Every time I watch this show, I think that there must be a heavy influence of drugs in the writing.

I really needed to just get that off my chest.

Do you have a habit/sport like that? Something you wish you could pick up again?

Missio Dei is having a “Church Without Walls” day, in which the family will be taking off to one of three events. Feeding the homeless, visiting residents at the old folks home, and helping fix up a house for a woman in need.

I will let you know how it goes later.

What is your Sunday story?

Tony

BrianD

Sarah

Dusters

E

Dr. Slack

Phil

Xenia

The Ugliest Mug On The Planet

Nancy

If there are more, feel free to add, and I will update! Thanks!

Yes.

And it seems they can’t keep them on the shelf.

My mother was in tears tonight because she saw Jets and Broncos after the game, circled in the field, praying. Together.

I don’t know if these $150 jerseys are poking fun, or promoting Jesus, or just silly, but hey, the kid won another game all by himself tonight.

So there’s that…

Anyway, the worship service started, and I had to leave with James (my son) because he was a bit fussy. I think he was not even 1 at the time. Sitting in the foyer of the church was the scowling girl.

She was about 16 at the time. She had bright red died hair. Her hair color changed about every other week it seemed. She was wearing black fingernail polish, black eye liner, a choker, and a Pink Floyd shirt. I identified the shirt immediately as my way into a conversation. The scowl left when she saw James. She loved little kids.

“I love Pink Floyd! Animals was my favorite album of all!” She gave an exaggerated smile, pointed at the pig on her shirt, and said, “Pigs on a wing!” followed by a black nail polish thumb up. We chatted for a bit about the depth of the lyrics on that album, and how musicians never seem to reach that depth anymore. As I was saying that it was so good to see her, and walking back with fussy James, something happened.

Have you ever had one of those moments in life where absolute clarity happens? I mean, where you can see everything in vivid detail, and it is all burned into your mind? I remember the carpet fibers, the sun coming through the front doors into the foyer, the shadow of the window frame cast at about a 45 degree angle across the girl I was talking to, going right through the middle of her, separating top from bottom. Almost as if her upper half was in a shadow, and that meant something.

God spoke to me. He said, “Look at her! I love her!”

I knew that when God said this, there was more there than just the picture. There was the pain, the rebellion, the outcast identity, the rage, and the fear. God imparted this statement with an overwhelming feeling that His heart was for people just like this. The God of the universe looked upon this girl with absolute love and compassion.

I thought that I heard from God at some point that it was time to move on. So I packed up the family and moved to Virginia to “help” a church. Long story short, I doubt I ever heard from God regarding that move. The jury is still out.

I mention that, because I ask myself every day if I know that I heard from God. I know that I heard from God this once, because when we moved back to Colorado, it had not been a week, and we found out via facebook that my favorite black finger nail polish girl had just died.

We were at the funeral, and my heart sank as I watched her father show people some of the pictures she had drawn. They were out on display on a table. One picture was an obvious self portrait, very dark, accentuating the black eyeliner. There was a cross necklace she had drawn around her neck. Her father pointed at the cross, and said, “I think she believed, I really do!”

As the service progressed, God reminded me clearly of that picture I saw one sunny Sunday morning. The service had mostly dispersed, and after about 3 years of having that picture burned into my mind, I knew why God had spoken. This time I heard God right.

I walked up to her father, and recounted the perfect picture burned into my mind, and through tears, I told him what God said. This is not the kind of man who cries. He is a builder. A strong builder with a work ethic unparalleled.  A man’s man. I saw him cry. He hugged me, and said, “Thank you Reuben. I know He did!” We cried hard, straightened up, shook hands like men, and I walked away knowing precisely why God spoke to me that day.

I have no doubt that God still speaks. I have quite a bit of doubt that I heard Him right. This time, about 3 years later, I think I did hear Him right.

Aside from the opportunity to speak my own mind a few times, I was given the honor of moderating Alex’s posts regularly…

I love you Alex!

I am going to miss the regular notifications of new posts, looking forward to Michael’s “Things I Think”, the heated interactions, the prayer threads, which by the way is where that community really shined.

There are about 2 people who read this blog. But if you are one of them, know that I am forever blessed and grateful for Michael Newnham, and the community of people that he had there. Thanks for letting me author a few bombs, thanks for hearing and praying with me, thanks for the advice to “run”.

I really felt like I had somewhat of a ministry purpose again, a task that Michael gave to me, God only knows why.

I do know this, the ministry of family trumps everything else. What Michael does now is above and beyond admirable, it is an example that we need.

Till The Phoenix Rises From The Ashes…

When I was about 15 years old, a filthy skater by choice, with a “screw em all” attitude towards the world, I used to sit at lunch on a fireplace hearth in the lunch room of Nederland Jr. Sr. High and eat thawed out Hot Pockets next to the janitor.

