Blessed are those who Hunger and Thirst

There is an insatiable desire within the core of every human heart, to be reconciled to God through the finished work of the cross of Jesus Christ. Every act of aggression is a feeble attempt to scratch that eternal itch. This is about that.

Deep within the recesses of our soul, is an unquenchable thirst for things to be made right with our Creator, and we claw our way toward that redemption by swinging in the dark. This is about that.

There are schools of Psychology and conflict mediation that have uncovered this elementary truth: The nature of addiction, violence or self-destruction is usually born from something beneath the surface. The gnawing ache for things to be made right with our Creator. Human rebellion has fractured that relationship, and we long for reconciliation. This is about that.

Every addiction or self-destructive path was first ignited from a desire for the itch to go away. We have learned to settle for the temporary gratification, until the virus bleeds into patterns and cycles of immediate remedies ~ like a bandaid over a tourniquet. This is about that.

The man who rages against the referee at a little-league game, or punches his television after his team loses... The road raging driver who goes animalistic at a careless merge; This is about that.

Jesus says, "Blessed are those who hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they shall be filled."

When, by God's gracious revelation, we hear the cosmic invitation to the Table of Communion, our hearts find healing in the Bread of Life. Drinking deeply of the Living Water spills over into the abundant life that Christ has come to offer. This is about that.

"You have made us for yourself, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you."

- St. Augustine

Blessed are Meek

I grew up being introduced to a femmy Jesus. He looked like Mr. Rogers, with a beard. He was nice and didn't say anything offensive. He liked to pet sheep, and kids climbed all over him.

Ironically, "meekness" was always taught as "weakness". And by 8th grade, I was over it.

So then I jumped ship to the fighting fundamentalist Jesus; He liked to protest things and blog about the end of the world! He was much more angry and it made for some exciting sermons...

But recently I stumbled into the real Jesus. The beautiful, intoxicating revolutionary who introduced the Kingdom Manifesto as a direct assault on the Roman Empire. This advancing Kingdom of God spreading like a wildfire by the least likely of characters.

"Blessed are the Meek", says Jesus, "For they shall inherit the earth".

The actual Greek translation of meekness [praus] speaks of strength under control. It is not a feminine hippy with no backbone [or, Kip Dynamite for example], nor is Meekness described by violence or brutal force. It's neither Mr. Rogers nor Malcolm X.
Meekness is strength, under control.

The Greek philosopher Aristotle described meekness as the beautiful character quality that found a voice for the appropriate rage within. Because, as it has been said, if you're not outraged, you're not paying attention.

Honest hermeneutical exegesis will reveal the real fire behind Jesus, the homeless Rabbi from Nazareth. History records that from His infancy, Jesus was born into a collision of Kingdoms. Biblical writers paint a portrait of Jesus on the warpath, planting subversive seeds of sedition right beneath the nose of King Herod!

Several of Jesus' parables were contemporary commentaries on social justice, mocking the plastic impostor who claimed to rule over the Jews. Jesus and Herod were on a collision course, and Christ's followers were invited to help spread the wildfire of the good news: The Kingdom of God is at hand!

One time when Jesus was in the middle of a diatribe on the splendor of the Real Kingdom, some Pharisees came to him with a warning, "Run! King Herod has issued a subpoena for your arrest... He wants to kill you!" Jesus fired back with a holy outrage: "Go tell that fox, I will cast out demons, I will heal people, and on the third day, I will finish my course!"

What????

Strength under control does not wield an AK-47 and call for block battle. Strength under control recognized that at any moment, "I could call on my Father who would immediately dispatch 12 legion of angels on my behalf"... but chooses instead, a cross.

Jesus saw the face of evil, and did not ignore it. He climbed on a donkey and rode right into the mouth of the monster, only to eventually be ushered before the wicked King Herod. (Picture Jesus in handcuffs, with a swollen eye and bloody nose, being questioned by Herod). "And Jesus gave him no answer."

He didn't even honor his questions with an answer! He completely disrespected him, and ignored the hailstorm of bullets. Because He had seen the throne... and Herod was not on it!

Meekness is standing in the face of adversity, with the conviction of assumed authority as a child of the Real King. And to confront systemic evil with beautiful anger, because holy outrage leads to the healing and reconciliation of this broken world.

Blessed Are Those Who Mourn

Two thousand years ago, Jesus inaugurated the incoming Kingdom of God and the New World Disorder. The Beatitudes are a gauntlet slammed into the 1st Century Palestinian battle ground, announcing a new beginning...

"Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted..."

This progression of hope for the children of God, pledging allegiance to His reign, separates the various dimensions of grieving as both spiritual and physical. They have always been, and remain, interchangeable. Sin gives birth to death, and the heart of God breaks over both conditions.

Hope is that crucial ingredient that carries Christian mourners through seasons of deepest loss. Hope is the chain that peddles the bike that keeps you going. Hope is the seed that sprouts the roots and springs a tree.

And in what is our hope? In whom is our faith?

The resurrection of the crucified King! The manifestation of a literal rising from the ashes of decadence, have been for two thousand years, the motivation to mourn with conviction.

In John 11, the New Testament tells the story of Jesus receiving an oral telegram: "Come quick, your best friend, Lazerus, is sick unto death!"The text reads with cryptic subversion, "Now Jesus loved Lazerus, so he did not come."

He loved Lazerus, [therefore] he didn't answer his prayer.

And in this waiting room of suffering and ashes, the family mourns the loss of their brother. The anguish initiates a series of questions, revealing the frustration we have all felt at times. "Where were you, God?" Jesus absorbs their tears like a sponge, and receives their doubt with delicate authority. His posture bends in the dirt to feel the weight of this loss.... ["Jesus wept."]

On that day God cried, salty tears of internal rage. He looked into the eyes of his closest friends, after announcing that this will not be the last chapter; the Resurrection and the Life was enveloped in cynical despair. And Jesus felt their lack of faith in Him, bending to His knees in anguish.

