Articles by Patrick D. Odum at Heartlight

Treasure Hunters

p.d.odum@gmail.com (Patrick D. Odum) — Tue, 20 Sep 2011 00:00:00 -0500

The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field. When a man found it, he hid it again, and then in his joy went and sold all he had and bought that field (Matthew 13:44 NIV).

On vacation in Alaska a couple of weeks ago, my family and I got acquainted with the history of a small town called Skagway. Skagway doesn't look like much -- it has a population of less than 900, and one main street lined with shops. But 900,000 people a year come to Skagway. It's a port for cruise ships, and thousands of people crowd the streets, shops, and restaurants every day during the tourist season.

That's reminiscent of how Skagway got its start as a town. It sprang up almost overnight because of its location near what became known as the White Pass through the Coast Mountains. Gold was discovered in the Klondike in 1896, and by July of the next year the first boats were docking at what would become Skagway. As many as 30,000 people, most of them prospectors, were in the area at any one time after that, using Skagway as a staging area before beginning the 500 -- mile trek through mountains and down the Yukon River to the gold fields.

For the average prospector, it would cost $1200 just to get to the Klondike, with no guarantee that they would find gold. (It's since been estimated that more money was spent to get to the gold fields than was actually brought out in gold.) Many prospectors mortgaged their homes to make the trip. The Canadian government required that all prospectors bring a year's worth of supplies with them over the pass from Skagway: about a ton of supplies for each. Most of them would have walked the forty mile Pass thirty times or more over a three-month period, bringing their supplies over in stages. A considerable number of the prospectors died in their quest to strike it rich.

It's easy to look with amusement on people from a century ago who staked so much on embellished reports of the Klondike as a place where they could pull giant gold nuggets out of creeks. It's easy to wonder what made them give up so much, pay such a cost, and make such a difficult, dangerous journey. But a moment's thought, and you have the answer, don't you? Jesus said it this way: "Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also" (Matthew 6:21). The fact is, human beings have been proving that true since -- well, since Eve first noticed how good that fruit looked, I guess. We'll do whatever it takes, pay whatever it costs, endure whatever we need to endure, to finally get what we value most.

Sometimes we call that greed. Sometimes we call it dedication. The difference, I suspect, is in the object of our desire. And maybe our reasons for wanting it.

Jesus had one main talking point: he came to describe the kingdom of God and to invite people to enter it through him (Mark 1:14-15). The church has come to understand "the kingdom of God" in two ways: we've defined it as the church while we're on earth, going to heaven after we die. But that wasn't really what Jesus meant. Or, at least, not entirely what he meant. It was more of a subversive proposition for Jesus, an invitation to people who were living under the Roman Empire, King Herod, and the Temple hierarchy to align themselves with God's kingdom instead. In calling them to be a part of this kingdom -- a kingdom the Jewish scriptures had always promised would bring all earthly kingdoms to nothing (Daniel 2:31-44) -- Jesus was inviting them to claim their share in the life God wanted to give them. But he recognized that, just as surely as God's kingdom couldn't ultimately coexist in the world with any other, neither could it coexist with another kingdom in a human heart (Matthew 6:19-34). It requires those who would enter to exchange the value systems, priorities, and affections of a dying kingdom for new ones.

There is no room for conservatism in the Kingdom of God. That's not as much a political statement as it is a philosophical one. We can either hold on to old values, old priorities, old treasures, or we can let them go and follow Jesus toward the treasure of God's kingdom. The man in Jesus' parable couldn't hold on to what he had and still hope to gain the treasure he'd discovered in that field, no more than Klondike prospectors could simultaneously search for gold and sit at home warm and safe and comfortable. Before he could own that treasure, he had to first be willing to let go of everything else.

The church's reinterpretation of the kingdom of God has often been as deceiving as it is self-serving. It lets us define being a part of the kingdom of God as baptism or participation in some church. Or it lets us push thoughts of the kingdom out of real, this-world implications about our time, money, and values and out into the next world. (Where they won't bother us or complicate our lives for a while.) But neither of those understandings of the kingdom of God has much in common with what Jesus meant, and you can tell because neither makes us choose between the treasures we have in our hands and hearts and the treasure that God offers us. Whatever kind of kingdom those views describe, they're "both/and" kingdoms. Jesus describes the kingdom of God, without apology, as "either/or." That's why he couldn't talk about the kingdom without talking about what it cost those who would enter it.

