loved and chosen

In her book Grace (Eventually), Anne Lamott relays a story about teaching a Bible class to a group of young children. She recounts the experience moving from her initial decision to separate two trouble-making brothers (four and five years old) placing them on either side of two six-year-old boys, as well as welcoming a 3 year old (and his weary mother). As class began, she helped them get out their wiggles with a game in which they scrunch up their bodies and faces and hold it for a few seconds and then let loose and go completely limp. Once they are seated and calm...

I sat on the couch and glanced slowly around in a goofy, menacing way, and then said, "Is anyone here wearing a blue sweatshirt with Pokemon on it?" The four-year-old looked down at his chest, astonished to discover that he matched this description--like, what are the odds? He raised his hand. "Come over here to the couch," I said. "You are so loved, and so chosen." He clutched at himself like a beauty pageant finalist. Then I asked if anyone that day was wearing green socks with brown shoes, a Giants cap, an argyle vest? Each of them turned out to be loved and chosen..."

Captivated by the grace of this game, I could not even finish the chapter.

I spent the next hour devising ways to try and recreate this with several hundred adults one Sunday (not my most productive hour in the office, I will admit, but I'm getting at something so just let it go for now...).

You see, here is what's crazy... I spend so much of my time caught up in a really dumb trap. As I prepare sermons, I get lost... not lost, I get misled... actually, I get tempted. I get tempted to try and be incredible. I want to dazzle and impress. I want to remove all doubts that anyone in my church might have that I am really talented as a preacher. I work hard to come up with fascinating and spectacular content that is served by powerful and grandiose visual aids. I want to finish a sermon to a round of applause, or at least a lobby full of parishioners telling me that I just said something that they had never heard before or never considered. Really... I love the way those statements make me feel. (And all this for God's greater glory... yes, of course.)

Maybe that's a little exaggerated (maybe!), but you get my point. I have a friend who is also a preacher, and he has told me several times that I am the hardest working preacher in the pulpit he knows--I have no clue if this is a compliment. But, if I am honest with myself, the reason that I work so hard often has more to do with producing something original and impressive than it does with the simple, necessary, good news.

Sometimes I finish preaching and I wonder why I went into everything else when the one thing I really wish I had communicated was...

you are loved and you are chosen.  

The reason I couldn't read anymore of the chapter was that God was telling me what I really needed to hear most. I think most of us need to hear that. It's not amazingly smart or impressive. Nor is it all that original. But even better than those things... it's true. And it's a truth we need deep in our bones.

What if I just said that every week until we all believed it? Especially me. 

The bottom line is that no one in my church, no teacher, no mentor, no blogger can get me out of this trap. The only way out is to trust in God's grace to get me out--to trust that God's grace is enough not only for my soul, but also for my sermon.

The brilliant poet W. H. Auden once wrote:

"Some writers confuse authenticity, which they ought always to aim at, with originality, which they should never bother about."


What makes the trap so dumb is that I am the one creating it. I know some churches are preacher-eaters--but mine is not. No one at my church tells me I have to be amazing. No one even tells me that I have to be smart. What they really want most is for me to be myself--to be my creative, passionate, odd self completely  captivated by the mystery of the grace and love of Christ.

That voice telling me I have to be amazing is lying. I know that. People don't need amazing; they need real.

The voice of truth invites me onto the couch in my blue jeans and blue striped shirt and tells me, "You are loved and and you are chosen... you will win some and lose some, you will hit some out of the park and you will strike out, but never be afraid to trust that no matter what you do you are loved and you are chosen... and you are not alone either. Go tell everyone that there is more room on the couch, because they are loved and chosen as well."

nine eleven

Like any other Tuesday, I was scared awake at 4:00am Central Time by the sound of my alarm clock--which I purchased precisely because it seemed to have been rigged somehow with a tractor-trailer's horn as the alarm. I began my usual routine, which admittedly was not my favorite nor the most conducive to my natural sleeping patterns. Nevertheless, my wife and I were still in school and needed the money that my early morning job provided. So, there I was shuffling out of the house at 4:40 in the morning and driving to open up the Maryland Farms YMCA located in a business park in beautiful and wealthy Brentwood, TN. Alongside our friendly maintenance man, Al--who basically kept the place running and was undoubtedly a morning person--I was the front desk staff-person who cheerfully greeted early-rising gym-rats who were there to burn some calories before their workdays started. Al had been there for an hour already when I showed up to turn the lobby lights on and unlock the front doors at 5:00am.

