Clearly this shooting is cussing awful. Just evil. And we want to throw our hands up. And maybe there will be no movement on gun control legislation in our lifetime and my friends are likely all across the board on what that should look like. However, that's not where this is headed. So for a second lets put all that volatility on the back burner and try to do something radical--dignify people. Here is my challenge to myself and an invitation to you.

By my math (which is admittedly pretty weak), there are 26 days left in November if you count today, Sunday, November 5, which corresponds to 26 fallen congregants in TX. We all know that words are worse than sticks and stones and may lead those they wound to pick up a gun and unleash his pain on a church, movie theater, or the like. These wounds are inflicted when someone intends harm or when they use words without thinking of their power.

So for 26 days I want to use my words more intentionally and with an awareness of their power. I want to select 26 people and for 26 days say something to one of the 26 which is intentionally dignifying, empowering, healing, or loving.

Would you do the same? Can you let 26 people know over the next 26 days you're affirming them, encouraging them, praying for them, love them, are there for them? Choose folks you love and are like and take a chance and say it to folks who're different than you or with whom you have strained relationship.

Of course, if you believe in gun law reform, go forth and speak to your senator or whatever government rep you so desire. This does not nullify that discussion and shouldn't. However, you CAN do something clearly impactful in your sphere of influence over the next 26 days. Maybe this won't change a law but it may lift a spirit, tender up a hard heart, mend a broken relationship, and maybe, just maybe, reroute the anger of a would be future violent man or woman toward loving community.

This is a way I choose to meet this current darkness. I want to give in to anger and cynicism but know it just won't do much good for others and will eat me alive. So I'm going against my emotions and choosing this instead. It'll take some intentionality to send a text, send an email, or say words of affirmation in person. Yet it's one intentional way of resurrecting life in community from the death which has inundated us on this dark news night. Hopefully it'll honor them and offer the opportunity for others to know dignity and love.

Join me if you will. #SutherlandSpringsLife ​

She grabbed bags and packed them with a set of clothing for each of them—her husband, child, and herself. She swiftly packed away burp cloths and diapers while her husband filled the canteens with water and scraped together the money he had from his jobs building tables and shelves from the lumber he stored behind the house. They left out the back, through the alleyway, and away from the village with a quietness matched only by the darkness in the evening air.

Each step away from the village was a step closer to safety even if it meant leaving the world they knew--hopefully for only a short time.

Their nation's leader was a man who lived in fear of those who may challenge his power. He had heard rumors of potential emerging rebels whose very presence could make less of the king’s power. So he gripped his status more firmly than ever and doubled down his resolve to extinguish any who may pose a threat. He unleashed a fury of violent activity and many in the capitol city rallied to his authoritarian push to stifle rumored rivals or anyone who questioned his policy.

In this instance, in a town not terribly far from the capitol, there was a child who created whispers near and far. It was said his very presence implied a possible assault on the throne. For this reason, the king sent his armed men to hunt down the would-be rebel child. So the boy and his parents ran into the unknown with tears on their cheeks and little more than the clothes on their backs.

The husband could’ve stayed home. The boy wasn’t technically his child after all. However, he had committed to be the child's father when he married her. He led them stealthily through perilous terrain. Thieves lurked and the elements could be unkind. They had a limited amount of supplies and the child, being such, needed to be led on as quickly as possible to a place that could provide some form of stability. Stalling for any period of time on making it to safety was not an option. Otherwise, who knows what would happen. For that matter—who knows if the mom could keep a healthy enough mental state to nurse or provide for a child while on the move in such unsteady surroundings. Their trip necessitated expediency.

Thankfully, they arrived in a land not impossibly far from home and found haven there. Irony of ironies—they left a place which should have felt like a promise land and laughed, in their moments alone, acknowledging their new home was the land of their ancestors’ slavery. Their fathers were sure to mention this season of slavery at many mealtimes and holiday get-togethers. Now it was their place of freedom.

Here they were, in an unlikely location safe from a tyrant of unchecked neurosis. This tyrant, in fact, slew the lives of other children from the town who shared a similar age to secure his throne.

The family stayed in the foreign land for a while. It was not their home but their lives found purchase there while they waited out the ravaging of of their homeland. When news came to them the tyrannical leader passed they found their way back home as soon as possible.

