While we’ve been off campus developing a team of ministry partners (because “support raising” erroneously implies I’m more about the dollars than the relationships), I have noticed a recurring theme popping up in my life.

I am living in anticipation of the next stage of life, which indicates a lack of understanding of the gospel.

Let me explain.  I frequently think things like “once I’ve raised the support, things will be better,” or “if my son grows up to be a godly man who leads people to Christ (or at least a godly man who plays point guard for the Tar Heels), then I’ll be complete.”  I’d never really verbalize those thoughts in exactly that way, but I am prone to making plans under the faulty assumption that I don’t currently have all that I need (or could ever want!) in Christ.

I think “if I got a book deal and a speaking tour, then I’d be worth something…” or “if I led worship at a church full-time, then I’d be living the dream.”  All the while, I forget the gospel.  Like an alcoholic going back to the fridge for another beer, I’m convinced that this next _________ will change things.  It’ll make it all better.

But I have all I need in Christ.

Exodus 14:14
Psalm 40:17
Psalm 116:6
Isaiah 58:11
Luke 12:29-31
2 Corinthians 9:8
Ephesians 1:3 (check the verb tense)
Philippians 4:19
Hebrews 7:26
2 Peter 1:3

What’s filling Christ’s blank in your life?

Hanging out with Mitch Mask is one of my favorite activities in the universe. I said it.

I ate at Chef Wang’s in Murfreesboro at least 2 times each week when I lived here. Mmmmm.

I don’t say thanks enough.  I don’t say it enough in my marriage when my wife does things like pack my suitcase for me (without me asking) when I’m going on a trip, and I don’t say it enough when somebody picks up my tab at a restaurant.  I don’t say it enough to the people who partner with us to reach college students.  I also don’t say thanks enough when somebody donates a car to me.

A what?

You read that right.  Somebody has donated a car to us!  It’s an Oldsmobile Eighty-Eight, and I’m pretty sure it’s a 1998 model.  All the paperwork hasn’t cleared, so we don’t have it in our driveway yet, but I’m expecting it within the next two weeks.  Rest assured there will be pictures.

When we got home from the summer, we had planed on buying a car to replace the one that didn’t quite fit underneath the F350.  But our finances were not in a place where we could responsibly justify a large purchase.  So I sent an email to a few friends asking if they knew of anyone selling a car for next-to-nothing.  It was a prayer-bathed stab in the dark, and I honestly didn’t think I was going to hear anything back from it.

A couple of weeks later, I got a call from the missions committee at our church, saying that someone had given the church their car, and they wanted to give it to us!  I was blown away.

God is too good to us.  You, reader, are too good to us.  And I need to learn to say that more often.

I love reaching college students.  The past two weeks have reminded me that there’s nothing like the first weeks of a freshman’s college carreer.  It’s so much fun to be on campus, to be a part of God changing student’s lives.

It’s not always easy, but man, is it ever worth it.

This semester we have to pull back, and spend some time mending our financial support net.  As you may know, we depend entirely on the donations of concerned individuals, churches, and businesses to fund our ministry, our salary, and our healthcare benefits.  We challenge folks to join us on a monthly basis financially so that we are freed up to focus fully on the task at hand, communicating the gospel in the language of today’s college student.

So, as much as I enjoy the work on campus, this semester we will be working off campus to ensure many more years of fruitful labor.  That probably will mean more posts about funds than before (don’t be afraid of that little “funds” link to your right.  It won’t bite…)

Pray with us that God would raise up all the dollars we need.  We are asking Him to do so by Thanksgiving.

Rob Upton’s bench has become a crossroad in my life.

I never met Rob Upton.  He was 10 years older than me, and died when I was 12.  We lived in different states thousands of miles from each other, went to different schools, and until about 5 minutes ago when I googled his name followed by the year he died, I didn’t even know how he died.  It’s unlikely that we would have any connection whatsoever.

But every other year (give or take), I meet God on Rob Upton’s bench.

I was too busy to notice his name emblazoned on the plaque at my feet when I first sat down 6 years ago.  I was wrestling with God.  With tears streaming down my face I told God I’d break up with the girl I thought I was supposed to marry, if only he’d lead me.  I’d do whatever God wanted me to do.

Two years later, I was a single man who had just been shot down by yet another girl when I walked out across the lawn to meet with God on Rob’s bench.  I again cried out to the Lord, asking only that he would lead me.  I’d do whatever He wanted me to do.  In the cool night air, I begged God for a wife.

