Sunday, July 21, 2019

The Two Mountains


I stand in gloom at the edge of the mountain.

It towers above me, ominous, intimidating in its many faces of cold, unbroken stone. Dark clouds ream the mountain’s heights. A storm gathers in all its fury. I tremble at the thought of even taking one step up the mountain. 

This is where God dwells, my soul whispers in awe.

This is where my long journey has taken me. How dare I think that I could climb this mountain!
I am tattered and worn, troubled by the course of this life. All the striving, all the fighting to tear myself in half. Oh how I’ve tried to separate a new spirit from an old flesh! How I’ve tried to be set apart from the filth of my old nature and be wholly different. But here I am, still tangled in the weight of sin.

I am unworthy to climb.

A gust of wind strikes me. It whips dust into my face, and I fall to my knees with a cry. Suddenly the air is twisting and swirling around me. With tears streaming, I catch a glimpse of a mighty whirlwind raging all around me—whistling through the crags of the mountain, stripping away everything but immovable stone. Are those words being formed in the whirlwind? Is it God speaking to me, commanding me to climb? 

But I cannot climb! I will be undone in His terrible might. The stones themselves will tumble down and crush me. I cover my ears. I beg God to make it stop—to have mercy.

The earth quakes beneath my feet, and I am gripped tighter by overwhelming fear. Even stone isn’t unmovable, I realize. There is no sure place for me to find shelter, no rock that is steady. I am a speck in a crumbling world. Who was I to approach glory?

Lightning flashes, again and again. It strikes all around me; it ignites the crumbling landscape with blazing fire. It consumes. I will be consumed, I realize, and it is just. I shut my eyes to the fierceness of the storm, and I tremble there, prostrate and utterly alone. This is my end.

But then the storm is calmed. In an instant, it is stilled. The rock is steady under me. The heat of the fire fades away. The wind is gone, replaced by a cool, gentle breeze. It refreshes me, and suddenly I realize that this is what I was seeking. Is it possible to still see glory? Glory that wasn’t in the whirlwind or earthquake or fire; glory that appears only in the calming of the storm and… a voice. A word coming with the gentle rustle of the breeze. Is it there? This time I strain to hear it.

“What are you doing here?” And the voice whispers my name.

I feel shame at the question; I am still lying prostrate on the ground. There is stillness, a deep quiet, a patience for my answer. I want to say that I am here because I have been very zealous for the Lord, the God of Hosts, but all my good works feel so insufficient, a tattered covering over the darkest depths of me. But I don’t want the darkness. I don’t want to leave His presence.

“I want to know you, Lord. Show me your ways, so that I may find favor in your sight.”

I feel His presence, like a hand enveloping me. Is He covering me? And I hear His word again. “Behold, there is a place by Me, and you will stand there on the rock.”

Suddenly my feet are on steady ground—more than steady. I am safe and secure, sheltered in the cleft of the rock. Another breeze rustles my hair and cools my trembling body, but even more so, the words that come with it reach to the deepest part of me, refreshing my soul.

“Take courage, Son, your sins are forgiven.”

Am I on His mountain? I hardly dare to peak over the stone that covers me. But I have courage now, the courage just to know. 

I look out.

I am on a mountain—but it is not the foreboding mountain with all its storms and unapproachable might. This is a new mountain, a perfect mountain, a mountain that shines with light and glory. It is a heavenly city that is unspeakably beautiful and pure. Myriads of angels—beings of reverence and radiance—throng the city. Are they looking on in wonder like I am?  Many multitudes gather around a throne—mankind, earthlings like me. But somehow they stand righteous and perfect before the Judge of All. What is this mystery?

It’s blood, I realize, a sprinkled covering over the multitude that cleanses rather than stains. It’s the blood of my Savior, blood that speaks better than any sacrifice every could. If you are washed by this blood, you can stand forever on this holy mountain. You can enter into rest.

And this is what I trust.

I step forward toward the angels and the assembly and the throne, and my soul soars to join the holy radiance of it all. I have come to the city of the living God, and I can dwell here on this mountain? 

Tears of joy trickle down my face.

“Home,” I whisper.

Sunday, May 5, 2019

Running Home: The Amazing Connections Between Galatians 4-6 and Hebrews 12


We’ve all heard the verse: “Therefore, since we have so great a cloud of witnesses surrounding us, let us also lay aside every encumbrance and the sin which so easily entangles us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us.” (Hebrews 12:1) What if I told you, though, that this running was a much more complex, deep thing than we ever could imagine?

What if told you that you could grow weary and lose heart? Would you secretly know what that means?

What if those sins we laid aside still drag along at our ankles, threatening to entangle us and drop us to the dirt? Are you stumbling like I am?