As the boy matured, the mother and father made sure at dinnertime to share the story of the time when they were forced from their home and ran for their lives into a far country. The boy remembered those stories from their time away; the strangers who were hospitable to his parents in their foreign land; the old lady who offered his mom fabric for his clothes; the man in the community who shared tools with his dad so he could work. And as he grew in wisdom and stature and the like he always took note of those who didn’t fit into their surroundings. He practiced hospitality to those who felt ostracized and unsafe. In fact, he sought them out.

His parents' stories touched him in a way that profoundly shaped his professional career as an adult. He became something of a celebrity in certain regions of his homeland— known for his way of reframing common assumptions in his public lectures. He did and said risky things in the name of the stranger, the outcast, the outsider.

He understood the risk his very presence caused his own parents and how it displaced them from a life they might have otherwise chosen. He understood the radical hospitality they experienced—by former oppressors of their people no less. His presence challenged particular kingdoms who gripped too strongly to their own national power. He inspired an international movement of radical hospitality partly because his own early years involved a mom and dad who experienced welcome in a land which opened its borders to them in an hour of need.

In 2003 my wife and I moved to Japan.

We were Junior High School Assistant English Teachers (AETs) in Mito, Japan two ours northeast of Tokyo.

Many who knew us then or now usually assume we were missionaries moving to live a pious missionary adventure. I was, at the time of our move in late summer 2003 in seminary and doing ministry at a church in the Memphis area.

The truth is I went to Japan because I didn't know if I believed in God. For a then seminarian on a trajectory for a life of ministry this was not "good for business." 23 year old me (I'm now 36) needed space away from faith expectations and wounds to come to grips with who he was and who God was, if He was at all. One way to do that is to move to the other side of the planet and be away from any expectation to think one thing or the other.

While there my coping mechanism for culture shock a'plenty on top of a mid-20s faith crisis became running. I was not a runner before arriving in the Land of the Rising Sun. However, running became a quick way to release language learning stress, first year teacher Stress, faith crisis STRESS!

Near our apartment was the third most beautiful park in all of Japan. Cherry and plumb blossoms set the scenery ablaze each spring with glowing white and pinkish blooms. I often jogged up a small river trail which fed out into the path around the trail.

The aforementioned cherry and plumb trees were a strong motivation in Japan's magical spring bloom decor to get off my faith-crisis-havin’-duff. You see, one of the most complementary aesthetics in Japan for a faith crisis is an unexpectedly early sunset each day in the fall and winter months. Our first year this alone felt like a physical weight upon me as the dark evenings bore down upon us before we left our schools everyday at 5 PM.

The closest thing to light there in the evening during those months was those blazing trees along the streets and paths of Mito City.

One other thing I should mention about Japan is, at least in our city at that time, almost no road or street had street signs. This made locating your intended destination complicated. Luckily, there was always a 7-Eleven or other such conbini as a marker in the same way us Bible Belters have churches and Walgreens.

That said, I began really listening to U2's musical library while there. I had no idea early on three of the four members loved the same Jesus I was doubting. However, the The Joshua Tree was the first gospel album I heard which I had never seen in a Gospel section at the music store.

The first song on that album blew me away every time I heard it. It is a song called "Where the Streets Have No Name." The first few lines Bono belts are:

I want to run, I want to hide,
I want to tear down these walls that hold me inside,
I want to reach out and touch the flame,
Where the streets have no name.

I didn't expect someone whom to my knowledge then a mainstream and secular artist to so firmly capture me with such intensity about running into the presence of the Creator I had moved half way around the world to consider discarding--really sing something so compelling to me then a skeptic.

Something about The Edge's guitar and Bono's gospel lyrics lit up my heart previously darkened by doubt and darkness, both spiritual and physical (remember the whole "no sun after 4:30 PM" thing I mentioned earlier).

One spring 2004 evening running through the streets that had no name and around a trail by the lake I sat down on a park bench under a plumb tree in full bloom--nearly on fire with colorful flame like Moses's burning bush. I played Bono's gospel song as I gazed upon that tree. As Moses had known God's presence in that burning bush centuries ago I, for the first time in a refreshingly long time, opened myself to the fiery presence of the Creator at the feet of that plumb tree. He was there, he was a blazing beautiful presence!

