The POLAR BEAR

Will Montgomery

Mindstir Media

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The Polar Bear

Copyright © 2011 by Will Montgomery. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information, e-mail all inquiries to info@mindstirmedia.com.

Scripture quotations marked (NIV) are from the Holy Bible: New International Version, copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

Scripture quotations marked (NLT) are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

Scripture quotations marked (ESV) are from the Holy Bible, English Standard Version® (ESV®), copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Scripture quotations marked (KJV) are from the King James Version of the Bible.

Published by Mindstir Media

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1.800.767.0531 | www.mindstirmedia.com

ISBN-10: 0-983677-19-0

ISBN-13: 978-0-9836771-9-2

Visit Will Montgomery on the World Wide Web:

www.writerwill.com

Table of Contents

Intro

Part 1—

Cooler than the Other Side of the Pillow (Culture)

You Owe the Cuss Jar a Nickel (Speech)

All the World’s a Stage (Character)

Every Plane Has a Pilate (Truth)

Yes, This Seat is Saved (Faith)

The Septic Tank of Love (Love)

Part 2—

How Ya Like Them Apples (Sin)

Salvation Army Reserve (Great Commission/Salvation)

I’ll Have Jesus on the Side, Please (Sanctification)

Lord, Bless Us, Lord (Prayer)

Always & Forever (Eternity)

His[story] (God)

Outro

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writing a book of this (small) magnitude and (little) consequence requires a wonderful slew of people. Since I am a starving author, it is basically composed of friends and family. Ya dig?

To my publisher, Mindstir Media and J. J. Hebert, thanks for taking a chance on a mediocre writer with a message that is far more important that he is.

To my family, Carl, Beverly, Amy, and Matt, thanks for all the love and support. You believed in me even when I didn’t and, for that, this book and the words inside are yours and forever will be.

To Erin and John, thanks for taking such good care of my brother and sister, respectively.

To my niece, Poppy, and nephews, Kent, Jared, Luke, and Brice, I hope this means you think I’m a little cooler now, but probably not.

To my line editor and precious grandmother, Dean Guy, all I ever wanted to do was be as grammatically correct as you some day. That day is not today. (Since any mistakes in this are my fault.)

To my content editor and best friend, David Booth, none of this would be possible without your life lived in front of me for the past 11 years.

To my friends, Kimberly McLaughlin, Jami Horton, and Stephenie King, who read through the book and helped get it ready.

To John and Michael Moen, of MoeDev, thanks for the cool website and handling all that tech stuff I don’t understand.

To Darius Fitzgerald, of Fitzgerald Photography, thanks for making me look halfway attractive and fooling everyone.

To every single one of my friends and extended family who have always said that out of anyone they knew, I was one of them. Just know that I enjoy surrounding myself with superior people.

A special thanks to those others (in extremely random order) who directly influenced this book and some of whom appear in these pages: Brian Krzych, Adam Meshaw, Andy Nentwig, Marcus Green, Will Robertson, Jimmy Gore, Tommy Lockwood, Ian Underhile, Jared Sullivan, Michael Meshaw, Jason Jackson, Matt Sigler, Nate Robinson, Chris & Iveylee Trump, Clif Roth, Al Jackson, Shaun McMahon, Jason Weckel, Barry Boswell, Bobby Harris, Nathan Ranew, Ryan Kennedy, Chris Brian, Joseph Martin, Denise Stroup, Josh Spell, Brian Charles, Shayna Harder, Tahnee Robinson, Lisa Prisock, Justin Morgan, Roy Morgan, Darrell Burrow, Tag Thompson, Melissa Lyftogt, Jaime Jamgochian, Anna Fox, Nicholah Lunich, Abby Royster, Abi Blackerby, Joy Barth, Elizabeth Hardy, Audra Thornton, Trisha Wray, Jonathan Vansandt, Freddie Milligan, Mike Millett, Daniel Dreaden, Kyle & Laura Cooksey, Kara Herblin, Kristen McCoy, Ashley Steele, Ali Jo Forester, Ben Cleveland, Ben & Tina Wyatt, Matt Smith, Jonathan Hayes, David Taylor, Joey & Leslie Weisman, Kelsey Marie, Ty Russell, Jon Acuff, Blythe Daniel, Bic Guy, Adam York, Steve Dyer, Jeff Newman, Tom Griffin, Bill Woodcock, Shawn & Suzanne Kuhn,

Pat Harker, J.D. Herchenhahn, Mike Meshaw, Barren Nobles, David Snow, Valerie Anders, Gertie Rollins, John Hain, Jill Beard, Robert Miller, J. David Huffman, Sheri Rose Shepherd, Angela Thomas, Karen Kingsbury, Grace Baptist Church, Tennessee Temple University, and Wilmington Christian Academy (and the Class of 1997).

(If I forgot anyone, God remembers you.)

Miss you, Clint…

This book was written in honor of my great grandmother, Thelma Dean Kelly Canady.

Finally, to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. I know I let You down constantly, but I hope just this once I have made You proud.

This book is dedicated to the four most influential and important people in my life. They are the original polar bear(s):

Carl Jennings Montgomery, Jr.

Beverly Jeannine Guy Montgomery

Amy Lynn Montgomery Griffin

Matthew Eugene Montgomery

Intro

Let’s get this party started right. I am a sinner. I’m not qualified to tell you anything about life or living for Jesus Christ. Only God can do that, but isn’t that the beauty of Jehovah? He reveals His will through His Word and ordinary, ho-hum sinners like you and me. Got it? Good. Feel better? Great. With confession time out of the way, I want you to know that this has taken me many years to write. And after all that time, I hope this book will convey what I’m thinking, what I’m feeling, and what I believe.

I believe that the current culture of evangelical Christianity is dying. Having been at its deathbed for the past 20-some years, this fact (and it is a fact) may end up being a good thing. However, we will leave that to future generations, because our job is not finished yet. If it were acceptable to “ride off into the sunset,” then I would not feel an overwhelming burden to pen this plea. We are in danger of blowing the biggest opportunity in history, which would alter all of eternity, and not in our favor. What will it take for the few of us to stand and fight in a world that cares nothing for our well-being, our message, and our Savior? What you read in these pages does not come from a learned, Biblical scholar. It does not come from a pastor. It does not come from the Moral Majority. It does not come from “them.” It comes from us. You see, my mother always told me never to point a finger at someone because I would always have three fingers pointing right back at me. Sorry, Mom, but I’ve decided to point the finger at everyone, because I deserve to have the other three pointed at me. If Paul was truly the “chief of sinners,” then I’m his first lieutenant.

This book was born from the incessant need within myself to do something, anything, to make my life count for Jesus Christ. I’m tired of denying Him with the words of my mouth and the actions (or lack thereof) of my hands and feet. How about you? I am a simple and normal everyday Christian speaking to my fellow brothers and sisters who feel and live the same way I do day in and day out and yet do nothing! There are so many things we all get caught up in that have absolutely no bearing on eternity, yet we spend our lives wasting away with coffee shops, laundry, and Facebook. There is nothing wrong with these things, but I’m convinced that Satan has lulled us to sleep, not through sin, but through sloth. So many of us are good people, yet our neighbors, co-workers, friends, and even family members are jet-skiing their way toward Hell’s gates and we’re supplying the fuel. Stand up, my fellow brothers and sisters. Prepare ye the way for the Lord, because He is coming. And His coming is sooner rather than later. (Is it okay to get dramatic this early? I hope so.)

My name is William Carl Montgomery and while I spare you the par-for-the-course "all about me" section, I will share with you one thing about me. I want to be a polar bear; no, not the large, white mammal that lives in the Arctic and appears in old Coca-Cola Christmas ads, but a polarizing figure in the sense that you will either love me or loathe me based on what I have to say. Ah, now you get the analogy. Unfortunately, some of you will not read beyond this sentence. Some of you will pass this book off as a backslidden Christian/novice writer’s attempt to help us all sleep a little easier at night. Or some will feel it’s too preachy, too judgmental, and too dogmatic. And that’s too bad. But for those of you who’ll stick around, I promise to make nice and not waste your time. Pinky swear.

Polarization is an interesting concept. It is quite a paradox as to how similar people can find so many qualities that are lovable in one human being, yet those same characteristics cause such disdain from others. I cannot change this, for I have dealt with this phenomenon for thirty-two years now, and if we're telling secrets, I very much like it this way. Polarization could be the spice of life, could it not? Especially when it concerns followers of Jesus Christ.

This book is divided into two parts. The first part consists of six chapters that deal with six topics that primarily relate to one’s earthly life: culture, speech, character, truth, faith, and love. Obviously, everything we do in one way or another affects the afterlife, but I break down these six topics and make them relatable to you in the here and now. The second part consists of six chapters that deal with the eternality of one’s life: sin, salvation, sanctification, prayer, eternity, and God. Successfully navigating all twelve topics is essential to living an effective life for Jesus Christ. Unfortunately, we aren’t perfect, and some of these massive entities will never be perfected in us until Jesus finishes our faith. That’s okay, as long as we try, try again. If you can glean one thing from this book that helps strengthen you as a believer, then the torment of having these words bottled up inside me and typing them up on an old Macbook Pro is completely worth it. That’s not hyperbole. I mean it. In a way, writing this book has changed me in ways I had never imagined. Change I can (actually) believe in. If someone reads this book along the way and it does the same for them, then great. We are all in this together, and we’re all in it forever. Getting there is what makes it interesting.

Please know that I am praying for you, and that these words of mine (that could have easily have come from you) quite possibly could assist in helping us understand a little bit better what our Christian walk could be. I was going to write that we “must be willing” and some other nonsense, but that is an oxymoron. Willingness cannot be coerced or guilted into existence. You either are, or you are not. If you cannot fathom that the very souls of certain people you know are at stake, then put this book down (that you hopefully purchased new on Amazon.com for $0.01) and check out The Shack. It’s a good read. As for me, when I stand before Jesus Christ, I will be held accountable for my words and actions. I cannot answer for anyone but myself. It is for this reason alone that I have everything. It’s also the reason I have nothing. But most importantly, it’s why I have you. People are the only eternality on this earth. Satan understands this fact and will do everything in his power to keep you from fulfilling your God-given purpose. But there’s another enemy we often overlook: ourselves. Based on this sobering truth, you must become the Polar Bear. I must become the Polar Bear. We must become the Polar Bear.

Cooler than the Other Side of the Pillow

As all of you already know, I grew up in a very loving but strict household. (Okay, now you know.) My parents monitored what the three of us kids in our family watched, listened to, and read on a regular basis. I enjoyed reading very much and, with my sister’s nose stuck in her Mandie books, about the most controversial thing my brother and I ever read growing up was The Sugarcreek Gang mystery novels. Regarding what we watched, going to the movies was out of the question, since the school where my mother worked didn’t allow their teachers to attend theaters. At home, Nick at Nite was a massive part of the viewing entertainment I received as a child. Sure, my mom let us watch certain shows that met her approval (like TGIF on Friday nights), but we were mainly relegated to My Three Sons and I Love Lucy reruns. And we were okay with that. I enjoyed these classics and never really pushed the envelope when it came to television or movies. Music, however, was a very different story, and it would be one my brother would dictate.

One of the many highlights of my young life was taking a family trip to see my grandparents in Tallahassee, Florida, every summer. My uncle, aunt, and two cousins lived there as well, which allowed us to visit several of our relatives on my mom’s side in one fell swoop. What should have been a ten-hour drive from our home in coastal North Carolina would stretch into twelve to thirteen hours, since my dad insisted on stopping somewhere every hour. Seriously, I have visited every rest area, novelty shop, and tourist attraction on the Eastern Seaboard. I didn’t mind much, as I would always talk him into purchasing something for us at each place. Anytime my sister or brother wanted something, they turned to me. My mom, however, did mind. Since DVD’s and PSP’s had yet to be invented, sugar, trinkets, and annoying Mom were the most fun a boy could have on a long road trip. Music should have served as the bridge between the two places, but the three of us were not allowed to listen to secular music, and searching for an Oldies station on the AM/FM dial was exhausting. Christian rock was still a burgeoning industry, and one my parents were not yet sold on (and really never would be). The music that filled our 1985 Oldsmobile was the harmonious hums and whistles emanating from the three of us in the back seat. I don’t like to brag, but we could have easily been mistaken for the Von Trapp family. Although, being that young, I sounded more like Leisl than I did Kurt. My mom says to this day that one of her favorite memories is the sound of the three of us on road trips. Mine, too. But we had to make our own music, as opposed to finding something our parents would allow. And this is exactly why we loved going to visit our family in Florida. Our male cousin, Bic, would let us listen to anything we wanted and, since we couldn’t have known what we wanted, he would pick for us. This was the early 90’s so we got a steady diet of MC Hammer, Boyz II Men, Paula Abdul, and plenty of techno to go around. On one of these trips, we also got hold of our cousin Lan’s contemporary Christian music collection for the first time. And this was even more shocking to us than Vanilla Ice. You’d think we would have at least heard snippets, going to a Christian school, but CCM (contemporary Christian music) was a genre that was on its “Bambi legs,” so to speak; old enough to walk, but still too young to do it with ease. Sandi Patty, dc Talk, 4Him, and Point of Grace were just a few of the artists that were opening a brand new door for my brother and me as we sat on the floor in my cousin’s room, listening to her CD player. Every time I paused the CD because I was nervous about being found out, my brother just hit the play button. It was Christian music, after all.

I recall those memories fondly these days, because we believed these people were different. We believed that they wanted to glorify God through their work, capturing our hearts while they captivated our minds. And this is ninety-nine percent true. I have had the privilege of getting to know many of our favorite Christian artists these days, and I can tell you that they really do practice what they preach. But earlier I threw out the figure of ninety-nine percent. I could spend all day telling you personal and true stories about the ninety-nine percent; but I’d like to focus on the one percent, because this is the number the world focuses on when looking to discredit our faith.

Several years ago, a neighborhood kid was going around the area selling magazine subscriptions for a school fundraiser. Being the softy that I am, I decided to purchase two subscriptions that would last for a year. Looking through the catalogue, I couldn’t seem to find many magazines that struck a chord with me.

“Uh, dude, I don’t see anything I’d really read in here.”

“Well, mister, how about Field and Stream?” he asked.

“Hmm, well, I’m not much of an outdoorsman.”

“What about Good Housekeeping or Southern Living?” he asked.

“Umm, yeah, those might be good.”

I was beginning to think that this kid was too young to know what any of these magazines contained inside their covers, so I asked him if I could see the catalogue again and I would just pick two. After looking for a minute and already having chosen a year of Sports Illustrated (of course), I came across the music section and saw a Christian music magazine staring me back in the face. I had now made my second selection and couldn’t have been happier. Now, I have always said that the golden age of contemporary Christian music was the mid-to-late nineties (and maybe into the early 2000’s) and while I may get some flack for that opinion, I feel confident in such an assessment. I believe that every good thing in life has a prime. And this was no different. But I hadn’t picked up a Christian music magazine in a while, so I thought it would be cool to catch up on the times. The youngster thanked me, handed me my copy of the receipt, and waved as he strolled toward the next apartment.

I chuckled to myself as I closed the door and laid the receipt on the TV stand. I had forgotten about my two new magazine subscription purchases by dinnertime that night. It wasn’t until a few weeks later that the first of my two subscriptions was waiting for me in the mailbox one afternoon. It took me a second of wondering why I was holding an issue of a Christian music magazine until my memory raced back to the day I had ordered it from that kid. I had a little bit of time to waste that fall day and decided to peruse the latest Christian music news from across the nation. I came upon an interview toward the middle of the magazine with a band that was quickly becoming quite popular. You see, being the fan of Christian music that I was, I could tell you about most of the Christian bands and even the secular ones whose members claimed to be Christians. My curiosity was instantly piqued at the thought of reading about this particular Christian band, which was beginning to achieve mainstream success, and I was crossing my fingers, hoping something in the interview would glorify Christ. Sounds odd, doesn’t it? Forgive me if I seem jaded, but I’d had years of experience in watching Christian musicians start in the CCM industry, only to attempt a crossover to mainstream music once the opportunity came their way. And I’m here to say that’s fine. But what I read in the interview was not.

There were the obligatory questions and cookie cutter answers about where the band was from, how they were formed, and who were their musical influences. But I knew what was coming. Almost toward the end of the interview, the question was posed from the music journalist about the role of faith in their music, and if they would stay true to their roots as a Christian band. Their answer proved the flawed relationship between Christians and our culture today. After a few hems and haws, the lead singer of the band went on to stress that, while they had personal beliefs, they weren’t there to influence anyone else with their doctrine. They wanted to make good music and write excellent lyrics, but someone’s faith should be personal and no one’s business but his or her own. True, they had been labeled a “Christian band” when they began, but were working to get away from being branded in such a way.

I looked up from the magazine as I closed it and tossed it onto the coffee table. I suppose I should have been furious, but in a world with too many of these answers from celebrities, politicians, and athletes who claim to be Christians occurring more frequently, I sighed to myself. I had become accustomed to seeing this happen. And while it did anger me, I knew the fault for this and others like it belonged to our culture of Christianity. But why is it our fault and how did it get this way? Let me explain.

Okay, fun fact for ya. I have had twenty-five roommates since I left home and headed off to college in Tennessee. Twenty-five! Now before you start to think I scared them all away, please know that most every one of them are still friends of mine to this day. It seems when it came to the choice profession for said roommate(s), I tended to bunk with guys who were youth pastors. This is humorous, since most people who know me know I have made fun of the profession for years. Don’t get me wrong; I think youth pastors are highly valuable in the church and have learned much from them over the years. I delight in meeting a youth pastor and finding out he is as “make-funable” as the last one. To me, they are one level in the Christian stereotype hierarchy above a worship leader. Trucker hat tilted to the side? Check. Flannel shirt complete with matching Airwalk sneakers? Check. Soul-patch complete with soul-drip? Check. Latest tobyMac album blasting overhead in a street-themed-decorated youth room? Check. I have roomed with seven youth pastors throughout my twenties and, even though I liked to get under their skin, every single one of them were godly men who cared about the lives and hearts of their students. This is mostly true in our churches today. And I’m certain these guys, along with pastors and worship leaders alike, have had to work harder than ever to stay relevant in our culture. But I think Christians today are missing the point. What our world needs is not a message with all the bells and whistles of a Lady Gaga concert, but the truth of the gospel so different from anything they’ve ever experienced that it is irresistible. We’ve worked so hard to become cool that we’ve forgotten the call.

And this is exactly why interviews with formerly Christian bands that cover up the gospel for fear of losing their newfound popularity are our fault. We’ve told them it’s okay to be spiritual. We’ve told them it’s okay to keep your beliefs to yourself. We’ve told them it’s okay to let your life do the talking, while your families, friends and co-workers die and go to Hell because one can’t have a conversation about Jesus anymore. Oh no, it’s much better to live your faith out in front of people because we don’t want to offend anyone, we say. And we tell them all this because we don’t say a word when all of the aforementioned happens. We keep our mouths shut because that’s the Christian, loving thing to do. We thank God publicly in the bank for the loan to start our small business. We tell an unsaved employee that we’ll keep him in our prayers when he’s going through a divorce. We head downtown to the clubs to celebrate our friend’s birthday, but decline to drink because we’re the designated driver. We do all of this because these people think we’re Christians, yet we never mention the name of Jesus. We allow these interviews and instances to continue, because Heaven forbid that we condemn anything ungodly for fear of looking narrow-minded and judgmental.

I have attempted the art of living for Jesus and appearing to be one of those Christians who was “down” with popular culture at the same time. I was as cool as a winter’s night in Antarctica. And I’ll be the first to tell you that it just doesn’t mix. Sooner or later, the glitz and glam will pull you in, just as it has done to countless believers like me who have had a taste of it and were not able to stay true to Jesus. Look at Eve. She wanted what the world offered and simply could not have both. No one can. Yet, we constantly are fooled into thinking it’s possible. And it never, ever works.

Perhaps I have come across a bit harsh in these last few paragraphs, and I’ll be the first to admit that. But we live in a world full of believers who attempt to look and act like unbelievers, all under the guise of loving others for Jesus. I am all for having countless friendships with unbelievers, because when all is said and done, they are the main reason we still walk this earth. But I refuse to ascribe to the notion that we must become like them to reach them. And more often than not, our culture of Christianity today goes too far in this direction. We often work so hard to love our unsaved community that we sometimes forget why we’re supposed to love them in the first place.

A friend of mine, Jaime, told me I am too hard on myself. She says that she thinks I let the devil beat up on me a lot. And I wouldn’t necessarily disagree with that, save for one thing. It’s not the devil that often causes us to stumble and experience defeat. We often get in the way of the Lord in our own lives. And the world we live in aids us mightily in this cause. Yet it’s the world that God so loved that He gave His only Son. It’s the world that you and I are supposed to go out into every day and live our lives in front of so that Christ is lifted up and becomes real to each person we encounter.

Years ago, I fulfilled a lifelong dream of mine. On a spring day one year, I decided I would quit my job, sell as much stuff as I could, pack my 1992 Nissan Maxima with all the stuff that didn’t sell and that would fit in the car, and drive west until I reached California. Perhaps I went out there to become an actor, or to enjoy the constant sunshine, or maybe it was to be as close to the Lakers as possible; nevertheless, I was bound for La-La Land. I knew that the most important thing I could do, aside from finding a place to live, was to get involved in a good church with lots of people my age. I was warned about falling by the wayside upon leaving the Bible belt, but I was pretty certain God would be making the trip with me. I left North Carolina with a little bit of money, a determination I had never felt before, and Alison Krauss and Coldplay to keep me company. After arriving in California, my future roommate Freddie, whom I had picked up in Dallas, and I crashed in Bakersfield for a week. We looked for jobs in L.A. during the day and lived out of our cars at night. After a week, we both struck gold the same day and together found jobs at a golf course and an apartment to rent in the San Fernando Valley. On our way to the interview at the golf course, we passed a huge church on Highway 118 toward Simi Valley. As it was Friday, I decided that this church (the first one I had seen in L.A.) would be the church I would call home. Frankly, I didn’t have the time or gas money to church hop every week until I found a place I liked. I was bound and determined to make this church work.

I decided to pull out the yellow pages (this was before iPhones) and give the church office a call. An older lady answered on the third ring and I explained to her our situation. She told us about a college service that took place on Sunday nights and suggested we start there. It was settled. Normally, going to church would not have been such a planned ordeal, but remember, we had one shot to get this started off right. And we weren’t gonna blow it.

Freddie and I thought it to be a good idea to get there a little before the service started so we could work on meeting a few people to lessen the awkwardness of being new. We were met at the door by a guy who asked us our names and if we had ever visited there before. (I liked the directness of Californians.) We told him our names and told him we were new and before we knew it were being whisked away to meet the college pastor, Mike. He was in his mid-thirties, friendly, and as loud as one could be. We made small talk about where we were from and what we were doing in the Valley. He informed us that we were going to get plugged in there and that was final. He told us about small group on Monday nights and prayer meeting on Wednesday mornings. There was no room for rebuttal. (I later told Freddie that it must have been our Southern accents. “The South is so fascinating to these people,” I said, but he just rolled his eyes.) After our first service, we had met mostly everyone on the staff, the praise team, and the small group leaders.

The next evening was small group and we arrived to find twenty or so guys on large, vintage-looking couches facing each other in a huge common room. We later found out that four or five ministry interns lived at this address, thus making it the most popular hangout for the guys in the college group. It was the first time I had ever experienced TiVo. I instantly liked this place and these people. We sat around for a while, talking sports and girls, before the leader of the small group got things started. (On a side note, this is the night I met one of my best friends. His name is Brian and he mostly did the talking about sports and girls. He was definitely more qualified in the area of sports.) The small group leader read from the Book of Galatians and began asking questions about the text. After a few more minutes of discussion, he asked everyone to pray with him as he closed out the evening. After a few people prayed, he finished. He made some announcements concerning the church, the college group, and finally the small group. At the end, he asked Freddie and me to raise our hands as he told the guys we were new and that each of them needed to meet us and make us feel welcomed. After the initial embarrassment subsided, most of the group filed by to speak with us. One fellow asked me where I was from and what I was doing here. I told him I had just found a job at a golf course. I asked him where he was from and what he did for a living.

“Oh, I’m from here, but I don’t have a job right now,” he said.

“Oh, ok, that’s cool.”

“Well, I’m not lazy, man, I just quit my job, I should say,” he explained.

“I didn’t think you were lazy.”

“Cool,” he said.

We stood there looking at each other for what seemed like an eternity.

“Well, what did you do?”

“I was a bartender,” he answered.

“Oh, cool.”

“I had never had a drink of alcohol in my life,” I thought.

“Why’d ya quit?”

I knew I was prying, but I was a visitor and, to him, didn’t know any better.

“Well, man, I have always been a Christian, right, and at first, I had no problem tending bar. But the more and more I read the Bible and tried to be a better Christian, man, the more I realized I simply couldn’t reconcile the two lifestyles,” he said. “I’ve got no problem with drinking in moderation, but the stronger I became as a believer, the more I felt like I shouldn’t be doing it anymore.”

I stood there for a moment and really thought about what he was saying.

“I understand. Well, it was great meeting you, bro. And I’ll see you Sunday.”

“No doubt, man. Later,” he responded.

Freddie and I walked out of the house toward his truck. I was quiet on the way home, thinking about my last conversation after small group. Growing up, I would have questioned how this guy who had claimed to be a Christian could even get into bartending in the first place. How could one justify that? The more I thought about the scenario, the more I realized that where I was from, this thinking would be the norm. But in California, and this different culture of Christianity, it was something that was the norm. Am I saying that one cannot effectively serve God and have a profession like bartending at the same time? Absolutely not. But what I am saying is that you must be able to reconcile whatever you say or do, whether that’s a career, relationship, or hobby, with your personal relationship with Jesus Christ. And, as in my new friend’s case, if it doesn’t add up, you must forsake it and follow Christ. This is my entire point. Too many times, we try to keep both. We attempt to live the way we want to (as I have done countless times), yet maintain that because we are free in Christ, anything we choose to do that isn’t overtly sin is acceptable in the eyes of God. And this is simply not true.

We are inundated with people in society today, whether they be pop stars, athletes, or politicians, who claim to know Christ, yet continue to slip further and further away from the principles that should govern a believer’s life. It’s easy to sit here behind a computer and call attention to their hypocrisy, but am I really that much different from them? While I may not have their audience, I do have the circle of influence God has bestowed upon me in this life. How can I honestly expect Christ to work through me if I appear to be no different from the ones He’s still trying to reach? I can’t imagine how frustrating it is for the Lord. My favorite Christian band of all time, dc Talk, has a song titled “What if I Stumble?” At the beginning of the song, we hear a voice that talks about the fact that Christians may say all the right things, but many times their actions tell a much different story. This is what an unbelieving world finds unbelievable.

Listen, we are all sinners who have been miraculously saved by the grace of the Almighty and, while we may stumble from time to time, it is imperative that we continue to strive toward the mark of the high calling of Christ. Nothing else matters! And, yes, it’s not the easiest thing to do in our culture today, but it is possible. The gospel of Christ doesn’t transform the hearts of men because it’s the status quo. And it doesn’t permeate our society because it’s popular. It does all of this because it is the only unique and life-changing truth in the universe. And it’s His gift to us. How cool is that?

You Owe the Cuss Jar a Nickel

When I was a young teenager, my mom began noticing an alarming trend in not only the way my brother and I talked to each other, but with the words we were starting to use on a regular basis. In our family, certain words were simply not used under any circumstances and I’m not talking about expletives. That was a given. The two things that I vividly remember not being allowed to say were “shut up” and “butt.” I never liked the outlawing of these two expressions in particular, as they were immensely popular in the late ‘80’s and early ‘90’s. Oh sure, I completely understood that no cussing would be tolerated, but did my mom have to take away every word a boy could use to express his anger or joke around with his friends? Granted, I now see the merit behind the implementation of such a bridle, but as I have always said, it’s much easier to see things the way your parents did when you reach the age they were when they were making the rules.

One evening, my mom heard shouting coming from my brother’s room and quickly made a beeline toward the ruckus. As she opened the door (locks weren’t allowed in our house), she ear-witnessed several barbs and choice terms of disparagement, all of which would certainly not be excusable, even in the most heated of disagreements. She sat the two of us down right there and then and began to scold us for using such words, and using them on each other. We were brothers who were one year apart in age, and while we were very much alike, we were also very different. Things were bound to get testy every now and then, or every other hour, in our case.

My mom ran through the many things parents say when their children are bickering, and this particular session was par for the course. She reminded us that we were family and that we loved each other. She remarked that we would probably know each other the longest on this earth, and that we had better get along (a realization that my brother groaned about). She finished with asking us what Jesus would think, if two boys He loved very much and died for should be talking this way to each other? I had to hand it to her. She was using every card in the deck, and I saw it even then. But she loved us and did not want her boys to allow petty arguments in adolescence to turn into a chasm of hatred in adulthood.

I was recently watching an episode of The Office where Angela is speaking into the camera about her and her sister’s relationship. She mentioned how they had been best friends growing up until they had gotten into an argument and had not spoken in sixteen years. She then said that she could not remember what they were fighting about in the first place. While this instance was fiction, how often does this really take place in our families and with our friendships? My mom once said that if we didn’t learn to get along, she would “learn it” for us. This sentiment led to one of her most interesting experiments involving my brother, my sister, and me.

As she went to leave Matt’s room that evening, she turned around as if a light bulb went off inside her head and informed us that she would be instituting a new way to monitor our speech, starting the next day. My brother and I found common ground for the first time that night and looked at each other with confused smirks on our faces. Our mother wasn’t one for gimmicks and rarely tried anything new when it came to regulating our behavior. She smiled, told us she loved us, and informed us it was bedtime.

“Great. I wonder what she has in mind.”

“Who cares? It’s all your fault anyway, idiot,” my brother said.

“Shut up, jerk.”

And with that exchange, we filed into the bathroom to brush our teeth and wash our faces. Our brotherly love was at an all time high and should prove to be a worthy adversary to anything our mom could think of that stood in its way.

The next day, my brother and I bounded into the house after school and headed straight toward the kitchen. We were two growing boys, after all. As we were preparing ourselves a snack (or two), my brother nudged me and pointed to the end of the counter. I looked in that direction and saw three old Mason jars in a row with several shiny nickels in each container. I looked back at my brother and was about to ask him about the jars until the smell of the peanut butter I was spreading on a piece of Sunbeam bread hit the olfactory nerve in my nose and shored up the crack in my one-track mind.

As we finished making our snacks and were heading into the den to devour our treats and watch television, our mom cut off our path and asked us to give her a minute of our time. We looked at each other and then back at her and nodded in agreement. Our sister then appeared as if she had overheard the conversation and smiled at us, which led me to believe she knew what was about to transpire. She always did.

“Boys, and Amy,” our mom started, “as you three know, I’ve noticed a disturbing pattern of unkindness in your speech as of late (of course, she wasn’t talking about Amy) and I’m very concerned. Now, I know it’s hard growing up in this day and age, but that’s no excuse to talk like you boys have been talking. You weren’t raised to use some of the words and phrases I’ve heard over the last few weeks. So, with that said, I’ve rounded up three glass jars and filled them with nickels. Every time the three of you say something that isn’t nice, respectful, or appropriate, you’ll have to put one of your nickels in a fourth jar: my jar. At the end of the week, whoever has the most nickels left gets to keep the nickels in my jar, plus their remaining nickels. Each week, I’ll replenish the nickels and we’ll start again.”

