Strikeouts, Base Hits, and Homeruns

I am not a huge sports fan.

I've said this before. I like to play, but I'm not much of a spectator. I like to do things, not watch them be done. That in itself is no doubt a topic to be explored, but not one for today. Today I want to talk about trying. 

To do anything, you have to try.

A number of years ago, my wife and I attended a small group through the church we had just started attending. We became good friends, then best friends with a couple we met there. That was in the Fall. The next Spring, that guy asked me to play softball on the Church League slow pitch team. Now, I had not played baseball since Little League, some 15 years earlier. My immediate response was, "No thanks; I wouldn't be any good."

My friend was persistent, though, and convinced me to give it a try. He took me out to practice a couple of times and I decided that I could pull it off without making a total fool of myself. I realized I might even enjoy it. I don't remember the first game, or the first season; that was over 15 years ago. What I do remember is that every Spring I looked forward to softball season, and I still do. All because I tried.

I'm not a great athlete. 

I'm average. I can field the ball, I can (sometimes) place my hits, and I can run the bases. I also have a weak arm, am terrible about swinging at bad pitches, and have a tendency to either slide into base or dive after a fly ball (or both) and tear up my body. But you know what? I always do the best I can, and try to have a good attitude. And that's the point.

You don't have to be good.

To do anything, you don't have to be good. Especially when it comes to doing God's work. Moses could not speak well, but God chose him to lead a nation. Peter had the tendency to over-react and fly off the handle, but Jesus chose him to be the rock upon which He built His church. Those guys weren't perfect in man's eyes. In fact, they weren't even close. But God had a purpose for them, and because they tried and did their best, it all worked out in the end.

Sometimes you are going to strikeout. But sometimes you won't.

Striking out is part of the game. Watch the Major Leagues. Hit the ball three times out of ten and you have a good batting average. And it's not all about home runs. We all know that home runs get the glory, but those who understand baseball know that base hits win games. Solo home runs score one run. But a bases-loaded grand slam? That only happens if the guys before the power hitter get on base. Sure, the guy at the plate may get the glory, but it was the guys (or girls) before him that deserve the credit. It's their three runs that mean a lot more than his one.

Apply that to life. Whatever it is you do, sometimes you are going to swing and miss. Sometimes you are going to go down looking. You'll ground out, pop up, foul off and get beat to the bag. Probably more often than not. But, sometimes you'll make it. A base hit, maybe a double. And sometimes--oh glorious day!--you're going to hit the sweet spot and make that ball of life scream out of the park.

You'll never know unless you try.

I don't know what your game is in this old world, but I can guarantee you this: If you don't try, you'll never score. And who knows? You just might be the next Babe Ruth, Hank Aaron, or A-Rod (scandals aside, of course). Isn't it worth a shot?
 

The Definition of Commitment

Til Death do us part.

In our wedding vows, most, if not all, of us said something to that effect. We made a promise to stand side by side, come what may. In sickness and in health. For richer or poorer. Til death do us part.

I do.

That simple two-word, three-lettered response is a promise, a covenant made in the presence of God and men. It is a serious matter. One that should not be taken lightly.

But this is not a rant about divorce. I want to look at the other side. I want to show you the most beautiful picture of what commitment looks like. I will fail to do this story justice, but I am going to try.

In sickness and in health

My friend's grandmother is ill. Very ill. She may well be at the end of her earthly journey, one that has spanned many years and multiple generations.  As is often the case, the end is not pretty. It's difficult. It's sad. It would almost seem unfair, except for one thing: She is not alone.

65 years ago, a young lady wed a man whom her mother looked at and said, "You can do better." I'm not sure she could have. After 65 years of the stuff of life, he remains at her side. And he has had to give up most everything to do so.

I do.

When her husband said I do, he meant it. When the dementia came, and she could no longer be at home, he did not abandon her. Every morning he rises, gets dressed, and goes to be with her. From the time she rises, til the time she goes to bed, he is there. By her side. She may not even know he is there, but it doesn't matter. He made a promise. He gave his word. He gave her his world.

And now, at 90 years old, he sits at her bedside. When she went to the hospital, he went with her. He left once, to shower and change, then went back. He was gone maybe 45 minutes, and I bet he worried the entire time. What if something happened? What if he wasn't there? She needed him, and he was going to be there. He said I do, and that's all there is to it.

Commitment.

Day and night, he remains with her. It's not easy--it can't be easy--but he does it. And he will continue to be there until she no longer is. That's commitment.

What would the world look like if we all did the same? 

Freedom--The True Gift

We take freedom for granted.

Here in America--and many other places for that matter--we often overlook how much freedom we have. I don't mean to go on a political rant or nationalistic comparison, but we have it pretty good here. That freedom did not come cheap, nor will it remain without ongoing work and sacrifice. There is a price for freedom. Remember that.

What does it mean to be free?

