Stuck On The Ark

What if Noah never left the ark?

I know, I know… it’s a dumb question. But humor me for a moment.

What if the earth still dried, the waters still receded, and the first rainbow still painted the sky, but instead of returning to the land when he let the animals and his sons off the ark, Noah himself refused to leave.

You never know, he might have some pretty good reasons:

...The ark DID save his family, after all. 
...If the ark was trustworthy in the storm, then surely it would be trustworthy now that the storm was gone.
...The ark was instituted by God. God himself said to build it.
...Noah and his fam grew closer to God in the ark, so why shouldn’t others?
...It took so long to build, and it worked so well, it would be a shame to toss it aside.
...The ark could still provide shelter from possible future storms.
...If they left the ark, then things could get bad like they were before. It's easier to control things in the ark.

No matter what reasons he gave, no matter what truth might be in those reasons, at the end of his explanation, I’d bet most of us would agree that’d still be pretty silly.

But if you fast-forward fifty years, it switches from silly to sad. It saddens me to think of Noah stuck on the ark, stranded on a mountain (which is very out of place for a boat), completely shut off from the world around him. Locked in a wooden time capsule while creation marched on. What if he chose to maintain his landlocked boat and ignore the new world around him rather than to partner with what God was doing in the new generations? That would be very sad indeed.

The question I have, then: if we think it absurd that Noah might have wanted to stay on the ark, then as Christians, why is it okay for US to do that?

Because when I look around, I see boarded-up arks petrifying all over the place, inhabited by God’s people.

RECYCLED AIR

It’s an infectious process that always starts off great.

It begins with people connecting with God in a specific church setting, or with certain songs, or through certain Bible curricula and translations, or by certain outreach programs, or via certain evangelism brochures, TV shows, media, preachers, and crusades.

Whatever IT was that God used to save them… it was their boat.

Regardless of what their ark looked like, the Holy Spirit moved, and God changed their life. The ark rescued them and floated them to a new life, and/or a deeper connection with God. That is stinkin’ awesome! Praise God!

But when the waters receded and the rain stopped, instead of stepping out and experiencing God was going to do next, they stayed on their barricaded boats, stranded on remote mountains. With many of the same reasons 'fake Noah' gave earlier.

Over time, their ark became their idol, their savior. And they didn't even know it (hopefully). It’s as if time stopped, and everything that was happening at the moment of their salvation was dipped in some sort of spiritual bronze and instantly became the only correct way to live.

The only exact way to believe.

The only worthy way to worship.  

It pains me to see that, because from then on, it’s a countdown to extinction for many of them as their priorities shift from listening to the Spirit to protecting their preferences - which they can sometimes confuse with their faith. Before long, their airtight ark makes them forget what’s important, and they start fighting over music styles, carpet, colors, and dress codes. They judge and even demonize fellow believers who disagree with their exact faith framework. Disengaged from and forgotten by the world around them, and without many new believers to disciple (especially if their message rarely finds the hearts of unbelievers), they eventually grow old and wither away. Which is terribly sad, because thousands of great stories and generations of experience will simply die with them because they never fell on new ears.

GETTING STUCK ON A GOOD THING

I can’t say I can blame them, though. Because I get stuck on arks all the time! And if you’re honest, you do, too. You probably don’t even realize it (hopefully...because that would be odd if you realized it and decided to stay anyway).

Which is why I find comfort in the fact that even though Noah knew the land was dry (Gen 8:13), he still didn’t get off the ark. In fact, almost two months went by (v. 14) before God eventually TOLD Noah to leave the boat (Hebrew command: yatsa’ – meaning to purposely “go forth” to something). Just in case Noah had a temptation to stay, God made it clear He wanted him to leave it.

It’s part of who we are as humans, and our story as God’s people. From the Israelites who complained about missing Egypt, to the Pharisees that cared more about their specific theological beliefs than the people around them, to those of us in the global Church today, it’s an issue that always plagues us.

For good reason.

Anytime something great happens in our life –whether it be salvation, an answered prayer, freedom from an addiction or hurtful person, a realized hope, a bright day, a joyful event – it’s a little bit like Noah’s ark. It’s a vessel God uses to keep us afloat in tough times, or to bring us to new life in Him, or to deeper faith, or to bless us.

When it happens, it’s wonderful! Praise God!

But we have a tendency to try to hold onto that moment.

To attempt to recreate it constantly.

To deem it the only acceptable way of belief/life/worship.

It’s understandable, because Genesis 1 teaches us that since the very beginning, whenever God moves, says, or does something, it is always good! And it is always worthy of a Heaven-shaking celebration.

But whatever He does, however He moves, whatever vessel He uses, IT is never the point. GOD and His LOVE for us is the point. Always.

We get stuck on our ark when we look to IT, and not to HIM.

Every semester we hold a Tough Questions week in our kids program at church, and each time, without fail, one of the kids ask where Noah’s ark is. Even though we have some pretty cool guesses as to its location, we still don’t truly know.

Why can’t we find Noah’s ark? Because Noah left it.

If the flood happened today in Lake Orion, you bet your sweet bippy that Noah would have that thing shellacked, merchandized, commemorated with a national holiday. It’d have its very own cheesy little section in Family Christian stores, and the boat title would remain in his family for generations to come.

But it didn’t happen that way. When the waters receded, he left it behind.

The ark brought Noah to safety, and connected him to God in a way like never before. The ark was great, but IT wasn’t the point.

You see, at the end of the day, no matter how good and important it was, the ark wasn’t the savior. God was.

God used the ark, and it was good.