He didn't just talk about it, of course. The cost of the kingdom of God was no different for Jesus than it's ever been for anyone who's ever entered it. It forced him to let go even of equality with God and to become a man (Philippians 2:5-11). And then to let go even of that life in suffering and death. What the kingdom requires, then, Jesus was willing to pay himself. And in doing so, he showed us that the treasures all around us that men and women give so much for, treasures that will crumble to dust in our fingers, are not worth what we've been too willing to pay.

Jesus calls us to re-evaluate what matters most to us, what we're giving ourselves up for. The treasures of this world's kingdoms are certainly bright and glittering and attractive. Their temptations lead many of us to waste our best years and give up the best parts of ourselves. He calls us, though, to give up those futile treasure hunts. He calls us to give up everything we have, but only for the treasure that really matters, the one that will outshine all the others.

The one he suffered and died to give us.

The life God has always wanted us to live with him.

Patrick Odum lives in Chicago, Illinois, with his wife, Laura and son, Joshua. He is one of the ministers at Northwest Church of Christ, and an avid Heartlight fan. He enjoys writing and maintains a website of his work called Faith Web where you can find all of his articles. Email Patrick

Website: Faith Web

Play Misty for Me

p.d.odum@gmail.com (Patrick D. Odum) — Tue, 04 Jan 2011 00:00:00 -0600

Now listen, you who say, "Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money." Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. Instead, you ought to say, "If it is the Lord’s will, we will live and do this or that" (James 4:13-15).

Recently, on the same day, two families I know said goodbye to parents.

In one of the families, middle-aged siblings gathered with their mother to comfort each other in the sudden death of their father. He was older, and had been experiencing some health problems, but his passing was still a shock for them.

In the other family, there was only one child, a fifteen-year-old daughter. With her father, her grandparents, two aunts, and some friends from school, she mourned the sudden loss of her mother. She was much younger, and there was no warning -- in the time it takes a heart to stop, this girl's life changed completely and irrevocably.

Such different situations. While death almost always leaves grief in its wake, one of those losses probably seems to you even a little more tragic than the other. It's one thing to lose a parent in middle age -- it's even something we expect. It seems much different to lose a parent as a teenager. There's more to grieve, somehow: not just the loss itself, but the moments and events and time together that's lost as well. Such different situations in so many ways.

So alike in one way. One fundamental way.

Both families were shocked and caught off guard. Death is particularly good at sneaking up and surprising us, and neither family knew it was nearby. I think that's a good thing, actually; I can't imagine that always anticipating the death of the people we love -- or our own -- would be any way to live. Who'd want to live with an hourglass attached to your forehead, or a countdown clock implanted in your palm? And who'd want to see the sands running out or the minutes counting down on a parent or a spouse or a friend or a child?

The surprise with which death comes can often be a great blessing, I think -- as shocking as it may be when it happens. It prevents us from being preoccupied with death, from focusing so disproportionately on life's end that we fail to see the beauty and joy in each day.

But it also means that we're prone to living as if death doesn't exist.

When we live that way, we also fail to appreciate life. But for the opposite reason. To live as if we and the people we love will live forever, to fail to recognize that there is a horizon to our lives, is to devalue the present. When we don't acknowledge our mortality, we imagine life as an endless vista of attainment and achievement. "We'll go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money," James pictures us as saying. And he rebukes for our foolish assumptions, for the arrogance of believing that our futures will unfold in exactly the way we imagine and plan. We should know better, seeing as how all around us is testimony to our mortality. And yet somehow we don't.

"Mist." That's what James calls human life. Mist, of course, is already in the process of evaporation. And so are we, whether we want to acknowledge it or not. We appear for a little while -- 80 or 50 or 30 years, or whatever -- and then we're gone. We don't know how long we have, but we know there's an expiration date.

So how do we live with the knowledge of our own mortality without obsessing over it? James suggests that we live an "if the Lord wills" sort of life. Make your plans, he says -- just make sure to leave room for God to cut them short. You can schedule that business trip, but scheduling and making it are two different things, and you're not in control of the variables. Buy your plane tickets, set your wedding date, take care of your health, pay your insurance premiums, plan to dance at your granddaughter's wedding: but just know that you may be with your Father before the flight leaves or your granddaughter walks down the aisle.

I've known people who affixed the words "Lord willing" before nearly everything they said about future plans. Truthfully, I used to think that was a little excessive. I'm not as sure now, though. Now, I think maybe those folks are testifying to the fact that ultimately it's God who's in control of our lives -- beginning, middle, and end. The more I think about it, the more I like the idea of affirming, out loud, that the plans we make, the futures we imagine, are firmly in his hands.