Outside the doors stood the over-achievers--those grossly over-motivated souls who pace and check their watches outside the gym before it opens. After checking them in, I busied myself with the normal stuff: brewing a fresh pot of coffee, folding the warm towels, getting the computers and printers warmed up and working properly, and making sure that all of the televisions that lined the walls in front of the treadmills were turned on. Each television was tuned to a different news network each displaying various scrolling strips of headlines and market results. The first few hours rolled by normally. There were the usual few complaints about the temperature of the pool, or the quality of the coffee, or a jammed locker.

At 7:00am I was joined up front by Mary Catherine who although still in high school had agreed to take an absence that day to cover a shift for her co-worker and aunt, Penny, who usually worked mornings with me. I'm not positive that was legal, but I was okay with it. I was tired of being alone, and Mary Catherine was always fun to work with--talkative, upbeat, and hard-working, but none of these traits annoyingly so. With a constant smile, Mary Catherine checked in new guests and held a conversation with me about her plans for that coming weekend.

The sound came first.

I'll never forget that sound--it was the sound of shock and fear. Even through the plate glass windows separating the welcome counter from the fitness floor, I heard a collective groaning. It was a noise so powerful that it stopped all conversation. I turned to see what was the cause and across every television screen was the same image... American Airlines Flight 11 had hit the North Tower of the World Trade Center. Smoke was pouring out of it like it had a volcano on it's side. Mary Catherine left me at the desk to go and listen to the television broadcasts.

I remember how odd it was in that precise moment and place. Behind me was a stunned crowd standing still in the middle of the gym--workout gear on and tennis shoes laced up, ready to go, sweat already falling, but no one moving at all. In front of me was a steady stream of people coming in the doors fresh from their cars--some laughing and cutting up, some singing, some smiling and greeting me jovially--all completely unaware of what was taking place. But before they even reached the counter, I watched the confusion and concern wash over them. Some wandered to the lockers trying to make sense of things but stay on schedule. Most simply stood dumbfounded watching a screen through the windows unable to even hear the broadcast.

The initial news reports coming from the scene were more panic than news. Mary Catherine returned with an update, but with details we later would learn were not accurate. Apparently, people on the news broadcasts had speculated (hoped?) that this was not a passenger plane--she reported to me that it was a cargo jet. I remember checking in a few guests whom I comforted with this misinformation.

As we spent a couple of minutes discussing how this sort of accident happens, we watched as United Airlines Flight 175 was flown into the South Tower.

This time, I went to listen. It was just moments later that the grim realization of what we were watching was becoming clear. These were not accidents. These were not cargo planes. These were commercial flights, and the planes had been hijacked. The targets were intentional. These were acts of terrorism.

It was 8:03am Central Time when the second tower was hit. The towers were collapsing and people were beginning to jump from the buildings. I watched it in real time. Many of those standing near me were already late for work, but could not pull themselves away from the television screens.

I went back to my post at the front desk, and I reported the awful truth to Mary Catherine who started crying. Most everyone either wept and grieved aloud or stood solemn and stunned. We were in slow motion.

And I don't know why, but I remember two young and attractive late-twenty-something men in grey suits walking past the desk on their way out to their jobs. I heard one of them say to the other, "Whoa! I just hope this doesn't affect the market too badly." The other nodded and with a brief laugh. The walked out the door and were gone.

I remember hating them.

I hated that their first thought was about money, not people. As I watched them through the doors, I hated their nice suits and fancy cars. I hated their nice hair-cuts. I hated their greed-soaked priorities. Truthfully and inexplicably, in that moment, my anger at these two was greater than my anger towards the terrorists who had hijacked the planes and flown them into the towers.

I look back now and sometimes surmise that although we were nothing alike in so many ways, in this one small but significant way there might not have been too much difference between me and the hijackers. I've never confessed that until now. Even now, I wonder if I should admit that.

One thing that the news got more right than they could know was this:  none of us was innocent anymore.

Every year this date reminds me that every human heart needs healed. Especially mine.