But the ark had served its purpose, and God had new things for Noah, and for humanity.

The ark stopped, but God was still moving. 
It’s part of who He is.

GOD OF THE "NEW THING"

Read the Bible and see how many ways He helps, communicates, saves, serves, disciplines, and loves people. You’ll be hard pressed to find a repeat in His song. It maintains the same theme, but it is freely composed.

God never reaches down and loves/leads/teaches/interacts with his creation the same way twice:

A voice in the cool of the day
Pillar of fire/smoke
Burning bush
Talking donkey
Mt. Sinai and the 10 Commandments
A tabernacle
The Kingdom of Israel
An earthquake and a storm
A quiet whisper
A prostitute’s husband
Jesus
The Church 

Why? Because people change. Cultures change. Worldviews change.

Arks always stop. But creation never does.

And if Jesus TRULY is the perfect picture of who God is, then that means our unchanging God is always moving right along with humanity, stepping in to meet them where they’re at again and again, working through His people to reach the world around them as He seeks to make everything “on earth as it is in Heaven.”

GETTING UNSTUCK
So how do we avoid getting stuck on the ark? Or if we're stuck, how do we bust down the door and step into fresh air?

The challenge, then, for all of us is this:

1) Be open and sensitive to God’s movement, with a good attitude. This is the most important one. God doesn’t always move the same with every generation. Arks have a tendency to confuse us into thinking we don’t daily need to rely on the Spirit. Never forget that your ark was once a new wineskin to someone else. 
2) Use discernment instead of blindly following our preferences, peers, pastors, pope, or presidents. Blanket condemnation is easy. Discernment takes time.
3) Have the courage to examine and admit which of our beliefs are actually just preferences. Yes, courage. Because it’s difficult thinking we might be wrong about something. Leaving any aspect of our Ark can be scary.
4) Let humility guide our conversations with others. Don’t demonize people who don’t share our same convictions and preferences (Paul's calling to the weaker brother/stronger brother in Romans 14 is key to being able to do this). Always give the same amount of mercy, grace, respect, truth, and love that we would like.
5) Allow grace to invade every part of us. Just because a certain denomination, event, worship style, or evangelism method brought you and I to Christ and/or helps you and I grow, it doesn’t mean that it’s the ONLY one that God is going to use for others, for all time.
_______________________________

It’s IMPERATIVE that we step up and accept these challenges.

Because the advancement of the Kingdom, and the effectiveness of the Church as a whole depends on it. It’s hard for a body to move when one of its limbs refuses to budge.

Jesus has commissioned us to bring His light and love to the world around us where they’re at.

But we can’t do it if we’re still stuck on the ark.

Trailer Park Church - How It All Began

My buddy Dan Sadlier asked me to share the cool story of how the trailer park ministry began.

After you've read it, check out Dan's blog here, and make sure to bookmark it, because God's doing some crazy-awesome stuff with that guy and his family. 

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It’s not every day that God gives you a free house.

~~

About two years ago, an idea sparked in my heart, and I couldn’t douse it.

I wondered what it would look like to move into a rough community, a place with a bad reputation, and tackle the darkness head on.

I remember being mesmerized as a child by a book called The Cross and the Switchblade, which centered on the true story of a young Christian minister who moved into NYC and tackled the gang and drug scene, impacting the lives of countless people. I was fascinated by the concept of taking Jesus to the places no one else wanted to.

I’m sure much of this desire was spurred by the story of my own hometown. As a child and teen, I sadly watched the city of Flint crumble while “the Church” responded by hiking up its skirt and rushing to the pseudo safety of the suburbs.

It wasn’t much of a surprise when this spark, this nudge to impact a low-hope neighborhood ignited into a flame last spring. After some prayer and consideration, I felt like God was behind the tug on my heart, and I started looking for such a place.

I spent the summer praying checking out trailer parks in the Pontiac area. Along the way, my buddy DJ volunteered to help me search.

Eventually, we heard about a little park that was tucked away behind the new church building, so we went to check it out. We walked the length of the park on our first visit, praying as we went. With every step, both of us felt an undeniable peace. We knew this was the place.

When we asked our friends about the park, we were bombarded with reasons why I shouldn’t move in:

Pontiac schools.

Highest crime rate in Orion.

Weekly appearance in the police blotter.

Drugs. Poverty. Theft. Invasions. Murders. Convicts. Illegal immigrants. Domestic Violence. Child neglect. Joblessness.

But every reason they offered to convince me that I shouldn’t go only served to solidify my belief that I was needed there.

Because JESUS was needed there.

There was only one tiny problem. 

I couldn’t afford a house.

I could cover the lot rent, and could just scrape by with the utilities, but I didn’t make enough to purchase one. I also didn’t think it would be wise to go into more debt for this adventure. So one night, after one of my many visits to the park, I laid my head on my pillow and did something I’d never done before. I asked God to move a mountain.

“God, open the door for me, and I’ll go.”

I spoke it out loud. I meant it, but I’ll admit, I wasn’t convinced He would answer this one. I wanted Him to, but believing God for BIG things was NOT commonplace in the church circles I grew up in, and was often met with high amounts of skepticism. Nevertheless I prayed it anyway. Couldn’t hurt, right?

Two weeks later, an elderly lady from my church approached me between services and asked me to tell her more about my interest in the trailer park behind the new building. I thought that was interesting, because I didn’t really know her well, and had only told a handful of people about my recent request to God. Word sure travels fast.

She informed me that her and a group of others in our community had been praying for months that God would send someone from Kensington into that community.