That's how you live with your "mistiness." That's how you live with your mortality, and the mortality of the people you love. It's really a great relief to know that our intentions and imaginings aren't the last word. And it's good to remind ourselves -- out loud, sometimes -- that it's only by God's will that we live and do the things we do.

So while you have today, make it count. Tell the people you love how much they mean to you. Better yet, show them. Do something that will make a positive difference in someone's life. Listen to someone who's hurting, pray with someone who's afraid, help someone who needs it. Look around you and thank God for all the blessings you have, before you rush right in to telling him what you want. When you make plans for tomorrow, ask for God's guidance. And when those plans are "final," remind yourself that there's really nothing final about them until God says so.

It's OK to be mortal, because God isn't. It's OK to not be certain of our future, because God is. It's even OK when we die, because even then we're not out of his hands or beyond his care. It's even OK when death surprises us, because it's no surprise to God.

And resurrection surprises death even more.

Website: Faith Web

Trust?

p.d.odum@gmail.com (Patrick D. Odum) — Mon, 29 Nov 2010 00:00:00 -0600

This is real love -- not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as a sacrifice to take away our sins (1 John 4:10 NLT).

You are the salt of the earth. But if the salt loses its saltiness, how can it be made salty again? It is no longer good for anything, except to be thrown out and trampled underfoot.
You are the light of the world. A city on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven (Matthew 5:13-16 TNIV)

Merrie Harris didn't intend to shatter preconceptions. She just wanted to help someone.

Jay Valentine didn't intend to subvert any stereotypes. He just asked for some help.

Both of them, though, probably made a lot of people think differently about a lot of things. Maybe they will you, as well.

When a homeless man approached Merrie, a New York City ad executive, in a SoHo cafe last summer and asked for money, Merrie realized she had no cash to give him. She did, however, have an American Express credit card. And, without any more than momentary hesitation, she handed it over to him and asked that he bring it back when he was finished.

Friends and bystanders told her she was crazy, that she'd never see the card again, that she should cancel it immediately. All Merrie said was, "Are we only supposed to trust people we know?" So she wasn't surprised at all when the homeless man, Jay Valentine, returned the card.

"I didn't have to thank him," she said. "I trusted him all along."

Jay also brought her a receipt for the total he charged to her card: deodorant, body wash, water, and cigarettes.

Twenty-five dollars.

When asked if he was tempted to take advantage of Merrie's generosity, Jay, a former real estate agent who has been homeless since he lost his job a few years ago, said no. "I wasn’t tempted at all. She trusted me, and I didn’t want to violate that trust. I would never do that."

"It sets a good example that people in need -- like I am or worse -- can and should be trusted."

I wonder how many people a day Jay asks for spare change. And I wonder what most people say, or think, when he asks. We tend to assume the worst, don't we? We tend to think homeless people are homeless through some fault of their own. If we pass them by, it's often because we tend to assume they can't be trusted to use what we give them as we think they should. If we help, it's usually with the nagging thought in the backs of our mind that the spare change we give them will have turned into a bottle of Night Train by the end of the day. Sometimes trust is hard to come by, especially the kind of trust that Merrie showed.

Jay demonstrated, though, that at least sometimes when you trust people -- even people in the most difficult of circumstances -- they vindicate your trust.

And Merrie -- well, Merrie blew up a neat stereotypical category herself. She didn't demonstrate the greed and self-interest that we sometimes associate with successful corporate executives. She showed how generous successful people can be.

OK -- a reality check: There are some people who you couldn't trust with your credit card. Thing is, those people aren't always homeless, and in fact they sometimes live in the nicest homes in the nicest neighborhoods. As Jay showed, "poor" doesn't always equal "addict" or "criminal." And sometimes, the very thing those who are poor need is the one thing it's hardest to get: trust. Sometimes the only thing that might lift someone out of a bad situation and into a better one is for someone to believe in them enough to take a risk and give generously.

When Jesus calls his followers the "salt of the earth" and the "light of the world," it isn't because he sees us as morally, ethically, spiritually, or intellectually superior to the people around us. It comes at the end of what we know as the Beatitudes, where Jesus calls "blessed" those who will subvert their natural reactions and knee-jerk responses enough to trust in the coming Kingdom of God for things like wealth, comfort, power, joy, justice, and peace. And it comes right before a long section where Jesus tells us to act with uncommon generosity, trustworthiness, and love toward the people around us. Being light and salt, in short, is less about our own personal piety and more about how that personal piety changes the way we act toward the people around us.

What he calls us to, I think, is living lives that anticipate the kind of world that God is busy bringing into existence. And to the degree we do, he says, people might get the chance to see what that world is like and what that God is like and worship him.

