If it wasn’t for the person who threw the beer bottle on the street Monday night, I wouldn’t have gotten a flat tire.

And if it weren’t for the person who designed the impossible to remove wheel covers on my car I would have been able to change the tire myself. I say “person who designed” but significant end-product stupidity is usually by committee. This one asked every possible wheel cover question except “what if it ever needs to come off?” A little more American ingenuity like that and the owner’s manual for my next car will be in Japanese.

A broken beer bottle leads to a flat tire leads to some sweating and swearing with a tire iron that I’d like to introduce to some wheel cover engineers in Detroit. Which led to a call to my roadside assist service, which led to them dispatching a tow truck to haul my car and me to Discount Tire.

Which led to meeting Bill.

It’s never wise to stereotype, but somehow I usually feel better when the person responding to my need for help looks the part. Bill’s face is weathered brown, like an old football that’s been kicked around year after year and never brought inside. He wore a new pair of jeans. But the faded blue company T-shirt and the scuffs on his work boots suggested the only reason for new jeans was the last pair plain wore out. A reddish blonde bushy mustache matched the color of the ponytail sticking out the back of his trucker cap. I’ve never seen a tow truck driver with a diamond earring before, but like I said, it’s never wise to stereotype.

“Thanks for coming. How’s it going?”

“As good as it’s gonna go. Back that thing out here so I can get at it.”

In less than five minutes Bill had my car on the flat bed of his truck. ”You gettin’ a ride there or are you goin’ with me?”

“Goin’ with you.” 

It’s three miles to Discount Tire. A bit less if he takes the side street I mention to him. He ignores me and turns the truck around. “I always go out the same way I came in.”

“You been busy today?”

“Not really. But I was out on calls till 2 in the morning. I’m tired.”

“You like your job?”

“Job’s ok. Money’s ok. Just a lot of time. 70 hours a week most of the time.”

“Wow. You ever get a day off?”

“Wednesdays.”

“What do you like to do when you’re not working?”

“Sleep.” 

Great question, Todd. He puts in 70 plus hours a week and you ask him what he likes to do when he’s not working. Brilliant. There may be a future for you in wheel cover design.   

“So are you native to Arizona?”

“Born and raised. Grew up in Tucson.”

“Have family around then?”

“Nah. I got nobody. They’re all either dead or they disowned me.” Bill gripped the steering wheel with both hands and stared straight ahead.

“You got any friends?” I was hoping for a “yes”. A co-worker. A girlfriend. A drinking buddy. A dog. Something.

“Nope. Don’t need any friends.” Of course, I don’t believe this. But he sounds like he believes it. His tone is steady and cold, like the air coming out of the dashboard air conditioning vents.

The engine groaned a little as he braked for the red light on McQueen. Maybe it’s because I can’t imagine my life without friends or because I didn’t believe him, I asked the same question a different way. “You got anyone to hang with when you’re not working?”

“Nope. I see people all day long. Why would I need friends?” What he really wanted to say was, “I have to play nice with customers like you 70 hours a week. Why would I want more of that on my day off?”

A few seconds of silence. I look around. The clipboard with the paperwork. The dirty gray upholstery of the seat. The smell of diesel and the open pack of Camel cigarettes in the cup holder. This is a tow truck, all right.

Except for the music. Vivaldi. Very un-tow truck like.

Wanting to jump start the conversation I said, “Nice music. You like the classical stuff?”

“Yep. Played it for years. Junior high, high school. In college.” 

Moments like this always shame me. Because it’s never wise to stereotype and yet somehow I always do.

“Really? What instrument?”

“Bass. Played it since I was twelve.”

“I play the drums a little. I love the bass but I could never figure out how to get my fingers where they needed to be.”

“Practice. Lots of practice.” I looked at Bill’s hands. Thick, strong fingers black with grease and brake dust. Fingers that toss log chains and cast iron hooks 70 hours a week. Without asking, who would know these same fingers can run off a string of flying arpeggios and syncopated bass lines? Fingers that know the delicate feel of a horsehair bow?

“Where did you go to college?”

“In St. Louis.”

And in naming the city it’s as if Bill realized this conversation was looking a little too much like friendship. “Where is this fucking Discount Tire place anyway?”

A quarter mile later and we were there. He dropped the car off, I signed the obligatory paperwork and he drove away.

One thing leads to another. And sometimes it feels like the thing it leads to is a dead end. Or a waste of time. Or the temptation to think that it’s all in our head, this idea of connectedness. That in the middle of random events there is a bigger purpose, a grander plan that transcends the broken bottles and flat tires of our life.

There is a bigger purpose. I have to believe that because I believe in God. Logic says if we believe in God with a big “G”, then He is all-everything. Including all sovereign. Which is to say if we believe in a big “G”, there’s no such thing as chance encounters or random events. Or as Albert Einstein put it, “Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.”

I couldn’t begin to guess what God’s purpose is for Bill and I to have a five minute conversation in a tow truck. But one thing leads to another. Who knows what it led to for Bill.

It led me to think about God. And what one thing might be coming next.

“For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways”, declares the Lord. “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.” – Isaiah 55:8-9 

On the second night there, Collins went down to the hotel bar dressed in slacks, a nice shirt and a very expensive leather jacket. He was stopped at the door and told, “You can’t come in here without a jacket.” He said, “I’m wearing a jacket.” To which the reply came, “It’s not a proper jacket.”

Collins wasn’t allowed into the bar, but got the last word when he named his next and most successful album “No Jacket Required”.

