We live in a culture that likes to believe that snowflakes don't melt.
Snowflakes happen when the impossible becomes a reality. Water gets colder than cold – colder even than freezing – yet remains in a gaseous state, a vapor. Then the air with which this super-cold gaseous water is mixed begins to stir, causing these little bits of fog to collide, forming a mass. Here, surface tension, or the inherent stickiness of water, takes over (the stickiness of water! Wrap your brain around that for a minute), and the mass of ice-like substance begins to act more like sugar and salt, attracting similarly-sticky molecules to form, of all things, crystals.
We see them all the time, and sometimes more of them than we might like. But when it happens so often, and seemingly so easily, we sometimes fail to recognize that snowflakes are a collusion of the impossible. They simply should not be.
Yet, here they are. And in large quantities. So much so that we take them for granted. So much so, that our society wants to pretend that snowflakes last forever.
The universe, however, has other ideas. Snowflakes may be beautiful and perfect, but they are often gone too soon. Writer Isabel Allende believes that the key to writing a best-selling book is to create a manual. People, she believes, are always looking for shortcuts, ways to make seemingly-impossible perfections endure despite the laws of thermodynamics, chaos, and decay. We want more than anything to escape any form of unpleasantness – physical ugliness, poverty, illness, or failure of any sort.
In fact, we've become so accustomed to success and prosperity, we see even the melting of a snowflake as some kind of cruel injustice. It was beautiful. It was perfect. How could God take it away from us just as it was bringing happiness?
Thoughts like these are often condemned as doubting, or lacking in faith somehow. Really, they're the opposite. For it is in the recognition of the beauty of God's gifts, and the desire to keep them with us for as long as possible, that we begin to appreciate them for what they are – manifestations of His love for us.
And when they go away, as all things physical must, we miss them as much for what they mean to us as for what they really are.
James warns us about taking too much for granted, holding on too tightly, thinking too highly of our ability to control time and space and life and the universe and everything. “Your life is a vapor,” he says in 4:14. “You are a mist that appears for a little while, then is gone.”
All snowflakes melt. Every one of them is eventually reduced to its component molecules, ripped apart stem to stern and washed away. They are transitory, temporary confluences of the impossible. But while they are here, they are beautiful, evidence of the handiwork of a loving God.
That same God loves you. That same God has given His Son so that His relationship with you doesn't have to depend on vapor crystals holding together. The universe can do its worst, but it cannot take God away from you, or you away from Him, without your permission.
And that same God has put you in somebody else's life to be their snowflake, to show them that God loves them. And as temporary as you might be, and as many of your own flaws as you might perceive, there is somebody in whose eyes you are a blessing, a perfect storm of impossible circumstances conspiring to make something beautiful. And when you go away, as you eventually will, you will be missed as much for what you mean to others as for who you really are.
So the invitation tonight is an invitation to come. Knowing that you won't last forever, make sure that your relationship with God is what it ought to be today. And if we can help with that in any way, we'd like to.
But at the same time, the invitation is to go. Go show off God's handiwork. Go be that blessing in somebody's life, confidently proclaiming the love of God and not just showing up and hoping they notice. Go be beautiful, before melting time comes.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Test Results
OK, that logo thing is too big. It's supposed to be a "thumbnail," and I was imagining something the size of a Twitter icon.
No worries, though. Next week we'll just post without the thumbnail. Or manually change the size if I can figure out how.
Off to play.
ETA: OK, that's better. Or at least less ridiculous. Hope that helps.
No worries, though. Next week we'll just post without the thumbnail. Or manually change the size if I can figure out how.
Off to play.
ETA: OK, that's better. Or at least less ridiculous. Hope that helps.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Testing, and The Moment
Trying out a new hosting site for sermons. Hopefully this will make them ITunes compatible. Stay tuned.
UPDATE: The Twitter feed worked. We'll see what comes up here in a bit.
