He was a perennial youth, always seeking adventure and wonder. He loved flying ultralight airplanes, and he regularly competed in indoor rowing competitions, setting national records for several different age bracket decades–and this past year was no different.

He absolutely LOVED the young people, too, particularly when they led worship services. He contributed weekly to a designated youth fund (the kind that doesn’t zero out at the end of the budget cycle), and he had a wonderfully mischievous distrust of the Church Council. He would regularly stop my wife or me in the narthex just to make sure “they weren’t trying to tell us how to spend that money.”

When asked the typical Southern, “How are ya’?” he’d respond every time with his trademarked, “Couldn’t hardly be no better.”

Here’s the coolest thing, though: He self-published a book this past year chronicling a number of terrific stories in his life, and one of the things he did was offer some words to his family and friends to read after his death. He told us not to mourn but to celebrate, that he had lived a full life,  that he had much to be grateful for, and that he was headed into the greatest adventure of all.

So, Joe, I do mourn your death. But more than anything else, I celebrate your life. And I am so honored to have known you. You are the guy I want to be when I grow up. Thanks for the example you set.

We based our work around one of my favorite scriptural passages found in Matthew 25:31-46. Jesus is talking about how he’ll separate people as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. The message is clear: We are to pay attention to the needs of others—ALL others. Not just those in our socioeconomic status, not just those of a certain skin color or nationality, not just those who speak the same language or attend the same church.

Jesus paints a pretty gloomy picture for those who don’t care for those around them—and he drives home the point, saying that it’s about caring for “the least of these”…people whom others have cast away: The oppressed, abused, neglected, abandoned, elderly, widowed, orphaned, unemployed, homeless, depressed, downtrodden, and poor. But not only them. We also are called to care for the drunkards, prostitutes, and child abusers; the dropouts, junkies, and gang bangers; the greedy, corrupt, and abusers of power.

This is the heart of the gospel. It really is.

Many of us like to believe that the heart of the gospel has to do with our own salvation, but I believe that’s a selfish perspective. I believe the heart of the gospel has to do with salvation for ALL, which means we have a responsibility that goes way beyond our own professions of faith.

I’m not advocating “works righteousness” or “salvation through works.” Nothing we do will ever be good enough.

Fortunately, Jesus took care of that a couple thousand years ago. The question is, then, How do we respond to that kind of amazing love? The answer lies in this passage from Matthew. If we really get it—that God loves us enough to die for us—then we will want to do the kinds of things advocated in this passage.

As youth ministers, we need to be aware that it’s not just about us serving students, though. Our role is to help them become aware of the needs out there that they can attend to right now—not one day down the road when they’re older. We want to encourage lifestyles of sacrificial service that will make following the Matthew 25 example a “no duh.”

On one of those trips my mom and I led to Jamaica, we visited St. Monica’s Home for the Abandoned Elderly. How’s that for a name just brimming with positivity and hope? There, we met Sam—a blind man with nubs where his fingers used to be and only a couple of holes in his head where his nose used to be. Sam was one of the last surviving members of an old leper colony; leprosy had eaten away many of his extremities before antibiotics stopped the progression. Sam is the most poignant physical representation of “the least of these” I’ve ever met.

Yet when we visited him, his countenance was bright as he praised God for bringing him visitors from overseas. He began reciting Scripture verses and poetry, singing songs and inviting us to sing along. Not a one among us could watch this man without weeping—out of wonder at his faith, out of sadness for his plight, and out of guilt over how much we take for granted.

We went hoping to experience what it would be like to serve the least of these, and we found ourselves being ministered to in ways beyond our wildest dreams. May God bless you as you—and your students—serve the least of these in Jesus’ name.

Perhaps serendipitously, I spoke this weekend at NaCoMe Winter Retreat, and one of my sessions dealt with our stewardship of our bodies, another with money, and another with time. I spoke more boldly than I’ve spoken to a group of students in a long time…maybe ever. I tend to shy away from the “typical” youth minister topics like sex, drugs, alcohol, etc. (which was part of my “body” talk this time); and I focus more on concepts like learning to love others unconditionally, trying to reflect Christ’s compassion, etc.