Maybe the most valuable currency we can give the people around us is trust -- trust that they will receive our generosity and do right with it. And sometimes they will, and sometimes they won't. That's why it's such valuable currency: It costs something to give it. We will never be the salt and light Jesus wants us to be, we will never be able to live lives that anticipate the joy and justice and peace and love of the Kingdom of God, if we aren't willing to open ourselves to being disappointed, taken advantage of, and even hurt. Jay could have taken Merrie's card and caused her all kinds of pain and trouble. And that's exactly the reason her gift meant so much.

We should know, because of course we've received such a gift. God gave us his Son, and Jesus gave us his life, without requiring any guarantees as to what we would do with that gift. Jesus gave all he had to give without protecting himself at all. As recipients of his generosity, we should know how to do that too.

Isn't there someone in your life who needs you to give generously of the most valuable currency you have -- your trust? Someone who needs to see in you the anticipation of the Kingdom of God? Maybe it'll require your credit card, but it will certainly require more. It will require that you care, and that you make yourself vulnerable, and that you know going in that it may even hurt.

But don't let the difficulty of it discourage you. Because that kind of thing can change a world.

Website: Faith Web

Big Rocks

p.d.odum@gmail.com (Patrick D. Odum) — Tue, 02 Nov 2010 00:00:00 -0500

Then a teacher of the law came to him and said, "Teacher, I will follow you wherever you go."
Jesus replied, "Foxes have holes and birds have nests, but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head" (Matthew 8:19-20).

At a meeting at my son's school this past week, several of the parents in attendance were complaining about the amount of homework our kids have to do each night. Several of the parents told stories about late bedtimes, stress in the household, and plans canceled -- all due to homework.

Every family with school-aged children could probably tell similar stories, of course. But my attention was particularly grabbed by one parent who told the group that, because of excessive homework, they had skipped church the previous Sunday. Immediately, two or three other parents nodded their heads. One parent later said that they, too, had missed church the previous Sunday.

Josh's principal had been quiet for most of the meeting; I think she felt that it was important to let the parents have their say. But after the comments about missing church, she had something to say. And it wasn't really about homework, but something bigger, and ultimately more important.

She said, "You're the parents, and you decide what is important in your house."

In some ways, maybe that sounds too easy. I know it didn't solve the debate about how much homework is too much. What the statement did accomplish was to reframe the discussion in terms of priorities: "You decide what's important."

Sometimes, amid the realities of all the things we have to do each day, and with the voices of all the bosses and parents and children and spouses and teachers telling us that this or that is important or urgent ringing in our ears, we forget that we have the responsibility to decide what matters most to us. Not the guy who signs our paychecks. Not the person to whom we're married. Certainly not the people who assign our kids' homework. We decide. And we live accordingly.

I think Jesus was saying something like that to the certainly well-intentioned guy early in the gospel of Matthew who wants to be his disciple. He wants to learn from him. Wants to be with him and live life in his shoes. And it seems like Jesus brushes him off. I think, though, that he was more likely saying something about priorities. He wanted this guy to know that he had the power to decide what mattered most to him.

"The Son of Man has no place to lay his head," he warned. And rightly so, because you can't have everything. To follow one path is to abandon another. To open one door is to leave another closed. There are just so many hours in a day, and to set one thing as a priority might mean you can't do something else. Or at least not right then. Or not as much. The parents at that meeting were feeling that time crunch. You can't do homework and go to church at the same time. (Well, you can -- but neither ministers nor teachers recommend it ...)

What the principal reminded those parents of, though, is that if they wanted going to church to be a priority in their house, then they just needed to go to church. They needed to set the priority and fit the homework around it.

Jesus, I think, wanted this man to understand what following him would mean giving up.

Because following him does mean giving up other options, other choices, other priorities. I'm not necessarily talking about going to church vs. doing homework now, because going to church doesn't exactly equal following Jesus.*

But this goes beyond what you do with an hour or two on Sundays. Following Jesus -- being a disciple -- is mostly about choices. It's a spiritual decision, yes, but our society's current inclination to talk about spiritual things as if they have no connection to the realities of day-to-day life is just foolish. Jesus made no such distinctions. Following him meant taking a serious hit in your standard of living. It meant depending on the kindness of others, maybe sleeping out under the stars some nights. You didn't follow Jesus in those days for status, or wealth, or the approval of others. In fact, following him would probably cost you at least one of those, and quite possibly all three.

And though in the intervening centuries we've developed a Christianity Life that sort of fits comfortably in among all the other things we want to do with our lives, the real thing is no less disruptive to our priorities today than it was back then.