Also, for those who wanted to see it, here is the story I read Wednesday night:
The Moment -- by Ben Wiles
The most remarkable basketball-related Moment in my life was noteworthy only in how mundane it was.
The play itself was as nondescript as it gets. Jacob Arnett dribbles to the right wing and passes to a curling Josh Slater at the top of the arc. Slater fires, draining a 3-pointer with four seconds to go before halftime and cutting Mercer's lead over Lipscomb to 36-32. The shot accounted for three of Slater's twelve points that night, the assist one of Arnett's three.
And yes, I had to go back and look at the stat sheet on the Lipscomb website a few minutes ago to get all the details right.
For Erica, that extra step would not have been necessary. She just knows.
If you saw the game on #pixelvision, you might have seen Erica. She is the little girl in the yellow sweatshirt and purple pants about 15 rows up from the Mercer bench. You might not have noticed her much, though, because for the first twenty minutes of the game she sat almost perfectly still.
That's right. She's seven years old, and she Did. Not. Move.
Typically, that kind of rapt attention is reserved for Star Wars and Fetch with Ruff Ruffman. And, apparently, Lipscomb basketball. Otherwise, she is your typical, active, loud little girl. She likes to run around, play with her sister, tell stories, and when she's not reading books generally make as much noise as she can for as long as she can.
It wasn't until later that I realized how big an impact that shot had on that little girl. You see, I was in Allen Arena to watch Lipscomb win a championship. Jacksonville had lost earlier that day, meaning Lipscomb would win the A-Sun regular-season title with a win. And at halftime, Lipscomb was down 4 to a Mercer squad missing its all-everything big man. If James Florence woke up in the second half, or if Adnan Hodzic didn't, the Bisons were in trouble.
I was worried about the outcome. Erica was enjoying The Moment.
But one random Thursday morning in late March, I walked into the kitchen and overheard Erica talking to her twin sister Katie around the breakfast table. “And then Jacob Arnett looked up and saw Josh Slater coming around and he passed it and Josh Slater shot it and it went in and Mercer was only ahead by 4!”
Since it was morning, I have no idea what the context of that sentence was. I did remember the game, since it was one of the two we got to attend last year. I remembered that Adnan went off in the second half (upon further review, 21 and 11 after Slater's shot). I remembered Lipscomb cutting down the nets after the game. I also remembered the conference tournament loss to Kennesaw State and the not getting invited to the NIT and the fact that Lipscomb only wins 27% of the time when both teams lead in the last 4 minutes.
But for a second there, in our kitchen, Erica and I had a Moment.
The fact that the Moment revolved around a basketball team that had ultimately disappointed me didn't matter. Because our Moment wasn't about me being a fan, but a Dad. Our Moment was a memory my little girl could carry with her a month later, and I was there when it happened, enjoying it right alongside her. Our Moment may look to outsiders like just another shot in just another game, but that's okay. What's important is not what makes up the Moment, but the fact that it is Ours.
The big life lesson? What my children need from me is not a storehouse of objects, a privileged position in the world, or a lifetime of ease, comfort, and safety. It's a Moment. Then another. Then another one after that.
And if basketball can help make that happen, then so much the better.
UPDATE: The Twitter feed worked. We'll see what comes up here in a bit.
Also, for those who wanted to see it, here is the story I read Wednesday night:
The Moment -- by Ben Wiles
The most remarkable basketball-related Moment in my life was noteworthy only in how mundane it was.
The play itself was as nondescript as it gets. Jacob Arnett dribbles to the right wing and passes to a curling Josh Slater at the top of the arc. Slater fires, draining a 3-pointer with four seconds to go before halftime and cutting Mercer's lead over Lipscomb to 36-32. The shot accounted for three of Slater's twelve points that night, the assist one of Arnett's three.
And yes, I had to go back and look at the stat sheet on the Lipscomb website a few minutes ago to get all the details right.
For Erica, that extra step would not have been necessary. She just knows.
