Redemption

I've mentioned before that I'm a lifelong Lakers fan.

The "3-Peat" years of 2000-2002 are an especially sweet memory for me, though the feat was not easy for the team to achieve, nor for the fans to live through.

Honestly, it almost didn't happen (see Game 7, 2000 Western Conference Finals vs Portland), and once begun, was nearly cut short at two titles, not three, by the Sacramento Kings in the 2002 Western Conference Finals.

That series against Sacramento was nearly the death of every Laker fan everywhere. What was supposed to be a turnstyle into a third straight NBA Finals appearance turned into a 7-game, alleyway knife-fight that the Lakers weren't expecting and were fortunate to survive.

As excruciating as that series was to watch, there was a pivotal moment, right in the middle of it, that I missed, on purpose, in a fit of disgust with the play of my team.

The Lakers entered a must-win Game 4 as lethargic and out of sync as I had ever seen them, which was more than I could take, given the life-or-death stakes of that particular game.

With the Lakers trailing Sacramento by more than 20 points before halftime, I turned off the game and put it out of my mind, resolving to make peace with my team's demise.

That is, until the next morning.

I arrived early at work that day, and had time to peruse the news online before my workday began. In a somber mood, I opened the ESPN web site to read the Lakers' obituary.

Much to my shock, my eye caught sight of what seemed like an awful lot of yellow on the screen, and the headline took my breath away. The made-up word "Horrywood" led the story of a Hollywood ending in Game 4 of the series, capped off by a game-winning 3-point shot by Laker star Robert Horry.

I read on, dumbfounded, to learn that after I had given up on the game and quit watching, the Lakers had begun an historic rally, slowly chipping away at the Kings' massive lead, pulling to within two points in the final seconds of the game, setting the stage for Horry's heroics.

Seeing the replay now, almost 8 years later, I still can't believe I missed it when it happened live.



Redemption is a mysterious thing.

You never can tell who will be the one to overcome past failure and set things right.

*The long-troubled student who finally gains perspective and maturity.

*The uncommitted athlete who at long last grasps the dedication it takes to win.

*The chronic debtor who eventually gets right-side-up and stays there.

*The husband who finally lays down his pride and accompanies his wife to worship.

*The "friend" who could never keep a secret, but comes out of nowhere to have your back in a time of trial.

*The wounded soul who once turned bitter, but later learns to comfort others.

Yes, for every example like this, there are other people from whom we've come to expect little, who never change that expectation. For every great comeback in Laker history, there have been many other games in which they played poorly, fell behind, and stayed behind.

But even so, how do I feel now about missing the comeback I missed?

And, especially, about the reason I missed it?

How many times have we given up on people we loved more, with more on the line, and with more reason for hope, than I had over the outcome of a basketball game?

Consider the story of John Mark.

Acts 15 tells the story of Mark's departure from Paul and Barnabus at Pamphylia, in the middle of a missionary journey. Luke records Paul's interpretation of Mark's actions as nothing less than desertion and a failure to finish the job (15:38).

We're not given any of the circumstances of Mark's decision to leave Paul and Barnabus at that point in their effort. Perhaps if we knew why he left when he did, we might feel differently, but there is no question that Paul considered the decision inexcusable, so much so that later on, when Barnabas proposed having Mark re-join the team, Paul was so opposed to the idea that he parted ways with Barnabas over it. (15:39) Mark had blown Paul's trust, and was not a worthy risk in Paul's eyes the second time around.

That's all we read about that phase in the Paul-Mark relationship, but it's not the end of the story.

At the end of Paul's second letter to Timothy, written from prison, Paul asks several favors of Timothy, instructing him to bring a cloak and some scrolls, but also, out of nowhere, he asks that Mark be brought to him, as "he is helpful to me in my ministry" (II Timothy 4:11).

Just as we weren't given details of Mark's previous departure from Paul, we're given no details of Paul's reversal of opinion about Mark. We don't know what happened in the time between these two events, but somewhere, sometime, something happened, or several things happened, that changed Paul's mind completely about Mark.

We don't know whether the resurgence of Mark's stock caused Paul to regret his previous stance, or whether Paul still felt his earlier tough call was justified, and possibly served as the needed prompt to spur Mark to make this comeback.

One thing we can safely assume: Paul was glad he was around to see the comeback take place.

