Lunching on the Cathedral Steps...

The Cathedral of St. John the Divine sits in a lovely neighborhood not far from Central Park. By happy accident on our way there we happened upon the famous Tom's Diner, known to the world as "Monk's," where Jerry and George often held court. Having heard my wife's plea not to plan our entire trip around eating, we found a wonderful Italian grocery, and got a roast beef sandwich to go.

We had the loveliest lunch resting on the capacious steps of St. John the Divine (hearafter SJD). SJD began its life as the world's largest vanity project --it remains the world's largest cathedral, unfinished and with no immediate plans to finish. I say it was a vanity project because New York's Episcopalians wanted a rival to Midtown's famous St. Patrick's. Now it stands there, in its awkward unfinished state, still massively impressive. Its North Transept was destroyed by fire, filling the rest of the sanctuary with soot and smoke. The main sanctuary was cleaned and reopened; the North transept was never re-built.

The Cathedral is impressive because of its tapestries, its landmark Aeolian-Skinner organ (the gold standard in church organs and one of two grand organs in New York I had the misfortune of not hearing played!), its art and its bizarre multi-culturalism. It is here that a woman performed an "Aids Mass" by drenching herself in cattle blood (where is PETA when you need them?). It is here that a female Christ figure is displayed, with jetliners crashing through her hands. The temporary exhibit was a circle of some sort of deer skulls from the West on poles. This is not something one would see in the average Presbyterian sanctuary.

New York is filled with grand edifices. I would have loved to see the famous Riverside Church, which John D. Rockefeller, liberal Christian philanthropist, built as a cathedral to progressivism, for his favorite pastor, Harry E. Fosdick, and where the famous organist Virgil Fox warred with a subsequent Mrs. Rockefeller for the right to play his magnificent Skinner at full volume for church preludes. The gospel is still heard in some of these grand edifices (Doug Webster, an evangelical PCUSA minister who now pastors Central Presbyterian in New York, was a guest at my church this last Sunday --his brother-in-law is my assistant). I doubt it is heard at SJD, at least not part of the regular diet.

I love beauty. I love cathedrals. Our current age finds them prohibitively expensive to build, and a misappropriation of resources that might be better directed at missions and mercy. I wonder, though, why so many massive, formerly faithful churches sit vacant or, alternately, those that remain don't tell men and women of the good news of the free grace of God abounding in Jesus Christ to the penitent sinner. I wonder why so many (or the few) go in for the poor substite of deer skulls or female Jesuses or cow's blood masses.

And then I rejoice that the gospel goes forth. Manhattan houses some fine church edifices, but it houses many fine churches that don't meet in those fine edifices --thou art within no walls confined, as an old hymn has it. I am glad the gospel is going forth in New York. I am glad it is finding stock brokers and homeless people. I am glad for Jim Cymbala in Brooklyn and the late David Wilkerson in Times Square and for Tim Keller and for a host of faithful others. God has his people in that great city and he doesn't need cathedrals, as beautiful as they are, to accomplish his work.

Brokenness Is No Fun

It is doubtful whether God can bless a man greatly until He has hurt him deeply... A. W. Tozer

I refer to the last year or so of life around our house as "The Year of Things Breaking." The list is too long to recount: dishwasher, new dryer, freezer, coffee maker, computer, printer and my wife's engagement ring --I am sure there are other things too! Brokenness is no fun.

Though it is aggravating when it comes to our material possessions, it is far more painful when it happens to our selves. Those who would serve the Lord will, without exception, find themselves being broken --and it is no fun.

There are various ways that God does this. In my own experience, it has been through health issues for my wife and eldest daughter. God can do it through the stubborn resistance of a much-detested indwelling pet sin. He can do it with business reversals, rebellious children, or a challenging church situation. He does it, the Westminster Confession says, for his own good purposes, a reason that sounded hollow to Job and often sounds the same to us. It is no mystery that the Psalms are filled with the "Why me?" question.

Yet, there are reasons. First, if we are to be used of God, we need to be broken. To be broken means to be disabused of our neat and tidy view of life. We begin Christian adulthood with hopes and dreams --grand aspirations for our families, for our careers, for our ministries. We soon encounter cold, hard realities. The child we groomed to be a star student struggles and needs remedial help. The son upon whom we pinned athletic glory doesn't show much interest in anything. The church on which we pinned great hopes for ministry success struggles along a bumpy road. Our own bodies are felled and hindered by unexpected illness.

