PB& no-J

In my youth, I romanticized the woes of adulthood, imagining that the world would treat you like a gentleman, politely challenging you to a duel, allowing you to air grievances and still maintain your dignity. In reality, the world punches you in the stomach, takes your wallet and instead of walking away while you cough up your lungs, it kicks you in the face.

Laying in a heap on the sidewalk trying to trace back the decisions that got me here, I once again am reminded that our world is inherently broken. Luckily, I serve a God that heals the broken, loves the unlovable and never backs down even when I lose sight of His mercy.

I wish I could say that I never lose sight, that my faith is grounded and unshakeable, but in reality it is fickle and fleeting. Last night, I got a call from my mom. Anytime I hear from that lady after 11pm, I dread the news on the other end. As expected, she was calling me to be a prayer warrior for a friend who badly needed it. Instead of getting on my knees to be the intercessor to a God who can create the entire universe, architect atoms and galaxies, and raise the dead, I just sat there thinking how passive prayer was. He isn’t listening to me, He is going to do whatever He wants regardless of my cries.

I stopped believing in the power of prayer. The inadequacies of my own prayer life slowly seeped into my heart, convincing me that God doesn’t answer prayers, when in reality, I haven’t asked for anything in earnest for quite some time. Sure, I “pray” nightly. It looks something like this:

Oh hey, God. How’s life? Yeah, today was pretty solid. Thanks for my super sweet job. Keep my fam safe down there, I think they’re pretty neat. Can you give me some stuff I want like a flatter stomach and a tight boyfriend that likes to jump off stuff and eat foie gras and wears flannel with some sort of facial hair? Yeah-that guy. And can you do some wicked cool stuff in his life right now so he’s all geared up when we meet? Oh yeah, so-and-so asked for some prayer. Can you take care of that trash? Cool. I’m sleepy. Peace out, bro.

Most recently, it feels like I simply yell at God. Yell about the injustice, the pain, the suffering and the sheer magnitude of the brokenness around me. I told him that I don’t even know if I believe if there is anything behind my words or if they only come crashing back from the ceiling and I thrust the skyward.

I was so wrong.

Laden with shopping bags full of treats and groceries, several of us posted up in a park downtown to hang out with what I like to call the ‘locals’, more commonly known as the homeless. As first timers, we had no idea what to expect. Would we have enough? Would people want to talk to us? Were we in danger?

I was naive to think that we would be able to bless those we encountered, showing them the love of Christ just because I took 2 seconds to ask them their name, instead, we came face-to-face with God. The encounter left me reeling, crying and on my face at the throne of a God who hears every cry of my heart, both angry and grateful.

George* approached us to see what was going on, but his joy hit us in the face from 15 feet away. George hasn’t had an easy life, shunned by society for a choice that was not his, he has more reason than me to complain, yet all he did was praise. He showed us the ropes, patiently answering the childish questions I put forth. Apparently, the homeless do not care about having grape jelly with the PB&J’s…the PB will suffice, he told me with a laugh, adding that if they had a lady friend with them, they would be mighty thankful for that jelly to make the meal a treat rather than just substance.

We asked George about his ministry and he told us of all of the things God is doing in his life, then I prayed for him, going through the motions that I was taught so long ago, wondering if maybe this time God would actually hear…being outside and all…that’s got to make it a bit easier.

Then, George prayed for us.

I have never, in my life, tangibly felt the power of a prayer like I did today. George was communing with God and we were lucky enough to witness it. The Holy Spirit left my arm hairs on end, out of breath and in awe of God.

The love of God is so much stronger than I ever manage to give it credit for. I constantly limit his scope, pigeonholing him into the smallest corners of my life because I have the rest ‘under control’. Even in my angry rants, God hears me and answers me, even if it requires a homeless man to do so.

Biggest Loser: Jesus Edition

I think someone literally poured a vat of molten lava over San Antonio. I cut my jog short today due to a slight case of dehydration. Symptoms as follows: salty face, red skin, light-headedness and then the dreaded chill bumps...and dry heaving into the bushes whilst tourist stopped and gawked. No, sweet family of four enjoying the Riverwalk, this is not a product of my Friday night antics, which consisted of my couch and a pint (or two) of ice cream.  I was simply not ready for the heat. 

Spring time had me fooled. I thought I was hott stuff, choosing mile number 6 simply because the day was unfolding into a beautiful evening and I wasn’t ready to turn back and let the day go. Spending an hour on the treadmill, jamming to some tunes in the cool serenity of my gym, lulled me into a false sense of fitness. Now, after gagging several times in public, reality has punched me in the face. I haven’t been training in the heat.  

It’s easy for me to think that my endurance in the temperate 73 degree evenings translates into the same mileage when it’s a meager 101 blazing degrees outside. Maybe I’ve gotten too comfortable in my climate-controlled life, forgetting what it’s like to push until you puke, to run past your comfort zone and then a little bit further. Maybe the consistency of the treadmill beneath my feet, never taking me anywhere, but pushing me just hard enough to maintain my outward appearance, has deadened my soul’s need to turn a unknown corner to search of something more.

The Gospel is wrecking my life right now. 

It tells us to be ready to give an answer to our faith ‘in season and out’, but until I found myself on my knees in public, heaving out bile because my workout got too big for my color coordinated britches, I had no idea what that phrase meant. (not to say that I do now..but I guess I'm closer...kinda)

It’s incredible how much time I spend working out to tone, strengthen and gain endurance. Spiritually though, I’m overweight and sedentary. Eating meal after meal, I expended nothing. I sat on it, growing only cellulite and my spiritual pant size. Yikes. I’ve got some exercise to do. I’m talking straight Biggest Loser: Jesus Edition.

I’ve got to stop simply ‘saying’ the gospel, and ‘be’ the gospel instead. The Creator of the Universe has imparted His spirit on me and yet no one can tell a difference. Am I truly reading the Word if it doesn’t break my heart and turn my world on its head? 

Love is a tangible action of selfless origin. 

So, I’m going to run. I’m going to run with reckless abandon toward the One who gave His life. I’m going to strap on my shoes, tighten up those laces and hit the trail to see what He has in store for me. There will inevitably be times when I get lost, and fear creeps in causing my stomach to sink into my knees. There will be times when I happen across a meadow and drink in the sunshine. I will scrape my knees, roll my ankle and probably puke a few more times as I regurgitate everything I know and transform the fat into muscle. I will cross streets, climb mountains, jump potholes (or more likely, fall into them), but I will continue. 

It's not like I'm doing this alone. Starting with Christ, our little running club will grow. Inviting others into this open-armed gang, we will run. We will cross streets, climb mountains, fall into potholes and help dig each other out. We will bandage blisters, tape ankles, and offer whatever unwounded limbs we have when our comrades fall off the curb. 

What does it mean to be ready in season and out? I don’t have all of the answers, but what I do know is that I am going to try to be the church I want to see, and allow Christ to love through me, in spite of me, and to me. 

Jesus loved with an incomprehensible depth. It was constant, sound and pure. My love is volatile, selfish and about as reliable as the 1996 Mazda I drove when I turned 16. But with the love of Christ residing in my soul, I should be able to love with a magnitude uncommon in our world. Should, being the keyword. 

It’s easy to get caught in the guise of saying that Jesus was just speaking in extremes, ‘go sell everything’ ‘feed the hungry’ ‘carry your cross’ because to read the Gospel, to truly digest what Jesus is saying, is the most terrifying thing I have ever done. 

The Gospel is wrecking my life, what’s it doing to yours?