Running God Off The Road by Tami Cinquemani

I consider myself a very submissive driver.  I don’t get angry when people make mistakes.  I don’t rush to red lights.  I give the right of way at non-signaled intersections, and I always yield to cars signaling to enter my lane.  There’s nothing that frustrates me more than drivers who are either too distracted or too much in a hurry to allow others to merge.  The people that especially make me shake my head are the ones who actually speed up so you can’t get in front of them. 

I wish I could say this attitude carried over into my spiritual life.  But it doesn’t.  If my mind is set on something, I have a very difficult time slowing down to let God’s plan merge into the path I’ve set before myself.  Truth be told, sometimes I even speed things up, pretending I don’t even know He’s there trying to get my attention.  I’m like a child who plugs their ears and hums a tune when a parent is seeking their attention.  I don’t yield well when things don’t seem to be going my way.

History has proven to me the truth of Jeremiah 29:11:

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

But that doesn’t seem to make a difference when the next situation arises where God and I don’t see eye-to-eye.  I try to trust – I really do.  I try to yield to the One who sees the beginning from the end.  But it’s hard – and sometimes it really hurts. 

I guess it comes down to the question of who is better equipped to be in the driver’s seat.  I can reach for the steering wheel, or I can fall to my knees.  I do know that I can’t do both.

 Tami Cinquemani

The Man by John Monday

In the middle of a city, a homeless man lying by the street is not uncommon, but a quick glance revealed that something was unusual.  He wasn’t simply sleeping; he was unconscious. 

The man’s eyes were swollen shut; he was bleeding from the mouth and had a blood and crud encrusted gash on his filthy head.  A few feet away, just inside the shrub line, lay the tire iron that was used to create his misery.

When the ambulance arrived the man revived slightly, enough to be belligerent and abusive.  At the hospital he was instantly recognized and known simply as “The Man.”  It was a paternalistic term that the hospital staff and the residents of the local neighborhood gave him long ago. Despite the fact that he’d been begging on that street corner for years, he’d never revealed his name.  His response to each bit of change that made it into his cup was, “Don’t look at me like a beggar. I’m a man!” 

Without a name or history, the local community tentatively adopted their socially challenged, mentally ill, substance-abusing homeless man and unanimously nicknamed him “The Man.”  In fact, many social do-gooders and church types had spent considerable time and effort trying to help The Man.  All their attempts met with the same result.

No matter how many times he was bought a pair of shoes, he was always barefoot.  No matter how many times he was given work, he was always jobless.  When a home had been provided, he destroyed it and slept under the bridge.  But the most frustrating thing to his would-be saviors was his addiction.

Every penny The Man could beg, borrow, or steal went to sustain his drinking.  The group that formed to try to take care of him was astounded when, after months of pro-bono professional and non-professional help, The Man looked at them with disdain and in no uncertain terms told them, “I ain't got no problem with drinkin; I’m a man, and I can drink if I want!”  He went on to tell them “You the ones with the problem; ain’t nothin wrong with me!”

Eventually, even the most dedicated hearts moved on, and The Man was allowed to exist in his limbo at the edge of the off ramp.

But that tire iron . . . what was it about that tire iron?

Truth be known, some in the community had grown a little weary of The Man.  After all attempts to help him were unceremoniously rebuffed, his presence became a constant reminder to his “friends” of their failure – a monument to their own inability, to the fact that knowing what was best for The Man wasn’t enough . . . that they were utterly incapable of helping him . . . of changing him. 

While they would never hurt him, they became a bit more jaded, and as they did, their conversation changed.  When they spoke about The Man they would now say things like, “A leopard can’t change it’s spots,” or “If he doesn’t want help why should we waste our time?” In their darker moments they would say, “He can’t be helped,” “People like him are ruining our neighborhood,” and sometimes “If he doesn’t want to change, then somebody should make him go away!”

Soon enough, The Man did go away.  Nobody ever really knew where he went, what happened to him, or even when they stopped seeing him by the off ramp.  One day they just realized he was gone.