What if our loving Heavenly Father brings us sorrow, what if he scourges us in discipline? Is His hand heavy on you?

All these questions weighed on me this morning as my family talked about Hebrews 12…. And then a few minutes later I read Galatians 4-6 in my own readings. Far from the glitz and ease of modern Christianity, there it was, undeniable and sure: Christian life is hard. Galatians exhorts us to not lose heart and grow weary of doing good. Hebrews assures us we will lose heart and grow weary if we aren’t constantly fixed on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith. How is it that getting “burned out” while running for Christ is such a present danger? I thought Christian life was sustained, constant joy!

But no, it is possible to stop running the race well. Paul laments to the Galatians, “You were running well; who hindered you from obeying the truth?” (Galatians 5:7). In context, the “who” are false teachers whose teachings spread like leaven and hindered the walks of the Galatians. And the same false teachers present dangers to our walks as Christians today. More than that, our own flesh hates this race we are running! It makes war with the Spirit inside us in Galatians 5, so that we will no longer walk by the Spirit. If our flesh wins, sin springs up. We are entangled again. We stumble and fall. Again. How many times do we bite the dust before we lose the strength to get back up and keep stepping?

Maybe, then, this sets the context for the discipline of God. How is it that our Heavenly Father scourges those whom He loves, His very children? Isn’t this harsh? Won’t this break us already weary race runners? I am so tempted to say “yes” and ask God to give us a break. Can’t He just be that permissive, “all-is-good” god contemporary western religion paints Him as? But then I am reminded in Hebrews 12 that He disciplines us for our good. He knows what is best for us! This said, make no mistake about it: His discipline will be sorrowful. It will hurt. It will hurt. But afterwards, to those who have been trained by it, it will yield the peaceful fruit of righteousness.

This fruit! Galatians 5 talks about this fruit! The ways Hebrews 12 and Galatians 4-6 intersect are amazing. You probably know what I am getting at: “The fruits of the Spirit are love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control.” (Gal 5:22-23) Oh how much sweeter these fruits are than the filth of the flesh in all its impurity, sensuality, idolatry, strife, jealousy, carousing, and the like!

Is it worth it, then, to walk in the Spirit? Despite the weary moments? Despite the painful discipline of God? Yes, and amen!

If we keep sowing to the Spirit, not only are these fruits ours, but eternal life is ours as well (Ga 6:8-9). At the end of our long, perilous journey, we won’t be led to blazing fire, to darkness or gloom or a whirlwind! We will run to “Mount Zion and to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and to myriads of angels, to the general assembly and church of the firstborn who are enrolled in heaven, and to God, the Judge of all, and to the spirits of the righteous made perfect, and to Jesus, the mediator of a new covenant, and to the sprinkled blood, which speaks better than the blood of Abel.” (Hebrews 12:22-24)

That destination sounds so worth it to me. Doesn’t it to you? Are you ready to make a sacrifice . . . even if it is a personal sacrifice? Here are the nails, and here is the hammer, and here is your flesh that needs to be crucified. This is how we resist to the point of “shedding blood” in our striving against sin. Once we have laid our flesh aside—left it there hanging on a cross—we can start running. But our flesh isn’t there for good…. It will follow. Perhaps that is why we carry our cross…. So we can keep crucifying our old self!

Keep running, despite our flesh’s dogged pursuit. Walk by the Spirit. Be trained by the wise discipline of God. Help bear the burdens of those running with you, but you must bear your own burden as well. Run with endurance. Strengthen the hands that are weak and the knees that are feeble, and make straight paths for your feet. Do good to everyone, especially those of the household of faith. Serve one another through love. Don’t grow weary; we will have our reward.

Above all else, fix your eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of your faith. He is the one we are running toward.

And we will be home soon.

Friday, February 22, 2019

Reckless Love


Jesus’s love really is reckless for us.

He emptied Himself and took the form of a lowly bondservant so he could live among us. He suffered the agony of separation from the Father to take our sins upon Himself. He loved us, even while we were yet sinners! And He demonstrated this profoundly by giving His life for us—dying the agonizing, tortured death of a common criminal—simply so we could be His.

Yes, this is reckless love.

We’ve all heard the song that swept across every Christian radio station (again and again) last summer… Cory Asbury’s “Reckless Love.” I heard it and loved it enough to get it on my I-pod, which is a really rare thing for me to do. I wasn’t prepared for the backlash some in evangelical circles had to Christ’s love being pictured as “reckless.” Reckless made sense to me!! Sure, from God’s eternal, sovereign perspective, Jesus’s love was planned and far from a romantic impulse, and since we get glimpses of God’s sovereign perspective in His Word, I can understand why some Christians baulk at calling God’s love reckless. But from a strictly human perspective, it is reckless that God would give His only Son. It’s the picture of Abraham placing his only son Isaac on the alter and raising a knife to sacrifice him. Why do our hearts squirm at that picture? Is it because Abraham’s love for God and acceptance of His will was safe and easy? Surely not!