Sadly, I know people who’ve had similar experiences when visiting churches. Perhaps not quite as bluntly put, but nonetheless the message was communicated as to what was proper. The choir may be singing, “There’s Room At The Cross For You”, but the feeling you get is only if you’re wearing the right kind of suit.

During my seminary days I was on staff at First Baptist Church in Tempe, Arizona. The sign out front reflected the mission of the church. “Gentle, Caring, Biblical”. One Sunday morning a man came in late to the service. Chet Farrington, the best church greeter God ever made, welcomed him warmly with a handshake and a pat on the back as he handed him a bulletin.  

The man sat down in the back row. His dress was outlandish. Almost cartoonish. A white suit with lapels that could double as airplane wings. Gaudy jewelry. A shirt so neon bright it seemed the reason for the oversized sunglasses he wore. And the finishing touch to his ensemble, a flourescent pink feather boa wrapped once around the neck.

It was hard for me not to stare. He looked so out of place. But whose problem was that? Certainly not his. I felt like he would get up and leave at anytime. But he didn’t. He stayed for the entire message before quietly slipping out the back.

I never saw him again. But I’ve always thought that Chet’s warm welcome made him feel comfortable enough to stay the hour. Whatever else happened in that man’s life, he heard God’s truth at that moment in time. A warm welcome made all the difference.

Friends, the mystery of God’s grace is that God showed His great love for us in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. Which is to say God didn’t wait for us to clean up and put on a Sunday suit before meeting with us. He knew there was only one solution to our problem. Christ died to pay the penalty for our sins. Because of that gift, we are freely invited and warmly welcomed to “come as we are”.

No jacket required.

“For God showed His love for us in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.” – Romans 5:8

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” – Matthew 11:28

When we were finished I went up to the counter to pay the check. After the cashier handed me my receipt, I turned around. Standing in front of me was a huge man. At least 6′5″ tall and every bit of 280 pounds. He was scary big. He looked mean, like a bulldog in a bad mood. His hair was brown and long, pulled back and held in place by a red bandana. He had a mustache goatee combination that made Fu Manchu look like a pre-pubescent school boy. Over his black sleeveless t-shirt he wore a black leather vest with Harley Davidson patches on it. His arms were tattooed. Some guys have muscles like guns. This guy had missiles with elbows.

I started to step around him when he held up his hand like a stop sign. I’m thinking, oh no, did I sit in his favorite booth? Did I take his parking spot?

In a brass knuckle voice he said, “My little girl said she saw you prayin’ before you ate.”

Great. Big Bad Biker Dude’s little girl saw me praying.

Looking at this guy who could snap me in half like a fortune cookie, I’m wondering how his little girl feels about prayer?

I’m hoping she’s in favor of it.

“Uh…yeah…that was me.”

“Well, I have to tell you that I think…that’s great. We pray, too. Hey, do you have a church home? Because if you don’t we’ve got a good one and you’re welcome to come visit anytime.”

He gave me the cross streets of his church, shook my hand and said, “God bless. Good to meet you.” Watching him drive away I couldn’t help but think he was the perfect man for the church outreach committee. Who could say no to his invitations?

I do it. You do it. We all do it. We judge people. We judge people by their appearance or their behavior. They say you can’t judge a book by its cover, but the truth is most of us are very shallow readers. It’s easier to size people up by what we see or what we hear or what we think we know than it is to take the time to get know people for who they really are.

We do the same thing to God. We size Him up by what we see or what we hear or what we think we know. Because it’s easier than taking the time to get to know Him for who He really is.

For some of us, God is a perfectionist drill sergeant. For others He is an impossible to please task master. For some of us He is a divine policeman, waiting for us to make a mistake so He can bust us down and make us pay. To some of us He is an indifferent, uncaring being; distant and even detached from everything that concerns us.

We also tend to judge God by our experiences. Some of us grew up in homes where our parents shoved God down our throats and when we got old enough to shove back, we pushed God out. Some of us don’t want anything to do with God because we feel like He abandoned us by not answering our prayers the way we hoped.

Some of us judge God by our church experiences. Maybe we’ve been in places where they cared more about getting in our wallet than caring about our soul. Maybe we’ve been hurt physically or emotionally by someone professing to be a Christian.

There’s no denying the damage done by fallen people in a fallen world. We do some pretty fair damage ourselves at times. But sooner or later we need to extend God the same courtesy we desire for ourselves; the chance to define who we are by our own terms.

While the opinions of others can be valuable, no one can describe you better than you. No one can communicate your heart, your convictions, your passions and your dreams better than you. And in the end, whether people like you or not, agree with you or not, or believe you or not, isn’t there a deep gratification that comes from having been given a full hearing?

Sometime soon give a thought to giving God the opportunity to be fully heard. Set aside what your mother thinks. Turn off the slick televangelist with the slicker hair. Put your bad memories and your bias in time-out. Clear the stage of everything you’ve been tripping over or have been using as a prop to support your arguments and your excuses.

Then grab a Bible and read the words of Jesus.

And as you do, just keep this question in front of you:

How does Jesus describe Jesus?

In the end, whether you agree with Him or not, whether you believe Him or not, you will have extended Jesus the same courtesy you desire for yourself; the right to define Himself by His own terms. That’s being intellectually and relationally fair.

