When Jesus talked about how we need to be like kids if we hope to enter, participate, and dwell in His kingdom, I think He knew a lot about kids and something dreadful and dangerous about us and how we get on with life. He seemed to know that, sometimes, two people can be in the same place at the same time, yet see and experience (or be preoccupied with) two completely different things. It, indeed, seems possible to be surrounded by swingsets and only see the storm building overhead. I think Jesus is constantly extending invitation to us about His kingdom. He wants us to enter in to it, He is glad when we do, and He is concerned when we miss out. So He warns us about the preoccupations that can so easily distract us from the opportunities around us everyday, all the time. Being an adult, a grown up, on this planet is fraught with challenges and pitfalls. The biggest and most troubling being the ones we find inside ourselves. In our becoming responsible and reasonable adults, our imagination and wanderlust can become very endangered and startlingly atrophied. We can become so habituated to planning for a secure and manageable tomorrow that we miss out completely on the spark and spontaneity of today.  I hope that Jesus, in setting children up as an example for us to emulate, is trying to remind us of something we can easily forget, to redirect us away from our safety and sensibility for just a little bit and toward something more freeing and fulfilling. Perhaps He’s trying to pry our eyes off the storm clouds and coax us back toward the swings. Maybe He hopes to see us pumping our legs again, straining higher and higher, forward and back, back and forth, beneath the gathering clouds, even as the wind begins to swirl and the rain begins to fall, swinging before the storms, wringing joy out of every last moment of each day.

“If you tell a lie big enough and keep repeating it, people will eventually come to believe it.” – Joseph Goebbels, Head of Nazi Propaganda

What if, in the Garden of Eden, we bit into more than an apple? What if we bit into deception powerful enough to shape human history? What if the Lie made us believe that God had deceived us, and that we were homo autonomous or “a law unto ourselves”? What if the Lie made us believe man is the measure of all things? What if the Lie taught us that only the powerful rule, only the popular matter, only the beautiful succeed, only the cruel prosper, and the only true reward in life is riches and wealth? What if that lie had the power to cause the rise and fall of nations and to punctuate our lives with pain, loss, frustration, and despair?

But what if God has been speaking this whole time in the background, behind the crash, the grind, the wreckage of the Lie? What if He was telling us the truth about us, about life, and reality? What if, on the mountainside in Matthew, Jesus was sitting with us and, just for a moment, was lifting the curtain, showing us the really real life…beyond the lie… a glimpse into the kingdom? What if Jesus said the Kingdom of God was breaking into Creation even now and that we could begin living in its reality…even now? And what if He really meant what He said?

The world the people listening to Jesus knew was not the world being talked about on the mountain that day. The world that people knew was cruel and impatient, ruled by the rich and the powerful, driven by war and domination. They only had to look at the Roman Empire, the religious elite, the government, and themselves to prove this reality. But Jesus was talking about a radical, upside-down world where the poorest, dumbest, weakest, and least blessed among us where actually the richest, wisest, strongest, and most blessed of all.

Despite the shared experience of everyone listening, Jesus spoke not of how things are but of how things should and could, can and will be…

- The humble in heart inherit the Kingdom of Heaven…not wrath.
- The brokenhearted and sad are comforted…not ignored.
- The meek and gentle rule the earth…instead of being abused.
- Those who hunger/thirst for justice are filled…not oppressed.
- The merciful receive mercy in return…not contempt.
- The pure in heart see God, face to face,…free from the lie.
- Those who work for peace become God’s kids…not activists.
- The persecuted find their home with God…not in prison.

Those who choose to live in the Kingdom now share common traits: they are humble in heart, greived by brokenness, gentleness, seeking justice, merciful, pure, working for peace, and persecuted. When you choose to live in the Kingdom, you make a choice that brave people have been making for thousands of years. You join a long line of prophets, doctors, shepherds, kings, convicts, slaves, hobos, mechanics, politicians, soldiers, bus drivers, housewives, and tax-collectors who have discovered truth and escaped the Lie.

So, what if, when Jesus spoke, you listened and watched, and you caught a glimpse of the Kingdom reality; of life as it should be? What if you believed Him and turned from the Lie and embraced the Truth that really sets you free to live and be blessed? The choice is ours, just like it was for the people on the hillside with Jesus.

The Kingdom awaits!