You know another reason why I believe in reckless love?

 It’s because we, as Christ followers, are called to the same.

Just like how our Savior’s love “chases me down, fights till I’m found, leaves the ninety-nine,” we too are called to humbly empty ourselves and give our all to see more people become children of God. We are to “have this attitude in yourselves that was also in Christ Jesus,” as Philippians 2 says—that attitude of becoming bondservants to seek the interests of others.

 We are bondservants, but even beyond that self-sacrificing picture, we are also pictured as sheep. And Jesus promises that He is sending us out as “sheep among wolves.” (Mat 10:16) The results? The blood of countless brothers and sisters stains the ground so that more sinners could be saved. Again, from a human perspective, this is reckless! Going to the darkest corner of Ecuador to share the Gospel at the tip of the spear is reckless. Refusing to recant your faith in the face of torture and a brutal death in the Coliseum is reckless.  Seeking to live among cannibalistic tribes in Papua New Guinea so that they might hear about Jesus, the Peace Child, is reckless. Smuggling bibles into the Soviet Union under the threat of torture and death is reckless. Check out the hall of faith in Hebrews 11, especially Hebrews 11:32-40. The greatest lovers of God, our heroes of the faith, were tortured, stoned, sawn in two, thrown to the lions, put to the edge of the sword . . .

It’s undeniable. As Christians, our love to God and our neighbors (and even our enemies!) is a very reckless thing.

So the next time you sing “Reckless Love,” let it comfort you that God really does love you so abundantly and fervently! But let it also motivate you to love the world in the same way. The Gospel never stops with just “I” . . . Jesus died for you, but he didn’t die just for you. We need to resist the pervasive theme of “me” in modern worship songs, and remember that it is the world God so loved! And we are commissioned to reach that world…. whatever the cost. Let’s not be ashamed of the Gospel, but boldly declare it. Let’s turn the other cheek, give the very shirt off our back, and go the extra mile to reach our enemies. Let’s follow our Lord’s example and love not our own lives even unto death.

Let’s love recklessly.

Tuesday, November 27, 2018

Adventure Well


"I am going on an adventure!"

These are the words Bilbo Baggins shouts over his shoulder to a rather shocked, inquiring neighbor. Bilbo is running recklessly through the Shire to catch up with a band of dwarves who are set on retaking their homeland from a dragon. It is a preposterous thing for such a small, innocent little creature as a hobbit to set off on such a grand adventure, but you wouldn't know it by watching Bilbo run. He is so excited to experience something outside the peaceful Shire that he runs out of his hobbit hole without basic necessities like a walking stick and a knapsack . . . let alone his precious handkerchiefs!

I feel like Bilbo, in much the same way. I know God has prepared good works in advance for me to walk in, and I know that this walking is the very thing I was created for! (Eph 2:10) It's an amazing journey to think about, something I want to experience intimately. I can't fail in these good works! I am unstoppable, even!! All I must do is step out the door and start walking!! Like Steven Curtis Chapman Sings, "Saddle up your horses, we have a trail to blaze. Through the wild blue yonder of God's amazing grace. Let's follow our leader into the great unknown. This is a life like no other, whoa whoa, this is the great adventure!"

It's as if Jesus has met me at my door recently, though, and asked a simple question: "Are you equipped for your journey, Child?" And I shamefacedly realize I am consistently running out the door in a t-shirt and shorts, barefooted, with no knapsack or walking stick. I imagine a smirk on Jesus's face—he certainly isn't upset at my enthusiasm—as He graciously hands me what I need to be equipped for my journey. What He gives me is a simple thing, really, but so profound. It is a living and active thing, a double-edged sword. It is His Word! It is the Bible that equips me for this journey of good works!

"All scripture is inspired by God and profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, for training in righteousness; so that the man of God may be adequate, equipped for every good work." 
2 Timothy 3:16-17

Have you experienced the joy of good works, friend? There is something addicting about them, amen? But it is a good addiction, a craving birthed inside us when we became a "new creation." It truly is an adventure exploring this path God has set out for us and living those good works we were uniquely designed for, and there is nothing wrong with the joy in this journey! May we not get so swept up in the grandness of the adventure, though, that we forget to be properly equipped. We must study God's Word to adventure well; It's only through personal application of His Word that we will know how we are to journey! 

So, be diligent not only as a "workman" of God's, but as someone who does not need to be ashamed—because you accurately handle the word of truth! That's my desire for all of us. May we adventure well!!