In the same way that people would be surprised to learn new things about you when they give you a full hearing, you might be surprised to learn a few new things about Jesus. That He came to seek and save you. That He’s with you for the long haul. That He loves and forgives you no matter what you’ve done. That He was making incredible plans for you before the foundations of the world. That He came to give you life. And an abundant life at that. And that’s just the short list.

Oh, and there’s that one about Jesus being “a friend of sinners.”

That’s my favorite.

“And the Pharisees and their scribes began grumbling at His disciples, saying, “Why do you eat and drink with the tax-collectors and the sinners?” And Jesus answered and said to them, “It is not those who are well who need a physician, but those who are sick. I have not come to call the righteous but sinners to repentance.” – Luke 5:30-32

They say, “What you see is what you get.” Rarely is that true when it comes to people. For most of us, life is like an iceberg. The bulk of what’s there is below the surface. Unseen.

Call it the “X Factor”. Every person has an X Factor. At least one piece of information, a current or past life experience, that is unseen yet has a bearing on who we are and how we act. There is always more to us than meets the eye. Sometimes the more is good. Sometimes the more is bad. Sometimes the more is sad. Sometimes the more is a permanent scar on our heart that, like a bad tattoo, we can’t get rid of.

You may know her as the Mom whose kids attend all the events but she never volunteers to help with anything. And it bothers you. In your opinion, she’s always taking and never giving. What you don’t know is that she has no time to volunteer because she gets no support from her husband and she’s essentially raising the kids by herself.

You may see him as the guy always cracking jokes at the office, the guy who can never seem to be serious about anything. What you don’t know is that his humor is a cover and an escape from a miserable home life where he’s married to a bitter and contentious woman.

You may know her as the classic Type A perfectionist that drives everyone crazy with her unrealistic expectations. What you don’t know is that she grew up never once hearing her Dad say “I love you” and has spent her entire life trying to earn her approval from others by being a high achiever.

You may know him as the workaholic who spends 70 hours a week at his job. What you don’t know is that as the oldest of 5 kids he was thrust into the role of making money for the family as a teenager when his Dad died. He’s spent his whole life in fear that the same thing could happen to him and the only thing he knows to do is to work.

You may know her as a friendly, funny, talented person that everyone loves to be around but no one ever really seems to get to know. What you don’t know is she has struggled her entire life with deep feelings of insecurity and low self-worth. Keeping others at a distance is a defense mechanism that allows her to control how close people get. Because, in her mind, if people really knew her, they wouldn’t like her.

There’s always an X Factor. A story within the story. It’s true for you. It’s true for me. It’s true for everyone. The best reason to extend grace to one another is because we can’t fully know what another person is going through. It doesn’t mean we check our brains at the door when dealing with people. We need to be wise and discerning. Yet since we don’t know what the X Factor is, we would be wise to lead with grace. Because when we lead with grace, we open the door to relationship.

The people you and I live by and work with and drive by and exchange glances with in the store are people just like us. We’re all carrying around the baggage that comes with living in a fallen world. We all have an X Factor that no one knows about that influences who we are and how we interact. And we’re all looking for a safe place to dump all our stuff out on the table and say, “Here it is. I’ve got broken pieces and missing parts and I need someone to help me sort it out and put it together because I can’t do it on my own.” Let’s be the people who extend grace. The people who pull alongside and say, “You’re not alone. You should have seen all the stuff I dumped on the table. Let me help you sort it out.”

We’re all in process. The good news is that God has promised to never stop working on us. When we extend grace, we allow ourselves to be used by God to help one another grow.

Remember the X Factor. Extend grace.

We all need it.

“For I am confident that He (God) who began a good work in you will continue to perfect it until the day of Christ Jesus.” – Philippians 1:6

Still focused on the shirts he answered, “Do you have this in a Small?”

That voice. I’ve heard it before. But not in a very long time. And where? My brain started flipping through the mental file cabinet, trying to match the voice with a name. In less than 15 seconds it came up with the answer. I happened to have a small toy hockey stick in my hand and before I could check myself, I lightly whacked him on the shoulder.

“Ron!”

He spun around, surprised by my aggressive approach to customer service. He looked confused and stared at my name badge until he made the connection.

“Todd!”

We had gone to high school together. I hadn’t seen or spoken with him in 25 years.

We exchanged the customary “what have you been up to?” questions, trying to quickly sum up two decades in less than five minutes. Turns out he had a great job as general manager of a large business in the valley. We talked for a bit, then he went back to watch the game and I went back to work.

This brief meeting got me thinking about a couple things. First, how amazing it is that my brain was able to make a positive ID on a voice I hadn’t heard in 25 years. Second, and more importantly, how much we as human beings can change over time. Were I to ask him, I think Ron would agree that no one would have ever accused him of taking high school too seriously. I remember him as one quick to laugh and always joking around. He liked to drive his cars fast and hard and somewhere there’s a couple transmissions in a junkyard that will attest to that. I don’t remember ever seeing Ron study, though I’m sure he did. At least once in awhile.

25 years later the guy who shook my hand had worked his way up and earned the title of the guy in charge, responsible for many employees. I sure wouldn’t have expected that. But that would be my shortsightedness, not Ron’s.

If asked the question, “What’s happened to you in the last 25 years?” we would each be able to relate a series of decisions and circumstances, events both anticipated and unexpected. Surprises that run the gamut. We could talk about how we aren’t where we expected to be. Maybe we chose the road on purpose or maybe life ran us into the ditch and we ended up on the other side; shaken up and scratched up and on a different path that, good or bad, is what it is. We’d talk of stepping forward and falling backward. At the end of our story would stand a truth so obvious it wouldn’t need mentioning.