People who are not broken are insufferable. People with all the answers --with perfect families as the result of perfect methods, and perfect outcomes. People with perfect churches that go according to perfect plans, and attract perfect people. Such, really, do not exist. It is an illusion --a facade constructed for public show, a path to glory without pain. It is a false path; it does not exist.

God's strength is perfected in weakness. How slow we are to learn that. The treasure of the gospel is put in jars of clay so that we can claim no credit for helping it succeed. Speaking of my own experience, the paltry little bit of suffering I have experienced has made me far more empathetic with others than I would be otherwise.

You cannot be a minister or an elder without empathy, I don't think. You can't remain cold, distant and clinical and really minister to people. You have to hurt for them and with them. That means you have to open yourself up to hurt. This, in itself, is not pleasant. You cannot proceed with the "I have no need of friendship, friendship causes pain..." self-protection mentality. You have to open yourself up to public shame. You cannot love your own reputation. You have to be willing to empty yourself as Jesus did. You cannot hire others to do your dirty work; you are called to be a servant, and there is nothing beneath your doing. You have not risen too high to change a bedpan.

I have often felt very broken. It is perhaps the worst feeling in the world. It can feel like life is unraveling without much hope. As Psalm 42 says, our experience can be like that of drowning under all God's waves and breakers rolling over us. This hurts. We have two options: it can make us withdrawn, private, chilly individuals for whom self-protection trumps being useful to God or we can allow ourselves to be broken.

Christ was broken. He was not only crushed physically, but spiritually. He emptied himself of reputation. There was no grandeur and earthly glory in what he did. He was despised and rejected by men and, for a time, by his own Father. He did this, though, for the greater good of bringing many sons to glory. The pathway to glory is through suffering --there is simply no other way. If our chief goal in life is to serve God, then we have already made our choice. We have chosen to be broken and to bleed --but not for no purpose. We have chosen it so that we might be useful to God, and humble before others.

But It's My Opinion --How Do We Know When We're Right or Wrong?

One of the hardest things in the life of the church is a difference of opinion. Far too often, minds are made up with few facts, and assessments are skewed by our life experiences, emotion and subjectivity. The clash results when opinions are closed to reason, or any thought that I might be wrong. Healthy self-doubt is good for the Christian --we can pretend we are as fair and objective, and really believe we are (far so than the other guy), and yet be miles away from God's will on any given subject.

Scripture, however, gives us some guidance in this. How do we know that we are rendering a wise, godly opinion? James tells us:


James 3:13-18 Who is wise and understanding among you? By his good conduct let him show his works in the meekness of wisdom. But if you have bitter jealousy and selfish ambition in your hearts, do not boast and be false to the truth. This is not the wisdom that comes down from above, but is earthly, unspiritual, demonic. For where jealousy and selfish ambition exist, there will be disorder and every vile practice. But the wisdom from above is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, open to reason, full of mercy and good fruits, impartial and sincere. And a harvest of righteousness is sown in peace by those who make peace.

First, it is held in meekness. The anger of men generally does not serve the purposes of God. Yes, there are occasions for righteous anger, but they are few and far between, and usually not on matters of difference between believers. In matters where truth and righteousness are not at stake, being tentative is a virtue.

Second, it is pure. It does not act from selfish motive, concern about the opinions of others, or one's own standing or selfish advantage. It seeks the welfare of God and others above its own.

Third, it is peaceable It does not provoke or seek quarrels. It ratchets down the temperature of discussions. This is one reasons elders are to be men without hot tempers --a hot temper usually equals foolish decisions.

Fourth, it is gentle. The wisdom of God is not harsh, unyielding, demanding and performance-driven. These are not godly qualities.

Fifth, it is open to reason. How often have I seen in church debates where men have said "I have made up my mind and you aren't going to change it." That is an inherently godless position; it goes against what Scripture here says. God hears us out; he considers our cause; he even "changes his mind" (I know, that's anthropopathic language, but it proves my point. To our appearances, God changes his mind). God is reasonable and open to entreaty and his servants ought to be too.

Sixth, it is fraught with mercy. A Christian should be quick to forgive and quick to seek forgiveness. He cannot live comfortably at odds with another Christian. He needs to put himself in the position of his opponent, to try to see things from his perspective, to understand him.

Seventh it is impartial. It does not regard persons, does not favor anyone, but considers all facts. It is not done out of malice or prejudice against a person.