"Be diligent to present yourself approved to God as a workman who does not need to be ashamed, accurately handling the Word of Truth."
2 Timothy 2:15

Monday, August 13, 2018

Christopher Robin: A great reminder to find joy in doing nothing


Looking for that few-and-far-between good family movie to see in theaters? Let me suggest Christopher Robin, the latest Disney live action re-make of some of its most beloved characters. The story is simple and sweet, and the message the movie leaves you with is surprising Christian: "Sometimes doing nothing is the best way to do something."

It's a foreign message in our hectic, driven society. So much stock is placed in work and gain, that we forget that God calls us to rest and enjoy His good creation too. Perhaps we've forgotten whether the price we pay today for tomorrow's achievements is really a worthwhile investment. Perhaps we need a little-minded but big-hearted silly old bear to remind us of what is really important in life.

This is definitely what Christopher Robin (Played winsomely by Obi Won Konobi, AKA Ewan McGregor)  needs. We learn early on in the film that Christopher has long since lost the wonder and simple joy of his childhood days in the 100-acre woods. Instead, he's now a thirty-something year old living in a business world where you swim or sink, and he is making desperate compromises to avoid sinking. One of these compromises is cancelling a weekend he promised to spend with his family so he can stay afloat at work. "Dreams come at a cost," Christopher reminds his daughter. "Nothing comes from nothing." His point is that he simply cannot waste valuable time getting away to do "nothing" with his family. Anything that would compromise his efficiency, Christopher reasons, must be avoided.

So of course, when a little yellow bear in a red shirt suddenly enters his life again, his first thought is, "I don't have time for this." Pooh's appearance in Christopher Robin's adult life is the inciting event of the film, and Christopher's quest to get Pooh out of his busy life and back to the 100-acre woods where the bear belongs brings a lot of simple, funny moments, highlighted by Pooh's unassuming friendliness and wit. It's these moments that have Christopher (and us too!) rediscovering the amazing benefit of joy and rest, especially with those you love, by the end of the film.

There is seriously nothing that parents should concern themselves with content-wise in this film, barring one Hefalump scare that might be frightening to super young viewers. No innuendo or insinuated adult messages (a refreshing break from Disney's trend of late!). No violence to speak of, except one quick war scene (Showing how Christopher Robin fought in World War 2). Seriously, I don't know how this film got its PG rating; it's the closest thing to "G" I've seen out of Hollywood in a long time. Add the fact that the live-action, stuffed-animal versions of Pooh, Tigger, Eeyore, Piglet, Kanga, and Roo are just so darn cute and so amazingly well done (with Rabbit and Owl also smashing as real talking animals), and this film becomes a simple joy to watch.

So, looking to escape from the adult world of swimming or sinking for awhile? Take your family and enjoy this movie together! The last scene of Christopher Robin especially struck me, because of its direct parallel to something Jesus talked about. "What day is it?" Pooh asks (and I paraphrase) as he and Christopher Robin sit on a log and enjoy the sunshine.

"Well today of course, silly old bear," Christopher Robin responds.

"Oh good. yesterday being tomorrow was too much day for me," Pooh says. "I am glad it is today."

It is a reminder to us all just to enjoy today and not worry about tomorrow. As Jesus says in Mathew 6:34, "Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own."

Yes, our todays have trouble, but it also has joy, if we spend it the right way. Our work can be motivated by contentment, not covetousness. Our most important things can be sitting across from us at the dinner table, not waiting to be worked on in our briefcase. We can choose to find joy in our get-it-now culture through rest, and that is a Disney message worth supporting.

Thursday, August 9, 2018

Dirt and Eyes

This time of year, mowing can be pretty miserable.

Contrary to popular belief, it actually does get really dry here in the Evergreen State in the summer, and just as soon as the soil dries out and the moles push it on top of the lawn in nice big shovel fulls, mowing can be like creating my very own dust storm. It's so bad I have to stop sometimes and let the dust clear. It gets in my eyes, nose, mouth, ears, and well pretty much all over me, but it especially hurts in my eyes. And that's even while wearing a dust mask and safety shades. My new saying between wiping my eyes and coughing is "Dust finds a way."

Interestingly, though, I have started to realize that there is a Biblical picture in this mess. My struggles remind me of one of my favorite Jesus stories in John 9, where Jesus stoops down, spits in some dirt, and applies the muddy remedy to a blind man's eyes. I' always get a huge grin out of this story, and it is my guess that John was grinning too as he wrote the whole account down. The rest of the story gets even more humorous after the blind man washes the mud out of his eyes and is healed; his exchange with the disbelieving and spiritually blind pharisees is simply classic. This newly-healed blind dude had so much cheek! The Pharisees didn't find his sarcasm all that funny, but man, I would have loved to have been there to give that bro a fist bump.