----- The Resurrection and the Life ---- cried.

Where is your faith? Awake O sleeper, death will not have the last word. The cross couldn't finish His sentence, and the grave couldn't hold His power! Where our sins have been atoned for, the scars are not fatal and the grave is not final. When we mourn over those things that break the heart of God, comfort crashes into the casket!

Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.

Blessed are the Spiritually Bankrupt

A couple of years ago Jamie and I decided to move down to the mountains of Asheville, North Carolina. We had three hundred dollars in the bank, and the promise of an acquaintance to rent a home, until I could find a job in the city. We had the zealous hope of a new chapter, and the future seemed wide open...

Shortly after we moved here, I had this brilliant idea to take a road trip to the Carolina coast; I had always wanted to surf the Charleston beaches, so I tucked my surfboard into the car and made it a solo adventure. I surfed with the dolphins and chatted with tourists. I lingered in the surf shops and eventually began the six hour trek home.

*There are parts of South Carolina that you just might want to avoid. Long highway stretches separate the progressive boom town of Charleston, from the backwoods mystery of lesser known places... and it was here, in the middle of the unknown, that my engine blew a head-gasket. Smoke poured from the hood of my Jetta, and there was no hope of a quick fix. I hitched a ride to the nearest gas station, that had promptly closed at five pm. It was beginning to get dark, and I could hear banjo music... No cell phone reception, no credit card, and the music was getting louder!

I finally waived down a motorist, and he gave me a lift to a phone booth up the road. I was able to call Jamie collect and I explained the situation. She scurried to put the girls in the mini-van and attempted to rescue me, but somewhere outside of town, the transmission blew on her van as well. So my wife and kids were simultaneously stranded six hours away!

[That awkward moment when you keep seeing reruns of Deliverance in your mind, as the darkness is setting in...]

Jamie finally got a hold of a friend-of-a-friend who immediately set out to retrieve me. This guy drove an F-350 with a flatbed trailer behind it, and five hours later, he found me on the side of the road (hiding behind some trees!). He loaded my car up and I climbed into the passenger seat. I was so ecstatic to have been found, rescued, and returned...

As we neared Columbia, we pulled off to get something from the drive-through at McDonald's. He ordered a bunch of food for both of us, and I insisted on calculating the totals, "Here, let me pay!",  but he ignored my request.  I kept a close eye on his gasoline, mileage, and time granted; I was going to make this all up, I had promised.

After my persistent requests to let me pay for this favor, he just looked at me and said, "You don't understand grace, do you?"


___________


Jesus inaugurated an inverted power system as he announced the Kingdom of Heaven and the New World Disorder. "Blessed are the Spiritually Bankrupt" [ptochos]; a word picture of absolutely nothing left in the bank... running on fumes and now the fumes have evaporated. Guilty. Surrender. Ptochos.

The good news of the gospel is that God has heard the cry of his children, and He has set forth on a rescue mission to retrieve the prodigals... And when you find yourself standing on the side of a barren highway, with no money and no hope and a blown head gasket and burned bridges and the scandalous resume as a liar/fraud/cheat, your only posture is to make a collect phone call to Heaven, and beg for Mercy.

Blessed are the Spiritually Bankrupt, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.

Christmas in Michigan

Restoring the Lost Years

A few weeks ago we were sitting together as a family, watching old home videos. In the video frame we were all playing together at Chuck E Cheese... the girls were laughing and dancing, and I was there... but not really.

I mean, I was in the video; fully present in my absence. I was disengaged in the background.

The next video clip was Ambria's birthday party. She was blowing out two candles, and we were singing as a family. But, for the life of me, I can't remember the event.

As we watched the old videos together, I just began to wonder ~ When was this? I don't remember this event. I mean, I'm in the video... I'm clearly there, but I have no memory of this moment.

And as Jamie has been calculating Ashlyn's developmental delays, she would point out a comparison to Ambria. "Remember, Ambria was eating cereal with a spoon by this age." And I would shake my head. "No, I don't remember."

Last week I was flying from Asheville to Chicago, to return home to Michigan. On the plane I pulled out a scratch piece of paper and did some chronological calculations. I squeezed out a memory from late February of 2008: We were walking into the gymnasium of the Muskegon Catholic High School, where the leadership at Lakeshore Church was going to announce my forced resignation. All eyes were on the DePoy family, as we walked through the front doors... and in that delicate moment, Ambria threw up all over the place. "Good timing", I thought.

But then, there was nothing. For nineteen damned months, nothing.

My next memory retained was September 22, 2009 - The day we stopped and took a family picture at the border of North Carolina, initiating a new chapter in our lives.

______________________________________

Last wednesday I was sharing this revelation to my trusted counselor. He is a certified Psychiatrist, and has many years of experience... As we sat outside on the porch drinking coffee, he immediately pointed out that this memory block was an obvious symptom of post traumatic stress.

"Think about it... it was the emotional equivalence of a bomb detonating in your brain! You had just suffered a spiritual explosion in your ministry, and everything would be blown to smithereens. Because your private sin became public, you lost your health insurance, your income, your house, and your friends. It's no wonder why you're a zombie in the family videos... You're like a war veteran with flashbacks every time you remember the conflict."

He continued to ask questions... "Did you wake up in a cold sweat? Nightmares?"

I nodded.

"And what about walking around in public... did you just want to run home and lock the door?"

Once again, "Exactly."

So much of this epiphany has answered a ton of questions for me lately. Why do I avoid conflict? Why do I shy away from confrontation? Because I have never really had a healthy experience with Christian conflict/reconciliation before.

In my experience, conflict + confrontation = rejection.

My prayer is that the Great Physician will heal me from the inside out. As Romans 12 mentions, "the renewing of the mind", and the Old Testament book of Joel prophecies, "God will restore the years that the locusts have eaten..."

Last night, I took my daughters for a walk. I brought a camera, and I captured the memory... but this memory will burn the midnight oil.