Is there anyone you've deemed unworthy of your confidence? Anyone you've written off and given up on, not even wanting to see how the story plays out?

Not even praying for them anymore?

Who might we encounter in heaven that we once wrote off in this life?

Better off having never known?

I still remember that Saturday night in February of 1990.

Everyone else in our family had made their way to bed, but my Dad and I were still up in the living room, watching the TV news. (ESPN had not yet entered our lifestyle, but we made do. Oh, we made do.) I don't remember now, but I'm guessing we were planning to see the sports report before signing off for the night.

As a teaser before the commercial break, the local sportscaster caused the two of us veteran sports fans to audibly gasp in unison with these words:

"Big night in Tokyo...Mike Tyson has been knocked out..."

It was one of those moments when you really doubt you heard what you just heard. Twenty years later, it's hard not to think of a life-turned-trainwreck when you hear the name "Mike Tyson", but if you're old enough to put yourself back in the pre-facial-tattoo years between 1985 - 1990, you know just how unbelievable this was.

Literally, a matter of months before this night, a student in my speech class at school had given a presentation on the history of boxing, which concluded with these words: "Mike Tyson will be the heavyweight champ until he either dies or retires from boxing."

There was just no way this ever should have happened.

On my office wall hang my two diplomas, the one for my undergrad degree bearing a gold sticker with the words "Cum Laude". Something to be proud of? For sure. But, you don't know the whole story.

Every time I see that sticker, something inside of me cringes.

Rolling into the spring of 1995, I had maintained a sufficient GPA in college to earn the "Magna Cum Laude" distinction on my diploma. I was nearing the end of my undergraduate experience, and was eager to launch my career. Honestly, I was sick of my classes. Tired of pretending to be a school teacher; ready to do it for real.

That semester included a double-block class involving observation hours and several hands-on projects to be completed in order to demonstrate that I could do the kind of work a teacher does.

To put it mildly, I blew off the course. Turned in every single project late, and not "late" in terms of minutes, or even hours. I'm talking more like days or weeks. I deserved to fail the course, but a "C" appeared on my report card, a generous gift from the instructor. (Thank you, Mrs. Hatch!)

While a "C" might not have had a major impact on my status, in a double-block course, the grade counts twice, so my last report card was dotted with two "C"s, pulling my overall GPA down from "Magna Cum Laude" to "Cum Laude", a fact that stung badly on graduation night, and a fact I'm reminded of every time I see that diploma.

It just shouldn't have happened.

Less than a year after his historic upset of Tyson, barely-minted heavyweight champ Buster Douglas showed up overweight and out of shape to defend his new title against the formidable Evander Holyfield, who had himself been preparing to take on Tyson, before Douglas changed the world.

The Douglas-Holyfield bout was a short and shameful joke, and everyone was left grasping for some purpose or point in what Douglas had pulled off eight months before.

In a recent interview marking the 20th anniversary of his upset of Tyson, Douglas commented that he had been prepared to take the title from Tyson, but was not prepared to keep it, adding that "it p****s me off sometimes to think about it..."

Really? Just sometimes?

Y'know, in a small way, I relate every time I see that gold sticker.

While it's easy to shake your head at such a glib summation of such a colossal disappointment, Douglas has identified something common to everyone who has gained something of value only to foolishly squander it.

In my case, it's a bitter, nagging aftertaste that never completely goes away, even as I think about it less and less often as time goes by.

In Douglas's case, it's the entire public perception of who he is. To most, he's the guy who earned the world's respect by winning a rare and coveted title against all odds, only to immediately set about dumping it all by the side of the road, a road that can't be retraced, and a prize that can never be recovered.

II Peter 2:20-21

For if, after they have escaped the pollutions of the world through the knowledge of the Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, they are again entangled in them and overcome, the latter end is worse for them than the beginning. For it would have been better for them not to have known the way of righteousness, than having known it, to turn from the holy commandment delivered to them. But it has happened to them according to the true proverb: "A dog returns to his own vomit," and, "a sow, having washed, to her wallowing in the mire".

I've always wondered just what Peter meant by saying that a Christian who walks away from Christ would have been better off never having known Him. That essentially, a babe in Christ could end up being "better off if he hadn't ever been born". Worse off than a lost soul who never obeyed the gospel in the first place.