When I speak of freedom, I mean the ability to make decisions, and take actions, according to my own desires. I am talking about the opportunity to do and  think and say what I want, when I want, how I want. That, to me, is freedom. Unfettered. Unrestricted. Free.

I've never really known what it is like to be anything other than free. I cannot really say what it is like to be caged, fenced in, bound by restrictions. Not really. I've always had the opportunity to enjoy God's Creation as I choose. It's a gift, one which I jealously guard and cherish.

True freedom does not come from any government.

Without overlooking the civil liberties and freedoms I alluded to in my opening, being an American does not make me free. Were I only an American, I would remain bound and chained by a force and reality from which I could never break free. Some of you know what I am talking about, and some are about to stop reading. I encourage you to not do that. If you don't want to hear what I am going to say, then you need to hear it.

The reality of which I am speaking, the one thing which binds all of us into slavery, is sin. Thoughts and actions, words and motivations counter to the will and law of God. All have fallen short. All have sinned. And after a single sin--just one--we lose our freedom. We become slaves. That enslavement cannot be released by any work of man. Left to ourselves, we are slaves for eternity.

Freedom comes from Christ.

The only answer to sin is Christ. If you do not want to be a slave, then you want to be a follower of Christ, a child of God. Christ suffered, died, and rose again that we might have freedom. It's that simple. To receive emancipation from the chains of sin, all you have to do is accept that. Admit that you are a sinner, and that there is nothing you can do about it. Ask God to forgive you through His Son, Jesus Christ. Believe this to be true, and you are free. Believe it not, and you never will be.

Read the verse in the picture above from Isaiah 40:31. Put your hope in God, and know what it means to truly be free. To be renewed. To run this race of life, and not wear out. Now who wouldn't want that?

Weeds In Our Lives

Weeds.

Like it or not, they're coming. Even now, I see evidence of their stealthy advance, positioning themselves to wage an all out war on my lawn, my kingdom, my sanctuary. Oh sure, now they are small and innocuous. They blend in with the newly-green grass, like snipers. I cannot see them, but I know they're there, watching, waiting.

They lie in wait not only in the lawn, but in the midst of the flowers, and in the soil of the garden. Even there, where I plant seeds that will later nourish my family, they wait. Noxious. Poisonous. Dangerous.

How do you tell what is a weed, and what is a flower?

Sometimes, like now in early Spring, it is hard to know what is a weed and what is not. They are so effective, so cunning, they blend right in. You think that sprout is a weed, but it may be a flower, a carrot, or maybe even a volunteer tomato sprouting from a wintered-over seed. And even then, depending on where it is, that tomato may be a weed. I do not want a tomato in the middle of my lawn; but my garden? That's just fine.

You not only have to know what something is, but where it is growing to know if it is a weed or not. Growing up, my dad planted horseradish. That stuff spread everywhere, and you could not kill it off. We sprayed it with weed killer, which only made it stronger. We dug it up, only to see five plants sprout where once was one. That was--what--thirty years ago? I bet it's still there, waging war with whoever lives where we once did. That is some strong stuff, in more ways than one. In the garden, it was my dad's cherished plant. But when it spread beyond the confines of where it was supposed to be, it became the enemy.

Isn't that the way it is in life?

There are weeds waiting to spring up in the lawns and gardens of our lives. And just like the picture above, when they are in the foreground, they're actually kind of pretty. They look like something we would want. They smell good. Shoot, some people even eat them! But when you draw back, and look at the big picture, they're just weeds. They don't belong there. And if you don't deal with them soon, there will be more; a whole bunch more.

The weeds in your life may not be the same as mine. Probably are not, in fact. But we all have them. And though the blend in with those things which are good and desirable when they are small, they will grow. They will grow, and they will spread. Unchecked, they will choke out what is good, and leave you with a mess (pun not intended).

Be a good gardener.

Know what is growing in your garden. Be aware of what you are sowing, for what you sow you shall surely reap. 

Maundy Thursday--What's That Mean?

I used to to think people were saying, "Monday-Thursday."

When I first heard the phrase Maundy Thursday, that's what I thought. What in the world? That doesn't make any sense! I was ignorant, and it took me a while to do a little research to find out what was going on. Of course, I didn't ask. I'm a man, after all, and that would be like asking for directions, or something equally ridiculous. Like I said, I was ignorant.

What Maundy Thursday really means.

Although there is some disagreement as to exactly how we came about with the phrase, it seems most likely that it comes from the Latin translation of John 13:34. "Mandatum novum do vobis ut diligatis invicem sicut dilexi vos" ("A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you"). This is what Christ told His disciples after He had washed their feet. He gave them a new mandatum, a new command: To love one another. Just as He had loved them. How? He washed their feet.

Maundy-Thursday is about loving one another as Christ loves us. How? By serving one another. Some churches observe this new command with symbolic foot-washings. And I cannot disagree with their observances; after all, that's what Christ did. But I think we could go deeper than that.