Hope for Ashlyn

Our baby girl, Ashlyn Hope was recently diagnosed with Global Development Delays. Although she is happy, and otherwise healthy, she is not talking or walking yet. She is not using consonants or even rolling over in her crib. She is almost a year and a half old.

Please pray for her, and join us in our expectation of amazing things!

remembering to forget

a layover in chicago gives me time to think

about the unfairness of it all

jamie says

remember when ambria wouldn't stop crying at her birthday party?

i shake my head

and the family video is on rewind

we're all there gathered around two candles and a cake

and i'm watching myself

disengaged in the corner

absent in my presence

emotionally unavailable

oh there's the dress that mariah wore to princess camp

jamie points at the fluffy sleeves in pink

and i can't remember

when did mariah go to princess camp?

and yet another family video

chuck e cheese and the girls are laughing

i'm there in the video too

but, i don't remember any of this

a layover in chicago gives me time to think

about the unfairness of it all

the calculated estimates: the last thing i remember was the week after my resignation

we showed up as a family to catholic central high school

for a family reunion

in a packed gymnasium

the moment we opened the door,

ambria puked all over her nursery dress

good timing, i thought

then ~ nothing

for

nineteen

damned

months

until we hit the north carolina border

snapping a picture as a family

hoping for a new chapter

while the haters had posted

inflammatory blogs about us being 'driven from the land'

a layover in chicago gives me time to think

about the unfairness of it all

Where life and death collide

Mission Hospital, 5th floor ::: Room 510

Sitting beside the bed of an old friend, I watched the medical team scurrying around the room to alleviate her discomfort. In the aftermath of a car accident, my friend had a few scratches, a broken collarbone, multiple bumps, bruises and a massive headache.

But the thing she complained about the most was the bruising path from her safety belt that had, literally, cut into her flesh. I could see the blood vessels and immediate bruising that had developed from the collision.

While giving her more pain medication, the physician reminded her that if it had not been for the restraining belt, she would have died.

:: The very thing that brought her the most pain was also the source of her own salvation::

As I reflect on the pain of the past few years, I center my awareness on the internal bruises that were born in the suffering. I rage against the pain, thrusting my fist in the air at the Great Physician who gently reminds me that His belt of restraint kept me from plunging through the windshield in a collision of all things unholy.

If it had not been for the piercing pain, I would have never stirred from the slumber of my bulletproof indifference. As I inhale the pain reliever, clutching for life support ~ I am acutely aware and infinitely grateful for the intersection of my deepest pain/sacred life.

Thank you God for the bullhorn of your grace, (disguised as enemies) shouting scandalous profanity at the image of another statistic waiting to happen. And this collision would not end in death, but a full recovery is immanent...

Reflections from the California Coast

The sun was fading, as though a literal meltdown into the Pacific Ocean. The blurry haze that separated the water from the sky seemed applicable to thoughts in my mind. I sipped from a steaming cup of coffee, and sat on a bench overlooking the high-tide surfers far below the canyon.

My thoughts drifted to the serenity of this moment, from the disastrous journey of the past few years. Painful memories still surface at times, like the sting of a wasp ~ I swat and flee toward the refuge of my soul-mate and the girls, where I'm settled and healed...

The healing that has taken place inside my heart is not easy to articulate; There wasn't a moment or an incident of remedy, rather, my inner healing has been a continual process toward wholeness. The shaping of things to come have materialized of yesterday's fragmentation. As the aforementioned line is blurred between water and sky, so too is the separation from the hurt and the healing.

Thank you God, for the relentless tenderness of your Spirit's embrace. Thank you for not giving up on me, though I had filed for spiritual bankruptcy. Thank you for the gift of new friends, and the sacred sentiments of the ever-present absence... Fading memories that have been crucified, buried, and now resurrected in the Shalom of all things restored.

The End of the Beginning

Listen to this.

To the Mercy King

The rear-view mirror still taunts me. The images may appear closer than they actually are, yet the scars have stories of being put to open shame; death by exposure was a salacious headline, and the red badge of courage could never be applied to me.

Imagine your hidden sins put on display for the world to witness... How would it feel to have your diary published, including the darkest secrets of a scandalous heart. What would be your defense to the accusations? Where would you turn, inward or outward - in anger or fear?

Paul writes of the shame of the cross: "God raised you from the dead as he did Christ. When you were stuck in your old sin-dead life, you were incapable of responding to God. God brought you alive—right along with Christ! Think of it! All sins forgiven, the slate wiped clean, that old arrest warrant canceled and nailed to Christ's cross. He stripped all the spiritual tyrants in the universe of their plastic authority at the Cross and marched them naked through the streets." - Col. 2:13-15 [Message]

The Roman Empire were artists at torturing their victims. The objective was to humiliate an enemy by stripping them completely naked, then raising them up on an execution stake and announcing their shame to the world. The thirst of blood and venom drenched a twisted crowd of professional religious people, with the spectacle of a writhing, dying, enemy of the State.

And after all the smoke had cleared, and the last witness had turned away, Jesus rose victorious from the shallow grave. He had absorbed the wrath of God and man, and walked away in defiance.

Paul goes on to write that the resurrection of Jesus had, in essence, subverted the new world disorder and exposed the laws of empire in humiliation and shame. He publicly mocked the enemies (both visible and invisible) in the triumph of new life!

Somehow my story, as gut-wrenching and humiliating as it is, can become a trophy of God's grace. With every fiber of my being, I hate my sinful past! I continue to war against the ever-present temptations within. And I dread being reminded of my self-inflicted scars. And yet, the reconciliation of all things hidden is now being put on display by the Kingdom of Jesus at work within me.

So to the haters who have googled my name and researched new ways to accuse me: I'm glad you found this blog. Now raise your glass to the restorative work of the Mercy King! He is risen, and I'm with Him. Amen.

