What I've Been Doing these Past Two Weeks...

Hey Everyone,

So I haven't posted a sermon the last two weeks because we engaged in a more... experiential worship time for the last two weeks of Advent. It was going to be a four-week series, but when James came a little early, he kind of put a damper on my plans, as I hear children tend to do.

I am posting the PDF to the curriculum that I wrote for this Advent season. Like I said, we only ended up doing weeks three and four, but I thought all of my loyal followers--if there are any--might like a chance to look at the whole thing. Maybe next year, you might want to borrow all or part of it for your worship times.

Just click on the link to open it up: Advent through Art

God bless!


-wes

12.9.12--Sermon on Luke 3:1-18

In the summer of 2000, my family took a vacation to a beach house in Port Aransas. This was the first time that we had gone to the beach as a family since we had moved back to Texas from Hawaii, and I have to tell you, I was extremely excited about it. We had a large group of family and friends going with us, and I couldn’t wait to play in the waves, find amazing-looking seashells, and go snorkeling in the midst of all of the beautifully colored fish in the bays.

I kept telling everyone in the car with us how excited I was, talking about all I wanted to do and bragging about my expert-level boogie boarding skills.

I was a mean boogie boarder.

Everyone with us, though, kept looking at me funny, like they were not understanding what I was talking about. My cousins and friends—who had all been to Port A before—didn’t seem to share in my excitement about snorkeling in the clear blue ocean water or about the chance to dive in and out of eight foot waves. I could not understand why they weren’t jumping up and down like I was, how they were able to contain their pent-up excitement so well.

Then we arrived at the beach, and it all made sense.

You see, the Gulf of Mexico is not exactly known for its tubular waves or clear blue waters. It is not known for beautifully-shaped shells or brightly-colored tropical fish. Its waters are more of a brownish color, with breakers rarely peaking over a couple feet, and the most colorful fish you are likely to find are red fish, which are great for fishing, but lousy for snorkeling.

As beaches go, the Gulf is left wanting.

I was so disappointed! My hopes were dashed, and I felt betrayed. The beaches I had grown up around were the tropical paradises of Guam and Hawaii. In my head, all beaches are pristine, beautifully clear, just the perfect temperature, and surf-ready. Port Aransas had none of these things. How could I go from picture perfection to this?!

I spent the first few days that we were there complaining to anyone and everyone around me. While everyone else was enjoying themselves and soaking up as much sun and sand as possible, I was nostalgically and annoyingly reminiscing of the good old days of yore. Finally one of my uncles had enough of it. He called me over and told me stop moping around and go have fun. He said I was ruining the vacation for myself and others.

And he was right.

I had been so wrapped up in the past—so wrapped up in how great and amazing and beautiful things were—that I was missing out on the chance to enjoy and engage the wonderful time of fun and fellowship around me right then.

The beach at Port Aransas was not the white-sanded surf spot that I had grown up loving, but it was full of my friends and family, full of sunshine and water, and had the potential to be an amazing adventure. It wasn’t what I was expecting, but it was just as amazing for completely different reasons.

A Litany for Veteran's Day

(I did not write this, but I found it very moving. It is from "The Book of Worship for United States Forces," #625.)

Leader: Let us give thanks to God for the land of our birth with all its chartered liberties. For all the wonder of our country's story:

People: We give you thanks, O God.

Leader: For leaders in nation and state, and for those who in days past and in these present times have labored for the commonwealth:

People: We give you thanks, O God.

Leader: For those who in all times and places have been true and brave, and in the worlds common ways have lived upright lives and ministered to their fellows:

People: We give you thanks, O God.

Leader: For those who served their country in its hour of need, and especially for those who gave even their lives in that service:

People: We give you thanks, O God.

Leader: O almighty God and most merciful Father, as we remember these your servants, remembering with gratitude their courage and strength, we hold before you those who mourn them. Look upon your bereaved servants with your mercy. As this day brings them memories of those they have lost awhile, may it also bring your consolation and the assurance that their loved ones are alive now and forever in your living presence.

People: To you, O God, be the glory. Amen.

11.4.12--All Saints Sunday Sermon (John 11:1-7,14-44)

It was a rainy Saturday in the March of my junior year of high school, and I was at work. At the time, I was working as a tour guide at Longhorn Cavern State Park, and I was the even-hour tour guide. This meant that I was leading hour-and-a-half long tours through the cave that left at 10 am, 12 pm, 2 pm, and 4 pm. It was about 3:30 in the afternoon and I was walking back up to the visitor’s center from the cave entrance. Now, it wasn’t storming, but the rain was definitely coming down at more than a drizzle. I walked through the rain, wet and a little cold, and I looked up and saw my dad standing under the awning of the visitor’s center. He was watching me, and waiting for me to get up to him and out of the rain.

Dad coming to the cave while I worked was an uncommon occurrence, but every once and while he would drop by with lunch or with a soda from Sonic, so I didn’t think much of it. But as I drew closer to him, I could tell that something was wrong. He wasn’t smiling, and he didn’t look like himself. I asked what was wrong, and he drew me aside to tell me that Colin Clark, a freshman in our high school band and a good friend of my brother Korey, had just been in an accident. It was his first time to drive behind the wheel since he received his permit, and even though he had done nothing wrong, a driver on the other side of the road had overcorrected and caused a head-on collision with his car. His dad was in critical condition and his mom was bruised pretty badly but had suffered no major wounds.

Colin, though, had died almost instantly.

Now, Colin and I had not been very close friends, but we ran in the same circles. I was good friends with many of his good friends, and I had spent a good deal of time with him in band. But the one thing that I can say without a doubt about Colin was that he was a good soul. Everybody loved him, and I don’t think he met a person that he was not immediately friends with. Even though we were not extremely close, I liked him a lot, because he always let me play his base drum during football games.

He was a great person, and his absence in Burnet High School was a tragedy.

I got another tour guide to cover my shift for the rest of the day, and I went home to check on my brother and everyone else. Korey was with his friends, so I went to check on some of my friends from band. I found a number of them sitting on the porch of Colin’s house. Since Mr. Clark was in the ICU and Mrs. Clark was with him, the house was empty, and my friends were just sitting on the porch… not saying anything… just sitting.

So I pulled up and joined them, and we all just sat there together. Every once and while someone would say something, and we’d talk for a few minutes. But mostly, we just… sat. 

10.28.12--Sermon on Mark 10:46-52

How important is a name?

As many of you know, my first name is not Wes. My full name is Klinton Wesley Cain. For the first decade or so of my life, I answered to Klinton, Klint for short. Everyone called me that—my family, my friends, my teachers… everyone. Sometime in between moving from Hawaii to Texas and the start of my fifth grade year, I decided that I didn’t want to go by Klint or Klinton anymore. It just wasn’t… me.

