Funding a church isn’t cool

I don’t envy church planters. They have this great mission that they, along with a team of people, are trying to do in a particular city or county. Everyone on the team is on board, selflessly giving. However, more help is needed. That’s when the church planter reaches out and tries to fundraise, particularly from other churches.

That’s also usually when the church planter hears radio silence.

As a pastor of an established church (that is in the process of replanting, but more on that later), I get it. Honestly, I do. Our church supports various ministry partners near and far. We get to see the work they do through letters and emails and colorful reports. It’s something we can point to and say, “See! Your financial support is doing something!” Every established church experiences this in some way and at some level.

What’s more is that those ministry partners aren’t doing what the church is doing. It’s kind of exciting to see your financial support provide medical care for people in Brazil and free ultrasounds to future moms in your city. It’s almost like you can know that a person in Brazil or a mom in your city is in a better position because that ministry partner and your dollar paired up.

Also, at a time when finances are difficult to come by and the price on everything keeps rising, those things matter. Again, I get it. I honestly do.

The church planter, though, typically doesn’t have that luxury. They are trying to figure how to pay for rent for a meeting space, what children’s ministry things to buy that won’t break the bank, how to use at least some of that money for outreach, what sound equipment is necessary for the space that they may or may not be in, and then also how to support their own family with at least a part-time salary for a full-time position. There’s much more than that, but you probably get the picture.

Those things don’t produce colorful reports sent to you monthly. Those things don’t necessarily illicit that excitement that your dollar is going far. While you see a picture of a person getting something they need with one ministry partner, you will see a picture of a room with some chairs for the church planter.

That’s what I mean when I say that funding church plants isn’t cool.

I can see both sides of the coin here. As a pastor, I want my church to support ministry partners that are doing things different than what we do as a church. However, as a replanter, I want churches to see that what we are doing as a replant is necessary and important.

Yeah, we are gathering like you are. We are singing, taking communion, hearing preaching, and meeting in small groups like you are. Our mission is brand new, though. We are set on restoring purpose by following Jesus together in everyday life.

We need your help to do that.

We’re not a mission like the others you support. That’s fine. Both are needed.

If you’re an established church pastor, I urge you to not ignore that church plants that contact you. It doesn’t have to be monthly support. A one time gift is fine. Just do it and watch as the kingdom of God grows there as it grows where you are.

If you’re a church planter, I have two things to say. First, I’m sorry. I’ve been that established church pastor that ignored you. Secondly, keep calling, sending emails and letter, Facebook messaging, sliding into DMs, and sending those smoke signals and carrier pigeons. Whatever it takes is good because your mission is worth it.

[Obviously, I’d probably be a fool to not invite you to support our church replant. You can do so at summitreplant.org.]

It’s Easy to be a Christian Nationalist

You heard the news. A certain representative from Georgia has declared that she is, indeed, a Christian Nationalist. She sees her faith as the thing that sets right and wrong for the country. After all, what can be so wrong about legislating Christianity? Isn’t that a good thing?

No. Of course not. Being a Christian Nationalist means that you will have to put some people on the other side of a line that marks “good” and “bad”. It puts you in the judges seat. Of course you’re good. But the person that doesn’t like you? They’re bad. Off they go.

It’s this black-and-white-with-no-gray-area mentality that makes this next statement true.

It’s easy to be a Christian Nationalist.

But it’s much more difficult to be a follower of Jesus.

They are not the same.

Being a Christian Nationalist allows you to defund, demote, and reverse decisions that have been made in the interest of people you may disagree with. It also allows you to justify it with a simple reason: be right and be good. It’s not that hard. After all, you’re doing it, right?

But being a Christian – an actual follower of Jesus – doesn’t allow you to do any of that. As a matter of fact, being a follower of Jesus forces you to reckon with other points of view constantly and to see other people as just that: people. Not policy decisions. Not members of a party you hate. People – people that are loved by God.

Being a Christian Nationalist is easy.