Immediately, my brother and I objected.

“Mooom, this is sooo not fair,” my brother whined.

“Yeah, you know Amy’s gonna win!”

Our sister was proudly beaming at this assertion and you could almost see her brain figuring up how many nickels were in our jars that would belong to her by the end of the week.

“It doesn’t mean she’s going to win. I believe all three of you were raised the very same way, which means you all are capable of being nice and using proper language. There is no advantage in this experiment. Just because you perceive your sister’s success doesn’t make it an impending reality,” she said. “Now, there are forty nickels in each jar, which means you’ll all start with two dollars each. If you run out of nickels before the end of the week, you’ll have to refill your jar with your own money. But that had better not happen.”

As I began to lose interest in our mother’s instructions, I looked at my jar and started to daydream about winning every single one of my brother and sister’s nickels each week. While my behavior wasn’t always up to speed, my two siblings were no match for me when it came to our competitive natures. What I lacked in natural ability, I made up for with sheer determination and true grit.

After the first day, I had managed to only lose one nickel, while my brother had lost two. Of course, my sister was still sitting at forty nickels in her jar and the prospect of her losing any the first few days was about as probable as my brother and me keeping all of ours. As the second day came to a close, I had lost three more and my brother had lost four. At least I was in a close second place. At the end of the first week, I had lost twenty-one out of my forty nickels and my brother had given up twenty-four. Our sister had lost one. One? And this was the first week. Weeks two and three passed by and our sister had lost a grand total of five nickels. And I have come to now believe that she only lost those because she felt sorry for us. Our losses were growing each week. Recognizing that we were fighting a losing battle, I decided to have a chat with my mom.

“Ma, we are never going to beat Amy.”

“Will, honey, you can’t look at it as a competition. We’ve raised all three of you to speak with love and kindness. What your sister or brother does has nothing to do with you and your relationship with the Lord. Remember, while we want you to obey us, it’s really about obeying the Lord and what He says about the way you talk. You’re missing the whole point,” she said.

“How so?”

“Okay, well, bring me your jar. Now, how many nickels did you have left over from last week?” she asked.

“Umm, fourteen, I think.”

“Okay,” she said, “and how much does fourteen nickels make?”

“Seventy cents.” (I was always excellent at computation.)

“Well, that’s seventy cents you have now that you didn’t have before,” she remarked.

Wow. I had yet to think of this experiment in positive parameters. Being a natural optimist, I should have immediately seen the value in what our mother was trying to accomplish. She wasn’t punishing us by the nickels we were losing, but was rewarding us with the nickels we had left over after each week. We were actually making money for avoiding sin with our lips. I quickly hugged my mom and ran to my room. I counted up my nickels from the past three weeks and had actually made two dollars and sixty-five cents. Granted, that wasn’t a fortune by any stretch of the imagination, but it was, as my mom said, two dollars and sixty-five cents I did not have when we started this three weeks before. “What a brilliant concept,” I thought. I had always seen our parents’ rules in such a negative light, as most of us do, but when I began to look at the positive ramifications of doing right I truly began to understand why our parents and ultimately the Lord have such rules in place. It wasn’t about the money we were making, but the lesson we were learning about obedience. When told we cannot say or do certain things, we impulsively react negatively to such mandates. Instead of questioning such restrictions, wouldn’t it make more sense to ponder the good that will come of them? I was too busy focusing on the words I could not use, the amount of nickels I would lose, and the insurmountable odds of defeating my sister rather than counting the money I was making for not saying the wrong thing and pleasing both my parents and the Lord with my increasingly disinfected potty-mouth.

Now, I hope you enjoyed that story as much as I enjoyed counting my nickels each week, but playtime is over. I was talking with an older couple recently about this book and as we conversed, they touched on an interesting possibility that I had not yet put a finger on, if you will. Throughout the course of explaining what the book you are (hopefully) reading is about, the lady asked me if I had found it challenging, writing on subject matter that was deeply integral to living a sold-out life for Jesus Christ. What she could not have known is that the most troublesome part of this entire process has not been in coming up with the thousands of words that are found on these pages, but in stringing together the seconds, minutes, and days of living those very words out in my own life and walk with Christ. I agreed with the validity of her question and answered in the most sincere and honest way I knew how. I told her that it was an arduous task, balancing the written word with the sin in my heart at any given moment. I told her that there had been days where I had planned on writing, and even days I sat down to the computer with a bottle of water in hand, earphones on head, and a message in mind, but simply could not bring myself to follow through with one single keystroke. While I had not yet pinpointed it (as I mentioned earlier), I told them that I have never been more convicted by anything in my life than each time I fired up the laptop with a solid story or amusing anecdote. What a burden this phenomenon was becoming, I told her. Her husband quickly jumped in, hoping to metaphorically save me from drowning in this proverbial pool of reckoning. He apologized if their questions had furthered any issue I may be having, and told me to keep up the good work. His wife smiled politely and almost ashamedly, echoing his sentiment. Being able to detect the most acute human suffering, I smiled and told them that no apologies were necessary. If I could not allow the Lord to change me through my own words, how could I ask for Him to do the same in my fellow brothers and sisters in Christ? I thanked them for their time and conversation, and left them to find myself oddly encouraged. Hopefully, they’re reading this, so they won’t have to wonder anymore.

As bad as we are capable of being, I am sure that most of us are not making a habit of lying, stealing, committing adultery, or any of the other things that come to mind when we think of sin. And this is just the way Satan wants it. He understands that most, if not all, born-again believers will avoid the “major” sins throughout the course of his or her life. However, he sets up small traps along the way to ensnare us with the “minor” sins we never really think of. One of those entrapments is our speech. I believe that the way we speak as Christians today and the words we use are slowly leading others around us to eternal damnation. Strong words, I know, but that’s just the point. Words are strong. They are slow and steady killers. I remember my Grandmother Montgomery (to whom I owe most of my love of writing) telling me when I was a child that “sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” This is mostly untrue. Words not only hurt, but also can and will destroy. Especially when those words are coming from a believer like you and like me.

Years ago, I began hanging out with the girl who cut my hair in Wilmington, N.C. She was not a believer and while the thought of dating her had entered my mind a few times, we thought it would be best to just remain friends. Never a good idea to attempt “missionary dating,” I always say. One of her closest friends was a guy she had introduced me to and the three of us would spend time together often. Her friend was not a believer either and didn’t seem to care one way or the other that I was. We had the “God” conversation one of the first times we all had dinner together and he told me that religion was nice and all, just not for him. He respected the fact that I believed in a Higher Power, but “to each his own,” he said. In my experience, I have most often found people who are not Christians to be quite tolerant of my Christianity, and I appreciated this sentiment from my new friend. I didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, didn’t cuss, didn’t sleep around, and didn’t do drugs. I went to church every Sunday, prayed often, and tried to read my Bible every day. To their limited knowledge of how a Christian should act, I was a perfect example.

We would hang out a few times here and there, and on one such occasion we were enjoying an evening together downtown. My two friends had decided that they were going to have a few drinks, and since I was a “Christian” and didn’t do “ungodly things like drink,” I was to be their designated driver this night. We had spent most of the night debating how they perceived Christians to act and how they should act. After a couple of hours at one of my favorite restaurants on the Cape Fear River, my friends had both had way too much to drink and were acting extremely obnoxious. Perhaps it was my fault for allowing them to overindulge themselves, but what’s done is done. While most of their “spectacle” was harmless and oddly funny, they were beginning to become snippy with each other and before I knew it, a full-blown drunken argument was happening in front of me. I quickly asked for the check, paid the server, and started dragging my two friends by their ears (okay, arms) out of the establishment. I apologized to the hostess and the three of us (two of them) quickly walked (stumbled) outside onto the street. My two friends were still arguing and speaking loudly, but evidently, my female friend was now enraged at me for pulling her arm too forcibly while we were leaving and started cursing me and the day I was born. Our guy friend caught wind of her complaint and after thinking about it, joined her in the fracas. Shocked that they would actually be mad at me, I became extremely angry and started yelling at them. The angrier I got, the louder they became. After a minute, and with my blood now boiling, I told them both to please be quiet, but with a few choice words of my own. After the words left my mouth, a bewildered look appeared on both my friends’ faces and they grew very quiet. I quickly realized three things as I observed their sudden shift in behavior. One, they heeded my command immediately and stopped yelling. Two, they had almost sobered up completely in a split second, which was impressive. And three, I had cursed at them. I was quite proud at the first two realizations, but mortified at the third.

“Wih-willl. Wh-why dih- ya ss-say that?” My female friend slurred.

“Yah, you’re sposed to be a Chrissian,” my male friend followed.

“Um, you’re right, I am. I was, um, just angry. I’m sorry.”

After that quick explanation, my two friends both squinted and tilted their heads, as if trying to make sense of my hasty justification. They continued to blankly stare at me until I beckoned them to come to the car with me so we could leave. “It’s getting cold out here,” I said, “and we need to get y’all home.” This seemed to be a good enough reason and they began to shuffle distractedly in my direction, like small children attempting to stay in line on the way to recess. As we made our way back to my car, they were both very quiet. I tried not to notice or attribute their behavior to our little exchange in front of the restaurant, but my fears were quickly confirmed.

“I thought you loved God,” my female friend said in a huff.

“I do love Him, I just let my temper get the best of me. That’s all.”

“Yah, but Chrissians don’t say words like that,” my male friend stammered.

“Guys, I said I was sorry. Once in awhile, I get mad and I am sorry I said those things back there. It was a mistake.”

My apology seemed to assuage their anger and while I felt badly that I had let them down, I was taken aback as to how harshly they were judging me. I felt even worse that I had let my anger get the best of me and by doing so, had caused a far greater problem in the hearts of my two friends. I realized that for non-believers, anything like this could have a disastrous effect on my testimony in their eyes. To them, Christians didn’t do or say things like I had, and my credibility as a follower of Christ had potentially taken a huge hit.

This is what’s so vitally important in our interactions with non-believers. While we can cross the major sins off our behavioral “not-to-do” list, it’s the minor ones we fall victim to that will always trip them up. Oh, sure, my two friends probably assumed I would never lie, cheat, or steal, but hearing me use the words they would use was a dagger in and of itself. Is it fair? Well, that’s not for me to decide. Our job is to be above reproach on the major and minor things, because someone is always watching, waiting for us to screw up, hoping to prove to themselves and each other that a “God” is unnecessary, since “His” followers do and say the same things everyone else does.

What we say is only one side of the coin. Once we flip it over, we see that the intent behind what we say is just as significant. My brother and my friend Adam are going to kill me, but I am about to tell you a fairly embarrassing story and, while you might think it a little uncouth, hopefully you’ll see my point.

Earlier, I told you the story of my mother’s implementing the cuss jar (I know, Mom, you never referred to it as a “cuss” jar) as a way to monitor and hopefully correct our behavior. Fortunately, the three of us kids never had much of an issue with cursing. We grew up knowing full well the wrath of our mother and father if we were ever caught using profanity. As I mentioned earlier, when such restrictions are put into place, expressing anger, frustration, or even elation can be quite difficult for a young boy.

Plato said that “necessity is the mother of invention,” and while my brother, Adam, and I had no clue who Plato was, we decided that we were going to make up some cuss words of our own. We agreed with our parents that no young man should use certain words, so if we came up with our own words, they wouldn’t be nearly as bad and could assist in getting our point across. I remember sitting outside with my brother and Adam on his basketball court, attempting to put our three heads together and come up with something we could really be proud of.

“Okay, so we’re all in agreement that we’ll come up with five new cuss words that only we can use?”

“Yes, that’s the plan,” Adam said.

“Wait a minute. What if these new cuss words catch on?” My brother asked. “I mean, what do we do if we hear other kids at school using ‘em?”

“He’s got a good point, man,” Adam noted.

“Hmm, you’re right. Good thinking. Okay, well, as long as people know we came up with ‘em, I don’t see anything wrong with them using ‘em.”

“So it’s settled,” Adam replied.

“Well, we still need to think of the words,” Matt said.

“Definitely. All right, so any ideas yet? We had all day at school to think of some. I have one that I came up with in history.”

“Sweet! I got one, too.” Adam said.

“Me, too,” my brother replied. “What’s yours?”

“Okay, but promise not to laugh. We are in the beginner stage.”

“We promise,” my brother said.

“All right, so I was playing around with some ideas and came up with the word ‘meck.’ It sounds like it could be a cuss word. What do y’all think?”

“Yeah, I like it!” Adam exclaimed. “What the meck are you doing, pal?”

“Exactly, dude. Who the meck are you?”

“Ha, ha, I love it,” my brother responded. “Okay, my turn. What about ‘buck?’ Isn’t that a good one?”

“Uh, I like it, but it’s kinda close.”

“Hmm. Okay, listen here, bucker. Don’t touch my book-bag.” Adam said.

“Perfect. See, Will, it’s not that bad,” my brother replied.

“Yeah, I guess. Just be careful with that one. So, we have two so far. Adam, what’s yours?”

“What about ‘gock’?“ Adam asked.

“Gock? Like, pass me a gockin’ Sun Drop?”

“Meck, yeah!” Adam exclaimed.

“Guys, I think we’re on to something here.”

And with that, the three of us laughed and promised we’d finish our conversation later. In the days that followed, we came up with two more words, “peck” and “jack,” and began the adventure of juxtaposing our vocabulary with our own expletives. It was a good feeling, one of ingenuity and independence. However, we still had yet to realize just how mistaken that logic was.

As the fall turned into winter, anyone literally would believe the three of us boys had been using these five “cuss” words our entire lives. The words started spreading throughout our Christian school and we began hearing a few other people use them from time to time. One day, we were outside playing basketball in our backyard and our sister was shooting around with us. After I missed a shot, I yelled out “gock” in disgust as I rebounded the ball.

“Will, what did you just say?” My sister asked with a shocked look on her face.

I looked at her quizzically and then glanced at my brother.

“Oh, it was nothing.”

“Yes, it was. I’m telling Mom you said a bad word,” she replied.

“Wait! It wasn’t a bad word. I said ‘gock.’ It’s not a cuss word.”

“But it’s not even a real word,” she said.

“I know. We made it up to use instead of real cuss words. We have four others.”

“You know how dumb that is, Will? You shouldn’t be making up words like that. It’s not right,” she said.

“Well, it’s none of your beeswax what we say as long as it’s not a real bad word.”

Differences of opinion never lasted that long with my sister, as she was either proven to be right or lost interest within the first few seconds. But she loved her two little brothers deeply and wanted us to do right. We played outside another hour until it started getting dark. After we got inside, our mother told us to wash up for dinner. As we sat down at the dinner table to some of our mom’s famous salmon croquettes, we spent the first few minutes talking about our day and what was going on at school that week. After a few minutes, our mother turned her attention to my side of the table.

“Will, honey, what does ‘gock’ mean?” she asked.

I paused for a moment after the realization hit that my sister had told our mother. I looked at Amy, who was looking right back at me.

“Oh, uh, it’s nothing. Just a made-up word me and Matt use sometimes.”

“I know it’s made up,” she said. “But what does it mean?”

“It doesn’t mean anything. It’s a fake cuss word.”

I knew as soon the description left my mouth that it wasn’t going to be good.

“Why on earth are you and your brother making up curse words?” she asked.

“Well, Adam helped us, too.”

“I don’t care who did it. No one should be making up cuss words,” she answered.

“Well, they’re not real bad words.”

My mother looked at me and then at my brother, who hadn’t said anything up until this point. By his own admission years later, he was more of a “user than a pusher.”

“Boys, it’s not about whether you use real curse words or fake ones. It’s all about the motive behind the usage of any word. The Bible says that ‘out of the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaks.’ There are several words that we don’t allow, but you can use any word in the English language in a bad way. Every bad word had a simple and somewhat innocent origin yet over time has come to represent something that we Christians should never convey. Whether you’re using the real words or making up new ones, it’s more about why you’re using words in general. It’s not so much about cussing as it is guarding our tongues.”

She didn’t seem particularly upset, and I’m sure she even found our innovation somewhat comical. But the lesson she taught us that day has stayed with me over the years. And we cannot become satisfied with our speech simply because most of us don’t cuss or speak with vulgarity. We’ve been guilty of destructive speech and have all said things throughout our lives that were inappropriate, lascivious, rude, and even hateful. I have often spent time recalling past events in which what I spoke was unbecoming of a believer. Far too many times. But with Jesus, there is forgiveness and spending your present regretting your past will only render your future ineffective.

I know I have spent a lot of your time browbeating you with the fact that we are not perfect and never will be. However, that doesn’t mean we should stop trying to be. Our speech is no different and quite possibly could be the most important aspect of our walk with Christ that non-believers will witness. I’m afraid my tongue has probably steered more people away from Christ than has pointed toward Him. But we can’t cry over spilled milk, because every day is chock-full of brand new opportunities to correct that statistic and become better at allowing the words of our mouths to effectively show people the way to the cross. It is through the foolishness of preaching, is it not?

Now, someone pass me a gockin’ Sun Drop.

All the World’s a Stage

Living in downtown Nashville, Tennessee, can have its advantages and disadvantages, as any place can have; but one of the neat things about being holed up in a bunker-type studio apartment with cement floors and exposed piping allows life to feel like the reality television show Survivor, as opposed to a truly hipster habitat. Well, it’s not that neat, I suppose. It’s not that I never saw the sun, but I did forget what it looked like at times. My grandfather used to say that no matter what happens in life, whether it is good or bad, should be looked at as a character-building opportunity from the Lord. Well, if living in a bomb shelter built character, I had plenty to spare. I had not yet experienced downtown living firsthand, but had a pretty good idea of what it was like after having watched television and seeing it romanticized for years. The hustle and bustle of morning traffic, the butcher slicing up the day’s meat selection, and the smells wafting toward the sky from the garbage truck outside my building all came together every morning to give me the perfect downtown living experience. It was sheer bliss.

One of the characteristics of the building I lived in that made it so charming was the corner market that was located on the, um, corner. It was quite handy to have a place I could run to when I wanted an ice cream sandwich or soda at 10:30 at night and didn’t want to leave the comfort of my nine story parking garage. (At this point, you can tell that I just loved living here.) I made my visits a daily occurrence and got to know the two people who worked behind the counter day in and day out. Whether it was Omar or Lin, they always greeted me with a forced smile or brief wave, and that was the extent of our relationship. The proximity of our physical beings just never seemed to be able to bridge the culture gap. Of course, with my people skills honed to perfection, I would often add a “How are ya?” along with a return wave or smile, depending on my mood and snack choice. This seemed to suffice, as they gave me a 10 percent discount for living in the building, so this made it easier to accept the frostiness.

As it came time to move out (after only four months, and let me tell you I’m surprised I made it that long), I was doing some last-minute cleaning of my empty apartment with my friend Melissa, when I suggested we head down to the corner market (on the corner) and grab a water and possible potato wedge or two. (Okay, so this is going to be an extended parenthesized rabbit trail, but anyone older than 25 is going to enjoy this. Just as I was typing the previous sentence and came to the spelling of potato, I accidentally added an “e” to the end of the word. Now, I’ll send anyone a signed book that can Facebook me first with the answer as to why this potential misspelling would be humorous.) As Melissa and I walked up the block to the market, I remarked to her that I was going to miss this place. I meant the corner store, not the apartment. We walked in (I held the door for her, of course) and began the greeting ritual I had become so accustomed to with my diverse friends. Omar, the owner of the store, happened to be working this particular afternoon and seemed quite jovial. He may have even added a muffled “hello.”

On one such occasion, I remember bringing a bottle of water into the store when he was working. After I grabbed a soda and candy bar (you must think I eat terribly, which I do), Omar charged me for the water along with the other items. I informed him of the mistake, as I had brought the water in with me. He said he had not seen it, and I would have to pay for it. I told him I wouldn’t lie about something like this, but I agreed to pay the dollar and change so as to avoid an unpleasant scene and become banned from the store. I had not forgotten this instance, however.

Melissa and I picked out our beverages and snacks of choice, and I headed to the counter to pay, as she headed outside to wait. Omar checked the drinks and then the food, gave me the total of $3.65, and bagged up the items. I reached for my wallet, opened it up, and handed him a ten-dollar bill. He took the cash, typed in the amount, and the register popped open to allow him to drop in the bill and give me the correct change. The man behind me fumbled a can of soda onto the table accidentally and this must have distracted Omar greatly because he handed me change for a twenty. I took the money from him without noticing, and started to stuff it into my wallet when I realized the mistake Omar had made. I began to turn toward the door and felt a twinge of guilt deep inside as one of the most important, yet seemingly trivial battles of my life began. I’d now like the playwright inside me to take over.

Good Will: Oh, shoot! He gave me too much change.

Bad Will: Dude, don’t worry about it. Besides, somebody’s in line and he doesn’t know he gave you the wrong change.

Good Will: Nah, I’ve got to let him know.

Bad Will: No, you don’t! It’s just ten bucks. He’ll write it off, and you get a free pizza. No biggie.

Good Will: Yeah, you might be right. He is busy and I do like pizza.

Bad Will: Besides, he charged you for a water that time. Remember?

Good Will: Yeah, you’re right. And I brought it in with me.

Bad Will: You did, didn’t you? So, let’s bounce.

Good Will: But what if he finds out?

Bad Will: He won’t. You’re literally moving today. Who cares?

At this point, I turn toward the door and begin to walk out. I take a couple of steps and the inner dialogue resumes.

Good Will: No, I can’t. I’ve got to let him know.

Bad Will: No, you don’t! You could use that money.

Good Will: Sorry, I just can’t.

Bad Will: Fine. Do what you want.

It was a quick end to an inner struggle that seemed as if it took weeks. I slowly walked back to the counter and kindly interrupted Omar and the customer who had been behind me in line.

“Omar, you gave me the wrong change.”

I counted it out, showed him the extra ten, and handed him the bill. For all I know, it could have been the one I originally handed him. He looked curiously at the money in my hand and then turned his attention to me. He smiled at me knowingly as I turned to walk out the door to a growingly impatient friend. As I reached the door, I heard Omar mumble something loudly. I turned just in time to see him toss a bottle of water at me.

“Thanks to you,” he said in broken English.

“No worries, man.”

And with that, I walked out the door.

You would think that I was extremely proud of myself and felt pretty good about things, walking out to meet my friend with our goodies. This couldn’t have been farther from the truth. While I appreciate your fleeting adoration after finishing the previous paragraph, let me assure you that what I did was not something to be congratulated. Perhaps, if I had immediately silenced all inner dialogue and made things square with Omar, I would have felt better about who I was on the inside. I didn’t. Now, I know that in the end I did the right thing, but for someone like me (and you), and with all of my years as a believer under my belt, I should have done the right thing immediately. This is our problem. We have lost the sense of urgency when it comes to doing right. It’s the rush of getting as close to the edge of something without going over. We have become Christian daredevils, getting our fix from almost sinning. We enjoy the dangling carrot of sin long enough to get some sort of feeling of gratification, all while patting ourselves on the back with the fulfillment of abstaining from the sin with which we were tempted.

Perhaps this will help. When I was little, I loved watching the Superman movies. I had the comic books and the pajama onesie and even tried to wet my bangs and make them form the sweet “curl” that Christopher Reeve had. In Superman II, Clark and Lois are sent to Niagara Falls on assignment for The Daily Planet. Having never been to the Niagara Falls, I was mesmerized with the raw power and natural beauty that the cinematography did justice to in the movie. While checking out the falls on a day off, Clark asks Lois if she’d like something to eat and heads off to the concession stand. As she is admiring God’s creation and he’s getting relish on the side, the camera focuses in on this annoying kid walking so close to the railing that it has all of us, including the actress playing his mother, going bonkers watching his display. The scene switches back to Clark, and then back to the kid in time for us to see this doofus slip over the railing and fall headfirst toward his impending and untimely demise. The scene cuts to his mother, who is now freaking out and screaming for someone to help. Even as a child, I wondered how ridiculous it was for this woman to be frantically imploring for help. Woman, your kid is a goner. But wait! Thank goodness the real-life Superman happens to be enjoying a day at Niagara Falls, too! Clark immediately ducks into a phone booth (remember those?) and quickly emerges as Superman. He flies to where his supersensitive hearing has tracked the little whippersnapper and he catches up to him and corrals him before they reach the treacherous water. The kid has sort of a “what took you so long” look on his face as Superman returns him to his mother. Superman tousles the boy’s hair and tells him to be more careful.

Now, do I really have to make this connection? I will, anyway. We (the kid) are teetering on the edge of sin (Niagara Falls) so close to certain death (Hell) until we finally fall in, with our mother (his mother) and everyone in our lives (other tourists) clamoring for someone, anyone, to help. Finally, Superman (Jesus) comes to our rescue. After he flies in and catches us (His forgiveness), we give him a look of “what took you so long” and get ready for Him to return us safely (and dry) to our family and friends. Superman (Jesus) pats us on our heads and tells us (in His Word) to be more careful. Let me ask you a question. How many of you (even as kids) would have gotten so close to the edge of any massive drop-off while on a family vacation? Not me. Why, then, do we get so close to the edge in our spiritual lives day in and day out?

What a great movie! Regardless, after sharing with my friend what had happened inside the corner store, we talked about it for a few moments, and then moved on to the task of finishing up the cleaning detail on my apartment. Only later that evening, as I was winding down for the night, did I revisit what had happened earlier in the day. I became troubled when my spirit presented a question that I had not thought of yet. While returning the money had presented itself as more than an open and shut case, I wondered how difficult the correcting of the mistake would have been for me if the amount had been more than ten dollars. Sure, ten dollars isn’t a lot of cheddar in the scheme of eternity, but what if the mistake had been for one hundred dollars? Or even a thousand dollars? This thought took me back to a time of which I’m not proud.

When I was in college, my friend and roommate, Ryan, wanted me to go to a sporting goods store with him one afternoon so he could buy some soccer cleats. I readily agreed (even though I’m sure one would assume I had plenty of other recreational options with the opposite sex at my beck and call, which I didn’t) and we headed to the outlet mall. On the way, Ryan informed me that he needed to stop by his bank and grab some cash out of the ATM. This made sense, as one would normally need money to purchase things. Since this was a Friday afternoon and the bank was quite busy, he swung his car (luckily) into an empty parking spot and hopped out. (I absolutely love the etiquette at an ATM. Although an ATM was a relatively new technological advancement, there was never a manual on how to use one. But I do know that if someone is currently using one, you had better not be within ten feet, or else a S.W.A.T. team will come out of nowhere and tear gas the place.) I watched as Ryan strolled up to the machine, whipped out his debit card, and proceeded with his transaction. I am not used to the sort of reaction when studying one’s ATM receipt that I witnessed taking place, but it can best be described as pure astonishment. Most of the ATM reactions I have observed over the years are ones of hopeless realization that, “Yes, I really do have that low of a balance.” This wasn’t one of those times. Ryan poured over his receipt for what seemed like a millennium and slowly made his way back to the car. He opened the door and eased into the driver’s seat.

“Dude, what is wrong?”

“Will, look at my ATM receipt,” he stammered.

Now, before I reveal what I was about to see, I want you to know that my friends and I never really talked about money and really didn’t care for that matter. We were all poor, or so we had all assumed.

“It can’t be that bad,” I laughed, and reached for the slip of paper.

I took the receipt from him and looked toward the bottom for the available balance. I comprehended the number and was shocked.

“Dude, you have over $2,700 in your account? Wow, I’m glad I am friends with you.”

“No, man, I don’t. That’s just it. I had only like forty dollars in my account yesterday. I got twenty out a second ago and this is what my balance said,” he said.

“So, you’re not my first rich college roommate?”

“Unfortunately, no. I guess the bank made a mistake yesterday,” he said.

“Bro, you just made $2,700. What are you going to do with the money?”

“Umm, let’s see; nothing! I’ve got to tell them about the mistake,” he said.

“No, you don’t. It’s their mistake and your gain. Everyone knows that. Bro, you’re poor, as you said, and you could use that money. You could pay off your tuition this semester, and help other people, too.”

Let me pause here, briefly. There’s a really annoying word that masks the sin we attempt to get away with, and that word is “rationalization.” (In case you didn’t notice, I advise Ryan to keep the misplaced money so he can help people. Yeah, I still don’t see the logic.)

“No, I won’t even entertain the thought, Will, and you shouldn’t either. Granted, I’d love to keep the money. Who wouldn’t? But it’s not right. Besides, they’ll probably find their mistake and know I tried to keep it,” he explained.

“No worries, buddy. It’s up to you.”

With that, we dropped the conversation and headed toward the mall. The next morning, Ryan got back to the dorm after going by his bank and told me that they had found the error and thanked him for coming in to make sure the matter was taken care of properly. Out of curiosity (and for my own good), Ryan asked them what would have happened had he kept the money, and the bank associate coolly told him that the bank would have had no choice but to prosecute him for theft. Ryan told me he was glad he didn’t listen to me. So was I. Sadly, this conversation I had with Ryan regarding the financial mistake in his favor is quite like the conversation that “Good Will” would have with “Bad Will” many years later. While it is definitely encouraging that the sides were opposite this time, it is sad that it took me this long (ten years) to move about three inches figuratively in the right direction. Shouldn’t I know better than this at this point in my Christian walk?

Now, all character issues certainly don’t always involve money. I have numerous stories that venture down all avenues of right and wrong that I probably won’t share with any of you. Sorry, but I’ve got to save some for the next book, don’t I? Look, I’m honestly not trying to make you feel bad, or prove to you how terrible we all are, but what I am trying to do is to really challenge you to expose the rut you have settled into along with me. We are allowing our lives as believers to pass us by and frankly Jesus did not die innocently for us to achieve normalcy. I am sick of mediocrity and settling for God’s permissive will because I’ve left Him little with which to work.

I have often struggled with inconsistency and it is quite frustrating. At times in my own life, I have been absolutely on fire for God. (Oh yeah, I busted out the phrase “on fire for God.”) Other times, even my closest friends would have a hard time distinguishing me from the most calloused agnostic. While some of you may shake your head, I’m afraid this conundrum still very much plagues me. I am often comforted by the writer’s words (and most evidence points to Luke, not Paul) in Hebrews that discuss “a sin that easily ensnares him.” I’m not glad that he constantly struggled, but once in a while, it’s nice to see someone extremely Christ-like screw things up like the rest of us “average Joes.” It makes me feel as if I have a shot at figuring out all of this stuff.

There have been times in my life in which one day I would say “no” to a temptation, only to fall, and fall hard, the very next day. An easier way to relate to this would be to think of it as a diet. Just because someone on “The Biggest Loser” eats right on the first day at the ranch doesn’t mean that person will wake up the next day two-hundred pounds lighter and ready to model for Valentino. When one is extremely obese (sinful), it takes a dedicated effort of eating right and exercise (dying to self and having a vibrant relationship with Christ) every single day to truly bring about change in one’s life and the lives of others in one’s personal circle. When this occurs, and becomes a consistent day-in-and-day-out pattern in one’s life, only then will one truly begin to see and feel the results. I would dare say that inconsistency in Christians today has become the greatest sin of all. Jesus spoke of wanting followers to either be hot or cold for the cause, and if they happened to be lukewarm, He would spit them out of His mouth. Imagine something so bitter to the taste that the Emmanuel, Who came to die on a cross for mankind’s sins, would actually spit it out of His mouth. Look, I know and you know that none of us ever “arrive,” but that doesn’t mean we simply stop trying and give up. It means that we try harder.