So I started going by Wes. Now, this wasn’t that unheard of a transition in my family. My dad, James Wesley Cain, is also known by his middle name because he felt that James was too formal for him. His dad, James Alvin Cain, started going by Dewey when he was young in honor of Hewey, Dewey, and Louie. It seems to be a Cain family tradition for one of the guys to not go by your given first name.

Names are funny things. For most people, a person’s name is an integral part of his or her identity. They could not even fathom answering to any other name because it just wouldn’t be them. Kevin is Kevin, and he can be nothing else. Sarah is Sarah, and would not feel right if she was called anything different. Our names are a part of who we are. In the Cain household, my parents wanted our names to be more than just a word that got our attention. They wanted part of who their kids were to be wrapped up in our names. That’s why Korey, Katherine and I all have the same initials: KWC.

Names are important.

10.14.12--Sermon on Mark 10:17-27

A few years ago, I became obsessed with the TV show, House MD. If you aren’t a fan of medical sitcoms, it’s a series about the snarky, maladjusted Gregory House and his work as the head of the diagnostics department at Princeton-Plainsboro University Hospital. The specialty of the diagnostics department is solving the unsolvable medical mysteries, so everyone who would come into Dr. House’s office was always suffering from some life-threatening disease of which no one had ever heard. Now, pretty much every episode of this show followed the same basic outline: (1) someone would get sick, (2) House would get the case, (3) his team would spend the entire episode trying to solve the case and keep the patient alive, and (4) at the very last minute House would come up with the brilliant diagnosis that 95% of the time would save the patient from certain death.

There was usually some background drama to go along with it, like who House was in love with or what shenanigans he was getting into in his off time, but I didn’t really care about any of that stuff. My favorite part of every episode was always the diagnosis work. You see, Dr. House and his crack team of the brightest minds in medicine would get into a rhythm with their work as they sought to find the problem and derive a solution from it, and although they used a process, no two cases were ever the same. Their diagnostic detective work followed this basic outline: (1) they used a white board to compile a list of all of the symptoms so that they could assess the situation from every angle, (2) they carefully checked and ruled out any possible source of the infection such as patient medical history, living conditions, travel history, and human interaction, (3) they would cross check present symptoms with all sorts of rare and unpronounceable diseases from around the world, working with a fine-toothed comb to determine the cause of the patient’s condition, (4) the other doctors on the team would offer up plausible possibilities as to what the problem was throwing around terms like autoimmune disorder, carcinomas, legionnaire’s, and lupus (It was never lupus, but I swear they would bring it up at the beginning of every episode…), and (5) House would systematically rule out all possibilities until he hit upon the correct diagnosis, usually by discovering something that was overlooked or hidden before. 

No two cases were ever alike, yet House was always able to solve them by going through this process to reach a diagnosis. 

10.7.12--Sermon on Matthew 28:1-20

I’ve spent a lot of time lately thinking about how God has spoken to me so clearly and on so many occasions through experiences of corporate worship. I do not know if it is simply because I love to sing and am moved by music or if it is because I let down my guard while I am surrounded by others who are singing just as loud as I do; there’s just something about worship that allows God to speak to me in exciting ways.

It was during a time of worship that I made a decision to give my life to Christ. It was during a time of worship that I answered God’s call to vocational ministry. It was even during a time of worship that I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was going to marry Jessica. When everything seems to click in worship, God seems to show up in an absolutely amazing way.

But I know that over our two plus years together, I’ve told you plenty of stories about when worship worked, when the leaders, the speaker, and the congregation were all in sync and God was deftly able to weave in and out of the chords and choruses with ease. Today, though, I want to share with you a story about a time when worship didn’t click, when instead of feeling left in awe, I was left feeling angry.

This Midwinter Weekend Retreat featured a new band that I did not know. I happened to get to the camp early enough to hear their sound check, and I stood in the back of the worship space listening to them play, trying to decided if I was going to like them or not. I thought that they were pretty good, honestly. They were rocking every song they played, and even though they played a few songs I didn’t know, I was convinced that they would do a great job of leading us to the presence of God. I left right before they finished sound check, and didn’t see them again until that night’s opening worship.

I was right. They did rock. We had such a great time during the opening songs. They pushed the intensity to raise our energy and they looked like they were genuinely engaging in worship themselves. It was awesome.

After a few songs, the speaker stood up and delivered a great message—I think. Honestly, I don’t remember much about it, which is funny since I’m now in the same profession. When I was in high school, though, all I cared about was the music, the singing. That’s probably not the best attitude for a pastor to have, but hey, I wasn’t perfect. 

9.23.12--Sermon on Mark 9:33-37 and Mark 10:13-16

In one of the Sunday school classrooms at Crosswicks, there is a certain poster tacked up to corkboard on the wall. On this poster is a cartoon painting of Jesus, surrounded by little children. Everyone is smiling and laughing, and it looks like Jesus is about to wrap all of them up into a group hug. It is supposed to represent a Scripture lesson, one of the many stories of Christ that is found in all three of the synoptic Gospels—it is in Matthew 19, Mark 10, and Luke 18.

In this story, some families bring their children before Jesus so that he might bless them. In all of the stories, Jesus is in the middle of speaking to crowds of people. It seems to be a fairly common day in ministry for Jesus: he is healing the sick and injured, verbally battling it out with the Pharisees, and teaching the multitudes about the Kingdom of God. And in he middle of all of this, some families are trying desperately to parade their children before Jesus.

Now, it was a pretty common practice back in this day for rabbis to speak a blessing over children. What was not common then, though, was for this blessing to happen in the middle of his teachings. In all three of the synoptic Gospels, Jesus seems to be in the middle of pretty important conversations when these children are pushed forward.

I’m sure it was not much different than an over-excited mother pushing her kids to the front of the line to see Santa. You see, back then, for a well-known and well-respected rabbi to bless your child was important. It invoked God’s protection on your son or daughter, and greatly aided them in growing up to be healthy, prosperous people. You did not want to miss your chance for your kids to receive this blessing.

9.16.12--Sermon on Mark 8:27-30

A few days ago, as I was driving home, I witnessed a wonderful occurrence. As the sun was going down and evening approached, an older gentleman was lowering an American flag from the flagpole in his front yard. I stopped at the stop sign a little longer that I needed to, because I was enthralled by the care and respect he was showing this flag. He did not simply unhook a piece of cloth and walk back inside with it balled up in his hand; no, he carefully undid the clasp, folded this small standard in his hands, and reverently laid it over his forearm, gently holding it in place as he unhurriedly made his way back inside.