After lunch, a few friends from The Table came by the coffee shop. I had a good, unexpected conversation with Aja about random stuff, including how ears and hearing aids work. Then my friend Jared joined us as we talked theology and Bible stuff. Good times. Finally, a refreshing conversation with Jeremy, a friend on C-Street who came by to talk about life, marriage, spouses and significant others, and many things of great import. Alas, I had to leave to ride home because I understood another appointment awaited me.

It was another bike riding day. Days like today deserve bike riding. Brennan inquired instantly of such things as I wheeled into the driveway. So we set off toward the park. But today, I had a BMX training plan lined out for him. I carried under my arm a stack of plastic cups which I would use to created a slalom-type steering challenge for him. Because he usually rides on the running track next to the park, he rarely has to turn or use his brakes. So “turning and braking practice” was the order of the day. After a lap or two, we arrived at our chosen training site; the tennis courts. First he practiced braking by trying to stop directly atop a line on the court. This proved to be difficult and usually ended short of the line, succeeded by Brennen tumbling off his bike. But he did it at last and he smiled very widely. On to the slalom course we went, with the sweet smell of success still swirling around our smiling heads. Although the intent was for Brennan to navigate betwixt the cones (cups), he derived much pleasure from crushing the cups beneath his ill-guided tires. But, in the end, he was, again, successful. He wove his way through the cups and smiled the wide grin of victory as we pedaled away. His reward? Being allowed to ride, instead of walk his bike, on the sidewalk all the way home. In our minds, the banners unfurled and the trumpets announced songs of triumph as we strode into the backyard to put our bikes away. And then the feast began; seasoned potatoes, scrambled eggs, and turkey bacon for all! A day gratefully received, a day well spent.

As I drove toward home, I began to sense the demands. It started as a whisper as my arm draped across the sill of the open window. My fingers raked through the passing air and I could make out the words…”today, bikes must be ridden.” So, after changing my clothes, I mounted my bicycle to ride to the coffee shop to do some work and writing. I wore my new jeans, which are pretty slim and stiff. I smirked a self-conscious grin as I tried a second time to lift my leg over the saddle. I like to think it was a combination of stiff pants, my shoulder bag being in the way, and a prickly pocketful of keys that precipitated the second attempt. I try to ignore that fact that winter was long and exercise was foreign during her languid months. But, once mounted, it felt good; the burn in my quads, the wind, and circular pump of the pedals. 

On my ride home, I met up with Brennan and Chloe at La Fayette Park so they, too, could ride their bikes. [Earlier, before I'd left for the coffee shop, I mentioned the idea of riding bikes at the park when I returned home and Brennan with a triumphant "YES!", leaped into the air, making a happy and crooked "X" with his extended arms and legs.] Around the track they rode, lap after lap, with smiles blazed across their faces. Chloe soon tired of the adventure and asked to go home. But Brennan, who draws his enjoyment of bicycling from a very deep well, insisted to make a few more laps, and then just a few more. [He learned how to ride without training wheels last year and has been hearing the whispers even earlier than the rest of us. He's been making practice runs on his bike in the backyard and asking everyday to ride at the park for the last week or so.] So, we listened to the words and we obeyed the day’s demands; we rode our bikes. Despite tight pants, prickly keys, winter weight, and work to be done, we rode our bikes. And it was right.

I’ve long imagined that, as a child, everyone had that dream where you somehow ended up at school in your underwear. The one where you inexplicably made it all the way to your locker or homeroom before you noticed. And then, like a shot to the solar plexus, you became aware that the whole school is looking and guffawing. You are visible, exposed, embarrassed, and unable to hide (or to dream up an outfit, for that matter). Sometimes, when I’d have this dream, I’d try to run away and hide, but, to my horror, I couldn’t run. I could only strain and move my body but I couldn’t actually get away. And my Trapper Keeper was never big enough to cover my shame. I was always glad to wake up from the “underpants at school” dream. Discovering that I was not at school and not half-naked brought great relief to my young mind and it felt so good and right.

One of the healthy things about Lent is that it presents an intentional time for us, personally and corporately, to stop, to own up, and to accept the blame. To let our arms fall to our sides with our fingers pointing at our own feet. A season for us to step from behind the bush and acknowledge our nakedness. An invitation for us to admit that we are so dirty, smudged with the ashes of our failures and wounded with the angularity of our brokenness. Only when we allow the blame to rest fully on our shoulders and only when we stop straining and trying to run away can Jesus come and wake us up from the bad dream of our guilt. Only then can He wash us clean of our shame and clothe us in His resurrection.