Following Jesus will cost us, for instance, in time: time spent serving those in need and advocating for those who are marginalized, time spent in prayer, time spent with the Scriptures, time spent speaking about Jesus, time spent with the church.

It will cost us in emotional and physical energy invested in others. It will cost us in spending power, as we make decisions about how to use our money. It may cost us in earning power, as we follow Jesus' leading more than an upward career trajectory. It may even cost us jobs we enjoy if we're forced to compromise the ethics we've learned from our Master.

Sometimes following Jesus will call us to spend more time with our families, to love our children and spouses more. Sometimes following him will call us away from our families. It takes careful listening for his voice to know which. It's not always easy to know what following Jesus means for each of us. It's nearly impossible for us to be certain about someone else. Again, you decide what's important for you. Sometimes it helps to have another perspective, so accept it graciously and offer it in the same way. But never forget that you have the privilege -- and the responsibility -- of evaluating what following Jesus will mean for you.

Stephen Covey suggests that, in evaluating priorities, you think of a large, empty jar. Beside it are two other jars the same size. One is filled to the top with big rocks. The other is filled halfway with small pebbles and crushed gravel. Your challenge is to get the rocks in both jars into the empty one.

The answer, as a moment's thought will tell you, is to put the big rocks in first. The gravel and pebbles will fit in the spaces between the large rocks. But you have to put the big rocks in first.

So fit the big rocks into your life, first. Follow Jesus. Let him set your priorities. You probably still can't get all the smaller ones in. But at least you'll know that what really matters is there. And I'm convinced that he'll help you work the rest out.

Now, excuse me while I go help my son with some homework.

*Having said that, however, doesn't a commitment to following Jesus include a commitment to fellow disciples as well? What does it say about our priorities if we consistently fail to be at church on Sunday because we had a late night on Saturday? What does it say about our priorities if other activities, appointments, and demands seem to always take precedence? Remember: you decide what's important in your life.

Website: Faith Web

A Small Man, a Big Day

p.d.odum@gmail.com (Patrick D. Odum) — Tue, 12 Oct 2010 00:00:00 -0500

Jesus said to him, "Today salvation has come to this house, because this man, too, is a son of Abraham. For the Son of Man came to seek and to save what was lost" (Luke 19:9-10 tniv).

Most days, he wouldn't have even heard the insults. He had gotten accustomed to them. Hardened. When you had been across a table from as many red faces, clenched fists, and twisted mouths spewing hate and promising vengeance as he had, a few rude whispers don't usually even register. If it were any day but today, he wouldn't have noticed. Or if he had, he would have laughed it off. He would have laughed it off, then gone home to his big house and counted his money and laughed more, this time at the expense of the poor fools to whom his money had once belonged.

It was no surprise that they didn't like him; no one ever likes the person who collects their taxes. So he took more than the Romans demanded; that's just the way it was done. He didn't invent the system, but he was certainly going to profit from it as long as it was up to him. He could stand their insults. He could accept that no one of any reputation in Jericho wanted anything to do with him. It was the price of success, the cost of having everything he ever wanted. Let them talk, let them hate him, let them exclude him.

Any day but today.

He couldn't explain why, but today was the day he had to see Jesus. He had arrived early at the town gate, waiting for him to come. He was a small guy, and he had picked out a really good spot by the main road, right by the gate, between some of the stalls in the marketplace. But then everyone else started to arrive. Someone moved him out of his original spot with a glare and a whispered threat. Then someone else moved him from the next spot he chose. As the size of the crowd grew, as a good spot from which to see Jesus became more valuable and rare, he was shoved, jostled, and nudged farther and farther from the road. All the while, they whispered. "What nerve he has. Jesus will want nothing to do with him. He's a traitor. He's a sinner."

By the time the word began to ripple through the crowd that Jesus was near the city, all he could see were the backs of the crowd. They laughed at him as he tried to wriggle to the front. They laughed as he jumped to try to see over the heads of the people in front of him. They shoved him, knocked him down -- one or two of the men even spat on him. All he could think was that he was going to miss seeing Jesus. They said he could do miracles. They said he could forgive sin. He wasn't sure what he wanted Jesus to do for him, but he knew he had to meet him. He was in a state of near-panic as a bustle at the gates indicated the rabbi's arrival. He's here, he thought. And I'm going to miss him.

That's when he noticed the tree.

It was about twenty feet tall, but its branches grew up and out over the road. If he could get to the lowest limbs, he'd be suspended over the heads of the frontmost people in the crowd. He'd have a perfect vantage point from which to see Jesus.