His eyes never left that flag. It was as if the most important thing he would do all day was bearing this banner safely inside.

Now, I drive by this house almost every day, and I’ve seen this flag quite often as it perched atop its pole and allowed the wind to whip it back and forth. I gotta tell you, this was not the nicest or biggest or boldest-colored flag that I’ve ever seen. It was a small nylon sheet, the reds and blues faded almost into pastels of their once dominant primary colors and the whites in need of brightening. It was probably something that you could find on sale for less than $10 at Walmart if you went the week leading up to the 4^th of July.

But to watch this man interact with it, you would have thought that this was the same star-spangled banner that so long ago did wave o’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

It was inspiring to watch. It was beautiful.

Now, I do not know this man’s story, and I do not know why the American flag means so much to him personally. Maybe, like my dad, he is one among the brave men and women who fought for our country to protect our rights and our freedoms. Maybe the flag means so much to him because the flag reminds him of the cost of our freedom and our ways of life. Maybe honoring the flag every evening as he lowers it from its pole is a way to remember and honor the dead, those who served alongside him and did not make it home.

I don’t know. All I know is that I will never forget watching him and thinking to myself, “I wish that we as the church had that kind of loyalty and devotion to our God.”

9.2.12--Sermon on Mark 7:1-8

Have you ever heard of TED Talks? They are these short video presentations done by individuals and posted on the web for all to see. These talks range in topic from how-to’s to business and leadership techniques to expositions on new inventions, and almost all of them are worth watching. They are hosted by the non-profit company, TED, which stands for Technology, Entertainment, Design, and they include talks from some of the best and brightest people from around the nation and around the globe.

I will never forget the first TED Talk that I watched. A friend had posted it to my wall, and it was a short clip of man teaching the world how to open a banana. He said that we have been doing this wrong for thousands of years, and making a giant mess in the process. You see, when most people pick up a banana, they cannot help but see the stem and think: handle. We might have a few different methods for how to work this handle, but 99% of the time, we use this stem to open our banana.

I’m fond of the method where you use your thumbnail to break the skin of the peel before you pull it back so as not to risk bruising the banana if the stem does not immediately peel back.

But apparently, by studying chimpanzees and other apes, primatologists—that is, scientists who study apes—have discovered a much easier and quicker means to open bananas. If you flip the banana over and simply pinch at the bottom, the peel practically comes apart for you. There tends to be less mess because most of the little stringy bits stick to this side of the peel and peel away with it, and there is little to no chance of it bruising the banana.

This might seem like a random thing, but it blew my mind. I’ve been opening my bananas wrong for years! Who would have thought?

But you know what’s weird? I don’t like to open my bananas the “right way” even though I have now seen the light about it. It has been ingrained in me from birth that you open bananas from the stem, and every morning when I am getting breakfast ready, I pull off a banana from the bunch, grab it by its stem, and pull.

It’s become a ritual for me, one to which I cannot help but stick. In a weird way, its become a part of who I am. I am Wes Cain: banana stem puller. 

August 19, 2012 Sermon on John 6:51-59

Brothers and sisters, I know that I’ve shared this news with you already, but I have to share it again because I do not think that it has completely sunk in yet for me. Jess and I are having a baby! Wow! I mean, I knew going into our marriage that the next logical step after getting married was to start growing the family, but it is still crazy to think that by the end of the year, I will be holding a tiny baby in my arms, one that I helped bring into the world.

Honestly, it’s kind of scary. I keep praying that God will allow me wake up one morning feeling completely ready and prepared for this new adventure, but so far this hasn’t happened. Instead, I wake up every morning with the knowledge that I’m one day closer to being a dad, and I feel this electric jolt of both unbridled excitement and uncontrollable fear.

This week marks Jess’ twenty-fourth week of pregnancy. During the past six months, we have both learned a lot about the 40-week process of pregnancy. We’ve read books, listened to professional advice, and done the best we could to equip ourselves with as much knowledge as possible as we prepare for our bundle of joy.

And I have to tell you, one of the most interesting aspects of this journey so far has been learning about the cravings that pregnant women endure and why they crave certain… substances. According to a number of sources, many women deal with cravings for all sorts of foods that range the spectrums from healthy to artery-clogging, from breakfast foods to deserts, from staple foods to out-of-the-box delicacies. Some women’s diets completely change while they are pregnant; Jess told me about a case of a life-long vegetarian who had such strong cravings for meat that she ended up eating steak or bacon almost every day until the baby came!

Sometimes, though, it is not an actual food that the mother-to-be will crave. Sometimes, they crave non-food substances as well! Jess read one day that she might develop cravings for things like clay or iron. Apparently, these cravings come about because her body knows that she needs to eat a certain kind of nutrient or protein, and sometimes the only way to best relay this message from her body to her brain is as a desire for something completely inedible. She read that if this happens, she should consult her doctor to find out what exactly she needs to eat to satisfy this yearning for a non-food.

I told her that if she started craving iron I’d just get her a piece of rebar to chew on. I don’t think she appreciated that…

I think this is extremely interesting, though. Your body sends you a message that you need a certain type of nutrient, but your brain only hears “CLAY! GIVE ME SOME CLAY!”

It is as if it completely misses the point. It’s not about iron. It’s not about clay. 

8.5.12--Sermon on John 13:31-35

When I was a senior in high school, one of my classmates decorated and taped a sign up onto her locker. It had Rom 1:16 written on it and stated in big fancy letters: “I’m not ashamed of the Gospel!” It was up there just a few hours before someone walked by and ripped it off. She didn’t know who did it, or why, but during the next period, she make herself a new sign, near identical to the first, and taped it on her locker as she moved to her next class.

That was on a Monday. Tuesday morning, upon arriving at her locker to get her things for first period, she was aghast to see that her sign was once again removed. So she started the process again: make a sign, post a sign, lose a sign. This continued throughout the day and the next.

Make a sign, post a sign, lose a sign. Make a sign, post a sign, lose a sign.

By Wednesday afternoon, she was pretty upset about it. That night, at FCA, she shared her discouragement with us. She was simply trying to share her beliefs, and someone was tearing her down every time. So we decided as an FCA group that we were going to join her in declaring our faith for everyone at Burnet High School to see. A group of about thirty of us made our own signs that stated in big bold letters: “I am not ashamed of the Gospel!”

It sparked a movement. Soon more and more people were putting up their own locker signs in support of the faith. It did not take long before every third locker or so was wearing its own Romans 1:16 sign. They were multicolored and sported handwriting spanning from completely illegible to seemingly professional calligraphy, and they all declared what we thought was a strong stance on hard issue.

We were standing up for our faith, and supporting a fellow Christian’s right to stand up for her faith as well.