Bono doesn't know me. The nearest I've been to him was purchasing tickets to see U2 live in Memphis when I was 16 only to sell them to pay for a speeding ticket. And then, ten years later, I got tickets to see them at the Tokyo Dome in 2006. My wife, two other friends, and I extended our visa past the expiration of our work visa to see them. And then they cancelled! I'm not bitter Bono...except I totally am.

One thing I know, however, is I owe a great deal of my love for music and the Messiah to Bono's gospel album which gave me words to say I still hadn't found what I was looking for but also gave voice to my deep yearning to reach out and touch the flame where the streets have no name!


[Originally posted on Mitchell Roush's site.]

She grabbed bags and packed them with a set of clothing for each of them—her husband, child, and herself. She swiftly packed away burp cloths and diapers while her husband filled the canteens with water and scraped together the money he had from his jobs building tables and shelves from the lumber he stored behind the house. They left out the back, through the alleyway, and out of the village with a quietness matched only by the darkness in the evening air.

Each step away from the village was a step closer to safety even if it meant leaving the world they knew--hopefully for only a short time.

Their nation's leader was a man who lived in fear of those who may challenge his power. He had heard rumors of potential emerging rebels whose very presence could make less of the king’s power. So he gripped his status more firmly than ever and doubled down his resolve to extinguish any who may pose a threat. He unleashed a fury of violent activity and many in the capitol city rallied to his authoritarian push to stifle rumored rivals or anyone who questioned his policy.

In this instance in a town not terribly far from the capitol there was a child who created whispers near and far. It was said his very presence implied a possible assault on the throne. For this reason, the king sent his armed men to hunt down the would-be rebel child. For this reason, the boy and his parents ran into the unknown with tears on cheeks and little more than the clothes on their backs.

The husband could’ve stayed home. The boy wasn’t technically his child after all. However, he had committed to be the child's father when her married her. He led them stealthily through perilous terrain. Thieves lurked and the elements could be unkind. They only had a limited amount of supplies and the child, being such, needed to be led on as quickly as possible to a place that could provide some form of stability. Stalling for any period of time on making it to safety was not an option. Otherwise, who knows what would happen. For that matter—who knows if the mom could keep a healthy enough mental state to nurse or provide for a child while on the move in such unsteady surroundings. Their trip necessitated expedition.

Thankfully, they arrived in a land not impossibly far from them and found haven there. Irony of ironies—they left a place which should have felt like a promise land and laughed in their moments alone acknowledging their new home was the land of their ancestors’ slavery. Their fathers were sure to mention this at many mealtimes and holiday get-togethers.

Yet, here they were, in an unlikely location safe from a tyrant of unchecked neurosis. This tyrant, in fact, slew the lives of other children from the town who shared a similar age to secure his throne.

The family stayed in the foreign land for a while. It was not their home but their lives found purchase there while they waited out the ravaging and danger of their homeland. When news came to them the tyrannical leader passed they found their way back home as soon as possible.

As the boy grew, the mother and father made sure at dinnertime to share the story of the time when they were forced from their home and ran for their lives into a far country. The boy remembered those stories from their time away; the strangers who were hospitable to his parents in their foreign land; the old lady who offered his mom fabric for his clothes; the man in the community who shared tools with his dad so he could work. And as he grew in wisdom and stature and the like he always took note of those who didn’t fit into their surroundings. He practiced hospitality to those who felt ostracized and unsafe. In fact, he sought them out.

His parent’s stories touched him in a way that profoundly shaped his professional career as an adult. He became something of a celebrity in certain regions of his homeland—perhaps known for his way of reframing common assumptions in his rhetoric. He did and said risky things in the name of the stranger, the outcast, the outsider.

He understood the risk his very presence caused his own parents and how it displaced them from a life they might have otherwise chosen. He understood the radical hospitality they experienced—by former oppressors of their people no less. He realized his presence challenged particular kingdoms who grip too strongly to their own national power. He inspired an international movement of radical hospitality partly because his own early years involved a mom and dad who experienced welcome in a land which opened its borders to them in an hour of need.