But they asked me to talk on the theme: I Dare You! Beyond that, they were kinda open, but they wanted me to really issue some challenges to kids to go deeper in their discipleship by making some tough choices. So I chose to weave everything around a passage I’d never taught on: 2 Thessalonians 2:13b-17 (using The Message transliteration)

God picked you out as his from the very start. Think of it: included in God’s original plan of salvation by the bond of faith in the living truth. This is the life of the Spirit he invited you to through the Message we delivered, in which you get in on the glory of our Master, Jesus Christ. So, friends, take a firm stand, feet on the ground and head high. Keep a tight grip on what you were taught, whether in personal conversation or by our letter. May Jesus himself and God our Father, who reached out in love and surprised you with gifts of unending help and confidence, put a fresh heart in you, invigorate your work, enliven your speech.

The first part of the passage undergirds everything—God loves us no matter what, and God has always done so, even before we could ever make a choice to respond or not. The second part is the call to action, the “therefore” that I unpacked in three distinct sessions on body, money, and time—given that God loves us so much, we can learn how to better utilize our bodies, our monetary resources, and our most precious commodity, time, in ways that are helpful to others and glorifying to God…or in ways that are displeasing to God and destructive to others (and ultimately, ourselves, as well). The third part is the promise that follows when we keep a grip on what we’re taught—that we’ll be blessed, perhaps not in ways we might think, but in “abundant life” nonetheless.

This was the overall theme, but I poured in all sorts of Scripture references related to each of three sub-topics of body, money, and time—all centered around the notion that we can take firm stands regardless of how the rest of the culture deals with these topics, our feet on the ground rather than our heads in the clouds (yet our heads high instead of being manipulated into feelings of inadequacy so we’ll make destructive choices or consume products and services to make ourselves feel better), and keep a tight grip on what we’re taught rather than being blown about like a reed in the wind of a culture that DOES NOT truly have our best interests at heart.

Often when I preach, I find that I’m talking as much to myself as I am to others, and this weekend was no different. I am fully aware that God is working on my heart in all three of these areas, which is why I chose to pray about, study, and prepare lessons on these topics.

I’m not quite sure where it’ll all end up yet, but I’m pretty sure God is working pretty dilligently within me right now.

He mentioned that leaders in the American church sometimes wear their busyness as a badge of honor, when it’s really no cause to celebrate. My friend Mike Yaconelli used to talk about this all of the time, too, and I know this to be true intellectually—it just hasn’t yet made it into my behavior patterns enough. Mark went on to say that it’s the most oft-ignored commandment out of the “Big Ten,” and it’s only two removed from murder.

The reason it haunts me is because I’m having a horrible time trying to balance my work lives and my personal life. I’m spending very little time in true rest, even less in active reflection over my life, choices, faith, calling, etc. This is not something I’m proud of, either; it’s something I mourn.

But I’m also not quite sure yet how to get out of it. God has been blessing my family is some truly incredible ways, and I am blessed to see fruit of my labor. But I’m weary, too. Weary of destructive choices like bad eating habits and lack of exercise. Weary of trying to work one full-time and three part-time jobs. Weary of trying to balance work and family. Weary of feeling guilty if I take two hours off to hold my little boy while I watch a movie. Weary of feeling guilty for taking 20 minutes to write a blog post (which I’ve done precious little of in the past couple of months) instead of keeping my nose to the massive to-do list grindstone. And weary of my mechanical prayer life.

I have faith that God is going to help pull me out of this frantic lifestyle, but I’d sure rather it be sooner than later.

I love those incredible emotional highs when a really great speaker moves me to want to recommit my life to Christ. I get stoked when a song moves me in ways I can’t begin to describe. I love to take kids on mission trips or retreats and see their lives get turned upside-down for the better. I crave those mountaintop moments when I can truly feel the nearness of my Creator.

But in my experience, most of the Christian live is about trudging along the road regardless of the emotional highs and lows. It’s about being faithful to our decisions in spite of how we feel. For the disciples and other early Christians, this wasn’t about adherence to a doctrine; it wasn’t about “believing the right things.” It wasn’t a religion. It was a movement. They called themselves “The Way.”

It wasn’t about saying or believing the right things. It was about being in community with one another. Doing life together. Walking along in the Way of Christ.

People who’ve been married a long time know this. They don’t stay together because it’s a 50-year-long honeymoon and everything’s always sweet and wonderful. They stay together not because of the depth of their convictions on the day they said their “I do’s,” but because of the little, daily choices they make to continue to say, “I do.” They stay together because on those days when they don’t feel much affection for their spouses, they choose to love them anyway.