Four years later, (25 minutes ago) I put my minivan in park, and walked out across the same dew-covered lawn.  I celebrated (again with tears) that God had, just days after I prayed four years ago, introduced me to Jacqueline Brooks, and began writing the love story of our life together.

Rob Upton, a sophomore thrower on the Colorado State University’s track team, died in a climbing accident in 1992, and the university paid tribute to him by putting up a stone bench in a wooded area of campus.

Our staff conference is here every other year, and each time I am amazed to sit down on Rob’s bench and reflect on how the Lord has changed things since I last visited.  Here’s to a God who is so interested in planning out all of our crossroads!

“Did you hear about Michael Jackson?”  she said as she opened the door for me.

Nobody asked about Ed McMahon.  Nobody will remember where they were when they heard about Farrah Fawcett.

But the king of pop died.  And that meant a perfect stranger on the street in San Francisco felt compelled to ask if I’d heard.

Who is going to ask about you when you die?  Will perfect strangers share their favorite memories of you?

Say what you want to about Michael.  But when I traveled to Ashgabat, Turkmenistan, the village children who knew three words of English also knew to yell out “Michael Jackson” as I walked along the road.  He impacted every corner of the globe.

So yes, there has been media hype over his death.  But it’s only overly hyped when the media is talking about something that everyone else isn’t.  And in this case, we are all talking about it, too.

Don’t drive past the significance.  The world is reeling from a loss.  We’ve lost something of value.  The church, however, should be careful not to chastise folks for worshipping Michael Jackson.  Instead, we should show them a Jesus who is more worthy of worship.

See, in a year there will be a few people who celebrate the anniversary of Michael’s death.  In 5 years he’ll get a made-for-TV documentary, or a mention on late-night television.  In 30 years he’ll be something that everyone’s parents talk about.  But every single Sunday between now and then, over a billion people will gather in homes, dorm rooms, condos, elementary school gyms, bars, and auditoriums around the world to remember the death and ressurection of Jesus.

Michael is a big deal, sure.  But Jesus ought to be a bigger one.  Just not one that TMZ is going to break the story on.

And you just might hear talk of it from a perfect stranger on the street.  But that’s pretty normal.

With boots untied and a serious need to pee, I jogged past the visitor center, tripod tucked under my arm.  I glanced at the time: 5:16 AM.  I was hurrying to make it to Bright Angel Point, to watch the sun come up over the Grand Canyon.  It was set to rise at 5:22.  I got to a spot with a great view east and west, and set up the camera.

Then Marge showed up.

I shouldn’t know her name.  I shouldn’t know that she has traveled to Africa and Alaska and the Alps.  I also shouldn’t know that she has no desire to go to the Himalayas and that her favorite thing in the world is dessert in Italy.

I know all of that, from sitting about 30 feet from her watching the sun come up over the world’s most famous canyon.

That’s when it hit me.  I am Marge.  So caught up on myself and how cool I am that I can’t even enjoy what is going on in front of me.  See, Marge didn’t come to the Grand Canyon to see the Grand Canyon.  She came to the Grand Canyon to be able to later, sitting on a boat floating over the Great Barrier Reef, tell someone how beautiful the sun is when it comes up over the Grand Canyon.

And I do the same thing.  In the first paragraph of this post I wanted you the reader to see how well traveled I am.  I want to see the world, so that the world can see me. If I could figure out how to make it revolve around my shoulders, I would.

What a loss it would be to get to the end of my life, stand before Jesus, and tell him how many cities I have visitied, or how many pushups I can do, or how great my magnet collection is.

It’s my prayer that the gospel will continue to change me, and that someday I will actually be more about bringing God glory than about building my list of accomplishments.

But while we are on the subject of my accomplishments, and I can now claim to have peed into the Grand Canyon, just before sunrise.

After checking in at the ranger’s station, I quadruple-point turned the van into the spot deignated for campsite 38.

First order of business: go look at the Grand Canyon.  We put the boy in the stroller and wheeled it about 300 yards south to the edge of the canyon.

The trail from the pavement to the actual canyon was about 50 feet long, so I took Benjamin and popped him on my shoulders, his favorite place to ride.  He alternated between trying to rip my ears off the side of my head and playing drums with my head.  But he was happy.

As we got near the edge, I felt a sensation I have never once experienced.  I was still easily 15 feet from the edge, yet I heard my inner voice saying “that’s close enough, Benjamin.”  Then my inner 15 year old started an argument. “Are you kidding me? you can’t even see the bottom of the canyon from here!  At least take a few steps closer.”