For the last six or seven years I've become a bit of a promoter and event organizer. It began with having Andrew Peterson at the University of Memphis in 2011 while I was a campus minister there. I realized there is power in physical proximity to singers performing songs they birthed out of no small creative effort. As I became more comfortable with organizing these events with various artists and venues I began to wonder if it may be time to attempt bringing in my favorite Christmas show: Andrew Peterson Presents "Behold the Lamb of God.

In the summer of 2012 I began contemplating what that might look like and discussing the idea with others. Eventually the stars aligned and with the help of our ministry and some good friends, more than a year and a half later, I organized Behold the Lamb of God for December 2013.

After the 2013 show, my friend Eddy and I discussed at various times what it might look like to bring the tour back to Memphis. I was hesitant for a while because of the amount of work the first go-round was for a novice event planner. However, after taking a job at Harding Academy where there were great resources for promotion, organization, and brainstorming it seemed like a good next-step. At this point I should also give a shameless shoutout to an initiative Eddy started called The Institute for Faith the Arts since the artists on this tour well represent what IFA hopes to produce in our students.

You may have thought this essay would be about what I learned from the lyrics of the Behold the Lamb of God album, and I assure you, I have learned a great number of things about incarnation from that album. However, this is about what I've learned about God from planning the event itself.

I want to first say organizing this event is doable! The agency that plans the tour for the bandmembers is incredibly helpful and driven to share the the incarnation story through this event. They are helpful in all the helpful ways! And, the bandmembers are the kind of people with whom you'd like to hang at a coffee shop and talk books and music and beauty and broknenness for a few hours.

However, successfully birthing an event of this magnitude takes planning far, far in advance. For me it takes a couple of years to get my head slowly but surely around what it could and should look like. There are logistics of where to put coffee and merch and "Are there enough bathrooms in this place?" and "How many people can we reasonably expect?"

There is the matter of how to pay for the event. Do we get sponsorship? Do we hope ticket sales will allow us to break even?

Promotion. How will we get the word out? Post it on Facebook? Ad space on a radio station? Posters in coffee shops?

How much can we fairly charge for tickets if it is a fundraiser for a ministry or organization in which we believe?

Where will we host the band comfortably when they arrive to make sure they stay healthy? What food do they need? Any allergies of which we should be aware?

As you can see there is a lot to consider and it takes a great deal of time to work out. It got me thinking about God and things He took a long time to plan and work out. So Paul says in Ephesians 1:

3 Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in the heavenly realms with every spiritual blessing in Christ. 4 For he chose us in him before the creation of the world to be holy and blameless in his sight. In love 5 he predestined us for adoption to sonship through Jesus Christ, in accordance with his pleasure and will-- 6 to the praise of his glorious grace, which he has freely given us in the One he loves.

And then Peter chimes in with this in 1 Peter 1:

He was chosen before the creation of the world, but was revealed in these last times for your sake.

And one more from Paul back in Ephesians 2:

10 For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.

All of the goodness, graciousness, and kingdomness we experience now is in no small way part of plans or God's inception and incarnation from years, centuries, and millenia or thoughtful consideration and gritty execution. God is intentional in his planning and executing of the goals he desires to accomplish. Grace is not accidental or simply whimsical. It is, in the best sense of the term, calculated. He considered the cost of time and energy and, more importantly, blood, sweat, and tears to accomplish his goals.

I get a small glimpse of that experience when I participate in the long-term planning of something I think beautiful, good and worth-the-while.

When Andrew and Co. lay down there last line consummating all the threads of the incarnation story of which call the crowd to "sing out with joy for the brave little boy who was God and made himself nothing" I know the effort was worth it because I love being in the presence of the song and story.

When God sees his work completed I can now imagine in a slightly clearer way what joy he must feel with a mission accomplished.

"Hallelujah. Sing hallelujah."

Father,

May those who call you Savior and Lord honor you as Lord and Savior above all others on this historic day in our nation.

May those who desire to live out your character in this world...

• Show kindness to the foreigner and immigrant at our table whether or not the powers that be in our nation decide to do so.
  