Fully Present in the Presence of the Amen

It was almost midnight when she noticed it. The lightning was painting the southern sky, with flashes of cinder and smoke. She called me to the window, and then to the door… we walked outside barefoot, breathless by the intoxication of the moment.

For what seemed like hours, Jamie and I sat in the grass looking out far, far away. The lightning was so distant that we could not even hear the assumed crashes of thunder. She wondered how far away the storm was, or if the cold front was going to collide with our warm air in the mountains.

We began to reflect on our journey, home. This season is serving its purpose: to bring healing to the wounds of our last exit. We talked about the southern drift, and the distance from our roots in West Michigan. We wondered about the toll such a transition would take on our daughters, who still cling to the memories of sand-castles and sleepovers, neighborhood friends, and a church family that disappeared overnight.

However violent the repressed memories are, we hold on to the joy that remains. We have proved them all wrong. We are stronger than their whispers. We are unfinished.

And tomorrow, is a mystery. That door is locked and bolted shut for now. All we can do is celebrate the moment of our resurrection, and watch the heavens declare the glory of God.

Still, Unsettled.

I want my life to make a difference for the Kingdom of God. Ten years ago, Jamie and I were newlyweds and we dreamed of being a part of a revolution of love. We used to read through the New Testament, falling in love with the Acts of the apostles, and had conversations about what it would look like to experience that kind of energy.

I still have trouble sleeping at night, and I can't shake this burden. My heart aches to be a part of a community of faith that is reaching a city as the hands and feet of Christ's body on earth. I will not settle for anything less. Never.

How We Spend Our Days

Grace Comes To Us With Blistered Feet

I once heard a story about an old missionary. He had been afflicted with such a spiritual dis-ease that keeping the Grace of Christ to himself was no longer an option. He set out on foot to reach the unreached people groups of the desolate African landscapes.

But in each village, his message of grace and forgiveness fell on deaf ears and hard hearts. He met rejection and loneliness at every corner. So he would walk in a circle from village to village to village before succumbing to exhaustion. He collapsed in the desert heat and waited to die.

A few days later he was stirred to awaken, in a bed provided by caretakers. He was nourished back to physical health, and noticed the disposition of the locals: they were receptive, curious, and eager to listen to his message.

The missionary was curious as to why they had now a change of reception.

The locals pointed to his blistered feet. "When we found you, we noticed the blisters on your dirty feet. We realized that anyone who would walk this relentlessly must have something to share, worth listening to."

When I think about all of the ways that I have rejected God's love for me, I often wonder why He hasn't given up! All those times I insisted to have my own way, He waited. In my absolute defiance of His Spirit's leading, the grace He has offered me is flushed away in rebellion.

Grace comes to us with blistered feet.

When we least expect it, like a stray dog - grace shows up again at our front door, barking. Incessantly. Relentlessly. Annoying.

Grace comes to us with blistered feet.

When we least deserve it, like a Christmas present unopened; postmarked from heaven - traveling through hell, grace knocks exhaustively on the door of our hardened heart. With blood-stained, nail-scarred hands, offering forgiveness and Monday-morning hope.

Grace comes to us with blistered feet.

When we ignore, reject, and dismiss this gift, we find one constant seat available at the Table, body broken, blood poured out. Grace has come, and remains the unfinished story...

like a garden, unkept

like a garden that was once

beautiful and cared for

my heart has been neglected

thirsty and nostalgic

for the Creator's grace to tend to these weeds that have choked the blossom, rooted in a tangible blur of concrete confusion

whatever happened to maranatha?

whatever happened to building forts in the woods

with the neighborhood kids and setting traps for potential enemies?

whatever happened to some glad morning

and i'll fly away and do lord, remember me?

there used to be a time when i knew no strangers

but now things seem to be playing in reverse

some things, however, remain:

this ever-present loneliness and the ache for another world

twenty years have now passed since i've last seen you

and memories are locked like the castles of sand

washed away with the torrential rains

and somebody set fire to maranatha

i watched her burn to the ground.

Hope

There are few places in the world that could possibly be more beautiful than the sidewalks of Asheville on a summer morning. It was here that I sat outside a coffee shop, having agreed to meet an acquaintance for a conversation, or more like a lecture.

In other words, there was very little room for interaction or dialogue. He was more interested in explaining to me the way the universe works. He had it all figured out. The paradigms and designs of the inter-connected web of astrophysics and the mysteries of science had been solved by his genius.

Five minutes in to the conversation I realized that he had figured it all out. He'd arrived, and he knew the answers to questions I've never even imagined to ask! His degrees on the wall could prove his intellectual aptitude, and his use of words with several syllables were nauseatingly intimidating!

When he came up for air, he asked me what I thought.

I told him none of it mattered to anybody.

He seemed taken aback from my sentence. An awkward silence suggested that I elaborate...

"When you are sitting beside the casket of your loved one, begging for answers; When the pain of evil seems to triumph...what Hope can you lean into?"

I continued, "At the end of the day, none of your scientific theories carry any weight or relevance to the heart that has been devastated."

I explained further, "This is my dilemma: People look to spiritual leaders for answers. But they're not looking for a comprehensive formulaic equation or diatribe on philosophical theorems. They're not looking for a systematic theology. They want tangible, flesh and blood - Monday-morning Hope."

And the answer for the Hope that I can share (with brutal, glorious honesty) remains in the Name of the One who conquered death and rose victoriously to defeat evil. And this hope is free and beautiful and accessible in the darkest hours of our lives. The invitation of Jesus is to come and rest, taste and see, go and tell; "Hope remains."

That's all I know. That's a summary of everything I have to offer anyone who is searching for a reason to keep going...

Responding to Max Lucado

This morning I received an email that had been forwarded to me from an acquaintance. It was a devotional thought by Max Lucado on the subject of Death and Grieving.

In his devotional paragraph he attempted to tackle and conquer the monster of evil.