I was sitting in a meeting a few years ago when the man (who happened to be my boss) running the show was attempting to encourage the sales team to work harder, regardless of the feeling that their efforts seemed futile (and ultimately were). He looked at most of them, and used an interesting analogy that I have yet to forget. He said that inside every hunk of granite is a beautiful statue waiting to be uncovered. The statement caught me off guard, but as I processed what he meant, I thought of the spiritual application. To the Lord, we are all “a hunk of granite,” if you will. It takes the Potter’s Hand to chisel away bit by bit until we are unveiled as something suitable and pleasing to His eye. The subtle difference in the analogy is that we must be willing to “allow” the Lord to chip away, taking the pain until we become beautiful in His sight. While you think it redundant, I cannot stress to you how important this concept is. If we’re too busy “halfwaying” through life, we will never be able to be fully used by God.

I hate to admit this but I am probably the last person who should be talking to you about character. My friend Brian was teasing me about the irony of writing about something that I do not possess. While I feel that’s a stretch, I do want you to know that I am speaking to myself first. If I didn’t feel such an obligation to become better, then I would leave all of you alone and continue my complacent existence until the old ticker stopped ticking. But I can’t do that, and it’s just too bad that I can’t leave well enough alone. It is time for us to be better. Stop making excuses about why you didn’t help this person, or why you chose to keep something hidden from that person. Remember, God doesn’t give out gold stars for doing the things those who truly love Him are supposed to do.

A few years ago, I was selling merchandise (yes, I’ve had a thousand jobs) for a couple of Christian bands out of Nashville, traveling across the country on a tour bus and being completely irresponsible. The experience was an amazing one and I was fortunate enough to spend a lot of time with people who had dedicated their lives in an effort to fuse rock and roll music with the gospel of Jesus Christ. The combination has always been dynamic. Life on the road was filled with interesting and downright unbelievably humorous and poignant stories. If you were to ask me to recall the most memorable one, I would tell you that it didn’t happen at a concert or on a bus. As the tour on which I was selling merch was coming to an end (by the way, “merch” is the hip term for merchandise. You can now impress your hipster friends.) I started to wonder what in the world I was going to do with myself during the month we were to have off. One of the roadies (road crew) had suggested after hearing of my dilemma that I get a part-time job to help pass the time and put food on the table. I thought this to be a great idea and asked around until someone suggested I try pizza delivery.

I had never worked in the pizza industry, but figured that I would enjoy this line of employment based on two key factors. The first was that I loved pizza. The second was that I loved the notion of driving around in my car and bringing people food, only to have them give me money to do so. Remember, I am all about tipping and tipping well, but it’s kind of silly when you think about it. Pizza restaurant customers give people additional money for the meal, even though the delivery persons only grabbed the box, hopped in their car, and walked to the doorstep. Did they take the order? Did they make the pizza? Did they cut it up and slide it into the box? Nope! But they drove it all the way to your house, all while being reimbursed by the store for their gas. Hey, I’ve got an idea. Let’s give ‘em a few bucks for their trouble! Ah, I love America. Before you get all riled up and I get in trouble for bashing the food service industry, let me get back to the story.

I acted on a tip (get it?) from a friend of mine and before I knew it, I was training to become the next great pizza delivery driver. My first few shifts went well and I was catching on quickly. One evening, I was making a long run (this would mean I was traveling a great distance for just a single delivery) and was winding my way through the rolling hills in Brentwood, Tennessee. It was a rainy weekend night, which meant that we were going to be quite busy and make some serious cash. As lazy as I can be and as much as I disliked it when we were busy, if I were going to be there, I might as well make good money. On the way back from this particular trek, I rounded a tight corner (flawlessly) and came upon a white Lexus SUV resting uncomfortably in a ditch with what appeared to be its driver standing under an umbrella (“ella, ella, ay”) behind the incapacitated luxury vehicle. I was a good fifty or so yards away from the scene (and approaching quickly) when I felt the prod of the Holy Spirit advising me that it would be a good thing to stop and see if I could be of assistance. I’d like to say I immediately obeyed before the split-second argument began to develop, but sadly, I did not. I began telling the Holy Spirit that I was working and I didn’t have time. I told Him that I needed the money. I told Him that someone else more capable would be along shortly. I will always find it humorous that once again, I am attempting to convince the Lord that I know what’s best. I knew I didn’t, and He didn’t care even if I thought I did. As I pulled to a complete stop behind the man, I rolled down my window (in the pouring rain, mind you).

“Sir, do you need any help?” (Umm, no, genius; he’s just standing out here in the rain with his car in the ditch for fun.)

“Triple A is on the way, buddy,” he said.

“Okay, man, I was just checking.”

As I started to roll up my window and ease off the brake, he took a step toward my car and beckoned me to stop.

“Ya know what? I’ve been out here for probably fifteen to twenty minutes, watched dozens of cars pass by, and you are the first person that stopped to see if I needed help,” he said.

“Oh, well, don’t mention it. Glad you’re okay.”

“Well, I’m just glad there are still people in this world that have some character. Thanks again,” he said.

“Have a good one, man.”

If you think that I sped away back toward my restaurant with a good feeling inside, you’d be mistaken. Once again, I had failed the Lord. While it appeared to this man that I had character, that couldn’t have been farther from the truth. Was it good that I ended up stopping in the end? Of course it was, for the man who was in the accident. But for me, it was a stinging reminder that only seconds earlier I had tried to silence the Holy Spirit’s prodding with every excuse I could think of in the span of a few seconds. Sure, I did what was right in the end like the corner store instance, but please get what I am about to tell you. Character is not simply doing what’s right, but doing it immediately. If the Holy Spirit has to guilt me into doing what’s right, it’s safe to assume that it was never within me to do it from the beginning. If He weren’t living inside us, I dare question if we would ever do what was right immediately. I had an old gym teacher who said that character was who you were when no one was around. When I was coming up on the scene that evening, I was by myself and did everything I could to deflect the responsibility of helping this man through the colossal power of excuse.

How many of us would always do the right thing immediately if the world were watching? I would presume that we would always call attention to a mistake with change at the store or always stop to help a person in need on the side of the road. But it’s when we’re alone that we begin to excuse ourselves from what God has called us to do. The Good Samaritan (from Samaria) helped the man on the side of the road (who was a Jew) and knew full well that his fellow countrymen would shun him for such an act. He did what was right by God, and did it immediately and without question. What’s our excuse?

Look, we won’t always be able to catch mistakes right away, or help every person with a thumb out on the highway, but we can be better. We can strive to listen to the Holy Spirit’s words and not be so quick with the excuses next time. We can possess the character that makes the difference in a world that has forgotten the meaning of the word. Oh, and we can always tip the pizza delivery guy a little more next time, too.

Every Plane Has a Pilate

I tend to exaggerate. Yep, it’s true. Now, I know you’re probably wondering if what you’ve read thus far has been in any way embellished and you’d be right. (Kidding.) In all seriousness, I don’t know why I’m tempted to do this. My brother says it’s because no one would ever care to listen to my stories unless I added a little something extra to them, but I disagree. My buddies of Martin Second, the dormitory floor I lived on in college, gave me the nickname “Drama” and hopefully I won’t need to explain why. I have always thought that giving oneself a nickname is a bit corny, but when you’re assigned one (and it’s a good one), we’ll do our best to fit the billing. And that’s why I’m so dramatic to this day. I have often found that the most honest people tend to struggle with exaggerating. Perhaps it’s the fact that, while striving to be as truthful as possible, sometimes wading into the open waters of falsehood gives those “Honest Abes” their opportunity to bend reality in their favor every once in a while; because the truth rarely turns out to be in one’s favor, as we all know. Except for one. And it’s the most important truth in history. But we’ll get to that later. I would hate to get ahead of myself.

What is truth? It is a question that has been asked since the dawn of time, and I figure now is as good a time as ever to take a crack at answering it myself. Recently, I found myself over Christmas in the quaint and “quill-worthy” coastal town of Wilmington, North Carolina. Okay, so for those of you who don’t know, I am quite biased toward my small and southern hometown. But I can promise you this. You would love the place where I grew up. To this day, I haven’t met a person who had visited/lived there who didn’t like it. Over the holidays, it is always my goal (since I live in Nashville) to make the rounds and see as many as possible of my dear friends and extended family members who still reside “back home.” I cherish these relationships, as most all of us do. This past visit, I had decided to extend my trip an extra day because I still hadn’t seen a couple of my friends. Weckel was scheduled for two o’clock, while Jimmy was on the docket at four. That evening, I called my friend Boz to see where he was at that moment, and since I was near his location, I decided to stop in and see him as well. Toward the end of our brief, but fulfilling meeting, I received a text from my friend Shaun. He was heading to his house, and, since he lived near my parents, seeing him would be the perfect nightcap. As I knocked on the door and the sounds of his large, Doberman pinscher erupted almost instantaneously, he loudly bade me to come in. It was always good to see Shaun, even if it meant making my way around his excited dog. After hanging out for a bit, talking about Nashville and Wilmington, whom we’d seen lately, or what was going on with our families, Shaun asked me how the book was coming. I told him that I was poking along, slowly but surely. He turned to his wife, Sara, and two friends who had stopped by as well and announced to them that I was writing a book and was going to be a famous Christian author one day.

“I don’t know about famous, Shaun.” I laughed off his comment.

“I’m telling you, this book is pretty good,” he explained.

His friends and wife smiled and then chatted with me for a couple of minutes about the book before Sara asked me what it was about. This question is almost always the most-often asked question when it comes to a book. Someone walks up to you at a party and says, “I just read the most amazing book called The Polar Bear,” and you would almost always respond with “Well, what’s it about?” The problem with the scenario playing out in Shaun’s living room was that I really didn’t know what this book was about. Oh sure, it’s got some stories in it, cute examples of Christianity, and a few “toe-stepping” Biblical observations, but as I searched for an intelligent answer to her question, I was stumped. My friend Shaun saw my face contorting while trying to come up with a suitable answer and jumped in.

“It’s simple theology for the everyday Christian and how it relates in our culture today,” he answered.

Leave it to a man of the cloth to come up with a sentence that I had used paragraphs for when trying to accomplish this description in the past.

“True. Now if only the book were as good as its synopsis.”

I laughed along with these other friends as we focused our attention back onto the college basketball game we were watching. In an email Shaun had sent me a few weeks before, after reading a chapter, he said something that I will always remember, no matter what happens with the book you are holding. He wished me well and told me “if anyone takes the time to read it, they’ll love it.” I don’t suppose one could tell the truth more purely. He saved the praise a friend would normally heap upon me by taking on such an endeavor and told me what he was really thinking. He was right. Who knows if anyone (other than you) will even know about the existence of this book, much less read it? And I was grateful for his honest and humbling compliment. You see, truth can never be bent in anyone’s favor, regardless of how much we desire it to be so. Chances are that not many people will take the time to read these words I have put together, but if they do, my friend felt as if they would enjoy the read. And to me, truth is the greatest compliment one can give. But what is truth? I asked the question and am no closer to providing an answer then I was earlier. Helpful, aren’t I? Oh, and if you can’t tell that I’m stalling, I’m sorry. You see, I’m going to use one of the most notorious men in history as our guide to find out what truth really is and what it is not. (But not yet.)

I was talking with a friend of mine at church the other day and we were discussing phrases that we heard in the church growing up. We listed a few examples, filling the spaces with laughs or affirming words.

“Oh, I got one. How about “God said it. I believe it. That settles it.”

“That is a good one! My science teacher used to say that all the time,” my friend said.

A science teacher’s using such a phrase instantly piqued my curiosity. No wonder Curious George was one of my favorite children’s books.

“Your science teacher? Why would your science teacher use that phrase often?”

“Well, it was my earth science teacher, so he would always say it when talking about the origin of the universe,” she replied. “Whenever we came to things that we couldn’t necessarily explain, he would say that in reference to creation.”

“Interesting. But in reality, that statement is false.”

My friend looked at me as if I were a heretic.

“Will, what are you talking about? ‘God said it. I believe it. That settles it.’ What is false about that?” she asked.

“Because it doesn’t matter what you or I believe. It only matters what God says.”

She looked at me and smiled.

“Must you find a problem with everything in Christianity today?” she asked.

“You know what I mean. Our culture of Christianity has become one bad bumper sticker after another. And all I’m saying is that I have a problem with our including ourselves in the equation. God said it and that settles it. Period.”

She cocked her head to the side and laughed off my explanation and we headed out to grab a bite. I filed in behind her as we made our way out of the sanctuary, politely wishing people a “great rest of their day” and shaking as many outstretched hands as we encountered. I pondered the conversation that had just taken place and (as I always do) allowed it to take root inside my mind. I had never felt as insignificant as I did at that moment. And it felt good. Because as minuscule as my life will prove to be, it was this truth and the truth of the gospel that is the reason I am writing to you now. Whatever God has said in His Word, it has absolutely nothing to do with what I believe or what I don’t. It only matters what is. And His Word is absolute truth. Which belongs to us.

But we still really don’t know what truth is, do we? I mean, we all think we do, and we say we know, but do we live as if we know? In my humble opinion, I believe there is a man that can help us with this problem. And bear with me, as I’d like to add an encouraging twist to a familiar and quite sad story. Originally, I had planned to retell the story of Pontius Pilate in my own words. But the more I thought about it, why would I even attempt to mess with perfection? As my friend David said recently, “What are you going to do with the story that the Bible doesn’t do already?” Point taken. Below is a passage of Scripture that will handle things quite effectively. Afterwards, we’ll talk about it and, hopefully, get to my point. If not, just count this as your Bible reading for the day. Here goes.

Jn. 18:28 Jesus’ trial before Caiaphas ended in the early hours of the morning. Then he was taken to the headquarters of the Roman governor. His accusers didn’t go inside because it would defile them, and they wouldn’t be allowed to celebrate the Passover. 29 So Pilate, the governor, went out to them and asked, “What is your charge against this man?”

30 “We wouldn’t have handed him over to you if he weren’t a criminal!” they retorted.

31 “Then take him away and judge him by your own law,” Pilate told them.

“Only the Romans are permitted to execute someone,” the Jewish leaders replied. 32 (This fulfilled Jesus’ prediction about the way he would die.)

33 Then Pilate went back into his headquarters and called for Jesus to be brought to him. “Are you the king of the Jews?” he asked him.

34 Jesus replied, “Is this your own question, or did others tell you about me?”

35 “Am I a Jew?” Pilate retorted. “Your own people and their leading priests brought you to me for trial. Why? What have you done?”

36 Jesus answered, “My Kingdom is not an earthly kingdom. If it were, my followers would fight to keep me from being handed over to the Jewish

leaders. But my Kingdom is not of this world.”

37 Pilate said, “So you are a king?”

Jesus responded, “You say I am a king. Actually, I was born and came into the world to testify to the truth. All who love the truth recognize that what I say is true.”

38 “What is truth?” Pilate asked. Then he went out again to the people and told them, “He is not guilty of any crime. 39 But you have a custom of asking me to release one prisoner each year at Passover. Would you like me to release this ‘King of the Jews’?”

40 But they shouted back, “No! Not this man. We want Barabbas!” (Barabbas was a revolutionary.)

Jn. 19:1 Then Pilate had Jesus flogged with a lead-tipped whip. 2 The soldiers wove a crown of thorns and put it on his head, and they put a purple robe on him. 3 “Hail! King of the Jews!” they mocked, as they slapped him across the face.

4 Pilate went outside again and said to the people, “I am going to bring him out to you now, but understand clearly that I find him not guilty.” 5 Then Jesus came out wearing the crown of thorns and the purple robe. And Pilate said, “Look, here is the man!”

6 When they saw him, the leading priests and Temple guards began shouting, “Crucify him! Crucify him!”

“Take him yourselves and crucify him,” Pilate said. “I find him not guilty.”

7 The Jewish leaders replied, “By our law he ought to die because he called himself the Son of God.”

8 When Pilate heard this, he was more frightened than ever. 9 He took Jesus back into the headquarters again and asked him, “Where are you from?” But Jesus gave no answer. 10 “Why don’t you talk to me?” Pilate demanded. “Don’t you realize that I have the power to release you or crucify you?”

11 Then Jesus said, “You would have no power over me at all unless it were given to you from above. So the one who handed me over to you has the greater sin.”

12 Then Pilate tried to release him, but the Jewish leaders shouted, “If you release this man, you are no ‘friend of Caesar.’ Anyone who declares himself a king is a rebel against Caesar.”

13 When they said this, Pilate brought Jesus out to them again. Then Pilate sat down on the judgment seat on the platform that is called the Stone Pavement (in Hebrew, Gabbatha). 14 It was now about noon on the day of preparation for the Passover. And Pilate said to the people, “Look, here is your king!”

15 “Away with him,” they yelled. “Away with him! Crucify him!”

“What? Crucify your king?” Pilate asked.

“We have no king but Caesar,” the leading priests shouted back.

16 Then Pilate turned Jesus over to them to be crucified. So they took Jesus away. 17 Carrying the cross by himself, he went to the place called Place of the Skull (in Hebrew, Golgotha). 18 There they nailed him to the cross. Two others were crucified with him, one on either side, with Jesus between them. 19 And Pilate posted a sign over him that read, “Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews.” 20 The place where Jesus was crucified was near the city, and the sign was written in Hebrew, Latin, and Greek, so that many people could read it.

21 Then the leading priests objected and said to Pilate, “Change it from ‘The King of the Jews’ to ‘He said, I am King of the Jews.’”

22 Pilate replied, “No, what I have written, I have written.”

Jn. 18:28-19:22 (NLT)

Whew, that was intense! This has always been one of my favorite passages of Scripture. There are so many things going on here. The gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John all carry this account, although expressed from different viewpoints and written to different groups. Though not in John’s account, we do know about a couple of fascinating occurrences. In the gospel of Matthew, Pilate’s wife had a dream about Jesus and pleaded with Pilate to “have nothing to do with this man.” Also, and much more famously, is Matthew’s account of Pilate’s symbolic washing of his hands (also see Psalms 26:6) to show the throng of people before him that he “was innocent of this righteous man’s blood.” Pilate was a vicious man, wanting to please Rome (specifically, Caesar) with his actions, all while keeping the peace with the Jews as prefect of the province of Judea. He was Roman, not overly concerned with Jewish customs or their religion. Yet, he will forever be linked to the crucifixion of Christ. While Pilate certainly had the power to release Jesus and emphasized the fact that he found no fault in Him, he gave in to the Sanhedrin and ultimately the people he was there to govern. But what does this account teach us about truth?

Earlier, I mentioned that we all claim to know truth, yet there is a gargantuan difference between knowing what truth is and living as if we do. This is why I value the story of Pilate so much. During the course of Pilate’s dialogue with Jesus, he marveled at Jesus’ words and actions. Pilate wasn’t the nice man that lives down the street from the Jewish people. He was ruthless, violent, and extremely biased toward his own gain and the advancement of the Roman Empire. Why then, was he so moved by his brief exchange with Jesus of Nazareth? It’s simple, really. Pilate not only recognized that there was something completely different and innocent about this man, but perhaps he realized that Jesus was in fact who He said He was. Pilate had encountered truth and, in minutes, was convinced that Jesus was God in the flesh. At least, I’d like to believe he did. There’s really no way of knowing. There are many different accounts about what happened to Pilate after his encounter with Christ. Some say he found favor with Caesar and ruled for the rest of his life. Others say he was exiled and eventually took his own life. But I’d like to believe he became a believer. Wishful thinking, I know. Toward the end of the text, Pilate places a sign above the cross in three different languages that states that Jesus was the King of the Jews. Some took issue and wanted Pilate to change it to read that Jesus claimed that title for himself, but Pilate denied their request. While there are many theories for his action here, I believe that he genuinely believed Jesus. And belief is at the core of every conversion.

I know. I get it. I am making assumptions and possibly grasping at straws on behalf of a man who had the power to free Jesus and didn’t. But remember this. How many times in one single day do we symbolically sentence Jesus to death by our actions? By our words? By our lack of either? We have His power in each of us who has come to know Him, yet each time we choose to sin, it’s as if we’re just as guilty as Pilate. At least he didn’t claim to know God. What’s our excuse? Know this: Pilate didn’t kill Jesus. The Jews didn’t kill Him, either. He willingly laid down His life so He could be the propitiation for our sins. Of course, nothing regarding Pilate can or cannot be proven about what I have said. Maybe I just want to give the guy a break. Pilate has gotten a terrible rap (and most deservedly so) throughout history in the church, but maybe there’s a small chance he really did come to know Jesus in a spiritual way. Perhaps we’ll all get to Heaven one day and he’ll be one of the many people we’ll meet. Only God knows the heart. And there have been plenty of times in my own life when I was not any better than Pontius. And I would be extremely upset if any of you questioned my faith. We’re all sinners, I’d say. And what better way to come to know truth and live it out in one’s daily life than to have a supernatural experience with truth personified. As Jesus said, He is the way, the truth, and the life. And no one comes to God except through Him. The Bible tells us that in the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God. Truth is fully encompassed in and through Christ.

When I met Jesus for the first time, I was changed. He told me through His Word that the truth would set me free. And it did. As terrible a person that I am capable of being, truth was the only thing that could truly change me from the inside out. But freedom may lose its luster if we continue to refasten our shackles. The Bible tells us that old things pass away, and all things become new. Granted, we’re sinners and always will be, but knowing Jesus means we know truth. After all this time of thinking and saying we know truth, we can actually live the truth we know. And that’s Jesus Christ. He is absolute truth, in a world that strives to make all things relative.

Look, I don’t need to spend a lot of time attempting to convince you as believers of the gospel of Jesus Christ. But what you must understand is that it’s simply not good enough anymore to tell people the truth. We must be the truth we profess. In this day and age, our words just aren’t good enough for the unbeliever. What good are our words if our actions don’t match up?

Years ago, I had the privilege of becoming friends with an atheist. Now, before you question why I would use the word “privilege,” know that he exemplified everything one would want in a friend. Only, he didn’t believe in God and I did. We weren’t the best of friends, but we shared a mutual respect toward one another. He studied biology at an esteemed university in the south and approached our discussions on religion from a scientific standpoint. I was okay with this, as it challenged me to examine not only what I believed, but also why I believed it. Our talks greatly benefited not only my heart, but also my mind. One day, before he moved away from the town we lived in, we got together at a local restaurant to have lunch and have our “last face-to-face” as he called it. While enjoying the meal, we discussed an array of topics ranging from fantasy football to healthcare reform. I am not the most intelligent man on earth, much to the disbelief of some, but I always find it exhilarating to be around someone who is much smarter than I am. It feels as if I am in school again, and I loved school. As the server brought us our checks, my friend looked at me with a smirk on his face.

“Why are you looking at me like that? I’m not paying for yours.”

He laughed.

“Oh no, it’s just that I’m amused that you haven’t brought up God this entire lunch,” he remarked.

“Well, I figured you could use the break.”

We both laughed.

“I appreciate that. While I don’t believe in God, I must say that His/Her existence is the most intriguing quandary in the universe,” he said.

“I would definitely agree, my friend.”

“And perhaps one day I’ll come to believe in God like you, Will,” he responded.

“Miracles do happen, even these days.”

He chuckled.

“To be perfectly honest, I have never been this close to a Christian. It’s nice. Most Christians, especially since we live in the south, find out that I reject the idea of an Almighty Being and immediately want nothing to do with me,” he said. “Perhaps if they gave me more of a chance, I would get to know their God because of them, and not in spite of them. But they never do. I’ve read most of the Bible, but have yet to meet someone who lives Biblical truth. Until now.”

“Bro, you know me decently enough to know that I fail in that regard every day!” I exclaimed. “Why would you think that?”

“Because you’re sitting here with me, now,” he replied.

He gathered himself, thanked me for the time and let me know he had to finish packing. We shook hands as respected contemporaries would and he walked out. I sat there, somewhat in shock. It had never occurred to me that I could make an impact on someone as I had without converting him. And then, like a breeze that blew across my soul, I was reminded that it was only my job to plant the seed and let the Lord cultivate and harvest it. Too often, we Christians will try to do everything ourselves, and feel that we have failed if someone doesn’t immediately come to know Christ. I let my friend walk out of that restaurant, knowing full well that we would never again be as close as we were at that moment. I knew that there are many seasons in life, and most relationships weren’t meant to last forever here on earth. But there was comfort in knowing that for once I hadn’t reinforced my friend’s perception of Christians and their attitude toward someone like him. It definitely made the thought of the carrot cake I had just consumed not seem so bad for me.

Look, we won’t always live the truth we believe, and I get that. But every nonbeliever we can positively influence by our actions will be one more person that has a greater chance to come to know Truth as we do. The point of the gospel is not so much perfecting it, as it is not screwing it up for others. And while we’re not perfect, we all have the ability to at least do that.

Pilate wasn’t a man of faith and certainly didn’t claim to be. But he recognized that Jesus was Who He said He was. And he sought to release Him. While Pilate failed at acting upon what he then knew as truth, we now know that all things worked together in that encounter for good. It’s part of the reason we’re here. And it’s exactly why Jesus allowed Himself to be put in that position in the first place. With no trial, no crucifixion, and ultimately no death, there would be no salvation. If Jesus can forgive, so should we. Besides, Pilate had no power over Jesus other than what was given to him by God. In fact, he really had no control over whether to crucify Him or to set Him free. Because, as you know, only the Truth can set you free.

Yes, This Seat is Saved

I am quite the analogist. It seems that anytime I am attempting to explain something, regardless of the level of difficulty, I will indubitably jump into an analogy to help me get my point across. And being the English “expert” that I am (even though you can’t tell from my writing), I very much prefer it this way. Who doesn’t like something that helps explain something else? (Don’t answer that.) Which is why I’d like to share with you my favorite analogy when it comes to faith. But before we get to that, we first must know what faith is. Oh, I’m sure after you read that last sentence, a little voice inside your head reaffirmed that while others may have trouble answering that question, you certainly won’t. I’d think the same thing. And hopefully, by now, we would all be correct. But just in case there’s some of you out there that don’t know what faith is, allow me. The Bible gives us a very succinct definition when it tells us in Hebrews 11:1 (KJV) that “faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” And while we know the definition and have years of experience under our belt talking about it, having it, and even sharing it, perhaps we all need to be reminded about why we have faith in the first place and what it’s supposed to look like in our everyday lives. Okay, maybe it’s just me that needs to be reminded. But you’re already this far along, so you may as well finish reading.

Earlier, I mentioned my favorite analogy regarding faith and, while I wanted to wait a little bit longer before spilling the beans, I think now is as good a time as any. (At least I waited until the second paragraph.) Take a moment to look at what you’re sitting on. And if you’re standing, thumbing through this book and just happened to land in this spot, then a) that’s really cool, and b) this doesn’t apply to you. But if you’re sitting, which most all of you are, then stand up and take a good gander at what was underneath you. How many times have you sat in that chair? On that sofa? The chair I am sitting in at this moment as I type these words has held my weight for a couple of years now, give or take a few extra pounds, for about 8 hours a day. And each time I sit down in it to write or work, I fully expect it to hold me yet again. I don’t even think about it, either. I just sit, as you do. As you are. And it holds me, and it holds you. Yet, when I think about it, I’m certain there will come a day when my trusty little office chair will break. And that’s okay, since my chair wasn’t made to last forever. And it will be fairly humorous, because I’ll attempt to have a seat (as I always do) and will plummet to the floor. We don’t think about chairs in this way, but I have often heard this analogy over the years.

“Will, faith is like a chair. You sit in that chair, fully expecting it to hold you. You don’t hope it will; you believe it will. If you didn’t have faith in that chair, you wouldn’t sit down,” says the random Sunday school teacher. “See?”

“Um, sure, I see. I think. Maybe.”

But I didn’t see, or understand. And I still don’t get this analogy. Earlier, I mentioned that the Bible tells us that faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. I can see the chair, and I can most definitely recall the thousands of times I’ve sat down without incident. Based on the Bible’s two-part definition, the first time I sat in a particular chair could be considered faith, but I can still see the chair. And I know that chairs hold people. But if I told you that there was a chair beside you that you couldn’t see or feel, and could sit down in comfortably without difficulty, would you attempt to sit, without question or hesitation? That is faith. Some people would laugh, and others would be intrigued enough to ask qualifying questions. But how many of you would hear my instructions and just sit? Believing in something and having faith in that something are very different animals. Faith is the action of belief. I can believe in God all day long, a Supreme Being Who created the universe and sent His only Son to save me from my sins, but until I act on that belief by trusting Him to save me, my belief means nothing. Without faith, it is impossible to please God. Even the demons believe in God, and tremble. In a sense, faith begins where belief ends. And by this point, you know I’ve got a couple good of stories to illustrate this fact.

As you may know, I attended a Christian academy and Christian college. I went to a public university for my first three semesters, but felt out of place. I guess I was (and still am) a Christian-school kind of guy. And that’s okay. If you’re not, that’s okay, too. Spending years in a Christian educational setting has left me with countless stories of all things God. And I’m definitely okay with that. But it always seemed as if the cool God stories of faith, love, forgiveness, prayer, and salvation all happened to other people. I often wondered when I would have a neat story to tell people one day about something supernatural that didn’t happen to Mrs. Teacher or Mr. Family Friend, but to me. When it came to my testimony, it was as vanilla as one could get.

I remember sitting in youth group one Wednesday evening when I was in middle school and listening to our church secretary at the time tell us a story about faithfulness and trusting God. She was in college in Tennessee and recounted to us that the semester was coming to an end and she needed five dollars for something or other. I don’t remember most of the details (I was in middle school, mind you), but I remember her saying that she was praying for five dollars. And wouldn’t you know, on the last day of exams, she went to her campus mailbox, found a letter from a distant aunt, and inside was a note attached to a crisp, five-dollar bill. I remember perking up at the end of the story, hoping that maybe something neat like that would happen to me one day. Granted, I have felt the presence of God at work thousands of times in my life, but after I had heard that story, I wanted to experience something like our church secretary had. And lo and behold, my time would come.

Toward the end of my senior year of college, life was good and God was even better. My parents were middle class and we never went without, but my schooling was expensive and I paid for most of it myself. I got a job at a restaurant in town as a server and actually didn’t hate it. I liked the people I worked with and the hours were flexible. And it was always nice to leave for the day with cash in hand. It was good for me to work, and the sense of accomplishment that was found in my paying for my schooling lingers with me to this day. Plus, I tried a little harder in class since I was forking out the cash. I worked about 20 hours a week as a server (I had another part-time job as well) and made enough to pay my bills and leave a little cash for me to take the ladies out on the town (Arby’s). The semester was coming to an end and with exams a week away, most students had their financial affairs in order and their only worry was their finals. I did not. I received a letter the Tuesday before exams were to begin and my balance was around three hundred dollars. Without payment in full, I would not be allowed to take any of my exams, which would spell doom for my grade in each class and there’d be no graduation. I decided to visit the business office to get further clarification. They told me what I typed to you a few seconds ago. Heading back to my room, I ran into my roommate, Nate, who was on his way back to the dorm.

“Hey, buddy,” he said.

“Hey, man.”

“How was class?” he asked.

“Do you even have to ask that?”

“Okay, what’s wrong?” he asked.

I wear my heart on my sleeve; what can I say?

“Oh, it’s nothing. I got this letter from the business office letting me know my balance and that it has to be paid by Monday morning or I can’t take my exams. I knew I would owe a little, but I kind of swept things under the rug, I guess.”