• Show compassion to the fatherless and the widow whether policies are in their favor or not.
• Love our enemies whether they are blue, red, or green; elephants or donkeys; Republicans, Democrats, Libertarians, Green and may we pray for their well being and that we both are drawn farther into truth.
• Call for justice but not haughtily invoke it.
• Acknowledge that yours is a kingdom which refuses to hold fast to the borders of our nations but reaches hands across to all countries and continents.
• Know that America is a country rich in history and diversity but also tarnished and wounded by not dignifying many moments and people
• Love people from conception to grave regardless of our differences with their creeds, colors, cultures and the like.
• Pray for and honor our leaders of all political leanings and nudge them toward your heart and mind.

Our citizenship is dual but if we must choose one may it be yours where sight for the blind, freedom for the prisoner, healing for the sick, and proclaiming good news exist and invades all empires and kingdoms with your goodness.

Thank you for the beautiful country in which we live. Help us remember, however, that you created its Rocky Mountains and Mississipi River and that its ours to care for and not control for selfish purposes. Its ours to share but not exploit. Thank you for its rich forests, deserts, beaches, gulfs, islands, and inlets.

Amen

There are days I don't want to go to church assembly on Sunday morning. Occasionally I've had a draining week at work. At times the weather is gorgeous and I want to play outside. Sometimes there are just people I don't want the "die to myself" experience of sitting in the same room with because he, she, or I have wounded the other. Other times I just doubt faith in the promises of blessing in community and would rather go it alone. And yet, for the most part, I do assemble and am, for the most part, blessed, challenged, and transformed by being the same room with people trying to figure life and love out each week.

Today I want to begin a smattering of ponderings on assembling together to do a couple of things. The exploration is partly selfish in that it will help me flesh out for myself what often, but not always, subconsciously overrides my desires to forsake the assembly. I know for some this may sound like strong or antiquated language. Maybe it is but I may eventually explore why it seems an adequate and realistic notion to discuss when I desire to "forsake the assembly."
 
I also want to explore the topic because there are people with whom I miss being in spiritual community--who have opted out of assembling with saintly sinners for a variety of reasons. Some are likely valid reasons. However, I want to explore the genius of community for myself and for those whom may find it useful in order to reaffirm it for myself and to perhaps welcome others into that experience through one sojourner's eyes. I do NOT, however, desire it to be a guilt trip for myself or others. This doesn't seem helpful in my experience of pastoral and evangelistic ministry. But I also want to explore the possible deficiencies of living a solo life away from some form of assembly Please don't assume I have a specific communal form I'm discussing at this point. I have certain forms of assembly which have resonated more or less with me but that's not yet something I'm exploring.

Finally, I suspect there are some at weekly assemblies who may need an occasional breather from assembling as well as those who've checked out far too long who miss the blessing of showing up in all the potential messiness of the endeavor. Maybe this will give some word to where you are along those lines and what you, and I, can do to have a time of refreshing to that end.

For today, though, the only thing I'll say is that the church is the bride of Christ. You can't love me without loving my wife Rachel. It would be difficult to love Jesus without loving his bride as well. Of course many of us have bride-baggage with the church. An unfair judgment uttered toward us. A confrontation given in a poor spirit. Being taken advantage of by people in powerful positions in church offices. Its clear how that love of his bride plays out isn't always clear because his bride has some ugly moments. And yet it seems no one is more personally aware of or affected by them than her husband Jesus.

This won't likely be a consistently rhythmed series that comes in once a day or week. It will likely come when it can as time or thoughts allow or step forth in my brain. However, I wanted to get the ball rolling today.

For those who know Ronn Rubio, whom you'll see in this video, you'll know when he shares something you listen. At our Fall Creek Falls campfire with our family he shared a Nitty Gritty Dirt Band song called "When its Gone" as a reminder of how fast and fleeting these years are with our children. In compliance with the song this video is an effort to train my eye in paying attention to what so often streams by us with little notice.

Also, the first song is from Coldplay because A. its glorious and B. it helps me see God's glory.

Enjoy if you'd like.

Friends will occasionally say something that has such weight or wit I believe their words deserve a larger audience. While I don't have a pulpit to offer I do have a small virtual platform.

