servant and slave of all...

Isn't there a fundamental difference between a slave and a servant? A slave, as opposed to a servant, is indentured, has no rights, has no choice. At the core of my understanding I thought I knew the difference. Recently it became apparent that I may muttle the definition of both.

A servant for God? Oh, sure, sounds great! A slave for God? Eerrrrtt! Hold up, I didn't sign up for this.

As a self-professed control freak, the sound of slave makes me twitch. But Paul in Ephesians 6:5 speaks about a doulos, a slave of Christ. Doulos was a servant by choice, which we are called to be.

Meet Maria. She is a woman I met in Mexico who is truly a servant. From the moment I met her, she smiled a wordless greeting and motioned with her head that we were welcomed, then continued to complete her business. She's free to come and go but she chooses to serve. She chooses to remain. She chooses to complete the task set before her. Yes, this is her job. But her humble servanthood and volitionary choice to serve is a testament to her loyalty.

Maria never once complained about her job; in fact, she valued and appreciated what she did. Which illustrated Mark 10:43-45 in real-time, ...whoever wants to be great among you must be a servant, and who ever wants to be first must be a slave to all. For even the Son of Man didn't come to be served, but to serve, and give his life a ransom for many.

How can you serve today? Are you serving with your whole heart? Can we be a doulos to all we encounter? Be like Jesus: serve.

Friday Video Post: youth ministry and the ONE...

I was new to youth ministry when the youth pastor asked me to oversee the junior high and senior girls. In my grandiose ideas of living like Christ, I decided to emulate the actions of Jesus. In my mind, it was going to be spiritual and holy and absolutely fantastically amazing!

But if you've ever done youth ministry, you know that there's always ONE kid who will mess up a plan, an event, or a moment. Yes, that ONE kid who believes they know everything, they're always right, and they could've done everything way better than you ever could have. And yes, that ONE kid came to my event.

The event was off to a great start. Tons of sugary snacks, greasy pizza, and cacophonous laughter from teen girls excited to sing karaoke and stay up all night. I gathered the girls up and explained to them that I would be leading them for the next couple years of youth ministry and wanted to serve them like Jesus. As an act of service to girls, our leadership team decided to wash their feet in basins of warm, sweet smelling water.

As worship played in the background, each leader washed and cleaned each of the girls feet while I shared the passage in John 13 where Jesus humbled himself and washed the feet of the disciples. It was emotional. By the time I finished reading and grabbed a basin there was only ONE girl left to be attended to. And yes, it was the ONE girl I didn't want to even get near to.

I looked at her feet and had to smoother the gag reflexes forming in my chest. It looked like she walked 10 miles in tar and her toe nails hadn't been cut in 40 years. Of all the girls here, I said to myself, I had to get this ONE.

As I touched her feet and slipped them into the bubbly basin, she began to weep uncontrollably. She buried her face in her hands and through painful sobs she apologized to me. She apologized for being negative and allowing her bitterness to over take her. She explained that she felt as if no one loved her... not even her mom. Yet as she heard the words of Christ read aloud and had her feet washed, she knew she was loved. Loved by God and loved by me.

Boy, did I feel like a schmuck!!! I started crying and confessed to her that I needed to apologize too. We were sobbing wrecks. But sobbing wrecks who felt the presence of Jesus in that room.

cutting: by his wounds we are healed...

She bled for twelve years. A nameless, faceless woman in Mark 5 pushed through the throngs of people all wanting a miracle. But she was different. She believed. Her belief healed her.

Suzie bled in silence. Behind her pixie physique and wide smile was a girl who was unaccepted, untouched, unloved. Youth camps, all-nighters, bible studies, and mission trips all hid the internal bleeding which was killing her softly. No one knew her.

Jesus stopped the world on it's axis to meet the need of one woman. A woman he knew had been unaccepted, untouched, and unloved. According to the halacha Hebrew law, a bleeding woman couldn't sit in certain places, eat with certain people, or touch anyone who was pure. But she knew, she really, really, believed that a man name Jesus could heal her. And he did.

In the suicide ward I sat with Suzie for hours. A cutter, a loner, a girl hemorraging from a broken heart who masked it with indie fashion and blonde hair. Unsure of what to say, the only words said for the first hour was, What can I do for you? She laid on the hospital bed; the red scars glowed like neon signs for help against the clean white sheets.

Just touch me, she said. Just love me.

In living Life out loud, we have the power to be the physical touch of Jesus. Though I didn't have the power to heal Suzie, I told her she didn't have to suffer any longer. Her scars and stripes are now going to serve as signs of rememberance of what was stated in Isaiah 53:5, by His wounds we are healed.

be an EMT...

Standing in line donning Hawaiian print shirts, sandals, and straw hats, travelers from across the nation waited in line at LAX to board a plane to paradise. The usual noise cluttered the terminal as excitement wafted in the air.