“That sucks, man,” he responded. “But you work this weekend, right?”

“Yeah, but I don’t know if I can swing it. That’d be a ton of tables.”

“How much do you owe, if you don’t mind my asking?” he asked.

“Um, like, over three hundred bucks. And I do have some good shifts this weekend. But there’s just no way.”

“Hmm, I am sorry, man,” he answered.

“I guess I could ask my parents for the cash and pay them back. Or maybe talk to the administration about giving me a break.”

He nodded and we walked together toward our room for the next couple of minutes in silence, with only the sounds of the crunching leaves beneath our shoes.

“Why don’t you ask God?” he asked.

I looked over at him as we approached our door.

“Ask God?”

“Why not? Will, I know you pretty well and you’re a fixer. Which is a great quality to have, but what can the good Lord ever do for you if you’re always trying to do everything yourself? Maybe He’s waiting for an opportunity like this to show you something amazing,” he stated.

In the few minutes it took to walk to our dorm while I racked my brain for a solution to my tuition problem, the thought hadn’t even crossed my mind to ask the Lord to provide the remedy. Yet all my life, I had been taught in school, at church, and by my parents that we as Christians were to walk by faith and not by sight. Plus, I wasn’t kidding about the number of stories like the one from our church secretary I had heard growing up.

“So, you’re saying I just do what I would normally do, workwise, but pray all this week and ask God to provide the money?”

“That’s exactly what I am saying. I have to go to practice, but we’ll talk later. Perhaps you should talk to Someone else,” he said through a grin.

“I get it, bro.”

Game (Nate’s basketball nickname) walked out of our room as I sat at my desk. I didn’t know whether I felt worse for not thinking of the solution my roommate had just provided or that I was hesitant to believe it could work. I knew God owned the cattle on a thousand hills but was unsure if I would be able to squeeze out enough milk in the next six days to truly see my faith be rewarded. Believing God could do something miraculous is very different from believing He would.

And that’s when I heard the still, small voice of God softly echo in my soul. And it was at that moment that I decided that sink or swim, I was going to toss my lot in with the Lord and exhibit the faith I claimed to possess. It wasn’t going to be easy, but nothing worthwhile ever is. Since I was sitting at my desk, I looked at the wall calendar to confirm my work schedule. Real faith was not found in calculating, planning, and certainly not in worrying. I had dinner shifts on Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. I said a quick prayer about what seemed to be an impossibility and grabbed my coat to head to the learning center. If I was going to take some exams next week, I needed to study.

Later that night, I walked into my room to find Game on the phone with his long-distance girlfriend. I normally tried to make as much noise as possible, since it was always fun to annoy my godly and soft-spoken roommate. But this night was different. I suppose I wasn’t in the mood to goof around, since I was fretting over my decision to let God take care of my money woes. Which is sad, since I was a believer and should be quite adept by this time in life at placing my faith in God to perform a modern miracle. But here I was, already doubting Him before He even had a chance to work.

Game had just hung up the phone and could tell I was fixed in thought.

“Okay, what’s wrong?” he asked.

“Ah, nothing. Well, I guess I am already worrying about this bill. I mean, I know in my head that God can take care of things, but I’m questioning the faith I have in my heart that He will, ya know?”

“I know it’s hard, but you’ll see,” he said.

“Well, I suppose I have no choice at this point. I’m gonna head into work tomorrow night and see what happens. In the meantime, God and I are gonna have to talk.”

We both laughed at my comment as he headed to the dorm showers. I suppose I was fortunate in my life to have not had to play the faith card as of yet, but this was of no consolation.

I had decided the next morning that I was going to stuff the money I had made from the weekend in my sock drawer and not count it until I was heading into my last shift on Sunday night. If I wasn’t doing well, I didn’t want to know and have the rest of my weekend ruined in the process. Thursday and Friday evening came and went, and I felt as if I were doing okay, but, instead of thinking about it, I had decided to pray instead. Each time I felt the urge to worry, I would remind myself to take my concerns to the Lord. Still, being the planner that I am, it wasn’t the easiest thing to do.

I headed into work Saturday night and seemed to be doing well as the night wore on and, for the first time all week, was starting to believe that things were going to be okay, no matter what happened. And that mindset was key, as I’ll explain in a bit.

After church on Sunday, I summoned Game back to the room after informing him that we had a count to do. Remember, I was heading in for my last shift that night and Monday morning was my deadline.

“Okay, dude, I am going to count what I have here in the drawer and that way we’ll know what I need from tonight.”

“Are you sure you want to do that?” Game asked.

“Absolutely. You see, whatever specific amount I need for tonight, I want to be able to tell people one day that I prayed for said amount and got it.”

“Okay, I get it,” he responded.

“Good.”

I had already passed the one hundred dollar mark and was closing in on two hundred. Being a server saddles one with a ton of singles, so I felt more like I was Scrooge McDuck counting his fortune than I did trying to hit three hundred bucks. As I passed the two hundred mark, I looked at my roommate and was feeling better about things. After a few more seconds, I had run out of bills and was sitting at fifty-seven dollars away from my goal! It was a nice chunk of change, and while I felt it was doable, I knew that it would still take a miracle. Game gave me a thumbs up as he headed to the cafeteria and I quickly folded the money up, stuffed it in my sock drawer, and got on my knees before the Lord.

“All right, Lord. No one knows about this bill other than Game. I took his advice and here we are, fifty-seven dollars away from a miracle. I am asking You to give me this money, tonight. And while I know You always answer prayers, and while it may not always be yes, please show Yourself in a mighty way. In Your Son’s name, amen.”

I got up from my knees, got changed into my uniform, and headed out into the chilly Chattanooga evening. I arrived at work and while I should have been extremely focused, I felt very relaxed. Sunday nights weren’t the most lucrative of shifts, but my eyes were truly on the Lord for this one. I had some good tables, and I had some bad ones, but I never once looked at what I was making. That time would come later. I headed home in almost a giddy anticipation of what was to come. If this had been a week earlier, I would have been a wreck. I wasn’t used to trusting the Lord when it came to things like this, as sad as that admission is. But here I was, needing fifty-seven dollars in the next few hours. I made my way into the room and found Game on the phone. He held up one finger as I heard him tell Amber he had to go and would call her back in a bit. He hung up the phone and jumped up from his bed, just as I was unfolding the wad of dollar bills from my apron.

“One, two, three.”

I had a pretty good stack going and was feeling good.

“Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen.”

Game was getting excited as we both called out the numbers together.

“Thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four.”

The roll was shrinking as our number was growing.

“Fifty-four, fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty-seven!”

And there it was. As the both of us said the number fifty-seven out loud as the roll ran out, I was shocked. God had literally given me fifty-seven dollars during my last shift. Here I was, standing in the middle of my dorm room on a Sunday night with my roommate and we had just witnessed something very special and absolutely true. And I’ll never, ever forget it. But while I was extremely overjoyed that my bill would be paid in full in a few short hours, my spirit was comforted within me at the realization that I had experienced real faith that I had only heard about up to this point. And now, I too, would have a really cool story to tell people (you) one day.

Earlier, I mentioned that I had had the feeling the day before that no matter what happened, everything was going to be okay. And I think that’s what real faith looks like. You see, we’re not always going to get what we want, or even what we think we may need. Sometimes, God will say yes, sometimes He says no, and other times He’ll have us wait. But faith is trusting God no matter what the outcome will be, whether it’s good, bad, or ugly. You see, my faith in God when it came to that tuition bill had nothing to do with a dollar amount, but in trusting that God was going to do something, whether I understood it at the time or not. And in this case, He decided it would be best for me to give me the exact amount that I needed when I needed it.

Other times in life, He has decided to do something different. But He always does something. One of my favorite stories in the Bible comes from the book of Luke and it is about a Roman centurion’s faith. I want to share it with you, since it should serve as a wonderful lesson to all of us.

Luke 7:1 When Jesus had finished saying all this to the people who were listening, he entered Capernaum. 2 There a centurion’s servant, whom his master valued highly, was sick and about to die. 3 The centurion heard of Jesus and sent some elders of the Jews to him, asking him to come and heal his servant. 4 When they came to Jesus, they pleaded earnestly with him, “This man deserves to have you do this, 5 because he loves our nation and has built our synagogue.” 6 So Jesus went with them.

He was not far from the house when the centurion sent friends to say to him: “Lord, don’t trouble yourself, for I do not deserve to have you come under my roof. 7 That is why I did not even consider myself worthy to come to you. But say the word, and my servant will be healed. 8 For I myself am a man under authority, with soldiers under me. I tell this one, ‘Go,’ and he goes; and that one, ‘Come,’ and he comes. I say to my servant, ‘Do this,’ and he does it.”

9 When Jesus heard this, he was amazed at him, and turning to the crowd following him, he said, “I tell you, I have not found such great faith even in Israel.” 10 Then the men who had been sent returned to the house and found the servant well.

Luke 7:1-10 (NIV)

While I am not the most learned Biblical scholar, I would dare say that no such compliment in the entire Scriptures is as magnificent as the one Jesus gives this Roman militant. Imagine displaying faith so great that it amazed the Lord! That is something that we must aspire to accomplish. You’ll have to forgive me for being a tad dramatic, but some things in God’s Word just jump out and grab me. And this particular example does just that. Rarely have I exhibited the faith in my life that this centurion displays in the above text. And I desperately want to experience that.

New Year’s resolutions are a fascinating occurrence in our society. I am certain that any of you reading this book have made several of them throughout the years. And how many of them stuck? That’s the kicker. Anyone can make a resolution (and all of us do), but sticking to said resolution(s) is almost impossible. Why is that? Perhaps the resolutions are too lofty a goal. Perhaps we like thinking we’ll change something in our lives, yet lack the proper motivation to actually change it. I am guilty of making resolutions every year, yet by February (if I’m lucky), they have all but ceased. I consider myself a disciplined person, so why the failure? I believe that the lack of success in keeping our resolution(s) is directly linked to faith. Now, before you start scratching your head and wondering if I’m off my rocker, bear with me. I have always been a portly fellow. Granted, I have gone through seasons of being in decent physical shape, but for most of my life, I have been a tad plush. So, every New Year (because before Thanksgiving and Christmas would just be cruel), I decide that I am going to go on a diet. The word “diet” alone is enough to make one want to give up. I mean, who wants to participate in something that has the word “die” in it? (And if I don’t give “props” to Karen Kingsbury on that one, she’ll have my head.) Each year, I re-join a gym, stock up on healthy food, and devise a killer workout program. And every year by Valentine’s Day, I am knee deep in salt and sugar, making excuses about missing the gym and shivering at the thought of getting out in the cold. It’s not that I lack the willpower, but that the faith I have in reshaping my body and health is elementary at best. You see, we live in a results-driven world, but those results better come in the next five minutes, or else we’re walking. And that’s the problem. Faith is about putting your trust in something (God) bigger than yourself, even if you may not see the results of that faith come to fruition right away. I’ll admit it’s difficult to stick to something when you can’t see results. But while seeing may be believing, it’s definitely not faith.

At the present time, I have four nephews and one niece. And as you can guess, I am the coolest uncle in the world. Seriously, it’s official. Didn’t you hear? It was in US Weekly a few months back. Regardless, I love my niece and nephews more than my own life. I, like you for yours, wouldn’t hesitate one second in laying my life down for one of them. And it’s a neat feeling. Loving someone else so much that you would give up your life in the blink of an eye is pretty cool. And being a cool uncle, I am contractually obligated to have all sorts of dangerous fun with them. My nephews were always trying to play-fight with me, wrestle with me, or have me throw them up in the air as high as I possibly could. And while they constantly seemed to get heavier and I seemed to grow weaker, we had many a laugh during those times. My sister and mom weren’t so eager to see me hurling my small nephews through the air because of all the things that could go wrong. And while my parents and siblings knew my strength and that I would do anything to keep my nephews safe, they flinched with every toss. If only they shared the same faith that my nephews possessed. You see, never once through all of our adventures did my nephews show fear or apprehension toward what physical challenge we were about to attempt. Faith like a child is perhaps the most beautiful example ever posed. My nephews couldn’t comprehend or calculate the physics and factors of such fun the way my mom and sister could, yet they had the faith to trust their uncle enough to jump without hesitation, leap without a net, and fly without wings. It’s a shame we lose some things as we become adults, but we don’t have to. I believe our faith should deepen the older and richer our walk with the Lord becomes.

And that’s what He wants, in the end. Faith begins with acceptance, moves along with love, and ends in complete surrender. We must learn to view our faith as the ultimate obedience to God, and not just a way of thinking positively. Perhaps my favorite verse in all of Scripture deals with faith. Jesus said in Matthew 17:20b (ESV) that “truly, I say to you, if you have faith like a grain of mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move, and nothing will be impossible for you.” What an encouraging word from the Master Himself. With God, all things are possible.

Pardon me, would you have any Grey Poupon?

The Septic Tank of Love

I usually try to begin each chapter with some insightful, witty quip that grabs your attention and starts off the short trek you are embarking upon with me the right way. Well, so sorry to disappoint all (three) of you out there, but when it comes to the subject matter of this chapter, I am unfortunately rendered quite helpless in all areas. Just the simple fact that I am somewhat making sense right now is a victory in and of itself. Oh, I’m not making sense? Okay, let’s start again, shall we?

If you’ll kindly glance to the top of this page, you’ll notice the interesting title of this chapter (well, I think it’s interesting). I suppose you nor anyone else for that matter has ever used such two contrasting images when forming an idea, but I can assure you that I have some rhyme to my reason. Love in its purest form is the foundation of our entire (and continued) existence. John tells us that not only did God love the entire world, but He so loved it. The Almighty wishes us to know that He really, really loves us as much as He possibly can. Why then, if love is the sustainer of all that we know, would I associate something so disgusting as a septic tank with the concept I am trying to convey? It’s simple, really. Let me explain.

If you’re a kid and you’re growing up in North Carolina, you are destined to become a basketball fan. Regardless of your race, class, or denomination, the sport of basketball is engrained into every youth from the time he/she is knee high to a grasshopper. While some play, everyone watches. Now, depending on which school you root for (which is as important as what church you go to), life comes to a slow trudge around March and April. In my humble opinion, any self-respecting, God-fearin’ boy like myself would cheer for only one team, and that’s the UNC Tar Heels. And before I get any hate mail from Duke, State or Wake fans, save yourself the time and write your own book.

My brother and I were playing more and more basketball by the time we had approached our pre-teen years, and our Mom was now leaning on our Dad to get us a hoop and install it in the backyard. We had a pretty good feeling coming up on Christmas 1990 that we were going to see a Huffy backboard and rim (complete with red, white, and blue net) sitting under our Christmas tree. My Dad never really was good at keeping a secret and our suspicions were confirmed that Christmas morning. We wasted no time talking my Dad into setting up the goal after lunch. We would help, of course, but he knew that once that goal was in place, basketballs would be flying toward him on his ladder from every direction. He didn’t much care, since our jubilation was enough satisfaction to last that man his entire lifetime.

I cannot begin to estimate the hours my brother and I spent in our backyard playing basketball. During the school year, we would get our homework done as fast as we could (of course, homework always came first), race each other to the court, and play until we couldn’t see our hand(s) in front of our face(s). In the summer, it was more basketball and much less homework. We liked the summers the best.

A few months into establishing our basketball court as one of the favorite places to play, my brother was outside playing one afternoon and I was out the back glass door and on my way to join him. Our dog, Summer, was always happy to oblige our desire to get outdoors. As I jogged through the yard with my ball in hand, I noticed a rancid smell the closer I came to the goal. My brother yelled to me and asked if I smelled what he did.

“Yeah, what is that? It smells sooooo gross.”

“I know,” he said. “It smells like poop.”

As we walked around the yard to investigate this strange stench, we noticed our dog milling about near my sister’s monkey bars.

“Hey, it is definitely coming from over there,” I pointed out.

My brother and I meandered over to where our dog was and noticed a soggy, brown patch to the left of the basketball court. My brother quickly pulled at Summer’s collar and chided her for putting her nose in such slop. We walked her back up to the house to clean her off a bit and tell my Dad what our noses and then our eyes had discovered. Perhaps you could argue that our dog discovered it first, but that’s beside the point. My brother cleaned up our dog as I asked my Dad to come down to the court and have a smell, er, look. We left our dog inside and the three of us headed toward the aforementioned area. As we approached, we laughed like little boys do at the reaction that our strong, brave father had painted all over his face. He stooped down toward the muck and after inspecting the scene with most of his senses, he informed us that our septic tank must have a leak or a pipe had burst somewhere. While I considered myself quite a knowledgeable young boy, I didn’t have the faintest clue what a septic tank was. My father told us (much to our dismay) that our recreation was over for the evening and we needed to go inside and clean up.

After a little grumbling and a whole lot of stalling, we finally made our way to the back porch and inside to find our Mom. I knew that if I didn’t know something, my Mom certainly would.

“Moooom,” my brother called out. “Where are you?”

“In the den,” she answered.

My brother and I ran through the kitchen to find our mother watching Jeopardy, relaxing in her Lazy-Boy recliner.

“Mom, what is a ‘shepsik’ tank?” my brother asked.

My mother listened intently to my brother’s question and attempted to conceal the amused look on her face.

“Well, boys, a ‘septic’ tank is what holds all the yucky stuff after you use the bathroom.

“So that would explain the bad smell by the basketball goal?”

“Yes, honey, and your Dad will get it fixed soon enough,” she smiled as she put our concern at ease.

With her short explanation, our Mom (like all mothers) put to rest any notion that we would probably be back out on the court the next day and this seemed to make sense to my brother and me. Our septic tank would be fixed when it was fixed and our problem would be solved. While we did not understand a septic tank’s benefits at our young age, it is quite evident how vital and important such a thing is to our society, today. Without these devices and a well-working sewer system, our entire civilization would be a massive slum. Granted, not many of us wish to know the ins and outs of such a process (which is why I’ll spare you the details), but it is urgent that we value such a thing and appreciate what occurs underground.

Okay, so I’m sure you’re still asking yourself the obvious question. Why would I use the phrase “septic tank of love?” It’s simple, really. As I explained in the previous paragraph, our society spends as little time as possible pondering or even mentioning septic tanks and sewers because they’re disgusting, smelly, and downright unpleasant. That doesn’t sound like a positive thing to me, but it is. This entity was once considered the greatest invention in New York City. While it may be a stretch, I’d like to point out the correlation between this innovation and our concept of love. Just like a sewer, the idea of love in one’s life always takes root in one’s heart as the most wonderful thing ever created. However, over time, sin takes hold because we cannot love the way God has intended, so our love begins to stink and ultimately spoil. What was once good has now become bad. Even as believers, we have such a corrupt grasp of love that we appear no different in our families, friendships, and relationships than do those of the world. We know love personified on an intimate level and yet, we are indistinguishable from a world we are implored to love. How will a world come to know love if those who know love cannot introduce the two?

Since I don’t have all day, and you most certainly do not, I have chosen to focus on what God says love is, rather then telling you what it is not; that would be an entire anthology in and of itself. God gives us a simple and direct explanation of what love is in Paul’s first letter to the church at Corinth and I’m going to give you a brief synopsis of each tenet. By the way, and perhaps I should have used parentheses, but I cannot get that “What is Love” song out of my head now since using a similar phrase earlier. But I digress. Look, when it comes to this immensely huge topic, I’ll be the first to admit I have thoroughly obliterated millions of opportunities at loving a friend, sibling, co-worker, or girlfriend (every one of them) the right way, but that’s why I’m going to give you exactly what God has given us: the basics. You can figure out the rest.

Love is patient

Patience is a virtue, and one very few of us possess. My father has always exemplified the definition of the word and I will always feel blessed to have had such an excellent example while growing up. I know there are times when we get flustered and frustrated, but that’s not love. I hate to admit this, but the worst I’ve ever spoken to anyone in my life has been my brother, sister, mother, and father. I can count at least one time specifically with each one of them that I was utterly mean, hurtful, and disrespectful. I just don’t get it. Why do we hurt the ones we say we love the most? Yet, with each of the four instances (and I’m sure there were many more I have blocked out), all four members of my immediate family acted with kindness, understanding, and divine patience. Despite the horribleness of my words and actions, they remained calm and loving, thus showing me that real love is patient. Real love remains steadfast in the storm, hanging in and holding on until the tempest has passed. If it weren’t real, it could not have survived. I am sure I’m not the only one that has acted in a completely awful manner toward a loved one, but aren’t we glad we have people in our lives that truly love us no matter what we say and do, and do so with absolute patience? How virtuous.

Love is kind

As I mentioned earlier, real love is patient, and the direct manifestation of that patience is kindness. We have all been treated kindly at times and have all been treated not so kindly, but real love will always be kind. Granted, we are sinners, and I am sure you and I both have at times not acted so kindly in love. However, we cannot allow ourselves to become discouraged by such a fact. Christ has set a perfect example of loving-kindness by undeservedly dying for your sins and mine. I have often wondered why and how Jesus could hang on a cross, being taunted, tormented, and tortured, and not say or do anything. There is an old hymn that shares my sentiment. It says, “He could have called ten thousand angels, but He died alone, for you and me.” I have come to realize that while it was love that put Him on the cross, it was kindness that kept Him there.

Love does not envy

I was watching an episode of Seinfeld recently and Elaine, the female friend of Jerry and most often successful in her relationships, was extremely upset at the fact that George, Jerry’s best friend and unlucky in love, was going to be getting married before she would be. While we should and would be extremely happy for a friend and their impending nuptials, Elaine was envious of George and angry because “it should have been her getting married, and not him,” in Jerry’s words. This is not love. Look, I am thirty-two years old and literally the last of my high school and college circle to still be single. I am not unhappy or angry or bitter toward my friends who have found true love before me, yet some people can be and are. This is not real love. Being envious of other relationships, families, careers, bank accounts, and looks will do nothing for yours. Love delights in the well-being of others. Aristotle said that envy was “the pain caused by the good fortune of others.” Why then, as believers, would this ever occur in our hearts? There are too many things in life we should be doing as opposed to questioning God’s sovereignty.

Love does not boast

As anyone who knows me can attest, I am an avid sports enthusiast and have a favorite team/individual in just about any athletic competition imaginable. My all-time favorite sports team is the Los Angeles Lakers. Some would say that I am absolutely obsessed, and I would probably agree. Being a mature adult male, I have learned over the years how to properly root for my favorite teams and be a good sport. However, when I was younger, I wasn’t the greatest at this feat. I caught a lot of flack when my teams would lose because I talked so much trash about the impending game(s) and would pay dearly when my teams’ performances couldn’t cash the check my mouth was writing. Obviously, a young boy in North Carolina had no bearing on the outcome of these contests, but my friends didn’t see it that way. I truly loved my teams but manifested that love in a way that wasn’t in good taste or good sportsmanship. There is nothing wrong with celebrating success but not at the expense of others. My mother used to say that she did not raise me to be a “braggart,” and while I didn’t always know what that meant, I have come to realize that a true fan is confident but not cocky, assured but not arrogant. Real love does not boast, and real fans don’t either. Oh, and I’m writing this after the Lakers recently won back-to-back titles. So I guess you could say I’ve learned my lesson.

Love is not proud

You may be wondering what the difference between boasting and pride is and I think I may have the answer. Boasting is the outward display of an inward feeling of superiority. That ill-conceived feeling is called pride. Boasting would not occur if there was not pride behind it. It has often been said that at the root of all sin is pride. Ask Lucifer. Ask Eve. Ask David. Ask Peter. Ask anyone around you. God has specifically given us what love is and we know that pride has no place in it. We are all guilty of arrogance from time to time, but we were given a perfect example (yet again) of love that displayed none of that. Jesus was love incarnate, yet He was made as we were, humbled to the utmost degree, and accepted this fate without a hint of self-righteousness, an ounce of haughtiness, or a speck of indignation. If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.

Love is not rude

I would argue that many wonderful cities in our country and throughout the world have received a “bad rap” if you will, purely based on what we see in movies, music, and television. I remember collecting several warnings from my fellow Southerners when I revealed my plans for a trip to New York City. I heard how rude big city folk were, and that I needed to guard my feelings (and wallet) with my very life during my sojourn. I thought it quite comical, since most of these people had never been upwards of the Mason-Dixon line. I thanked them for the advice and decided that I would make up my own mind about the dreaded “North.” I found most everyone I encountered during my first trip to be quite pleasant and downright hospitable. These people weren’t rude at all. In fact, most of the New Yorkers I met were some of the friendliest people I had ever come upon in my travels. Just as the rudeness I was encouraged to look out for had no place in my trip, likewise does rudeness have absolutely no place in love. The Bible doesn’t just command us to speak the truth, but to speak the truth in love. Truth without love defeats its purpose.

Love is not self-seeking

In this day and age, it seems that everyone has an agenda. Whether that’s with our careers or relationships, it appears that whatever we do tends to have an angle. Frankly, it’s a difficult trap to avoid. I once had a friend tell me that every decision and every choice he has ever made had a motive behind it, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. But when those reasons only serve one’s self (which they most often do), then does it become toxic and something that has no place in the body of Christ. Love isn’t about you or me. It’s about others. It’s about Him. The following admission should be difficult for me, but I’m sure you won’t be surprised. I have often done the right thing simply because of the approval I stand to gain from God and from others. I have rarely loved someone or something without first knowing how it would directly benefit my current situation. We are guilty of loving ourselves far more than we love others, and it’s something with which I continually struggle. While we’ll never love others the way Christ does, the least we can do is make it more about them and less about us.

Love is not easily angered

I, for one, am glad the text doesn’t say “love isn’t angered at all.” We all can agree that anger is a natural and healthy emotion, and one we have all experienced from time to time. While Jesus was the picture of love, He was angered by a few things in His day, most notably when He physically threw the moneychangers out of the temple. There was nothing wrong with that, as the concession was made by the Lord when He said, “you can be angry, just don’t sin.” We are emotional beings, and while we tend to get carried away, it is possible to show emotion, no matter what it may be, and not sin. Love can be angered, but it is not easily angered. Any emotion that bares its teeth too quickly cannot be associated with love. Love is patient, and this revelation is a direct correlation to that fact. Real love has a way of filtering our natural reactions so they’re more apropos for the situation at hand. Without love, there would be no buffer, thus conveying to those around us a very different message from the gospel.

Love keeps no record of wrongdoing

Okay, so my brother is going to punch me for sharing these next few sentences with you, but in attempting to find an example for this tenet, he was the only one that came to mind. My brother and I had a great relationship growing up, but I’ll be the first to acknowledge that I wasn’t the nicest big brother. We loved each other very much, but I tended to antagonize him a bit and he resented me (a bit) for it. While we all have weaknesses, I am going to share one of my brother’s few. It didn’t matter when, where, or why we got into an argument, or really what it was about, my brother was going to bring up throughout the course of our current verbal sparring session every single thing I had ever done to him in our young lives. While I will say that most of our arguments were my fault, and he won most of them, he did not fight fairly. Granted, he is completely different from that these days (and we rarely argue anymore), but I was convinced he had hidden a list somewhere and would update it periodically with each new instance so he could use it as ammo for our next fight. I don’t know how he remembered them, but he could recite things I had said and done years before, which is probably why he won most of the time, as I mentioned earlier. Unfortunately, this isn’t love. My brother loved me, but didn’t know how to properly express that love. I once used the movie line, “love means never having to say you’re sorry,” but this is misleading. Love means always having to say you’re sorry, even when it’s not your fault. It is most certainly not in keeping records of the things one was sorry for in the first place.

Love does not delight in evil

Most believers do not spend their days delighting in evil. I’ve heard we are supposed to do the very opposite. However, while consciously avoiding such a thing, we can delight in evil by enjoying our sin a bit too much, which we all do. Earlier, I mentioned that the Book of Hebrews talked about a sin that easily settles upon the writer, and we are no different. There are many vices to which I have fallen victim over the years, and it’s perfectly normal. We are sinners at our worst and saved sinners at our best. Grace is what has made all the difference. Regardless of that, we still have just as much capacity since our conversion to enjoy sin as we did in times past. God’s Word talks about some believers who have “backslidden” (a nice Baptist term for you) so far that they have forgotten that they were purged from their sins in the first place. We cannot allow this to happen. Love does not delight itself in evil, and if we have real love, the love of God, then we should not and will not. Sinning and enjoying sin are two very different things. I may sin, but I must hate sin and hate sinning. The more I learn to love as God does, the easier the hatred of sin will become.

Love rejoices in truth

Whew, this one is much simpler to grasp, and we needed a break, didn’t we? I once ran into a fellow in a coffee shop who struck up a pretty deep conversation with me while we were waiting for our frappuccinos. I cannot recall who got the ball rolling and how we got to it, but he told me he did not believe in any form of absolute truth. I was astonished at such a blanket statement, but allowed him to attempt to convince me of his philosophy. He contended that since everyone is unique, then their viewpoints, experiences, and worldview must be unique, therefore allowing each one to form one’s own opinion of reality, as he or she sees fit. I nodded in agreement and asked him if there were any examples of absolute truth in history. He told me that based on the premise he had just explained, the answer would be no. I nodded once again, took a swig of my frappe, and asked him a simple question.

“How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-two,” he said.

“Okay, well, who was the President of the United States in 1982?”

“Ronald Reagan,” he answered quickly.

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?” he asked.

“Based on your ideology, anyone could have been president at that time, based on each perception of every American citizen regarding the 1980 election. Why would ‘Reagan’ be your answer? You weren’t even born yet.”

He paused and at that moment realized the point I was trying to make. I explained to him that if one example of absolute truth could be found, billions of others could be found as well. I thanked him for the company and the conversation and walked out into the cold Chattanooga night, rejoicing in truth.

Love always protects

There weren’t many places to hunt near the coast of North Carolina, and as I grew up in a time when one could leave doors unlocked throughout the year, guns were never really present when I was a boy. My dad was all for the right to bear arms but hadn’t owned or used a gun since his stint in the U.S. Army. As I got older, and the world became much more dangerous, purchasing a gun seemed the natural thing to do, and it felt nice embracing my inner redneck. If you search long and hard enough in my house, you’ll find a Glock 21 series two safely hidden away for a rainy day. Granted, I’m not paranoid enough to think I’ll ever need to use it, but it’s definitely nice to have a contingency plan just in case. I love myself, my family, and my possessions and I see nothing wrong with protecting them as I and the government see fit. Love acts in the same way. It will always protect, no matter what the cost. While I enjoy life and living it, I wouldn’t think twice before laying down my life to protect my family if the situation ever arose. Jesus laid down his life, so we could live eternally with Him and we would all presumably do the same for our loved ones so they could continue their earthly existence. Love will always put others’ safety above one’s own.

Love always trusts

George Santayana said “those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it” and I couldn’t agree more. I have always found it sad that so many of our past relationships determine the outcome of our present ones. I dated a woman when I was in my late-twenties who absolutely did not trust me. Anytime you’re getting to know someone new, there is always an understandable level of apprehension. Who wants to fully invest in someone right off the bat and then end up being hurt when that person’s true colors are revealed? Not me. So it was with begrudged understanding that I gave this former flame the benefit of the doubt. While I am an outgoing individual and nice to everyone I meet, I was above reproach when it came to my character in our relationship. The more I tried to prove to her I was trustworthy, the less she trusted me. I’ll never fully figure it out, but I’m pretty sure the jerks she dated before me ruined any chance she had of trusting someone new. With that being said, real love always trusts. I’d like to believe she really loved me, but love without trust isn’t love at all; it’s merely control. This is why it’s vitally important to raise the future generations of believers to care for the heart of each person who captures theirs, regardless of the outcome.