They felt like God had assured them that someone would eventually go, so they continued praying and waiting. Also interesting.

I told her all the things I would love to see happen there, things like tutoring, bible studies, community BBQs, rides to church, etc. Then I explained to her how I would love to go but couldn’t afford it yet.

With a knowing smile, she stopped me mid-sentence by grabbing my arm. Then she said something that changed my life, and my faith in the power of prayer.

“We know, because God told us to buy one for you.”

I needed a crane to pull my jaw off the floor.

That stuff only happens in cheesy Christian books.

Or for equally cheesy televangelists who want people to give them money.

This former Baptist boy didn’t quite know what to do with that sort of thing.

So, backed by a group of people I didn’t know (and still don’t know…they wanted to remain anonymous), I returned to the park the next week to find a place to live.

The weeks that followed can best be described as whirlwind of God’s grace, as He dropped the biggest trailer and biggest lot in the park (which hadn’t been up for sale since the day it was placed on the lot in the 60’s) in our lap for $10,000 less than the asking price.

But God didn’t stop there. He provided a slew of volunteers who knocked down walls, painted, and made a large space for tutoring since there is no clubhouse. Then he brought donors to provide appliances, furniture, and flooring.

As a bonus, people gave bags and bags of clothes, toiletries, winter coats, and boots so we could hand them out as a welcome gift to the neighborhood.

I was amazed, and in near disbelief that God not only gave me a house, but added all this extra stuff too. Apparently, I had forgotten how big my God is.

~~

I’m coming up on my one-year mark of being blown away by God answering prayers in a way I can hardly believe.

Although I’m living here alone, I’m not in this alone.  God has brought a cadre of cohorts alongside me, from preschoolers to octogenarians. And in the last 10 months, together, we have…

…handed out Thanksgiving baskets

…given a truckload of gently-used clothes

…prayed with strangers on my porch and in my streets

…called out the enemy and watched him flee

…hosted an Easter Egg hunt and shared the gospel with 50+ kids and their parents

…provided food, furniture, and funds to families in need

…helped those very families begin to start serving others back

…changed tires for the disabled

…tutored over 20 kids on a weekly basis

…taught students to read, create stories, and do triple-digit multiplication

…had tough conversations that college Bible courses never prepared us for

…shown love to people, some who are just seeing it for the first time in their life

And if that’s just year one,

I can’t wait to see what happens next.

A Dangerous Cup of Water

I had only been living in the trailer park for about five months, and unexpected visitors were still uncommon, so I was surprised when I heard the doorbell sound off in the middle of the day.

I opened my front door and saw a neighborhood kid waiting on my porch. I recognized him from the weekly tutoring program we were running out of my living room on Tuesdays. He was a regular, and I was getting to know his family well, but this was the first time he had ever knocked on my door outside of tutoring day.

“What’s up, dude?” I asked him.

His initial courage deflated, betraying his tough-guy mohawk and swagger. He turned his gaze to his toe as he softly kicked the green, putt-putt-golf carpet that covered my porch.

“Um, it’s hot out,” he said, maintaining his view of his frayed sneaker.

“Yep, it sure is!” I glanced at the bald eagle thermometer that the last owner of my house had left behind; just over 100 degrees, and it was barely noon. I didn’t know what the boy wanted, so I gave him a few seconds to pull his thoughts together. However, his shyness won out and he filled that space with only silence. So I prodded, “Did you need something?”

“Well, um, it’s hot. And I’m thirsty. And I was wondering, do you have anything to drink?” With his question, he shifted his eyes back up to catch mine, and then added, “I’m sorry if I’m bothering you.”

I hadn’t been shopping in awhile, but I always kept a jug of spring water in the fridge. We weren’t supposed to drink the tap water because of frequent line breaks and bacterial contamination.

“First off, you’re never a bother to me.” I reassured, “And second, all I have is some water. Is that ok?”

“Is it cold?” he asked.

“Cold enough for a polar bear. But I’ll put some ice in it, too. Wait right here.”

I trekked to the kitchen and filled a solo cup with refrigerated Meijer spring water, then returned and placed the cup in his dirty hands. He smiled and thanked me. I told him I was glad he stopped by, and if he ever needed anything again, all he had to do was ask. His freckled smile grew wider and his eyes brightened as he thanked me again. He took a sip, then turned and left, cautiously walking down the steps so he wouldn’t spill his water.

As I watched him go, the words of Jesus echoed in my head: “I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This story is true.

Since that visit this spring, my home life has changed.

Drastically.

As has my shopping list.

For the first time in 28 years, I am beginning to understand the power of those words of Jesus in a whole new depth.

I grew up in church from day one, but in complete honesty, the first time I heard a pastor teach on Jesus’ call to reach “the least of these,” I was in my mid-20’s. Sad fact.

And on the few occasions that “helping the poor” was talked about when I was a child and teenager in Sunday school, it was always accompanied with a slew of stipulations and conditions. Then we would be reminded of the time Jesus told his disciples that the poor would always be around us, which somehow supposedly let us off the hook from having to do anything about it. Then if any of us still had concerns about helping the poor, we would be asked questions that were intended to seal the deal about not needing to regularly participate.

Questions like:

What if they come back again?

What if they’re still thirsty next week?

What if they’re still hungry?

What if they’re still poor?

What if they’re still jobless?

What if they’re still sick?
What if they outgrow their shoes?

The general idea was that since people in need were always going to be there, it didn’t matter much how frequently we helped. Which often translated into the unspoken mindsets of “it doesn’t matter if you help at all” and “it’s more important to tell people they’re going to Hell than it is to begin a relationship by giving them a loaf of bread.”