The truth that we aren’t the same person we were 25 years ago.

We all have a tendency to freeze people in our mind. We remember them the way they were, like faces in a school yearbook, not allowing them the same grace we extend to ourselves. That being the grace of growth and change. Class clowns sometimes grow into responsible adults with a great sense of humor. Wallflowers sometimes bloom into effervescent, winsome personalities. Reckless risk takers sometimes become conservative, measured businessmen who trade their RPM gauges and double pumper carburetors for Morningstar reports and stock charts.

All of us are frozen in time in someone’s mind. They may remember us as a nice person. They may remember us as a mean person. They may remember us as a good friend. Or as one who hurt them.

We can’t do anything to melt the memory they have of us. All we can do is be the best person we can be going forward. If it’s inevitable that we’ll be frozen in someone’s memory, much better to be remembered as a kind person who cared.

We’ve all grown. We’ve all changed. Bumping into Ron reminded me that I need to extend the grace of growth and change to those I remember. Even if I never see them again. Because God is at work in all of us, whether we realize it or acknowledge it.

Next time you think about someone from long ago and ask, “I wonder how so and so is doing?”, add one more question.

“I wonder if they’ve changed as much as I have?”

Extend grace.

Even in your memories.

In our current culture, Matthew 7:1 easily makes the Top 5 of “Bible Verses Ripped Kicking and Screaming Out of Context”.

You can hear it everyday on afternoon TV talk shows. “You can’t judge me!” Does it mean we are to never be discerning? Does it mean we can never judge something to be good or bad?

In Matthew 7:1-5, Jesus reminds us it’s a good idea to chop down the tree in our own eye before complaining about the sawdust in other people’s lives.

It’s dangerous to judge from a distance. There’s always an “X Factor” in someone’s life. Something we don’t know that contributes to what we see. When we purposely get close enough to people for our prejudices to be challenged, we learn a lot about them.

And a lot about ourselves.

(Presented to Hope Covenant Church – Chandler, AZ – 2/12/2006)

In my part-time job I sell merchandise at America West Arena. Home to the NBA Phoenix Suns, Arizona Rattlers Arena Football team, and the Phoenix Roadrunners Hockey Club. For these events, our walk in store is open like any in a mall. For concerts, the set up is different.

In a concert setting we put two long tables across the opening to the store and set up grids behind us to display the merchandise. Boxes on the floor are full of t-shirts, arranged by style and size. The popularity and notoriety of the group in concert determines the size of the crowd and the pace of the evening. We’ve worked so many concerts that we are fairly able to predict what to expect. How steady sales will be, the length of the walk out, what type of outfits and clothing the fans will be wearing, whether it will be a heavy cash or heavy credit card night, and what kind of behavior will be displayed. Put another way, how many drunk and/or belligerent concert goers will the police escort out of the building?

The style of music determines the style of the crowd. George Strait brings in more cowboy hats and Tony Lama boots than you’ve ever seen under one roof. Cher (whose “Farewell Tour” has played the arena three times…so far) brings in more cross-dressers than you’ve ever seen under one roof. And the Rolling Stones are a magnet for Baby Boomers who rang up their credit cards for a building record of over $260,000 in merchandise in one evening.

We’ve worked so many concerts that we are fairly able to predict what to expect. Most of the time we’re right. But once in awhile we’re surprised. Which is to say that once in awhile my prejudices are challenged.

Nine Inch Nails came to town some time ago. It’s not music that I listen to. Some of the words on their concert T-shirts I wouldn’t feel comfortable listing here. Many of their fans are big into the Gothic look. The black overcoats, tattoos, multiple body piercings, black eye and lip liner. Part of me doesn’t care about this. To each his own. But when I push past the platitude, I know that I have pre-conceived ideas about the Goth look and the people who dress this way. If I didn’t, then I wouldn’t have been surprised on this night.

I expected the usual crush at the tables. Ten people across and thirty people deep, pushing for position and demanding to be next. Only I expected worse from this crowd. Anyone in a leather jacket with a spiked green Mohawk, an angry neck tattoo, and a chain connecting the ring in his nose to the ring in his ear can’t be of pleasant disposition, right? I was fairly certain this would be a night we’d be yelling for Security to help keep order.

But it didn’t happen. At all. Not once. There was no crush of people. No yelling. In fact, on their own they formed two neat lines. One for cash and one for debit/credit. This never happens at a concert. Ever. The odds of two neat lines at a concert merchandise table are the same as a pack of wild dogs forming a line behind a plate of pork chops.

There was no profanity, no demanding to be waited on. Quite the contrary. We heard, “I believe that she was here first. Please go ahead. I’ll wait.” And “May I please see the black photo T in a large? Thank you.” And “I’m sorry to be a bother, but could I see this in a medium instead?” And “Thanks for helping me. Have a great evening, ok?”

The courtesy and politeness were mind blowing. Especially in contrast to the Baby Boomers (read: “people my age”) who attended the REO Speedwagon/Styx concert within the same two week period. There was no black finger nail polish or wallet chains to be found on that night. But they were, for the most part, obnoxious, rude and downright insufferable. Put French cuffs and a silk tie on a jerk and all you have is a well-dressed jerk.