Love always hopes

I once heard a preacher say something interesting (crazy, huh?) and it has stuck with me throughout the years. He looked into the crowd of a few hundred people and stressed how important hope was to the human spirit. Take away shelter from a man and he could live years. Take away food from a man, and he could live around ninety days. Take away water from a man, and he could live about three weeks. But take away hope from that man, and he wouldn’t last the night. Hope is a very powerful thing in our lives. It causes us to dream and allows us to believe that those dreams are possible. I have been blessed throughout my life by being able to know most of my relatives and still know them to this day. However, I lost my grandfather when I was a teenager and especially struggled with the reactions from my sister and mother when they heard the news of his death. I can recall feeling completely helpless in the situation and became frustrated that I could not assist in assuaging their anguish over our loss. I remember asking my mom how she was feeling a few days after he had passed away. She looked up at me from her chair and told me that while she missed him dearly (as we all did), Heaven had just become sweeter and all the more real. We held on to the hope that we would be reunited with him one day very soon. When real love leaves the earth as my grandfather did, hope is what that love leaves behind.

Love always perseveres

While I am a North Carolina basketball fan, I have always admired the man who was the head coach at N.C. State when I was little. His name was Jim Valvano and he was a better man than he was a coach, and he was a darn good coach. He is now more famous for being diagnosed with cancer and eventually losing that battle. He will forever be remembered for a stirring speech he gave at the ESPY awards when he could barely stand because his body was so ravaged by the disease. His main message was to never give up. He stressed to those around him, that no matter what was in the way, giving up was simply not an option. Love, no matter what the cost or consequence, will never give up. I once dated a woman I was desperately in love with, but we decided to end our relationship. While we still loved each other, it was the right thing to do. As I was leaving her apartment, I told her that while our relationship would end, the love we had would persevere. Perhaps it was my naivety, but it was something I really believed. Now I see that without knowing any better, I have rarely spoken something so true.

Love never fails

I was blessed with the greatest Sunday school teacher a boy could ever ask for, and even now can point to so many lessons Pat Harker taught me once a week when I was young. On one such morning, I remember her getting ready to give us our Bible story for the day when she looked around the room and proceeded to shock every one of us.

“Boys and girls,” she said, “remember when I told you that God could do anything He wanted to, ‘cause He’s God?”

Several of us yelled out an excited “yes” as most of us nodded our heads.

“Well, children, did you know there is one thing God cannot do?” she asked.

A bunch of us looked at each other and then back at her with confused looks on our faces. Some of my classmates looked very disappointed.

“It’s okay, kids, because the one thing God cannot do is fail. He can do anything except fail,” she said with a slight grin.

As we all realized the irony, each one of us felt some form of relief regarding Whom we were learning about and why we were learning about Him. It was a nice thought for a nine-year-old, knowing my blossoming relationship was with a God who could do everything but fail. If God is love, which He is, and God cannot fail, which He cannot, then love can never fail. Sure, the diluted love we sometimes share throughout our lives with others can and does fail, but the love of God will never do so. I don’t know about you, but I feel pretty good knowing God’s love for me is invincible.

Love is the most beautiful and blessed creation since the human race, as evidenced by God’s love letter to us, the Bible. Since I have borrowed and (haphazardly) expounded on Paul’s letter to the Corinthians, I feel it only fitting to give God the credit (naturally) on the most beautifully written chapter in the Scriptures. He said more in a few words then we could ever hope to in a thousand. And that’s the way it should be. While faith, hope, and love will all remain, the greatest of these is love. But you already knew that, didn’t you?

How Ya Like Them Apples?

The year was 1987 and I was eight years old. My brother was a respectable and grown-up seven while my older sister was old enough to take care of the two of us for extremely short periods of time. While the thought of a baby-sitter was an appealing one, my brother and I felt as if we were much more likely to get away with things with our sister watching us as opposed to an outsider. Being a middle child definitely had its advantages and while I cannot think of any at the moment, I will tell you that it was somewhat nice to have an older sibling I could look up to and a younger one I could look down upon. Before you point out that I just listed an advantage, please understand that my older sister was more like a mother and my younger brother was more like an older sibling. This left me holding the check, so to speak. Either way, it was always an exciting concept when Mom and Dad were leaving us kids to rule the roost. My parents were believers and had painfully (by our backsides) adhered to the “spare the rod, spoil the child” tenet that we had hoped they would somehow miss. Darn it. While they were quite strict, it was not in a way that caused us to resent them or their rules. We understood that they made us obey because they loved us and wanted the best for our young lives. I can say that now without hesitation, but the aforementioned mindset was not something that the eight-year-old me shared with the thirty-two-year-old version. We did not like being told what to do, as I suppose anyone our age at the time would whole-heartedly agree with. The younger we are, the more we know, methinks.

On one glorious spring evening, my parents had decided to visit my Aunt Florene across town and since they were only going to be gone for an hour or so, decided to leave my sister, Amy, in charge. Jackpot. One of the many rules that my sister was to enforce was that my brother and I were not allowed to play with any type of ball inside the house. We had a very large, fenced-in backyard that could easily afford us hours of play outside. Now, this rule is and probably was the most hated rule of all for any kid like us (outside of the standing and eternal cookie-jar rule, which is a given), but we in our infinite wisdom and experience scoffed at a rule this unfair and were determined to find our way around it. As Mom and Dad bade us farewell and headed out to the car, I vividly remember my brother’s running to the front window that faced the driveway to act as a lookout as I ran through the kitchen past my sister to my room where I could procure a tennis ball to use in a game my brother and I had invented earlier that week. It was a variation of baseball but played with a tennis ball, pillow cushions, and our Golden Retriever, Summer.

My sister happily skipped off to her room to talk on the phone (which was the thing to do as a pre-teen girl) as I ran back through the kitchen to meet my brother on the (ball) field of battle. We weren’t necessarily in the competitive stage of play as of yet, so these games were more about the fun we were having as opposed to who won (even though we both know he beat me most of the time). Matt, my brother, informed me that the coast was clear and I was up to bat. Here I was, standing in the den of my parents’ house, holding one of my mom’s pillow cushions as my brother made ready to hurl the tennis ball as fast as he could toward the plate. All this to make contact and avoid Summer’s ferocious jaws. It was heavenly. I do believe that some of the games we invented would be professional sports today, if only my mom had rescinded such a rule! Regardless, the game we had entered into was going along smoothly and we were having a blast. In the bottom of the 5th inning, I was up to bat and my brother was throwing some serious heat. I knew I had to swing my hardest, in order to make contact and get the ball high enough into the air to avoid my brother and our dog. On a full count, my brother threw the ball high and tight. I stepped back to make allowance for the pitch and blasted the ball toward our ceiling. As my dog leapt to no avail and the ball sailed over my brother’s head, I knew I had hit our version of a home run. I began to round the bases (on my knees, as our rules stated) with exuberant arms lifted high. As the ball continued to sail toward the left corner of the den, I realized that there was still something that had a chance at making the grab. It was the antique picture frame that housed a portrait of my beloved great-grandmother. As I rounded first base toward second (our green chair), I had a perfect vantage point of the tennis ball’s crashing through the glass frame and knocking over my grandma (figuratively, of course). My brother and I responded to the deafening sound with stunned silence. As I looked at my brother and he looked back at me, my sister came rushing through the doorway to behold what had happened. (On a side note, why does sin always seem to make the most noise?) She ran through the infield (the middle of the room) and picked up the broken frame. At this moment, we knew what was to be. My sister took the frame to the kitchen and my brother and I were left in the den to speculate as to what our punishment would be. When my parents arrived home, we ran to our rooms and hoped that being out of sight would put us out of my mom’s mind. The humorous thing was that we were much more scared of our mom than our 6-foot-3, 240-pound dad. After a few minutes, I heard a knock on my door. I slowly and begrudgingly opened the door to find my mom standing there with the picture frame in one hand and my brother’s shirt collar in the other. I knew this wasn’t good. My mom swiftly entered the room and advised (ordered) my brother and me to have a seat on my bed. Again, I knew this wasn’t good. We both sat there, allowing our body language to really sink in and communicate to our mom that we were very sorry and ashamed of ourselves (for getting caught, of course). My mom stood there over us for what seemed to be the longest time and then began to choke back tears. Matt and I looked at each other with confusion and then looked back at our mom.

“Mom, we’re sorry. We didn’t mean it,” Matt said.

“Yeah, Mom, it was an accident. We’ll give you our allowance to pay for a new frame for Grandma’s picture.”

We weren’t used to seeing our mom get emotional in front of us and we didn’t like it one bit. We would make any promise in the world to get her to act like herself again.

“Boys, I don’t want a new picture frame and I know it was an accident,” she said.

“Oh, ok. Well, why are you so sad?”

“Will, Matt. I’m not sad that you broke the picture frame. I’m sad that you both deliberately waited until Dad and I left so you could go behind our backs and play your game. You knew right from wrong and decided to do what you wanted to do instead of obeying us. We don’t give you rules because we like telling you what to do. We make rules because we love you and don’t want to see things like the picture frame of your great-grandmother get broken. I’m sad because for the first time, today, I found out that my boys don’t really care what I say, but only care about what they want to do, regardless of knowing better. That’s why I’m sad. Come on now, supper’s ready,” she said as she left the room.

We looked at each other and both felt terrible. While in our minds, we were merely just mischievous little boys, our mom had pointed out something in us that would ring true for the rest of our lives. I looked at my brother and told him to go wash up. Newfound cognizance of a dastardly soul really makes a boy hungry.

I haven’t forgotten the lesson my mom taught us that day. She didn’t spank us, didn’t ground us, and didn’t make us pay for the picture frame. While I was awaiting certain punishment, Mom was learning the hard way about her sons and dealing with some intense heartache. It’s a shame that she would suffer much more with this realization than we would suffer from a few minutes confined to our bedrooms. Now, before you react too quickly, I know that I was just a little kid. Feel free to make any more excuses that you can possibly think of while you’re at it. I was young (as you mentioned). I didn’t know better. I was curious. After you’re done, perhaps you’ll listen to the real reason I disobeyed my mom. Here goes. I really am a terrible person and always have been. Before you chuckle to yourself, allow me to wipe that smirk off your face; so are you. No, really. I am. You are. We are. Seriously. Look, I have always prided myself on an undying optimism in mankind and while I want nothing more than to encourage you in the midst of this journey called life, I believe I am called to do something beyond encouragement. I believe I am supposed to be honest with you and while I believe in speaking the truth in love, sometimes you just need the cold, hard facts. If I truly care about you (which I do), then it is my obligation to emphasize that you and I are just downright despicable. Yep, I said it. Again. As much as we dislike tearing down our blessed mother’s opinion, we really are that bad.

I first began to truly understand this fact when I was teaching English and Bible at a Christian school in Hixson, Tennessee. Being a first year teacher, there were definitely things that came about in that inaugural semester that I was prepared for and things that I was not. One thing I thought I was prepared for was my first set of parent/teacher conferences. I was under the impression going into these meetings that I could expect the parents to agree with me on their children’s behavior and grades and promise me that they would work feverishly with their youngsters to immediately correct their attitude and aptitude, accordingly. I could not have been more wrong. While the students were quite excited at the prospect of switching places with their parents for an afternoon, my colleagues had warned me to take everything “with a grain of salt” (I still don’t know what that means, either). I had all of my grade reports (yes, we had computers for that even then) and all of my behavioral cards for each student as well. I was raring to go. Of course, based on these aforementioned records, I was dreading certain parents more than others. My first conference began with the parents of an eighth-grade earth science student who was doing excellent in my class with her grades, but her behavior was less than stellar (before you wonder why I was teaching middle school earth science, I was covering for a teacher that year on maternity leave). Her parents sat in front of me and studied the information I had presented to them as they entered my classroom.

“As you can see, she is doing quite well in class. She has scored well on her tests and quizzes and always does her homework in a timely and accurate manner.” (I sound so professional, don’t I?) “However, she does tend to act up a lot. She’s a good kid, but likes to talk and laugh at the boys’ antics.”

“Well, we’re pleased that she is doing well in her studies, Mr. Montgomery, but we know our daughter and she is very quiet at home. I’m certain she doesn’t act up quite as much as you let on,” her father said.

I looked at her parents and hastily agreed with her father out of intimidation and the fact that he did know her better than I did. Our discussion turned back to her grades and after a few minutes, they thanked me for my time and for being a “good, young teacher.” As they left the room, I wondered if they only thought I was good because their daughter was doing well. I would find out that answer throughout the course of the afternoon. Parent after parent filed into my room and basically argued with me over my assessment of his or her child.

“My son would never do something like that” or “my daughter always does her homework” were good examples of the phrases I was getting accustomed to hearing from these parents. Most of these people did everything they could to blame me, the school, their child’s friends, and the “system” (whatever that is) as long as they knew I understood that whatever the issue was certainly could not be attributed directly to their child. Toward the midway point, I was absolutely amazed at how many excuses my classroom could hold, coming from the mouths of these people. While I understand that some fault can always be assigned to other entities, these children are and will always be directly held accountable for their actions, whether it be eighth-grade science or not. I was beginning to actually believe them toward the end of the day, and had changed my strategy altogether when relating my assessment to each adult. My mind began to wander as I tried to imagine what my parents would have said if they were sitting before me, hearing my assessment of the eighth-grade me. I simply could not envision my mom’s telling any of my teachers why I would do this, or not do that. I remember often becoming angry with her for taking the side of my teachers, time and time again.

Fading back to the present time, I thanked my second-to-last set of parents and watched them walk out of my classroom and down the hallway. With one single mother left, I had unknowingly learned a very difficult lesson that afternoon and was not happy about it. While I was twenty-three and had no aspirations of having a child any time soon, I wondered if this is how I would become one day, assuming I had children, allowing delusions to take hold in my head when it came to the behavior and intellect of my own offspring. Couldn’t these people understand that every child, whether it belonged to them or not, had its own set of strengths and weaknesses, and that perhaps high school English wasn’t meant to be tamed by everyone? By the reactions I had gotten, you’d think I was failing the entire MIT graduating class of 2011! There’s nothing wrong with having a perfectly average and normal child, but these parents didn’t see that. All I wanted was for one parent to own up and agree that it was possible for his or her child to talk out of turn one time in a semester, or be late to class, or not turn in an assignment on time. Just once!

As my mind careened through such an impossible scenario, I heard a quiet knock on my door and quickly jumped up from my desk to answer it. My last parent/teacher conference was before me, and I was ready for this new (and repeatable every 9 weeks) experience to come to an end. As this single mother entered the room, we exchanged the typical pleasantries I had become accustomed to throughout the day. I kindly and wearily asked my last student’s mother to have a seat and promised her I would be as succinct as possible while conveying everything she needed to know about her daughter’s grades and behavior.

“Ma’am, here is your daughter’s grade for this first nine weeks and here is her behavior card.”

“Thank you, Mr. Montgomery,” she said as I handed her the material. “My daughter talks about how much fun you are as a teacher. She just loves coming to your class.”

“Well, thank you.”

I smiled at her as I said these words, and must have hidden my bewilderment quite well. This girl was failing my class. And her behavior wasn’t going to win her any congeniality awards, either.

“I’m so glad I could get a chance to come in here and finally meet you,” she sighed.

“Oh, uh, yes ma’am, of course. Likewise.”

As her mother began studying the report card I had handed her, her smile was just as consistent as when she entered my room five minutes earlier. I was completely confused. Only parents with kids below average, whether academically or behaviorally, were summoned to these conferences (unless they volunteered, like my first parents of the day). Why was this young girl’s mother happy about all of this?

“Ma’am, I need to be honest with you and make sure you understand what is going on here. Your daughter is failing my class. Her behavior is acceptable, but she is not doing well in here at all. I do not mean to belittle her, because as her teacher, it is my responsibility to teach her earth science, but you need to know she is showing no signs of succeeding in my class.”

I was certain I had just offended my last parent of the day.

She absorbed my words and for the longest time stared at her daughter’s report card. As she looked up to meet my eyes, hers were full of tears.

“Mr. Montgomery, I’m going to confess to you a few things that I know that I want you to know as well. I am a simple woman and my daughter is all I have. She is my prized possession and I love her with every breath. But I know that she isn’t the smartest child in your class. I understand that she will probably never get good grades. She will be like me, and like my mother before me. She will finish school, never go to college, and work a job to support a family one day, right here in Hixson. But I do know that she tries. She works on your homework for hours at a time, and while I have to help her with it and even give her the answers sometimes, her grades are not a result of a lack of effort. We are simple people, Mr. Montgomery, and as long as she tries her best, I’m not too concerned with the letter attached to her name in this class. I know she talks a lot, and giggles when she’s not supposed to in your class, but she’s a young girl who will find her way just like I did. However, and I can promise this, she will never give up, never give in, and never quit in your class. Again, I really appreciate your hard work and the fact that you are her favorite teacher.”

With that, she quietly collected her things, asked if she could keep the information I had supplied her with, and walked slowly toward the door.

“Ma’am, wait a minute. I’m sorry I was so harsh. Thank you for being completely honest with me, but most importantly, for being completely honest with yourself. It’s not something I’ve seen a lot of today. Look, I promise that I will do my best to pass your daughter. But she has to earn it. And I mean that.”

“I hope you do, young man,” she smiled as she walked out of the classroom.

I watched the door close and sat back down in my chair, not sure of what I had just witnessed. With my day filled with excuses and blameshifting, I had just seen a mother admit what no mother wishes to be true. And she was right.

Each and every one of us is capable of doing the unthinkable at times and only by the grace of the Almighty are we saved through faith. It is His gift to us and has nothing to do with our merit. Falling into the trap of thinking that we are “good enough” to achieve the favor of God is absolute heresy. As bluntly as I can possibly put it, we all, from birth, deserve eternal hellfire and separation from God.

Years ago, I was watching a popular relationship talk show on MTV one evening. Granted, there wasn’t much on television those days worth watching (and still isn’t), but I was a college-age, hormonal male and thought I could learn a few things by tuning in. In a nutshell, people would call in, e-mail, or ask questions in the studio that would be answered by the two hosts. One, a comedian with hardly any education, was quite funny, direct, and most times had something worthwhile to say. His counterpart, a doctor and relationship “expert,” was personable and often weighed in with a clear and concise diagnosis. I thought how odd most of the questions and concerns coming from the audience were, but figured that I could find something useful once in a while and could benefit from this sage advice. The more I watched, however, the more I noticed a trend developing with the doctor and his answers. Look, I am all for a medical diagnosis, but listening to someone’s relationship problems and giving that person your opinion does not qualify as medicine. The more questions the two fielded, the more evident this doctor’s philosophy. It didn’t matter what in the world these people asked or said, the doctor was going to probe into their past and find out exactly what was causing them to have these “troubles.” With the show geared to a more mature audience, these questions and concerns ranged from a wide variety of adult topics. While these were serious problems and should not be treated lightly, I got the feeling that the doctor tried to blame every person under the sun involved in the participant’s life, except for the participant. With a mom and sister with degrees in psychology, I’ll be the first person to stand up and proclaim that many things in one’s life may manifest in adulthood because of childhood and adolescent injustices. But what I cannot accept is to completely attribute the blame for certain behavior on this unfortunate fact every time. And this is exactly what the good doctor did. With each question asked, he probed until he could (in his mind) pinpoint exactly why the participant was engaging in this deviant behavior and upon whom the blame should be placed, all while absolving the participant.

Toward the end of one such episode, a young man stood up from his seat in the audience and a microphone was brought to him. He thanked the two hosts for their show and went on to explain that he was having a recurring sexual fantasy involving a family member. This being a taboo and restricted subject in our society today, the doctor asked him if he had ever been molested before. The young man quickly shook his head no, and again asked why he would have this fantasy. The doctor then asked if he had ever been physically abused by anyone in his childhood or teenage years. Again, the participant decried such a question, bringing up the fact that he loved his family, had a great childhood, and had many wonderful and supportive friends. He asserted that there was absolutely nothing in his life that he could link to his odd obsession. I sat there bemused at the look on the doctor’s face, and wondered aloud if he would continue attempting to explain this behavior. He did. He looked at the young man and suggested that he must be in denial and may have blocked out whatever had been done to him by a parent or relative in his past. The young man looked at the host and gave a quick and embarrassed “thank you” before sitting down again, obviously regretting standing up in the first place. I was appalled. From the word go, I had two categorical problems with this moment captured on television. First, how dare anyone (a doctor, mind you) presume that someone in this young man’s life had committed a heinous act toward him in his youth, only to have it blocked out by the purported victim years later. Science is observable and repeatable. Secondly, I would have been livid at any such accusation by anyone if I would have been that young man. While I respect the doctor’s education, as he would normally give helpful advice, I must defy this type of logic as a whole. The world attempts to blame everything we do on someone else, when the blame for things mostly (always) falls on us. If that guy would have stood up and described his perverse obsession to me, I would have looked him square in the eye and told him what his problem was: sin. Because we are all sinners. Regardless of what has happened to any one of us in our past, we are responsible for our own actions! Why do we as believers fall into this trap when we know that God holds us accountable for what we do as individuals? I have no doubt in my mind that the doctor wanted to help that guy, but his attempt was so misguided that in the end, it may have caused much more damage to that man’s psyche. If we continually reinforce a belief into our minds that we are not to blame for our choices, then one could conceivably get away with anything, in time. I find it comical that people actually claim temporary insanity when they commit a murder, only so the judge will find them in need of psychiatric help and spare them jail time. How long does “temporary insanity” last, anyway? A week? Two weeks? A year? What a preposterous notion. As I said earlier, we are sinners, and that is why we do the things we do and say the things we say.

Underneath all of the religiosity, tradition, vain repetitions, and three-piece suits lies a sinner. From the moment we were conceived, all of us were on a path that led straight to Hell. I know, I know, no one really talks about Hell anymore. But I’m going to refresh your memory. Hell is very hot. Hell is very dark. And Hell is for people just like you and me who reject Jesus Christ. Now, I’ll get into this a little more in my chapter on eternity (since it does last forever), but I’m going to focus more on what actually gets you there. It’s called sin. Allow me to give you the briefest synopsis known to man. Sin. All of us are born with it, and none of us can get rid of it unless we get Someone else to do it for us. Unfortunately, you never stop doing it, but at least now we have Someone Who’s willing to wash it away, every time we ask Him to do so. You should try not to do it, but it’s hard. Focus on the One who forgives it, and you’ll get better at not doing it so much. Simple, huh? Not really.

Billions of years ago (just kidding), there was a woman who had everything she could have ever wanted. She had a husband who loved her very much, unlimited provisions for her physical needs (shelter and food), all while participating in daily, intimate fellowship with the Creator of the Universe. And yet, because of pride and selfishness, she decided to go against the one rule she was asked to obey and follow a different path. I often wonder how the serpent could so easily have convinced her to give in to his temptation and partake of the forbidden fruit. Then it hit me. It never takes much for us as humans to partake of sin. It is because we are born sinners and know nothing else. Satan doesn’t have to expend much energy to get us to do what he wishes, since we are already leaning that way in the first place. I have no doubt that the devil placed a few well-timed words and gestures and the woman took the bait. You see, Satan is always working with a loaded deck when it comes to working with us. Rather than a proverbial shove, it only takes a nudge for us to fall from that cliff. God’s Word speaks of sin in three basic categories, if you will: the lust of the eyes, the lust of the flesh, and the pride of life. Eve managed to knock out all three in one act, which is no simple undertaking. Since then, we have been devising ways to outdo her, and have been pretty darn successful.

Days have passed between the previous paragraph’s period and the words I am typing at this moment, and it was because I was trying to make sure we get what I am about to write, because it’s one of the biggest issues that believers (and non-believers) have with the church. We, as Christians, have developed a nasty habit of putting sin into made-up categories of significance. Every sin we could possibly think of (and commit) is equal in God’s eyes. Look, if God is one-hundred-percent holy (which He is), and sin is one-hundred-percent unholy, then every sin is exactly the same to Him. It’s all unholy and cannot be categorized any other way. Granted, we humans do this because the consequences of sin are vastly different. If I told my friend, Andy, a dirty joke, the consequence in the natural world of that sin is far different than if I murdered him. (I know he is going to be upset that he died in my analogy, but he’ll get over it). While I am all for differences in consequences, every sin is equal. Be careful that you do not make a habit of mixing up these facts. We are sinners and while we are saved by the blood of Jesus Christ, our nature as sinners is something we’ll never quite overcome. However, it is only when we embrace the cold, hard truth of who we are that we will find true freedom. Until then, we will either be slaves to legalism or slaves to sin.

I’m not here to discourage you and pound into your head that we are all just wretched, good-for-nothing losers. However, I am here to tell you and myself to wake up, stop making excuses, and start living the life you were left here to live. Sin will always be a part of things here on earth, but we can choose to not allow its dominion over us. I know it’s difficult and at times, I’m sure we all feel as if it’s downright impossible. But that does not give us a reason to give up. Dying to self and living through Christ means that we have been identified as sinners, are incapable of governing ourselves, and are ultimately enemies to our new nature in Him. It’s when we realize this that we can begin to allow Christ to speak and act for us. We will never be able to accomplish this feat until we realize we are not our own anymore, but have been purchased with the price of Jesus’ own blood.

Look, Jesus loves you. He will always love you. No matter what you’ve done or are capable of doing, He loved you enough that He would have come to earth and died for you, and only you. There is nothing we can do that can separate us from the love of God. With that said, if He can come to Earth and die a sinner’s death on a cross He did not deserve, we most certainly can muster the strength He has promised us each day and make every attempt to do what is right. If anything, we owe Him that much. Oh, and I also think my brother and I owe my mom a new frame and my grandmother Canady an apology. But you get the picture.

Salvation Army Reserve

One of the many jokes about me is that I have held, at one time or another, every type of job one can hold. There have been some that I have managed to not get fired from (I prefer the term “laid off”) for up to two (whole) years, while others have lasted all of the first day I was officially employed. One of the few examples of employment that I held for more than a few weeks was the position of server (as I mentioned in a previous chapter) in a restaurant in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Surprisingly, I seemed to have found my niche as a goofy, attentive, and downright hospitable waiter. I enjoyed interacting with people, even if it did consist mostly of refilling Bob’s Dr. Pepper and making sure little Timmy had enough napkins. Anyone in the food service industry has a plethora of stories regarding the day-to-day zaniness that can occur in a restaurant such as in the one where I worked. Since I was in college, this was a perfect gig for me. I could go to class and focus on my schoolwork (girls) during the week, and then work two to three shifts on the weekend to make the money I needed to get by (which wasn’t a lot, since my schooling was mostly paid for by my academic acuity athletic prowess parents student loans). I knew that for me to make money, I would be depending on the tips I would be receiving from the guests I was servicing on each particular occasion. Always a warm thought when your income depends solely on someone else’s interpretation of the way you do your job. Nice. There were great tips, decent tips, insulting tips, and no tips. Getting “stiffed” is an extremely disheartening feeling, compounded by the fact that I didn’t want to be there in the first place, and now I had nothing to show for the last hour of refills, rhetoric, and refried beans. Working the weekends was the only option as far as I was concerned because the best tips would be made at the busiest times (I am a genius). These shifts were Friday nights, Saturday nights, and Sunday mornings, or so I thought.

As I said, weekends are the best time to make money, and Friday and Saturday evenings were the head of the class. I soon learned that I could walk out of the restaurant after having worked these two shifts with a hundred bucks each night tucked safely away inside the pouch of my apron. Did I mention the feeling of masculinity I left with as well? Of course, the ugly stepsister of this cash flow bonanza was to be Sunday mornings. Originally, I had assumed Sunday night would be a better shift but came to the conclusion that I would choose Sunday morning based on two key factors; the first being that I did not want to work three nights in a row regardless of the money I was sure to make. Secondly, at my college, we were forced to attend the church that was associated with the school and I had a problem with that. Thus, Sunday morning seemed to be the perfect choice to round out the lineup. Oh, how wrong I was. You see, I was inevitably going to encounter on these Sunday morning shifts exactly what I should have been avoiding in the first place: the church crowd.

On my very first Sunday-morning shift, I entered my workplace and while getting my apron fastened around my waist, overheard two of my co-workers discussing what they were going to do later that night after the money rolled in today. Curious, I finished the fasten as I strolled over to one of the girls and casually interrupted.

“Yo, Trish. So Sunday morning is a good shift, huh?”

“What? Why would you ask that?” she asked.

“Well, I overheard you saying something to Glinda about all the money you were gonna spend tonight because of working today.”

“Aww, you’re cute,” she smiled. “Have you ever worked a Sunday shift as a server before, Will?”

“Umm, no, actually I haven’t.”

“I was being sarcastic. This is the worst shift in the world. You’re gonna hate it. You get the crappiest tips and deal with the worst people,” she replied.

“Hmm, well, why is that? It seems that this would be a great shift.”

“I love God and think He is a real cool dude and all, but church people are the worst. They tip you nothing and run you all over the place. If that’s what they teach in church, count me out, honey,” she said.

Wow. I thanked her for the heads up and turned around to clock in. What a shame that this nice girl I work with is turned off from the whole church scene because certain people give Christians a bad name. Well, my Dad is a great tipper and he’s a Christian, so I dismissed it after this thought and went about my opening side work. My first table was down, and it was two elderly people. Well, this’ll be a two-dollar tip. I guess I didn’t mind after all, since they were old. I always enjoyed the senior citizens I waited on, and almost hoped they would save their money and not give me a big tip. Call me an ol’ softy. My next table had arrived, and as I walked out to greet them, I encountered the six most well-dressed, well-mannered people I had waited on thus far in my brief but brilliant food service career.

“Afternoon folks, my name’s Will. What drinks can I get for y’all today?”

This was not my usual introduction, and with people who looked this formal, I did not want to go out on a kooky and creative limb, so I stuck to the playbook and was as professional as I could be. I liked mixing it up, being unique, and making my customers feel special. It seemed my first churchgoers liked and appreciated the professionalism. I went to the back and found Trish.

“Hey, I got a six top dressed-to-the-nine’s at 111. I know they are church people and being a church person myself, I am going to put your theory to the test. I am going to give them the best service they’ve ever received, and we’ll see just what kind of tip I get. I won’t even tell them that I go to church as well.”

“Be my guest, baby. But you ain’t getting a dime,” she smirked.

(Let me take a moment to interject something I have always found not only fascinating, but comforting as well. I am glad that most waitresses in this country still call whomever they meet “honey,” “sugar,” and “baby.” It gets me every time.)

I walked out with drinks in hand and a renewed vigor to not only get these fellow brothers and sisters in Christ to like me, but to give me a big, fat tip to prove my co-worker wrong. I dropped off the drinks with ease and politely and correctly took their order. I almost skipped to the back in anticipation of winning one for our side.

“Hey, I am killing it with these people. I know that they’ll hook me up.”

“We’ll see, honey,” she said.

I could tell that Trish was getting bored with my experiment, so I laid low for a few before the food came out. I had Glinda help me prep and started out with their meal. I approached the table, handed out the correct dishes to the correct individuals, and headed back for drink refills. You could not have drawn up better service then what I was giving these people. As their meal came to a close, I sauntered out with a dessert offer and their check. I thanked them for having come, reminded the group of my name, and asked them to come see me really soon.