Now, I believe to the very bottom of my heart that my teachers meant well. My assumption is that they were just teaching what was taught to them when they were kids, by people who equally meant well.

I assume this, because there was also a time that I taught this to kids as well, and I know for a fact that I meant it well then.

I’m starting to understand their rationale more now, and I see it for what I think it truly is: a well-intended fear.

Because since the day that I gave out the water, I literally went from having one visitor a month to having multiple visitors daily, with ALL sorts of needs. After almost 5 months of handing out koolaid, bandaids, freeze pops, bikes, shoes, diapers, appliances, and canned goods, I get why some Christians are scared to start helping people in need.

A cup of cold water can be dangerous.

Jesus was brilliant in his “least of these” decree, because the items he chose as examples of things to give were purposely simple:

Water (I was thirsty).

Leftovers (I was hungry).

Hand-me-downs (I was naked).

Visits to the marginalized (I was lonely in prison)

These aren’t grand gestures. They aren’t newsworthy.

They’re every day things that we have extra of.

There is something great and scary about giving a cup of cold water to someone who’s thirsty. If you do it even once, you start caring for that person. From the moment you place a condensation-covered solo cup in their hands, something connects their heart to yours.

Looking back, I see that my teachers’ questions were valid, because the list of needs in my park DOESN’T go away. In fact, it gets longer as more people add to it.

And yes, some of them are going to be thirsty again tomorrow.

Some of them are going to be hungry again next week.

Some of them will outgrow their shoes next month.

Some of them will still be jobless next spring.

Some of them will still be disabled next year.

But does the mere fact that they will still have needs tomorrow give me reason to ignore? I hope not, because I'm 28, I have a great job, a great family, a solid community of friends, and yet I still have needs (I don't know anyone who doesn't, for that matter). And I would hate to think that my needs weren't worth being met simply because they weren't glamorous enough.

Meeting people's needs, giving a cup of cold water... it's dangerous.

But the never-ending list isn’t what’s dangerous.

Here’s what is truly dangerous, (and simply brilliant):

When you start giving something as simple as cold water, you might find yourself actually WANTING that person to come back again.

From there, it’s a slippery slope of caring. Because one day, you might find yourself praying for those people.

One day, you might change your shopping list to help meet theirs.

One day, you might invite them over for dinner.

One day, you might offer to give them a ride to church.

One day, you might help them make a resume.

One day, you might teach them about budgets. And debt.

One day, you might help them learn to read.

One day, you might buy them a new sweater instead of you.

One day, you might invite your friends to join you.

And finally one day, you might have the courage to no longer look at them as statistics, and instead see them as Jesus does: individual people who are in need of Love without agenda, Love without conditions, just as much as you are.

And on THAT day

You can look back and remember…

That it all started with a cup of cold water.

Brown Bear, Brown Bear, Who do you see?

As I was a child, I always liked the Brown Bear Brown Bear books, because each character on each page was always looking at someone else, and never just themselves. It seemed like everyone knew that everyone else was just as important. "You may see me, but really, I see Green Frog, and I think he's pretty cool. You should take a look..."



I know it's strange that I thought this way... but hey, I was a strange kid.


So...
I want to introduce you to some people.

15 different people/families, to be exact.

They probably don’t know you.

But you know every single one of them…

And you might not even be aware of it.

I am who I am today because of them.

When you see different parts of me, you actually see them.

This list isn’t as large as it could be.

There are so many others I need to add.

I won’t apologize for the length of this post, because it should be longer,
and it's missing people like my sister, Michele. And Nate Degner, my HS choir teacher.

So I encourage you to read it through.

Because you might learn something about yourself.

But even if you don’t, you’ll at least learn about some amazing people.

People who have been Jesus to me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

1) Marshall and Leonia Bouchard are my parents. Thanks to cancer, you won’t meet Dad on this side of Heaven, but you can still see him in my drive to continuously create things, to teach the word of God, and in my ever-enlarging gut (coulda gone without getting THOSE genes, Dad). But my heart, my need to always question the status quo, and my kid-friendly “pied piper gene” comes from Mom. Seriously, she can step into a room full of strangers, and everyone under 18 will be somehow be surrounding her within minutes. So basically, whenever you see me doing anything, you actually see Dad and Mom.

2) Jim and Sandi Slaton and their kids showed the gift of hospitality when they invited me to live with them for two years when I was an intern. They showed me what a godly family looks like. They took me in at a time when I was still figuring out who I was, and who God wanted me to be. Oh, and they introduced me to Rita’s. ‘Nuff said. Anytime you see me investing in Family Ministry, or eating good ice cream, you actually see Jim, Sandi, Caleb, Savannah, and Parker.

3) Shanna Banks and I are opposites in every way. No joke. But when we first got put on the same team, that team became a force to be reckoned with. Not only is she my former classmate and co-worker, she’s also one of my best friends. And between us, we’ve just about seen it all in ministry. She’s the greatest leader I know under the age of 40. And she’s been that way since she was 19. Anytime you see me train others, and whenever you see me smiling in the middle of chaos, you actually see Shanna.

4) Steve Freakin’ Andrews is my pastor. No I’m not brown-nosing. The man doesn’t even know what Facebook is, so he'll never read this post. But this guy is the embodiment of what it means to have no agenda besides Jesus Christ. You’d never know the guy leads a church of 12,000, and that’s exactly how he wants it. He doesn’t hold on to power and authority, instead he gladly gives it away. Unlike the others in this list, you won’t see Steve in me… yet. When the time comes for me to help lead a church, that’s when you’ll see Steve.