Eighth, it is sincere This is difficult. We may sometimes know when we are being insincere, but we are capable of being sincerely wrong and heinously so. Sincerity by itself is nothing; it must be joined to these other fruits, if we are to find assurance we are in the right.

Ninth, the result is peace. I have seen torn session rooms come together by wise counsel. Men who were greatly at odds calm down, reason through, and someone proposes a solution. It satisfies everyone, and everyone leaves smiling.

I reiterate: these things must hang together. Separately, each can delude and become dangerous. A smattering of them is not enough --they must hang together. They are qualities of character and they can only come from the Spirit. Without him, is no wisdom at all.

NYC -- the Delayed Effect

Sometimes, it doesn't hit you till later...

I can't believe I've been home from New York for almost two weeks.  Time flew while we were there and it continues to fly.  That in itself makes me long for heaven where there is no separation of time from the high points of life, neither memory nor anticipation, but always present.

I expected to be overwhelmed by New York, intimidated by its bigness and bustle.  I grew up in a small town, and have lived in moderately-sized metropolitan areas, whereas my wife is from the big city (not NYC).  How pleasantly surprised I was because, though New York is massive, it is divided into unique and defined areas, each with its own distinct character (SoHo, Midtown, Upper West Side, Lower Manhattan, etc).  Lower Manhattan feels very businesslike  --large, imposing structures, perhaps not all that different from the business sectors of other major cities, except for its notable landmarks.  The World Trade Center site did not move me as I expected it would --not initially.  We were there before the barricades came down and the affecting memorial opened to the public.  It felt very much like a construction zone.

It did move me very much, however, upon reflection.  We visited the week before 9/11 --the tenth anniversary.  As I watched the various commemorations, it dawned on me in a fresh way that I was there --I stood there, on the very scene of the horror.  I cannot imagine what it was like, nor would I ever care to know.  I think it is good both that the WTC is getting back to business (though some of its plan remains to be realized) and that there is such a fitting memorial in the midst of a place where space is so precious.  The thing that affected me most was a special that featured phone messages and conversations from those trapped in the Twin Towers --some of which were their last words on earth.  That I had been there made watching the commemorations all the more moving; it gave a point of identification.  Standing at the WTC site did not feel different than any other place I have visited --which was precisely how the average WTC worker felt when they arrived at work that day.  I imagine that all of them anticipated a normal commute home. Tragedy disrupts the norm and reminds us how broken the world is.

I was surprised how much my whole New York experience had a delayed effect --perhaps it was simply too much to process at the time, and it dawned on me later: standing in the large holding room where so many made their first arrival on these shores (including my great-great grandfather and possibly my great-grandfather), then thinking, if the trains were confusing to me, how it must have been for those who did not speak English.

One thing stuck with me from Ellis Island --a quote by the great former mayor Fiorello LaGuardia.  As a very young man, LaGuardia was a multi-lingual translator, working as the mediator between would-be immigrants and US Immigration officials.  LaGuardia said the heart of the translators was with the immigrants, and they would sometimes translate in ways that would be viewed favorably by immigration officials.  Many of them were the children of immigrants and they knew the great risk these people took to get to our shores, and how devastating it was to be sent away.    They were mediators who were on the side of those who stood before the government officials.  That makes me think of Christ.  The INS officials were the representatives of the Law --they ruled according to the code (even though the code now seems ridiculously arbitrary).  The translator was an advocate, a mediator before the harsh fixed reality of the code, but he was not neutral.  He was on the side of the immigrant.  The analogy is not a perfect one, but Christ is not a neutral mediator, either.  He is very much on the side of his people.  He is biased towards us. He loves us and he wants us to gain entrance, so he did everything he could so that we might enter into God's kingdom.  What is more, he prevailed.  

It's Monday and words are difficult, so more to come another day...

Trying to Make Sense of a Sometimes Inscrutable God

I need help figuring something out.  I know pastors are often expected to have more questions than answers, but here's a question.

James 1:5 says "If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask God, who gives generously to all without reproach, and it will be given him."

I have had two profound occasions in the past several weeks where I have been presented with decisions, and prayed this prayer.  Each time I have not received an answer.  Moreover, once in the past, over a very profound and life-altering decision, I prayed that prayer over the course of several weeks.  To this day, I do not think I made a wise decision.

Here are the two decisions I was faced with.