The grins aside, I love the practical application here for me! Could it be that Jesus lovingly puts a little dirt in my eyes by way of healing my spiritual blindness? It sounds kind of strange, even borderline heretical, but I believe it's true!

Now to be clear, I don't mean "evil" by dirt. But I do mean "trials," and it's very clear that Jesus lovingly puts some trials in our lives so that we can learn and grow from them. The dirt hurts in the moment, but when I run to the life-giving water to be washed, I come up healed and able to see spiritual things more clearly! That's been true so many times in my life. Every time I go through a trial, it makes me run to Jesus, and I find cleansing and healing! I come out of it with more spiritual wisdom and maturity then I ever find in the good times.

Now, to switch gears a little bit, there is very clearly some "evil" dirt we gotta get out of our eyes too. This isn't the stuff Jesus puts on us, but the stuff we foolishly bring on ourselves. It's pictured in Mathew 7 as both a log in a hypocrite's eye and a speck in another poor soul's peeper. A big takeaway from the parable? Get the stuff out of your eye! And when you've done that and can see clearly, help your brother clean his eyeballs as well. Here too the solution to getting clean is running to the pool of life-giving water, Jesus, to wash. As John 1:9 puts it, If we confess our sins, He is faithful and righteous to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.

The final point is, the fact that we only see clearly when we get the log out of our eye should give us pause to try and keep dirt out of our eyes in the first place. When we don't see clearly, bad things happen both physically and spiritually, amen? I confess I have hit a rock or twenty while mowing because I can't see clearly. And a nest of wild baby rabbits. Yes, it's true. So sad. :(

This guarding of our eyes against dirt is especially relevant for us young men, I think, and our battle for sexual purity. We need to be like Job and make a covenant with our eyes not to lust after any young woman. Of course, making a covenant is one thing; keeping it is the rub! Even worse, it so often feels like our culture is a great big dust storm that we are walking into with our eyes wide open. But keep renewing your mind, men! Keep being transformed rather than conformed!

I specifically exhort you, young men, because I can empathize with you and truly feel our struggle, but it is, of course, important for everyone--male and female, young and old--to keep our eyes clear! The lust of the eyes is one of the "big three" things the world pulls us into, but if we are Children of God, our love for God is our motivation now. (1 John 2:15-16) So friends, I really want to leave you with this encouragement: you have been redeemed, so shine brightly for Christ by keeping clear eyes!

The eye is the lamp of the body; so then if your eye is clear, your whole body will be full of light. But if your eye is bad, your whole body will be full of darkness. If then the light that is in you is darkness, how great is the darkness!
Mathew 6:22-23

Tuesday, June 19, 2018

New Short Story: What Really Matters


To the new believers who rekindle my own ember of faith by their enthusiasm for the Lord and His Kingdom. I love being around your joy.
-----
Her white-blonde hair catches the bright gymnasium light as she spins, like the first glimpse of a winter sunrise. Her blue eyes are half-closed and dreamy toward the brilliant chaos of the dance around her, but when she completes her spin and faces me, her eyes focus on mine without reserve and my already bumbling attempt at dancing gets even worse. I know if someone were to take my pulse, my heart would be racing. Racing with powerful emotions. Racing with longing . . . and even a little hope. 

Her name is Beth, Beth Copeland. Every male in Valley View Christian High, freshman to senior, knows her name. She’s that one girl blessed with such amazing beauty as to be the automatic dream of the entire school, or at least most of it. Boys want to date her. Girls want to look like her. Teachers hope they might be featured in a magazine someday under the headline, “New Face of America Accredits Success to High School Teacher.”

And she is actually dancing with me. 

I didn’t think she was in my league, of course. I am a lowly sophomore who barely made the football team earlier this school year. I weigh exactly 137 pounds, though that is a six-pound improvement from the start of the year. I am average in just about every way: height, IQ, abilities, you name it. I’ve never been in the limelight for being good or bad, unless you count a couple of school plays (never a lead) or my baptism (only half my church family cared to see it). 

All that changed, though, when I caught a pass from Dillon Seewald on the last play of the season and scampered into our rival’s end zone with the winning touchdown. Suddenly I was a hero, someone the team wanted to hoist up and carry on their shoulders. My name became known by more than a handful of people at my school; it became a household name, really. Everyone heard about me, in this town and the next. A student Youtube video of my catch has even gone semi-viral, with all of 3,873 views last I checked. That day became the best one of my life, and in my mind’s eye that football game became simply The Game, capitalized.