It's hard to say exactly what that could mean in eternity. Hotter flames? Darker darkness? A more remote separation from God? Harder weeping and gnashing of teeth? And for those who don't believe in a conscious eternal torment, it's even harder to speculate as to what could be worse for one lost soul as compared to another.

I guess we'll never really know. No one who experiences those things will be able to tell us about it.

But there is something to this.

Jesus Himself warned those intrigued by Him to consider what following Him would cost, His clear implication being that you shouldn't do it if you aren't ready for what that decision will mean for you later. Jesus' description of the disgrace of a partially-completed building (and the public judgment and mockery that go along with it) is not diplomatic.

Hard to say that Buster Douglas doesn't know a little bit about that.

While we'll never know if eternal loss is any worse for one soul over another, one thing is certain:

Salvation is more precious than any achievement, and to lose it after having lived in it would be a unique form of torment all its own, dwarfing Douglas's disappointment, as well as mine.

Matthew 25:41

"Then He will say to those on His left, 'Depart from Me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and His angels.'"

It's hard to read. It's hard to imagine. I hope I don't have to see it happen. And I would never wish upon anyone to be in that crowd hearing those words.

But as painful as those words will be to all who hear them, you'll never convince me that they won't sting worse for those who spent some time in the other flock. Those who had known Jesus' love, given Him their souls, and had lived in His care for any amount of time.

Those for whom it just shouldn't have happened.

"Hello, Mike!"

Have you ever had one of those moments that you only wish you had known would come back to haunt you?

I'll never forget the time an elderly man walked up to the circulation counter at my university library, where I was employed as an undergrad student worker. The man had to have been well into his 80s, but he got around on his own, seemed seriously engaged in research of some kind, and approached me with a friendly manner.

I checked out his books without complication, wished him well, and then listened only half as well as I later wished I had.

The kindly old man looked at me with a smile and proceeded away from the counter to make his exit from the library.

As he stepped away, he said or asked something that I didn't quite make out.

And that is the moment I wish I had back.

For whatever reason, I'll never know why, I didn't ask the man to repeat himself. Having no idea what he had just said to me, I simply smiled and answered, "Yeah!"

(I know, I should have demonstrated more respect and offered, "Yes, sir" but that is another point altogether.)

Receiving my affirmative response with a nod and a smile, the man walked away, and I went on with my work, only to realize about five seconds later, to my horror, what the man had actually said.

I don't know why this happened, but it was as if my brain received his message via satellite, with a five-second delay.

Whatever the reason, his words at last rang clear in my mind.

The man had actually asked me, "Is your name Mike?"

And I had, without the slightest hesitation, answered, "Yeah!"

So, it all came rushing together in my mind, and I spent the next few seconds contemplating my options:

1.Chase after the man, who had barely reached the exit, explain my error and give him my real name.

2.Let it slide, on the chance that I would never see this man again anyway, and that if I ever did, his advanced age would almost certainly cause him to ask my name again, at which point I could correct my error without him knowing the difference.

Well, I went with choice # 2, and here's how it played out:

The elderly man did indeed reappear at my circulation counter, again and again and again over the next year or so, each and every single time greeting me with a warm and hearty, "Hello, Mike!"

The one possibility that I had completely discounted actually proved true: that this elderly man's mind was a steel trap, a sharp-toothed bear trap, and caught within its clutches were my face and the name "Mike", never to be separated from each other again.

Over the remaining time I saw this man, which amounted to at least a year, if not more, I accommodated this ridiculous error by either avoiding him altogether or making sure I was alone when he approached, so none of my co-workers would witness my charade of responding to the wrong name.

I was "Mike" to this man, with all the nonsense that entailed, all because I wouldn't break down and tell him the truth.

I had another identity for awhile there, one I didn't want my friends to know about, and one I didn't talk about, for the sheer embarrassment of how fake I was acting and how easily I could have avoided such a foolish dilemma.

Does everyone who knows you know the same person?

Do they all call you by the same name?

By whose name do you want to be known?

Around the next bend...

This morning during worship service, I caught myself thinking it:

I am so ready to be past the stage of occupying small children in church, bringing the things you bring and doing the things you do just to get the family through the service without being disruptive.

