As a ministry we recommend one day a month to come away from the normal demands in order to spend time in reflection, rest, prayer. Lyn and I did that yesterday and were refreshed by the beauty of creation in a nearby state park. I will let the pictures tell about the day.
Tulips and daffodils are in bloom!
Vestiges of an old fish-processing plant standing as markers of a former day, while a container ship in the distance arrives from China.
Walks through forest trails, so refreshing.
GOD DIED TODAY AT 4 A.M.
Jobless Jay Leno
Jay Leno is hilarious by every standard. The most important standard is that he doesn’t have to use antics and stupid little gimmicks like bringing monkeys on stage or bringing his camera crew outside to tape interviews on the sidewalks of New York. This is the main reason Jay is clearly funnier than Mr. Letterman. As laugh-worthy as David is, his antics reveal a lack of confidence in his pure joke-telling ability. Or maybe his script writers are just tired.
But today, even Jay Leno is out of work. When he went into the office at noon he was glum but still confident he could pull off the show using either skill or fakery. But Jay found the lights off and only a somber janitor dusting the floor like an automaton.
“What’s going on? Am I early?” blurted Leno. “Where is everybody?”
The janitor replied, “This is serious.”
“I can see it’s serious,” agreed the comedian, “but the show must go on.”
“Why?” queried the janitor as he perched his hands on the chin-high handle of his duster.
“Because people will be coming to the studio this evening and I need to be ready to be funny.”
“Not today Mr. Letterman.”
“I’m not David Letterman! Can’t you even get my name right?” Jay retorted with a slight sneer.
Now let us analize why Jay Leno is out of a job by consulting the yet-to-be-published “Idiot’s Guide to Cracking a Sublime Joke.” In chapter 3, beguilingly entitled “The Philosophical Underpinnings of Humor,” we learn that laughter, right alongside love-making, can only exist in a rather complex convergence of realities. Since, coincidentally, Jay’s new janitor friend had been enjoying this chapter as his bedtime reading, its salient points emerged in their conversation in dimly-lit Studio D.
“Sorry, Mr. Leno,” replied the janitor as he steered his duster around the espresso bar. “There are basically two kinds of laughter, sane and insane.”
“Of course.”
“The laughter of the insane person is meaningless because there is no cognitive trigger, no mental awareness that something funny, something pleasureful was just uttered or, in Mr. Letterman’s case, performed.”
“Uh,” stammered the star, “but people often say I’m insanely funny.”
“That, technically speaking, is not a compliment, Jay…may I call you Jay?”
“By all means…and you are?….”
“Bud.”
“So Bud…”
“The only other kind of laughter is sane laughter,” Bud continued. “The laughter of the sane human being is rather complex but I’ll break it down for you…”
“I’m an educated man, Bud. I’ve dusted off a few books in my time, get it?”
“Whenever someone laughs at one of your jokes, he possesses an awareness of the sadness and angst of mankind’s plight. He laughs as a momentary protest against his burdensome reality.”
“Yeah,” interjected Leno, “I often think of the humanitarian contribution I’m making with my comedic talent.”
“I’m sure you do, Jay,” seeking to keep the comedian engaged. “There’s another factor that enters in. For someone to laugh he must desire and believe in the possibility of temporary mental and emotional relief from the burden of the world’s sadness.”
“Laughter’s the best medicine.”
“Right, Jay. Good line.” Bud reloaded. “I’m not going to go into the fact that the would-be-laugher must know the language, idioms, tone of voice, and humorous intention of the comedian.”
“He has to get it,” Jay summarized.
“Got it.”
“But what if the joke in unintentional?” Leno is on to something.
“All the better,” Bud confirmed as he perched a Marlboro loosely between his lips for a smokeless break. “Observing an unintended joke relieves the pain in our personal world because we can favorably compare ourselves to the bigger problem of the poor guy who is funny without wanting to be.”
“Man, am I glad I came in today. This is so enlightening.”
“No, it isn’t, Jay, because this is all theoretical now.”
“I don’t get it.” Confessed the former comedian.
“I know, Mr. Leno. Nobody does. Which illustrates the final factor that must exist for there to be humor.”
“I’m listening.”
Glancing around, Bud broke code and lit up. “We don’t bother to laugh at a joke unless we subconsciously think there is a glimmer of hope for a better future. Our inner self intuitively judges whether or not humor is appropriate and worth the effort.”
“What?” Jay was in the dark.
“In layman’s terms, laughter is a tiny burst of hopefulness. But if we don’t think things can possibly get better for us, we won’t find anything funny.”