5) Ellie Sharrow didn’t just teach kids about Journalism and Publications, she taught kids how to take a close look at life, and how to capture life and put it on a page in a way that can impact the life of others for the greater good. AND she was the first person to ever put me in charge of stuff. Anyone who knew me in high school knows that was risky. Thanks to her, I now can’t look at any kind of article, blog post, or newspaper without critiquing its grammar, content, and layout, which is both a blessing and a curse (local newspapers are NOTORIOUS for tombstone headlines, by the way). In every story and script I write, and every time I encourage kids and teens to do the same, you don’t see me, you actually see Ellie.

6) Joe McGinnis was the first Children’s Pastor I ever encountered. I didn’t know such positions even existed before meeting him. When I started volunteering at Far Hills 9 years ago, I served every Sunday in the Early Childhood wing, traveling from class to class with my guitar, singing the same 3 songs. One of which was about a man who got his arms eaten off by a shark. But he saw beyond the horrible songs, and my life took a 180 turn when he asked me to intern in kids/family ministry. Over the next two years, he took this (then) 21-year-old without a work ethic, and turned me into a leader. Anytime you see me leading any kind of team, you actually see Joe.

7) Lisa Doane is my partner in crime at Kensington, and one of the wisest leaders I know. She’s the powerhouse behind moving KKids to a volunteer-based model. When Lake Orion first launched 3 years ago, all eyes were on LO to see if it would work, and God used her to prove that it could. Anytime I do something that works, it’s probably because either A) Lisa made me do it, or B) Lisa took whatever my hairbrained idea was and showed me how to make it work. So anytime anything I’m in charge of manages to work, you actually see Lisa.

8) Abbey McCormack writes for 252 Basics (one of the BEST kids’ church curriculum ever written), and she was the only person in my 1st interview at Kensington that noticed that I accidentally wore my sweater vest inside-out. When I started at Kensington, I was a little bit of a mess. I liked teaching kids, but I had a lot to learn when it came to being a leader. Abbey kept me sane that first year(and quite often still does). She took me under her wing, showed me what artistic excellence and kids ministry looked like together, and constantly shoved me over the edge of my creative limits. She’s pretty cool, but watch out… she likes to kick people in the head while they’re driving. Anytime I come up with any illustration, picture, or video that’s out of the box, you actually see Abbey.

9) Mike and Sharon Eckstein occupied my Mondays every single week for the 2 years I worked at Grace Baptist. I spent every Monday lunch at Subway with Mike, and every Monday evening at the Ecksteins’ for an excellent dinner (Sharon’s cooking is to die for), followed by a living-room wrestling match with their kids. Then Mike would end the night by catching me up on all the “manly” movies I missed out on as a kid. Most importantly, Mike was the first father IN MY ENTIRE LIFE that I saw actually apologize to his kid if he ever did/said something wrong. The first time he did that, it completely rocked my world. Whenever I pray about my future family, I ALWAYS pray that my household will resemble Mike and Sharon’s. So you may not see them now, but be on the lookout for them when I’m a husband and father. You’ll see them then.

10) “PJ” John Scally was the last youth pastor I had (in the traditional Baptist Church fashion, we went through 3 in my 4 highschool years). Of everyone in this list, he’s the one you see most. You see him every time I teach. You see him when I shoot you and your kids with my air cannon in the halls between services and completely mess your hair up. Your kids see him when I visit them at their schools for lunch. Your teens see him when I crash the all-nighters, taunt and slaughter them at laser tag, do impromptu hand-checks on the bus, and soak them with giant water guns at the Squirt Gun Jam while covered in war paint and screaming “FREEDOM!” You also see his wife Tami when I put up with kids who burp in my face, just like I did to her (don’t ask me why… teens rarely know why they do what they do).

11) Dan Sadlier and I went on a mission trip together, but we haven't ever actually worked together on any projects. But Dan has still been, and continues to be a big influence in my life as a leader. Goes to show that you don’t have to actually oversee someone to have an impact on them. You see Dan anytime I cast vision for the future. You see Dan whenever we have a Family Fun Night at Orion. You also see Dan whenever I take time to invest in the next generation leaders of this world.

12) Tammie Sparkman is my older niece but we were raised as siblings (just go with it, it’ll take too long to explain). Growing up, we experienced every aspect of sibling rivalry. But now, she and her awesome husband, Nick Sparkman, are my best friends. They’ve been through Hell and back, and have relied on God in situations when some of the world's bravest would have given up. They continually serve as a great example of marriage to me. Their son Collin is the cutest kid in the galaxy, and I can’t wait for them to spoil my kids one day. You see them every time you see me, because I’m always thinking of them, and I talk to them every single day.

13) Lois Henderson was the first person in my life to empower me to be a teacher. Even as a 1st grader, I had a desire to help others learn. As my teacher, she saw that, and encouraged me to help the other students in my class. I got hooked on helping others, and the teaching passion has followed me ever since. Anytime I bring a kid on stage to help me out, you actually see Lois.