Being a follower of Jesus is not.

Being a Christian Nationalist makes you amass as much power as possible and hoard it so the “others” won’t get it. If they were to get that power that you wield, who knows what they might do with it, right? It’s better off in your hands since you know what right and wrong is.

Being a follower of Jesus, though, makes you do the exact opposite. Following Jesus beckons you to give away as much power as possible. It makes you look at leadership from the bottom up instead of the top down. It makes you serve instead of sit.

Being a Christian Nationalist is easy.

Being a follower of Jesus is not.

Being a Christian Nationalist lets you bring the American flag into the worship space. It lets you sing patriotic songs instead of worship songs. It allows you to think that the USA is the modern-day equivalent of Old Testament Israel – a nation set apart by God, for God, with a special covenant relationship with God. It allows you to legislate and vote to make our nation repent of it’s collective sin.

Being a follower of Jesus brings you to the realization that we are under a new covenant that’s based purely and solely on Jesus. It allows you to know that the USA is not the modern-day equivalent of Old Testament Israel and that repentance is a personal thing, not a corporate or national thing. It helps you see that it’s God kindness that leads us to repentance, not laws.

Being a Christian Nationalist is easy.

Being a follower of Jesus is not.

They are not the same.

Confronting my Racial Prejudice

Back in 2009, I was invited to go to Washington, D.C., for a policy conference as I was a student government president at a Christian university campus.  I had never been to D.C., so I obviously accepted.  I shared a hotel suite with 3 other student government presidents from campuses across America.  One night, we decided to go look at the sites of D.C. all lit up.  We left at about 10 pm and ended up visiting a lot of the memorials and Capitol Hill over the span of 2-3 hours, walking the entire time.

In the wee hours of the morning, we started walking back to our hotel to get a few hours of sleep before the next day of activities and meetings.  I can’t remember what road we were on, but we walking down the sidewalk as a group of 4.  Then, all of a sudden, a group of black males turned the corner in front of us and were headed right towards us.

I can’t describe to you how tense I felt.  I started thinking about what I will do if these black men tried to rob me or rough me up.  As they got closer, I quietly made fists, ready to go flying if anything happened.

Do you want to know what happened next?

They walked past us without any conflict or side glances or anything.

Want to know something else?

We walked by dozens of white people that night and I didn’t think a thing.

You know, I never considered myself a racist.  Even at that moment.  I was just being safe, right?  After all, crime is high in D.C..  And it was night.  And…and…and…

I think we both know what happened that night.  My racial prejudice shined through.

I’ve never had an adverse interaction with a black person, so I wasn’t drawing off of experience.  A black person has never given me a reason not to trust them.  But there I was, on the street, and my first thought was an incredibly racist one.

It happens a lot.  Just this past year, I was talking to a friend who was thinking about taking his family to the zoo that’s located in a large city near us.  I had been recently, so I told him how great the zoo was, but I made sure to tell him to lock his doors as he got there because it’s in a “rough” part of town.

Do you know what I meant by “rough part of town”?  I meant that a large number of black people lived there.

Again, I never considered myself a racist.  Even at that moment.  I didn’t even reckon with my racial prejudice.  But I can’t avoid it any longer.

The death of George Floyd woke me up to the racial tension in America and to the racial prejudice that I had.  Previous to this, when a black person was killed by a white person and obvious racism seemed to be the cause, I pulled out all the stops:

“Clearly he broke the law somehow.  That story just hasn’t surfaced yet.”

“He shouldn’t have been there.”

“Maybe if he dressed different or acted different, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“The man wasn’t a saint, so…”

I’m ashamed to admit that I did that.  I didn’t know it at the time, but my racial prejudice was shining through.

I did it again when the Black Lives Matter movement got traction and I watched it on my preferred news network (who I got my talking points from, too, to make myself feel better).  As soon as a black person got on TV and said that black lives mattered, I shot back with the usual:

“Well, all lives matter, so…”

“They shouldn’t be protesting.  They live in America, after all.  The land of the free and the home of the brave.”