I thought I had lived my fifteen minutes of fame to the fullest, and just a couple of minutes ago, you would have found me where you’d find any average, insecure sophomore at a winter ball: hanging out at the punch bowl with other sophomore and freshman boys while glancing over nervously at girls. But then Beth had walked up.

“Hi,” she had said.

“Hi,” a couple of the boys had replied. But then I realized she was talking to me.

“Beth,” I nearly choked on my punch. “Hi.”

“How’s it going, Kevin?”

“Good,” I nodded, but all the while I was wondering how Beth knew my name. I had never spoken to her before, of course. I wondered if she had been at The Game. Or maybe she’d seen the YouTube video. I realized I was still nodding and stopped abruptly.

“How are you?” I asked.

“I’m doing fine.” She shrugged. “You know, If I didn’t know better, I would think you guys thought the winter ball was all about drinking punch.”

“I, uh, haven’t really learned how,” I confessed. “How to dance, I mean.”

“It’s easy,” Beth said. “Look, you can’t be worse than Jeff.” she nodded at a known class clown dancing with uncoordinated abandon. His ill-fitting black jeans and clunky sneakers only added to his look.

I shrugged.

“Want some punch?” one of the other boys suggested. His voice sounded kind of like a mouse learning how to talk.  

“No, thank you. Too much sugar.”

“Oh, ha ha,” the boy said. Another added that he was on his sixth cup and didn’t care.
There was an awkward pause.

“Well, I guess I will go wait around for a guy to ask me to dance,” Beth said. “It’s funny how they still want guys to ask girls to dance.” She looked at me.

“Do you want to?”

“Want to what?”

“Dance,” I gulped. “You know, with me.”

And here we are. I part hands with Beth and twirl with the girl on my left. Then I am facing Beth again. We step close, then apart, then close again and twirl. I have to let go of her hands again at that point in the dance, but I don’t want to. Then the music fades out, and the dance is over, wayyy too quickly. I never thought minutes could pass like seconds.

Beth curtsies and claps, and I bow awkwardly. One of my hands makes it behind my back like I’ve seen in movies, but the other one just kind of hangs there. I join in the applause for the dance to cover up my embarrassment.

Beth steps to my side and slips a hand in my elbow as the dance caller instructs, “Lead your partner off the dance floor.”

“Do you want water?” I ask.

“Yes, I’m parched.” She says. She smiles, and I am glad I didn’t make a joke about punch.
I lead her toward a couple of orange Gatorade tubs labeled “water,” steering clear of the sugary punch but flashing a triumphant look at the boys gathered around it. All the while I am trying to work up the courage to ask her for a second dance.

“That was fun!” I say.

“Yes, it was. And I am sure your dancing will get better with practice.” She says it in such an offhand manner that I am left scrambling to consider it a compliment.

“Practice makes perfect,” I joke weakly.

“Well, better at least,” Beth replies lightly.

I start, stop, and hesitate. “Would you—”

“Hi Beth!”

We both turn at the familiar voice. “Oh hi, Dillon!” Beth replies, and she says it with more life in her voice than she ever had to me.

Dillon is a total stud in his perfectly fitted vest. Every inch of his 6’2” frame stands out, and his muscles ripple nicely under the rolled-back sleeves of his red dress shirt. His hair is combed up and back perfectly, and he is smart enough not to try the senior beard, so his face looks well kempt. He is a good guy on the inside, too, a picture-perfect high school quarterback.

“Looks like you were having a time of it out there,” Dillon says. I notice he omitted the word “good.”

 Beth giggles. “Well,” she says giddily, “Kevin is better running with a football in his hands.”

She and Dillon laugh at the joke. I don’t find it that funny. At all.

“Come on, Kev, lighten up, man!” Dillon holds up his balled hand for a fist bump, but he holds it high enough to where I have to reach up. A fleeting fantasy crosses my mind of fist bumping his square jaw instead, but I laugh lamely and reach up for his fist with mine.

“Can I please have the next dance with you?” Dillon asks Beth.

“Sure,” Beth replies. And just like that, she has left my side and linked arms with Dillon.

“Don’t you still want water?” I say.

Beth shrugs dismissively. “No, I’m fine.”

“It’s okay, we can grab water before the next dance,” Dillon says kindly, and he guides her off toward the water.

I stand in the middle of the dance floor for a minute, heart sinking. I turn on my heels and walk back to the punch bowl. The split halves of my heart seem to bounce in each shoe. But who was I to think I’d ever have a shot with the prettiest girl in the school, anyway? Sure, I had my moment of fame during The Game, but now I realize that Dillon was in that game too. He was the one that drew off the defense toward him, buying time for the little sophomore no one thought to guard to get out into open field. He even faked to our 6’5” tight end for good measure before he threw it to me. I was a nobody that Dillon had made a somebody by his greatness.