Today I'd like to share that platform with Jenna King, a coworker and friend at Harding Academy. Like me, Jenna spends time in classrooms teaching Middle and High School students the story God is weaving in this world. At our school we also have something called The Bible Ceremony. Coming from public school I was skeptical of this ceremony when I first came. However, after experiencing it I believe its purpose is beautiful and rests within a stream of centuries of men and women passing down an ancient, true, holy, and transformative story--sometimes at great personal cost.

Jenna spoke at the ceremony this year. At the end of her speech I found myself thinking "I would like a lot of people to hear these words." I asked Jenna if I could share her words. She kindly said yes. Read Jenna's words below.

I have had three grandmothers for my entire life- my mom’s mother and my dad’s mother, who have both passed away, and my dad’s stepmother who is still living. My grandmothers each played a huge role in making me who I am today.  What I love about having had three grandmas is that each of them are as different as can be, yet they all have two things in common- They all love Jesus and they are all passionate bakers. Growing up, we would drive to Abilene and visit Gram, Nancy, and Grandma- and all three of those visits involved a lot of messy kitchens and a lot of calories.
 
Flour, sugar, and copious amounts of chocolate have run through my veins since the day I was born. Although for the first twenty something years of my life I leaned much more heavily on the eating side of things than on the baking side.
 
My deep dive into the world of baking began just after my dad’s mother passed away in 2012. She and I were incredibly close, and in a season of powerful grief, there was something comforting about stepping into the world that she loved. So I began baking as a sort of grief counseling, but the more I did it, the more I fell in love with it. And now, given a day off with no responsibilities and no baby to chase (as rare as those days are), I would most likely choose to spend that day elbow-deep in dough, making a pie for someone I love.
 
As I started baking more and more, I called on my mom and my aunts and my last surviving grandmother to do some digging and to find recipes… and not just recipes, but handwritten, authentic, stained and tattered recipe cards.
 
Within a few weeks, I had a stack of sweet sweet treasures in my hands.
 
Now, I can trace the curve of Gram’s sloppy cursive, I can scratch off the crusted butter and flour from my Grandma’s chocolate chip pie. In a very small way, I can experience a piece of my grandmothers.
 
After several years and way too many pies, I’ve added my own greasy smudges, my own melted chocolate smears, my own tears and bent corners.
 
The reality is, my mom and my aunts could have emailed me a few recipes. I could have called Nancy so that she could read off her less than precise measurements, but I know now, that I would’ve been missing something.
 
I hope my grandmothers’ recipes will collect the grime of many decades of baking. I hope that my daughter will add her own spills and smudges. Because these recipe cards will bear witness to many lifetimes of memories in the kitchen, many days when we all just needed a slice of fudge pie, many recipes that celebrated family joys and offered a shred of comfort at a funeral.
 
Today, my dear 7th graders, you are receiving the sweet words of your Father… Bibles that carry his love, his passions, his character. Scripture isn’t a history book or a compilation of nice sayings, it is the real, true, word of God. Paul tells us in 2 Timothy that all scripture is God-breathed. All scripture is inspired by the creator of all things. It comes from THE source who knows the inner workings of you and the rest of the world in a way we cannot comprehend… Psalm 139 says that he has searched us and knows us- he knows every movement, every thought- and the reality of our known-ness is TOO wonderful and TOO lofty for us to attain.  All of scripture illuminates the will of our Father and calls us to a fuller life lived in Him.  As Mr. Knight said on Monday, scripture is our roadmap and our unfailing GPS that is capable of showing us the way when the roads are dark and twisted and confusing. All of scripture points to the heart of God and paints a picture of a powerful God who is also gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and rich in love.
 
We live in this incredible world where the Bible is always on the phone in your pocket or on the iPad in your backpack. You are quite literally never without the Word of God. And that is a blessing!  But it can be easy to become so accustomed to that fact that we forget that maybe technology isn’t always the answer. Maybe, there is something special about the leather bound, heavy, real deal.
 
As you carry this Bible with you through the years, these words will get underlined, passages will be highlighted, a few corners may get bent and torn, and all of those marks will tell the story of your journey with your Father. These pages will catch your tears when things just aren’t going right, will carry dust from the dirt roads of the country you’ll visit on a mission trip, will walk with you through six years of Bible classes here at Harding, will speak life and truth to you when it seems so hard to find life and truth in our world.
 