I headed to the back to give my new friends the time they needed to scan the bill for errors, get their things, and head to the register. All that was left was for me to collect the reward for my faithful service. I casually strode to the table with the utmost confidence before the busboy could arrive. Upon arrival, I scoured the table in search of green but found nothing. Not even a coin. I looked underneath in case the money had somehow floated off the table but that offered nothing as well. I was devastated. I turned around slowly in disbelief and headed to the back. Here and now, I was faced with two realizations. One, these people for whom I had broken my back (okay, that may be a tad extreme) had stiffed me, and to make matters worse, they were obviously Christians just like me. Two, I would now have to confess to Trish what had happened and hear her say “I told you so.” It wasn’t the being wrong part that I hated so much, but the fact that I had believed that we were better than what I had just witnessed first hand, and that stories about what lousy tippers followers of Christ were simply could not be true.

“Hey, sugar, how’d that table work out for you?” Trish asked. (She truly was rooting for me to get that tip, I believe.)

“Oh yeah, about that. They stiffed me. Can you believe that?”

“Yeah, honey. Unfortunately, I can,” she smiled and walked away. Just as she turned, Chago, one of our busboys walked up to me with something in his hand.

“This was at your table. You left it,” he said as he handed me the crumpled paper that was in his hand.

My heart leapt within my chest at the thought that this was my tip from the church people and that I would be able to try to convince Trish that Christians weren’t all so bad. I took the crumpled paper from Chago’s hand, thanked him, and opened it up. Much to my dismay, it wasn’t what I had hoped. The church people had left me a tip, but it wasn’t money. It was a tract. For those of you (five people) who don’t know, a tract is a small pamphlet designed to share the gospel in the simplest form. While I appreciated the gesture, I instantly thought how misplaced it was. Granted, I’m a believer so to me, this table had in reality given me nothing but something I already had.

But what if that had been Trish’s table? This act, while I knew it had love behind it, would have only hindered Trish’s ability to see the gesture for what it really was, and for the stereotype to only be perpetuated even more: that Christians don’t tip, don’t care, and don’t love their fellow man or woman. Why on earth would someone read that tract if no money came with it? Before you shake your head, remember that non-believers don’t think like we do. They don’t see the tract as a gesture of love as I did, but as a slap in the face for their hard work and time. If I was a bit angry, just imagine what an unsaved server like Trish would feel? This is exactly the reason she does not believe. The only Jesus she comes in direct contact with are the Christians she waits on at work. While it may not be fair, this is the only chance we have to reach her and millions of others like her. We have replaced food for the poor, medicine for the sick, and water for the thirsty with what we feel others need based on our beliefs. People who are starving, sick, or thirsty will not find spiritual nourishment until they are physically nourished. While these people at my table had the heart to save my soul, it was like throwing seeds to a thorny bush. Trish did not want what we Christians possessed simply because she saw love manifested in terms of tips. And can you blame her? She is not like us. We have stopped wondering what in the world these people really need, just to give them what we think they would want. Am I advocating that because we are Christians, we should only leave a tract with a big tip? Yes, as a matter of fact I am. If unsaved people in our society can leave the standard 15-20 percent, then you should at least do the same. If you do, go ahead and leave the tract. Your server will be much more attentive to what you have left with the tip or even what you have to say to them in casual conversation.

Jesus encountered the woman at the well and offered her limitless water. She did not understand what He was speaking of until He told her that this water would lead to life everlasting. True, these people I waited on had the right idea, but it was executed the wrong way. The one difference between these two comparisons is that Jesus knew the woman was physically taken care of and had plenty of food and water at her disposal. He was offering her something more, something she could not get from a well, and something she desperately needed. If this woman had come to the well completely parched, there is no doubt in my mind based on the nature of Jesus that He would have offered her a drink from His cup first. Only after her thirst was quenched and He had assisted in meeting her physical need would He have turned the conversation to the quenching of her eternal thirst.

Let me ask you a difficult question. When is the last time you truly shared your faith with someone? Oh, I know, I’m not supposed to ask these types of questions because it’s no one’s business but your own. But seriously, can you even remember an instance in the last year? What about the last decade? Our contemporary Christianity has made popular the evangelism strategy of living your faith in front of others in hopes that one day, and it may be years down the road, one of these “life-watchers” will finally muster up the courage to ask you why you’re so different from everyone else? “Finally,” you think to yourself, “I can now share the gospel with my co-worker and it only took them three years to ask! Hallelujah! Thank the Lord that the Great Commission (which is waiting for everyone you know to ask you about Jesus) is finally paying off.” Wait, what? That’s not the Great Commission? Hmm, interesting. Hold on, let me look at my notes. It says here that in Matthew 28:19-20 Jesus told his disciples (which would be you, today) to go into all the world and preach the gospel, teach those and baptize them in His name. That’s interesting, based on what we as Christians do these days. Look, I’m all for everyone having their own beliefs and not offending people; but there comes a time when the gospel should take on its own voice in your life, when people who truly know you don’t get three years to watch your life play out before them before they finally ask you why yours is different than theirs and everyone else they know. Sure, it’d be a lot easier and secure to wait on everyone else, but your family, friends, and co-workers may not have tomorrow, much less three years.

A few years ago, I had an interesting conversation with a man I would later find to be the greatest soul winner I had ever met. His name was Mark and he told me that every two seconds, someone was slipping into eternity and destined for Hell. Every snap of his fingers signaled a soul lost for Jesus Christ.

“You see, every snap represents someone I could have reached,” he calmly said while snapping his fingers.

“But Mark, you can’t possibly reach everyone, can you?”

“The Great Commission didn’t come with a total, Will, so it’s my goal that every single person I come in contact with gets to hear the gospel from me, whether they like it or not,” he stressed. “And most of them like it once they hear what I have to say.”

“Okay, so you’re saying that everyone you meet or talk with gets the full altar call?”

“Yep, that’s what I’m saying,” he said. “It’s so easy; all you have to do is get a conversation going. I have found that if people are put in control, they’ll want to hear what you have to say a lot more than if you start preaching at them. Remember, I can only tell them what Jesus has done for me and what He wants to do for them. Anything else is out of my hands and into God’s.”

“Okay, I get it. I’m convinced. I’m not the best at this, but I am gonna do it. I am going to share my faith with someone today.”

“Well, you’re not good at it because you don’t do it. Practice makes perfect and it’s the same with this, Will. You must rise beyond the fears of rejection and humiliation to understand that when Jesus said to go, He meant it,” he said.

“Okay, okay. I’m a terrible Christian. Do you have any advice to get this started?”

“You’re not a terrible Christian, Will. You’re simply a product of Christianity today. You can’t help not being a soul winner because evangelism has been kicked to the curb and you don’t know any better. Remember, there are two parts to God’s message to the world. Law and Love. The church today has mostly forgotten the law in favor of only love. Of course, loving people is exactly what is needed, but only love will lead to Hell for the sinner, getting snuggled all the way there by believers like you and me,” he said. “Here’s a good conversation starter that crosses from the polite to a more serious tone. Tell them that you are conducting an experiment and call it a sociological one if you’d like. Ask them to think of one thing in their life that they have learned thus far that you desperately need to learn as well. Then tell them you will do the same for them and then swap lessons.”

I thanked Mark for the advice and promised him I would give it a go. He ended the brief but life-changing conversation by telling me that if Jesus Christ could go to the cross, dying a brutal death He did not deserve, then certainly I could share with one person what that meant to me and what it could mean to them. “Always good to get that last guilt trip in there,” I thought, but he was right and there was no denying it. Guilt should never be the motivating factor in anything a believer does, but it doesn’t hurt.

Later that day, my friend Ian and I walked into a local Italian restaurant to get our fill of meatballs and marinara. He was present at my conversation with Mark and knew full well that this was as good a time as any to share my faith. Part of me felt guilty because I was having to gear up to do something that should be as normal as breathing to a Christian of twenty years who grew up in the Bible belt and in church eighty-seven times a week, but the closer I moved toward stepping out of my comfort zone, the more nervous I was.

We were seated at a table in the middle of the restaurant and were soon approached by a young waitress who looked as if she had been doing this a while. After taking our drink orders, she promised to be back in a jiffy and with that, turned and scurried to the back. I was visibly nervous.

“Will, come on, man, you are the biggest people person I know, so this really shouldn’t be that difficult for you,” Ian said. “Just flirt with her like you normally would, only this time have something eternal behind it.”

“That’s good, dude. I’ve just got to think like that.”

I had liked what Ian had said, and felt that this strategy was probably going to be the easiest on my nerves. As I finished thinking this, our server, Julie, came back to our table with the breadsticks and our drinks. As we made small talk, I decided that I would go for it and give her the rest of our meal to come up with an answer.

“Everything looks great, Julie; thanks.”

“Okay guys, I’ll be back in a bit with your food,” she smiled and then turned to walk away.

“Oh, wait.” She turned back to our table. “Julie, my friend Ian and I are conducting a little experiment and we’d like your help. It’s no biggie, just something fun.”

I’m sure that someone like Julie was probably used to all sorts of gimmicks and games she was asked to participate in when young men came into her establishment. She rolled her eyes, laughed, and told us she’d be happy to help us out.

“Okay, good. Here goes. I’d like for you to think of one thing you’ve learned in your life, whether it’s personally, professionally, or whatever, that we desperately need to know before we leave your restaurant today. It can be absolutely anything, but it needs to be important. It needs to be something my friend and I cannot live without.”

“Are you serious?” she said through a grin.

“Oh, absolutely. Your participation is vital to the experiment.” I grinned back.

“Okay,” she said, “but it may take me the rest of your meal. I’m going to need to put some thought into this.”

“You take all the time you need. But there is one catch.”

“Oh great, I knew it,” she laughed.

I laughed.

“No, it’s not what you think, or are used to, I guess. The catch is simply that after you share this one thing, my friend and I get to share the one thing we’ve learned as well that you desperately need to know.”

“Oh, ok; I guess that won’t be so bad,” she replied.

Looking back on how this all played out, I am certain that the approach that Ian had suggested had really made the difference. It completely stripped away all of my nervousness. If only I could have always looked at soul winning as spiritual flirting, I suppose there’d be a lot more people in Heaven (well, women, at least).

As she brought our food out, I asked her about her progress, and she told me she was working on it and trying to narrow it down to just one thing. I told her it had to be the most important thing she had ever learned, so at least it would afford her the opportunity to prioritize her life a tad. Everything done in one’s life always has secondary implications, even if not seen right away. The beauty of this exchange was that I had always had my “one thing” and she will have never seen it coming. Just call me a spiritual sniper.

After we had eaten our fill and she had dropped off her check, she stopped back by our table to bring us our change and finish what I had started about an hour earlier.

“Okay, guys, I have the one thing you both need to know that I have learned in my life so far,” she said. “Here it is. Well, I feel like it should be that you treat everyone else the way you want to be treated. Like the Golden Rule, ya know?”

“Wow, that is a great thing. You may have taken the entire lunch, but you nailed it.” I stopped here and waited for her to take the lead and prod me for mine. I did not just want to offer it up, but wanted to know if she truly was just as interested in what I was going to tell her. After a second, she took the bait.

“Okay, your turn. What’s the one thing you have learned that I need to know?” she asked.

I asked her if she really wanted to know, and she nodded that she did. I believed her.

“A deal’s a deal. Okay, so the one thing I have learned in my life that you desperately need to know is this: God loves you, Julie. And He sent His only Son, Jesus, to this earth to die for your sins and give you a chance at eternal life with Him in Heaven. That’s it. That is the most important thing I could ever tell you and it’s something you really do need to know.”

Julie stood there for a second (which seemed like an eternity) and really didn’t seem to know what to say. I began to feel as if I had blown it. Then, as I was about to make a joke about getting too serious or making her feel uncomfortable, she began to tear up. As Ian and I sat there in shock, she began to tell us that no one had ever really told her that, and while she was sorry for getting emotional, it made her feel as if someone did love her. She went on to tell us that she was beginning to wonder if she even wanted to go on anymore, and that she had such a feeling of hopelessness and these days just didn’t know where else to turn.

I was absolutely floored. We continued talking for a few minutes and I told her of a good church in the area and that she should get a Bible and begin reading it for herself. If she had looked everywhere else for answers, why not there? She promised me she would and as we walked out (after leaving her a big tip), I truly felt for the first time that every encounter we have in this life is a divine appointment arranged by God Himself. It’s always an overwhelming and sobering thought when one shares something that is beyond dear to them as this was to me. I have noticed in my life that every time I am allowed the privilege of telling someone about Christ that the feeling of wholeness and completion is almost beyond comprehension. I am quite sure you have felt the same. So why then do we only fit our testimony in our pockets along with everything else in our lives and only bust it out on the rarest of occasions? It’s as if we only will bring it out when it’s safe or convenient for us. Sharing your faith must be a matter of convenience to the unbeliever, not to you. It is unparalleled in its importance. And how blessed I was to experience someone like Julie on one of my first instances of boldly going where I had rarely ventured.

Unfortunately, there won’t always be stories like this one I shared about Julie. Perhaps God saw fit that I would start out with someone so cooperative, if you will. Perhaps He thought that if I got such a response, it would further my efforts to become much more consistent. That’s the good news. However, along with the good news always comes the bad. Certain times, people will ignore you or insult you and make you never want to share your faith again. However, there is something you must remember if the aforementioned ever happens. It is not your job to convince, coerce, or confuse someone into Heaven. All God wants us to do is to simply share His good news. Regardless of the result, our goal should be to let others know what we have come to know ourselves.

One of my favorite excuses from believers is that “I’m just not called to do that.” What on God’s green earth does that even mean? Jesus told us to go. Can you imagine if somehow a person with that mindset actually did lead someone to the cross? I can just see Christ stopping what He is doing with a bewildered look on his face and saying, “Hey, wait a minute. Why is Jim leading someone to me? I did not call him to do that!” We are all called to do whatever we can to bring people to Christ, period. Who has the red phone somewhere that only receives certain calls from the Lord and not others? When is the last time you asked God what you could do for Him, instead of asking what He could do for you? The most effective way to glorify God is to assist in establishing His kingdom. There are always a thousand excuses not to do something, but now is the time to make history, not excuses. We do not have the time to waste any longer. Last time I checked, people are not guaranteed next year, tomorrow, or even before I finish this sentence. That is why it is vitally important that we do what we have long been called to do. Put the book down and come back to it later. You have a text, e-mail, phone call or visit to make.

I’ll Have Jesus on the Side, Please

For years, I tried to fit in. So did you. But the older we became, the more we realized that being different was cool. It was refreshing. It was fun. It was what life was all about. I shudder at the thought of all the moments wasted in my pursuit of pleasing anyone and everyone but myself; but more than that, of pleasing my heavenly Father. But that’s all of us, isn’t it? What’s that they say about hindsight?

I was having coffee with my friend Ali Jo at one of our favorite spots in Wilmington and we embarked upon a riveting subject. She began telling me the story of a new relationship she was forming with a youth pastor who had moved away to attend seminary. My mind immediately recalled several details from a previous relationship of hers. I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you that I was afraid this one would end up like the last. However, based on the story that was unfolding, the two relationships in contrast were night and day. “This was what a godly relationship between two people should be like,” she remarked. It was extremely enjoyable, sipping my toffee milkshake (not a coffee person) and watching her struggle to speak through her smile, recounting the story of how the two of them had met. As the afternoon was coming to an end, my mind again wandered to the newness of Ali Jo’s relationship and the happiness she must be experiencing. An interesting concept that I had spoken of years before to friends flooded back through the aqueduct of my mind. I wonder how the Lord reacts when a person finds Him for the first time. Or if He, like her, gushes at the thought of His children’s demonstrating their genuine love toward Him? What if He was even downright giddy at times? What if God were like my girlfriend?

Now, before you throw this book against the wall and cry “sacrilege,” hear me out. I have been in several relationships over the years and, with most all of them, I put a real and concentrated effort into making things work. Most people do, at first. I cannot count how many minutes and hours of my life have been used in attempting to make a woman happy. Most times, I was unsuccessful, but it was not for a lack of trying. Relationships will always take effort. And if you or I are hoping to be successful at relationships, they must become a priority. In college, I dated a girl named Shayna and we spent almost two years of our lives involved with each other. Two years is an eternity for me, but there’s an even more shocking tidbit that came from this coupling. And I still have the proof. Tucked safely away in one of my drawers is a black, three-ringed binder full of poems. Love poems. Love poems that I wrote to Shayna. I recently went through them and managed to get a count, even though this task was heavily threatened from the nausea I experienced at reading a few. It’s not that they were untrue, but that I didn’t even recognize the words I had written so long ago. I was head over heels. And my words had proven it. Not only from what was written, but from the hours it took for an untalented poet like myself to produce them at such a prolific rate. Love really does cause us to do things we never imagined ourselves doing. And that’s exactly my point. When you love someone, you will do almost anything imaginable just to see that person crack a smile. I would have walked through walls if it meant I could have come up with a better poem for her enjoyment. And this is exactly what we don’t do with the Lord. How long do you think it’d take someone to break things off if you called only once a week? How about once a month? How long would your relationship remain intact if you only spent time with your significant other every few days? Yet, I am guilty of these things repeatedly when it comes to my relationship with God. When is the last time you read His Word to start the day? Or helped a complete stranger jumpstart his car when you were already late to a movie? Or put a five-dollar bill in the offering plate when you only had ten? When we are truly serious about God and committed to our relationship with Him, we will do things that appear crazy yet give off the sweet fragrance of love. You know what’s sad? I have sometimes gone months without praying. Months! How many relationships could last if someone went a month without speaking to his or her partner? Why then, does my relationship with God always take a back seat to the relationships I have with others? When it comes to my life, God is used to getting the cold shoulder most of the time. While I claimed to be different, I was like most other Christians who gave Him only one day a week, or maybe a few seconds a day. While I may have glanced at this realization before, I was now staring it dead in the face. My talks with Ali Jo normally left me in a better mood, but this one did not. I gave her a hug, bade her farewell, and strode toward my car. I had some changing to do.

But if you think I’m talking only about being different from everyone else, then you are missing the entire point. God did not save us to be different. It’s not as if once you are completely unique for Christ can you say you have arrived. No, He has saved us to set us apart for His glory. To be sanctified for Him. And being different and being sanctified are completely, uh, different, for lack of a better word. What’s that? You’d like an example? Okay, if you say so. And you’re probably assuming that the following story I’m about to tell you takes place around food and you’d be right. It’s not my fault that I spend the majority of my free time in restaurants and grocery stores. And this seems to be the best place to collect examples of real Christianity in action. You feel me?

If you grew up in the South, fried chicken would have been something your mother was quite gifted in preparing, as was mine. I loved cracking open the sliding glass door after playing outside with my brother and dog and catching the first whiff of my mom’s fried chicken. That, and her buttered potatoes and biscuits were about the best thing a boy could have for dinner. As I grew bigger (and wider), my mom attempted to cook enough of her chicken to keep our family happy, and by the looks of me, she was successful. Throughout my teenage years, my mom began experimenting with her recipe by getting rid of the bone and we loved this innovation. If only there were a restaurant (foreshadowing, anyone?) that could duplicate this feat, I could cut out the middle (wo)man. I remember one day after school, I dropped by my mom’s classroom before heading home with my sister (who was driving by then) and asked her what we were having for dinner. I always liked to know so I could prepare my mind (and stomach). The anticipation always made the meal so much more enjoyable. After noticing my head poking through her doorway, she remarked that she had a teachers’ meeting that afternoon but we would be having fried chicken. I flashed her an excited smile and told her I loved her as I swung my book-bag around and headed down the hallway. My mom’s chicken it was. After arriving home, I got my homework done as fast as possible and since we had mid-week prayer service that night, I knew my mom wouldn’t have much time to get dinner started and I was becoming more and more anxious.

I darted toward my sister’s bedroom and knocked loud enough that she could hear me over whatever she was doing.

“Amy, it’s Will.”

She opened the door.

“Hey, dork, what’s up?” she asked.

“Um, do you know when Mom will be home?”

“No, but I know she said teachers’ meeting would run late,” she said.

“Okay, well, she said we were having chicken tonight, and I’m starving.”

“We are. She’s bringing home Chick-fil-A,” she responded.

“Chick-fil-A?”

While I always loved it when my parents brought home any kind of food, I was quite skeptical. KFC, I could understand, but Chick-fil-A was a new chicken restaurant in town and while I’d had some when I was younger, I didn’t really remember it. Even if I could have, what could be better than my mom’s homemade fried chicken?

“Well, I’ll eat it, but I don’t have to like it.”

My sister laughed, told me to be patient, and shut her door.

After one door closed, another one opened. Isn’t that how it always works? My mom walked into the kitchen with two large, red and white bags.

“Amy, boys, dinner’s here and then we need to get ready for church,” she yelled.

My sister’s door popped open just as my brother cut in front of her toward the kitchen. I may have been a little wary, but I was hungry. I grabbed a small, hot package and quickly unraveled it to reveal a chicken sandwich. My Mom said the blessing and I cautiously dug in. It was love at first bite. From that day forward, I had found a restaurant that could rival my mom’s chicken. And while I didn’t have much money to spend on food, I now had a viable option that could instantly satisfy my hankering for fried chicken. A loving, symbiotic relationship was born. Chick-fil-A got my money and I got their chicken. It was a match made in Heaven.

Okay, so now you know the setting of this example we’re all still waiting for me to finish. But just know it’ll be well worth the wait. To recap, I’m about to point out the contrast between being different and being sanctified.

Now, fast forward to the Chick-fil-A in the heart of Brentwood, Tennessee. Every Monday, a group of friends and I would meet there at 7 o’clock for a quick bite before they headed to a college worship service and I headed home to watch The Bachelor. On one particular pleasant, early spring evening, we met in the lobby and after ordering, decided to take our party outside and enjoy the sunset. After settling in and chowing down, we were relaxing and enjoying the last bit of sunlight before the darkness gobbled it up. To my left, and noticed well before the end of our meal, was a group of co-ed students from a neighboring high school. I remember how outlandish I was in school, so we didn’t necessarily mind the guffaws and shouts coming from their table. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, as were we. After a few minutes, we noticed another table of high school boys talking to the teens at that table in a very unflattering manner. We thought this may just be typical rowdiness but decided we would turn our attention to the scene. We kept our conversation going and after a bit of normalcy, I began talking to a friend about her relationship issues. As I spooned out the last bit of my ice cream, I turned in time to hear the group of boys begin to curse at one of the boys from the table next to us as they walked toward their vehicles. The boy still seated at the table next to us simply waved and with that, my friends and I still assumed (though this sentiment was waning) these teenagers were friends. I turned my attention away from them and looked back at my friend. Within seconds, I heard a car peel out and turned just in time to see a milkshake fly out of the boys’ truck and hit one of the guys at the table next to us in the back. Ice cream was everywhere. A couple of the guys at the table jumped the railing and ran after the truck for a few yards as the boys in the truck sped away. My friends and I sat there in shock, as we were under the impression that these students were friends, regardless of what we had seen. Now we knew this simply wasn’t the case. As one of the guys walked back to the table, I asked him if they were okay.

“Yeah, we’re fine. One of those guys dated her (pointing to a girl at the table) and they don’t like us very much,” he said.

“Yeah, we can see that. Well, glad y’all are good.”

A couple of my friends said a few more encouraging things to the group and then turned back to finish our original conversation after the excitement had died down. After a couple of minutes, we began to say our goodbyes. Then, just as she was standing up, my friend sat down quickly and whispered for me to look over at the table next to us. What I saw when I turned my head left me speechless. I re-settled in my chair and observed what true sanctification was all about. With hands held and heads bowed, this group of teenagers was praying for the bunch of guys that had just sped off, sans a milkshake. It’s one thing not to retaliate and stoop to the level of these instigators, which would be the manifestation of being different, but to actually stop what your doing and pray for them is what being set apart for Christ is all about. And leading the prayer was the boy with strawberry milkshake all over his back. I can say without hesitation that I would have never done that. Sure, I may have turned my other cheek, but I would have been angry and wouldn’t have dared pray for the guys who just soaked me in frozen dairy goodness. This sad fact is exactly why, while I may be living as if I’m different, I’m not living as if I’m sanctified. And this is what God doesn’t want. You see, it’s not good enough anymore just to turn the other cheek. We must not only turn that other cheek, but offer it up to be abused like the first one was. Being “different” is letting these guys go, while being “sanctified” is letting them go as you close your eyes and lift them up in prayer. I’ll never forget what I witnessed that night, and I hope you won’t either.

I was talking with a friend recently who wishes to remain anonymous and I can certainly comply. Wait a minute, I haven’t really asked the others in this book if they’d like to remain anonymous as well. Oops. Well, I’ll try to leave them out of the next book. Regardless, my friend and I were talking about Christianity in modern-day America. I was relating to him the phenomenon of what I call “halfback.” For the first few centuries of our country’s existence, faith in God was something to be spoken of proudly and freely in school, in one’s workplace, and throughout the community. It was odd to find someone who wasn’t a Christian. As our nation grew larger and more religiously diverse, something began to happen in this country that somehow forced faith to the backburner. We entered the age of political correctness and faith became an entity that was not talked about, all in the name of tolerance. Suddenly, my beliefs were offensive to my co-worker, or your child’s teacher’s leading his class in prayer was intrusive. We became so cautious of offending someone else’s belief system that we stifled our own. Throughout the 60’s, 70’s, 80’s, and 90’s, Christians were being forced to pray on their own and keep their faith to themselves. And this was our fault. We willingly relinquished our foothold in this country and allowed ourselves to be pushed around. By the 2000’s, Christians began realizing that the world was so tolerant, it was almost as accepting of Christianity as it was before this movement took place. We began to see that if tolerance were the wave of the future, two could play this game. We have touched the fence and are headed back toward home. This is the definition of “halfback.” After a few minutes, my friend informed me that he was a Christian, but his faith was something very personal to him. I agreed and asked him to explain, if he was willing.

“Well, I mean, I am a Christian but I think someone’s religious beliefs should be kept private,” he stammered.

“Okay, so, you’re a Christian but you don’t want to reveal that to anyone?”

“Exactly. I mean, I don’t wanna offend somebody. Besides, it’s no one’s business but my own,” he declared.

“Hmm. So, what is the point of staying on earth once you’ve been saved?”

“To enjoy your life,” he reasoned.

“To enjoy your life?”

I paused after hearing his answer and thought about proceeding with caution. But that’s a thing of the past for me. Every day that comes to a close is one less day I have to make an eternal impact for Christ and I’m through wasting His time and mine.

“Bro, are you serious? The entire point of the gospel is to share your faith. What good are you to God if you are keeping it to yourself? I’m not saying you have to stand on a street corner and yell at everyone who passes by, but give Him some justification as to why He left you here.”

Ouch. I still feel bad for saying that last part and perhaps I was a tad stark. I have never really mastered the “speaking the truth in love” thing Paul told us about, but I am working on it. He looked at me and said he didn’t want to talk about this anymore. I couldn’t blame him. He knew I was right and he was mistaken. But that’s just it. We are set apart for God’s use once we’re redeemed, but if we’re not willing to be used, what’s the point? Redemption and sanctification are radically different. While redemption was what you needed for your life, sanctification is what He wants from your life.

My parents named me Will for a reason. And no, not just because my granddaddy and uncle were both named William. They could not have known when I was born how determined a person I would become. But I have always been this way. Unfortunately, I have bulldozed my way through countless situations and circumstances to always get what I want. I don’t think I’m a selfish person, per se, but I’ve never stopped thinking about myself long enough to give it a proper assessment. I am a firm believer in the meaning of names, and my parents hit the nail on the head. This is why being set apart for God has always been my biggest struggle. If “Will” is my first name, my middle name should be “Inconsistency.” Being set apart for God’s use is something almost all of us weave in and out of throughout the course of our lives.

I remember having a conversation with my best friend, David, a missionary to Portugal, about God’s will for his life and all that lay ahead for him at the ripe old age of 22. We talked for a while about the things we wanted to do, see, and experience. We managed to settle on the subject of death for a few minutes. Now, for those of you who know me, I have the reputation of being somewhat of a hypochondriac. I have allegedly (by my own alleging) had about every illness and terminal disease imaginable and, much to my chagrin, I never seem to be right. Of course, my friends have long since learned to laugh off my claims, only to watch me worry for a couple of months, go to a doctor, run through tests, and then be told to go home and get some rest, as nothing was wrong. “One of these days, I’ll be right,” I have said in the past.

My having returned from a doctor’s visit, just prior to our conversation, we were now firmly entrenched in our discussion, when he said something that completely changed my outlook on life. He looked at me and told me he was ready to go “home.”

“Go home? Back to Michigan?”

I thought the timing of his revelation was highly inappropriate. We were talking about my fake illness. (See, I’m not selfish.)

“Hah, no! I’m not talking about leaving Chattanooga. We’re talking about death, aren’t we? I meant Heaven,” he explained.

“Heaven? That’s even worse! Why would you say that?”

“Because I’m excited to be there, and I’m not afraid of death. I’m willing to give up a future here on earth if it gets me to Heaven a little sooner,” he said.

“But D, you’re 22. Why on earth would you be thinking about Heaven?”

“It shouldn’t matter how old one is, or where he is in life,” he said. “Besides, you think about death all the time and that’s where you would go if you died. I assume you’d be ready as well.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to die. I want to live on earth for a while. Heaven will be there whether I’m 20 or 80.”

“But I want to be there, now,” he smiled. “Sure, I love life and I am excited about a future if that’s His will, but I’m much more excited about eternity. Will, no one wants to die, I’m just saying I’m completely fine if I died today.”

He put his arm on my shoulder and told me he had some studying to do. I walked out of the room as he sat at his computer desk and opened a book. I was floored. Here I was worrying about dying from the sniffles and my roommate and best friend would welcome the chance. It’s not that I didn’t want what God wanted for my life, but I wanted it to be the same thing that I wanted. I was all for God’s will, as long as it fit the plans of this Will. Here was a man who truly understood what being set apart for Christ was all about. He was willing to give up everything in accordance with God’s will for His life. Twenty-two-year-olds don’t normally have that commitment down pat.

But I think I get it now. God chooses to set us apart for what He wishes to do in and through our lives, and once we’re redeemed, we renounce our rights to our own life. That’s the “price” we pay, and it’s what most Christians don’t get. While the world will fool you into thinking you’re entitled to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, true sanctification in one’s life looks a lot like my friend David.

Okay, so we’ve been talking a lot about being set apart for God’s use and I’d like to leave you with one last illustration for the Christian life that most of us will be able to identify with and understand. Imagine sitting down at your favorite restaurant and having all of your favorite dishes set before you to enjoy. Go ahead, I’ll do it, too. Hungry? Yeah, so am I. Now imagine that each of those dishes that make up this meal represent something in your life. The buttered cornbread is your family. The caesar salad is your friends. The loaded potato soup is your career. The carrot cake is your significant other. The sweet tea is your children. And the chicken and dumplings is you. Everything is in place for the perfect meal (life). But where’s Jesus? Too many of us make sure we have everything there in place for our perfect meal (life) and then, once we take stock in what we’re about to devour, realize we didn’t make room for Jesus, and we ask for Him on the side. As long as He’s on the table, our life should be the tastiest of treats. But we fail to realize that the entrée should be Jesus. He is the reason we’re hungry and the reason we’re here for dinner. All of these other items present on the table are fine and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with them, but they should be there to complement Jesus in our lives. Our meal should be centered around Christ. He should never be something we ask for on the side, or to be present on the table to season or add flavor to our lives if we don’t like the taste.

