Chip Shots

The holiday is over. Packages and paper, like confetti, are strewn across the floor. Mom and Dad are exhausted from a late night of playing Santa. The kids? They’re just getting started. There are toys to break, video games to wear out, and clothes to admire. It’s a good day, the kind that passes by unnoticed, but lodges itself somewhere in the heart. Life’s best moments are often like that. Just another day in this grace we call life. Our kids are older now: 22, 19, 15. We wistfully recall the days when they’d gang up on our bed at dawn on Christmas morning shouting, “Time for presents!” Actually, they still attack our bed on Christmas morning, which can be quite a jolt for Mom and Dad. Come to think of it, I’m not sure I’d trade the early days for the present time. Somehow, watching your children develop into teenagers and adults who make you proud brings with it an even deeper joy. Not better, but certainly deeper. When our kids were young, we wanted them to experience the joy of g...

Suppose your child was lost. What would you do to find him? My mother experienced the palpable panic of a lost child years ago. The child was me. I was in my first grade classroom when the intercom called my name: “Mrs. Christensen, Steven Gilbertson’s mother called. He is to go to Grandmother’s Place after school today.” I had never heard of Grandmother’s Place, but the cute little girl next to me seemed excited about it. “That’s where I go after school! You can walk with me.” Even at six years old, I knew that following a pretty girl sounded like a good idea, so along I went to the day care facility down the street. However, something had been lost in translation. The message should have been, “Go to your grandmother’s home after school.” I wasn’t supposed to go to a day care at all, but rather to my grandma’s house. I didn’t know any better. I was just following my friends, as careless as a six year old should be. Meanwhile, my mom was frantic. I did not show up at my grandma’s hous...

I'm not much of a songwriter, though I certainly wish I was. My friend Mike is really good at it and it makes me jealous. But he thinks I'm a better writer than him, so I guess that makes us even. Anyway, the recent public failure of Ted Haggard, a well known Christian pastor in Colorado, left me feeling morose and sad. Ted apparently harbored a secret life, and it finally caught up with him. He resigned his local and national leadership positions in public disgrace. I know it's easy to be critical of fallen Christian leaders. To a degree, it is warranted. They do, after all, wield a great deal of influence; it is appropriate for them to be held to a higher standard. But it's still a tragedy, and it got me thinking: assuming as I do that Ted was a good man trapped in behavior he detested (I can identify with that; can you?), did he have a safe place to talk about it? Probably not. Why is it that the church, which ought to be the safest place for sinners to come clean is...

As you know, the Christmas season is in full swing. For many, it’s become a holiday so tepid that even the word “Christmas” is avoided. “Merry Whatever,” I guess. Last year, as the Christmas — I mean “holiday” — season began, one department store decided not to sell Christmas trees. Instead, they called them “holiday trees.” Another store took all references to Christmas out of their advertisements, and told its employees not to say “Merry Christmas” to customers. Public pressure (i.e., the threat of lost revenue) led these corporations to relent. But it didn’t stop a public school in another state from including in its “winter program” the famous and well-loved song, “Cold is the Night.” (It sounds suspiciously similar to “Silent Night” — but we don’t want to confuse the children.) How the simple story of Jesus’ birth can be so controversial is a mystery to me. I suppose Christians bring it on themselves by trying to celebrate Christ and capitalism on the same day. Whether Jesus gets ...

One of the favorite volumes in my library is a tattered Bible that once belonged to Aunt Nora. Nora wasn't a blood relative, but as long as I can remember she shared in all our family celebrations. When she died, my grandmother saw to it that her Bible was given to me. I noticed immediately that Aunt Nora was not the type to keep her Bible hidden away until Sunday mornings. Virtually every page was littered with red pencil underlines and notes written in the margins. The fore and aft blank pages were cluttered with pithy comments and sayings, notes taken from her reading, or sermons she had heard. As I read them I imagined the immense depth of her spiritual life in comparison to my own. One poem in particular caught my eye. I don't know its origin, but the effect on me was dramatic and unexpected. I'm a little embarrassed to tell you that it choked me up to read it. I read the simple words, imagining myself a frightened bystander at Jesus' execution. Blood stained his h...