Growing up in the evangelical, “low” church, we never found much use for the Christian Calendar or its seasons during the year. For us, Easter was a day, as was Christmas. Ideas like Lent, Advent, Pentecost, Epiphany, and the Holy Week were foreign, mysterious, and a bit too Roman Catholic for our tastes. As a result, we never participated in or understood Lent. Ash Wednesday didn’t register until I was in my mid-twenties living in New Mexico. I saw people walking around with black smudges on their foreheads. I also noticed Long John Silver’s advertised a fish special on Fridays for Lent. Beyond that, Lent was lost on me.

Because the evangelical brand of Christianity tends to be very personal and individualistic, we weren’t necessarily attuned to the Lenten idea of “seasons” for confession, repentance, and self-denial as a church, a body of believers. Of course, we did those things, but they were things that we did in private, at certain places and times. Like after a fire-breathing evangelist had worked the crowd into a froth about sin or hell and then had everyone bow their heads and close their eyes and slip up a hand while no one was looking.  Or perhaps after you really screwed up and/or said a forbidden word. (Like the time as a child when I was busted by my parents for saying my messy bedroom looked like “Fido’s rear.”)

While personal confession and repentance are necessary practices for a follower of Jesus, making space and taking time together as the people of God to practice confession and repentance is healthy, redemptive, and biblical. Thus, proper observance of the Christian Calendar would be a good thing for any church. But by a “proper observance” I mean a balanced, Christ-centered participation in which the “seasons” are a means to a greater end and not an end in themselves. Sometimes good ideas like the Christian Calendar can turn into empty ritual and a substitute for genuine spiritual transformation. So, being aware of the inherent risks involved, we will begin exploring and participating in the Christian Calender at our church, The Table. But, first, I think we have a lot to learn and many things with which we must acquaint ourselves.

Ultimately, as we take up our crosses daily to follow after Jesus, both personally and in community, I hope to see beautiful expressions of confession and repentance, as well as the “little deaths” of self-denial finding a home in our midst and in our year.

Today was filled with my favorite people on the planet. And the sun was shining down on the perfect day, the best one so far this year, in my opinion. Kristie made pancakes for breakfast and I watched Brennan build castles, tanks, and forts with blocks. Then we all loaded up to go buy some gravel. Both Chloe and Brennan promptly asked if they could stick their heads out the window once they discovered we were taking my truck. They like to stick their heads out the window while I drive. Dogs like doing that too. Anyway, I can’t think of a more perfect day for driving with your head stuck out the window.

Kristie’s giddiness about buying landscaping gravel might seem odd to the uninitiated. She gets pretty excited about things like gravel [and mulch, for that matter]. We purchased two tons of 5/8 inch creek gravel to build up our garden paths. The gravel was delivered after lunch. And then, as if long starved of the sight of such things, Kristie hovered around her pile of gravel, eyes aglow. Within an hour, the two tons of gravel were uniformly dispersed between the garden beds. And my wife stood back and marveled. And, just for a moment, all was right in the world.

Because it’s my birthday, Kristie let me use her flamethrower to burn stuff in the yard. It was cathartic and primal. I burned leaves and sticks, creating so much smoke that after 30 minutes or so, an Indian chief came into my backyard and said, “Yes, Thursday.” As interesting as it may seem, I had no idea what he meant. Apparently, I’d sent smoke signals and made plans with Indians.*

My special day culminated in my family and I enjoying Jeremy Larson’s Album Release Concert at the Gillioz Theater. We sat in the box seats in the balcony, overlooking the audience and stage. It was quite a show and we saw many of our friends from The Table. Zach and Jenna sat with us in the box seats and gave me a special bottle of Febreeze as a gift. So, despite looking peculiar carrying Febreeze at a concert, I was very thankful. For now I can rid my truck of the menagerie of smells that linger still from our drive home from Kansas City. Following the concert, we walked to Gelato Mio to celebrate. I got two scoops and was only charged for one. Happy birthday to me!

I’m looking forward to the next 38 years. If they’re as rich and satisfying as these first 38 have been, I will be one lucky man.

* [Yes, I made up the part about the Indian].