The signs kept coming down, though. No matter how many people put them on their lockers, every passing period saw more and more ripped off and thrown on the ground. We would work in groups to make extra signs, intent on winning this extremely important cultural battle. And the cycle escalated. Make 20 signs, post 20 signs, lose around 12 signs. Make 20 more signs, replace the 12 signs and post 8 more signs, lose a few more signs.

And so on and so on.

We were winning, though! More signs were popping up than were being torn down. And it didn’t take long before a group of us spotted one of the perpetrators vandalizing our pious property. We jumped on him, yelling at him and calling him names and humiliating him in front of the student body for his heinous crimes. Soon we even figured out whom the other people were who were ripping down our signs. We didn’t seek most of them out to verbally destroy them, we just made sure that everyone else knew who they were so that we could collectively shun them and teach them a lesson about attacking us in such a way.

And we won. After a while, no one ripped our signs down any longer.

The guy whom we so well shunned was the son of two members of my church at the time. He didn’t attend except when forced to do so, but his parents were strong members and avid supporters of the youth ministry. They came up to me after the service one Sunday and asked me if I knew what had happened with their son at school. They said that he came home so upset one day that he had refused to go back, that he said everyone hated him and it wasn’t worth it.

I pleaded ignorance, but I knew what had happened.

It was at that moment that I was realized that I was ashamed, deeply, deeply ashamed. Not of the Gospel, but at myself and at my fellow classmates that we would do such a thing in the name of our God. We were trying to stand up for our faith in the one whom we believed was the epitome of love, and in doing so we had shown hate and alienation for those who truly needed to know that love.

The next day I tore my own sign down, for I realized that what it stood for was not love, and therefore was not God. 

7.29.12 Sermon--Mark 12:38-44

In my first semester of seminary, I took a class on different practices of prayer. My professor started our time together by telling us a story about Stanley Hauerwas, a noted theologian and ethicist, and—much more importantly for me—a fellow Texan. Hauerwas, who is currently working as a professor at Duke Divinity School, was asked by the president of Duke University to give an invocation at the opening of a meeting for the Board of Regents. The president told Dr. Hauerwas that this was really just a formality that had to be observed, and since the school had a strong religious heritage, he needed someone with a strong religious background to lead prayer. On the bright side, though, this would give this seminary professor a wonderful chance to rub elbows with movers and shakers, so performing this formality could really help further his career.

Well, even after that heart-swelling pep talk, Hauerwas agreed to lead the Board of Regents in an opening prayer. He was introduced after the official welcome by the school president, and once he had made his way up to the podium, he bowed his head and lifted up a prayer that went something like this:

“Lord, this prayer is really just a formality that has to be observed, and if we could, we probably do away with it completely. But since this is a school with a strong religious heritage, we recognize that certain obligations must be met, no matter how useless a ritual they may be. So hear our prayer, Lord, and let all be in agreement that our obligations to you have been met. Amen.”

Can you guess who was never invited back to a Board of Regents meeting at Duke University? 

6.10.12--Sermon on Mark 3:20-35

Can you imagine the scene? Jesus and his disciples steal into a house for a moment, maybe hoping to find respite from the crowd, maybe just hoping to catch a quick bite to eat in the midst of healing and teaching. Maybe, like the Texas weather I just left, it was just too hot out in the sun, and they were seeking the shade in shelter. Whatever the reason, they were not allowed even a moment’s break from the onslaught of the masses. Scripture attests that a crowd gathered again around him such that it was impossible for him and his followers to even eat.

That’s definitely standing room only.

But Jesus does not get angry or annoyed at the crowd. He doesn’t chase them out or demand silence and solitude. Instead, he shows the same compassion to them that would later move him to feed over five thousand and then even later over four thousand. Jesus looks out on the crowd, on the people yearning to see him and to hear a word from him, and is moved by love, for they are like sheep without a shepherd. Jesus welcomes everyone in the crowd, those there to quench their sincere curiosity, those there out of awe, and those there to question and confront him.

Not everyone in the crowd is a stranger, though. Mark shares that Jesus’ mother and brothers were there, trying to get to him to take him home before the crowd revolts against him. Mark also shares that a number of the legal experts from Jerusalem—the Pharisees and scribes that Jesus will butt heads with throughout his entire ministry—have descended into the madness of the masses so that they might check out this teacher and healer.

The former are there to save; the latter are there to condemn. 

6.3--Sermon on John 3:1-18

During the summer after sixth grade, I set out on a mission of the direst sorts. You see, I was certain that there was a secret alien base hidden under Burnet High School. We lived across the street from the school, and there were strange happenings around it throughout the summer—people coming and going at odd times of day and night, weird lights shining out of windows and smoke hanging around doors, and weird noises coming from the gym and the auditorium when no one was supposed to be there.

I shared my convictions and fears with some of my close friends, people that I knew would take me seriously and share my concerns. We decided to set out one night to engage in reconnaissance work. We snuck out of the house around midnight—yes, I snuck out a lot during the summers—and we ventured across the street to the campus. As much as possible, we slipped from shadow to shadow, staying as hidden as we could. We had even donned black sweatshirts and black pants—in the summer in Texas, mind you—to blend into the darkness as much as possible.

After a slow slink from my house the school, we began our search for extraterrestrial existence. We peered into windows, checked every door we could, and we even climbed an outside ladder up onto a lower section of the roof. And do you know what we found?

Absolutely nothing.

5.27.12--Pentecost Sermon

It was a dark and stormy night, and not a good time to be out in the middle of the sea. The entire crew worked tirelessly to keep their small fishing boat afloat among the waves. Giant swells threatened to capsize the vessel and plunge them all into a watery grave, and ominous clouds darkened the stars that served as the only means of navigation. Everyone was bone tired and on edge.

How many of them were rethinking their vocational choice at that moment? How many of them were thinking that it would have been much better to take up a staff, sit in the shade of a tree, and care for a herd of sheep or cows. Anything, even the life of a shepherd, would be better than dying at sea!

Then, in the midst of this struggle with the sea, someone shouts that they see a ghost among the waves! They cannot help but halt their tasks for a moment to gaze into the night at the awful apparition that is slowly moving their way. Who or what is this thing? What should they do? How should they respond?

And just as panic sets in, they hear an all too familiar voice, a voice full of authority and comfort; it was the voice of their master. “Take courage! It is I! Do not be afraid.” 

5.20.12--Sermon on Romans 8

Therefore, brothers, we have an obligation—but it is not to the sinful nature, to live according to it. For if you live according to the sinful nature, you will die; but if by the Spirit you put to death the misdeeds of the body, you will live, because those who are led by the Spirit of God are sons of God. For you did not receive a spirit that makes you a slave again to fear, but you received the Spirit of sonship. And by him we cry, “Abba, Father.” The Spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are God’s children. Now if we are children, then we are heirs—heirs of God and co-heirs with Christ, if indeed we share in his sufferings in order that we may also share in his glory.