Don't get me wrong: We're glad we're doing this, and we made a deliberate choice not to make use of the attended nursery during the service. No dispute with anyone who does, but we decided we wanted our boys to get used to remaining in the assembly without being taken out.

So we chose this, and we knew reasonably well what we were getting into. And it has been a good thing for our family. We can't even remember the last time either one of our boys had to be taken out of the assembly, and they have no expectation of doing anything other than sticking it out.

But, as you can imagine, none of this means what we have chosen is easy.

It takes planning, teamwork, and coloring books to pull this off, and I'll admit it can be tiresome.

For whatever reason, it was especially tiresome this morning, and I let myself think it:

Man, am I ready to be past all this!

Now that a few hours have passed, I'm really hoping no one "up there" heard or took to heart what I thought. Actually, someone probably did, and supplied the thoughts that occupied my mind for the latter part of this morning's service.

It occurred to me that, while this phase of our children's upbringing is indeed challenging, it is only the very beginning, and will end up proving to be anything but the most difficult part.

Very soon, we won't have to worry about bringing coloring books to occupy the boys during the service. We won't have to worry about taking them to the restroom, keeping them quiet, and making sure they stay put.

While those changes will surely be nice, consider the cares that will then occupy our minds:

*What is the state of our boys' spiritual development?

*Do our sons love the Lord? Do they believe the gospel? On their own? Apart from us?

*Are we demonstrating spiritual discipline in our everyday lives?

*Do our boys know the Word of God? Do they pray on their own?

*If we died today, would our boys be left with a faith that could stand on its own?

*If our boys had the choice, as they will in a few short years, would they be here in worship?

*Whose voices threaten to drown ours out of our children's ears?

These are questions with a direct impact on eternity, and the time will come very soon when these questions will take center stage.

Of course, what we're doing now will in many ways lay the foundation for these more consequential things, but...

Maybe the coloring book bag isn't so bad for awhile longer.

It's so easy to think things will be easier around the next bend. That somehow parenting gets easier when you're not changing diapers anymore.

Two foolish thoughts:

First, to want to hurry into a spiritual war-zone with our children's souls in the balance.

Second, to think we're not already there.

Saints & Saints Fans

Who could have guessed it?

The New Orleans Saints are 8 - 0, one of only two undefeated teams remaining in the NFL halfway through the season.

Honestly, it's not a huge deal to me, other than the novelty of a historically woeful team having an outstanding season, coupled with curiosity about the Saints' chances of carrying this momentum deep into the playoffs.

We'll see how it plays out in the coming weeks.

Flashback to 1989:

I was a sophomore in high school in Oregon, when my dad had to travel to New Orleans for business. This was an exciting trip, as no one in my family had ever been to that part of the country before. My dad asked us boys what we might like him to bring us back from The Big Easy, and it occurred to me that a Saints T-Shirt might be a cool item to have, despite the absence of any allegiance on my part to that team. So, that's what I asked for, and Dad came through with a cool Saints shirt that I wore for no real reason for a few years thereafter.

Fast-Forward to 2009:

Just imagine it: Had I only begun rooting for the Saints way back then, and had I followed their fortunes faithfully for the next twenty years, I would be riding high right now. I would be an original. A die-hard loyal, undeterred by years of futility, enjoying the fruit of years of faithful devotion.

But I didn't do that.

So, if I were to try to claim the Saints now, I would be a fairweather fan, a front-runner, a Johnny-Come-Lately, the total opposite of an original, and not likely to be fully embraced in the ranks of the New Orleans faithful.

I can imagine the sideways glances of the originals, viewing my brand new Reggie Bush jersey with suspicion, especially in the light of my near-total ignorance of Saints history & tradition, my absence of emotional investment in previous wins and losses, and the fact that Archie Manning is just Peyton and Eli's dad to me.

And, I don't think many of us would blame original Saints fans for being hesitant to welcome aboard every Johnny-Come-Lately who will just as likely become a "fan" of some other team later on when it's popular to do so.

How interesting, in the light of our feelings about the late comer, that Jesus would make a point of telling a story that overturns our instincts on this subject.

The workers hired on at the eleventh hour in Jesus' parable in Matthew 20:1-16 were just the kind of late arrivals we so often tend to categorize as lesser members of the group, lacking the full legitimacy of those who have "borne the burden and the heat of the day".