It’s good to be home. While my week in Kansas City with friends was incredible, it’s always good to be home with the family. Apparently my return was a big deal to the kids because, within minutes of my rising from bed, Maddie was dressed up like “John the Baptist” and Brennan and Chloe were dancing and laughing together in revelry. [Chloe's ready for a hipster masquerade]

I celebrated my first morning home by taking my truck to Meineke to have the brakes checked out. During the trip to KC, I’d noticed a bit of grinding when braking hard. So, four new brake pads, two turned rotors, two replaced rotors, and $411 later, my birthday weekend was in full swing. I announced proudly to the Meineke guy at the register that the brake job was my birthday present and I was going to celebrate by driving around with my wife and using my brakes…stopping as celebration!

So, Kristie and I went on a date tonight, enjoying sushi and edamame at Izumi Hatake downtown. Then we stopped by Heroes coffee to grab two decaf Americanos while grooving to the soulful sounds of Charles McDonald and Kyle Lacy. The place was packed with music listeners and a group of deaf people. Although it was pretty loud in the coffee shop, I guess a more copacetic scenario would be difficult to arrange.

A pleasant night on the town with my winsome bride, who gave me tickets to a zipline adventure in Branson and two books from Joyce Meyer about worry and stress [as a joke, rest assured]. The stress and worry part isn’t the joke, the Joyce Meyer part is.

New brakes, great weather, fancy dinner, time with Kristie, coffee and music, and birthday presents…a really good day.

Only on mornings like this does one, in the jaws of cruel irony, find themselves a guest in a home that does not drink coffee, thus owns not a coffee pot. My brain, face, and eyelids began chafing against my belt buckle by 9:30 a.m. My higher self chose to stand valiantly against the rising tide of grouchiness and irritability.

I reminded myself [and others] of the story of the man to whom Jesus sent his disciples to borrow his donkey in preparation for the Triumphal Entry into Jerusalem. The man had an important decision to make and lesson to learn; he could cling selfishly to his donkey, his plans, and his security OR he could untie his donkey and let it be used by Jesus. So, in the end, despite the meandering nature of the morning and copious amounts of Zach’s flatulence, I chose to “untie” my donkey and not be in control. I chose to let the group move at their own pace and find their own adventure.

We finally arrived and parked at the Plaza around noon and promptly visited a coffee shop. We then, rather serendipitously, enjoyed free sandwiches from Noodles, Inc. near the fountain on our way to the Nelson-Atkins Art Museum. The museum was stunning. The collections were vast and ranged from extreme antiquity to very contemporary, from all parts of the globe, telling of cultures and civilizations ancient and new. My walk through the galleries was refreshing and inspiring. After a while, I found a seat in the cafe which is situated in an atrium with a second-floor balcony surrounding it. Not long after doctoring my coffee and tasting the inaugural piece of my oatmeal raisin cookie, I received a text message from Celia saying, “Look behind you.” Upon doing so, I discovered the entirety of our group lining the rail on opposing sides of the balcony, waving and guffawing at me and each other. Then wadded pieces of paper began raining down around me, followed by a growing chorus of whistles and owl hoots. A smattering of chanting and humming noises intermingled with the swelling sound. I was not alone in the cafe, mind you. Other educated, nicely dressed people had gathered with similar intentions as my own; to eat, drink, and gather thoughts. But, here was my group of beloved college students hooting and howling, whistling and harmonizing insomuch as to fill the air with an other-worldy hum. I quietly and quickly relocated myself to a table along the wall, away from peering eyes and the wads of paper. I didn’t fear my companions. My concern was with the staff. What if the staff noticed me noticing my group noticing me? The potential scenario, unfolding before my mind’s eye, had the staff angrily approaching me and stiffly inquiring about the hooligan band of Philistines I’d unleashed on the museum.

Anyway, after a solid ten minutes of hooting and general cacophony, the young Philistines lost interest and slunk their way toward the contemporary art building. Later, after enough time had passed, I exited the cafe and joined the group. We began our walk back to the cars around 3 p.m. Along the way, Marisa was dared into touching one of the large shuttlecock sculptures on the museum lawn. Upon doing so, an alarm sounded followed by a voice warning that a security guard had been dispatched to deal with her. We fled the scene on foot as, across the grassy lawn, the security guard began his pursuit. We made our getaway through the nearest exit, but not before Zach slapped the rear end of a lion sculpture. We will now all live looking over our collective shoulders. Thanks Marisa, thanks Zach.

Our final visit with a church planter was in Lee’s Summit at AZ-U-R Church. Chane Hutton was very gracious and spent time telling about the church and it’s mission in it’s community. After posing together for a final group photo behind a large picture frame and after praying together, thanking God for a great experience, we climbed into our cars and began the long drive home.