            -Romans 8:12-17

As most of you know, I have a little sister who is twelve years younger than me. Katherine was born on February 24^th, at 7:47 pm, weighed 8 lbs 1 oz, and was 21 inches long. Now, because I was twelve at the time, I can actually remember the birth of my little sister. My brothers and I have actually been able to help raise her and be a part of her life in a wonderful way that is very different than it would be if we were closer in age. We’ve been able to attend her softball games and dance recitals, take her and her friends on adventures, and guide her through life as she grows and matures.

The age difference hasn’t always made things easy on her, though. By the time she was 9, all four of her brothers had graduated from high school and moved away from home. The house went from being full of people to nearly empty, and I know this was not an easy thing on her. She also had to grow up a lot faster than most kids, because we expected more of her and treated her like she was our age most of the time. I honestly wonder and worry sometimes if we took away some of the joy of her childhood because of that.

But Katherine is a tween now, which seems unreal, and has grown into a wonderful young lady. Most of our interactions for the past few years have been playful as we joke and tease each other as siblings do. It used to be that Tomas, Ben, Korey and I would be the teasers, and Katherine would be the teasee, but as she’s grown older, she’s also grown wittier and sharp on the uptake. I know that if I joke around with her today, she can now give as good as she takes!

Growing up, our favorite way to tease her was to try to convince her that she was adopted.

4.29.12--Guided Meditation on Psalm 23

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. The Lord is the good shepherd, who cares for all of his sheep, even me. In him, all of my needs are met. Even though I may find that at times I want more than I have, and even when it seems like the current pastures are not green enough, I can stand firm in the knowledge that my God is sustaining and caring for me, and I need nothing more than this. When I needed it the most, I know that my Lord, my good shepherd, gave his life for my own, giving all that he had so that I might retain what little I had. The Lord is no hired hand, who placed his own needs above mine, but is instead the shepherd, the one who gave all for me. The Lord, my shepherd, loves me.

He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters; he restores my soul. My shepherd wants only the best for me, and is always leading me to new places of nourishment and rest. When the ways of this world become dark and dangerous, my Lord, the good shepherd, leads me to newness and to life. While I rest, I know he watches over me, standing guard and keeping me safe. My God provides for me even when there does not seem to be any provisions, for my Lord, the good shepherd, has the power to multiply food to feed four and five thousand plus, and longs to see each of his sheep fed and cared for. When I have done all I can, given all I have to give, the good shepherd fills me again, invigorating me and pushing me on toward our destination, toward our goal. My Lord cares for more than just my body; he cares for my soul.

He leads me in right paths for his namesake. My Lord, the good shepherd, knows that without his guidance, I would be trapped in the ruts of the pasture. I could not go anywhere new, anywhere healthy and fresh, for all I know is how to continue in sin, searching the bleak, scorched earth for signs of life that have long since been forgotten. Instead of leaving me here to my own devices, instead of allowing me to remain easy prey for the wolf who comes to kill and destroy, the good shepherd leads me on new and right paths, always moving me closer to him, always reminding me of why I place my trust in him. Even when I find that I have deviated greatly from the path, even when I have ventured away from the 99 and am lost in the wilderness, my Lord, the good shepherd, will leave everything to find me and restore me to the right path.

Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and your staff—they comfort me. No matter how bad things become, no matter how bleak the situation is, I know that the Lord, my good shepherd, will see me through it. Even though demons posses me, even though sight and sound and speech are taken from me, even though I may personally experience the icy hand of death, I know that I am not alone, for the Lord, the good shepherd, is with me. And even more importantly, the Lord has been through all of these dark places already! He has gone ahead of me and knows how treacherous the way will become. And yet I can find solace even in this treacherousness, for I know that the good shepherd is with me and will fight for me if necessary. Nothing can stand up against me, for if the good shepherd is for me, then who could be against me?

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Even when I am surrounded by evil, even when the forces of darkness are gathered all around, you care for my every need. I have nothing to fear in you, my good shepherd, for I know that in you deliverance is guaranteed. I can even rejoice in my persecutions, for I know that they lead to perseverance, character, and a hope that will not disappoint. You prepare me for the feast day and honor me with oil, as if I were anything special. You, the Lord, my good shepherd, place me in the highest place, that I might realize your love for me and for all of your creation. You not only care for me, but you hold me as your highest priority.

And because of that, I give all praise to you, my Lord, my good shepherd, and I have faith that in this life and the life to come that you will be with me, that you will guide me, that you will provide for me and that you will love me. For surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever and ever.  Amen.

Sermon 4.22.12--Luke 24:36-49

Have you ever played the get-to-know-you game where you share with the group the three people, alive or dead or fiction, with whom you wish you could eat dinner? We used to use this question as an icebreaker in the camping ministries I helped lead. Well we’re going to play it right now. It’s pretty simple. Take a few moments to think about the three people throughout history that you wish you could invite to a dinner party. When you’ve decided on one or two or all three of them, share them with the congregation.

Who knows? You might be surprised at who in the room shares your people!

4.15.12--Sermon on Acts 4:32-35

Already in my short tenure in ministry, I have had the great blessing of serving beside some amazing Staff/Parish Relations Committee chairs. Now, I know that most of you know what role this group of people fill, but for those of you who do not, the Staff/Parish Relations Committee, known in the biz as the SPRC, is the hiring and firing committee of the church. They are the people who act both as the voice of the church—bringing the questions, concerns, and compliments of the congregation to the pastor—and as the ear of the church—hearing and responding to the questions and concerns of the pastor.

In other words, this is the committee that new hires—and new appointed pastors—makes friends with really quickly.

Easter Sermon--Mark 16:1-8

He is risen! He is risen indeed! Halleluiah!

We are gathered here on this magical morning to remember and celebrate the glorious resurrection of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ! So I say again:

He is risen! He is risen indeed Halleluiah!

I love this day, and not just because everyone is dressed in their Sunday best, our pews are just little more full than usual, and everyone has a smile on their face. No, the reason that I truly love Easter is that it is the victory celebration over the cosmic battle between good and evil. The votes have been tallied. The last inning is over. The bell has been rung. And the undisputed champion is, of course, Jesus Christ, the Son of God!

He is risen! He is risen indeed Halleluiah!