The police never tried to get fingerprints from the tire iron or put any real effort into finding the owner, but there was something so familiar about it.  Maybe it was because it was so common; it just kind of looked like everyone’s.

Remarkably, the community never had another homeless man.  In fact, the community never really had any significant challenges after The Man.  Life went on, children grew up and moved away, adults grew old and died comfortable and unchallenged. 

Then one day without anyone realizing when or why, the community was just gone.

32-34 “If you only love the lovable, do you expect a pat on the back? Run-of-the-mill sinners do that. If you only help those who help you, do you expect a medal? Garden-variety sinners do that. If you only give for what you hope to get out of it, do you think that’s charity? The stingiest of pawnbrokers does that.

35-36 “I tell you, love your enemies. Help and give without expecting a return. You’ll never—I promise—regret it. Live out this God-created identity the way our Father lives toward us, generously and graciously, even when we’re at our worst. Our Father is kind; you be kind.

  

 Luke 6: 32-36 The Message

John Monday

Trying to Imagine by Chad Hess

I am always amazed that God can speak to me through anything, whether it is a sermon, a friend, a movie, a piece of music, a donkey, or anything He chooses.  So I was a little surprised to hear God speaking to me through the music of a very irreligious and sometimes offensive Broadway play, The Book of Mormon.  Let me clarify that I do not condone this play, nor advocate its theology.  But as I said before, God can speak to us through anything.

The play is about two Mormon missionaries who go to Uganda to convert the people who live there.  There is one song by one of the villagers who becomes a Mormon where she imagines the paradise of Salt Lake City.

I can imagine what it must be like

This perfect, happy place

I’ll bet the goat-meat there is plentiful

And they have vitamin injections by the case

The war-lords there are friendly

They help you cross the street

And there’s a Red Cross on every corner

With all the flour you can eat!

Let me reiterate that I understand this is an inaccurate and insensitive stereotype of Africans that I do not condone.  But it is also the most vivid illustration I've found for our misperceptions of heaven.  1 Corinthians 2:9 says “No one has ever seen this, and no one has ever heard about it. No one has ever imagined what God has prepared for those who love him.” 

We imagine what heaven will be like, but we do so from the context of what we know.  The woman in this play dreams of a place where there are cases of vitamin injections because she can't fathom food so plentiful and nutritious that vitamin injections are not necessary. 

We dream of what heaven will be like.  But the reality is that heaven will be immeasurably more than the greatest dream we can imagine.  What a wonderful day that will be when our Savior leads us home and we discover the place that He has prepared for us.

Chad Hess

Wisdom and Folly by Bill Crofton

Have you ever made a stupid decision?  Last year in Broward County, a man died.  A couple weeks later they found out why.  He had entered a contest to see who could eat the most live cockroaches, and the winner would get a live python.  He won, but he choked on the roaches.  You have to wonder what part of that whole venture seemed like a good idea.

You may have never done something quite so ridiculous, but let’s do a mass confession.  Raise your hand (no one can see you) if you ever made a foolish decision of any kind:  financially, vocationally, in your physical health, ever said something dumb, or made a foolish relational or romantic selection.   If you have ever been less than insightful about time management, or goal-setting, or parenting, or television viewing; if you have ever made a decision, with the benefit of hindsight, that could be characterized by the word dumb, raise your hand.  (again, no one will notice).

Think about the decisions we make and then the decisions that make us:  what I say, what I think, what I eat, what I read, where I go, who I’m with, what I do, how I work, when I rest.  Add up a million little decisions, and what you get is life, right? 

The Bible has a word for people who navigate life really well, and that word is wise.  Not lucky.  Not wealthy.  Not successful.  Wise.  Wisdom in the Bible is not the same thing as having a really high IQ.  Wisdom in the Bible is not at all restricted to people with advanced educational degrees.  Wisdom in the Bible is the ability to make great decisions. 

Proverbs 9:10 tell us, “The fear of the LORD is the beginning of wisdom: and the knowledge of the holy is understanding.”

Wisdom is the art of living well.  Wisdom is the ability to find God in ordinary moments of every- day life.

Bill Crofton