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m in a bit over my head when it comes to this topic. But I do know one thing. As a former pastor of mine once said, “He didn’t save you to sit; He saved you to serve.” It all goes back to what my friend and I disagreed about earlier. If you have been redeemed, what in the world did He leave you here for if you aren’t willing to be sanctified for His use? Our lives are not about us and, while most of us have read the book and bought the tee shirt, we think that’s enough when it comes to being used by God. And it’s not. We must be ready to give up our life for the glory of His own. It’s so simple, yet so very difficult. But it’s possible. Paul told us that we can do all things through Christ, and this is no different. If God is willing and able to redeem us, we must be ready and eager to be sanctified. Only then will the gospel cease to affect only us and begin to affect those around us.

Lord, Bless Us, Lord

After college, I had a part-time job at a Christian radio station in Chattanooga, Tennessee. I enjoyed the hours, and it was fun to be recognized in public (it happened all of one time). The people I worked with had been with the station for years and they were very patient at teaching this rookie the ropes. One afternoon, the main on-air personality, Andy, walked into the studio and, after exchanging the typical pleasantries, he asked me if I would like to attend the Chattanooga men’s prayer breakfast with him the following week. Kiddies, when you’re a college graduate with only a part-time job, you jump at any chance for a free breakfast, even if there is prayer involved. Of course, being the spiritual stalwart that I was, this would be a good opportunity for me to be seen with the saintly crowd in my current city. Oh yeah, and there was free breakfast; did I mention that?

Growing up in a Christian household and maintaining a consistent church schedule, I was used to these sorts of gatherings. As Andy pontificated as to what the theme of the breakfast would be (try prayer), I was trying to decide if the country potatoes that were sure to be on the menu would be worth the trouble. We sauntered into this massive room in the Chattanooga Convention Center that looked more like the inside of Noah’s ark, minus the gopher wood. As Andy made his way to our table, I made my way toward the “spread.” In true fashion, the table followed the normal men’s prayer breakfast protocol in the South. The choices included, but were not limited to, scrambled eggs (no cheese), grits (no taste), biscuits and sawmill gravy (what exactly is sawmill?), country ham (not so country), bacon (extra, extra, extra crispy), sausage (thank you, Jimmy Dean), hash browns (not exactly Cracker Barrel’s), and country potatoes (Grease wasn’t just a movie, people). Yum-my. I had found what I was looking for, and while I wanted people to think it was prayer and not a large gathering of men, I had come for the food. (I feel that if I belabor the point about food any more, you may just put this book down and play with your kids.) After piling my plate with everything I had just mentioned, I found my place, straightened my tie (yes, I wore a tie), and sat down very spiritually. Andy and Leighton, our station’s manager, sat down next to me and adjusted their ties as well. Methinks that this is a sign of maturity and spirituality, adjusting one’s tie. Scanning the table, I found the order of service, if you will. In the backstage world, this is called a run sheet. I didn’t know there could be several pages, but I guess there were going to be several prayers this morning. As I started to dig into my plate, Andy touched my arm politely and communicated that I should probably wait until they pray for the food, since this was a prayer breakfast. Good point, I surmised, so I put my fork down and waited for the event to begin. After several men took the stage, all looking for their padded leather chairs (and adjusting their ties), one of them with the grayest hair and least amount of food walked up to the podium.

What I relate to you next is exactly how it happened. Of course, the names have been changed to protect the innocent, but I am going to literally type this man’s prayer out, word for word.

“Greeeeeat Gooooooddddd of our faaaaaathers.” (Pauses for extreme effect.)

“You are God of Adam, who was the first man to walk this magnificent planet.” (Pretty sure he used a Segway.)

“You are God of Noah, who honored You through his life and built a great ark.” (It’s supposed to rain today.)

“You are God of Abraham, who was willing to sacrifice his beloved son.” (I got nothing for this one.)

“You are God of Moses, who faithfully brought Your commandments to Your people.” (And then slammed them into the side of a hill.)

“You are God of David, who was a man after Your own heart.” (Nope, nothing for this one either. How about you try?)

At this point, I was fixed on two things. First, I was pretty nervous that he was about to catalogue the entire main characters of the Bible in this one prayer and, secondly, I was perplexed about whether any of these men would notice if I started eating. Perhaps if I adjusted my tie with every bite, this would cause them to think, “My goodness, he’s eating during the prayer; however, he is adjusting his tie - hmm.” I was starving and my plate was beginning to frost over, but I decided against trying to time the bites with the pulls of the tie, so I figured I would just have to wait it out.

“You are God of Solomon, the wisest man to ever live.” (What? He’s still in the Old Testament?)

“You are God of Daniel, who was spared in the lion’s den through his great faithfulness.” (I’ve always wanted to go on a safari.)

“You are God of Jonah, who trusted you in the belly of the great fish.” (I’d like to think it was a whale, but I digress.)

“You are God of Peter, whom You forgave even when he forsook You.” (Okay, so I have two things to go with this one. First, I was shocked that he was just now getting to the New Testament, and, two, when is the last time you heard someone use the word “forsook” in a sentence?)

I was now popping in and out of consciousness and starting to think that the whole idea of actually eating at a men’s prayer breakfast was simply a tease and downright misleading. About this time, my ears perked up when I heard him say something about John and the Isle of Patmos. I had to think way back to my elementary Sunday School teacher, Mrs. Harker, who told us that John wrote the entire book of Revelation while he was on the Isle of Patmos. Wait a minute! Revelation is the last book of the Bible, isn’t it? Could it be that he was finally wrapping up his monologue toward the heavens? By the time I finished my thought, I heard a thunderous “amen” and uproarious applause. While I joined in with a vigorous clap, I smiled to myself knowing that these men were really cheering because he was finished and we could all eat. I assume that the man who had prayed thought it was for his prayer. Poor guy. He straightened his tie and took his seat on the platform. There was a large table positioned toward the rear and I assumed this table was for the most spiritual of the tie straighteners. My co-worker, Andy, and our boss, Leighton, straightened their ties, looked at me, and began to eat. I can’t recall a time I consumed food more voraciously and quickly than when they gave me the visual go-ahead. I don’t think I even tasted anything that was on my plate, and I was okay with that fact.

As soon as the sugar in my food reached my blood stream, the world seemed right again. With my synapses firing on all cylinders, I began to hone in on a resounding question within my spirit:

“Who, in God’s Name, was he talking to?”

At first, I began to assess the prayer from all angles. It was a men’s prayer breakfast in front of hundreds of his peers and associates. It was a showcase of all things spiritual in our city. And it was integral for the spiritual success of the men who were attending. But at what cost? Sure, no one wishes to embarrass himself by stammering through a prayer in front of hundreds of his contemporaries, but when I look at what prayer should be and is supposed to be, I find that it is not a show for men, but an intimate conversation with the Lord, no matter who or how many are listening. This is when my anger set in and I began to resent this man who had prayed to all of us instead of the Lord. And to make matters worse, I was still smarting from my frozen-over victuals. Granted, we have all been guilty of praying to others and not to the One who covets our prayers, but someone who is picked to lead the opening prayer for the men of our city should definitely know better. I’m not attacking this man, because we would all be tempted to pray the “perfect prayer” in front of so many, but how many of us pray like this when it’s just us and the Lord? Perhaps we don’t use the grandiose or historical approach, but maybe it’s something other than that which makes us just as guilty. I’ll get to that in a minute.

As the meal came to a close (in about two-and-a-half minutes), another very old man with very gray hair approached the podium for a closing prayer. “Oh great,” I thought. “At least my food will have plenty of time to digest now.” He settled in after straightening his tie and began his supplication toward the Lord.

“My dear Savior. Thank You for this gathering of men who truly want to see You move in our great city. We thank You for all of Your many blessings and want to show You the love You have shown us. Again, thank You, Lord, and may You bless us forevermore. In Your Son’s name and by His precious blood. Amen.”

Finally, I had witnessed an actual prayer from someone that hadn’t bounced off of the ceiling. I liked this prayer for two reasons. First, it was extremely short. Secondly, I could feel the emotion that the man was conveying to the Lord. I simply couldn’t fathom a man actually meaning the words in his prayer at one of these shindigs. Imagine that. I really believed that this man had just communed with our Lord, and in front of us all for that matter. When he finished, I noticed several men looking around at each other with bemused expressions on their faces.

“Did he just do what we think he did?”

Look, it’s not that one should be congratulated for doing something that should have been so normal to every believer there, but the contrast between that and what we had heard from the opening prayer was such a refreshing moment that we all felt like clapping (and most did so.) Every time we open our mouths or minds in prayer, what comes out of our lips and from our hearts should only be reserved for the Lord’s enjoyment and attention and not for show or the praise of man. Frankly, ever since we were little, we have sought other people’s approval for doing what seems right and is natural to us as believers. And prayer is really no different. It’s why people get so nervous, or even decline, when they are asked to pray in public. I have a friend that flat out refuses to pray in public for the simple fact that he wishes to guard himself from this very occurrence’s taking place in his heart and manifesting itself outwardly. No one wants to sound like a novice when praying, and certainly no one praying for the opening at a men’s prayer breakfast. With that said, my anger for that man’s prayer is gone, because while I don’t agree with him, I can completely understand why he and so many of us do what he did. Praying to others and even ourselves has replaced praying to the Lord so many times in our lives, and it’s time we make a change. It’s time we begin to talk to the Lord as if He is our best Friend, our Redeemer, and our Father.

Earlier, I briefly touched on what I felt was an even bigger issue in modern Christianity in relation to prayer. Having talked about to Whom we are praying might pale in comparison to the sin of what we are actually praying. Unfortunately, I’m quite capable of reciting to you, verbatim, my prayers from the age of nineteen through the age of twenty-five, and it goes a little something like this (and for those of you waiting for me to begin picking on myself and not old men at prayer breakfasts, here ya go):

“Dear Lord, thank You for this day and for everything You’ve done. Lord, please bless Mom, Dad, Amy, Matt, and me and help us to live for You. Lord, bless everyone who is sick and, Lord, bless our food today and whatever we choose to do. Lord, we love You, Lord, and we thank You, Lord, for what You will do for us, Lord. Bless us this day, and in Jesus’ Name we pray. Amen.”

Wow. It was not difficult at all to remember my prayer as I used to pray it. I barely had to think of it before it just started coming out just the way it used to. How convicting. If you’d indulge me, I am going to break this prayer down over the next few minutes of your time and see what we can come up with. Feels good to be ripping into myself for a change and I’m sure you’ll enjoy it too. There are some questionable word choices and phrasing, but grammatical issues should be left alone, since it has nothing to do with the intent of the heart behind the prayer and is thus irrelevant. Besides, I don’t think Jesus minds too much. Let’s focus simply on what is actually said in the prayer and the intent behind those words. Now, who better to dissect this prayer than the one who prayed it? (Can you tell I am stalling?) Okay, I’ll get down to business.

I open the prayer by referring to the Lord as “Dear,” but this isn’t necessarily so much a term of affection as it is more so a common reference when beginning a letter to someone. And isn’t prayer a letter to the Lord? Too bad I didn’t intend it this way. Strike one. Next, I thank the Lord for the day and for everything He has done. I suppose I could have gone with any quantifiable object but I chose “day” because that’s what I grew up doing. Most of our prayers haven’t changed all that much from when we began praying. I immediately avoid specifics so as to keep my prayer to a minimum in length and relegate what God has done to pretty much “everything.” I’ve often been accused of doing just enough to get by. How convenient. (At this point, I thought about staying with the baseball reference and going with ”strike two,” but let’s be honest; I’d have about forty-seven strikes by the time my prayer was over and you only get three in baseball.) The Bible talks in great detail about avoiding vain repetition in prayer (at which I am already failing). This simply means that anything that is useless or unnecessary should basically be left out. The word “vain” encompasses any thought of oneself, futility, and basically anything in a prayer that is baseless or without real importance or substance. There’s a big difference between asking for wisdom and asking to pass a test one did not study for. Get the picture? The word “repetition” is simply repeating oneself. Basically, God instructs us to pray without repeating meaningless words or anything that is selfish in nature. What, in my prayer above, doesn’t succumb to this? Well, I do pray for my immediate family, but once again, I do not pray in specifics. Remember when I thanked God for “everything?” That is a great example of not using specifics. I’m not advocating spending the rest of your life telling Him what He’s done for you, but a little more than a big, fat generalization wouldn’t hurt. Besides, He enjoys hearing how He’s doing.

While God wants us to depend entirely on Him to accomplish a life lived for Him, He can’t live it for us. Remember the whole “free will” concept that started in the Garden of Eden? It’s the same mentality here, so why would God choose to do it now and not then? It is not in His nature to force us to do anything for Him. I love the way I throw around the term “bless.” Noah Webster tells us that the term “bless” means to request of God His divine favor to be bestowed upon oneself. By definition, this is a selfish request if my name follows the word. Obviously, there is nothing wrong with wanting great things to happen in one’s life, but aren’t we (my family and I) already blessed enough at this point? How many other blessings do we really need, before we begin asking for God’s favor to be bestowed upon others? Any cognizant believer can look around and see God’s innumerable blessings that He would have given us, regardless of whether we asked for them or not. God wants us to ask of Him, but we must have priority in place at the root of our requests. It is quite troubling that am I so concerned with making sure that He blesses my family and me first. He has blessed us! Perhaps I should stop asking Him for blessing(s), and begin asking how I can be a blessing to Him? What do you get the person who has everything? A unique and fresh prayer would be a start. Oh, and how many times do I use the term “bless” or a variation of it? Go ahead and count; I’ll wait. I use the term four times and it is all in relation to what I want the Lord to do for me. Granted, I am nice enough to ask God to bless everyone who is sick, but what does that even mean? To this day, I don’t know why I added that to the script other than to be nice and subconsciously prove to the Lord (myself) that my prayer really isn’t all about me. And what’s with the blessing of the food? I understand it’s a tradition before meals to say a blessing of gratitude for the food, but I would pray this same phrase when I was about to eat and when I wasn’t. Ridiculous. I had a friend who used to take a bite from his meal, lay his fork down, and then bow his head to say the blessing. I once asked him why he did this, and he replied that he wanted to make sure his food tasted good before he thanked God for it. I thought that was odd, but at least he had a sincerity behind it. While you may think it irreverent, he had the gumption to truly mean what he said every time he sat down to eat, and not pray out of habit or legalism because that’s what one does before eating. If he didn’t like the bite, he didn’t thank the Lord. Radical, I know, but refreshing nonetheless. After the food (for the entire day) gets blessed, I ask God to bless (there’s that word again) whatever we decide to do that day. Seriously, I don’t even know why I would pray something like that. Looking back on it, I assume I wanted God to keep us safe and to allow us to have success at whatever the day brought. And why do I keep using the pronouns “we” and “us?” Who exactly am I praying for? Last time I checked, God desires a relationship that is extremely intimate and personal with each one of us. This means that our relationship is between us (God and me) and no one else. Of course, you are free to pray for anyone, but not as everyone. Based on my prayer (as you can attest), nobody needs my help or wants it for that matter.

Next, I tell the Lord how much we love Him (there I go again, praying as the entire body of Christ), and thank Him in advance for what He’s going to do for us. I must say, this is somewhat presumptuous, is it not? While we are to give thanks for everything and trust His sovereign grace, we must be careful to keep it as pure gratitude regardless of the outcome and not assume He is going to grant our every wish. I am completely in favor of asking the Lord for anything we may possibly need and even want in some instances, but we’ve got to break the habit of talking God into things we want Him to do and giving Him logical reasons to do so. He does what He, in His divine sovereignty, sees fit, and that’s the bottom line. I can only imagine the laughs God gets from our sincere, yet misplaced, prayers.

At the end of the prayer, I ask (tell) God to bless us today, and close with the obligatory “in Jesus’ Name” (which I had no clue what that did) and “by His blood” (ditto). Obviously, both phrases sound very spiritual, but again, I use this sign-off because that is what I had heard everyone I had ever known say when closing a prayer. It is a great ending but is the very definition of a vain repetition. Unfortunately, the worst part of my prayer(s) has been neglected up to this point. Can you guess what it is? I’ll give you two guesses, but you’ll only need one. It is my constant use of the term “Lord.” The term, when capitalized, refers to the Master (as Jesus used it) and the Supreme Being, God, or Jehovah, as we use it today. Most Christians use this term when praying today and it is basically the name we use for God. It’s certainly okay for believers to use the proper names of God i.e., Jehovah or Yahweh, but our culture of Christianity prefers the term “Lord.” Why then, do I feel the need to use it over and over again? Once again, I’ll give you a chance to go back up to where my prayer is recorded and count the number of times I say the word “Lord.” Eight times? It is quite absurd, don’t you think? If prayer is what it should be, then it is simply an intimate conversation between you and your Heavenly Father. He knows His name, and so do I, so why would I incessantly call Him by it? This is exactly my point. We fill our prayers with so much nonsense that even God Himself must have a difficult time sifting through the junk just to grasp what we are trying to tell Him. He knows Who He is, you know Who He is, and that’s that. Imagine having a conversation with a friend that goes something like this:

“Al, I’m so glad we could get together today, Al. I mean, Al, you are one of my best friends, and it is such a pleasure to know you, Al. Al, please remain my friend forever, Al, and always be there for me when I need you, Al. Thank you, Al.”

Crazy, I know. Would or have you ever talked with a friend this way? Of course not. Why then do we do it with our Creator? He deserves far more than we give our friends, but we consistently pray meaningless and contrived words just so we can appease Him. But who are we really satisfying? We rush through our conversations with God so we can scarf down a meal, get to bed on time, or try not to be late for work. I cannot belabor this point enough. We must begin to truly think about the words that we are throwing at God Almighty and start putting an intimacy behind them that cannot be matched with our friends, children, and even spouses. He deserves nothing less. I challenge you to really begin listening to prayers of others, but more importantly, the prayers that you are offering to the Lord on a daily basis. I believe that you may be surprised and find that most of your prayers sadly reflect the one I had prayed for years. But the truly sad part is that it is more our fault now than ever. We must begin to take the blame before our problems can’t be solved and just as I’ve owned up, you must follow suit. Trust me, it’s not the easiest thing to tell you that I not only prayed that prayer above, but I prayed it for several years! It’s embarrassing on any level of spiritual maturity. Confess your sin to God, ask His forgiveness, praise Him for Who He is, make your requests known to Him, and thank Him no matter what happens. More importantly, make your prayer pleasant to Him. There’s no greater feeling than knowing you have pleased the Lord with something you’ve done, and let’s face it, it rarely happens. But isn’t it great when it does? While God is merciful, He is also immutable. God always had a certain manner in which He accepted sacrifices and burnt offerings in Scripture, and today, our prayers are no exception.

My brother, Matt, had a sixth-grade teacher named Miss Hite who exemplified how to pray. I have never heard someone so in tune with the Lord through public prayer, and, yet, I always had the feeling that we were somehow eavesdropping on her conversation with God when she would pray at church. You see, that’s just it. So many of us talk “to” the Lord instead of talking “with” Him. Sure, I have witnessed great prayers before but here was a humble servant of the Lord consistently coming before Him to offer all she had to please Him, while waiting on Him to speak before she proceeded. It was almost uncomfortable to witness it, and that is a shame. We should be used to prayers like she would offer and not feel awkward when we truly feel the presence of God summoned to a place by a meek and humble individual. To this day, I have never heard anything like it and probably never will. But how do these examples help each one of us in our own prayer lives? That’s a good question and, fortunately, I’ve got good news. Remember, it is never too late to truly begin connecting with the Lord in prayer, regardless of the months or even years of wasted offerings that fill our past and threaten our future. Now is the time to gain true intimacy with the Lord. Throw out ninety-seven percent of what you’ve learned, heard, and ever known about how to pray and simply talk with Him. It is really that easy. Get rid of the tradition in your voice, the legalism in your spirit, and the vain repetition of your words and just talk with Him. The spirit of your heart is far more important than the words that follow. He’s been waiting. And He’s ready to listen to what you want to say. But, more importantly, He’s got some things to say to you.

Always & Forever

When I was a child, it was quite difficult for me to grasp the idea of eternity. Okay, even as an adult, I find it downright impossible. But I can recall that my pastor, several evangelists who passed through our church, and my Christian schoolteachers throughout my formulative years used many stories in attempting to illustrate this concept. While those examples did help a tad, I was still missing the point, so to speak. But I would like to share with you an example from my Sunday school teacher that came pretty darn close. (Yes, Mrs. Harker.)

One particular Sunday, my friend Will (yes, we had the same name and this would cause much confusion over the years, so his dad, Mr. Robertson, came up with the idea of rounding out the “Will” with the first letter in our last names. Thus, my friend became “Will-er” (for Robertson) and I became “Will-em.” The names stuck and helped everyone differentiate between the two of us) raised his hand toward the end of the lesson about Heaven and asked how long we would be there with Jesus once we arrived. Mrs. Harker smiled at him and explained to the entire class that we would be there forever. A few of us knew what the term “forever” meant but really had no way of fathoming it. Mrs. Harker noticed our confusion and told us she would give us an example that might help make eternity a little easier to understand.

“Okay, kids, I know some of you are having trouble understanding how long forever will be when we get to Heaven, and maybe I can help. Can anyone tell me where we live?” she asked.

A girl sitting behind me raised her hand.

“We live in Wilmington,” she answered.

“Yes, we do,” Mrs. Harker responded. “Very good. Now, can anyone tell me what’s special about Wilmington when you look at a map?” she asked.

“It’s in North Carolina!” my friend Adam exclaimed.

“Yes, Adam, it is located in the state of North Carolina,” she replied. “But what is neat about our city that most other cities in our state can’t say they have in common with ours?”

A few of us looked at each other, wondering who knew the right answer, when the girl behind me spoke up again.

“Mrs. Harker, is it that we’re beside the ocean?” she asked.

“That’s right! Our city is located on the coast of North Carolina on the shores of the Atlantic Ocean. Now, how many of you boys and girls like the beach?” she asked.

Nearly every one of us raised our hands excitedly.

“Great! I like it very much, too,” Mrs. Harker exclaimed. “And how many of you know what a seagull is?”

Most all of us raised our hands. “Of course I knew what a seagull was,” I thought to myself; “I was almost ten years old.”

“Okay, good. Now everyone please close your eyes and imagine that you are having fun at Wrightsville Beach on a beautiful summer’s day with your family,” she said. “And now pretend that a seagull has flown down to investigate the sand castle you are making with your brother or sister.”

At this point, I didn’t know where she was going with this, but I didn’t care. Being at the beach was much better than going to big church.

“Okay, now pretend that Mr. Seagull swoops in low to the ground and picks up one grain of sand in his beak. And let’s imagine that our friend, Mr. Seagull, has the challenging task of taking each grain of sand on our beautiful beach all the way to the moon. Do any of you know how far away the moon is?” she asked.

As I was visualizing Mr. Seagull flying all the way to the moon, the girl behind me raised her hand.

“In science class, we learned that the moon is over 200,000 miles away from the earth,” she answered.

“Very good,” Mrs. Harker replied. “The moon is very, very far away and it would take Mr. Seagull many years just to get there and back again with that one grain of sand. Just imagine if Mr. Seagull had to take all the grains of sand one by one to the moon and back. How many years do you think that would take, class?”

Being the math whiz that I was, I quickly raised my hand.

“Yes, Will,” she called out.

“Um, it would take a bazillion-jillion years.”

Some of my friends laughed, and I’m certain the girl behind me must have rolled her eyes.

“Well, Will, you’re actually very close. It would take millions of years for our friend, Mr. Seagull, to take each grain of sand on Wrightsville to the moon and come back,” she replied. “Now, imagine how long it would take for Mr. Seagull to take every grain of sand on Earth to the moon and back.”

A bunch of us let out excited noises as we tried to muster the brainpower to imagine such a thing.

“Teacher, something like that, well, it could last longer than we can count up to, couldn’t it?” my friend Will asked.

“Yes, it would take a very, very long time. But do you know what would be so special about such an undertaking when you compare it to eternity?” she asked.

Our class sat silent, waiting for the answer.

“Class, by the time Mr. Seagull would finish the task of taking each and every grain of sand in the entire world to the moon, our time in Heaven with Jesus would be just starting. That’s how long eternity is,” she explained.

I sat there speechless, which for me at that age was a feat in and of itself. For the first time in my young life, I had something to compare eternity to and I understood (what little I could) the idea of eternity in Heaven much more clearly.

I appreciate what Mrs. Harker shared with us that day, and it’s an example I’ve used in the years since. There are several callings and professions that would take an inordinate amount of patience, hard work, and compassion in which to be successful. And teaching a bunch of little kids week in and week out about the intricacies of the Bible and the vastness that is our God still doesn’t sound like my idea of a good time. Special people just may have a special place in Heaven, my friend Lisa often says, and this is so very true when it comes to being a Sunday school teacher. As I mentioned earlier, it is impossible for the human mind to grasp the idea of eternity. Granted, the deck is stacked against us in the sense that our minds are finite while God’s mind is infinite. We simply weren’t meant to fully understand everything and I’m okay with that. I have met certain individuals throughout my journey that had to know and understand the finest details of every process throughout our universe. And while I’ll be the first to admit I use Wikipedia way more than a person should, humans will never, ever figure it all out. Besides, where would the fun in that be? It’s somewhat comforting to know that there are forces outside of us that cannot be explained. This is the entire basis of faith. Whether you like it or not, here comes the chair analogy! Kidding. I couldn’t do that to y’all again. As difficult as it may be to grasp, faith in God is slightly more complex than the chair you are sitting in. Again, it’s the evidence of things unseen. And since we can’t see God (yet), it takes faith to believe He exists. Same as it does to believe that He has Heaven waiting for those of us who have put our faith in His Son. And this is where eternity comes into focus.

Now that I had a better idea about how long eternity would last, it occurred to me that I had never really pondered the idea that mankind would live somewhere during that time. And even better, the choice was ours. Granted, I had been raised in a great church and my parents had always made the opportunity available for me to put my faith in Jesus. But actually doing it was somewhat of a problem for me. I seemed to make a decision for Christ often, but something wasn’t clicking. Sure, my head was always ready and willing to accept the Lord, but my heart was another matter. I remember kneeling down beside my toy box once and saying a quick prayer because my brother told me I should, but I only did it because he said I should, and I could look for a missing toy at the same time. Perhaps it was “something I needed to do in public,” I thought, as Pastor Herchenhahn always talked about. So, I also recall making a “decision” at a Ron Comfort revival, but I had only done so because my buddy Tommy had asked me to go down front with him during the invitation at the kids’ service because he was nervous. The lady that greeted the two of us as we careened down the aisle was very welcoming, and since Tommy was in tears, she turned her attention to him first. I didn’t mind standing by his side and watching him come to know Christ, since I had come down to ease his nervousness. I was always good for helping out a buddy. But I was simply down there because he needed me to be, and not because I needed to be saved from my sins. After the lady prayed with Tommy and got him a Kleenex, she turned her attention toward me and the lack of saline running down my cheeks.

“What’s your name, young man?” she asked.

“It’s Will.”

“What a nice name, Will. Lovely to meet you. And you’ve come tonight to accept Jesus as your personal Lord and Savior?” she asked.

“Um, yes ma’am.”

As I answered her, I watched Tommy walk back to his seat as the invitation music continued. You’d think he would have waited around, but I was probably the last thing on his mind at that point.

The nice lady led me in a prayer that was very short and rather simple. But I had a problem keeping my eyes closed, and I struggled to repeat the words she was saying. She handed me a balloon (on which I would later draw a sweet smiley face) and told me I was saved. I quietly walked back to my seat where Tommy was sitting with the biggest grin on his face. Having been raised in the church, I knew the deal when it came to God, so I was surprised that I was still feeling the same way I had before the woman told me I was saved. I should at least have had a smile on my face like Tommy, since we had both done the same thing. When my parents arrived to pick me up, I remember one of the workers telling my mom something and then Mom’s eyes slowly lowering until they met mine. I was sure we would talk about the decision I had just made. I just didn’t know when.

In the next few days, word had leaked to some of my friends at school that Tommy and I had gotten saved and it was as if we were child celebrities. It was pretty cool. Everyone was happy for us, but I knew the truth. While Tommy had genuinely become a follower of Jesus Christ, I had only gone down front to support my friend. It’s not as if I were lying about things, but how could a young boy whose entire life was based around God come clean and tell everyone he hadn’t been born again? That’s a lot of pressure for a kid. Oddly enough, my mom still hadn’t talked to me about the purported decision I had made. Perhaps she knew something that I thought only I knew. Maybe she knew the truth.

A few weeks went by and something was beginning to change within me. Each time I heard my teacher talk about the Lord or our pastor give his Sunday sermon, I was wrought with guilt. But not in the way you’d think. I had gotten over the fact that everyone thought I was a Christian. Now, it was the realization that I was indeed a sinner and needed a Savior. Up until this point, I had never thought about myself in that way. Days turned into weeks and weeks into months before my life would be changed forever. As I had said before, I knew there was a God, knew He had a Son and sent Him to earth to save us from our sins, but that was entirely my problem. I knew all of these things to be true, but knowledge about something and faith in something are two completely different animals.

Near the end of the year, my mom (who was a fifth grade teacher at our Christian academy) was driving us to school one day. I think it was a Tuesday. Normally, our short trip was filled with the harmonies of Montgomery family humming, but on this particular day, Mom was oddly talkative. Since I wasn’t paying attention at first, I can’t recall how we broached the subject, but Mom was asking each one of us to talk about the day we had accepted Christ. My sister went first (as always) and intricately detailed her salvation experience. My brother jumped ahead of me (as always) and while a bit more vague, expounded upon the story of his conversion. After my brother finished, my mother turned her attention to me. Something about the way she looked at me in the rear view mirror made me want to finally come clean and tell her and my siblings that I had never really made the leap of faith. I stammered for a few seconds before blurting out that I didn’t really know if I was saved, or at least that I could remember. My brother wasn’t paying attention and my sister looked at me as if I had just spoken a foreign language. My eyes dropped to my lap until I heard my mother’s tender voice.

“So, you don’t really remember being saved, Will?” she asked.

“Um, no ma’am. Not really.”

We had just pulled into the teachers’ parking lot.

“Well, we’ll talk about it later tonight, honey. Okay?” she said.

“Yes ma’am.”

The four of us filed out of our car and made our way inside the elementary building. I’ll never forget the way my mom reacted when hearing that I was unsure of my salvation. She didn’t bring up the instances in the past when she was led to believe I had been saved. She simply smiled and told me we’d talk about things that evening. I’ll always be grateful for her reaction.

After arriving at my classroom that morning, I had all but put the short conversation in the car out of my mind. With a math test, kickball at recess, and lunch to think about, a boy simply couldn’t handle the notion of his eternal soul’s hanging in the balance, so I soon forgot about the evening’s impending conversation. That is, until my Bible class rolled around that afternoon. For some reason (and I now know why) our lesson that day was on Hell. It’s difficult enough to talk about eternal damnation for the unsaved, but when you’re an elementary teacher presenting a lesson on the topic, I’m sure it’s absolutely arduous. My teacher’s lesson had three points that day and I still remember them. Hell is hot. Hell lasts forever. And Hell will be complete and eternal separation from God’s love. While the first two are terrifying in and of themselves, it was the last point that stuck out to me the most.