It was probably wise that I stopped there.  The combination of my child on my shoulders and the loose gravel at my feet would have spelled a sour ending to the day. Plus, we have all day tomorrow to explore and get great pictures of the canyon.

We’re all safe and sound, so no worries about us.  There is wifi here, at the camp store, but no mobile phone signal.  If you need us, email us.  But I make no guarantee we’ll get that, either.

Jacqueline wanted me to note also that Benjamin is already asleep, and went down with almost no fight.  We have a great kid.  But don’t tell him… it’ll go to his head.

We pulled off at about 5:30 PM (after missing the exit on the first shot) at the Colorado Welcome Center.  I located and retrieved the camp stove and set about lighting it near a table in the shade we had selected.  Jacqueline, in the meantime, set up LB with a feeding station.  As I waited for the noodle water to boil, I grabbed my laptop.  Our camera’s memory card was getting full, and needed purging onto the hard drive.  I set up the laptop, external hard drive, and camera to play nicely together when across the lawn I see sprinkler heads begin to pop up, soaking nearby tables in a matter of seconds.

Panic is a good word for it.  With my entire electronic life sprawled out before me, I began hurriedly to pack the computer back into the bag and rushed it to the van.  Tragedy averted.  We even took what turned out to be too much precaution (the table we were at never reached the line of fire while we were there) and moved our cooking station over to the grassless area near the buildings.

The water had begun boiling, and noodles added.  In fact, things were all set for straining.  I picked up the handle of the pot, and immediately regretted it.  My thumb has a handle-shaped burn mark that hasn’t yet stopped throbbing.  Once the noodles were stained, the sauce warmed up, and the 7-Up uncorked, it was time to enjoy a budget-friendly meal.

Included in the meal is a memory worth far more than the money we saved.

On to Utah for a couple of days of hotels before we hit the GRAND CANYON!

Three years ago today I had no idea what I was getting into.

I laid on a chaise lounge trying to position myself in such a way as to not throroughly wrinkle my tuxedo.  I enjoyed listening to the music being played out on the porch, but was also wishing I was out there to hear the band that I had assembled.  People kept walking past to go to the restrooms and making that “I’m not sure I’m supposed to be here or be talking to you” face when they passed me.  I enjoy awkward moments.

We got the cue that it was time to head out.  I had 5 million thoughts (roughly) in my head, and was surprised that most of them were completely unrelated to the event at hand.  I kept wondering about the feedback coming from Joe’s microphone to my left.  I was thinking about what the people politely smiling were thinking about what I was thinking about.  If they only knew. I smiled, because it felt like I needed to.

15 minutes, 2 rings, 2 vows, and a prayer later I jumped, clicked my heels, and walked down the brick walkway toward the first of our getaway cars.  We really only got away to the back of the house, as I remember.  I kept messing with a new ring on my left hand, wondering if I’d ever get used to wearing jewelry.

We had a relatively short reception (there was business to attend to, and the weather took a turn for the chilly), but enjoyed dancing, getting caked in the face, and a much nicer second getaway car.

When we got to the Hilton, we showed up at the same time as Job, one of my friends who was supposed to drop our stuff off at our room before we got there.  Poor timing meant that we all got to share another awkward moment as he wheeled our stuff into the honeymoon suite.  I enjoyed every second of watching the normally-unflappable Job squirm in discomfort.

Fast forward three years, and it feels like time has gone almost as fast.  Now we have a little boy, a great group of friends and co-workers in Asheville, and a slew of memories for which to be thankful.  God has done some great things.

If I had it to do all over again, knowing what I know now (just a sliver of what I was getting into), I’d still “I do.”

Happy anniversary, Babe.  I’d still pick you over every woman on the planet.

Daddy washed the motorcycle.  Benjamin tossed balls out of the pack ‘n play at Daddy.  It was a fun game for all parties involved.

A couple of days ago I posted a link to a letter we are sending out asking people for money for our upcoming trip across the country to minister in Santa Cruz, California.  One of my fears is that the process of raising support will be misunderstood to be solely a plea for money, or that we will be seen as insensitive.

I’m an American.  By virtue of that, I have deeply ingrained thought processes and assumptions about the nature of reality and humanity that, frankly, aren’t true.  One of the biggest of these assumptions is that independence is a virtue.  Of all of the movements in American pop culture over the past century, name one that has been a movement toward interdependence or selflessness.  Having trouble?  Perhaps only the civil rights movement and some of the hippie communes of the late 60s and early 70s were movements toward interdependence.  And even that dependence was self-serving.  Like Frank Sinatra famously sang, the key to being American is saying “I did it my way.”