But Jesus, even at the expense of displeasing the "originals", makes the late comer their equal in every way. Worthy of the same reward. Free of any stigma or additional obligation. Not subject to any probationary period. Defended by the Master against any aspersions cast by brothers or sisters.

Do saints truly understand and accept Jesus' stance on the soul who arrives at the eleventh hour?

Even if we understand that Jesus accepts this new saint, do we comprehend what his stance means for us?

Do we get the fact that it is up to us to demonstrate that acceptance? That it's not enough to believe in the abstract that the late arrival is equal to the "original"?

If an eleventh-hour saint is made to feel like a Johnny-Come-Lately, then the body is not following the direction of the head, and the newcomer will not be likely to remain.

Picture yourself in the line receiving wages in Jesus' parable.

To be Christ-like in that scenario would mean celebrating the fact that the eleventh-hour hire received the same pay as you did, after you worked all day and the newcomer worked an hour. Not just celebrating it after the fact, but anticipating it beforehand, welcoming the new worker at the eleventh hour, knowing full well that his reward would equal yours, being glad about it, and expecting nothing different.

Are we there yet?

2 Moments, Frozen in Time

Kristi and the boys and I recently enjoyed dinner on the Riverwalk in San Antonio.

As you can imagine, getting a 5 year-old and a 2 year-old to dinner and back in this setting is kind of an adventure. We parked on Travis Street, took a flight of stairs down to the Riverwalk, and followed the water for what seemed like a pretty good distance.

The boys were well-behaved, but it's still a little nerve-wracking making sure no one gets too close to the water or gets lost in the crowd. On the way back to our car after dinner, we were the classic picture of a family with small children: Daddy holding the hand of the 2 year-old who's had a noticeable accident, Mommy holding the hand of the 5 year-old who would just as soon follow the ducks off the path, both boys clutching their flashing, souvenir cups from the restaurant. Throw in a backpack of "kid stuff" and the picture is complete.

As our rag-tag caravan made its way through a quiet area of the Riverwalk, we came across an unexpected scene: A bride with her father and bridesmaids, gathered together by the water, waiting out the last few moments before her big moment, ready to take a stairway up to an open area where wedding music was playing.

In order to proceed, we had to squeeze right by this group, within inches of them, apologizing and trying not to impose in any way.

It was a chance encounter, but an interesting pair of snapshots to look at side-by-side. This new bride provided us with a visual reminder of where we were seven years ago next month, and, if by any chance she noticed and thought about it, we might have given her a picture of what could be in store for her and her new husband in the coming years.

A preacher I know often points out that a wedding and a marriage have frighteningly little in common, and our two snapshots provide evidence of his claim: The formality, pomp, and idealism of the wedding day, giving way to the all too "down-to-earth" reality of making it all work in a marriage with children.

So, which picture is right?

The perfect wedding dress? Or, a child's wet pants? The strings that serenade the bride coming down the aisle on the day she's dreamt of her entire life? Or, the clatter of cookpots on the kitchen floor, serenading mom on a random Tuesday afternoon? The carefully chosen words of devotion spoken earnestly by bride and groom? Or, the sometimes careless words of hurriedness, spoken over the shoulder or around the corner, by harried husband and wife?

Well, if you've been there awhile, you know they're all right; they're all true. You're not going to have one without the other. It's a mistake to overlook or to exaggerate the importance of either at the expense of the other.

Which picture is more true:

The new creation emerging from the water?

Peace in the face of imminent death?

Moments of intimacy with God that put a lump in your throat and bring a tear to your eye?

Times of everyday ordinariness that leave you wondering if you're missing something?

The clutch of temptation and sin?

The embrace of a forgiving God?

The approval of the like-minded?

The scorn of some who think it's so foolish?

Once again, they're all true. Each one is a part of the deal. None can be ignored or forgotten. Each will have its place in the life of a Christian.

Where is wisdom?

Wisdom lies in seeing one of those pictures while experiencing its opposite.

Business Cards

I just finished putting a stack of my business cards back into their carrying case, to go back into my pocket. The other day, one or the other, or both, of our boys got ahold of my case and took all the cards out to play with, and I found the cards scattered on the floor.

Lord, please help me remember that there will come a day, far sooner than I'm prepared for, when I would give anything to find my business cards scattered around by two little sons who think my stuff is cool.

Help me remember that.