I hope and pray that the binding will break on these pristine Bibles, that the silver edges will wear off, that maybe even a few pages will become loose.
 
Psalm 1 says “Blessed is the one who does not walk in step with the wicked, or stand in the way that sinners take or sit in the company of mockers, but whose delight is in the law of the Lord and who meditates on his law day and night.”  So how do we keep ourselves from getting wrapped up in the wrong things? We meditate on the Bible day and night. We don’t “meditate on the law to cram before a Bible test” or “”meditate on the law only when things aren’t going well,” but blessed is the one who seeks the Lord day in and day out. When things are good and bad, when things are exciting or boring. As long as there is a sun in the day and moon in the night, you should be seeking scripture. Blessed is the one turns to the Father’s Word before you turn to your friends or even your parents for help. Blessed is the one who recognizes that scripture isn’t just something to reference, it is something in which you can delight and find joy.
 
Blessed is the one who allows the Word of God to build up a little grime from afternoons poring over this love letter from your father, from many days when all you need is a Word from God, from seeking scriptures to celebrate family joys or to offer a shred of comfort at a funeral.
 
My recipe cards will carry with them the legacy of my grandmothers and my family- not by hiding them in a scrapbook or tucking them away in a box, but by weaving them into my life and the lives of my children and grandchildren. Your Bible will carry with the legacy of God in your life, not by sticking it on a bookshelf or losing it in your locker, but by weaving the Word of God into every facet of your life. May you seek God’s Word first, before all else and before anyone else. May you seek God’s Word often, day in and day out. And may these pages one day show the story of a life that was deeply, passionately, completely rooted in the Word of God.
 

Like many of you I haven't slept well the last couple of days. 

My wife and I got a new-to-us car a couple of months ago. One of the small repairs we needed to make on the car was a rear light out. We drove the car for at least two weeks before making our way to a shop for an oil change and light repair. I thought nothing of it at the time but now that rear light means a great deal in light of the last two days.

I'm a white male married to a white woman with two adorable children who, as you could probably guess, are white. 

While I was driving around Memphis where I live I occasionally hoped no policeman would pull me over and give me the annoyance of a citation for the light. Not once, however, did it cross my mind that a rear light out could lead to a cop pulling me over and then to me being shot and killed...with a small child in the car while streaming on Facebook. 

However, its clear for black men and women in America this is now a real and pressing concern. It’s scary. It’s gut wrenching. And, if we remain silent, the next death may be our fault.

Now, before I go further and you say "We don't know what happened before that video began live feed on Facebook" or “The evidence regarding Alton Sterling is not clear and comprehensive in what was happening,” let me say this. It is clear in light of all things considered and the growing list of police related shootings growing we can say that the grand narrative of shootings show black people are clearly at greater danger than others in police interactions. If Alton Sterling and Philando Castile don't say it, maybe Eric Garner, Tamir Rice, Sandra Brown, and the chorus of others whose blood cries out can build to a strong enough crescendo in your heart to consider there is a systemic error that vomits out the lost lives of men and women whose greatest crime is wearing a skin tone that is black. There is also an insurmountable amount of research data to support this.

That said, what in the world do we do if we are white? Whether acknowledged or not we sit in some form of systemic privilege in which our fear of a busted back light is the annoyance of a ticket rather than the fear of a bullet. How do we love our neighbor who is unsafe because they have a way better tan than you or I?

I don't know all the answers. I may know very few of them in fact. However, Luke told a story about Paul the apostle in his account we know as Acts of the Apostles where Luke had been arrested in Philippi. He had healed a girl whom had a spirit which caused her to tell the future. Some men were exploiting her abilities for their profit and so Paul's healing caused them to lose money. Paul was arrested and then flogged and beaten at those men’s behest. 

As the story goes he was eventually set free and even halted the soldier who held him in prison from suicide. When Paul was released he preached good news into the soldiers life which convicted him and led to repentance and change of heart and lordship. 

The strangest part of the story, however, is when Paul is told he is free to go. He refuses to go. Here are his own words for his reason: “They beat us publicly without a trial, even though we are Roman citizens, and threw us into prison. And now do they want to get rid of us quietly? No! Let them come themselves and escort us out.”