One of our children presents us with especially difficult parental decisions.  I don't want you to misunderstand -- he is not an inordinately unruly child, he simply requires special handling.  I find myself praying this prayer often over how to respond to the challenges we face in dealing with him.  The decision is not simple because, if I made it the way I think his choices warrant, it would have a profound and sad effect on another group of people (namely a sports team which has an inadequate number of players and cannot sustain losing one).  I don't so much want advice on the decision --there are a ton of factors I have not presented here.

I am just curious, though, how to make sense of the promise in James 1:5.

Then, yesterday, as a presbytery, we were presented with a momentous decision which has the most profound implications in the life of one of our members.  We were not presented with this decision or the facts leading up to it until we walked in the door of the meeting, and we were expected to decide this individual's fate within the course of a few hours.  Again, throughout the meeting, I prayed this prayer.  I received no response.  I didn't expect writing on the wall of the sanctuary, but merely to be swayed by arguments one way or another.  Receiving no response I abstained from voting.  I probably abstain more than any other presbyter, for this reason.

I know the "Job's friends" answer would be "Well, you must not have fulfilled the conditions of James 1:6."  My response, "Lord, I believe.  Help thou mine unbelief!"

I am curious, though, for some help and thoughts on this matter.  The promise seems definite, but my experience is that the wisdom is not always forthcoming in the time frame that demands a decision.

New York Observations, Part I

I took my beloved wife to New York to help compensate for fifteen years of keeping my life from falling apart. Our honeymoon was somewhat lackluster (read --the highlight was a visit to the Ephrata Cloister --google it), and so I've tried to do somewhat better with key anniversaries.  10 was Chicago, 15 was NYC --and what a trip it was.  The brief report is --it could not have been more perfect.  I can't remember ever having a better time on vacation.  It will take weeks to process it all.

Part I does not necessarily imply a Part II or III, though it might.  Other posts of lessons learned from New York may include things like, "Don't trust Google Maps and 3G Coverage to get you close to your hotel with your luggage via subway" or "Brooke Shields is holding up pretty well at 46, even with the deathly Morticia Addams makeup," or "Can anyone really finish one of those Woody Allen's at the Carnegie Deli?" or "Wow, the (Episcopal) Cathedral of St. John the Divine is one big, wacky place..what's with the deer skulls?"

Part I, however, is this --Lessons Learned at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  What I know about art could be written on the back of a Monet postcard.  If I were to opine about art, it would be insignficant and foolish opining, to be sure.  I know what I like.  I like the way Rembrandt used light (thus my office is full of Rembrandt).  I am fond of Renoir, of John Singer Sargent and Henry O. Tanner.  That's my postcard, but not my point.

I've been to a few art museums.  I am very fond of the Chicago Institute of Art and its iconic masterpieces but the Met set itself apart in my book.  It is not because of its massive size and collection, merely, though that is surely impressive.  It is not because it houses Gilbert Stuart's masterful George Washington and other works of like notoriety or because it houses a bona fide Egyptian temple --all of which is very cool.  Much of the Met is like other art museums I have visited --portraits hung on walls, statuary in great naturally-lit halls, and collections of various trinketry.  One thing distinguished it in my mind, and that is art in context.  Some of the Met is given over to rooms taken from homes, and transported and erected in the museum.  You might walk through a seventeenth century American parlor, an eighteenth century Italian bedroom, or a twentieth-century Frank Lloyd-Wright living room.  In those rooms you find art on the walls --the way much art was originally hung.  The room itself was art; the furnishing was art, and the paintings on the walls were art.  The paintings were part of the overall effect, even as they stood out from it, and were enhanced by it.  You see paintings not disembodied from their natural context, but in their natural context, and it helps make sense of things --the era, the fashion, the subjects and the like.

There is much to be said for a painting on a blank wall in the museum --the way it focuses the mind on the subject at hand, and so on.  Yet, seeing art in a context brings out a whole new meaning.  A tree standing by itself is notable, but a lush forest full of color can overwhelm the senses.

I suppose many lessons could be drawn from this; one I choose to take away is this.  Our lives happen in the midst of contexts.  Though, like the paintings in those rooms there may be singular moments of great beauty, and evidence of the exquisite artistry that stands behind all our lives, much of life forms the beautiful context for those things.  Life is not all art.  Not every moment is interesting and compelling.  The drapes and the furniture are not as compelling as the paintings, but they form the context that brings meaning to those paintings, and makes them make sense.

