coffee Hell", which means I grew up with bad coffee (I just didn't know it!). So I was challenged by the aforementioned racer to try an espresso drink (I literally had to look up the words "cappuccino" and "espresso" just to make sure I spelled them correctly for this post!).

Anyway, I ordered a cappuccino, paid the perky college student, and started to walk outside with my prize. Before I hit the door, the humble barista said, "Enjoy that work of art you're holding!" I was curious. "How is this a work of art?" "Sir, you are holding perfect foam", was the reply. Wow, I was holding perfect foam. So I pulled off the cap and sure enough there was foam. In fact, foam occupied about 1/3 of my cup. I was indignant with the celebrity next to me. "What have you talked me into here?" I just wanted coffee, and now some brew-snob behind the counter over there is cheating me out of liquid by what-- trying to get me to value the foam? Foam as art? Perfect foam? What is that? "This is utterly ridiculous!", I protested. Quite the contrast to a moment that was filled with three young blonds who had just noticed the guy I was with. "Hey pal, hate to spoil your moment of adulation but you SUCK at ordering coffee!!"

"Perfect foam", I can't get it out of my head. Maurice Day kept the words "Chili Sauce" in his head. Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now had "The Horror". Barney Fife, "Nip it!" For me, it's "Perfect Foam."

So as I sat there with a current most eligible bachelor, I drank foam and listened to the question for which this meeting was convened. Bottom line-- in less than a year, he had gone from a no-name kid who was inexperienced in love to a household name with more propositions than he could count. He was so overwhelmed that to say he was frightened is not an embellishment. "How can I take advantage of my new found relational clout without it getting messy?" I inhaled and choked on foam. "Let me see if I'm reading you right on this. By taking advantage, you mean, how can I sleep with these propositions and not break their hearts? Right? You want to exercise your ego without guilt. At least you are somewhat concerned about these women. That's something I guess. But it's not enough." He scowled. "Man, that's brutal." I sipped, "Yeah, but it's true, isn't it?"

Some of you reading this would love to be in this guys shoes. When I was his age, I can't say I would have handled it as well as he did-- at least he sought my insight as a pastor, and an older man. He was in tension with himself for some reason here. I have to believe that the tension occurred when he took a look at what it would feel like to enjoy a beautiful woman in a casually sexual way. He wanted that-- without damaging her soul. Deep down he knew that was not possible. To engage in such activity is to set a fire, a fire that starts out as passion but burns beyond the flesh and damages the soul.

Without the substance of commitment, friendship and loyal love, casual-- albeit passionate-- sex becomes nothing more than the foam on my cappuccino. Even if it's perfect foam. What I long for is beneath the foam. It's what we all long for.

Deep Java

2007-06-05T13:02:00.000-07:00

Coffee shops are inspiring places. More anonymous than a office and friendlier than a library. Len Sweet calls the cafe environment "third places"-- the haunts we inhabit away from work and home. The environment is conducive for conversation and study and courage. Soldiers in the civil war said that by drinking coffee together they felt more courageous in battle. I guess the caffeine and camaraderie could do that for you, but then again I’ve never eyed-down an enemy musket at 50 yards. Coffee and conversation are interesting complements. If alcohol loosens ones inhibitions to act crazy in front of others, coffee is part of a mood that opens us up to significant depth in our sharing. Some of the deepest conversations I’ve ever had were over a cup of four dollar fuel.

I didn’t start drinking coffee until my second year of seminary in Dallas, Texas. A friend of mine named Tim—also a fellow-student and civil war buff from Atlanta—invited me to a local restaurant for evening brew. I discovered that he was more interested in the young waitress from Romania than he was the coffee. She was lovely, lifted seemingly from the lyrics of an Elton John song, the personification of the “tiny dancer” he immortalized. Our friend Dave would sit with us on occasion. As Irina walked by he would whisper, "Porcelain, a porcelain doll." She would pour our coffee and Tim would pour on the charm with his thick Georgia drawl. I guess that coffee gives one courage for more than just war.

While I don’t know if Tim would think so, he and I shared some soul stuff that went beyond the fluff and fill everyday conversations. I believe I learned what brotherhood feels like in that tattered restaurant booth. I haven’t spoken to Tim in a long while, and while I cannot remember the names of courses I took with him, I remember the laughter and pondering of those late night discussions, as well as the raven hair of the European beauty who served us as if we were kings. And why not? We spoke like impressive sages. I don’t believe that the fact Tim strategically placed his five dollar “tip money” on the table had anything to do with it. We were way to attractive for that to be true.