One reason we hold to wrong beliefs about people is that we don’t get close enough for our prejudices to be challenged. It’s easy to judge from a distance. The only conversation we have to have is with ourselves. We decide not to like people based on what we see or what we think we know. Humans tend to be down on what we’re not up on. The only way to get “up” is to get close enough for our prejudices to be challenged. I was down on the Gothic image because the only conversation I had about it was with myself. The concert forced me to examine my attitudes, which were proven to be selfish and short-sighted. I’ll still never buy a Nine Inch Nails CD. But since that night my attitude is different toward those who do.

During His time on earth, Jesus loved people up close and personal. While the religious leaders and power brokers judged from a distance, Jesus mixed and mingled with everyone. Including everyone no one wanted to be associated with. The lepers, the tax collectors, the prostitutes, the “sinners”. Why? Because Jesus understood that people matter to God. All people. Whether someone’s sporting a black trench coat and a rivet in their ear or are prepped out in Izod and Sperry Topsiders, it’s just the outside of an inside that’s the same. We all need God.

Here’s hoping your prejudices are challenged this week. Maybe it’s getting close enough to better understand your mother-in-law. Or the co-worker with the Hoover personality that sucks the life out of you. Maybe it’s getting close enough to understand the culture your kids live in. Whatever it is for you, get close enough to be challenged. God will honor your effort. And you’ll be better for it.

By the way… up close, that spiked green Mohawk was really cool.

“…For God sees not as man sees, for man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” – 1 Samuel 16:7

The setting was a facility owned by a large church in the Phoenix valley. The scene was a music concert. A local band was celebrating the release of their latest CD and they had kindly asked me to join them to play percussion. The members of the band are Christian, but they play at many different venues. They enjoy performing their music and talking about their faith to people on the fringe who, for whatever reason, aren’t comfortable in a church.

After the concert everyone gathered for food at the back of the auditorium. I was working my way past the croissant sandwiches when I noticed that one of the band members seemed to be cornered by a couple whose body language indicated a two against one situation. Not a fair fight.

After loading some meatballs on the paper plate I stepped in and interrupted with a “Hi. I’m Todd. Whatcha’ talkin’ about?” The lady stepped back just far enough to face me. I thought it curious that she and her male friend didn’t offer their names in response to my introduction. They just continued on with what I quickly learned was a not so nice critique of the evening.

The lady was short, sharply dressed with bleach blond hair and a ring on one of her fingers. Dangerous though it is to speculate, I’m guessing she was pushing 50. The gentleman accompanying her was all of that and also nicely attired. Since they didn’t offer their names I don’t know if they were married. Let’s just call them Mr. Tweed (for his jacket) and Ms. Sparkle (for her ring).

Mr. Tweed said, “I just couldn’t find the message in the music. The message wasn’t clear at all.”

“Do you know anything about the band?”, I asked. “About where they play and the audience they try to reach?”

Ms. Sparkle adjusted her ecru wool jacket. “It doesn’t matter. One shouldn’t have to hunt for the message. If you’re Christians then you need to play Christian music.”

“The band members are Christians. However, many times the audience they play to…”

Ms. Sparkle interrupts me. It was the first of several times she stomped on the tail of my sentences. “Those people just come for the music. They probably don’t even listen to the words. They might dance to it, but they don’t listen to the words.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. How could people who look so intelligent utter such nonsense?

“Are you telling me that non-Christians don’t think? Have you listened to any popular music lately? Many of the lyrics are loaded with spirituality. That’s the mark of our current generation. People are seeking meaning and they’re looking down every imaginable path to find truth.”

Ms. Sparkle didn’t bat either of her fake eyelashes. She responded with attitude. “You know, we have the money to back this band if we want to. But this concert should have been held at the Legion Hall. Because that’s where this music belongs.”

Everyone has their personal taste in music. That’s no big deal. What astounded me was her arrogant rudeness. And that somehow her money made her opinion superior. It made me angry. I had to remind myself these people claimed to be Christians. It took considerable restraint for me to stay in adult mode and not go off on them. So I asked a question.

“What specifically bothers you about the music you heard tonight?”

“There’s nothing about Jesus in your music.”

“Really? So the arrangement of “For A Thousand Tongues To Sing” wasn’t clear to you? That part about “if we keep silent the rocks will cry out in praise to God” was too subtle?”

Ms. Sparkle ignored the question. “I was at the “Just Give Me Jesus” conference last week and Fernando Ortega was there. He was wonderful! His message was so clear. I understood exactly what he meant in every song.” She sighed like a little school girl as she remembered it. Like she had a little Fernando Ortega statue mounted on her dashboard.

“I’m familiar with his music. It’s good. But you need to remember something. You went to a Christian conference with Christian friends and heard Christian music through your Christian grid of church background. Of course the music made sense to you. How could it not? You know the lingo.”

Ms. Sparkle started to stomp on my sentence again but I jumped ahead just in time.

“My question to you is if a person had attended the same conference and heard the same music only they had no church background, no Christian friends and no Christian world view, would the message of Jesus in the music been equally clear to them?”

Ms. Sparkle stared at me. She looked me straight in the eye. With stone expression and chilling level tone, she answered my question with two simple words.

“Who cares?”

When we focus only on ourselves, our view of God becomes myopic. When our view of God becomes myopic, our faith becomes ingrown. An ingrown faith that concerns itself only with fulfilling personal desires is no faith at all. When we no longer care about the spiritual condition of other human beings created in the image of God, we are pitifully blind and pathetically self-absorbed.

To pick one truth of God as most wonderful is to pick the most beautiful flower in a glorious field of lilies. Yet if I were to choose the most beautiful truth of the Bible, it would be that “Jesus is a friend of sinners.” Which is to say He is a friend of mine. And a friend of yours.