Paul did not expect the magistrates to act as people who shared his faith (they didn't) but did expect them to act as people who treated fellow citizens with dignity. He expected a trial if accused, a proper arrest for a citizen and not a flogging, and ultimately an apology when those things didn't happen.

Luckily for Paul he survived his arrest. He wasn't shot four times in the arm, choked to death, or had his flogging placed on social media for the world to discuss. 

However, Paul knew he had dignity and expected to be treated with such.

So what can we learn? What can we do? 

1. Call your local representatives and speak up if there is a racial injustice in your area. You have dignity and you can speak up for those whose dignity is being demeaned or exploited. It’s not just that you "can speak up" it’s that you MUST if you are aware of an abuse of power!

2. If you are white like me, acknowledge that the system stacks cards in the favor of white safety and success more so than for POC. At this point if you don't believe that I doubt I'll convince you otherwise and we can part ways. However, for those who know it to be true and haven't said anything because your family, friends, or coworkers may not agree, the day for silence has passed. Too many people are dying because of a system that undermines their value as people created in God's image (for us Judeo-Christian folks) and American citizens (for all of us).

3. Call out straight-up racist talk and activity in your sphere of influence. It’s so, so past time. Demeaning language has no place. Lives are at stake. Literally. When we allow generations to absorb racist thinking it creates a racist reflex. Sometimes that reflex is connected to a trigger finger. Don’t allow racist talk remain unchecked in your presence. Be bold, it could save lives in future generations.

4. Allow black people time to mourn, be angry, demand justice, call darkness to light when news like we’ve had the past 48 hours breaks. Paul did that in Philippi when he was flogged unjustly as a Roman citizen. They deserve that space. We can and should, as mentioned earlier, be vocal as well in calling out the injustice and raise a mirror to the authorities who need to catch a glimpse of any injustice. However, we can’t fully and truly feel the weight of that burden and fear placed upon them by this news. 

5. Have black friends but don’t make sure everyone knows you’ve got POC friends in a sensational way, especially after traumatic news events like this. You have friends who have a better tan by genetics than you? Great! The world needs more folks in community to break down heinous walls of racial inequality. However, don’t exploit friends who are POC by gaining racial merit badges for having an African American friend in such times. This devalues their true worth and tarnishes your relationship. Just be cool, hang out, love them. They’re fighting enough battles without being exploited by white friends with egos needing stroked.

6. Parents, intentionally have conversations with your children in which you inform their understanding of the value of all humans. As they grown in understanding be open about successes AND failures of your own particular race. One of the most powerful moments I’ve ever heard was from a close family member of mine (white) who confessed his past racism to an African American friend whom befriended him in a dark time of his life. He asked for forgiveness and repented of old ways of thinking. For a man from his generation from the West Tennessee town in which we lived this was powerful Jesus transformative community. It set a great deal of my relational trajectory. Teach love, grace, honesty, and a heart for justice. 

7. On a micro-level, ask with whom you share a table most days. With whom do you typically break bread, do family vacation, and play sports or music? These choices teach your children who is of social value to you and them as well. Can you make a spread at your table for someone whose names are not like yours? Will you intentionally share a meal with someone who doesn’t look like you who is gracious enough to join you and so begin teaching the next generation that tenants of law (macro approach) won’t fix all this mess in our hearts but maybe tables and food (micro approach) might.

Most people who become police officers do so to make their communities safer. I've known both white and black police officers who are good, good people. I've also known a few who are questionable. Either way this is beyond just a police matter. This is a cultural matter. It is the end result of the shadier underbelly of colonial history. Its roots run deep and often undetected on the surface but the biases we don’t check will bud into undesirable things in the common cultural garden we share. ​

We have to do the painful, rigorous work of uprooting the evil that dwells within ourselves, our common cultural assumptions, and our belief systems so that something healthy can grown. We have to stop tip-toeing around and, like Paul the apostle in Phillipi, not just take the quiet road out of the unjust situation. Paul believed Roman citizens’ lives mattered. If he was in Baton Rouge or Falcon Heights in the last 48 hours he would hold a light up to the authorities and examine their systemic health as well. Black lives matter. On this that he wouldn’t be silent nor should we and this becomes truer everyday.