So he started climbing. It had been a while, but he awkwardly pulled himself up, feet sliding and scuffling to get some kind of traction on the trunk, arms shaking with effort as he hoisted his body up. The lowest limbs were about eight feet up, and he just barely made it. He picked one that looked thick enough to support him, and holding on with his arms and knees he started to inch out over the heads of the crowd. No one was paying any attention -- by now their attention was on the road, and they were cheering. He could see the road well, and could see the group of travelers approaching. Jesus and his followers.

Something compelled him to try to get closer. He slid further out on the limb, arms and legs wrapped tightly around it. The bark pulled at his clothes and scraped his cheek, but he moved out farther toward the end of the branch. The group was close now, and he was just above the front row in the crowd, right at the edge of the road.

And then, he went a little too far, and the branch started to bend.

It didn't break, but it bent, and before he could do anything he was almost on top of the crowd below him. His branch bumped against the head of a man right under him, and the man looked up at him. Several of the crowd in the immediate vicinity turned to look up at him, clinging ridiculously to a bent limb. It occurred to him for the first time how silly he looked. As Jesus' group neared, he lowered his head, hoping now that maybe no one would notice him.

When the crowd got very quiet, he looked up. Less than a foot below him, Jesus was looking up at him. Their eyes locked.

Then Jesus laughed.

"Zacchaeus? What are you doing up there? Get down here -- how am I going to eat at your house if you're stuck in a tree?"

The crowd gasped audibly. Zacchaeus wondered if he'd heard correctly. A well-known rabbi, coming to eat with a tax collector? It wasn't done. But Jesus was waiting expectantly, so Zacchaeus backed along the branch until he got to the trunk and was able to climb down.

Jesus waited patiently, offering a little advice on where Zacchaeus should put his feet, and within moments Zacchaeus was at the front of the group, leading them to his house. They ate, they talked, they laughed like old friends. And Zacchaeus suddenly knew why he had so wanted to meet Jesus. He was lonely. No one liked him. He didn't even like himself. But somehow he had known that Jesus would love him. Somehow he had known that sitting at a table with him would feel like the most natural, wonderful, right thing in his life.

He didn't plan it, but when the conversation lulled he heard himself speaking. He would give half of his considerable possessions to the poor. He would make restitution to everyone he had cheated; he would pay it back double, as the Law demanded. No, he'd pay it back four times. He didn't do it to make Jesus love him. He did it because he knew that Jesus did love him, would love him whether he did it or not. He did it because being with Jesus made doing what was right seem like the most obvious, natural thing in the world.

"Salvation has come to this house today," Jesus announced, smiling. "This man, too, is a son of Abraham." It had been a long time since anyone had associated him with Abraham. It had been a long time since he had remembered that about himself. He shook his head and laughed. He had given up a lot of money and possessions today. But he had gained so much more. In meeting Jesus, he had been given back his identity. He remembered who he really was.

Who would have imagined that all it would take was climbing a tree? he thought.

Website: Faith Web

Old Spice Evangelism

p.d.odum@gmail.com (Patrick D. Odum) — Tue, 03 Aug 2010 00:00:00 -0500

I have become all things to all people so that by all possible means I might save some. I do all this for the sake of the gospel, that I may share in its blessings (1 Corinthians 9:22-23 TNIV).

Did you happen to buy any Old Spice Body Wash this week? If you did, you might have Portland, Oregon, ad agency Weiden + Kennedy to thank.

Weiden + Kennedy is the agency behind Old Spice Guy, who's been on TV since the Super Bowl. Old Spice Guy, in real life named Isaiah Mustaffa, is the chiseled, baritone-voiced, shirtless, towel-clad guy who walks confidently across your screen, striding from one manly situation to another, while telling women (and men, implicitly) that their men could smell like him -- and be as masculine as him -- if they were to invest in Old Spice Body Wash.

I say he speaks to women, because that's exactly why he was created in the first place. Old Spice Guy was born when Proctor and Gamble, the parent company of Old Spice, did some customer surveys that indicated that women actually buy the large majority of male body wash, and that they buy it because they want their men to smell a certain way. So Weiden + Kennedy developed a character who appeals to both male and female sensibilities -- he can "bake you a gourmet cake in a kitchen he built for you with his own hands." Men think he's cool, and women think he's sexy, and both genders appreciate the humor. Everybody wins, and Old Spice sells a lot of body wash.

But Weiden + Kennedy weren't happy with that. And so they took their targeted advertising to a new, never-seen-before level.