Good Friday Sermon on John 19:28-30

Later, knowing that all was now completed, and so that the Scripture would be fulfilled, Jesus said, “I am thirsty.” A jar of wine vinegar was there, so they soaked a sponge in it, put the sponge on a stalk of the hyssop plant, and lifted it to Jesus’ lips. When he had received the drink, Jesus said, “It is finished.” With that, he bowed his head and gave up his spirit.

We are slowly nearing the end of our time together. There are only two words left, and they are by no means the easiest to understand or the easiest to hear. Let us take some time to sit and ponder together the enormity of Jesus’ last words before his death as the Gospel from St. John records them.

It is finished.

I have often heard that Jesus’ words here are like that of an artist or worker looking at a finished product. Maybe Jesus was like a composer who has just finished his magnum opus. Did he experience, even as he hung broken and bleeding on the cross, something akin to what Beethoven experienced after working for countless hours and days on his 5^th Symphony? It is finished. The music is made. Or maybe it was more akin to the feeling that falls upon an author after writing the last word of a novel. Did Jesus know the relief of completing the task like Leo Tolstoy felt after finishing War and Peace? It is finished. The novel is way too long, but it is completed. Or maybe it was like the since of peace that a master chef feels after toiling in the kitchen all day over a single meal. Everything was added in just the right amounts at just the right time, and now the dinner is done, ready to eat.

It is finished.

Romans 5

(The past few weeks, I have been reading through the book of Romans, which is by far my favorite book in the Bible. Although I by no means understand it completely, God is good and continually opens my eyes to new truths hidden in the text. Romans 5 has been gnawing at me for a while. I read it and re-read it, and God show me something amazing every time. Below is my translation of Paul's chapter. I hope God uses it to show you something amazing too!)


5

¹Therefore, having been justified through faith, we have made peace with God through our Lord, Jesus Christ, ²through whom we have also gained access by faith into this grace in which we stand, and we take delight in the hope of the glory of God. ³Not only so, but we also delight in our sufferings because we know that our sufferings will lead to perseverance, ⁴perseverance leads to character, and character leads to hope. ⁵And hope will never disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured out and into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, whom God has given to us.

⁶For just at the right time, while we were still powerless, Christ died for the wicked. ⁷Very rarely will someone die for a righteous person, though for a good person, someone might just dare to die. ⁸But God demonstrated and demonstrates still His love for us in this: while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. ⁹Therefore, now that we have been justified through His blood, how much more will we be saved through Him from God’s wrath? ¹⁰For if, even though we were enemies, we were reconciled to God through the death of God’s Son, how much more, having been reconciled, will we be saved through His life? ¹¹Not only is this so, but we now and forevermore delight in God through our Lord, Jesus Christ, through Whom we have now received reconciliation. ¹²Therefore, because sin- and death through sin- entered into the world through one man, which in turn passed death to all people because all have sinned, ¹³this means that before the Law was given, sin was in the world. But sin is not taken to account without the Law. ¹⁴Even still, death reigned from Adam until Moses unchecked, even over those who did not sin in the same way as Adam, who is made in the likeness of the One to come. ¹⁵But the free gift is not like the offense. For if many died due to one man’s offense, how much more did God’s grace, and the gift in grace- which is of the one Man, Jesus Christ- overflow to so many! ¹⁶And the gift of God shall not be decided because of the one man having sinned, for indeed that judgment was one of condemnation. Indeed, the free gift of God was given after many transgressions, and it led to justification. ¹⁷Therefore, if it was that by the sin of the one man, death reigned on account of that one man, how much more will those who receive the abundance of grace and the gift of God’s righteousness reign in life through the One Man, Jesus Christ. ¹⁸Therefore, just as through the sin of one man all were condemned, so also through the One’s righteous act there was found justification of life for all. ¹⁹For just as through the disobedience of the one man the many were made into sinners, so also through the obedience of the One the many will be considered as righteous. ²⁰The Law was added so that sin might abound. But where sin increased, grace increased so much more, ²¹so that just as sin reigned in death, so also grace could reign through righteousness to life everlasting through Jesus Christ, our Lord.

3.25.12--Sermon on Mark 14:32-42

Toward the end of the Gospel of Mark, we hear a story of Jesus going to a garden to pray. He asks Peter, James, and John—his friends—to keep watch with him while he prays. It seems that he is scared, that he is in need of comfort and encouragement. He even tells them: “My soul is overwhelmed, even to the point of death!”

And yet the disciples don’t seem to get just how upset Jesus is. He moves a little ways off to pray… and they fall asleep.

Now, in their defense, they had just finished the Passover feast. I’m sure that, like many of us after Thanksgiving, they were feeling full, and feeling tired. It was dark, the ground in the garden was probably very soft. The situation just lends itself so well to a nap.

But Jesus needed them to stay awake. He needed them to provide him the support that he so desperately craved.

3.11.12--Translation of Mark 5:21-43 (Just for those who are interested)

²¹And when Jesus had again crossed over to the other side by boat, a large crowd assembled around him while he was still by the sea. ²² And one of the synagogue rulers came, Jairus by name, and seeing Jesus, he fell at his feet ²³and, greatly pleading with him, said, “My little daughter is dying! Come, so that you may lay your hands on her that she might be saved and live!” ²⁴And Jesus went with him, but a large crowd pursued him and pressed into him.

²⁵And there came a woman, who had had a flow of blood for twelve years, ²⁶who had suffered greatly under many physicians and spent all that she had; instead of benefitting from this, though, she only came to be worse. ²⁷And hearing about Jesus, she came into the crowd behind him and touched his garment. ²⁸For she said, “If I can but touch his garment, I will be saved!” ²⁹And immediately her surge of blood dried up and she knew in her body that she had been healed from the whip!

³⁰And immediately Jesus, knowing in him that power had gone out from him, turned to the crowd and asked, “Who touched my garment?” ³¹His disciples said to him, “You see this crowd pressing into you and yet you ask, ‘Who touched me?’” ³²But he searched around to see who had done it.

³³And the woman, fearful and trembling, and knowing what had happened to her, came and fell at his feet and told him the whole truth. ³⁴But he said to her, “Daughter, your courageous trust has saved you. Go in peace and be healed from your whip.”

³⁵While Jesus was speaking, some people came to the synagogue ruler and said, “Your daughter is dead; why continue to trouble the teacher?”

³⁶But Jesus refused to listen to the words they spoke, saying to the synagogue ruler, “Do not fear, only trust courageously.” ³⁷And he refused to permit anyone to come after him except Peter, James, and John the brother of James. ³⁸And going into the house of the synagogue ruler, he saw a commotion; many people were weeping and wailing. ³⁹And entering, he said to them, “Why are you troubled and weeping? The child is not dead, but asleep.”