14) Stephanie (Bagby) Wright was my Sunday School teacher for almost 14 years. If she were at Kensington, we'd call her a small group leader. I’m sure it’s no surprise for you to hear that I was quite a rambunctious kid. In fact, every time it was time for me to move to the next age group, the teacher I was supposed to have would “retire.” No joke. Probably because they knew I was coming. So because there was a always hole, Stephanie would always move up too. She knew I was a handful, but she found creative ways of including me and using me as a helper. I don’t remember many specific things that she taught, but even when I was young, I always thought that she reminded me of Jesus; choosing to be surrounded by kids that adults might shoo away. On top of that, outside of church, Stephanie came to any activity I had that she could. Concerts, plays, birthdays, you name it. She even took me to work with her for “bring your kid to work day” since she didn't have any kids of her own yet. So you see Stephanie every time I go to a kid’s game or concert. And when I pick the kid(s) that others might be bugged by, and I don't get irritated when they do whatever it is they do, just know that it's not me doing it, it’s actually Steph.

15) Caleb Livengood goes by Caleb to everyone else, but to me, he’ll always be Stinky. He’s also the only person on this list that hasn’t even hit his teenage years yet. On the day that his parents, Kevin and Tisha, came walking down the hall of the day care I worked at, with their little blonde-headed crew trailing behind them, I had no idea my life was about to change. Kevin and Tisha were the only parents there that were my age, and we all became instant best friends. I have a special place in my heart for every kid I’ve ever taught. But with Caleb, I’ve never seen a kid that young with a heart that big before. Even as a kindergartener, he strived to make sure every person around him felt valued and important. With his deep faith, rockin’ parents and equally awesome siblings like Ethan and Selah, I cannot wait to see what God is going to do with/in Caleb. Anytime you hear me ask kids to unleash every single detail about whatever story it is they want to share, you don’t see me, you actually see Caleb.

So then the question arises… when people see you… who else do they actually see?

Parable of the Tribes

This short story was inspired by a recent conversation with a friend. It was an accident, I assure you. It started as a tweet, then it turned into an illustration, until it grew legs and ran off and became a short story.

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There once was a boy who liked to sing.

The boy grew up in a Small Tribe near the Great River, surrounded by people he cared for dearly, and who cared for him. The people in the Small tribe were a joyful bunch. They taught the boy about the Chief of all Tribes, who was loving, just, and kind.

They taught him the truths and ways the Chief, and they told him the Chief’s Story. The boy learned who the Chief was, and that He wanted all people to be a part of His Story.

They also taught the boy how to sing. He learned that the Chief had created all people to sing. The Small Tribe even had its own Song that everyone sang, and they were always inviting others to sing with them.

It was a beautiful, inviting Song. In fact, it was so beautiful, so inviting, that nomads in the harsh, cold lands outside of the village were often drawn to safety by its sound.

The Small Tribe’s Song was a Song of freedom, a Song of restoration, a Song of hope.

It was a song that offered meaning and value to the life that is now, and the life that is later.

The meaning of the Small Tribe’s Song never changed, and it was always based on the Story of the Chief of all Tribes.

However, the sound of the Small Tribe's Song was always changing.

It was freely composed, full of improvisation.

As each new member joined the tribe, they added their own notes to the Song; their own pieces. Sometimes this meant that blue notes would happen, notes that were mistakes. But this was expected, and those who sang incorrect notes were encouraged and mentored so they would better and more freely add to the beauty of the Song.

Any tribe’s Song was important, because the Chief had created the tribes to sing their unique Song, and invite all the lost nomads and outcasts in the land to join in and become part of the Chief’s Story.

The boy loved his Small Tribe, he loved the Chief of all Tribes, he loved the Chief’s Story, and he loved the Small Tribe’s Song. The Song filled his life, and he was constantly sharing the Song with other people outside of the tribe, inviting them to sing along. He would have been happy to do so for the rest of his life.

But sadly, disaster hit his tribe. A bad storm made the river rise and overtake the tribe’s land. In the chaos of the storm, the Small Tribe split apart in search for dry land.

The storm winds drove the boy’s family South, until they happened upon an Old Tribe near the small, Fairweather Creek. They were unfamiliar with the Old Tribe and its customs, and it was larger than the Small Tribe they once knew and loved. From the cold, harsh fields outside of the village, they could not hear the Old Tribe’s Song. When they came through the gates, they noticed that few people were singing anything at all. But the Old Tribe believed in the ways of the Chief of all Tribes, and that was enough for the boy’s parents. The members of the Old Tribe were kind, but newcomers were not allowed in the inner streets of the village, so the boy’s family settled in a spot on the edge of the village near the Eastern gates.

The boy was quickly welcomed into the tribal community, and enjoyed his new friends. He especially liked the town storyteller. The storyteller was a caring man with a smile both contagious and wise. He was a clever man as well. The two bonded fast, and the storyteller taught the boy all he knew. The older man knew the boy was special, and so took him under his wing as a friend and apprentice.

Although the boy was growing accustomed to the Old Tribe, there was something that unsettled him. He had always liked to sing when he was with the Small Tribe, but now he was with the Old Tribe, they were singing a Song that was very different from the Song the boy knew.

The song of the Small Tribe was freeing. It was a good song, alive with joy.

But the song of the Old Tribe was not like the song of the boy’s youth.

It was not a Song of freedom. It was a Song of rules.

It was not lively, and it seemed hollow.

And worst of all for the boy, it was always exactly the same.

There were no new voices; there were no new verses.

There was no improvisation.

This confused the boy, so one day while visiting with his mentor, he asked the storyteller about the Old Tribe’s Song. Immediately, the light in the storyteller’s eyes dimmed, and he turned his head down and away. When he returned his gaze to the boy, it was wrinkled with a sadness that the boy had never seen before. After a moment of thought, the seasoned storyteller began.

“Don’t let these wrinkles fool you, for I once was a boy, too.