“Affirmative action has taken care of them, so they should be quiet.”

I’m even more ashamed that I thought those things.  I even said some version of them out loud to my white evangelical Christian friends.  And I was never met with any resistance.

But no more.

Black lives matter.  Period.  I was ignorant and willingly avoided that fact for so long, and I even tried to dress it up in my religion.

But no more.

The reason that I now willingly say that black lives matter is because I can see how black lives haven’t mattered for so long.  Slavery was a thing until the 1860s.  Segregation was a thing until the 1960s.  And our racial prejudice is still there in 2020 because we disagree with a movement that’s trying to make people’s lives as important as ours as white people.

The reason I am unlearning my racial prejudice as that I have heard the pain and anguish in the voices of the black people that I have talked to and marched with.  They made me think beyond myself.  That’s why I say black lives matter.

For too long, my racial prejudice has kept me from loving and serving those black neighbors around me.  My racial prejudice has made me automatically question the motives of the black man or woman around me.  My racial prejudice made me dread going to Wal-Mart when I lived in a major city with a large black population.  Those actions are shameful, sinful, and I am completely disgusted by how I have acted.

To my black friends and neighbors: I’m so sorry.  I judged you for so long solely on your skin color.  Please forgive me.  I stand with you and have now marched with you and I emphatically declare that black lives matter.

Black lives do matter.  Making that statement has already put me at odds with my white evangelical friends.  They think that I hate cops and want to burn down buildings, even though the black lives matter movement has petitioned and tried their best to stop those rioters and looters.  I know, because I have said black lives matter, that my days of working in most independent Christian churches is now over.  All that isn’t even a drop in the bucket to what black people in America have gone through.

The “all lives matter” crowd might think that I’m doing all this to be “woke”.  I’m not.

I’m doing this because it’s the right thing to do.  Period.

I’m doing this because I follow a man named Jesus, and Jesus looked at those society devalued and said that their lives mattered to him.

Black lives matter to me.  I hope they matter to you, too.

If they do, then maybe we can agree to kill of our racial prejudice that has kept black people on the fringe and silenced for far too long.

Angry and Ashamed

I don’t know what to say.

I know I should say something and denounce in the strongest terms the outright murder of George Floyd, but outside of that, I don’t know what to say.

I want to give every person of color a hug right now and just apologize profusely.

I want to apologize for the fact that I have no clue what they go through on a daily basis.  Whenever I drive through a nicer neighborhood, people aren’t grabbing their phones to record me or call the cops on me because they think I don’t belong there.  When I walk into a store, there aren’t associates tailing me just in case.  If a cop asks me a question, I’m not concerned that he will suddenly arrest me with a poor excuse and then subdue me by putting his knee on my neck, slowly murdering me.

But my fellow humans who are people of color do have to worry about that.  The anger I feel right now about what has happened to George Floyd is something that they are all too familiar with because they live with it every day.  White privilege is real and I experience it every single day.

If I had to experience that every single day, along with the fear of racism that is so prevalent in our nation, I would probably take to the streets of Minneapolis too.

I mean, what other option is there?

Peaceful protests have been done for decades, most recently with Colin Kaepernick kneeling during the pledge of allegiance.  Do you know what people who look like me said?  It was wrong and offensive and awful.

Do you know what’s really wrong and offensive and awful?  Killing an innocent black man.

People who look like me are so quick to point out that the protest and riots in Minneapolis are  wrong, and many of them have said the exact phrase, “Two wrongs don’t make a right!”

I could be wrong because I’m not a person of color, but I don’t think this is about making something right.  And I don’t think there’s only two wrongs here.  I think the longest list of wrongs has been committed by people who look like me.  Racism has been deeply embedded into America literally since it’s inception.

People who look like me like to take the phrase “Black Lives Matter” and quickly point out that “All Lives Matter.”