It was an auspicious beginning. I crawled out of bed at 3:45, threw a few clothes on, woke up Kurt, our oversleeping son, and squeezed into the van parked perilously close to our other car. We were, as usual, touching the edge of tardiness. By 5:00 he needed to be at the home of a family who had consented to take him to an important soccer tournament in San Diego. We were sleepy-tired, a little late, and sad that he would miss Thanksgiving with the family. Our two older children had come in from California the evening before. We enjoyed some pre-Thanksgiving pumpkin pie and a few blessed hours of conversation. The joy of last evening was stabbing me deeply as I contemplated Kurt's absence this afternoon. We're immensely proud of the success, independence, and strong Christian character of our three children. It's bittersweet to see them grow up and out, but deeply gratifying to observe them making life decisions that make us proud. Being together on Thanksgiving eve made Mo...

Nemo was crestfallen. Created to live in the wide open spaces of the sea, he was trapped inside a dentist’s aquarium. It was his own fault. His father had warned him not to leave the reef, but he’d wandered out there anyway. Sure enough, a diver had captured him and taken him to his office in Sydney, Australia. Most of the other fish had never lived in the sea; aquarium life was all they had ever experienced. Oblivious to their true identity, they had devised an elaborate system of religion and entertainment. It was tragic and comic at the same time. But Nemo knew better. He knew the freedom of the sea: he would never again taste it. He would never see his father again. He would die inside this glassy tomb. And he knew he had no one to blame but himself. What he didn’t know was that his father was risking everything on an incredible journey to rescue his wayward son. He’d already fought and defeated three sharks, he’d navigated a dangerous jellyfish forest, and he was currently swimmin...

Judging by his family tree, I'm not sure you would have expected him to amount to much. Growing up in a culture that prized ancestral purity, his was, to be honest, a little embarrassing. We would expect these family skeletons to be kept safely in the closet but there they are are in plain view. To start with, one of his ancient relatives, though prized for her heroic actions, never lost the demeaning moniker "the harlot." Even though her bravery was canonized it was always in the context of her formerly seedy lifestyle. Like many of us, she was never able to fully restore her reputation. Still, she became one of the maternal grandmothers of our famous figure. And that's not all. Another relative left an even more dubious mark on the family tree. What happened was this: a man's son died before his wife was able to grant him any children to continue the family line. In the custom of the day, the dead man's brother was given to the woman to marry. He died too. T...

For as long as I can remember, Kurt, our 15-year-old son, has been a helpful guy to have around the house. Even when he was very small, he loved to help Mom and Dad. He was just a little tyke when I needed to move twelve tons of dirt into our backyard. He had a little toy shovel which he used to help me fill the wheelbarrow. Shoveling dirt was never as much fun as it was that day. Of course his contribution to the load was miniscule compared to my own. Still, we had a blast working together. I loved working with him, and I loved the fact that he wanted to work with his Dad. For me, the important thing was not how much dirt he moved, but that we were doing it together. There is an important spiritual lesson in this little walk down memory lane. Many of us treat God like a spiritual MapQuest. “Show me the way,” we ask, assuming that God’s will is like locating the high school: east on Carefree Highway, right on 56th Street, left on Dove Valley. Make a wrong turn and you miss it entirely....

Call me Gollum. He and I are brothers, as are all who cannot part with the very thing that destroys our lives….  It started innocently enough. Smeagol was fishing when his brother found a shiny ring in the river. Fascinated, Smeagol asked for it as a gift since, after all, it was his birthday. A fight ensued and, shockingly, he killed his brother in order to gain the ring.  That was ages ago, a distant memory. Smeagol treasured the ring, called it a birthday present, always kept it with him, and shunned all human contact for the sake of his “precious.”  It was all he could think about, and all that mattered to him. The gift rewarded him with long, albeit subhuman, life. It didn’t matter that he’d become a shell of his true self, an offensive creature called Gollum for the strange, guttural sound coming from his mouth. The ring was all the comfort he desired. He was alone and happy.  Until the day fate intervened. The ring changed hands, first to Bilbo Baggins and the...

I always liked Chuck. He was a good old country boy who loved to 'coon hunt. Born and raised in Arizona, I knew nothing about that kind of thing. In fact, I knew nothing about most things in rural Indiana. I remember talking to the man who owned the farmland around our home. He wasn’t a member of our church so I thought it was safe to ask him a stupid question. “I recognize the corn around me, of course,” I said. “But what’s that smaller stuff I see growing everywhere? And what’s that huge tractor-like thing in the barn behind my house?” “Those are soybeans, and we call that machine a combine” he said, suppressing a smile. (Asking that question in Indiana is like asking someone in Arizona, "What in the world is that prickly thingy?") On another occasion I visited a neighbor who proudly showed off his flower garden. The front of his house was filled with every kind of bloom I could imagine. He told me about all the stuff he planned to add next year. “Where will you find ro...