Here is what he wrote:

_____________________________________________________________

The seven-year-old son of our neighbors died last week. They are devastated. So are we. What can we tell them?
God is a good God. We must begin here. Though we don’t understand his actions, we can trust his heart.
God does only what is good. But how can death be good? Some mourners don’t ask this question. When the quantity of years has outstripped the quality of years, we don’t ask how death can be good.
But the father of the dead teenager does. The widow of the young soldier does. The parents of a seven-year-old do. How could death be good?

Part of the answer may be found in Isaiah 57:1–2: “Good people are taken away, but no one understands. Those who do right are being taken away from evil and are given peace. Those who live as God wants find rest in death” (NCV).

Death is God’s way of taking people away from evil. From what kind of evil? An extended disease? An addiction? A dark season of rebellion? We don’t know. But we know that no person lives one day more or less than God intends. “All the days planned for me were written in your book before I was one day old” (Ps. 139:16 NCV).

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

Who could ever disagree with Max Lucado? I mean, come on... the guy writes Christian books for children and encouraging books for all of us who are in the grip of grace and fighting giants! Max Lucado is the cuddly and lovable Grandpa who writes encouraging books for those of us who just need a little uplifting inspiration.

But this answer is absolute trash.

A few well-intentioned friends tried selling this line of bull to my mom, after she woke up to find her infant son (7 months old) dead in his crib, for no explainable reason. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome finds no comfort in Max Lucado's theology of death and loss. "Well, Judy - God is good! And God was protecting your baby Joshua from any number of atrocities that he would have likely become: a drug addict, a future porn star, or perhaps he would have just been terminally cancerous and would eventually die a slow, painful death. But you know, Judy. God wanted to protect Joshua from evil so He took your baby home to heaven. Now let's just celebrate!"

But this answer is absolute trash.

The truth is, God doesn't orchestrate the death of people in order to protect them from evil. This is an oxymoron!

DEATH IS EVIL.

We are born into and will die from a broken world. Genesis 3 jacked this whole experience called "Life", and there will be unanswerable questions that we as Christians should stop pretending to have some theological grid for. The problem of evil will not (and should not) be a mystery conquered in an email devotional, mass forwarded to countless searchers.

And the truth is also that in the death and resurrection of Jesus - the brokenness of this world is being restored/reconciled to the Garden of Shalom. Jesus has ushered in a whole new Kingdom of Life, and the now-but not yet - Kingdom is the final trump card to the funeral of Joshua Dale DePoy, my infant brother who died when I was five years old.

Spread the Word

A couple of friends of mine are undertaking missional initiatives to expand the Kingdom of God, and to launch the next chapter of their own lives.

I want to introduce you to Lumen Audio, an Asheville-based recording studio that is intentionally focused on being portable, incarnational, and fluid. The executive genius behind the vision is Ryan Earnhardt (no relation...) who has become a close personal friend. Ryan's vision for Lumen Audio is to create and capture the music of emerging artists, by recording their sessions in remote locations around Western North Carolina. For example, his recording gear is state of the art with all of the modern technological advances, yet it is simple enough to be trans(portable) to the desired setting of the musician/band. He recently recorded a beautiful session with a full band in a rustic cabin in the remote wilderness of North Carolina's mountains. The setting allowed for the creative juices to flow, and the ambiance transcended the time/space continuum.

If you are a musician who has always kicked around the idea of cutting an album, now is the time, and Lumen Audio is your outlet.

__________________________________________

And for those of us who have been afflicted with the prophetic insomnia of wrestling with God for (or against!) His calling into vocational ministry, you have probably wondered wherever to begin taking steps in obedience to that direction.

The first thing we often do (after prayer, of course) is to begin searching the internet for the what ifs and the wherabouts. Where does one turn for ministry openings? Google? Is it that vague? For those of us who have been searching the internet for a job, it can be an extremely daunting and humiliating experience!

Let me introduce you to a simplified approach

to the search for home:

www.mynistry.com

This brilliant new website is user-friendly and intentionally focused on connecting ministry relationships for the fruition of a God-called vision. If you are a pastor, teacher, counselor, musician, or youth minister - this is the bridge to get you to your desired location. If you are a church, school, para-church/non-profit organization, this is your intersection to meet credible candidates who will bless your ministry.

I heartily endorse both of these endeavors, and I pray that you will join me in spreading the Word about their efforts!

First, Love.

I am called to love others, just as I love myself. This, of course, gets very confusing for someone who is leaking with self-hatred.

How is it possible to really love others well, if I don't have a healthy theology of Divine acceptance, forgiveness, and freedom? How can I stand and teach about freedom when I keep returning to Egypt for one last drink of her well? Who am I to invite people into a joy that looks good on paper, but not in flesh and blood?

Jesus, keep me near the cross! I seemed to have wondered off, and I need your Spirit to guide me to the the life everlasting. I want to be a living example of new beginnings, celebrating the God of second chances. I want live into my authentic identity as your beloved (yet altogether unworthy) son. Here I am, take me.

This is How it Feels...

Thicker Than Water

For as long as I can remember, my sister Jennifer has been my best friend. Together, we navigated the treacherous hallways of new schools from the anonymity of previous home-schooling. We shared many of the same friends. I slapped around Troy Vuurens and punched Jim Foster, both of whom had made the mistake of disrespecting her in middle school. I played soccer and basketball, and she cheered with her blue and gold pom-poms.

Jenny and I have both made terrible choices at different seasons in our life, and yet on the other side - our faith was forged. We both have learned to pick ourselves up off the ground by the grace and strength of God, to limp our way back to the throne room, and to sing off key: "twas grace that brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home...".

She has violently defended my honor, when I had none. She has fought for those who were on the underside of power, and celebrated the victory of resurrection. She has weathered the storms of relational chaos, broken-hearted betrayal, and her own self-examination. She is not innocent. Nope, not by a long shot. But at least she is honest about it.

From the mountains of Western North Carolina, I miss her. I praise God for her strength, and I celebrate the blood that binds our legacy together. Raise your glass: to Jennifer Dawn DePoy, a train-wreck of grace.