You don’t “fall” in love. You grow in love. You don’t fall out of love, either. You grow out of it. Contrary to what the love songs say or the movies portray, loving others isn’t just about emotion; it’s also about choice.

Similarly, living by faith isn’t an emotion; it’s a choice. No matter what life throws our way, we can choose to believe that the God we serve holds us closely and has our best interests at heart.

Sometimes my children don’t have much faith in Christine’s and my choices. They resent it when we correct their behavior, tell them “no” when they really want to do something, or take away a privilege so they’ll learn what we consider to be an important life lesson. When that happens, their experience of life is pretty negative for a time.

At other times, even when they don’t like it, even when they don’t understand it, they trust that we love them and want the best for them, and that our rules, corrections, and discipline isn’t haphazard—that it’s born out of love for them. When that happens, their experience of life is quite a bit better.

But how they choose to experience our love doesn’t change the love itself. We still love them, whether they recognize it or not.

And I know that kind of love doesn’t emanate from me. It emanates from God, and I’m just the conduit for that love. And that enhances my own faith in the unalterable, limitless, grace-filled love of God.

Christianity isn’t an “I’ll believe it when I see it” kind of faith; it’s an “I’ll see it when I believe it” one.

As long as our faith is in the right thing—in Christ—our foundation is solid. Our faith doesn’t have to be perfect, because God meets us even in our doubt. Our faith colors how we experience life, and when our faith is strong, our lives can be lived more abundantly—which is part of the promise of the Christian faith. But when we don’t “feel” like we have faith, we can still choose to live faith-full lives. And that is the kind of faith that bears fruit—in our lives and the lives of those around us.

Whether or not I choose to believe in God has absolutely nothing to do with God’s existence. However, my level of faith does impact my ability to notice God.

You and I can share exactly the same events yet have an entirely different experience. The way I perceive reality is shaped by the attitude I bring to the situation.

It’s sort of like the optimist/pessimist glass test. The optimist looks at the glass as half full while the pessimist sees the same glass as half empty. They’re both right, but their predispositions color the way they see the glass.

I think this is even better illustrated by the story of the orphan whose overly optimistic attitude was so annoying to the mean old lady running the place that she decides to break his spirit once and for all. On his birthday, she tells him that he can find his present out in the barn. When he gets out there, she locks him inside where there is nothing but a shovel and a pile of manure taller than the child.

The lady snickers while waiting to hear the child break down into tears, but she becomes perplexed when she hears giggling from inside. She opens the barn door to find him gleefully shoveling the manure from one pile to another. When she asks him what he could possibly be so happy about, he replies, “With this much manure, there’s bound to be a pony in here someplace!”

Self-help author Wayne Dyer talks a lot about the fallacy of the old folk adage, “I’ll believe it when I see it.” He points out how limiting this way of thinking really is by noting how much of life really is just a matter of mindset. He cites case after case of people who believed in realities they couldn’t yet see, and he shows that over time, many of those realities actually came to fruition. So one of his many mantras is, “You’ll begin to see it when you first believe it.”

Let me mediate this just a bit by saying that it’s not that me sitting around “wishing upon a star” makes something a reality. I can’t just believe that Stop & Save is going to have gas in the pump when I drive up and cause it to actually happen any more than believing with every fiber of my being that I’m buying the winning Lottery ticket will make me a millionaire.

But my beliefs do affect the choices I make. And those choices tend to produce outcomes that are consistent with those beliefs.

17 years ago, I had a pretty bad drinking problem. Alcohol abuse had alienated me from my family and friends. My choices got me into academic trouble, which resulted in my dismissal from college, and there were a few law enforcement officers who didn’t take kindly to some of my choices, either.

There was only one little goody-goody guy who wanted anything to do with me by then, and I’d kind of stayed away from him up to that point because…well, he was not only a teetotaler, but he was just too darn nerdy for me.

But when no one else was left and my parents had already said, “When you go to jail, don’t waste your one phone call calling us; call someone who will be willing to help you,” this was the guy I called.

And he responded with a grace that I’ll never forget. He told me he’d be honored to be my friend and mentor, and that he could help me break out of this stranglehold alcohol and drugs had on my life.

He gave me a series of steps to do each day, most of which seemed to make sense, and I was willing to do them. Well, all but one. He told me I was to start my day off on my knees every morning, and I was to ask God to keep me sober for that day.