Clearly they don’t.  Just ask George Floyd.

Or Michael Brown.

Or Freddie Gray.

Or Sylville Smith, Keith Lamont Scott, Kendra James, Sean Bell, Eric Garner, Alton Sterling, Breonna Taylor…

…do you need me to keep going?

You can’t actually ask them, of course.  They were murdered because they were of a different race, and that struck fear into the hearts of people who look like me.  And I am ashamed of that.

Do we really have to wonder why there are protests and riots in Minneapolis right now?  Do famous white people really have to tweet “I just don’t understand how this makes sense” anymore?  Come on.  Systematic and constant and obvious racism is why.  And I am so ashamed of that.

I don’t know what else to say.  I’m angry, sad, ashamed, and ready to do whatever it takes for black lives to actually matter in this nation.

I hope you are too.

Leave Sunday Alone

“It may be Friday…but Sunday’s coming!”

For the past few years, I’ve scrolled aimlessly through Facebook on Good Friday and some iteration of that phrase has repeated itself.

At first, I loved it.  I even posted it a time or two over the years.  But as I’ve grown older and (hopefully) grown in my faith, I’ve come to be bugged by that phrase.

I understand the heart behind it: that what happened on Good Friday (the crucifixion of Jesus Christ) wasn’t the end-all.  That the resurrection happened on Sunday, defeating death once and for all.  It’s this resurrection that drives faith for the Christian.  If the resurrection didn’t happen, all of the “stuff” of faith would be in vain.

So, as a result, we push past Good Friday, a day filled with darkness and sadness and grief, to get to the glorious light of the resurrection on Sunday.  Even in our Good Friday services, we are eager to knock on the door of the empty tomb, anxious of the hope that awaits there.

But we, as Christians, shouldn’t push past Good Friday.  In fact, we are doing a great injustice to our faith, to church history, and to God if we push past Good Friday.

On Good Friday, Jesus willingly submitted to a wrong verdict.  This resulted in a punishment of death that he didn’t deserve.  Then Jesus, a man who predicted his own resurrection, was put in a tomb.  That tomb was sealed.  And nothing resurrection-like happened for three days.  Hour after hour, victory over Jesus was solidifying.  This is what Good Friday marks.  Even in reading this, you might be prepared to see me pivot to the empty tomb.  But I’m not.  Do you know why?  Because it’s Friday.  It’s not Sunday.

Here’s the thing: if God had not planned it to be this way, then Jesus would have walked out of the tomb an hour to two later, on that Good Friday.

But he didn’t.  For three days, darkness sat.  For three days, people wept.  For three days, grief overcame those that, just four days earlier, had a corner piece of hope.

Why three days?  Why commemorate this on Good Friday?

Grief and sadness is a necessary part of the story of God and humanity.  There needs to be a period of time where hope was lost and Jesus was defeated.  This is something we need to sit in every single Good Friday.  As we come together with other Christians, we need to remember that the grief and sadness and heartbreak we feel is part of the human experience, and it is part of the story of God and the church.

God doesn’t reject our pain and grief and sadness and heartbreak.  He embraces it.  He takes it on.  He redeems it, even.

Don’t believe me?  Go to a funeral of a loved one.  No one there is saying to the bereaved, “Stop that crying.  You’ll see them again.  Let’s get through this funeral business already.”  Even if you believe this to be true, it’s not the place to say it.  Grief and sadness is important to experience and it shouldn’t be removed.

But that’s what we try to do when we say, “Today is Friday…but Sunday is coming!”

Maybe, instead, we should be saying, “Sunday is coming…but today is Friday.”

Maybe, instead of pushing past Good Friday to get to Easter Sunday, we should embrace Good Friday for what it is: the tragic-yet-necessary day that the Savior of mankind was tortured and murdered, which was the sacrifice we needed.

Sure, Sunday is coming, but today is Good Friday.