Nowadays, couples often go public with both the gender and the name of their as yet unborn child. Not us. Why take all the adventure out if it? “It’s a boy,” the doctor says, and they say, “Yeah, we know. You told us six months ago. We’ve already picked out his name and furnished his bedroom and bought his toys and signed him up for Pop Warner.” My goodness! Where’s the fun in that? We specifically told our doctor: do not tell us if it’s a boy or a girl. Consequently, we had to search for both kinds of names. Kyle and Kurt were easy choices for boy’s names. And if we had a girl? I’d heard a name as a teenager and always kind of liked it: “Kyan” (pronounced like Diane). But it was such an unusual name. Dare we risk giving our child a name she might not like? And what would other people think? Right up to the end, we were undecided. But moments after our daughter was born, Donna looked at me and said, “Kyan?” “Kyan,” I said through the mist in my eyes. That was twenty-two years ago, and ...

While our home is being built in Cave Creek, we’re living in a small apartment. It’s … ahem … cozy. For example, our son who is home from college sleeps in the closet of his brother’s room. Like I said, it’s cozy. This winter our TV went on the fritz. To make a long story short, we were left with — horrors — antenna TV. Do you remember those days? Only a few stations, fiddling with the antenna, no ESPN! (I know, it’s rather shocking!) As a result, we've been spending a lot of evenings viewing movies at home. Recently we watched The Notebook . Have you seen it? It tells the story of an older couple who now live in a nursing home. She’s there because she has senile dementia. He’s there because, well, that’s were she is. When their children try to persuade him to leave he says to them, “As long as she’s here, I’m not leaving. Wherever she is, that’s my home.” Each morning he leaves his neighboring room to spend the day with her. She doesn’t recognize him, thinking instead that he is a...

At first I was pleased. Then I was offended. Now I'm fmish’d (is that a word?) I was pleased ... because a friend from long ago contacted me out of the blue. I hadn't heard from him in many years and was delighted to learn something of what was happening in his life. Then I was offended ... for suddenly the tone of his letter changed. It started with the words, "I am writing you to let you know about a fantastic business opportunity. Have you ever heard about...?" What? Give me a break! How naive does he think I am? Does he really think I don't see through his blatant recruiting effort? Send me a greeting card, or send me a recruitment letter, but don't try use the one to validate the other! In so doing, you demean both our relationship and your "fantastic business opportunity." Now I'm fmish’d ... which is a word my friend uses when he sees me stewing over something. As in this: how many times have I used the same techniques to interest people i...

“Steve, they called your name! Go down to the field!” “What?” I said to Donna as I looked for my seat. “When we came in I signed you up for a contest. I guess they picked your name!” Incredulous, I made my way to the dugout. Seven other fans were there along with the ballplayers. “What’s going on, I asked?” trying not to appear completely ignorant. “In between innings you will try to throw a strike. One of you will win two tickets to the World Series,” said the contest spokesman. “Are they serious?” I thought. “The real World Series? Free tickets just for throwing a strike? They must be kidding!” Several thousand people in the stands. No warm-up. Jumping stomach. First in line. “Relax and throw,” I thought. I did, and … completely missed the target! The crowd let out a collective moan. Fortunately, no one else was any better. The second time around, the ball barely squeaked in for a strike. I waited. It was the only strike any of us threw. They took me to the head office and, sure enou...

Yes, I'm one of those guys in tight shorts on a bike. You know, the kind that irritates you on the road? That’s me. One day, for example, I was pedaling toward Bartlett Lake when something crashed against the back of my helmet. I nearly fell off my bike! Catching myself, I saw a chunk of ice bouncing on the road. I guess the driver thought it would be fun to see if he could hit me. If he knew how close he came to causing an accident, he'd probably think twice before doing it again. Or not. I don’t know why cyclists irritate motorists. I suppose it’s because we get in your way. Trust me, if you’ve ever had to change a tire while cycling you’d know why we tend to gravitate away from the rocky edges. Or maybe you’re just jealous of our good looks. In any case, I've been honked at, sworn at, and, now, thrown at. At least I haven't been spat at. Yet. I began cycling a few years ago at the invitation of a friend from our church. Dragging myself out of bed for our first ride, ...