By this time, I had lost all of my faith. In high school, I had been active in the youth group, I had even preached a few times at the youth-led worship services, and—surprise, surprise—I was the choir director at our little United Methodist church. A few years later, my choices had overtaken my faith in a loving, gracious God. And even if there was a God like that, I certainly didn’t believe I was worthy to receive any kind of love. I didn’t believe there was a God who had any interest in me.

My friend told me something then that was life changing for me. He said that what I believed didn’t have anything to do with it. He just told me to do it, and it would work. So I did. The crazy thing is that after about a month of that discipline, I realized one day that I had gone a month without taking a drink. Not only that, but I didn’t even want a drink. It was the beginning of my return to faith.

This is part 2 of my sermon on Exodus 16:2-15 from Sunday. Part 1 of 4 is here.

The first thing to keep in mind about faith is to make sure we’re putting that faith in the right thing or person.

After Jesus’ death, the disciple Thomas is pretty sure he had been putting his faith in the wrong guy. The other disciples are telling Thomas that Jesus had risen from the dead, but he just can’t believe it. After all, he has no frame of reference for that. To the best of his knowledge, only one person had ever been raised from the dead—Lazarus—and Jesus had done that. But if Jesus had possessed the power to save himself, surely he would have done that during that whole crucifixion ordeal.

On that first Easter morning, Peter and John see the empty tomb and return home. Mary Magdalene stays at the tomb weeping, and Jesus appears to her. She gets excited, so she runs back and tells the disciples she has seen the Lord.

The Gospel of John doesn’t record whether or not the guys believe her, but my sense is that they probably don’t. Not, that is, until Jesus appears among them inside their locked house saying, “Peace be with you.”

As an aside, I love that Jesus’ first words to the disciples in his risen state is, “Peace be with you.” It’s a bit like how every time angels show up in the Bible it seems they begin by saying, “Don’t be afraid.” Probably because it is just a bit freaky to be visited by angels…and it is downright creepy to be visited by a guy you thought was dead.

So now all of the disciples are jazzed about Jesus returning from the grave…except Thomas. His response is, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.” This is, of course, where the moniker “Doubting Thomas” comes from.

It’s a whole week before Jesus appears to them again—back in the same house, again saying, “Peace be with you.” Most ministers who preach on this passage focus on the last part of the chapter, when Thomas acknowledges that Jesus is indeed standing before him, risen from the dead. Jesus’ response is, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”

But here’s the miracle of that story to me. Jesus’ response isn’t so much a rebuke as it is an invitation. Just before the, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe” line, Jesus says to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.”

You see, Jesus meets us in our doubts. I don’t know about you, but for me, that’s really, really good news.

Thomas’ encounter is similar to when Jesus is walking on the water and Peter gets out of the boat to meet him. Peter also walks on water until he takes his eyes off Jesus. His faith starts to falter, and he starts to sink. Certainly, there’s a sense that we should notice that trouble started when Peter starts losing faith, but the good news is that Jesus met Peter in his doubt and picked him back up again.

This seems to be par for the course for the Israelites. Time and again, God delivers them from something, but then they lose faith yet again. And God comes through yet again. The passage read today comes after the people were released from Egypt, after the plagues, after the Red Sea episode. And now they’re mumbling because they’re hungry.

I’d like to dismiss them as just a bunch of whiny, ungrateful, faithless punks—but the truth is that I can identify with them.

Eddie Murphy had a great stand-up comedy routine back in the ’80s making fun of his inability to remain in a relationship with a woman. He said that no matter how good things were between him and whomever he dated, it’s like he had to start all over again every day. He might have been an amazing boyfriend yesterday, but that never seemed like enough. She would always ask, “What have you done for me lately?”

“I bought you a new house.”

“That was last month. What have you done for me lately?”

“We went to Europe together.”

“That was last week. What have you done for me lately?”

“I brought you flowers and fixed a candlelight dinner.”

“That was last night. What have you done for me lately?”

He said that no matter what he did, the women in his life were constantly looking for new signs that he would love and support them. They were full of doubt.

Maybe I’d better bring this back to Scripture.

In the 9th chapter of the Gospel of Mark, a father brings his son to Jesus because an evil spirit has possessed the boy. When the father says to Jesus, “if you are able to do anything, have pity on us and help us,” Jesus replies, “If you are able!—All things can be done for the one who believes.”