I would talk to the janitor about anything and everything. He was the only adult I had any respect for. In hindsight, it was because he listened to me. He offered wisdom now and then. It is funny and mysterious how something so simple can change the course of one’s life.

Occasionally he would catch me smoking out behind the school building, and tell me to clean up my cigarette butts. I knew where his tools were, and he would let me use them. He kept them in the janitors office, and I would tighten my skateboard trucks on his desk, where there was always a Bible open to some passage, and a yellow legal pad next to it with notes scribbled down with number references.

He came to school one day with this thing called a snowboard. My friends and I looked at the funny thing and marveled at how much fun it might be to surf on snow. He taught all of us how to ride over the years.

The janitor was the pastor of a small church in town.

My father was a pastor, and he started as an associate pastor at a church that was at the time the largest church in Colorado. I was the pastors kid. Everyone watched my rebellious ways, and promptly reported me to my parents. Every week I was in trouble, and it was impossible to escape when thousands of eyes watched you. It was a relief to me when my father was sent out from the giant church of stuffy people, and charged with the task of starting his own church in downtown Denver. Nobody there knew me. That was the only good thing, because I hated church. I hated God. My concept of everything was tied up in religious people.

My father went south spiritually after a few years, merged his wildly successful inner city outreach church with a church down the street after he was pressured by the home church to start bringing in some more money. He moved us to the mountains, and he did not walk into a church again until the day I was married.

That was how I met the janitor, at my new school in the mountains, about 5 minutes from the base of a ski area.

Even though I hated God and church, I always felt comfortable around the “pastor”.

I got saved one bad night after my girlfriend at the time called me and told me that her Dad had just died in a motorcycle accident, and Richie Furay was there, and prayed with her, and she accepted Jesus. I hung up the phone and prayed.

I did not know it at the time, but Richie Furay pestered that High School janitor for years, told him how much Jesus loved him, until one day, the janitor told Richie that if he ever said anything about Jesus again, he would kill him. Then that janitor went home and told God that it was over, stuck a shotgun in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. The gun did not go off.

That janitor gave his life to Jesus. He started a home Bible study. Some great folks named Johnny and Anna Smith helped him start a church. The janitor had no guitar, so Richie loaned him one, (imagine that!) and thus began the little mountain church in Nederland.

That little mountain church was literally my home for about half a year. I lived there with a recovering alcoholic. I spiritually rehabbed in the back of that church for years after being decimated by my time with Vineyard. The janitor preached the Word of God, chapter by chapter, verse by verse. I learned mountains of stuff. I got married at that church by the janitor. The janitor was preaching the day my future wife’s mother died. He held her as she heard the news. The janitor and his wife were there throughout the entire process of my wife’s open heart surgery. He prayed with us before she was taken in to have her heart shut off. He waited with me while I paced. The janitor and his wife were there the day our son was born. They were of course one of the first to hold him. They encouraged me to teach teens the Word, and I did just that for 10 years at the little mountain church. I could have walked away from ministry 20 times over the years, but he had the “talk” with me and had me back in the saddle every time. They gathered the church around us and sent us with pride to Virginia to help another church. They listened to my wife cry on the phone for two years. They loved me even though I destroyed everything. We failed in Virginia so bad, yet the janitor had a way of making me feel as if the sun would rise the next day.

The janitor had such hope for me. I think he always fancied that I would one day be the pastor of that little mountain church. I have failed him miserably, yet he asked me today if I still loved him.

He showed up today to the little mountain church, doing as he has done for 25 years, reviewing his notes, flipping through a few last pages of commentary, jotting a thought or two down, while in the background there was a plan afoot. This would be a celebration of his 25th year at the pulpit of the little mountain church. The church was packed. People I had not seen in years. The pastor and his family of a plant from the little mountain church, the town police, the old couple who helped 25 years ago to start the little church, Richie who loaned him that guitar even after having his life threatened for speaking of Jesus ever again. The faces streamed in, and what was to be a normal day of continuing in the verse by verse turned into person after person taking the stand to testify to what God had done through the little mountain church, and the janitor. People talked about the time when they called the janitor and his wife at 2:30 in the morning to tell them that their house had burned down, and they needed help, and the janitor and his wife were there before the sun was up, offering their home.

As I watched, I remembered the years of “end of the world” catastrophes that I had called that janitor for. I looked around and saw people who had been married there, counseled there, healed there, grown up there. I remembered the funerals there. I watched a kid that was in my youth group for years, who is now a grown woman, say just the things I would have said had I been bold enough to stand and testify myself.

At the end of it all, the janitor and his wife stood in tears, and he said that he was humbled, that his faith had been tested more in the last 6 months than his entire life, and that he had desired to throw in the towel. Before the congregation, he gave the Lord the promise to give it one more round.

Then he gave the gospel message, and asked if anyone would pray with him to receive Christ.