Do Your Thing

Tracy is a thirty-something mom living out her faith. The embodiment of her compassion has curly hair, mocha eyes and a healthy appetite—a six-week old foster child she keeps as a volunteer in a Christian crisis care organization. Last month, I visited Tracy for a few days. I watched her care for this sweet baby boy, marveling and worrying like a true mother. Her love and service touched me deeply.

And I wanted none of it.

I pondered on the long drive home. I knew that Tracy was doing important work. She was changing a life and influencing others with a tangible expression of “love your neighbor.” But as much as I admire Tracy, I didn’t rush to fill out any foster baby forms.

My friend Anne is another big-hearted woman who loves God. She is currently arranging backyard Bible clubs—in her backyard and others—so that she can teach her children and their friends this summer. Anne expresses her Jesus-passion in songs and crafts and joy that makes children love her.

And I want none of that.

Backyard Bible clubs and foster babies? It’s just…not my thing.

A recent post, “Can We Serve Too Much?” generated some great discussion about how much—and why—we serve others. Is there a limit to what we give? Is there an art to the spiritual discipline of meeting needs?

We know that compassion is a central focus of our faith. If God had a business card, his job title would be “compassionate and gracious.” He almost trips over himself in the Old Testament, telling his people repeatedly about his merciful and loving character.

It was no different for his Son. Whenever the Gospels mention Jesus’ compassion, he takes action. He does something with his feelings. He teaches, heals, feeds, and prays for the people who seek his care.

But here’s the thing: he doesn’t meet every need.

At the pool in Jerusalem, Jesus healed the paralytic—but how many crippled bodies and broken souls did he step over?

At the village of Nain, Jesus raised the young son of a widow from the dead—but how many funerals did he attend as a mourner?

On the hillside by the Sea of Galilee, Jesus fed thousands—but how many hungry beggars did he walk by in his life?

On earth, Jesus taught, healed, fed, and prayed— he did his thing. But while Jesus took on flesh, he didn’t do it all. I wrestle with the divine plan of Jesus’ humanity. Of his chosen limits of power on earth. I wrestle with it, but I appreciate it. I wonder if Jesus felt frustrated by his limitations. I wonder if he felt the human-ness of experiencing unmet needs in a world crying out for more.

The evening I returned from Tracy’s, I snuck away from unpacking for a Sunday evening retreat to the grocery store. A teenager with bright eyes and a cheerful voice packed my bags. We struck up a conversation. In the four minutes that it took to load my car, my friend “Q” told me about the four-mile walk to work, almost every day of the week. “Will you walk home tonight?” I said, glancing down at his shoes and up at the night sky as I opened my door. “Yes ma’am…sometimes I can’t get to my homework because it’s so late. But,” he said, in an upbeat tone, “I always get my homework done, even if I have to get up early.”

I spun around to catch Q’s eyes. “Do you want a bike?” Q smiled at me, stammering a bit, and nodded. His wide grin sparked my own as I replied, “I’ll be back.”

That evening, I posted on my Facebook status: “who’s got a bike they don’t use?” Fifteen minutes later, I had wheels. The next day, I picked up the bike and giddily drove to the grocery store, hoping Q would be there. That was the best part of my week—’cause I was doing my thing. It wasn’t a foster baby or a Bible club. But it was a response to a deep feeling in my heart—the whisper of do something.

Perhaps we walk by opportunities to serve on our way to doing the things God wired us each uniquely to do. And our individual efforts, our things, are a glorious picture of the beauty and diversity of the body working in unity to express “thy kingdom come.”

Let’s celebrate that diversity together. You tell us: what’s your thing?

Choosy Leaders Choose (Like) Jesus

Samuel showed up on a Wednesday evening about the time we were beginning our fellowship meal, insisting he and I sit at a table by ourselves. He told me that he was possessed by a demon that had plagued him for much of his life. Some of his family members experienced the same thing. He made a fist around his ear lobe, indicating the kind of excruciating pain it caused.

But then a smile appeared on his face. “Last week, when I attended your prayer service, the pain stopped. I felt a relief from it that I have never felt before.”

I was speechless (an oddity for me). “Really?” I asked, “Last week? At our prayer service?” I looked around to see if anyone was overhearing this conversation. My clergy ego told me to take pride. My modern mind told me to beware.

I proceeded in a very mainline Protestant kind of way by asking questions. “Have you seen a doctor?” He had, but to no avail. “Are you taking any medications?” No. “Are you experiencing stress?” Not particularly. “Have your family members ever felt relief from their pain?” He shook his head.

“Pastor, I have never tried church before. In all this time, I have never tried church. Will you pray for me again? My pain has returned but I remember what it felt like to have it lifted.”

There seemed to be an amazing clash of wills at work as Samuel and I sat together. His hope was met with my suspicion. Did he need Jesus or did he need a pharmacy? I wondered where all my skepticism came from. Was I tired? I had already spent significant time that week “fixing” things: an overdue water bill for one man, a needed prescription for a woman’s sick child, a new ID card for a homeless man. I began to think of Samuel’s situation as just another one to be fixed by human hands. Or, better yet, by Walgreens.

In Mark’s gospel we are told of a leper who came to Jesus begging, “If you choose, you can make me clean.” Jesus, moved with pity, stretched out his hand to touch him and said, “I do choose. Be made clean!” (Mark 1:40-41).

Stories of Jesus’ “choosing” underlie the gamut of our faith. Over and over again Jesus chooses—to heal, to cleanse, to listen, to pray, to proclaim. Jesus chooses to be in relationship in nearly every form that takes.