Rob Bell is my friend.

I will be the first to disagree, push back, and argue with Rob over some of his theological suggestions. But a few years ago he took me under his wing and mentored me back to health when some of my more "doctrinally correct" brothers shunned me. For this reason, I will continue to love him as a brother in Christ.

I will aggressively intercede for Rob, Kristen, Trace, Preston, and their baby daughter, Violet.

And I will not forget the things that he personally taught me, especially about grace and forgiveness in a world of judgment and venom.

Body Broken/Blood Poured Out...

A few years ago I was sitting in the back of a crowded auditorium, beside my brother Jonathan. (He had become a refuge for me in the darkest season of my life.) I was nursing the self-inflicted wounds of my own depravity and listening to the pastor speak about the voice of God's Spirit.

In the waning moments of the service, the congregation was invited to come forward to feast on the Table of Grace; The communion of saints finding wholeness in the body and blood of Jesus.

I did not go forward.

It's not that I didn't believe in the healing power of the Table, it was just this overwhelming sense of unworthiness. (After all, there is a verse that commands each of us to self-examination before taking part of communion.) I had resigned that I would not participate in the sacramental Eucharist until I had been reconciled to the family of believers at Lakeshore Church. They were my home, and I would be a restless vagabond anywhere else.

The truth is, I had resigned to sit in the dirt even though I could hear Christ ringing the dinner bell. My heart was starving for the love and acceptance and forgiveness of His company, but I had been flogging myself with hatred and assumed a new identity: the lost sheep.

My brother whispered in anger at me. "Your theology is wrong!"

Yeah, maybe. But I was being honest in my feelings of unworthiness.

"It is precisely because of this brokenness that you need to find healing at the Table of Grace... now more than ever!"

______________________________

Yesterday I participated in the beautiful sacrament, for the first time in what seemed like a million years. Indeed a whole new identity has been born. I am not who I was, as God changes people from the inside out - His grace rewrites their story, His mercy reinstates their mission, and His love repairs their wounds.

"Taste and see that the Lord is good; His love endures forever!"

"...and shake your hips!"

To see an adorable video of my daughters, click here!

My Mission Field

I love my wife and our three daughters. We are a very close-knit family, and we are drawing closer together every day. I just wanted to let the world know...

Falling Upward

Sometimes I lay awake at night, reminiscing on each of the steps that have been taken to arrive at this place. In my restlessness, my mind often reverts to unhealthy thought patterns. I spend hours playing the mental game: "If I could do it all over again..."

Each of the self-inflicted scars that I carry, have become a story. There is the visible scar on my chin from the time I got jumped and beat up by several guys after a hockey game, downtown Muskegon. [I probably shouldn't have run my mouth!]. And there is the cigarette lighter that got branded into my bicep the day my best friend left for the Air Force. We were just boys...

But then there is the internal scar tissue: The stories that are sacred and profane. There is the collapsed lung of raging indifference, and the irregular heart rhythms of repentance and rebellion. And there remains a post-traumatic stress that inevitably awakes me to soaked sheets of night sweats and the mystery of a confusing dream.

In his book "Falling Upward", Richard Rohr suggests that each of those crash landings in our lives have actually served to shape our future.

I am wiser now, but I've learned the hard way. What if all of those regrets could actually become a mosaic of art, in the hands of the Great Physician? What if He could pick up the pieces of the shattered heart and retell my story? What if my response to spiritual discipline could become the maturation of a disciple in the making?

I want to fall upward.

"Into Your arms I commit my Spirit".

So, I've been thinking...

about deleting this blog.

Maybe it's just the lexapro.

Relentless Love

You won't relent until You have it all
My heart is Yours...

I'll set You as a seal upon my heart
As a seal upon my arm
For there is love that is as strong as death
Jealousy demanding as the grave
Many waters cannot quench this love

Come be the fire inside of me
Come be the flame upon my heart
come be the fire inside of me
Until You and I are one...

Deeper Than Wide

I am known of by many, but known by few. I have several hundred "friends" on facebook, but most of them don't know the names of my daughters. I am tempted to view success by the width of numeric equation, and yet I follow the One who gently dismissed the crowd for the sake of a core.

In deep conviction, I am returning to the refuge of the resurrected Christ as my only source of fulfillment. My identity is not found in what I do, but in who I am and Whose I am. I am resolved to put away the books and manuals on howtogrowabigchurch, and focus instead on the strength in weakness, multiplication by division, and the affirmation of the Father.

Though none go with me, still I will follow.

No turning back, no turning back.

Jesus, draw me close. Fill me with Your Holy Spirit, and lead me to the life everlasting! Take me past the outer courts, and into the throne room of the Father... I want to go deeper in my faith, deeper in my understanding, deeper in my peace. In the Name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, Amen.

The Healing House

The Healing House

Fifteen minutes from the Carolina border

There’s a rainbow in her eyes…

Tears fall freely to her sunburned shoulder

Farewell is easier than goodbye

Dear [Mariah] Grace, now give me your hand

I promise I’ll receive you well

Cling to this promise of a broken man

You caught me when I fell

Dear [Ambria] Faith, you seemed to have disappeared

Suddenly and without warning

When I needed you most, you reappeared

Heaven’s mercies ever pouring

Dear [Ashlyn] Hope, consider me captive

Without your embrace I’m over-reactive

Doubting and turning and perpetually learning

And Father’s Day you heard me pray

Take me home to the healing house

Running barefoot across the yard

Counting the distant, falling stars

Swinging trees and sun-kissed breeze

A grateful daddy on his knees

eXodus church (the liberation project)

I've been staring at this blank screen in front of me for what seems like a lifetime. Wherever to begin?

I could tell you that, in many ways, I'm not the same person I was several years ago. For better (or for worse) I'm probably less likely to give you my opinion or even suggest a concrete answer to the questions that haunt us. I am not as thirsty for affirmation as I once was, and I'm less likely to care if I'm invited to your table.