“You’re wrong on that point, Bud. I know people who get so drunk they’ll laugh at anything, even my lousy joke about the hot-dog-eating-contest that I don’t even think is funny.”
“Drunks have temporarily joined the ranks of the insane. They’re not engaged in the meaning of the humor, and won’t remember it. So that isn’t really humor, only meaningless laughter.”
Jay Leno stood up and dug his hands into his pockets. He couldn’t think of anything to say.
Bud the janitor broke the silence, “So you see, that’s why nobody came into work today.”
“Real humor is dead.” Leno spoke matter-of-factly as he headed toward the exit. He paused thoughtfully, “Why did you come in, Bud?”
“I was needed as a character in this chapter.”
“That’s pretty good, Bud.” Jay Leno pushed the door open to the outside. “Pretty good yesterday.”
Awhile ago a friend of mine said something to me that, while not new, struck me in a freshly painful way–that if Jesus came and ministered among us today we would likely crucify Him again. Think about it. Would He seem so heretical–would we protect our doctrine, our “law”–would He join the “wrong side” of the political divide? Would He appear so worldly that we would see Him as compromising truth and therefore an impostor? Would His style be so plebeian, so poor and socially unacceptable? Would He be homeless and uncouth, such that we would ostracize Him as a weirdo? Would He stink up our nice sanctuaries, soiling the theater seats? We wouldn’t “crucify” Him literally, but we’d do so creatively by side-lining His impact.
Here’s what we would do–we’d divide like cells. Jesus would become Head of the unseemly part of the body, and we up here would appoint a co-head to lead us. This co-head would not be a human, for that would be heresy. No, he would be an imaginary Jesus, crafted according to our own liking. This compatible co-head would never speak disparagingly of the real Jesus. In fact, we would have selective quotes from Jesus Himself which we would put in the mouth of our preferred Jesus. Occasionally we would bring the two together over a sermon, but for the most part the two Lords wouldn’t get along too well.
Crucifixion would amount to stealing away part of Christ’s body and attaching those parts to a socially acceptable impostor. It would surprise the impostor-followers to realize that the real Jesus doesn’t know them, for in fact they don’t actually know Him. This is a grand deception, especially since these two messiah’s aren’t distinctly seen–they are look-alikes. But, no one can serve two masters, so someone needs to start paying attention to this huge misunderstanding. Someone needs to find out who the true messiah is and work every day to follow Him. Someone needs to recognize the slight of hand going on and face up to the real Jesus.
I’m afraid such a confrontation with reality might happen something like this. A knock would come at my door right at supper time. I answer and the real Jesus is standing there looking nothing at all like my rendition of Him. Suffice it to say He didn’t step out of a painting. Instead, He looks like He just walked 24 miles from inner city Seattle where He’s been in a homeless shelter for quite awhile. The worst happens. He asks if He can come in for supper. Every inch of me screams “No” inside. So I make up some partially true reason why it is really a bad night for visitors but another time would be okay.
But let’s say I didn’t do what I really did, and He is sitting at our dinner table. And let’s imagine I didn’t actually find a convincing reason that He couldn’t stay overnight. Suppose I got through to the next morning with the real Jesus Christ. How might He threaten me so severely that I would mentally check out on Him, that I would step back and decide that I needed to stick with my impostor Jesus? I think it could well happen if He told me to have some of my neighbors over for dinner this weekend–especially the ones who nobody really likes or talks to, or the ones who haven’t mowed their lawn all summer, or those who are black and play loud rap music. I could quietly switch Lords over something like that. Or if He started to get nosy about my finances. If He said I ought to sell my house and live by faith, I’m pretty sure I’d reason inside that He is out of touch with the need for equity as one moves into retirement age. After all He died at age 33 in a society without banks and insurance. What could He possibly understand about financial security these days?
If Jesus invited a bunch of seedy people over to my house–like street-walkers or meth users–that would force me to switch. If He tried to get me to visit homeless shelters, old people’s homes–or if He felt taxes should be raised in order to increase welfare, which is already inefficient and abused. If He came to church and told me I am hanging around in social isolation with people who knowingly seal themselves off from others who make them uncomfortable–even though they say they don’t–this would make it easy to change to a faux master.
No, I wouldn’t put Jesus back on a cross–that was the method of a barbaric time. I would put Him away more subtly; I’d create an alternate reality–sort of like the evolutionists theory. I’d want so badly for it to be true, I’d piece together evidence to prove it. I’d ignore the gaps of logic I couldn’t explain and live by tenacious faith in the messiah I so longed to be real.