My family and I were nomads traveling in the harsh, cold fields. ‘Traveling’ is what we called it, but really, we were just wandering. No matter which road we followed, no matter which cloud we chased, no matter which storms we ran from, we never found a place to call home. Years later, some would tell us that we were looking for the Story we belonged to.

“Well one day, when we were trying to outrace a threatening storm, we heard a strange noise. My youngest sister heard it first, which isn’t a surprise – the Chief of all Tribes Himself believes that young ones have the best ear for a tribe’s Song because they have the biggest heart for the Chief’s Story, and my sister had the biggest heart I've ever known – so we followed the sound until we reached this village. The Old Tribe was so much bigger then that it is now. We arrived in time to hear them singing, and boy, could they sing! It was such a beautiful Song, exploding with joy and peace. It was a Song that you couldn’t help but want to join in. I don’t remember too much of it anymore, but I think the chorus went a little something like this… ”

As the storyteller sang, the boy’s heart stirred and swelled his chest, sending up a smile to his face and a laugh through his mouth. For it was a joyful Song indeed, and it reminded the boy of the Small Tribe’s Song that he so loved. He hated for the storyteller’s singing to end as the old man continued.

“My sister was the first of us to start singing, and I was the last. My voice cracked, and I hit a whole lot of wrong notes. Blue notes, the tribespeople called them. But they never stopped me from singing. That day, we put up our tent right next to the village square, and we never left.

“So you see, the Old Tribe's Song was good. And it was once full of life.

But soon, some became concerned. Because the Song was so full of life, and because anyone could be a part of it, the Song would sometimes have messy sections.

Some of the people were concerned that the blue notes might one day get out of hand, because a Song full of blue notes isn’t really a Song at all, nor does it sound beautiful or inviting. Blue notes were mistakes, after all. As more nomads were coming in and joining the Old Tribe’s Song, that also meant there would be more mistakes. The concerned tribal members believed that it was important to uphold and maintain the integrity and rules of the Song. They claimed it was our job to keep the Song perfect and good. So the tribal leaders decided there would be no more improvisation, since improvisation opens up the possibility for blue notes. And since blue notes are mistakes, it was also decided that they should no longer be allowed.

“So they set up rules to keep the Song clean and pristine. It was more important to play a perfect Song than to allow nomads to just join in, lest they sing a blue note and take away from the beauty of the Song. Over time, the rules and perfection of the Song became more important than the heart of the Song itself. Until the heart of the Song was gone.”

The man’s story enraged the boy. “What about the nomads? How do they sing now?”

The wizened man leaned forward, calming the boy with a hand on the shoulder. “Young storyteller, look around you. Look close at the empty houses and tents. There are no nomads here. Not anymore. The only people that join our tribe these days follow the same path as you. They come from other tribes that experience trouble. Our numbers were once great, but they are slowly dwindling. You see, our Song is controlled, and it is perfect, but it is no longer joyful and inviting. You yourself told me it wasn’t our Song that made your family decide to stay here, it was merely the fact that we believed in the Chief of all Tribes. It is a rare day when a nomad joins our tribe. We don’t seek them out because of the blue notes. When a nomad does stumble into our midst, they must first learn all the rules and all the words before they can sing. And then they must sing only the exact words and notes that our elders have decided upon.”

The boy didn’t understand. “So if you knew it was wrong back then, why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you stop it? Why did you stop singing the good Song?”

“We tried, young one. My little sister was the most vocal about the changes. She was a sweet thing, but could be a feisty little wildcat, too. She made petitions, held meetings, and walked around town singing the good Song as loud as she could. After a time, the elders accused her of being a “broken voice,” only able to sing blue notes. They called a town meeting with her and decided it would be best for the tribe if she would just leave, so they sent her away from the Old Tribe as an outcast.”

“An outcast? Is that like a nomad?” The boy had heard of outcasts, but had never yet seen one.

“No, my friend. A nomad is someone who has never experienced a tribal song, someone who has never been a part of the Chief’s Story. An outcast is different. Outcasts were once part of a tribe, but were either kicked out by the tribe due to having “broken voices,” or they simply left out of their own choosing.

“So you just let her go? Alone?” That is something the boy could never see himself doing.

“It is my life’s biggest regret that I did not go with her. But I couldn’t, because I was afraid. I didn’t like the ‘perfect’ Song, but I could handle it. There were no mistakes or blue notes anymore, but at least it was safe. Now it is far too late for me to leave. It’s what I’m comfortable with, and it’s all I know. I wouldn’t even begin to know how to compose or improvise again. You get used to it after a time. And speaking of time, it’s late, my big-hearted friend. You’d better get going before your mother worries.”

That conversation left a mark on the boy, and over time the boy’s view of the Old Tribe changed. He loved his friends in the tribe, and he still visited the storyteller. But he did not like nor agree with the Old Tribe’s Song.

It was technically perfect in every way. It was calculated. It was refined.

But it wasn’t real.

It contained no one’s real words.

It was someone else’s song. Someone else’s words. Someone else’s melody.

It wasn’t full of joy and echoing love, but instead somber and empty, with a tinge of despair.

Instead of celebrating both the life that is now and the life that is later, it only spoke of the later, and made the now seem worthless.

It focused on shame and guilt instead of the love of the Chief of all Tribes.

It was not a Song of freedom.

It was a Song of rules.

It made the boy not want to sing loudly anymore.

And he definitely didn’t want to share it with any nomads.

Not that they were any nomads left out there.

"Not anymore."

Every time he heard the Old Tribe's Song, the boy sang more quietly,

Until eventually he stopped singing altogether.