If you saw the game on #pixelvision, you might have seen Erica. She is the little girl in the yellow sweatshirt and purple pants about 15 rows up from the Mercer bench. You might not have noticed her much, though, because for the first twenty minutes of the game she sat almost perfectly still.
That's right. She's seven years old, and she Did. Not. Move.
Typically, that kind of rapt attention is reserved for Star Wars and Fetch with Ruff Ruffman. And, apparently, Lipscomb basketball. Otherwise, she is your typical, active, loud little girl. She likes to run around, play with her sister, tell stories, and when she's not reading books generally make as much noise as she can for as long as she can.
It wasn't until later that I realized how big an impact that shot had on that little girl. You see, I was in Allen Arena to watch Lipscomb win a championship. Jacksonville had lost earlier that day, meaning Lipscomb would win the A-Sun regular-season title with a win. And at halftime, Lipscomb was down 4 to a Mercer squad missing its all-everything big man. If James Florence woke up in the second half, or if Adnan Hodzic didn't, the Bisons were in trouble.
I was worried about the outcome. Erica was enjoying The Moment.
But one random Thursday morning in late March, I walked into the kitchen and overheard Erica talking to her twin sister Katie around the breakfast table. “And then Jacob Arnett looked up and saw Josh Slater coming around and he passed it and Josh Slater shot it and it went in and Mercer was only ahead by 4!”
Since it was morning, I have no idea what the context of that sentence was. I did remember the game, since it was one of the two we got to attend last year. I remembered that Adnan went off in the second half (upon further review, 21 and 11 after Slater's shot). I remembered Lipscomb cutting down the nets after the game. I also remembered the conference tournament loss to Kennesaw State and the not getting invited to the NIT and the fact that Lipscomb only wins 27% of the time when both teams lead in the last 4 minutes.
But for a second there, in our kitchen, Erica and I had a Moment.
The fact that the Moment revolved around a basketball team that had ultimately disappointed me didn't matter. Because our Moment wasn't about me being a fan, but a Dad. Our Moment was a memory my little girl could carry with her a month later, and I was there when it happened, enjoying it right alongside her. Our Moment may look to outsiders like just another shot in just another game, but that's okay. What's important is not what makes up the Moment, but the fact that it is Ours.
The big life lesson? What my children need from me is not a storehouse of objects, a privileged position in the world, or a lifetime of ease, comfort, and safety. It's a Moment. Then another. Then another one after that.
And if basketball can help make that happen, then so much the better.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Sermon Up
Apparently, the file name format is shifting the newest lessons down of the main screen. Today's lesson is "Corpus Christi," where we look at the remarkable circumstances surrounding the burial of Jesus. They're filed by date and not by title, so it shouldn't be that hard to find.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Joy in the Journey, Part 1
Tonight we started a study of the book of Acts in our adult class. The focus is on how Christians find joy and encouragement in different circumstances.
The discussion was both lively and uplifting.
I know.
The central question we talked about had to do with living in a society that likes to think of itself as Christian because we (generally) live by the Golden Rule, give people second chances (a la prodigal son) and help the needy (a la good Samaritan). We observed that there are folks who are content to function in such a society without ever giving a second thought as to whether the person who gave us these principles really did rise from the dead. After all, the principles work, so why worry about where they come from?
In a nutshell, what added value is there in knowing Jesus rose from the dead? How does knowing what happened then, and what will happen eventually, help us live faithful lives here and now?
Comments welcome.
The discussion was both lively and uplifting.
I know.
The central question we talked about had to do with living in a society that likes to think of itself as Christian because we (generally) live by the Golden Rule, give people second chances (a la prodigal son) and help the needy (a la good Samaritan). We observed that there are folks who are content to function in such a society without ever giving a second thought as to whether the person who gave us these principles really did rise from the dead. After all, the principles work, so why worry about where they come from?
In a nutshell, what added value is there in knowing Jesus rose from the dead? How does knowing what happened then, and what will happen eventually, help us live faithful lives here and now?
Comments welcome.
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