As leaders, the simple-yet-complex act of choosing is at the heart of what we do too. We choose to make ourselves available. We choose to listen. We choose to trust that the source of any solution lies not merely in our hands but in God’s, and the ways the Lord works in and through individuals and community for healing.

The modern pharmacy represents the best solution to many of our everyday crises. I am truly grateful one is located on nearly every corner in downtown Miami. But the availability of scientific “remedies” to everything from illness to anger often leads us further away from the One who chooses us. And we find even us leaders asking, “Really?”

It was refreshing to see the hope in Samuel’s eyes. “I’ve never tried church.” I am sure he had already been to Walgreens. As a Christian leader I am called to choose to sit with Samuel and pray for his healing while guiding him to Scripture and practices of the Christian faith that I believe will bring wholeness to his being.

That is what I will choose.

The Crazy Dark Days

Leadership is lonely.

We know that. We’ve been told that a zillion different ways from a million different leaders.

But, have you ever had one of those days that is beyond just lonely? One of those days where it feels so dark, like the world is closing in and you want to just walk away?

I call those the dark days of leadership. The days when the shades of gray are so thick you can’t see hope for the future at all. The days where you question everything. The days when your confidence and commitment seem nearly gone.

Lonely days are one thing, but dark days are lethal.

Darkness is suffocating and debilitating and if you allow yourself to live there too long it will destroy your leadership.

I’ve had my share of dark days. And what I’ve found is that there is a direct correlation between my dark days and my communion with God. More specifically my lack of communion with God.

My dark days come when

• I’ve been working from my own strength
• I’ve eliminated solitude and Sabbath
• I’ve failed to head the warnings of loved ones and friends
• I’ve neglected quality, consistent time with God

My dark days are a result of my vain efforts to do it all, be it all, have it all.

“Are you going to continue this craziness? For only crazy people would think they could complete by their own efforts what was begun by God” (Gal. 3:3, MSG).

The dark days are the hardest days to stop and get perspective. I find myself toiling more over the things I’m stressing about and yet frantically getting nowhere. I love that the Galatians passage calls this “crazy.” Yep, that’s what it feels like—crazy!

“Stay with God! Take heart. Don’t quit” (Ps. 27:14, MSG).

How about you? Do you wrestle with dark days? How do you stop the craziness?

Can We Serve Too Much?

Every few weeks, my husband and I get together with a group of friends. Since we all met at church—and since we were the brainchild of our teaching pastor and his wife—we might look like a “small group,” but that’s not quite right. We get together and eat and drink and talk. And talk and talk. Whoever hosts gets to choose the topic of discussion—or to throw out some questions. We offer each other openness and confidentiality and support. And I love it.

Anyway, yesterday one of these friends emailed to see if we’d be interested in doing a little “service project” for our next get-together. Even though he suggested something simple that could be done while eating and talking, I actually groaned when I read his request. Though I waited a good half-hour before putting in my two cents, my email reply groaned right along with me.

I wrote that were it solely up to me, I’d rather not do the project (nice, I know) because, “I often feel like my life is one big, exhausting service project and one thing I love about this group is the chance to chill and be among people who I can admit things like I just did.”

I realized right away that I sounded horrible and whiney, half-bragger, half-martyr, but I sent it anyway. Because I actually feel strongly about this.

Don’t get me wrong: I have nothing against service projects. I believe we are called to serve. And I do (hence, the line about my life being one-big project). Most of the time I do it gladly—with a cheerful heart. I do it out of love—for God and for others.

But sometimes, I just can’t. Sometimes I just need a break from serving or leading or writing or playing or making dinner and just have a chance to be. To laugh, to talk, to share, to answer silly questions or discuss big topics. And to have something nice to sip and yummy to munch on while I’m doing it among friends just makes it all the better.

This is what this group represents to me. And it’s been a life-giving and renewing and restful group to be with. Which is why I found myself groaning. I suppose I feel protective of what it’s given me—of what it means to me. Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe it’s not.

I’m not sure. But I keep thinking.

Because we just had Easter, my brain keeps going back to Jesus—reclining at the table with his friends—at the Last Supper. Of course, the “you’re being selfish” part of me argues that Jesus did a “service project” at this supper: This was where he washed feet—our ultimate image of the servant leader!

But the “not selfish” part argues that this was their “last” supper—not the only supper. How many of these did they have when Jesus didn’t wash feet? What about all the ones where they just laughed and talked and ate? What about the one where Jesus got his feet anointed and his feet lavished with perfume.

Maybe I’m just trying to fit Jesus into a mold I need right now—and clearly, that’s not right. But I also think he did give us an example of a servant, a leader, a perfect man, who spent his days in ministry, who gave his life out of love, but who also needed some time to be. Among friends. To relax, to eat, to talk about their day—and sometimes to wash some feet. And sometimes to get his anointed.

So maybe the “trick” of it is to find a place where we can unload and unwind, where we can be renewed and refilled, but be ready to serve one another when needed. Does that sound right?

I still feel bad about the way I responded. I’ll probably end up emailing back—or sending out the link to this post (to see if anybody in my group reads what I write) and apologizing for my snippiness.

But I think my intention was right. That those of us who work in ministry—who spend what often feels like every moment—pouring out our very souls to others do need to protect these nourishing friendships and places we find.

What do you think? Do you get protective or greedy with people, places, and things that nourish you? Is this okay?