This week, Old Spice Guy popped up in a few Web videos. Then the company invited customers to contact Old Spice Guy. You sent a message to him through social networking sites or email, and within a few minutes there would be a new video of Old Spice Guy responding to you, personally. He gave relationship advice, proposed on behalf of one guy, told a Blackhawks fan what he'd do on a day with the Stanley Cup, and answered a question about sharks. Celebrities got in on the act -- he responded to four tweets by actress Alyssa Milano, and he gave Demi Moore a "special video response" -- meaning that in essence Proctor and Gamble has celebrity spokespeople selling their product for free. And, of course, those videos were posted and re-posted online, widening the reach of the ad campaign that much more.

Analysts are touting the ingenious way the ads target such specific demographics -- and especially specific people. By developing an appealing character and refusing to take the one-size-fits-all approach that a lot of marketing uses, the developers of this campaign are using the relatively new technology of social networking to get their message across in a powerful way.

It's not really a new idea, though.

Paul used the idea in proclaiming the good news of Jesus. "I have become all things to all people," he wrote to one of the churches he planted, "so that by all possible means I might save some." Paul didn't insist on standing on a street corner -- or in a church building -- shouting the same "authorized" sermon over and over. He thought about his audience: who he was trying to convince, what their concerns were, where they were already in regard to religion and morality, how their native culture would affect the way they heard him. Paul didn't mass-market the gospel. He didn't even pick one particular demographic and get really good at converting people who fit in that category. He came to people and groups individually, and tried in his interactions with them to gain the best hearing for the good news of Jesus that he possibly could. He could quote from the Old Testament, and he could quote Greek poets. He could address the struggles and questions of people who were coming to Jesus from Judaism, and he could also engage with folks who were coming out of paganism.

He learned the approach, I guess, from Jesus, who never crossed paths with someone who was sick or lame or demon-possessed...or dead...and left them as they were. He learned from Jesus, who could eat with Pharisees and tax collectors alike, and who could make a difference in the lives of Roman centurions, Jewish synagogue leaders, and raving, homeless maniacs. Jesus became all things to all people on the way to a cross, where he would give us the one thing all of us need. But before people could trust him as their Savior, they heard his voice and felt his touch as their friend.

The problem with that approach is that it seems slower, and less efficient, and it takes a whole lot more thought and effort. Is that why the church has largely abandoned the methods that Jesus and Paul used? Is it that we want to proclaim the gospel to more people, more efficiently? Or is it that we really don't care enough about people without Jesus to do the work of getting to know who they are and how we can best communicate the gospel to them?

So we conduct our worship services in buildings full of believers, and call it evangelistic if we offer an invitation or altar call. We worry that people won't come to church anymore. We wonder if even our children will follow the Lord.

Maybe we need to be more like Paul, and Jesus before him. Before people believe our message about the Savior, maybe they need to hear our voices and feel our touch as their friends. Maybe we need to speak less and listen more: to what's on their minds, what they're worried about, what they believe, what they doubt, what they love, what they hate, and where they come from. Then we'll know a little better who they are, and maybe figure out how to talk about Jesus in a way they can hear.

And if you're worried about how we'll communicate that way to all the people who need to hear the gospel, well, take a look at the number of people viewing those Old Spice videos. Most are in the hundreds of thousands, already, in just a day. Some over a million views already. You and I won't be able to reach even a fraction of the people who need Jesus. But we won't have to. Because when you hear an appealing message presented in a way that resonates with you, you want to tell others about it, don't you? And they will too, if we speak to them.

Smells like evangelism, doesn't it?

Website: Faith Web

Perfect!?

p.d.odum@gmail.com (Patrick D. Odum) — Tue, 29 Jun 2010 00:00:00 -0500

For by one sacrifice he has made perfect forever those who are being made holy (Hebrews 10:14 TNIV).

It's happened 20 times in history. But it should be 21.

"It" is a perfect game in Major League Baseball. Since June 12, 1880, when Lee Richmond of the Worcester Ruby Legs retired all 27 Cleveland Blues batters without any of them reaching base (on a hit, walk, hit batsman, error, or for any other reason), only 19 other pitchers have managed the same feat. Those who have done so go down in history as someone special. The list reads like a pitching hall of fame: Cy Young, Addie Joss, Don Larsen, Jim Bunning, Sandy Koufax, Catfish Hunter, Len Barker, Kenny Rogers, David Wells, David Cone, Randy Johnson, Mark Buerhle, and Roy Halladay.

There should be one more name on the list: Armando Galarraga.