Although I'm still on a journey toward inner healing, I have come a long way from the train wreck that I caused three years ago. I've gone through the detox of silence, prayers of surrender, confessions to trusted pastors, and repentance.

The past few years have been, as you can imagine, the most painfully humiliating experiences of my life. But I have found tremendous freedom on the other side of confession, and I have been set free to live by the power of the Spirit of Christ.

After several months of praying and fasting, my wife and I believe that God is once again calling us out of our comfort zones. We have been through intensively counseling, and have sought the spiritual authority of mature believers who have agreed to walk with us, forward from an empty grave.

Under this spiritual authority, mentoring and coaching, as well as in the confidence of two pastoral accountability partners, I am stepping out in faith... Consider this our declaration of hope; the tomb is empty and the literal implications of Jesus' resurrection have propelled us to a new beginning.

Exodus Church is a new community of hope, born in a furnace of doubt and surrender. Jamie and I joining the anthem of the redeemed, in unity with several other families in the Asheville, NC area. Our message is simple: God is in the liberation business, and He is calling us out of spiritual bondage, to walk in the freedom of Jesus Christ.

Our website will provide further information about our faith, mission, and values. There will also be a link to listen to each of the weekly messages, (so our friends back in Michigan can follow along!)

Please pray for us as we are acutely aware of the spiritual attacks on the horizon. Pray for our marriage, and for the spiritual nurturing of our three daughters, for whom we dedicate this cause.

Okay, here we go... click here to see us go live!

Again (For the First Time)

It's been three years.

This morning I walked outside, and I felt the warmth of the sun melting the snow. However deep the snow, the winter can not last forever... However dark the night, the light is breaking in through the cracks -splintering fragments of wonder and new beginnings.
However broken the heart, a pulse invokes hope.

It is not quite spring yet, but something deep in the core of my being insists that she is coming. And she is bringing resurrection with her.

My Three Girls

In the presence of all that is, love.

A close friend of mine took his own life a few months ago.
For some reason, I continue to ache for his family... searching for answers and feeling so helpless. Suicide, after all, makes everyone feel guilty; I wish I would have could have should have...

The other day I was talking to his father on the phone, as he described my friend's final few weeks. Some of the missing pieces of the puzzle began to sink into place, as the mystery of his spiral downward came to light. Through sentence fragments and tears, I listened as his father shared about a certain hopelessness that tormented my friend. As it turned out, he had committed a serious crime and had been living with the guilt and shame of his decision.

In broken chapters, I listened to the tragic descriptions of his final days: he had stopped eating, and had become sickly thin. At night, my friend would walk to a nearby wooded park, and lay under the moonlight. He would lay his head in the cold grass and claw at the cancer of his own self-hatred. My friend would cry rivers of salty tears, begging God for the mercy of divine forgiveness.

And in his final hours, my friend took a pair of scissors and plunged them through his own heart.


What if...
this were the end of my blog entry.
What if...
the credits were rolling
and the tragedy was over
and this was the conclusion
ashes to ashes and dust to dust?

_______________________________________________________

Every night as I drive home, north on highway 26 - there in the distant western horizon is a white cross. It reaches higher than all of the surrounding trees, and stretches to the sky overlooking the Blue Ridge Mountains. Tonight as I was driving home, I began to think about the weight of shame. I brushed away tears as I imagined my friend collapsing in despair, and knocking on the doors of heaven for the ever-illusive mercy of spiritual::emotional::mental f r e e d o m from guilt and shame.

I remembered the heavy weight of my own depravity, the secret sins that only God knows. I considered the options of this world and found them to be shallow. I know what it's like to contemplate what my funeral would be like... or the intoxication of ending it all.

But it's there that I see a cross. An instrument of death has become a scandal of hope! An execution stake leads to resurrected life. I am graciously reminded of the God who wrapped Himself in flesh, and walked a mile in our shoes. Jesus knew what it was like to sweat drops of blood beneath the moonlight, with His face buried in the grass; He knew the weight of separation, there as His Spirit was being pressed like the olives in Gethsemane.

I love Jesus. The more I learn, the less I understand. The mystery of the cross remains the center of my surrender. Following (even at a guilty distance) is a spiritual journey, not a guilt trip! I love Jesus because He meets us in that moment of despair, with a nail-scarred hand of forgiveness. When we think all is lost, He shows up in the morning and invites us to breakfast. When we have been disqualified, He reinstates, recreates, mediates, and stands as our defense.

I believe that I will see my friend again. And it's not some cliche happy Christian sub-plot to a Sunday school lesson. I believe that one day we will be reunited in the Kingdom of Freedom, a place that transcends time and space. I believe that we will live in delicate harmony with all of creation's song: in the presence of all that is, love.

The End of My Silence

"...If I say, 'I will not mention him,
or speak any more in his name,'
there is in my heart as it were a burning fire
deep inside my soul,
and I am weary with holding it in,
and I cannot."
- Jeremiah 20:9

The God of Infinite Mercy

How many times should we extend forgiveness to those who have wronged us?

This was the dominant question, heavy on Peter's heart, as he approached Jesus for an answer. "But what about..." and "yeah, but what about in this situation?" Should we be a door mat for people to walk all over us and not fight for our rights?

Jesus' answer: 70 x 7

This numerical equation is the Jewish equivalent of, eternity. It is the same kind of language He used in answering the expert in the laws' questions about Olam Haba - "life to the vanishing point", or the foreverandeveramen.

What if He actually meant those words? Can you imagine if people actually took Him seriously in this command? That would really wreck your church constitution on disciplinary actions! It might actually mean that fallen people are still welcome at the Table, and sinners are embraced with amnesia, and grudges are expunged, and earthly judges are commissioned to sentence sinners to a life in communal confinement.

For all the times I have stumbled into the Heavenly Kingdom via Spiritual Bankruptcy, I am indebted to a Judge who does not keep a record of profits and losses. How can I say thank You? How can I possible say thank You enough?