He moved his lips. Pretended to smile.

But inside, he felt like the Old Tribe’s Song: hollow.

It was better to not sing.

However, unlike his friend the storyteller, the boy could not endure or fake the Song for long. It was not part of his nature. You see, the boy had read the Chief’s Story. And he knew that the Chief had created the Tribes to invite the nomads to join His story. This kind, well-meaning Old Tribe had forgotten the purpose of its Song. Although they once sang a song that was beautiful, messy, and inviting for everyone, they now sang a song that was empty, rigid, and brought only comfort for themselves.

When the boy became a young man, he decided he would rather face the cold, harsh lands as an outcast alone than pretend to sing a Song he could not agree with.

So the boy left, disgruntled.

For years, the young man who no longer loved to sing wandered the lands without a Song in his throat. He sometimes saw other tribes afar off. But like when his family found the Old Tribe, he never heard their Songs. He tried to remember the Song from his Small Tribe, but the years of neglect had stolen the Song away. As he wandered through the fields, he never noticed the day he forgot how to sing altogether.

One morning, when he was still sleeping, the young man dreamt of his days in the Small Tribe. In his dream, he was a child again, playing in the Great River with his tribal friends and the nomad children, when suddenly he heard a beautiful sound that woke him up. He sat up and opened his eyes, and noticed that the Great River was gone, his young friends were gone, but the beautiful sound was not.

The sound seemed familiar. He cupped his ears toward the noise and listened close. It was a song! A beautiful and inviting Song! He picked up his belongings and raced toward the sound, which lead him to a large city at the foot of a small mountain.

The Song became louder as he neared the city. When the he entered the city gates, the Song was almost too much to bear. It was lively, it was vibrant, and it filled the air so thickly, he swore he could feel it in his lungs. The whole city was singing it. He followed the sound to the town square, As he was listening, an elderly lady with a kind, weathered face and bright eyes who was crouching next to him nudged his arm and invited to join in the singing.

“But what if I make a mistake? What if I mess up?” He asked her. He really wanted to sing, but after years of not singing, he was afraid to ruin this New Tribe’s Song. It was so beautiful and free.

The lady laughed, “You mean blue notes? Oh, honey, we all make those sometime. We don’t want to try to make a song out of blue notes, but when people make them, we work together to help each other get better. Now go ahead and sing.”

So the young man who forgot how to sing joined in, and he sang wonderfully. It was like he had never stopped singing at all. He hit a couple of blue notes, but he did not stop. And the Song? He absolutely loved the Song. It reminded him of the Chief of all Tribes, and of the Chief’s Story, just like any good Song should do. When it was over, the old lady grasped his hand and offered him a smile both contagious and wise.

“You did great, young man. Welcome to the New Tribe. I can tell you’ve sung great Songs before. Where are you from?”

The young man said, “I was born in the Small Tribe that used to be by the Great River. Before today, our Song was the sweetest I’d ever heard. One day a storm caused the Great River to flood over our tribe. Then I lived awhile with the Old Tribe by Fairweather Creek in the South. But I didn’t believe in their Song, so I left and chose the life of an outcast.

The old lady tightened her grip on his hand “I too, was an outcast, young man. The Old Tribe you speak of was my home, but not anymore. My brother remains there, still telling his stories, no doubt.”

“The old storyteller is your brother?” the young man exclaimed. He had oft wondered if the storyteller’s story might have been just for entertainment. “He was my friend! He told me what happened to you. If you’re his little sister, then what he said must be true. He said the Old Tribe’s Song used to be beautiful and inviting, but it isn’t anymore.”

“My brother was right," she answered, then added with a smirk, "He never did make a good liar. Their Song was once just as good as the Song is here at the New Tribe. Then the Old Tribe tried to make the song perfect, and cut out anything or even anyone who might add a blue note. But here’s what they failed to realize: it’s not us who make the Song good. It’s the Chief! It’s really His Song, He just lets us sing it. We could never make it perfect and good, but He does. He lets us put our words in it, and write our own melodies so we can be part of His Song, just like we become a part of His Story. Even with our blue notes. Now run along, my friend, and put up your tent. This is your home now.”

So the young man set up his tent in a spot in the middle of the city near the town square. And there he stayed for many years, serving as the tribe’s storyteller. After a time, he sent letters to his family in the Old Tribe, and many of them joined him in the New Tribe by the foot of the small mountain.

One day, after the man had grown old, he was walking along the streets of the village when he noticed a tired-looking family standing near the city entrance. They crowded just inside the gates, staring wide-eyed at the sights and sounds around them. He looked at them with his bright eyes and approached them with a smile both contagious and wise as he asked them where they were from.

The father of the family greeted the old storyteller and introduced himself, “We were from the Old Tribe that used to be near the Fairweather Creek, far to the South.”

“Used to be?” asked the storyteller.

“Yes. Our tribe became very small over the past few years, so we moved closer to the creek. Then a big storm came and turned the creek into a raging river that overtook our village. We traveled far, and had it not been for my youngest child here, we might have missed this city. He heard your Song from a long way off. He even started singing along as we came closer. We’ve never heard a Song so beautiful and inviting!”

The storyteller laughed and looked at the smallest boy who was clinging to his father’s leg, “The young ones always have the best ear for the tribe’s Song. That must mean you have a big heart, little storyteller. You are one special boy.”

The shy boy beamed a smile from ear to ear while maintaining his grip, “I couldn’t help it! It’s a good song!”

“It is a very good song. I can’t wait for you to sing it with us. Your family is most welcome here. Come, let me show you around.”