What did Christ really do?

Yes, He washed the disciples' feet. But, as with most things Christ did, there is more to it than that. In the time of Jesus, washing the feet of a visitor was a servant's duty. And not just any servant, but usually the lowest ranking servant. It was a dirty, smelly job. Not something you would volunteer for. Not something a master would do for those who served him. Ever.

But Christ did. And that's why Peter was reluctant to have Christ wash his feet. He knew it was the job of a servant. If anything, he should be washing Christ's feet, not the other way around! But Jesus had a purpose, as He always does. He intentionally humbled Himself to teach His disciples (including us!) what really being a leader is all about.

And that's the lesson for us.

It wasn't just about washing His disciples' feet. It was about serving. And not just doing something that was easy, or pleasant. The lesson is that we are called to serve one another, even in ways that are unpleasant. Even in ways that are less than dignifying. Even if it means humiliation.

Love through service. That's what Maundy Thursday is all about.

So, who's feet can you wash today? 

God's Tree

There was once a tree, a very special tree, in a very special place. It was by God's own hand, as it always is, that this tree came to be. He ensured that the seed from which it sprouted was deep enough in the earth for its roots to take hold, but not so deep that it could not find its way to the surface. He gave it rain, and sun, but not too much of either. God watched over the small seedling to be sure it was safe. He needed it, you see.

The delicate roots took hold in the rocky soil, spreading out like hair, clasping the earth and drinking in the nutrients of life. God fed the tree by His own hand, and watered it from the rain in His storehouses. He protected it from the animals, sheltered it from the storms, guarded it with His strong right hand. He ensured the trunk was straight and strong, and that the branches sprouted high and wide. He smiled as the birds found shelter in His tree, and the deer found comfort in its shade. It was a good tree. His tree.

Year after year, God cared for His tree. It continued to grow, becoming what God wanted it to be, perfect for His purpose. God visited the tree often, caressing it gently with the breeze of His hand, knowing it was good. It was His creation, His plan, His tree. But there was a sadness about God when He came, a sadness which His angels could not understand. God had planted this tree, cared for it with His own hand. They did not understand the sadness of God, and He could not tell them. Not yet.

Then one day, as God knew they would, men came. Armed with axes, they circled His tree, His most special tree, and nodded to one another. This was the one. It was perfect for their purpose. Just as God had planned.

It happened quickly, as man's harvest often does. Unyielding iron bit into living wood, chopping, severing, killing. God's tree fell with a crash, the birds who called it home fleeing in terror, the deer who sought its shade watching from afar, unsure and afraid. Creation did not understand. But God did. God knew. He had known all along.

The men tore the limbs from the tree, needing only the trunk, strong and straight as God had ensured it would be. Chaining it to their beasts, they dragged it away, leaving behind a ragged stump, bleeding sap into the parched earth below as though God Himself were shedding tears of grief. And perhaps He was.

With the tools of their trade, the men formed and shaped, shaved and sawed, shedding sweat, and blood. When they were done, they stepped back, pleased with their work. This would do. This would do quite well. It was good. Very good.

What they had made, from what God had created, were two wooden beams. One lay atop the other, nestled in a notch cut just so. It had to be, you see, so that it could support the weight. The weight of a man. What man, they did not know. But God knew. He had known all along.

It was His tree, you see. Planted, watered, nurtured and protected by His own hand. For His own purpose. For His own Son. And it was the love He had for even the men who had taken His tree, and made it what it now was, that caused Him to look down, with a tear in His eye, and say, "It is good."

100 Years From Now . . .

I went to a visitation tonight for my Great Aunt. She lived to be 100 years old. Oh, the things she saw in her life! The good, and the bad. The awesome, the mundane. The grief, and the joy. What an amazing life to live.

Consider the past 100 years.

Wars have reshaped the map of the world time and again. Nations have risen, fallen, and risen again.  Alliances have been formed and broken. Enemies are now allies. We have gone from plodding on muddy roads astride horses to riding rockets to the moon. Medicine, communication, work, family, religion--nothing is the same. Change is the only constant.

What changes will the next 100 years bring?

Of course, no one knows. But of this we can be sure--change will come. Will those changes be as drastic as those of the past 100 years? It is hard to imagine, but who can say? How will people communicate and travel? What form will money take? What nations will rise, fall, unite? Will there be another War to end all wars, or unimaginable peace? What role will faith play in peoples lives?

Do we even have 100 years?

Many would say no. They would say that God will pull the plug on this evil world long before then. And I cannot argue--it would seem justified. Were God like me, He would not have tarried this long. But God is not like me. His ways are not my ways. His plan is beyond my understanding. No one can say when His day will come, but know this: It will come. Of that you can be assured.

How will you live?

Consider, for a moment, that you will live to be 100 years old. What do you think you will see? More importantly, how do you want to be remembered?