What Ariat Accidentally Preached

I’m watching an NFL game—Rams versus 49ers—and I find myself rooting hard for San Francisco. I need them to win. They don’t.

As the fourth quarter unfolds and the tension builds, a commercial comes on that nearly knocks me off my seat. The 49ers quarterback is shown walking up a hill, and then these words are heard: Don’t let the world tell you who you are.

It turns out to be an ad for Ariat boots and clothing. I wear Ariat boots. I’m not a cowboy, but I do know great quality when I try it on. And yes—you’re 100% correct—I look good in those boots.

Little did I expect to hear a national company sound like the Apostle Paul in an ad for western wear, but there it was:

Don’t let the world tell you who you are.

Yet Christianity has always offered something more complicated than rugged individualism. Scripture does not deny individuality, but it refuses to make the self the center of identity. Read More

Where are you?

They heard the sound of the Lord God walking in the garden at the time of the evening breeze, and the man and his wife hid themselves from the presence of the Lord God among the trees of the garden. But the Lord God called to the man, and said to him, “Where are you?”

Genesis 3:8–9

 

Adam and Eve have just eaten of the tree that God has commanded them not to eat of—perhaps the most disruptive moment in the history of humankind. The story goes on to say that their “eyes were opened” and they became “ashamed of their nakedness.” Then Adam and Eve hear God enter the Garden and immediately they hide in the trees. God calls out to Adam, “Where are you?”

Now what is God asking? Has God lost track of Eve and Adam? Read More

The Jesus Prayer: A Sacred Script for Everyday Souls

In a culture shaped by ritual and repetition, Jesus offered something radical and surprisingly intimate. In Jesus’ day, rabbis taught their students (disciples) a signature prayer that summarized their theology in liturgical form. 

 

When Jesus’ students asked for his prayer, he gave them something unexpected, a bold alternative to the structured liturgies of first-century Jewish life.  It was not simply a continuation of the religious status quo but a sacred disruption of their familiar, repeated prayers. In so doing, he reframed the spiritual imagination of all who would learn his prayer: the Jesus Prayer—a prayer not of performance, but of presence, a quiet cadence of intimacy. He taught his followers how to pray as other rabbis did, but more importantly, what it means to be heard by God.  It was a prayer not only for learned, professional religious folks but for all who want to grow in intimacy with Abba. 

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In the Presence of Pray-ers

What do you pray in your own “private prayer”? After World War II, John Baillie, a Scottish pastor, published A Diary of Private Prayer, a month of his morning and evening prayers. Private, yes—but not isolated from his world, the public square, or the needs of “the other.” His prayers called him to love others, often expressed through compassion for the suffering and just, generous practices toward the sick, blind, and prisoners—including those oppressed by injustice.

We learn to pray best when we are in the presence of pray-ers and prayers. Baillie’s diary becomes a classroom of instruction on prayer. Listen first to his posture before God—and then to his four petitions.

“Oh, divine love who dost everlastingly stand outside the closed doors of the souls of humankind, knocking ever and again, wilt thou give me grace to throw open all my soul’s doors?”1

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“Understanding comes with use.”

“We don’t have to understand a crowbar before we put it to use.
Understanding comes with use.”1

—Eugene Peterson

 

The sentence made me laugh.  At no time in my life—as a seminary student, pastor, or professor—did I ever think about a crowbar as a metaphor for any part of the spiritual life.  A crowbar, as I used it, was for the only construction skill I possess: demolition. I am not a builder, but I can take things apart. My college roommate and I once worked for ManPower on a Saturday morning, disassembling a bakery oven in a local grocery store. We became covered in flour and crumbs from its years of use.  It took us almost all day, but we didn’t use a crowbar.

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Breakfast on the Beach

Living the Resurrection

Resurrection did not begin with a sermon. After the shock of the empty tomb, after fear and disbelief, after locked doors and unfinished conversations, Jesus Christ does something so ordinary it is almost anticlimactic.

He makes breakfast.

Bread.
Fish.
A charcoal fire.
Morning light.
Tired bodies.
Hungry souls.

This is how resurrection announces itself—not as spectacle, but as presence.

“The surprising thing about biblical spirituality is that God is present in the ordinary, daily, common, and concrete realities of life.”1

“God is forming us into a new people. And the place of that formation is in the small moments of today.”2

Resurrection doesn’t pull us out of the world; it restores us to it. And here, on the beach, resurrection smells like smoke and fish and fishing nets. What we are invited into, as were these disciples, is resurrection breakfast—the most dramatic event in human history captured in quiet, small, and ordinary things. Read More

They Stayed

On Good Friday, the gospels ask us to notice who remained. Not the crowds who shouted. Not the disciples who promised loyalty and then scattered into the shadows. The ones who stayed were the women—standing at a distance, close enough to see, close enough to grieve, close enough to be marked forever by what they witnessed.

John’s gospel writes with almost startling simplicity: “Standing near the cross of Jesus were his mother… and Mary Magdalene.” 1 Matthew and Mark quietly confirm it: when the others scattered, these women stayed.2 Good Friday is not only about Jesus’ suffering, but it is also about the courage of presence. It is also about the courage of those who refused to look away.

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The Legend of Judas

I’ve never met someone named Judas. John, Peter, Matthew, Thomas, Levi—these are people whom I know. But never Judas. His story is an enigma, an outright confusing puzzle, not because of what he did, but because Jesus chose to invite him to follow. In Luke’s list of disciples, he names him “Judas Iscariot, who became a traitor” (Luke 6:16).  Not who was a traitor—but who became one. Jesus chose him before the ending was known, before betrayal hardened into history.

 

Jesus didn’t gather admirers or spectators. He called followers: people who would walk with him, walk alongside him, and walk forward into the mission of God. Which raises a troubling question: Why then would Jesus choose one who would “become a traitor?” Perhaps this is the wrong question because we could say of Thomas: “Why would Jesus choose one who would become a doubter?”  Of Peter: Why would Jesus choose one who would become a denier?”  Lent presses us to notice not only those who fail—in truth, almost all the gospel stories show us that all the disciples failed, misunderstood, or fell short one way or another. Read More