I had come to believe I was a sinner. I realized I was in desperate need of a Savior. But with this lesson, I had now come to grips that without accepting Christ, I would be punished. And that punishment was an eternity in Hell without God. It was and still is the most frightening realization I have ever known. And it breaks my heart to think that it’s a very real place with very real people that most of us knew and loved. I knew then that I didn’t want any part of it. Not because it was hot, or because it lasted forever. I wanted no part of it because that would mean I would be without God. Because He loved me so much, I was compelled to love Him right back.

After my Bible class ended (thank goodness), I was stone silent the rest of the day, which should have let anyone know that I was struggling. I met my mom and siblings in her classroom and proceeded to the car to head home. Most of the time, she asked us how our days went, but today, she was quiet. Perhaps she realized the importance of the task ahead. We arrived home and began our normal after-school routine. My brother and I would get a snack, finish our homework as hastily as two boys could, and head out to the backyard with our dog and basketball in tow. We would shoot baskets until it was dark. (Man, you must think all we did was play basketball.) Mom would call us in and have us wash up, and we would sit down to a tasty meal of Hamburger Helper or Little Caesars pizza. (Mom still feels bad about some things during our childhood; i.e., the lack of home-cooked meals made from scratch every night, but I’d like to officially let her know that the three of us wouldn’t change one darn thing from our childhood. And no “buts,” Mom.) After dinner, it was bath time. I was still young enough to take baths and liked them much better than showers. Perhaps this is why I like hot tubs so much. Toward the end of my bath this particular evening, I heard a knock at the door. Mom asked if I was decent and I had the shower curtain drawn and answered yes. She peeked her head in and asked if I would like to discuss what we had talked about in the car on the way to school that morning.

“Um, sure, Ma, but could it wait until I get out of the tub?”

“I was hoping so,” she smiled.

After I dried off and got dressed, I walked into the den to find my mom sitting on the sofa with the television turned off and her Bible in her lap. This was reassuring to me that she was taking my concern so seriously. I sat down beside her as I placed my small hand inside hers. Sometimes, a boy just needed his mom all to himself, regardless of what was troubling the waters of his soul.

“Will, when I asked you about getting saved earlier today, why did you say you don’t really remember it?” she asked.

I was incredibly nervous.

Well, um, I, um - well, I don’t remember getting saved. I think I was, or am, but I’m confused. I just want to know for sure, I guess.”

“Okay, well, honey, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with wanting to know for sure,” she said. “Do you want to know for sure that Jesus lives in your heart and you’ll be in Heaven with Him and your family forever one day?”

As she finished her question, I could feel the tears welling up inside me. I didn’t want to wonder anymore. I didn’t want to pretend anymore. I wanted to know for sure I was saved and that I would be in Heaven one day. And while being with my family was incentive enough for a boy, it was being with Jesus forever that finally allowed my heart to push my head out of the way. With that realization, I began to sob. I rambled on incoherently in my mom’s lap for minutes as I let out years of doubt and confusion, lowered my façade, and allowed Jesus to fill the spaces those things had occupied. My mom, sensing the chance to steer my heart in the right direction, asked me to pray with her and repeat her words. I followed her in prayer, word for word. I continued to sob in her lap after we had prayed, and she gently caressed my sweaty brow and let the emotion spill out of me until I was empty. After my cries had ended and I was struggling to catch my breath, we sat in the den, my mom holding my hand and the Lord holding my heart, the three of us quietly enjoying the moment that had just occurred. It was the moment in which I was assured I would be forever and always secure in Him. After what seemed like hours, my mom gently pushed back the blond and matted locks from my forehead and told me it was time to get ready for bed. I hadn’t realized how much time had passed, but I was grateful that nothing else in the world mattered to my mom and me at this point. My brother would later tell me my mom threatened to send him into eternity early if we were disturbed. I’m glad Matt actually listened, for once.

I headed to the bathroom and brushed my teeth. As I laid my head on my pillow with my stuffed animals tucked in securely beside me, I felt as if I were a completely new person. Which I was. He had cleansed me from all unrighteousness, past, present and future. And it’s not something a believer can fully describe but must be experienced. All I knew was that Jesus had saved my soul and had initiated this deep and profound relationship with me. And with this thought echoing throughout the vast chasm that was my soul, I fell fast asleep.

There are millions of things we as believers have the tendency to worry and fret over throughout the course of our lives. I hate to admit this, but I am a “worry-wart” and always have been. It’s a spiritual battle that I have long waged, and one that sometimes can get the better of me. But I don’t worry about eternity. I’ve been convicted many times by the Holy Spirit as to how I can worry over the smallest and most trivial things, yet know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I will spend eternity in Heaven with my Savior. It’s a perplexing phenomenon when I stop to think about it. But I’d much rather know where I’m going, than to know where I am. Eternity is a very long time. And when all the cards are on the table, the choice to give one’s heart to our Lord is the absolutely the most important decision you and I could possibly make.

I recall a dear friend of mine once telling me about an example that made really good sense. That’s not surprising, coming from my friends. We began talking about the concept of living somewhere for all eternity. Both of us believers, we readily agreed that there are only two destinations for a soul once it leaves its earthly housing. Heaven or Hell. I remember her saying that she had known a fellow named Tony who was unsaved and they would often talk of spiritual things. He was an educated person and thought the idea of God was laughable, at best. Any intelligent being simply couldn’t believe in God, he would say. She would counter with the aspect of faith and that it took more than the human brain to explain the intricacies and grandeur of the universe. Of course, she humored his opinions, because that’s what you do with friends, but admitted to me that his lacerating tongue when it came to all matters Christianity had begun to wear on her heart. One chilly December morn, the pair were having coffee at a local café, when Tony began recounting an incident that had happened the day before. He told her that one of his friends had recently become a Christian and had called him to tell him of his conversion. Tony’s friend had told him he wanted to tell him sooner, but was afraid of what he would say. Tony, skeptical as always, allowed his friend to finish and decided that congratulating him would be his best recourse. He would let his friend think what he wanted. As they were preparing to end their phone conversation, his friend said something that Tony would never forget.

“Hey, man, I know you don’t believe all of this stuff, but I appreciate your hearing me out and making this easy. I’m not ashamed of the path I have chosen in following Christ, but you can be pretty intimidating,” he laughed.

“Oh, no worries, bro. To each his own,” Tony replied.

“Yeah, well, before I let you go, I need to say something. This is really why I’ve been putting off this call. Because I can’t let you die and go to Hell without me telling you about God’s gift to you,” he said. “Just let me say one thing.”

Tony was silent on the other end of the phone.

“Uh, thanks man. But you really don’t have to do that,” he finally responded.

“Actually, I do,” his friend replied.

Tony breathed a deep and frustrated sigh into the receiver.

“All right, but promise me you’ll never try to ‘save’ me again,” Tony said.

“I promise, bro,” his friend answered.

The friend paused for a moment to collect his thoughts.

“Tony, what do you think happens when we die?” he asked.

“Well, I think that it’s just over. I mean, we simply cease to exist,” Tony said.

“Okay, well, what if you’re wrong?” his friend asked.

“I guess that’s the chance I’ll have to take as an educated person,” Tony replied coolly.

“That’s fair. But think about this,” his friend continued. “If you’re right and I’m wrong, then both of us will cease to exist. When we die, our friends and families will have a memorial service for both of us, filled with tears, funny anecdotes, and poignant stories about how much we meant to them. Everyone will head to the cemetery to lay the both of us to rest. And that’ll be it. Eventually, the moments that were recalled during this time will become as faded as the numerals on our gravestones. But what if I’m right? What if Heaven and Hell truly exist and Jesus is Who He says He is. What happens then?”

“I suppose I would go to Hell,” Tony answered.

“Seems like an awful risky gamble,” his friend surmised. “You think about that, my friend.”

His friend told him goodbye and Tony hung up the phone. While Tony considered himself to be above the nearsighted spirituality that seemed to have a stranglehold on his friend’s mind, he couldn’t help but admit to himself that in an uncomfortable way, his friend had a point. Would he really let the eternal destination of his soul be left up to a coin toss? Surely, an educated man like himself wouldn’t leave such a thing to chance, would he?

I was at a bonfire at my buddy Steve’s house a few weeks ago as I was outlining this chapter. I sat a few feet away from the glowing blaze and was mesmerized by the flames. But while the laughter and sounds of a great night with friends encompassed me, all I could think about as I looked into the fire were the countless souls that would spend eternity in Hell. I sat there for minutes with my gaze unbroken, searching the deep corners of my heart, hoping that no one was there that I knew personally. But it was a notion that was quickly dismissed. That was impossible. We all know people who are already in Hell or who are intent on getting there in a handbasket. But Heaven forbid they ever get there in part due to our lack of words or abuse of actions. But as I sat by the fire and mourned for this possibility, I was also encouraged by the fact that there are still so many lost souls out there that can and will find their way to the cross. And you and I must have a direct effect on this realization. It’s why we were left here after our conversion and, quite frankly, the only reason why. And knowing that eternity is waiting for everyone you know should be a pretty good motivator.

Oh, and if you’re wondering about Tony, I hear he leads quite the growing Bible study these days. Smart guy.

His[story]

Okay, so we’ve reached the last chapter and while it’s taken us awhile, we’re here. (Um, so you seem to be a little too happy about that.) Since we’re at the end of our journey, I feel as if now would be the perfect time to let you in on the worst part about writing this book. Okay, so it’s the only part that was unpleasant. And that was/is reading the book for myself. You see, I am one of those people who don’t enjoy reading their own writing. One of my closest friends, Karen, who has written several bestselling novels, doesn’t spend much of her time reading through her own books, either. And while that may be the only professional comparison I can think of, it’s still nice to know that the big guns are like me in some ways. She’d much rather read something I have written, and vice versa. I don’t really know why this is the case, but I can completely see where she is coming from. Perhaps you are the same way. And reading through my book has given me the opportunity to see what could be better and what I feel it is you need to get from my ramblings. But I have most definitely saved the best for last. And to be honest, I have put off writing this chapter until the very last second. Because this chapter is about God. And how in the world do you sum Him up in five thousand words, give or take a few? I think it’s impossible, but when it came to putting this book together, how could I not devote a chapter to Him? But I want to take a different route in the next few minutes. While we’re all fully aware as believers of God’s omnipotence, omniscience, and omnipresence, I’d like to focus on His humanity in the form of Jesus Christ. And something I tend to forget at times is that He was, on earth, just as much human as He was God.

We have shared a lot of stories throughout these pages, and, while I hope most of them have touched your hearts or allowed you some sort of spiritual identification, I have saved my best story for this chapter. But it’s a difficult story to tell. I have been very fortunate thus far in my life that only a few people close to me have passed away; and the story I am about to tell deals with one of these rare times. To be perfectly honest, I don’t enjoy talking about it, but, when it comes to a chapter on the humanity of God, it’s only fitting that I would tell you about this instance. It’s a time in my life, long after the story takes place, when I have never felt closer to the person of God. Not the Creator of the world, or the Savior of mankind, but the Friend we all have in Jesus. And while we will experience extreme difficulties at times, it’s stories like these that make our relationship with Him personal. The following story takes place during a calendar week in the late winter of 2006.

Saturday, March 4

I was sitting in my parents’ kitchen when my cell phone rang. It was my friend Shaun.

“What’s up, buddy?”

“Hey, man,” he replied, “what’s going on?”

“About to eat some lunch at my folks’ place. You?”

“Chillin.’ Hey, remember a bunch of us are going over to my parents’ house to watch the UNC-Duke game tonight. You still down?” he asked.

“You know it, baby.”

As most of you already know, this rivalry is the best in all of college sports and if you lived in North Carolina, you’d be watching this game.

“Cool, see ya in a few,” he said.

I have a bad habit of being perpetually early to everything and since I’m always down for a free meal, I headed over to Shaun’s so I could stock up on the wings and get a good seat. I had a great group of friends, and watching the Carolina game with them was always fun, especially since nearly all of them were Tar Heel fans. Duke was favored to win, but we all believed our Heels could score the upset. People started filing in around game time and while I was friends with everyone in attendance, one of my good friends walked through the door just as I was going back for thirds.

“Clint, what up, playa?”

“How many wings is that for you, Will?” he joked.

“None of your biz, bro.”

I have rarely met someone who had such an easygoing presence about him. If you knew Clint, he was one person with whom you just felt right at home.

He laughed at my response.

“That tells me all I need to know,” he replied.

The game was about to start as we began to make our way into the den.

“Hey, we need to get together and write some music, man,” he said.

“Oh yeah, that’d be tight. Let’s try for sometime next week.”

We headed into the den with everyone else and watched our beloved Tar Heels dismantle Duke on their senior night. The happiness certainly seemed to mask the guilt I had from all of those wings I had eaten.

Tuesday, March 7

My cell phone buzzed as I was on my way to Outback for a little din din. Text messages can be so convenient.

“Hey man, we still on for tonight? I am housesitting for the Graveses so we’ll have to write over here. Cool? Weck.”

“Yeah man, I’m down. Just text me the address and I’ll GPS it. See you at 7.”

“Clint’s coming, too.”

“Sweet.”

Dinner was tasty, but I was looking forward to hanging out with my two friends and making music. I’m not the most talented musician in the world, and while I can carry a tune if the bucket is large enough, I simply love the expression that music affords us. The Bible does tell us to make a joyful noise to the Lord.

I arrived at the house and walked to the door just as Clint was pulling up in the driveway. I waited for him to get out of his car.

“Hey man, did you bring your guitar?”

“No, I think I’m gonna play a little keys tonight,” he replied.

“All right, but don’t go showing off.”

Jason answered the knock at the door and we headed inside. He already had his notebook out and a guitar near the piano. Let me just say, it was a privilege to simply be in the room with these two guys. I saw their talent at a young age in our church and was humbled at the opportunity to write music with them. While we didn’t necessarily run in the same circles, they were like my little brothers and both were far more talented than I’ll ever be.

The night flowed like the melodies and harmonies we were creating, and we were having a blast. Clint had told us that he was going to need to leave in a little while and I shared his thought.

“Dude, let’s write one more,” Jason said.

“Yeah, and let’s make it a hit,” Clint replied.

“So that means I’ll take the lead on this one?”

We all laughed at my obvious sarcasm.

Clint sat down at the piano (even though Jason was the better player) and, after a few minutes of tinkering while Jason and I tried to work on some lyrics, began playing a beautiful melody. Our curiosity was piqued enough that when Clint switched to something different, we immediately stopped him and asked him to play over again what we had just heard. We spent the next few minutes listening to Clint’s playing as we attempted to find the lyrics that would be fitting for such a tune. After several frustrating minutes, Jason looked up from the notebook as Clint stopped playing.

“I got nothing,” Jason sighed deeply.

“Yeah, my fingers are hurting,” Clint grinned.

“Look, we got us a good melody here and we can always get together later to work it out.”

“Agreed. I have to go, anyway,” Clint said.

“Me, too.”

“All right, we’ll figure out a time later this week to pick this back up,” Jason replied.

Clint stood from the piano and we both walked to the door. I gave Clint a hug and told him I’d see him later. We both waved to Jason as we headed to our cars.

“Where’s your bike?” Jason called out.

“Didn’t feel like riding tonight,” Clint answered. “Next time.”

With that, I watched Clint back out of the driveway and out of our earthly lives forever.

Wednesday, March 8

I had just gotten out of the shower when I noticed that I had several missed calls. This wasn’t an unusual occurrence, but they were mostly from my friend Elizabeth. This was odd, as she rarely called me. I pressed the voicemail button and listened to the message. I could not make out what she had said, other than the fact that Clint had been in a motorcycle accident and was being rushed to the hospital. I immediately dialed her back and she was in a panic.

“Hello,” she answered.

“Hey, what’s going on?”

“It’s Clint. He got hit on his motorcycle tonight on the way home from leading worship at Scotts Hill. He’s being taken to the hospital right now,” she said.

She was struggling to hold back tears.

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I’m on my way to the hospital. I’ll call you when I get there with more details. Please, please pray, Will,” she pleaded.

I hung up the phone without even saying goodbye and hurried into where my mom was and told her what was transpiring. I tried to call Clint’s brother, Will, and couldn’t get through. I then tried to call Jason and there was no answer. Just as I finished leaving a voicemail with Barry, another one of Clint’s best friends, my phone rang. It was Shaun.

“Will, did Liz call you?” he asked, in tears.

“Yeah, man, she did. What in the world happened?”

As Shaun tried to piece together exactly what he knew, I stood there, trying to keep the room from spinning. I listened to him recount the details of Clint’s accident as people were beginning to arrive at the hospital. “It wasn’t his fault, he wasn’t speeding, and it doesn’t look good” was pretty much all I could make out. I told him to call me back when he heard something and I would get ready to head down there. I sat down with my mom and we prayed as hard as we could for Clint. We finished praying and I called my buddy Adam to tell him what was going on. As I was finishing up the details, Shaun buzzed in and I told Adam I would call him back. When I clicked over, I heard Shaun sobbing on the other end.

“He’s gone, man. He, h-he didn’t make it,” he cried.

I told him I would be right there and I hung up the phone with my mouth wide open and my heart having been ripped in two. My mom asked me what was said, but I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I just sat there, silent, with tears streaming down my face. He was gone, and there was nothing I could do about it.

I never made it to the hospital that night. My phone rang and rang and I just let it go. I sat in my favorite green chair and just looked off into the distance that was my parents’ living room.

Thursday, March 9

I don’t remember much of the day after I awoke, other than talking to a few friends about what had happened and reading the tons of Facebook status updates and posts. It was early evening and the last thing I wanted was to be at home. I picked up my cell phone and called Jason.

“Hey, man, what’s up?”

“Just hanging over at the house. You?” he asked.

“Same. I was wondering if I could drop by later?”

“For sure, man. I just talked to Clint’s ex-girlfriend Abi and she is coming over later as well,” he replied.

Abi and Clint had dated for a while but were better off as good friends.

“Okay, I’ll be over around 9. Later.”

I walked up to the Weckel porch with my hands in my pockets and my heart on my sleeve. It was going to be a tough night, but it was going to be good for us. Jason answered the door and I walked in to find Abi standing by his piano in the living room. I was just in time.

I had never met Abi, so Jason introduced the two of us.

“Okay, so remember the melody Clint played over and over for us the other night? The one we really liked but couldn’t put words to?” he asked.

“For sure. Why?”

“Well, I was talking with Abi and I think we should write a song to it about Clint,” he said.

This was probably the first time Jason had smiled in a couple of days. I instantly liked the idea.

Jason sat down at the piano and I positioned myself to his left while Abi was on his right. He began to replicate (amazingly) the melody Clint had written the other night. And as it most often happens, the words began to come. We would sing a bit, write some of it down, sing some more, and then back to the notepad. I honestly can say it took us about twenty minutes to put our words about Clint to the music he had written before his death. We sang it through a few times before Jason stopped playing.

“I have a crazy idea,” Jason said as he looked up from the piano. “I am going to ask the Robertsons if we can do this song at Clint’s funeral on Saturday.”

Abi looked at me and then at Jason.

“I don’t know if I can do that. It’s going to be hard enough just to sit there, much less sing a very personal song about Clint in front of everyone,” she said.

“I think we should do it. I mean, obviously God has given us this song, so why not share it with the people closest to Clint?”

“I’m calling them now,” Jason said.

Saturday, March 11

It was the morning of Clint’s funeral and our church, Grace Baptist, was going to be packed. Jason had called me the day before and told me that the Robertsons loved the song and wanted us to perform it the next day. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t nervous. I suppose when one is truly focused on something else, it goes like that. I was in a bathroom, stocking up on tissue, when Jason walked in and asked me if I was ready. I suppose I was too focused to inquire as to how he knew I was in this particular bathroom, but it wouldn’t be the only miracle of the day. I walked out after him and headed into the sanctuary. I really don’t remember the first part of the service, as my eyes were transfixed on my friend’s coffin. There were so many people hurting here, regardless of the fact that they knew God and knew Clint was now keeping Him company.

When it was our time to sing, I walked toward the stage and past the casket as I met Abi near the podium. Jason made his way to the piano and before he began the intro, took the microphone in front of him.

“I just wanted to say that Clint helped write this song. He wrote the melody a day before he died. And while I know this has been extremely hard for all of us, having this song may help answer the questions some of us have,” he said.

With that, Jason began to play Clint’s song. Abi, who has a beautiful voice, began to sing as I joined her. Partly through, I placed my hand on her back to steady her emotions from pouring out. We somehow managed to finish the song and, as we looked down at Clint’s family seated on the front row, we saw smiles on their faces. They had already realized what we were struggling to understand: that their son, their brother, and their friend belonged with God more than with them. Clint was such an amazing young man that maybe God wanted him around a little more than we did.

A few weeks ago, I called my friend Jason to “interview” him regarding this story. And I prefaced my call with the fact that he may not enjoy talking to me that night. But he has a heart for the Lord and wanted to help in any way he could. While I certainly will never forget these events, getting the perspective of Clint’s best friend who was there by my side through it all couldn’t hurt. We talked about Clint, the song, and the healing process that began with the words we put on paper.

“So, what point are you trying to make with the story?” he asked.

“Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t really have a point.”

“That’s always good,” he joked.

“In all seriousness, I feel like this story shows the power of God, since He knew Clint would write the melody to the song about his own death. Like, how God transcends earth and Heaven, ya know?”

“Really? I guess I can see that, but to me, it’s all about His humanity and how much He cares for us when we hurt. I feel if I hadn’t have had that song to not only comfort me, but distract me as well, I don’t know what I would have done,” he replied.

“Interesting. I haven’t really thought about it like that.”

“Or think about it like this,” he said. “Many people think the story of Lazarus in the gospel of John is about Jesus’ miraculous power to raise someone from the dead. And that’s very true. But I think it’s the fact that Jesus knew He would raise him from the dead, yet still wept for His friend after He arrived at His friend’s tomb and witnessed Mary’s grief. Jesus had just lost someone He loved very much, just like we did. And while He knew He would see Lazarus brought back to life soon enough, He not only wanted to show Mary and Martha that He identified with their loss, but that He was deeply moved by their pain as well. And 2,000 years later, to show the rest of us that He knew exactly how we would feel when we lost Clint. The song He gave us was the beginning of the healing process for me.”

“And for me as well. Even if I’ve never thought of it this way.”

“Just because He’s God, doesn’t mean He wasn’t human,” he said.

I thanked him for the unique and fresh take on the story we had lived a few years before and promised him we would talk soon. I had some writing to do.

Which leads us to where we are, now. I had always thought of God in terms of this awesome and powerful Being, far above the reaches of any human thought or idea. And while He is our Father, He is also our Friend. We often forget that we are created in His image, and He’s a lot more like us than we give Him credit. He laughs, He cries, He gets jealous, He gets angry, and He forgives. He is love.

While this realization regarding Clint’s death allowed me to truly experience what God is, I’d like to express who He is as well. It's amazing what can happen when you encounter someone who believes the exact opposite from what you do. It's almost magical. I have given you a couple of examples of this earlier in the book and I’d like to end this with one more. You see, we're so used to being around and associating with people who are exactly as we are, that when we do come upon difference, it passionately affirms everything we say we believe and rarely get the chance to exhibit. This can be anything, really, from politics to faith, and even who should have been voted off the previous evening's American Idol.

There are certain divisive subjects in our society, so much so that strangers who come into close proximity with you will go out of their way to avoid encroaching upon those topics and your potential beliefs. Heaven forbid you find out your co-worker, with whom until today you have only shared a break room ham sandwich, is in fact a Democrat. Perish the thought that the woman at Williams’ dry cleaners, who has been getting those mustard and coffee stains out of your trousers for decades, seems to have hinted that she attends a Methodist church.

In college, I had the wonderful opportunity to work at a boarding school teaching physical education. My boss was a professional educator and a person I still stay in contact with and admire. I remember as the 2000 election was approaching (and my first time to vote), I casually asked him who he was voting for and he replied that it was none of my business. First, I respect his right to privacy. Secondly, I thought it to be quite ridiculous. I suppose that at the time my question was invasive and perhaps rude, but I didn't understand all the fuss. His answer, whether Bush or Gore, would not have swayed me in either direction, nor would it have elicited a negative diatribe directed at his political affiliation. I simply did not care, but was merely making conversation. My question to this day is why was it such a big secret? Why is it still? People are complex and represent thousands upon thousands of belief systems and personal philosophies. None of theirs could or would change mine. I believe in the tenets of this country: the rights and privileges held by each citizen. Of course, you aren't reading this book for me to make nice, so I'll get to it.

On a random evening a couple of years ago, one of my roommates asked me my position on a very controversial issue. Instead of saying "that is none of your business," I told him. You see, I'm not in the business of hiding behind the guise of political correctness. It is not my job. My job is truth, and people's lives are my business. Naturally, any time a moral question is posed and at a standstill, it will often lead into an even larger complexity. On this particular night, the question associated so closely with the topic we were discussing was “does life begin at conception?” That question then led into the attributes of the Almighty.

God does not require a period; He is the period, as He is the subject and predicate. Even tackling the nature of God with my finite mind is not possible. His ways and thoughts are above ours, and one cannot fathom the vastness of His character. I have reached the point where I do not need proof. Yes, He's proven Himself to me innumerable times, but it is so much more than that. The most wondrous thing in the world, perhaps, is not love, but trust. God has the ability to force us to love Him, but is that what love really is? His unending desire is that we choose to love Him. I would hope that my amazing (future) wife would not marry me one day because she has to, but because she desires to do so. When you love someone, regardless of what makes sense and what does not, it is one of the most freeing sensations we can experience. There will always be questions of logic and rationale, but trusting someone goes well beyond loving that person. I am sure of what I believe, but in the end, what I believe doesn’t matter. What matters is what is, not what is believed, as I’ve said before. And this is where trust becomes integral. It is the building block of faith. God is before all things, and by Him all things consist. I told my friend that God loves him and longs for his fellowship, but my friend does not think as I do. He believes in a “god,” but does not know if his god is the same as my God. My God is Jehovah, the God of the Holy Bible. I do not yell this, and I do not hide it under a bushel. I speak it as He has spoken it to me.

I have often said that if you can be talked into something, you can be talked out of it. That's not what this encounter was about. I cannot and will not force my faith on anyone, because that is not my mission. My mission is to love God and love people. My friend and I spoke for three hours and he admitted to a better understanding of “this God I always talk about.” That seems to be enough for me this night. Our discussion was theologically elementary and we merely scratched the surface of this vast and expansive topic. Of course, there are hundreds of elements of our conversation that will not make it to this page, but the point is that we left the kitchen table with a better understanding of each other and what we both hold dear. Part of me felt a twinge of guilt at not being better prepared, but that was quickly squashed by the part of me that felt affirmed and alive. I quickly realized that it is not my task to convert him, but to live a converted life in front of him and speak the truth in love when I am given the chance. I challenged him to take God at His Word, literally. If you dismiss Him, fine, but at least do so after getting to know Him. As he rose from his chair, my friend gave me a fist bump and apologized for not yet believing in God.

"Don't apologize."

I knowingly smiled at him.

"Just know that He believes in you."

Unfortunately, I have not had nearly the dramatic or compelling conversations like these throughout the course of my life that I suppose should fill my days. Oh well, all I can do is inhale deeply, and slowly let this heavy breath out as I count this fact as one more reason why I do not deserve His love. None of us do, which, while depressing, is the purest form of hope known to man. That He would love the world so much, with all its depravity and filth, and still send His only Son to become our holy substitute for an eternity of hopelessness and hellfire. Only God could do that. And it’s why He’s God in the first place. History tells us that much; because, as you know, it’s His story.

Outro

That was fun, wasn’t it? Well, I had fun. I trust those of you (Mom) that have actually finished this book will have found something, anything, that you can take with you on this crazy journey we call life. Remember, for us believers, this is only temporary. Despite that fact, what we do on earth will have an immediate and profound impact on the next life. While our eternal life will last forever, what we say and do here in our temporary life on earth with the time God has given us is vitally important. This is why I have written The Polar Bear. It is absolutely imperative that we become such a defined image of Christ in the blurred reality that is our world. With that said, I feel the need to apologize to each one of you. Paul said that he would do the things he did not want to do, and not do the things he wished to. This, I believe, is something we all struggle with more often than not. I have always said that inconsistency was my worst enemy, and unfortunately, I’ll have to deal with that as long as God fills my lungs with air. My desire is to live for the Lord and to live the words I have written in these pages. However, that doesn’t always happen, nor has it always happened in the past. And for that, I am deeply sorry. I hope you can forgive this sinner, just as Jesus did and continues to do. But I am doing my best. And I’m glad you are, too. As long as we realize this, we’ll be okay. He doesn’t expect complete success, just total effort.

But I believe in His decision to save every one of us. And I believe that He has left us here to do something amazing with the life and time He has given us. Whether you have days, weeks, or years left on this earth, it is never too late to turn around and walk straight down the road you were destined to travel. I can share all of these powerful and resounding things, but none of it matters until you believe it, too. Here’s hoping you do.

A friend of mine was in Nashville recently for a visit and we were discussing the town I had lived in prior to my recent move and the impact that I had made while there. He remarked that I had “owned that town” and he was awed by the fact that I could have made such a “big dent” so soon upon arrival. But (and there’s always a but) not everyone there was a huge fan of Will Montgomery. We laughed at this together and began to name several people we both knew that would be on this list. The more names that rang out, the more the smile on my face faded. Slowly, I realized that there were few people left that had a positive view of who I was as a man and, more importantly, a believer. And that hurt. As this sobering thought continued to take shape, my mind raced through all of the other cities, communities, and churches I had been a part of throughout my personal history. How many other people could be included on the list we had formed? Too many, I thought. And I’m sorry. I see now that most (I said most) of the problems I caused in the past were because of the sin in my life. And I want you to know He has changed me. I hope that you find it in your heart to forgive me, and one day if our paths cross again, I promise it’ll be as if you’re meeting me for the first time. Pinky swear.

But until then, allow this book to be a reminder to you that no matter what you’ve done, where you’ve been, or who you were/are, He’s smiling at you with arms wide open. And He makes all things new. So if you don’t get anything from this feeble attempt at a book, please get that. Oh, and if you could get the door too. I’m pretty sure that’s Him knocking.

Again, I hope you enjoyed the book and I appreciate your time. To contact me directly, please visit my website, www.WriterWill.com, or follow me on twitter @Will_Monty. May God smile upon you always, as I know He will.

P.S. A lot of you probably want to know the lyrics to Clint’s song, but I’d prefer you hear them from him one day…when you meet him in Heaven.

About the Author

Will Montgomery is a Christian non-fiction writer who was born and raised in North Carolina and now lives in Nashville. He enjoys blogging, jogging, and anything else that ends in "ogging." If you'd love to meet him and hear him talk for a bit, he likes to do that, too. The Polar Bear is his first book, so cut him some slack. He'll do better next time.

Table of Contents

The POLAR BEAR

Copyright

Acknowledgments

Dedication

Intro

Cooler than the Other Side of the Pillow

You Owe the Cuss Jar a Nickel

All the World’s a Stage

Every Plane Has a Pilate

Yes, This Seat is Saved

The Septic Tank of Love

How Ya Like Them Apples?

Salvation Army Reserve

I’ll Have Jesus on the Side, Please

Lord, Bless Us, Lord

Always & Forever

His[story]

Outro

About the Author