I think I sometimes expect that life ought to be more exciting --more paintings and less drapes and rugs.  We can expect church life to be like that too --grand and bold strokes that mystically combine into something that draws the eye and arrests the attention, evidence of a master at work.  Yet, there is masterful artistry in the turning of the wood for the furniture, in the sewing of the drapes, in the weaving of the rug.  The mastery may not be as immediately interesting as the painting, but it is no less evidence of skill.

My moments of ennui and the dullness of routine are the master's work no less than the moment of my wedding, or the birth of my children, graduations, ordination and the like.  Lord, help me to see that!  There is much artistry in the backdrop of the masterworks of life.

The Spectacular and the Ordinary

A few years ago, I found out that MSG has a decidedly negative effect on the way I function. This ubiquitous food additive brings nothing to the flavor party, but it intensifies how existing flavors taste. It is often used to give inferior foods superior flavor --to blitz our buds with intense flavor satisfaction. And, I can tell when I eat something laden with it, unawares. My brain doesn't work well. My face flushes. I get exhausted but can't rest. It is like having too much caffeine, but far more unpleasant.

It's not hard to figure out why the food industry loves the stuff. If I can make my product taste more intense than the other guys, then he will prefer my food. Everyone tries to one-up the other guy, and that's how you go from Coke in a reasonable 8-ounce bottle to the gigantic Mega Big Gulp with a billion calories.

Blitzed senses. That pretty much sums up our world. Everything needs to be bigger, better, faster, brighter, louder, sexier, "now with more pizzazz." We want everything to be extraordinary, to stand out. By definition, however, not everything can be extraordinary. If it is, the extraordinary becomes ordinary. If everyone lives in Versailles, then nobody is wowed by Versailles any more. We become de-sensitized --we only have, it seems, so much capacity to be wowed and awed. Then, we become jaded. Our senses are blitzed. Nothing seems extraordinary; nothing can wow me anymore. We are tired and yet can't rest: like me on MSG.

We see this in human lives too. From our earliest days we are told to "Be extraordinary." The gospel preached to us from the tacky, ubiquitous motivational posters that adorn the industrial-chic hallways of the average high school urge everyone to stand out, to soar above the crowd, to seek notice and acclaim. Don't settle for the ordinary. But again, not everyone can be extraordinary. IF everyone gets the 4.0, the 4.0 loses its meaning. If everyone is the star quarterback, who is left to play third clarinet in the half-time show?

I am facing 40. This is hard for me. I was the youngest in my class in school, one of the youngest at the seminary, pretty young for a pastor (a game in which you are, sadly, either too young or too old for most of your career, except for a brief shining moment from 38-45). Now, I am staring down the traditionally-feared birthday. I am realizing how ordinary I am. I live in an ordinary house. In a suburb. On one of a maze of identical streets. I pastor a wonderful but very ordinary church in an ordinary city. I am ordinary. And I'm okay with this.

That is a bald-faced lie. I have an Ego and too often he runs the show. That self-seeking beast wants to stand out. He wants to be something, to make his mark, to break into some elite inner ring, to be the "go-to guy," to be significant, to be noticed. When Ego doesn't get his way, he sulks. He does what he does half-heartedly. He envies the significance of others and grumbles about how undeserved it is and if people just knew what a jerk that guy was, well, things would be different. Ego hates ordinary faithfulness --it bores him to death.

I need to realize how ordinary I am, and to be okay with that. I'm not there yet, but I preach most effectively when I preach to myself. Here goes:

God can do big things with ordinary. It is not "settling for ordinary," but working hard at ordinary --that is faithfulness. In 2 Corinthians 4:7, Paul says, "But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us." Paul faced defections, failures, opposition, imprisonment and beatings. Perhaps most painfully, he faced people who mocked him and questioned his message because of his failures and how ordinary he was. There were far more spectacular speakers than him. There were self-seeking superstars, wanna-be superstars and those whom God raised up to be of particular wide-ranging blessing in the church not twenty years after Christ. And then there were foot soldiers. Faithful men, faithfully plodding, on places like Crete! Hardly a place for monumental world impact, among the lazy sluggards and gluttons of that rocky isle. Yet, God had people there and they needed to be fed.

Is it really better to be a doorkeeper in God's house? My Ego screams, "No!" God, kill my ego, and help me to work hard at being ordinary.