Galarraga, of the Detroit Tigers was perfect through 8 2/3 innings Wednesday night, June 2, against the Cleveland Indians. Twenty-six batters up, twenty-six down. The atmosphere in the stadium was electric, a buzz building as Cleveland's Jason Donald came to the plate. Donald slapped a sharp grounder into the hole between first and second base. It's an easy play, one professionals can execute in their sleep. While the first baseman fields the ball, the pitcher runs over to first and the first baseman tosses him the ball for an easy out. It happens several times in most games.

It went exactly like it should have this time, too. Tigers first baseman Miguel Cabrera fielded the ball cleanly. Galarraga was in position. Donald is fast, so there wasn't a lot of time, but Galarraga beat him to the bag, ball in his glove, by at least a step. All the replays showed it. And first-base umpire Jim Joyce was right there, in perfect position to make the "out" call and touch off a celebration.

"It was the biggest call of my career," Joyce would say shortly after the game.

And he blew it.

"I just cost that kid a perfect game," Joyce said, tearful in the umpires' locker room later.

Joyce thought Donald beat the throw, that's all there is to it. He sees the same replays as everyone else now, and knows he missed the call. But when it happened, he seems to have truly thought that Donald beat the throw. Maybe it was the way he was standing, the angle at which he was looking at the play, but he says he was "convinced" that the baserunner was safe.

As the boos built to a crescendo and everyone in a Detroit Tigers uniform got in his face, it became clear he was the only one in the stadium who thought so. And when he saw the replays, he knew. He knew what everyone else knew. He had so monumentally blown a call that he will probably be remembered for it as long as there is baseball.

It's hard to be perfect. Ask Armando Galarraga. Ask Jim Joyce, if you need to. But I'm guessing you don't need to. You already know, don't you?

You've worked hard, done everything right, and still failed, haven't you? The victim of a blown call or a bad break? And probably at least once or twice, you've blown something so monumentally that you really doubt anyone will ever forget it.

It's hard to be perfect, even for a little while. And it's impossible for us to maintain for very long.

And that's why it has to be God's work.

In Christ God has made us perfect. That's the shocking use of tense in Hebrews 10:14: he has made us perfect. That's called the perfect tense, appropriately enough, because it signifies an action completed in the past that has ramifications for the present. And that's what the writer means. He's not saying that because of Jesus we can never make a mistake. He's saying that Jesus has made us complete. He has brought us to the place we needed to be. Everything that needs to be done to save us and redeem us is accomplished in him.

But that's not all. We've been made perfect, but we are being made holy in Jesus. Again, it's God's work. He's the one who separates us out from the world so that we'll be fit for his purposes. And that's ongoing. That's where the places where we don't look too perfect are dealt with. In the process of making us holy, God confronts our selfishness and sin. He reminds us that we are his and that our purpose is nothing more or less than to be living temples from which his glory shines.

You want a small measure of redemption in Armando Galarraga's blown perfect game? It comes in the way everyone has conducted themselves since.

Galarraga walked backed to the mound with a pained smile, shaking his head, while his manager and teammates argued with Joyce. He quietly went back to work, and retired the next batter to win the game.

Jim Joyce saw the replay, and then asked Tigers manager Jim Leyland for permission to talk to Galarraga. They hugged, Joyce cried and admitted he was wrong and told Galarraga how sorry he was. "You don't see an umpire after the game come out and say, 'Hey, let me tell you I'm sorry,'" Galarraga said. "He felt really bad. He didn't even shower."

So Galaragga's probably had more pleasant hugs. That aside, though, he said he respected Joyce for admitting his mistake.

Since they couldn't be perfect, Armando Galarraga and Jim Joyce did what we're all supposed to do when imperfection inevitably rears its head. They admitted their mistakes, and they apologized, and they forgave. And then they went back to work. They have chosen not to let imperfection define them.

Your Lord has chosen to call us perfect, too. Not because we deserve it, but because the work he's doing in us can't be stopped. He's refused to let imperfection define who we are, and gave his life to prove it. Though he could have chosen to dwell on our sins, he chose instead to go to the wall to make us perfect and holy. So we should feel free to come before God as his children (Hebrews 10:21). And we should hold on to our hope, rising as it does from a faithful God (Hebrews 10:23). We should push each other to love better and do good more (Hebrews 10:24), and we should avoid deliberate, high-handed sin (Hebrews 10:26).

In Christ, the issue is settled. The conflict is over. As long as we're in him, you and I are perfect, and nothing anyone can say or do, and not even our own failures, can change that.

Anyone who would say otherwise is, well, off base.

Website: Faith Web