We Hate Grace

I sat on my couch on a Sunday afternoon and mindlessly scrolled through Twitter on my phone.  As I did, I almost scrolled past a short tweet that mentioned Kobe Bryant.  I stopped, reread it, and learned that reports were just coming out about Kobe Bryant passing away in a helicopter crash.  I told my wife and then refreshed my feed.  The news had gotten more widespread and the reports were true.  Kobe Bryant was no longer with us.

I have never been a big NBA fan.  I’ll watch a game or two each season, typically on or around Christmas, but that’s it.  I merely watch games (or parts of games) to see how former University of Kentucky players are doing.  So Kobe’s passing, while it made me stop and reflect, didn’t have the affect on me as it did on many of my friends.  They grew up watching him and they were heartbroken, and understandably so.  He was a great ball player and community advocate.

I didn’t talk much about Kobe’s passing until the following week.  It was then that people (Christians, nonetheless) started to say things.  And when these people said these things or posted these things, I couldn’t help but think of one thing: we all really hate grace, apparently.

Many Christians decided to bring up some things he was accused of years ago.  They brought up some moral mistakes that he had been known to make.  They decided to bring up the past at the moment of his passing for some reason.

The only reason I can think of to do that is that they really hate the concept of grace and mercy.  Myself included, apparently.

While I didn’t do it with Kobe, I’ve done it with other people.  At the moment someone professes some type of life change, or someone has something drastic happen in their lives that’s unfortunate, I have a sneaky thought in my mind.  In the case of life change, the thought is, “I’m not too sure they’re serious about this.  Look at what they’ve done in the past.”  In the case of something unfortunate happening to them, the thought is, “Given all that you’ve done, it serves you right.”

All the while, I call myself a follower of Jesus Christ.

I call myself a follower of Jesus, the man who decided to pave the way for a complete and eternal restoration of my relationship with God because I could do no good on my own.  I call myself a follower of Jesus, the Messiah who decided to look at my past and my future and say, “Yes, I can forgive even that,” and then forgave it.  Forever.

I call myself a follower of Jesus and struggle to show a celebrity or friend or anyone else the same grace and mercy that was shown to me.

I apparently hate grace and mercy.  It’s evidenced by my actions.

My Christian brothers and sisters apparently hate grace and mercy too, as evidenced by their actions.

We did it when Ray Lewis and the Ravens won a Super Bowl, and we decided to bring up his past crime, saying that he shouldn’t be celebrating and should be ashamed instead.  We did it when Kanye West became a Christian and we all raised our eyebrows and shook our heads because he’s apparently too far outside of the reach of Jesus or something crazy like that.  We did it when Justin Beiber started hanging out with pastors and talking about Jesus and we shrugged and said, “He’ll fall away.”

Whenever these things happen that call for grace and mercy, but we bring up past sin or raise our eyebrows, we are emphatically saying that Jesus’ grace simply isn’t enough.

I know the push back here: “Are you saying we should just forget everything that they’ve done?”

Yes.

If you’re reading this and you’re a follower of Jesus, then let me remind you of something: your past and future sins aren’t shackles that you’re bound to anymore.  Your story of redemption and restoration isn’t too far out of reach.  So why would we say something different about anyone else?

I know the fallacy of what I’m saying here.  Shouldn’t I be showing this same grace and mercy to fellow Christians, even in the midst of their own rejection/forgetting of grace and mercy?  Absolutely.

It’s a process.  Maybe this will help me get there.

Called

I sat around a church camp campfire one night when I was 15 years old and emphatically declared to the group of fellow campers that God had called me to the ministry.  I was met with applause and cheers because ministry was the highest calling anyone could ever have.  I went to bed that night thinking about all the opportunities I would have and the sermons I would preach.

Fast forward 17 years and I can tell you that those opportunities and sermons didn’t really pan out the way I had hoped.

Maybe that’s a good thing.  Maybe that’s even a “God thing” (I sincerely hate that phrase, but oh well).  Nevertheless, here I am.