⁴⁰They laughed at him. But casting them out, he took with him the father of the child, and the mother, and those with him and he moved to the child. ⁴¹And taking the child’s hand, he said to her, “Talitha koum,” that is, “Little girl, I tell you, rise.”

⁴²And immediately the girl rose and began walking, for she was twelve years old. And they were immediately stunned with great astonishment. ⁴³And he commanded many of them so that none would know of this, and he also told them to give her something to eat.

3.11.12--Sermon on Mark 5:21-43

There’s a story in the Gospel of Mark that begins with Jesus crossing a sea on a boat. As he disembarks from the ship onto the beach, a crowd starts gathering around him. Word spreads that this teacher and healer has been spotted and more and more people come to catch a glimpse of him, hear a word from him, or even maybe witness his miraculous power for themselves. As Jesus is walking and talking with some of the people in the crowd, one of the leaders of the synagogue, a high-ranking Jewish official, pushes his way through the throng of onlookers until he is standing right next to Jesus.

Now, up to this point in the Gospel, Jesus hasn’t exactly made the best impression with the Jewish religious leaders. He has been charged with blasphemy for forgiving sins, he’s eaten with sinners, he blatantly ignored their traditions in ritual cleansing, and he messed with their understanding of the Sabbath. They even at one time declared him to be Beelzebub, the Prince of Darkness! And now this synagogue ruler bursts from the crowd, right in front of Jesus…

3.4.12--Sermon on Mark 10:13-16

Jess and I passed my dream car the other day as we were walking into Starbucks. What was it? A Humvee. One of the military-issued ones that had been civilianized and polished until it shined. It. Was. Beautiful. My eyes immediately locked on to it. A little drool might have trickled down my chin. I was drawn to it like a moth to the flame. And when I stopped to take a moment to admire the beauty and sheer power of this machine, my lovely wife proceeded make fun of me! Not nice!

She spent the next few minutes telling me why we will never own one, and why it is an absolutely, completely, utterly ridiculous vehicle. I just stood there, taking it, thinking that I never said I was going to get one… I just have a slight obsession with them.

Her main argument was that they had absolutely horrible gas mileage. We would spend more on gas the first year than we spent on the down payment!

It reminded me of my first truck, and the fun I had every week, pulling up the gas station, squeezing the pump—we get to pump it ourselves down there, you know—and watching my bank account take a substantial hit. Week after week. $75 fill up after $75 fill up.

I know about horrible gas mileage.

In high school, I would avoid the gas station as long as possible. I’m pretty sure that my truck ran on fumes more often than it ran on actual gas. Which, I will admit, was scary, but it worked out.

Most of the time.

Twice I ran out of gas and was stranded. The first time, my dad had to drive out 20 minutes away, in the middle of nowhere, while I waited patiently for the much-needed gas. The second time, I was literally two blocks away from the gas station. Stranded. Down hill.

I couldn’t believe it! I was so close, but there was a slight incline and a right turn between my goal and me. I couldn’t make it. My way was barred.

2.26--Sermon on Revelation 21:1--22:5

One of my new favorite book series is coming to the silver screen this month. Suzanne Collins’, The Hunger Games, is a New York Times best seller, and even though it is located in the young-adult fiction section at Barnes and Noble, the trilogy is really a must read for all who enjoy immersing themselves in a new world full of rich plot and deep character development. I am very excited for the movie to come out, and I might even re-read the trilogy in preparation for it.

But here’s my problem. The four years of high school English I had to endure—not to mention having an English teacher as a mother—le my mind warped and twisted and made it impossible for me to read a good book and not wonder about the hidden depths of meaning that might be hiding just below the surface of the page. I’m sure that if you remember back to your days in the grind, you can remember having the same problems. Your teachers beating it into your brain that everything has a hidden meaning and that every novel, poem, or limerick is replete with symbolism.

Well maybe they were wrong.

Maybe that poem isn’t meant to symbolize the ultimate power that time holds over us and our inability to overcome it. Maybe it’s just about a tree that loses its leaves in the winter.

Maybe the author isn’t trying to satirize the dominant religious institution of its time as overly pious and power hungry. Maybe it’s just a good story about a boy standing up for what is right in the face of adversity.

Maybe we read too much into literature, and that B that I got in my senior English class was not because I refused to delve deeper into the mystery of the text but was because my teacher refused to admit that she really did not have any idea what the Shakespeare was thinking when he wrote King Lear.

Smudges on the Soul--A Meditation for Ash Wednesday by Safiyah Fosua

**(Just so it is clear to everyone, I am not the author of this. It is the meditation that I read from the pulpit for tonight's Ash Wednesday service.)**

Yet even now, says the LORD, return to me with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning; rend your hearts and not your clothing. Return to the LORD, your God, for he is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love, and relents from punishing. (Joel 2:12-13, NRSV)

I would rather wear the smudge on my forehead than to admit its residence upon my soul. I prefer a crude cross above my eyes to questions about runny mascara and smudged liner. In a place where self-confidence is rewarded and any sign of weakness or emotional predisposition is held suspect, it is difficult to consider actually following the advice of the prophet to return to the Lord with fasting, with weeping and with mourning. It is, however, acceptable — maybe even fashionable to appear in public with a dirty forehead as a sign that I have religion. It is amazing how the symbols of piety, sackcloth and ashes, have been transformed into a mask that hides me from myself and circumvents the intent of Ash Wednesday.

Blow the trumpet in Zion, the prophet said. Not the trumpet that signals advance to war, or the trumpet that celebrates victory, but the one that warns trembling penitents that the day of the Lord is coming. Blow the trumpet that warns a penitent like me to wear the smudge of ashes long after her face has been washed and to admit the smudge on the one place that matters to God, her heart.

Blow the trumpet in Zion, the prophet said, and sanctify a fast. Hear the sounds of grumbling need in a world where few are filled — and where we are overfilled. Today I am called to push away from the voracious consumption of everything in my path, for at least a little while, in hopes that I might realize something about the equitable distribution of the world's resources before the fast is over.

Rend your hearts and not your garments, the prophet said. The gift of the day is personal reflection, a season of confession, and change. Start the arduous journey from shadow to substance, from ritual to reality, from façade to faith. Today, choose the harder course. It is easier to buy new clothing than to mend a soul.

Prayer: Lord, as I begin this year's Lenten Journey, turn my attention to the things that matter most to you. Amen.

Prayer Liturgy for a Hurting Community

Last Thursday, a school bus was in an accident with a garbage truck. 17 of the 25 students were injured in some way, three were sent to the hospital in critical condition, and one was taken from this life. The following is the prayer liturgy we did in place of the sermon. As you read it, please lift up a prayer for the family of Isabelle Tezsla, the young lady who passed away.