So, take that assumption, and add it to the equation of raising financial support for a living.  I am, for all intents and purposes, a professional depender.  I depend on regular financial giving from people who share my passion for seeing the Christ-ian message of grace and forgiveness spread to the corners of the globe from the college campus.  Let me restate that.  I am the hands, feet, and tongue of Christ on the campus.  People that give the money are the heartbeat and life-blood of Christ on campus.  Without the heartbeat, I am shipwrecked, and without the hands and feet, my supporters are impotent.  We need each other.

I forget that fact far too often in my ministry on campus.  I try to disconnect the ministry going on from the people who are really making it happen.  What that looks like is sending out letters asking for support and then forgetting to let people in on what God is doing through them on campus.  Sometimes when I do personally engage supporters it is self-serving.  I often don’t have a mindset of service and worship as I raise support, but instead I frequently have one eye fixed on what’s in it for me.  I start to feel entitled to other people’s money.  That’s embarrassing to put into words, but it’s true.

So as I send out the letters sitting on the other side of laptop waiting to be stuffed into envelopes, I send them out with the recognition that God is doing something in me just as much as he is doing something through me.  Your financial gifts are precious to me, especally during these times of economic uncertainty.  Your giving reassures me that you place more trust in the God of the universe than the future of the American economy.  What a testimony and encouragement.  It is truly an honor to be Christ’s ambassador on campus.  God is using your gift not only to reach lost college students, but to reach me.  He is changing my mindset toward the whole process of raising support, and helping me to really begin to believe that it is developing partners far more than it is raising dollars.  My prayer is that God would use your giving to reach YOU as well.

I just got done watching the less-edited version of the Nightline debate entitled “Does Satan Exist” (that link appears to be one that will someday no longer point to the specific debate, but just to all of the debates.).  I wanted to give my reactions to a few points.

First off, it was very well-produced, and I thought that the editing didn’t favor one side over the other.  Perhaps that’s because I watched the nearly unedited version online.  Who knows what actually made it to the TV.

There was one point in the debate that really piqued my interest.  They allowed audience members to ask questions, and a girl asked Deepak Chopra what made his experience more valid or more true than the other panelists’ experience.  He immediately retorted that his experience wasn’t more true, but that he could only speak from his point of view.  Then he went on to make the point that her experience was not as in-line with “what we know about science and microbiology…” (not a direct quote, I didn’t go back and check the wording…).

Out of one side of his mouth he would say that her experience is perfectly valid, and then he would immediately turn around and basically call her primitive and uneducated.  Yet he doesn’t see the incongruence there. He spins very pretty word-webs and things that sound pithy and neat but have no real meaning.  “All belief is just a cover-up for insecurity.  Once you know something you no longer have to believe it.  You just experience it.”  …what?

Which brings me to my favorite interchange in the debate (which I really hope made it to the final cut that aired on ABC).  Also between an audience member and Chopra, it went something like this:

Man in Audience: Earlier you said that all belief is just a cover-up for insecurity.  Do you believe that?

Deepak Chopra: Yes.

Man in Audience:  Thanks. (turns to go sit down)

Brilliant.

The year was 2004 (or was it 2005 by that time?).  I was at a nearly-monthly “open mic” night at a friends house in Murfeesboro.  For those not in the know, Murfreesboro is a loud siren’s distance from Nashville, the music city.  So, you gotta be aware that the level of talent at this shindig was not-so-amateur.

Being a musician, I went ahead and signed up for a spot on the list that was being passed around.  I signed up after a guy named Charlie Murphey.  Sounded harmless enough.  Shouldn’t be a tough act to follow.

A few minutes later, Charlie lumbered up on stage, but as he was taking a seat, I noticed that the guitar he was holding apeared to just be an extension of his arms.  He was so comfortable carrying it through a crowd He didn’t even have to think about it.  I soon learned why: he had spent plenty of time with that instrument on his lap.

That’s when I learned a life-lesson.  Never sign up at an open mic after a guy who you have not heard play.  Especially if you are in central Tennessee.

I’d like to introduce you to Charlie.  Seems the marketing folks got ahold of him and “Murphey” is now “Hardin.”  Check him out at CharlieHardin.com and tell him I sent you.

Hollywood Be Thy Name Promo from adam patrick jones on Vimeo.