A shriek pierced the noise and a call for help brought the airline check-in stations to a halt. The body of an adult man laid on the ground helplessly as someone yelled for a doctor. An average looking man with a small carry-on rushed to the body. He flung off his jacket, tilted the victims head back and instantaneously begin rescue breathing and CPR.

I watched in horror as the friend of the victim tried stopping his mouth from touching the mouth of the victim, but I couldn't understand why until I heard, He has AIDS!

The air left the room as the doctor sat on his knees, held a lifeless head in his hands, and questioned if this man's life was worth his own.

Five years later, I'm still asking the same question.

The doctor took a vow to hold Life sacred. So have I. No, I'm not a medical doctor, but I'm a spiritual caretaker as a lover of Jesus Christ. When rushed to a hospital in dire need of care, no one asks if you're Christian or Buddhist, gay or straight, legal or illegal. The primary focus is to save life.

As a spiritual EMT, my job is to get people to the Doctor, not ask questions. Why? Because Life is important whether you're White, Black, Gay, Straight, Asian, Haitian, or not of this nation. I never want to grab my carry-on, put on my jacket, and leave the airport terminal without trying to save a life. Why? Because I don't want to live with regrets like the doctor on his knees at Los Angeles International Airport five years ago.

Are you emergency medical technician? Do you want to be? If you were the doctor, how would have you responded?

be someone...

It was her eyes. Beautiful, brown, tired eyes. She greeted everyone who walked through the door, but few noticed her and less acknowledged her welcome into the hotel dining room.

I wondered how they would’ve treated her if she was their mother, aunt, or sister. But she was a practical adornment. An ornate key hook, an antique table, a face to clean tables when visitors complete a meal.

She scrurried from table to table to pickup dishes, wipe down tables, and put out clean settings. As she drew near to my table, she asked me if she could remove my plate. I tried making a joke about the mess I’d made. It was funny. But my humor was lost in translation; a courtesy laugh, tilted head, and slow nod proved it.

I asked her name. I asked where she was from. I invited her to be more than a key hook, coffee table or brown face. It was then I saw something in her eyes. Her beautiful, brown, tired eyes. At the table she spoke to me and her eyes danced with excitement as she told me where she was from in her native language. She smiled as she spoke about far away places I could see in her eyes. Her beautiful, brown, tired eyes.

Luz Maria and I had a moment in the dining area. She wasn’t a table server or door attendee. She was human. She was a mother, aunt, and sister. She recalled a funny story and lost me before the punch line because she was speaking too fast. I laughed a courtesy laugh, tilted my head, and nodded. Some things might be lost in translation, but loving like Christ is a language everyone speaks.

As we arose from the table, I remembered a quote from a book I read. Jesus’ method doesn’t require doing something, but being someone. Now I want to live it out.

they, them, those...

They picked me up from my hotel while I was breathing out frozen puffs of air like an amused fourth grader. My bible and notes were frozen in my naked hand and my California winter coat did a poor job at shielding me from the east coast chill. The assistant pastor and his wife spoke to me about the event that I would be teaching at and briefed me about what to expect, but I was distracted by the falling snow and frost-breath stick figures I was drawing on the car window. We pulled into the church parking lot before any of the attendees had arrived.

Except for one.

A man wearing an old flannel jacket and wool hat stood against the New England brick wall with a small grin which exposed his toothless smile. Two hours before anyone else had arrived, this man anxiously waited to hear the word of God taught in tattered clothing too thin to keep himself warm. He had a large bible in one hand and a lit cigarette pursed tightly in between the fingers of his other. I greeted him with a soft, Good morning. He exhaled the smoke nervously and began to cough violently. I didn't know what to do, so I offered him a cup of coffee. Before he could answer the assistant pastor angrily told the man to put out his cigarette, quit smoking, and told him to leave the church property if he was going to smoke again. The embarrassed man walked away humiliated and still coughing... and I stood there in complete disbelief.

As we entered into the church building, the pastor spoke of this man in third person plurals; they, them, those. I wanted to die. Didn't Jesus come to save the they, them, and those? Would Jesus care if this guy smoked a cigarette? Would Jesus tell this man to leave if he felt an inclination to repeat the offense? The pastor rambled on about those people while I tried thinking of a response, but I was physically and emotionally numb.

In the sad faces of people we meet, in the vacuous eyes of people we glance at, can you see Jesus? Behind his tailored suit, beyond the baby on her hip, can you see Jesus? If we fail to see Jesus in the people we encounter they will be left untouched like lepers, unreached like the lost, and unloved like the poor. Matthew 10:27, So he answered and said, "'You shall love theLord your God will all your heart, with all your soul, with all your strength, and with all your mind,' and [love] 'your neighbor as yourself.'" And He said to him, "You have answered rightly; do this and you will live."