2.12.12--Faith or Fad? (Acts 5:27-42)

This might come as a shock to most of you, and if you are never able to look at me the same way again, I do apologize for the upset. But I have to confess something to y’all, and hopefully we can still be friends after I get this off of my chest. Ok… here goes:

I have an absolutely horrible fashion sense.

There. I feel much better.

It’s true, though. I cannot count the number of times that I’ve tried to leave the house in one get-up only to be flagged down by Jess for her to kindly but sternly suggest that I put on different shoes or try for a shirt that is not both wrinkled and stained. Honestly, church is a blessing for me, because it’s not too hard to pick out a shirt and sometimes a tie to go with a black suit. It pretty much does the work for me.

I kid you not, though. In high school, every day of every week—with the exception of when it was freezing outside—I wore the same ensemble: aloha shirt, t-shirt, blue jean shorts, and flip-flops. I had enough aloha shirts to clothe a village, and I would wear out a pair of flip-flops in a matter of months from the constant wear.

I can remember in college trying to figure out just what was right to wear and what wasn’t. An old girlfriend once told me that white doesn’t go with khaki and that brown shoes and belts don’t go with black pants or a black shirt, so I tried to pay attention to colors. That didn’t stop me from wearing striped shirts with floral print shorts, though. Even now, I have no idea which of my jeans I’m allowed to wear with dress shirts and which ones I have to save for days off. And if I had it my way, I’d either wear boots or flip-flops with everything.

Fashion just doesn’t make sense to me. It changes so often, and it seems like every week brings a new fad that will be gone just as quickly. Why even bother paying attention to it, when it is such a transient thing?

So much of our culture is like that, isn’t it? This gadget or this activity is the hot new thing now, but as soon as you get it or try it out, something has taken its place. If you blink, you fall behind everyone else. But this isn’t a new fact of reality. Throughout human history, as technology and innovation continue, the old is discarded for the new. In hunting, this meant transitioning from the spear to the bow and arrow. In war, this meant discarding iron swords for steel. Pottery makes way for glass. Feudalism bends knee to democracy. Frank Sinatra is replaced by Lady Gaga.

2.5.12--Sermon on the Resurrection of Christ

Two years ago, Jessica and I were living in Princeton while I was attending my first semester of seminary. Jessica was working full-time at Starbucks as a shift supervisor and when I wasn’t working on my homework I was desperately and hopelessly trying to find a part-time job. We weren’t in a good place financially. Even with the scholarships and loans that I received, the cost of living was too much for us to handle, and our savings was slowly but steadily diminishing as the bills seemed to steadily increase. In about six months’ time, we would be out of money and in need of other options. Now, I don’t know about you, but money is an extremely stressful thing for me. I never feel like I have enough of it, and I always feel like too much of it is gone before it hits my wallet. Having no money, especially so early in our marriage, was all the more stressful, and we were beginning to worry more and more about how we were going to make it through the summer. To top it off, I was already struggling with my work because I didn’t have any practical outlet for the highly abstract things I was learning. The academic aspect of Princeton Seminary so outweighed the practical that I felt I was drowning in it!

Then I got a call from my district superintendent asking me what I thought about doing a two-point charge. It was a less-than-half-time position at two small but grounded churches, and it came with a parsonage. Would I maybe be interested in this? I remember my voice catching in my throat as I answered him, “Absolutely!”

And all of a sudden, doors that were previously barred began to open. In that one conversation, Jess and I went from not knowing how we were going to continue making payments on her car to figuring out when she would be able to quit her dead-end job and find something she really loved to do. I went from dreading my classes to feeling excited about the chance to learn more that I could then share with my congregations!

It was as if the new day had dawned, and the dread of night fled at the approach of the rising sun.

Sermon 1.29.12--Mark 15:33-39

I think that one of the most underrated Disney movies of all time is The Sword in the Stone, Disney’s tale of how King Arthur—who everyone calls Wart in the film—grew up and his zany adventures with Merlin. I saw a copy of this movie on the DVD rack in BJ’s the other day and then proceeded to spend the rest of my shopping excursion reliving my favorite parts of this movie that I haven’t seen in over a decade.

Two parts in particular still stand out in my mind. Merlin wants young Wart to truly come to know and love the world around him, so as he teaches this king-to-be, Merlin keeps turning him into different animals so that he can experience the world through new eyes. Arthur learns what it’s like to be a fish swimming around in a lake and what it’s like to be a bird soaring through the air. He lives through the joy of near-weightlessness in the water as well as the overpowering fear of running from a predator for dear life. He finds true freedom and ecstasy in flight as well as the pang of loss in the death of a fellow sparrow.

By truly experiencing life in these different forms, Arthur learns to love and care for every creature, great or small.

1.22.12--Sermon on Mark 8:27-30

During my senior year of high school, I took my mom’s Sociology class. It was a dual credit course, and I was trying to wrack up as many college hours as possible before I graduated. Now, other than the little bit of awkwardness of being the son of the teacher, I had a lot fun in the class and learned a lot.

One of the lessons is one I will never forget. We were talking about the actual quantitative effect that peer pressure can have on the individual and how this can easily lead to mob mentality. To illustrate her point, my mom asked ten students to step outside of the classroom for a moment. When they were gone, she drew four lines on the chalkboard. They were all relatively the same size, but third line down was obviously longer than the others. She turned to us and informed us that she had given instructions to all but one of the students outside to pick the top line no matter what she asked of them.

When the ten people came back into the room, she asked each one to point out the longest line of chalk on the board. One after another, nine of the students came up, studied the board, and picked the top line as the longest. Now, Justin, the last student to come up, had not been given any instruction from Mom. He was supposed to come up and pick the longest line based on his observation of the four marks. But when it came his turn, he was so afraid to pick anything contrary to the other students’ choices that he went against his better judgment and chose the top line as well.

His need to fit in with the world around him had overruled his basic logic.

1.15.12--Sermon on Luke 15:11-32

Two weeks’ ago, Jess and I celebrated our second anniversary. As is usually the case on such memorable occasions, this day led to me spending the majority of my quiet time remembering all of the fun that we had at the ceremony and reception and even on the days leading up to it. I remembered the headache of trying to get everyone to his or her spots during the rehearsal. I admit that it was my groomsmen who were the problem. Someone made a comment that it was like herding cats, and they weren’t far off from the truth. I remembered having breakfast with Jess the morning of, both of us brimming with excitement for what the day would hold. So many memories crowded in my head, and, honestly, not all of them were happy memories.

I remembered the little tug in my heart when I realized that some of my family members had decided not to come to the wedding. I remembered some completely unnecessary tension that had formed between one of my groomsmen and me. And I remember being furious at two of my brothers while driving to the reception.