Whatever music they’re playing down at the Legion Hall, I think Jesus would be down there. He loves us sinners. He’d be there and anywhere there are people who need to know they are loved, forgiven, and accepted.

Maybe someday Ms. Sparkle will hear the music and drop in.

“For the Son of Man (Jesus) has come to seek and save the lost.” – Luke 19:10

These best friends went out to ride their bikes together and never came back. Some despicable, evil bastard stabbed them multiple times and left them for dead.

In an unrelated Fox News story, a stray dog in Nairobi, Kenya found an abandoned newborn baby in the forest. The dog got the baby girl out of the plastic bag she was put in, dragged her out of the woods, across a busy street and through a barbed wire fence into a shed where her own puppies were. The 7 pound 4 ounce infant is now in the care of hospital workers who have named her “Angel”.

Adults who are supposed to protect the young, murder kids and abandon babies in the forest. What does it say about our human condition when a stray dog demonstrates a better understanding of care and nurture than we do?

Some say the world is going to the dogs. Maybe that’s a good thing.

Murder. A mafia hit is something we can make sense of. When Guido gets popped in the head while eating seafood linguine at the neighborhood ristorante because he spilled the family secrets to the Feds, we get that. When someone goes postal and brings a shotgun to work looking for the boss who made his life miserable, we shake our head and say we could never react that way but we think, “Some people just get pushed too far and then they snap.” Gang bangers wage turf wars and kill each other in drive by shootings. It’s a tremendous waste of potential, but we say, ala Karl Marx, “environment determines expression” and we can sort of understand the tragic cycle.

Second grade girls haven’t lived long enough to betray secrets or experience pent up, trigger happy anger or mark their territory with a Glock. Second grade girls watch Rugrats and Sponge Bob Square Pants on TV and show each other the shiny tassels on their handlebars and think it’s oh so grown up to have a tube of glittery watermelon lip gloss in their pink Barbie backpack.

When Guido sleeps with the fishes and quiet Bob goes off with the 12-gauge and Paco shoots Jimmy while he’s washing his street rod, we shake our heads. But we kind of sort of get it.

When innocent second grade girls are murdered, there’s nothing to get but absolutely, completely livid in an “I want to kill whoever did that” way.

Think it’s a little extreme to feel that way?

I don’t.

A couple years ago someone asked me what I would do if someone tried to hurt my little daughters. I answered in a very calm and rational tone. “Whoever it is better know Jesus because I’ll kill them so fast they won’t have time to get saved.” The questioner backed away slowly. I guess it wasn’t the response he was expecting. I make no apology for being Papa Bear. God put me here to take care of my cubs and this I will do, to the death if need be.

How does one be Christ-like when responding to evil? How is a Christian to respond to gut wrenching headlines like this? Don’t be too quick with the Sunday School answer that “God loves the killer, too.” Yes, God does. Theologically, that’s correct. And for the families of these girls, it’s a truth that’s as hollow as an old dead stump. God is also the creator of life. I can’t imagine He is anything but angry and heart shredded by their senseless deaths.

It’s maddening though. Because God does love the killer. My human mind rants and rails against it, but it’s true. God’s offer of forgiveness and mercy is on the table for all of humanity. Even the ones who murder little girls. And in that statement lies both the evidence and my conviction. “Even the ones…” It betrays a mindset that deep down believes some sinners are worse than others. And of course I place myself in the “not as bad as they” category. How could I be as bad as the evil maniac who murdered these girls?

I may not be as bad, but it’s not about being bad. It’s about falling short.

God says we all fall short of His perfection. “All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.” (Romans 3:23) My prideful attitude, my occasional outburst of anger, my lustful thoughts, my desire for more at the expense of contentment, take your pick. Any one of these sins causes me to fall short of God’s perfection. Which means on my own merit, I don’t have a relationship with God and I don’t see heaven.

No, I’ve never killed anyone. But in a long jump contest at the rim of the Grand Canyon, there are no winners.

Only when we get up close to our own dirt do we realize the benevolent, gracious love of God. Romans 5:8 says that, “God showed His great love for us in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.”

Southern Baptist preacher/writer Will Campbell paraphrases the verse this way. “We’re all bastards. But God loves us anyway.”

Amen.

Panhandlers are fairly common around America West Arena, especially late at night after events. Usually at least one of them will hit you up for money as you’re leaving work and headed for your car. Some ask for food. Most ask for money that they say is for food. Most of them are lying.

But wheelchair guy is across the street. Not someone I’ll have to talk to tonight. He made the green light, though, and headed straight for me. With one leg stretched out stiff and straight on the foot step, he pushed himself with his other leg. He steered with his hands while looking over his shoulder, like driving everywhere in reverse.

The car was on the third level of the garage so, short of running up the stairs, there wasn’t any way to avoid him. Was I trying to avoid him? Honestly? Yes.

He spun his chair around and launched into a well-rehearsed spiel. You know, the overly friendly and enthusiastic greeting that attempts to overwhelm you and get you off balance.

“Excuse me, how ya doin’ tonight?” Verbally he plunged ahead while fumbling with his left hand for a tattered cardboard sign. “All I’ve gots is 75 cents to get something to eat. Can you spare anything?” With his right hand he held up a cheap clear plastic glass and jiggled the three quarters at the bottom. With his left hand he pulled out the sign wedged in the arm rest of his wheelchair. “Homeless and hungry. Please help. In Christ’s love…”  A nice variation on the typical “God Bless”. You can never really know if they mean it or if it just helps with the donations.