The faith tradition I grew up in placed a high emphasis on calling.  Simply put, you just didn’t move until God called you somewhere.  It didn’t matter what it was: if you took a job, it was because God called you there.  If you preached a sermon, it was because God called you to preach it.  If you dumped your significant other, it’s because God called you to break off that relationship.

So for years, that’s what I took with me.  I prayed and hoped and prayed some more for my first ministry out of college.  I ended up in Norfolk, VA.  I was confident God had called me there.  I drove a small U-Haul down there was ready to move mountains because God had called me there!  And there isn’t anything that can stop that!

Well, 14 months later, I packed up yet another U-Haul to cross back over the Blue Ridge Mountains and live in Kentucky once again.  This time I had a job at a college.  I was ready to roll because God had called me here!

Then God called me to plant a church in Middlesboro, KY.  Then the church plant closed after multiple attempts to launch that, ultimately, failed.

Then God called me to northern Kentucky.  I mean, he had to, right!?  I served in AmeriCorps.  Then I became a Student Pastor yet again.  God had called me to it and he would see me through it.

God did see me through it – and he saw me right through packing up my office one night less than two years later.

That’s when I stopped and considered something: maybe God isn’t calling me here, there, and everywhere.  Perhaps I’m just called to follow Jesus.  Period.  And that’s it.

I say “that’s it” like it’s an easy thing to do.  It’s not.  The decision to follow might come with a bit of ease, but the daily bulk of it isn’t.  I’m aware of the irony there.

But maybe we’re all called to follow Jesus.  Maybe calling doesn’t deal with a location, job, person, or thing.  Maybe calling just deals with Jesus.

I follow Jesus because of the life and purpose that he offers.  I don’t follow him so I can lead a megachurch or plant the fastest growing church in America or preach to thousands or pat myself on the back whenever I have had 6 jobs in 9 years.

I really don’t think God calls us to one place or the other.  I think God calls us to take up Jesus’ offer of following him.  And following Jesus means being in places you never thought you’d be.

And it also means that you’re in places you always thought you’d be.

I always thought it was kind of mean to have ministers and pastors talk about this “calling” they had with such admiration to a church full of plumbers, teachers, accountants, factory workers, bosses, managers, and the like.  After all, they’re called to follow Jesus just like the minister/pastor is.  They just don’t have the mystical “calling” thing going on, which makes me second-guess if it’s right or biblical.

If I could go back 10 years and tell senior-in-college-Sean something, I would simply say: Don’t chase the calling – just chase Jesus.

And I tell that same thing to myself today, too.

Wide-Eyed Wonder

I’m not a morning person.

At all.

My disdain for mornings has actually increased in recent years, although I didn’t think it was possible.  At one point, I thought that I hated mornings so much that I couldn’t hate them anymore, so I’d start a slow progression to becoming a morning person.

Boy, was I wrong.

Do you who lives in my house and is a morning person?

My son, Caleb, who is three and a half months shy from turning 2 years old.

Every weekday morning, I wake up instantly angry at my alarm.  I begrudgingly get in the shower, murmuring because the bathroom light is too bright to my darkened eyes.  I then get dressed in silence because the only thing worse than mornings is noise in the morning.  Finally, I shuffle out to the living room to take some medicine and watch the news while waiting for Caleb to wake up so I can feed him and get him to daycare.

Every weekday morning (usually), Caleb wakes up ready to greet the world around him.  If you were to sit in my living room in the mornings, you’d hear nothing come out of the monitor.  Then, all of a sudden, you’d hear a little bit of shuffling and some happy, loud babbles as he’s marveling at all the things in his dark room.  Sometimes he’ll even shout “Dad!” as he is waiting for me to come in and get him out of the crib.