“Dude, harsh,” one of the freshmen says to me. He is outweighed, though, by the jealous derision of the other boys as they grind me back down to where I belong with biting half-jokes and sarcasm.  I ignore them, fill a cup with punch, and wander away. I think about crossing the dance floor to the cluster of chattering girls we boys  had jokingly named the “magpies,” but my heart is just not in it. I feel a need to talk to someone. Someone who can help me out of my budding identity crisis. Someone who will truly listen. Someone adult, even.

I look around the chairs laid out for the parents of the students attending the dance. Very few parents have come, and I don’t know any of them. I don’t even know some of my friend’s parents, come to think of it. One older man catches my eye, though. He looks rough. His skin is weathered and three days’ worth of gray stubble isn’t enough to cover deep wrinkles and even a scar that runs across his left check. He wears a flannel and a pair of brown Carhartt’s that have small tears in the legs. My first thought is a cry for school security, but yet, the man’s countenance is inviting and kind—friendly even. It piques my interest, even disarms me, and I instinctively walk toward him. I am not completely sure why in the moment. Maybe I think it wil cheer me up to talk to someone who has had a rougher go at life than me.

There are two seats open next to the man. I don’t want to sit next to him, but sitting a seat away from him would put me next to Dorothy Dreyer. She is our PE teacher, but ironically, she’s one of those people who kind of takes up more than one chair. I sit in-between the two seats, hovering awkwardly above the crack. I glance once at the man, then look away. We stare out at the dance floor.
 
“Another dance is starting soon.”

I can tell in my peripheral vision that the man is trying to make eye contact with me. “I . . . it’s just not my night,” I mutter.

“Not mine either. The one night I have visitation with my daughter, it’s the school ball.”

“You could dance with her.”

“She’d be embarrassed.”

That is kind of what I am inwardly thinking. “Who is she?” I ask after a moment.

The man inclines his head in the direction I have studiously been avoiding looking toward. “The tall, slender girl there, with the blonde hair and turquoise dress? That’s my daughter. Beth is her name.”

Now I look the man in the eye.  “Wow,” is all I can manage.

The corners of the man’s eyes wrinkle even more as he smiles. “Don’t look so surprised, buddy. As you can tell, she takes after her mother.” the man adds “in a lot of ways” under his breath, but I am too busy wondering if talking to Beth’s dad will boost my chances with her to notice. Probably not, since I never knew Beth’s dad was even a part of her life. I don’t figure Beth is too proud of him.

“She’s dancing with the school quarterback,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Yeah, I see that. And she was dancing with Valleyview’s hero a minute ago.”

I smirk ruefully. “You can see why it’s not my night.”

“Yeah, I know why you’d feel that way. I’ve had a lot of those nights,” Beth’s dad says, but then he smiles. “They’re not so bad anymore, though.”

“Why not?”

“Well, do you know Jesus?”

“Um, yeah.”

“He saved me. He saved me from my selfish living.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with dancing,” I mutter.

“Everything, buddy, everything,” Beth’s dad replies. “Take me. Before Christ, I pursued girls because I thought they would fulfill me. I pursued sports because I thought it would give me meaning. I made money because I thought that’s what people did to satisfy their wants. When my dreams failed, I felt empty, meaningless, and unsatisfied. When I did catch my dreams, I was happy for a while, but still unsatisfied.”

I look at Beth. “Like, how?”

“Because everything in the world is broken, I guess. None of it is complete. Even if you get it, it still leaves you wanting.”

“Maybe you just never completely had your dream.”

Beth’s dad looks at me sharply. A flash of something—is it hurt or anger?—shows in his eyes, but then he softens. “That’s not true. I had Beth’s mom, once. I had a great job. I was a successful salesman; I had money.  And then we were blessed with Beth, my starlight.”

The conversation has taken an abruptly personal turn so fast, that I grow uncomfortable with it. Curiosity overrules me, though, and the questions keep coming out my mouth before my better judgement stops them. “What happened?”

“I was left wanting.”

“They left you?”

“I left them first, in my heart, and I was too pathetic to do anything about it. My wife filed for divorce, and she won custody. She took my starlight with her. Jesus was nudging me all the while, trying to show me that I was building a house upon the sand, but the rains came before I realized it.”

“That’s rough,” I say after a bit.

Beth’s dad nods sadly. “It was for years, and for awhile I didn’t want anything to do with my family ever again. I picked up some bad habits, drinking and fighting primary among them. That’s how I got this scar.” He fingers the scar on his cheek. “All my selfish dreams ended in scars, really.”

“But why were they selfish? I mean, can’t our dreams be good?” I ask.