All of this brings things into really sharp focus: Someone needs to be crucified again and it isn’t the real Jesus. It’s me.
We praise you today,O God, for your amazing grace toward us.
For we were once outside the wall of your favor
separated from your covenant love
strangers to your promises
aliens without a place in your house
Our lives were in deep distress,
Our eternal destiny hung in the balance, even when we did not know what danger we were in.
But thanks be to you, O Father. You knew our plight, you rose to act.
We worship you, Lord Jesus, for laying aside your glory and coming as a servant. You broke down the wall of separation, you ended the apartheid that once excluded us, and by your shed blood have now included us.
Now, our risen King, all may call upon you for salvation.
All may know the love that passes understanding.
We implore you, O Spirit of the living God, help us live as fellow members of the household of God,
for that is what we are.
Reconciled to God, we can be at peace with each other.
Draw us near to the cross once again
for there we recall that everything is by grace.
We are sinners all, needing mercy today, that we may truly live as one body through the cross.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.
I was struck by the report of a seasoned American journalist Marie Colvin and photographer Remi Ochlik, a Frenchman, killed in Homs, Syria. I was drawn to this story because I see in them an example of what the Bible means by the word “witness.”
First, a quote from the ABC article.
“Colvin lost an eye from a shrapnel wound in Sri Lanka in 2001, an injury that she said “is worth it” in a 2010 speech on the dangers of conflict reporting.
“Covering a war means going to places torn by chaos, destruction, and death … and trying to bear witness,” she said at a memorial for fallen journalists.
“Someone has to go there and see what is happening. You can’t get that information without going to places where people are being shot at, and others are shooting at you.”
We translate the English word “witness” from the Greek work, martus. When becoming a witness for Christ became a calling that resulted in death, the word took on the meaning of “martyr”.
It is true that a journalist should just report the facts (unless she clearly indicate that she is editorializing). But here is a reporter who hoped that in reporting the facts she could make a difference. She believed that by revealing injustices happening in another part of the world that help would be stirred, the lives would be spared.
Increasingly, being a witness for Christ costs us something, even in America. I feel that cost when I try to turn a conversation to spiritual things. There is resistance. But that is where I must be willing to die to self in order to spare a life. We feel that cost when we choose righteousness when no one is looking.
I pay tribute to Colvin today, and thank her for her service. I pay tribute to brothers and sisters in Christ, around the world and in America too, who are dying to self to bear witness of the change Jesus has made in their lives. Let’s all take courage today.
Last year Lyn and I took a camping vacation (is that an oxymoron?). I had made my morning cup of coffee and was sitting at the picnic table. As I enjoyed the peaceful surroundings, I found the passage saying Jesus “went out and departed to a solitary place; and there He prayed” (Mark 1:35b).
Solitude seems interconnected with a deepening faith. I doubt there have been spiritually mature believers who have not also followed Jesus’ pattern of purposeful retreat.
One difference between Jesus and me on that morning at the campsite was the schedule: “Now in the morning, having risen a long while before daylight” (1:35a). Unlike Jesus, I had not risen early. It is especially remarkable that He did so, in light of the His schedule the prior day. It had been the sabbath but there had been no rest! He had taught in the synagogue, cast a demon out, healed Simon’s mother-in-law. Then the work began! In the evening, the entire village arrived at the door and He turned nary a sick or possessed person away. Most of us would have slept in and taken the next day off, but Jesus started the day early in prayer and solitude.
At this point in the story, I try to put myself in Simon’s sandles. My brother Andrew and I have just been called to fish for men instead of fish. I don’t fully understand what that means, but the previous day tells me I now follow a rabbi who teaches with an authority unlike any guest teacher our local synagogue has ever hosted. I know that our little band of followers will heal and deliver, but this is all very new to me. I’m accustomed to boats, nets and sails. Suddenly I am waist deep in needy people. It’s hardly daylight and my tea is still boiling, yet I hear voices outside my house. The first knock comes at the door. A neighbor hails me. Another calls out. I open the door and, O Lord, there are more! Where have they come from, Tiberius down along the coast?
Peter and his wife go to find Jesus. Where did He sleep last night? I thought He decided to sleep on the mat on the roof. Jesus where did you go? Were you aware that “Everyone is looking for you?” (Mk 1:37b).