When I hear that happy chatter, I shuffle back to his room, turn on his lamp, and he greets me with a pretty happy sound.  He’s wide awake, sitting or standing in his crib, and then he does this thing every morning that makes me laugh: he points out all of the Disney cartoon characters in his room.  Every single one.  Lately, we’ve started with his rug that bears the images of Pluto, Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, and Goofy.  He stands and points at them, attempting to say their names.  He’s gotten “duck” and “Pluto” out decently clearly.  But after he points them out, he points at the cartoon characters on these canvases above his bed.  They bear the images of Peter Pan, Winnie the Pooh, Dumbo, and Mickey Mouse.  Again, the same thing – happy chatter as he points at them and I call out their names, and he tries to repeat me.  Finally, we move on to the 7 other Mickey Mouse characters in his room: 2 on the mobile, 3 on the wall above his closet, one sitting on his dresser, and a big one clung to the wall above his changing table.  After that, we get a book and he looks at it while I change and dress him.

I’m not sure where he gets that wide-eyed wonder.  Amy is a morning person, but not like that.  And, well, you already know about me.  But Caleb his picked up this habit.  Everyday is a new day.  Every morning is a chance to see all of the Mickeys, and Pluto, and Donald Duck, and Winnie the Pooh, and the other characters scattered around his room.

This morning, as he went through his daily tradition of pointing these things out, I couldn’t help but wonder myself.

Caleb’s daily wide-eyed wonder is a trait of God.  Marvel and wonder are at the heart of Christianity.  Consider the shepherd’s at Jesus’ birth.  They were there to marvel and wonder.  That’s it.  No end game, no agenda.  Just to look, marvel, and wonder.

Maybe this is the reason wonder brings us closer to the heart of God.  Maybe it’s why Caleb, in the innocence of his childhood, his marked by wonder.  Maybe that’s what we’ve lost as adults and, in turn, has made us hate the mornings.

Aren’t mornings a picture of wonder?  The darkness of night chipped away by the gradual light of the sun – a metaphor of wonder, if there ever was one.

Maybe the reason I hate the mornings is because I’ve lost the ability to wonder and marvel.  Maybe that’s the reason you hate mornings, too.

Maybe what we need to do is take a page out of Caleb’s book and marvel once again.  Find one thing to point at every morning and wonder at.  I don’t know if it will work, but it’s worth a shot.

The Unfortunate Fraternity

It may be hard to believe, but I have been trying to write less and less about grief recently.  It’s been just over two years now since my dad passed away, but occasionally things happen that get me caught up in the grip of grief once again, just like if the passing had happened yesterday.  Today was one of those times.

I opened up Facebook for a few minutes of downtime before I went on to my next task of the day, and I happened to see a video of George W. Bush’s eulogy for his father, George H.W. Bush.  I typically don’t watch videos on Facebook that are more than 30 or so seconds, but something compelled me to click on this video.  So I did, and for the next 3 and a half minutes, I watched Bush 43 deliver a moving tribute to Bush 41.  3 and a half minutes of remembering a giant of a man.  He started off with tears in his eyes, but quickly moved on to some typical George W. Bush brand of quips, complete with his smile and quick glance over to his brother, Jeb, and his wife, Laura.  He delivered this short speech powerfully.  As he got towards the end, grief caught him once again.  He became quite emotional, even just for a few seconds, before regaining composure to finish out the last half sentence.

I’ve been in that position too many times.  Not with a eulogy or speech, but I’ve talked about dad in some of my sermons.  I can’t necessarily remember if I got emotional on stage in front of the congregation about him, but I definitely have as I did a run-through of my sermon.  There’s something odd about preaching to an empty, dark room.  There’s something even stranger about getting emotional while preaching to an empty, dark room.

Truth be told, I don’t think it matters if people are in the room or not.  Bush 43 could have been speaking to an empty room and would have had the same reaction.  It’s what grief does.

It’s the same thing as listening to a song and suddenly turning it off because there were 5 words that reminded you of your dad.

It’s the same thing as putting on your dad’s old work boots before weed-eating the lawn, and pausing with a lump in your throat, standing beside the weed-eater in a dimly lit garage.

