When autocorrect got theology right

The calls started coming about a month ago. “Jerry is having trouble breathing; they’ve taken him to the hospital for oxygen.”  Jerry is my older brother. During the late stages of pregnancy, my mother experienced complications that caused the loss of oxygen flow to his brain, resulting in life-altering mental capacities for him. He was what we might call today “mentally challenged,” what people cruelly called then “retarded.” He was, in other words, a survivor of a birth-related brain injury.

In truth, his abilities were challenged, causing him to be placed in the “special” class and mainstreamed in public education in suburban Chicago. It was a class comprised of many people with various forms of disability, only to be ridiculed because they might not be articulate in speech, might laugh at the wrong time, be unable to complete sentences, drool, or have bodies with spastic motions at unexpected moments. Because they were “special,” they were often treated badly on the playground, in the hallways, or just walking with us through town; mothers even “protected” their own children when they saw Jerry and me walking the sidewalks. More than once I even told mothers to “shut up,” as they called him “retard.” “Shut up” was a phrase not allowed in our family home.

Jerry was a special needs child. His life changed within only a few months of what appeared to be an otherwise normal pregnancy. Until age 16, he was in the public school system, but nothing was offered beyond that age. Eventually, he moved to a group facility in southern Illinois where he lived just short of 50 years. Read More

Little Walker’s trip to the boardwalk

A story

Little Walker’s favorite place in the world is the boardwalk in Ocean City, New Jersey. If you have ever been to this boardwalk in the summer, you know the extent of the crowds of people – it is exhilarating. For five-year-old Little Walker, with amusement rides and snacks and so many people, a night spent on the boardwalk was his most favorite thing to do. All day long, he told everyone he encountered, “I am going to the boardwalk tonight!” So when dinner was done, and the dishes were all washed and dried, he headed up to “the boards” with his parents and little sister, his aunt and uncle. Little Walker could barely contain himself as he entered the scene: Ferris wheels and boogie boards and flashing billboards, skateboards and strollers, Steel’s fudge and Mack & Manco’s pizza and Shriver’s saltwater taffy, the sounds of the Atlantic Ocean in the background, and wave upon wave upon wave of people. Absolutely wonderful!

But when he smelled that smell–hot caramel popcorn!–and spotted the Johnson Caramel Popcorn shop (his dad’s favorite place on the boardwalk), and excitedly looked back for his dad, but could not find him or anyone else in his family, the whole scene turned on Little Walker. The lights, the noises, the smells, and the faces all began to press in upon him and terrify him. The excitement was gone. Little Walker was lost.  Read More

Peace Like a River

Wendy and I found ourselves in a VRBO on Penn Cove in the middle of Whidbey Island. We were wrestling with our future: Where shall we go? Should we make a move back to Washington State? There was uncertainty, sprinkled with more than a little anxiety. 

One evening, as we listened to music, a sea otter showed off its athletic prowess just north of our deck. A song began to play: “It Is Well,” sung by Kristene DiMarco. A version based on a hymn written in 1873. 

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A Pool of Tears

Since COVID, we have known heartbreak, loss, and grief.

We lost our niece Katie to fentanyl. We placed my older brother in hospice care. We sat with friends considering divorce. We grieved alongside others through painful losses of family members and dear friends. We have walked in the darkness.

St. John of the Cross gave us the often-quoted phrase “the dark night of the soul.” His message was clear: we often encounter God in the shadows—in seasons of heartache and heartbreak.

For mentors and mentees alike, that may come as a surprise.

The work of spiritual mentoring embraces our whole story, not just the beautiful sunrise and sunset moments. God meets us in places of sorrow: in Mary Magdalene’s tears beside Jesus’ tomb, in the “valley of the shadow of death” of Psalm 23, and in our groaning as we await redemption (Romans 8). Read More

Growing into my questions…

“Tell me your story”

I recall sharing my life story with a very wise man one afternoon in my mid-twenties. After I rambled for 20 minutes or so, trying to capture the sense and thrust of my unique story,  he responded.  A few affirmations, observations, and even a challenge or two. His first noticing still lingers with me today.

“Rob, it seems like growing up you knew all ‘the answers’ before you knew what ‘your questions’ were. I bet that is very confusing for you.”

I had never thought about it quite that way before, but his words deeply resonated with me.

He paused for a moment and then continued, “I suspect your growing up into Christ is going to look a lot like growing into your questions… and then bumping into the Spirit and his kindness already there ahead of you, amidst the questions of your life.”

30 years later, this framework has yet to disappoint as a way to see God’s formation in my life. This “growing into my questions” has often been the way the Spirit has graciously met me along the way. Read More

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

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