catching his breath

Recently I teamed up with John Dobbs in writing. His blog Out Here Hope Remains has had a profound impact on people. He writes with honesty and from a place of deep faith. He has experienced excruciating pain and yet, still, hopes in the resurrected Messiah. He is an inspiration to many. I’m glad to be a part of what God is up to through his blog ministry. So go on over and check it out.

I’ll remain posting here but only on some short thoughts and perhaps a bit of commentary on pop culture here and there. I’ll go a little deeper every other Friday at his site. Have fun and stay tuned. And thanks John!

God bless,

Josh

John Dobbs has launched a grass-roots effort to honor ministers by asking bloggers to blog about a minister(s) who has impacted them (you can read more about it at his blog). I love the idea. Here is my contribution.

I come from a family of preachers: a grandpa, an uncle, a cousin and a dad. Dad didn’t always preach full-time, but he served as a deacon, which if done right exemplifies the essence of a minister. Now (and for the last 10 or so years) he ministers in the pulpit for a small congregation in Texas. Not only that, he directed a week of camp at Green Valley Bible Camp for around 9-10 years, and a majority of those years were directed while he worked full-time as a network analyst. He took his vacation to minister to young people in Texas, Oklahoma and Arkansas instead of sipping margaritas on the beach (actually I can’t convince him to have a drink with me so he wouldn’t have done that anyway…but the line sounded good).

Even though I actually started preaching full-time before he did, he still produced an incredible impact on my journey as a minister. Honestly, my initial mode and style of preaching came from other places and not him. I endured an indoctrination at a school of preaching and struggled to find a message and ministry of grace. He deserves no credit for that part of my ministry.

Though he raised me around rigid conservatism, he actually showed me the path of questioning everything while still getting along with those with whom we disagree. While a deacon, dad rarely let the preacher off the hook. He wanted to know why the preacher said what he said. I remember frequently waiting for dad to finish talking to the preacher after all the lights had been turned out in the church building. He wouldn’t settle for a traditional answer, he wanted to know God’s direction. This momentum of questioning eventually caught up to me, moved through me and swept me into a new era of my own ministry. This is where dad gets the credit.

He taught me how to question. He passed on to me the gift of relentlessness when it comes to finding God. He showed me that going against the traditional flow is what we’re often called to do, even if it stirs up family Christmas and comfortable congregations. He never liked the taste of canned answers and I’ve inherited those taste buds.

So Tony Linton, dad: Thanks. I now enjoy a ministry flooded by grace and truth because you taught me to never settle and to never quit asking questions.

If you have a minister in mind then write up a tribute to him/her and explain the positive impact on your life. Thanks to John Dobbs as well for the great idea. Keep the flame of encouragement going… get to writing. There’s got to be some more good preachers out there, somewhere.

I’m currently working through several readings for grad school. One paper spoke to the mission of the church and had several sections that admonished churches to move from a neutral/negative identity into a productive one. I particularly liked the advice that encouraged congregations to move beyond collecting members to developing ministers.

Churches that stagnate gather spectators. Churches that grow promote a collective effort of ministry. Nobody gets to sit around. Nobody gets to watch.

For this to take place some things need to happen.

There needs to be work to do. God will provide if we will ask. Pray. Watch. Jump into what God is already doing in the community.

Each minister (member) needs to assess his or her gifts and seek to use it in bringing God’s presence into their life context.

Leaders must empower and let go of control. Ministers (with a capital M) have often been guilty of crippling the real ministers by hijacking their ministry. The best leaders refuse to lead.

The work available needs to coincide with real life. Resist the temptation to fabricate stuff to do at the building and ask people to put up tables and chairs and call it ministry. Church happens, or should happen, outside of the building.

A genuine commitment to hard work is needed from each minister. The collective attitude of the church should foster an understanding in each one that it will take hard work to live as the body of Jesus in this city.

What do you think? Anything else you want to add?

She stands shaking. Pregnant. Hopeless, ridden with shame about what she’s done. Tears cannot wash away the stigma, she’s tried. Suburbia has its standards.

The baby’s daddy? He doesn’t even know. Wouldn’t care if he did.

What about family? Her mother works two jobs, one of the jobs her father would have worked had he not ran off before she was born. She hasn’t the time to support her. Standards, remember? Doesn’t even have the time to say good night. That’s how it is.

What will she do? Fifteen. A child and knocked up.

Scared.

Confused.

Options?

Dizzy. A merry-go-round of choices circles her. Nauseating confusion. “Abortion? Adoption? Raise the baby myself? If I abort… no, that’s murder. If I put it up for adopt…oh, I’m horrible. Who will raise my baby? I can’t care for this baby. Is abortion really better for the baby? No…but.” Confusion mocks her––jeering at the one on stage forgetting her lines.

A beneficiary of abandonment. Forsaken. No embrace. No “I’m here.”

She stands shaking. Outside the clinic. Stomach cramping from emptiness. Convulsed in a dry heave, her ears ring. Disgusted with her life. Pondering the razor blade in the kitchen drawer.

“Screw up! Will you ever amount to anything?” shouts the indoctrination of her guardians. The mental assaults of her mother’s boyfriend. Enacted by his molesting hands. But not a single hand to lift her.

She stands shaking. Disoriented indecision. She’s desperate, afraid, hating herself. Dry heaves reach down, trying to jerk her stomach through her mouth. Acid stinging her chapped lips. She can’t live this nightmare. God?

She feigns hope. The urge to vomit again. Throat pulsating in pain. She screams inside, “Why?! Do you care, God? Say something!”

“Vote Today! Stop Abortion! Save a child!” booms the voice from the bullhorn.

Interrupted by the thunderous cadence of picketers, her racing mind halts. She loses air.

With raging confidence they stand and raise their signs. Embracing their Bibles. Lifting their voices. They have something to say.

She stands shaking.

Wipes the vomit from her lips. Turns and goes inside.