It’s the same thing as delivering a eulogy for your father to an international audience and, even though you’ve held the title as President of the United States, still breaking down at the end.

Grief hits everyone.  President or not.

As I watched George W. Bush walk back to his seat, I realized something: George and Jeb had just joined a fraternity that no one wants to be in.  I’ve been part of that unfortunate fraternity for two years.  They’ve been part of the unfortunate fraternity for less than a week.

I joined George W. Bush in grieving today.  Before my own father passed away, it would have been difficult for me to do that.  Today, it was far too easy.  But that’s how grief works.

Being part of this unfortunate fraternity works like that.  I can identify with those who have lost loved ones.  I’ve read and shared stories with widows, widowers, parents who have lost children, and children who have lost parents.  I don’t know what they’re going through exactly because it hits every person differently, but I know grief.  I’m familiar with his ways.  And our shared membership in this unfortunate fraternity allows us to grieve together, even in our own unique ways.

As news coverage continues on George H.W. Bush’s funeral in Texas, I know that I will grieve some more.  So will George W. Bush and Jeb.  And, if you are a member of this unfortunate fraternity, so will you.

Thankfully, we can grieve together.

2 Years

I’ve said this before on this site: grief overwhelms you at the most random of times.

For example: This past Tuesday I was driving down a road near my house.  I had left my office and was headed home to eat some lunch.  I have no clue why or how it even happened, but my eyes began to fill with tears.  I wasn’t necessarily thinking about my dad at that moment.  It just happened.  Luckily, I was able to bat back the tears, get home, and eat my sandwich.

I’m sure you know what has happened in my life but in case you’re new around here, let me explain.  On October 5, 2016, my dad passed away from ALS.  It’s a neurological disease that essentially slowly shuts down your body via your muscular and nervous system.  Some can live with it for years and years.  My dad wasn’t one of them.

Time seems to be arced for me.  I vividly remember where I was when I received the phone call from my parents letting me know that dad had been diagnosed with ALS.  I was at Orange Leaf in Florence, KY.  My wife and I had a friendly bet on something small, and I had won.  I answered the phone while holding my frozen yogurt.  I don’t remember much of the evening after that.

There’s a line from that moment to seeing my dad in the hospital.  Then there’s a line from that to telling my parents that Amy was pregnant.  Then there’s a line from that moment to seeing my dad essentially helpless in a bed.  Then there’s a line from that to him passing away.

Fast forward two years, and there’s a line from that day to October 5 of last year, to October 5 of this year.  And I’m sure that there will be another line drawn from this October 5 to next year’s October 5.

Due to this upcoming date, I’ve tried to keep myself busy this week.  I’ve worked on the yard for a few evenings after work.  Tonight, I stripped wallpaper from our entry hallway.  Right now, I’m supposed to be finishing up my sermon for this Sunday.  I’ve done all of these things to keep my mind off of the painfully obvious.  But here’s the thing about working: it reminds me of my dad.

When I worked out in the yard, mainly weed-eating, I wore his old work boots.  I pulled up some of the grass in the cracks in our driveway using work gloves that are almost identical to his.  Even while stripping wallpaper, I could easily imagine my dad running a scraper up and down a wall like I was.  I was trying to keep my mind from floundering in grief by doing things, but in the midst of doing these things, I was warmly reminded of my father.

It’s weird how that works.

So on October 5, I may pick up a weed-eater.  Or some trimmers.  Or a scraper.  And remember my dad for all that he was.

Or I’ll pick up my son and play with some blocks with him.  And in the process of doing so, instill in him the same thing my dad instilled in me; the very thing I’m reminded of whenever I weed-eat or strip wallpaper.

Maybe the line drawn from October 5, 2017 to October 5, 2018 won’t be one that is from one grief-filled day to the another.  Sure, grief will be there.  But honor will be, too.  Remembrance.  Maybe even a hint of joy, as I spend time with my son like my dad spent time with me.