Mary was frantic. “Where’s my boy? Have you seen him?” No one had. Two days later found him in, of all places, a house of worship. Can you imagine her relief and frustration? “Why have you treated us like this?” she asked. Like any other twelve year old boy, he didn’t understand why she was so worried. “Didn’t you know I would be in my father’s house?” he replied. These are the first recorded words of the world’s most famous man. “My father’s house,” Mary thought. “I wonder what he meant by that….” Years later, he still used the word “Father.” Now, however, his meaning was clear: the Father in question was God Himself. Today we’re accustomed to thinking about God as our Father. But at that time it was a revolutionary idea: never before had anyone referred to God that way. To do so would have been considered blasphemous. The crowds found his apparent familiarity with the Almighty both attractive and offensive. Some sought to stone him for it. But others were drawn to the man for whom G...

Sometimes it pays to be young and foolish. As a young man I thought I knew something about love. I met a girl in high school and, at the ripe old age of twenty, we thought we were ready for marriage. It was 113 degrees on our wedding day. The guys wore brown velvet tuxedos and bow ties; the girls peach dresses. Miraculously, no one passed out. The groomsmen decided to play a joke on me. They wrote "HELP" on the soles of my shoes so that when we kneeled for communion everyone would see. Fortunately, I sniffed the scam and spent my last few moments of single life feverishly scrubbing my shoes clean. Seems like I've been cleaning crap from my soles ever since. Why, just the other day I had to say, "I'm sorry; that's not really the man I want to be." But that's another story for another time. Maybe I should have left the words "Help" on the soles of my shoes. God knows I need it. As a pastor it is my privilege to help many couples get married...

The most anticipated movie of the year opens this weekend: The DaVinci Code. I read the book when it first came out and, yes, I’ll go see the movie too. In the event your head’s been in the sand, The DaVinci Code is part mystery novel, part conspiracy theory, and part an indictment of the institutional church. In a round-about way, it’s about the search for the truth about Jesus. A lot of Christians are up in arms at the controversies suggested by Dan Brown’s book. For my part, I welcome the conversation. Anything that gets people thinking and talking about Jesus is just fine with me. Who was Jesus, really? Is he the victim of a massive cover up by the religious establishment? Did he leave descendants still alive today? What is the truth about Jesus? And why is the world still so fascinated by him? The simple fact that an obscure man from a nondescript town in a far-flung corner of the Roman Empire is the most recognized person in the history of the world should tell you so...

"God Forgives Me" was the title of a talk I gave out our church a while ago. It's one of my favorite topics, probably because I need it so much. But as I feverishly finished it that Saturday night I wasn’t the least bit happy with it. My message seemed pedantic and propositional, proving the need for, basis of, and results of forgiveness. What was I doing: presenting a case to the jury, or offering hope to sinners like me? Blecch. I'm sick of treating messages like theme papers. When will I learn that forgiveness is less about clearing a slate, and more about restoring a relationship? Why breathe all the life out if it by treating it like a law room debate? It was too late to reconstruct my whole message, so as I began to speak I did what you should never do: I said, "I don't really like this message, and here's why." I think (hope) you can get away with that once. What astounds me about God's forgiveness is that he seems to get such a kick out ...

Does it ever feel like you meet yourself coming and going? This week’s been like that. One of the sad realities of life is that you simply can’t be two places at once. Most of the time we can avoid facing that truth. We’ve got text messaging and cell phones and email and video cameras and who knows what else we’ll invent to help us pretend to be omnipresent? But every so often the illusion breaks down. Like this weekend for us. Our daughter, Kyan, graduates from Azusa Pacific University Saturday evening. It’s a big deal for us, as you might guess. Family has come in from Illinois to Atlanta to help us celebrate. Should be fun. But another great thing is also happening the same day. Kurt, our youngest son, is an excellent soccer player competing in the elite division for our state. His team, due to some incredible soccer last weekend, is now among the top four teams competing for the State Cup. His semifinal game? You guessed it: Saturday. Kyan’s big event is in California; K...