Now this isn’t a Sunday school class where we all sit around to talk about whether or not we believe Jesus is the Son of God who takes away this sin of the world as part of some intellectual exercise. This is a father whose son is dying. So he doesn’t posture himself. In the same breath, he says both, “I believe,” and also, “help my unbelief!”

And that’s enough for Jesus. He rebukes the spirit, and the boy is healed. I love that! Because when I’m truly honest, most of the time, I can wholeheartedly say, “I believe,” while in the same breath acknowledging that my faith is pretty darn weak, so I need to ask for help in that, as well: “Lord, help my unbelief!”

I grew up with a poor misconception about faith in Christ. The notion was that my salvation was dependent upon my level of faith. I don’t believe that any more. Scripture, the Christian tradition, and my own life attest to the fact that God shows up not only in times of great faith but also in times of great doubt.

Our pastor is still healing from a broken arm so I was the sermon pinch-hitter again Sunday. The Old Testament Lectionary reading for the day was from Exodus 16:2-15, so I decided to talk about faith…and the lack thereof. Because the whole thing is a bit long for a single blog post, I’ll post in 4 installments. The following is part 1:

Faith is a tricky thing. Sometimes it’s easy to attain; often it’s easy to lose. We’re naturally wired to have faith, because we generally exhibit it until we learn not to.

When I was an infant, I had total faith that my needs would be met by my parents whenever I cried…until they weren’t.

Later, I had faith that my first girlfriend and I would be together forever…until we broke up.

In the middle of the night, I used to have faith that I’d get from my bed to the bathroom safely without turning on the light, until I stubbed my toe yet again and said…well, I’d better not say what I said.

I have faith that my friends will always love and support me…until I make one of them mad because of something I do or say and the supposed friend responds with angry, cruel words hurled my way.

You may have faith that if you always show up for work on time and do your job to the best of your ability that you’ll always have a paycheck and adequate health insurance…until the plant shuts down.

My grandparents had faith in Social Security, and they weren’t disappointed during their retirement. My kids are going to find a similar faith to be unfounded unless they also pay into some other retirement plan beyond Social Security; there’s virtually no question about that.

As children, we start out with faith in a great many things. At some point as we grow up, though, we become more cynical. We get burned a bunch, so we get to the point where we don’t believe in something until we see it for ourselves.

Part of the reason for that is because we often choose to have faith in the wrong things. Some of the things we have faith in will fail; we need to make sure the cornerstone of our faith is reliable.

When I was a youth pastor in a suburb not too far away, one huge church had 120 kids who were active in their high school youth choir, and another 90 were active in the middle school choir. At another huge church a mile away, they attracted all of the non-musical popular kids: the football jocks, cheerleaders, etc. Another large one had wild and crazy games every Wednesday night, followed by a 75-minute sermon from the youth pastor who had most kids crying by the end of every night. Pretty much everyone who attended would get saved three or four times per year and return to school wearing t-shirts with crosses and Jesus fish, wearing WWJD bracelets, signing True Love Waits pledge cards, and carrying Bibles to class.

Then there was me. When I started there, five kids came to youth group, and none of them really liked each other. They were social outcasts at school, and there was no room for them at the other large churches, either, because they just didn’t fit the mold. So instead of doing a bunch of large program things, we just hung out and did life together.

When I showed up a new public high school during week three of its existence to hang out with some of my youth group kids, I introduced myself to the principal. She seemed delighted to hear that a youth pastor would take enough interest in kids to come hang out in the school lunchroom—that is, until she started seeing the types of kids who were coming up and giving me hugs and high-fives. They were the skaters, Goths, punks, thugs, and all-around troublemakers. They were just as likely to be in ISS or suspended as in attendance on any given day. These were the kids who made her job rough. The way she kept her eye on me that first semester, I could tell that she wasn’t quite sure if I was a legitimate youth minister or not.

One of those kids once told me that he had always felt like just a number at the other churches. He said he had almost given up on the God idea altogether until we started doing things that didn’t rely on big numbers but rather honored those few students who were there and placed just as much importance on them as we would on a crowd of a hundred.

One of my former youth group kids is now a pastor in our area. Another was a missionary for several years before returning to the states to attend college. Others became teachers, youth counselors, and social workers. It’s amazing what quality ministry can occur when we focus on the small.

God likes small; God has a heart for the lost; and God’s love toward those whom society is willing to cast aside is incredibly extravagant! Shouldn’t ours be, too?