Here’s my takeaway. Today, solitude suffers inattention because it is undervalued. When our nets are full of needy people, we can’t leave them. But Jesus sets a different example. He retreats. He makes Himself unavailable. He knows He must seek direction for what is next, not merely meet the needs that clamor for His attention now.
A recent article in UNITY IN CHRIST MAGAZINE contained an article (Feb 2012)entitled, "Is the Preservation of Cultural Expression in Worship A Legitimate Basis for Homogenous Church Ministry?" The leading question posed by author Art Lucero (also the publication's editor) is: Should Black Churches in ethnically diverse communities be given a pass to become multiethnic congregations simply because they desire to preserve a black cultural expression of worship? If you would like to read the article you can find it here. I felt I wanted to respond to the article, and include my comment below:
BOB RASMUSSEN RESPONSE:
As a white male, it is very difficult for me to understand the importance that the American black church has held for blacks throughout US history. But as I try to understand it, I come to respect the viewpoint of my black brothers and sisters. With apologies for generalizing, blacks must accommodate the dominant American culture most of their lives. To get education, to get a job, etc. they must adapt to the ways white-led institutions operate. In light of this, I can begin to appreciate the fact that many blacks desire to preserve their church as an environment where they do not have to work constantly at adapting to other cultures.
At the same time, I am one who has been exposed to the beauty of multi-ethnic (or as I prefer, intercultural) church. I believe that we have the possibility of reflecting the diversity of the barrier-bashing Kingdom of God won at the cross of Christ. One of the most powerful ways we as believers can witness to the divided world in which we live is by dwelling together in unity within the same local church. For blacks to intentionally choose to fellowship with whites is, given our history in America, one of the most powerful witnesses of the gospel possible today.
I believe there are very few white persons, especially males, who have the credibility to speak into this issue unless we clarify that we are speaking in theory as opposed to experience. The typical white experience in America is so far removed from the typical black experience that we cannot liken our feelings or convictions about multi-ethnic church to those of our black brothers and sisters. We move into a multi-ethnic context from a position of historical strength. Our black brothers and sisters do so from a position of historical weakness. (Please forgive me if I am mis-stating this reality)
When my wife and I moved to a new city five years ago, we sought for a church with a multi-ethnic vision. We were delighted to find such a church that had a black pastor with a primarily black congregation (75% I'd say). It has not always been easy to be there, but we have come to appreciate the grace that God has shown to our congregation as we have persistently worked toward unity and understanding. Everyone works to appreciate the way other people do things, and the kind of self-denial that Jesus calls his followers to is necessary week in and week out. One of the greatest gifts I have received is a couple of African-American guys who I now call friends.
So, not all black churches are "getting a pass" or even wanting one.
There are voices in the Church today that look at missions-sending primarily through the lens of financial ROI (return on investment). They argue that a US-sent missionary is too expensive compared to the low cost of supporting nationals in their own country. Without getting deeply into this issue which has many facets unseen through the financial lens, such as the crippling dependency that results from the dollar, I am prompted today to share with you a letter I received this morning from one of my seminary classmates who has spent decades in West Africa. This letter reminds me of one of the reasons we must continue to send out missionaries from the USA: We need their perspective to help us see our own lives more clearly.
Here is the letter from Steve and Carol Smith:
Dear friends,
Carol and I stopped by the Nutrition center of the El Rapha Health Center on Wednesday where we saw a young mother with her six month old baby girl who weighed 3 ¾ lbs. (that’s not a typo). Our hearts broke as we saw a tiny adult-looking face (NO baby fat) with big sad eyes & listened to the little girl moaning in her mother’s arms unable to understand why she was suffering. The reason this child is at death’s door from malnutrition is not because the mother doesn’t love her but because of ignorance, unhealthy child-care traditions and poverty.
Another child was born into the poorest of circumstances and grew up in a backwater town in the Middle East over 2000 years ago. On that fateful night an angel announced to the most despised social class of the day these life-giving words: “unto you is born this day in the city of David, a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.” Because he came, there is hope for this broken world. Because he came, we are here for such a time as this and you are where you are for such a time as this and the gospel we live and speak is “the power of God for the rescue of everyone who believes.”
May our hearts break for all who have not yet heard and who moan in misery without knowing why. May God have mercy on this child and all the children who suffer. May the love of God in Christ constrain us to no longer live for ourselves but for him who died and rose again on our behalf.
We want to thank you very much for being partners with us as we serve the Lord here in Côte d’Ivoire. We couldn’t do it without you. Your prayers and encouragement and support help us in so many different ways.
We wish you a blessed Christmas season and a New Year full of the joy of knowing Jesus and of making him known.