Thank You for being my friend, when the bullets of criticism were fired. Thank You for standing as my defense, when professional religious people packed that side of the court room hurling rocks in the form of letters to a carnal impostor. Thank You for covering me with Your own blood, and washing me clean. Thank You for never giving up on me when everyone else turned away. Thank You for being the God of all-comfort. Thank You for being the Lion and the Lamb and the Tension between conquer and submission and fight and flight. Thank You for meeting me in the Valley of the Shadow of Death, the Belly of the Whale, in the midnight hour; You whispered in my ear: "love still wins."

Thank You for Jamie and strength under control, and three little girls who could care less about organized religion and yet have a deeper understanding of unconditional love than most of the pastors in Muskegon. Thank You for my dad who, despite his unorthodox ways, has modeled for me what it means to be a safe place for people who are all screwed up. Thank You for my mother who still grieves my eXodus from home, and aches for her bloodline to be close. Thank You for Jennifer (Eric) who will war on my behalf if she so much as hears a whisper of criticism. Thank You for Janelle (Brian) who will give an earful to the management at the local YMCA if they hesitate to let me join their membership. Thank You to Jon (Sara) who continue to teach me how to love well, how to labor over the Word in worship, and how to model selflessness to our children.

This Thanksgiving I rest in this mercy, with uncontrollable trembling in response. That I have been forgiven (70 x 7) for my infinite sins, and I am being healed by the scars of a slaughtered Lamb who is returning as a Lion. I am, in every way, crucified and resurrected with Him!

Post Script :: I love You.

if i had more time...

i would tell you that my soul is being restored
and the aching is fading
to a delicate rhythm
of yes and maybe and
one day you will understand

the silence from a distance does not mean
that i have no opinion on things like
surrender and submission and you
and the all-consuming anger is a reminder
that if i don't learn to forgive
i will die from this poisonous rage

love wins
remember?
but sometimes it doesn't feel that way, does it?

sometimes it seems like judgment and betrayal has the last word
(or at least an encore performance)
just when i thought i had forgiven and forgotten
i'm reminded of your violent ungrace
and it meets me when i least expect it
like when i'm driving down the road
and i see a truck that looks like yours

if i had more time i would tell you that it doesn't matter
what's done is done and there is no undoing
and that's all there is to say about that

I think this town could use a revolution of love.

Embracing the Absent Presence (Pt. 2)

I remember when we lost everything.

With the loss of my job, we lost an entire community of support. We lost our health insurance, and our house. We lost our friends, and our ekklesiastical family. I guess they were busy dancing beneath the "One in Christ" banner at the local Christian music festival.

And in this loss, so too died my faith that God answered prayer. On bended knees, I had pleaded for His merciful presence. I claimed the happy verses; the passages that declared me redeemed and forgiven and restored in Christ. But my experience left me meeting a different reality.

So where is God when it hurts? The age-old problem of evil and human suffering and the debate of His Sovereignty, etc. is not something that this blog entry is going to conquer. Rather, I write to instill a few alternative options in viewing His presence:

1. God shows up in the most unlikely ways. He shows up spitting in mud and healing the blind man. He shows up speaking through donkeys and in the nakedness of an infant baby. He appears in the thunder and lightening and in the calm before the storm. He screams in a whisper, and whispers through the prophets. He triumphs by shutting the mouths of the lions, and appears as the fourth man in the fiery furnace.

God is present with a suffering humanity by His own journey to an execution stake. He knows the pain of betrayal. He knows the sting of divorce. He has felt the cheers of the crowd one minute, and the letters written from professional religious people to the judge - the next.

2. God shows up through the most unlikely of people. The King of Glory appears in the face of "Happy" the homeless man I met here on the streets of Asheville. Jesus said, "whenever you give a cold cup of water in my Name, you've given it to me..." - Consequently, Jesus can be found among the often overlooked, least of these. He shows up in a wheel chair, playing the harmonica and spreading joy to any soul within earshot.

God meets us in the pain, when you least expect it. Just when you thought He had forgotten you, He calls your name in the October wind. He taps you on the shoulder and offers a hug of comfort from a stranger on the street.

He shows up in the mail box with food stamps to feed your children.

Embracing the Absent Presence (Part 1)

The name given to my hope, is Immanuel.

Which is translated from the Hebrew tradition: "God is with us."

Have you ever, in the midst of a ferocious storm, searched for the calming touch of the One who can quiet the winds and silence the waves? And in your calling out, found no answer?

Well, I have. And it has messed with my theology.

I worship the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. I celebrate His promise that He will never leave me forsaken or alone. I have encouraged my friends to trust the nearness of the Abba Father in the struggle of loneliness. After all, the Scriptures insist that He is close to the brokenhearted.

But if I were to be really honest, I have screamed out for his help; the waves have overcome me, and in my sinking, I am reaching. reaching. reaching.

And there have been times when there was no answer. Heaven was silent. Immanuel seemed to have been a nice flannel-graph Christmas story, about as real as reindeer and rooftops.

In my agony, my faith wilted. In heaven's coldness, my hope grew weary. In transcendent distance, God seemed to be an amnesiac, bi-polar mystery, with multiple personalities. Even His own autobiographical confessions articulate His paradox. Which is it, is He near or far, immanent or distant? Has He predetermined all things, or has He left certain elements of human freedom open for our choosing? Is He the Abba "Daddy" Father, or is He the Holy Terror?

When I read about the cruel suffering of the innocent, cosmic earthquakes, tsunamis that wipe out thousands of small children, and 4 million women and children forced into human sexual trafficking, I can't help but to wonder: Where is Immanuel? Where is this Divine Presence who has promised to be with us in the struggle?

I am learning to embrace the absent presence of the Resurrected Christ. I am learning how to pray differently; to ask for the Kingdom of Mercy to invade this hurting world. I am attempting to be content in the mystery of His paradox.