“Well, I used to think that dreams were kind of amoral, you know? But now I believe that if Jesus isn’t in our life, our dreams can’t be selfless or good, because we’ve lost sight of what really matters.”

“Which is . . .” my voice fades into a question mark.

“Building God’s kingdom, glorifying Him through it. Can’t you see it? Our own little kingdoms of fame, wealth, possessions, relationships, and stuff just kind of die with us.”

“Yeah, I guess,” I say.

“You don’t sound very convinced.” The man is still smiling.

“I just don’t see how I can stop dreaming. Like, I don’t want to give up.”

“Oh don’t get me wrong, I still have dreams. But they’re different now, you know? It’s hard to explain . . . I guess the way I’d put it is that my dreams no longer center on what I can do for me, but on what I can do for God.”

The music fades, and a dance ends. I stir restlessly. I hadn’t really set out to hear the life story of a total stranger, and somehow his words aren’t comforting. Or at least, they’re not what I want to hear, even though I had asked all the questions. I get to my feet. “Well, I should probably get back to the dance.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get to talking so much.”

“It’s all good,” I say, even as I start walking away. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, buddy, take care.”

I walk into the men’s bathroom. I check myself in the mirror. A tuft of my hair is struggling to stand at attention against a heavy coating of hair gel, and I do my best to smooth it down by wetting my palm and pressing it to my head. My average face seems to tilt closer to the ugly side of things under the harsh bathroom lights. I pretend to be washing my hands when another boy comes by, but as soon as he’s in a stall, I stare at myself some more. I stare into my own eyes, wondering about myself, wondering about my dreams.

“Do they really matter?” I whisper. “Do I really matter?”

Staring at my own ordinary self, the odds don’t seem to be in my favor.

I imagine a scar running across my cheek. I shudder, because in the mirror it looks real. My fingers instinctively press my cheek, feeling for the scar tissue. There is none, of course. My skin is smooth, like a baby, really. I don’t even have stubble yet. Your whole life is still ahead of you, I think to myself.

I turn from the mirror with a sigh and wander back out into the gym. Another dance has started already to a lively party song, but I filter lifelessly through the glitz and lights and dancing teens. I hit the door out of the gym, and it swings open to let in a breath of fresh night air. The song and noise of the dance fades and then cuts off abruptly as the door closes behind me, and I am alone in the dark.

I look up.

The moon is hidden behind a cloud, but the cloud’s edges glow a brilliant silver. The sky is a dusky bluish-black, perforated by the twinkling light of a sprawl of stars. I remember a recent science lesson on the stars, how they hurtle along in perfect unity with their neighbors in one huge, awe-inspiring dance. I’m struck by how immense and beautiful it all is, and really, how tiny I am.

“I’m nothing,” I whisper.

It’s freeing, now that I have actually said it. It puts my own petty kingdom of self-worth into perspective. I committed myself to Christ, to the one who created everything, but I haven’t really been living for His glory, especially after The Game. The pursuit has left me empty and sick. Sick of trying to impress, only to be rejected. Sick of chasing, but never really obtaining. Soul sick, I think that is the name for it.

“Can you heal me?” I whisper.

I listen for a voice, either booming or still and small, but I don’t hear anything coming down from above. I guess I never really expect God to speak back to me anyway. But it still feels good to talk to Him again. It’s been so long.

“God, I’m back.”

It’s really the only thing I can think to say, but a thought sparks in my mind at the same moment. It’s about a verse I had read awhile—well really quite awhile—ago, something Jesus had said. I couldn’t quote it exactly, but I know Jesus had said for people to come to Him, and He would give them rest for their souls. Rest. That sounds good.

Like a rush I remember other words of scripture; I remember more about God. Christians are dearly beloved children of God. He will work all things together for good to those who love him, to those who are called according to His purposes. He is faithful, even when we are faithless. It’s like the rush or remembrance fans a smoldering ember deep inside me, an ember of faith that has been slowly burning out. Passion rises inside me, the same passion I felt when I was baptized. It’s passion to break away from an empty life and live differently. It’s passion to serve the One who gave Hs life for me so that I might truly live. It strikes me that this is probably what makes Beth’s dad so eager to share about Jesus in his life. There’s purpose in this passion.

“It’s true, this is what really matters.” My thoughts spill out my mouth. “I’m nothing, but I’m not worthless. I’ve been redeemed by a great price for a great purpose.” I smile, grin even. “Thank you, Lord, thank you!” I whisper earnestly.

And then, almost spontaneously, a line from the Lord’s prayer springs from my mouth, and I have to repeat it again, slower, to catch what I mean, to really pray it as a heartfelt prayer.

“Your Kingdom come,” I pray. “Your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.”