Steve and Carol
Uncovering a portion of my family history over the last few days makes this Christmas all the more meaningful to me. I was re-reading my parent’s account of how they grew up, met and married, and moved to Chicago, Nigeria, and Turlock. Now that I live in the Seattle area, my interest has been piqued because of the number of significant events took place for my mom and dad here in this area.
Of particular interest was their description of a summer family camp they attended at a place called Covenant Beach. I had heard the story before. My parents had met at a church Valentine party at the top of Smith Tower in Seattle. Both were veterans of the great war, and the times were impulsive. Love struck and within six weeks they were engaged. A short time later, they were asked to escort a man named Glen Wagner to Vashon Island where he was speaking on the great post-war need for missionaries in Japan. By June, they were at the family camp at Covenant Beach and heard a message on Luke 9:23 where Jesus said, “If anyone desires to come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow Me.”
My mother wrote about that evening, saying that all had left the meeting room except my dad. She didn’t know what was going on with him as he lingered behind. In his own words, “The speaker dismissed the meeting without an invitation and the need [of Japan] flashed into my mind, and I just crumpled to the floor.” God has been speaking into his heart, “Go to Japan! Go to Japan!” My mother came back to him and asked what was wrong, to which he replied, “We’ve got to go to Japan.” Mom said, “Okay,” surrendering her college plans to God’s will.
I began to wonder if Covenant Beach, the place that God had used to redirect my parents’ lives so dramatically, still existed. I had not heard of it since moving to Seattle six years ago. So I searched the internet and found that it not only exists but is located just a few miles north of my home. The city of Des Moines is renovating the site as a city park.
The dining hall at what was then Covenant Beach. My parents would have spent many meals and times of interaction in this building. The city has raised it four feet because the river that runs under it flooded last year.
This aspect of my parent’s story comes to me especially on this Christmas morning. They redirected the course of their lives because of the challenge from Jesus to follow Him in self-denial. That is the essence of the birth of the Savior–the Son of God laying aside His rights and glory to serve us. My parents went on to minister in Japan with the Pocket Testament League, during which time my older brother Jack and I were born. Later, with younger siblings Rich and Diane, we all went to Nigeria. These experiences shaped all of us for good.
When I visited the former Covenant Beach, I paused to thank God for what He had done there. Though I was not yet born, He had my future in mind. God help me to take up my cross today, and follow You.
I had wanted to visit the Sunday afternoon service on skid row in LA offered to the sidewalk residents by my friend Bowen’s church. Inviting my nephew Daniel and his dad Rich to come along was a way to share what I expected to be an experience that would deepen our gratitude. So we drove to Second and San Pedro, circled several blocks around the Rescue Mission and got, in the process, an idea of the scope of poverty in lines of “cardboard condos” and tents. We left the car in the Mission underground lot, found our way up a stairwell, only to discover there was no way out. The door behind us self-locked, the passageway above was locked down, and the door to the outside world was marked, “Do not Open this Door.” The angry homeless guy on the other side of the door hollered for us to open it for him–enough proof as to why we should not! But Bowen called and said he was tied up with service preparations; could we just make our way through that door and find the parking lot where the meeting was about to begin? That led to the first of two God-sightings. We were afraid. But we paused for a brief prayer for God’s protection and walked out the door. We strode confidently through the courtyard, hiding our insecurity, took a right turn onto the sidewalk jammed with people, and arrived at the outdoor meeting place with huge relief.
We found seats and waited while a member of the praise team tested the microphones. Soon an African-American lady, quite obviously not a worship team member but a skid row regular, approached the front to volunteer her services as a microphone tester. “Can you hear this!?” she shouted into the mic. I cringed inside when she asked, “May I sing a little song?” Before the staff could object, she began to sing and in so doing gave me yet another God-sighting. “We are standing on holy ground,” she sang with a beautiful voice, perfectly pitched. “And I know that there are angels all around.” I thought of the war that waged in the hearts and tormented minds on skid row. I smiled at the thought of angels everywhere in that place. “Let us praise Jesus now, for we are standing in his presence, on holy ground.”
By this time, another lady had come to the front aisle with arms raised in praise. And I thanked God for the gift of that moment, a reminder that God has no preference for suburban churches where predictability reigns. I thought again why we must get out of our comfort zones, why we see Christ in new ways through the eyes of others, and how God can shine His light in any place, no matter how dark.
The rest of the meeting was fine, but I had already heard from God before the opening prayer. That treacherous ground had become holy.