Even though I’ve been in this situation many times, I’d be lying to say I’m comfortable with it. Sometimes it’s easy to say no. I could say no. I could walk away. But my eye was stuck on his sign and the last three words scrawled in black. “In Christ’s love…”

I reached in my pocket and pulled out my wallet. All I had was a $10 bill. I gave it to him and said, “This is all I’ve got.” He looked twice and surprised. “That’ll do! Thank you!” Kicking his worn out Nike against the asphalt he pushed away and down the sidewalk.

Our most honest conversations are the ones we have in our mind. Conversations no one else hears.

“A $10 bill. Am I crazy? Why did I use my $1’s buying dinner tonight? Great. I just let a panhandler talk me out of $10 when my finances are tight. He’s probably on his way to a six-pack of beer or worse. And I gave him the money. And that sign. “In Christ’s love”. Right. Every panhandler puts “God Bless” or something like it on their sign. For all I know the guy was faking it and he’s parking his wheel chair in the alley while I’m out $10 bucks. Was I just so stupid to hand that money over? Then again, maybe he will use it for food. Who knows? That’s what’s maddening about this. Who knows?”

The next day I still felt conflicted. And the conflict produced some questions.

Why am I so concerned about the stewardship of a ten dollar bill when giving it to a homeless person? And why don’t I apply the same level of scrutiny to myself when I spend ten dollars on something I don’t need? Why am I so high and mighty in trying to discern whether or not the money I give to a panhandler will be spent judiciously?

Ten bucks. That’s a cheap pizza. So why am I wondering about the stewardship of the ten dollar bill I handed to the guy in a wheelchair when I don’t give it a thought if I’m chewing on a slice of Canadian bacon and mushroom from Hungry Howie’s? (With sesame crust, of course.) I don’t always spend money wisely. So where do I get off deciding whether or not the recipient of my pocket change is worthy to receive it?

What if God used my thought process when deciding whether or not to give me something? What conversation would God have with Himself? “How do I know Todd won’t waste it? How do I know he won’t go spend it on something foolish?Something that’s harmful to him? And is he working hard to be responsible for himself? Is he asking for this because he’s lazy? Or does he genuinely need it?”

Any way you look at it, God is generous with us. All of us. Or as the Bible puts it, “He sends His rain on the righteous and the unrighteous.” (Matthew 5:45) Jesus also said, “If you, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Heavenly Father give what is good to those who ask Him?” (Matthew 7:11) Say what you will about God. He is a Giver.

“In Christ’s Love”. We can never know if they mean it or it just helps with the donations. Yet given a choice, it’s better to be generous and wrong than stingy and right. A CPA could argue that from a purely financial standpoint, God is crazy to keep giving to us. We don’t always manage the money well. But God keeps giving to us in abundance.

If God’s ok with being crazy in His giving, maybe we can risk being a little crazy ourselves.

At the top of the High Hill, with a view of the entire valley below lived the High Mudders. Of all the mud in the land, theirs was the best. It had no rocks or debris. It didn’t smell bad. It was smooth and felt good to the touch. It was a mud made from the best topsoil and snowmelt water from the Peaks. The High Mudders were good people. They worked hard, went to church and cared about each other. They looked often toward the Peaks and wondered what it would be like to live beyond. They also looked down, glad they weren’t living below.

A bit farther down lived the Side Hill Mudders. They didn’t have the view that the High Mudders enjoyed, nor was their mud the best. Their mud was bad. It was lumpy, made from clay and water that wasn’t very clear. Their mud smelled like mud and it had rocks and sticks and debris mixed in. The Side Hill Mudders were good people. They worked hard, went to church and cared about each other. The Side Hill Mudders looked often toward the Peaks and wondered what it would be like to live where the High Mudders dwelled. They also looked down, glad they weren’t living below.

At the bottom of the valley in the Swampy Place lived the Muck and Mire Mudders. They didn’t have a view at all. Their mud was the worst. It was ugly. It was gloppy, green and slimy and smelled bad because it was made with stagnant water. The Muck and Mire Mudders were good people. They worked hard, went to church and cared about each other. The Muck and Mire Mudders looked often toward the Peaks and wondered what it would be like to live anywhere but the Swampy Place.

The Mud People lived each day in their mud. The High Mudders lived in their good mud. The Side Hill Mudders lived in their bad mud. And the Muck and Mire Mudders lived in their ugly mud. Thus the Mud People lived in their mud.

One day the High Mudders looked up to see someone coming down from beyond the Peaks. The place He came from wasn’t muddy. His clothes were white and clean. He waded into the good mud of the High Mudders and announced, “I am the Messenger. I bring good news from the Crystal Palace beyond the Peaks. You are all invited to the grand feast. Come as you are.” The High Mudders were thrilled. They had heard of the Crystal Palace and dreamed often of life beyond the Peaks. The Messenger waded out of the High Mudders’ good mud and left them to anticipate the grand feast.

The Crystal Palace was more magnificent than they had imagined. The Messenger greeted them at the door. “Welcome! Enter in to your joy and join in the celebration!” The High Mudders took their places at the tables. Yet the banquet hall wasn’t full. There were empty chairs. Lots of them. Who else could possibly be invited to the grand feast?

The doors swung wide and in came the Side Hill Mudders. The High Mudders didn’t recognize them at first as they had only seen them from a far distance. But the dried lumps of clay that crumbled from their clothes and fell to the pristine white marble floor confirmed who they were. What were they doing here? Had not the Messenger came to the High Mudders to invite them to the feast? The High Mudders wondered about this as the Side Hill Mudders found their seats, some of which were right next to theirs.

The doors swung wide again. It was the Messenger, pointing and directing the Muck and Mire Mudders to their seats. The High Mudders had never seen the Muck and Mire Mudders for the High Hill was far removed from the Swampy Place. Yet they could tell the Muck and Mire Mudders by the smell. Their shoes squeaked on the white floor leaving a trail of green slime and gloppy mud. The Muck and Mire Mudders found their seats next to the Side Hill Mudders and High Mudders.

Everyone was seated. The Messenger stood at the head table and said, “Thank you for accepting my invitation. It is my joy to welcome you to the grand feast. You are each one my honored guest. Eat, drink, and enjoy the banquet set before you.”

Delicious food and vintage wine were brought to every table. Joyous music filled the air. The feast had begun. The Messenger made His way from table to table. He warmly greeted each Mud person with a hug and a kind welcome.

The High Mudders wondered about this. Talking among themselves they decided to pull the Messenger aside. “You waded into our good mud and invited us to the grand feast. But we’re wondering why the Side Hill Mudders and the Muck and Mire Mudders are sitting at our tables.”

“Because I waded into their mud and invited them, too.”, answered the Messenger.

“But, their mud…it’s so bad and ugly.”

Sunshine of the purest light streamed through the windows and fell on the muddy footprints now covering the white marble tile. The Messenger answered, “When the feast is over, I will mop the floor. And when I do, be it good, bad, or ugly…mud is mud.”

“For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.” – Romans 3:23

“But God, being rich in mercy, because of His great love with which He loved us, even when we were dead in our transgressions, made us alive together with Christ (by grace you have been saved), and raised us up with Him, and seated us with Him in the heavenly places, in Christ Jesus, in order that in the ages to come He might show the surpassing riches of His grace in kindness toward us in Christ Jesus.” – Ephesians 2:4-7

We’re talking with parents who claim, “My Teenage Gothic Vampire Wild Child Is Out of Control!” With us on stage is Mary and her 15-year old daughter Susie.

“So, Mary, you’re having difficulty with your daughter?”

“Yes, I am. I just don’t know what to do with her. She used to be soooo sweet and nice. But now my little Susie has changed.”

“How has she changed?”

“She’s got attitude. And she won’t listen to me. I’ve talked and talked with her but she just won’t listen to me.”

“And I understand there’s been some wild behavior on her part?”

“My, yes! Why just last week she stayed out all night without calling to tell me where she was. Then she got kicked out of school for eating all the goldfish in the science lab aquarium and biting her English teacher on the neck.”

“Is this true, Susie?”

“I dunno. Maybe. Maybe not.”

“So did you really eat the goldfish in the science lab aquarium?”

“I was hungry. The teacher wouldn’t let me leave class to get some lunch.”

“So what did your English teacher do that caused you to bite him on the neck?”

“He didn’t like my poem. He said it had “dark overtones”. Whatever that means…”

“So you bit him on the neck. Isn’t that a little extreme?”

“Hey, you cant judge me! You got no right to judge me!”

“So you’re saying that biting your teacher was an appropriate response?”

“You can’t judge me. Because you don’t know all about me. It even says in the Bible “judge not”. So if the Bible says, “judge not” then who are you to judge me?!”

Click.

In the category “Bible Verses Ripped Kicking and Screaming Out of Context”, Matthew 7:1-5 easily ranks in the top five. The phrase “judge not” is a favorite of TV talk show guests the likes of which you might see on Jerry Springer, Ricki Lake, or Jenny Jones.

Here’s what the passage actually says. “Do not judge, or you too will be judged. for in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you. Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank that is in your own eye? How can you say to your brother, “Let me take the speck out of your eye, when all the time there is a plank in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the plank our of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take the speck from your brother’s eye.”

Every verse in the Bible has an immediate context. The immediate context of these verses is Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount. He’s giving instructions on how to live a meaningful life. Here He reminds us to be careful about having a judgmental spirit and why it’s a good idea to spend more time evaluating our own attitudes than to be critical of others.

Here’s what this text doesn’t mean. It doesn’t mean that we should never be discerning. Or that we never judge something to be good or bad. Follow Susie’s TV talk show theology through to its logical conclusion and we’d eliminate our ability to discern what is good and what is harmful. If “judge not” means we’re never allowed to make distinctions between good and bad then total anarchy is right around the corner.

Susie is correct in that we don’t all about her. But that isn’t a pre-requisite for making a judgment regarding her behavior. Her treating the aquarium like a sushi bar and playing Dracula with the English teacher is reason enough for school officials to make the judgment that Susie is no longer welcome in their building.

The correct meaning of these verses doesn’t prohibit pronouncing judgment but rather reminds us that we are to examine our own attitudes before directing judgment toward others. It’s a set of verses that reminds us to get the sawdust out of our eye before we try to remove the redwood tree from our neighbor’s eye. When we do that on a consistent basis, we realize how often we personally fall short of God’s standard.

Remembering our own imperfections and that God deals justly, yet graciously with us in spite of them, makes us more gracious and forgiving with others. We’re still able to say to Susie, “Don’t eat the goldfish”. We just say it after we’ve made sure our goldfish are still swimming.