How she was caught is never revealed. But now that their illicit relationship served to advance the agenda of the religious elite, they were stalked and she was caught. Her accomplice? Mysteriously absent. Snatched from the arms of her lover, she stands terrified before a leering crowd. Her accusers grab stones. Tension drips like a muggy Houston afternoon. How will the carpenter-turned-rabbi respond to this woman? Will he show compassion and break the religious law? Or will he enforce it and let the her die? At first he ignores them. When they persist he says, “Let the one who is without sin throw the first stone.” He returns to scratching the dirt with a stick. The crowd holds its breath. One by one the religionists drop their weapons and walk away. When he looks up again, he and the woman are alone. “Where are your accusers?” he asks. “Does no one condemn you?” “No one, sir,” she answers. “I don’t condemn you either. Go, and leave your life of sin.” .... Religion says, “Change your ...

I’d like to introduce you to a fascinating group of people, people with whom you may already be familiar. I wonder: can you guess their identity? As a whole, this group of people takes spiritual life very seriously. They are widely known for their attention to the details of their religion. They are scrupulous about attendance at religious events. They give generously. They fast regularly. They pray faithfully. These people also care very deeply about living a good life. They are models of personal purity. They are extremely careful to live above reproach, and would be considered among the most respected persons in the community. They’re honest, hardworking, and conscientious. Any employer would be delighted to have them working in their company. Yes, they are well known for the integrity of their lives and the sincerity of their religion. In addition, they have an extremely high regard for their holy scriptures. They study them, memorize them, and diligently seek to apply ...

Okay, okay, I’ll admit it: I was eavesdropping. I couldn’t help it, really. The woman across the way was so excited she was hard to ignore. I’d been sitting in the coffee shop for quite some time; it’s one of my favorite places to hang out. I love the environment, the java, the spicy mango salad, and the friendliness of the staff. Everything is first rate. They even have free wireless internet (unlike the big guys, who make you pay to use their air space). Settled into one of their well-worn weather chairs, computer propped on the left, bagel and coffee on the right, knees in my lap, I’m ready for some serious sur — I mean working! Anyway, I was minding my own business the other day when I overheard pieces of a conversation. “You won’t believe the miracles I’ve seen; I could write a book about it!” she said. I perked up, wondering where this was leading. “I go up near Pinnacle Peak — it’s got just as much energy as Sedona — and I offer up my intentions. Whatever’s up there, God, or wha...

In his classic children’s book, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe , CS Lewis imagines a world where "it's always winter and never Christmas." As Lucy, Edmund, Peter and Susan discover, this is because the land of Narnia is under the control of the Wicked Witch, who rules it with an iron fist. Knowing that the children, who arrived in Narnia through the wardrobe of an eccentric old Professor, are Narnia’s rightful heirs, the Wicked Witch tricks one of the them, Edmund, into betraying the others. She seduces him with his appetite for food by offering him Turkish Delight, a treat which makes him sick to his stomach while still craving more. In addition, she traps him with the elixir of power and recognition, promising him that she will make him king all by himself. As a result, when the majestic Lion called Aslan, Narnia’s true King, returns to depose the Witch, he discovers that Edmund has forfeited his freedom by having betrayed his family. To set Edmund free, Aslan agr...

I stood helplessly beside my son’s hospital crib. He had just endured a life-threatening operation to remove half of his defective right lung. His breathing was labored. The night nurse, concern etched on her face, would not leave his side. Neither would I. I seriously wondered if he’d ever grow up. It’s not a pleasant memory. That night, I was faced with a choice: would I succumb to fear and anger, or surrender it to God? Thus far, God hadn’t seemed very trustworthy. I never felt so angry and helpless in my whole life. I wanted to grab my son, unhook the tubes, and rescue him from that place. Instead, I retreated to a quiet room and gritted out this lyric: “ My child belongs to you, Lord, for you alone know best. His future is secure, Lord; my heart can lie at rest. I don’t know what tomorrow will hold in store for us. But you alone are faithful; in you alone I trust.” Our son’s 19th birthday is today, April 13. He’s perfectly healthy -- a college athlete. We're grateful for his r...

I saw the movie Mr. Holland's Opus when it first came out and, frankly, didn't think too much of it. For one thing, while Richard Dreyfuss is a terrific actor, he's not much of a conductor. It reminded me of Elaine's dance on Seinfeld. I kept thinking, "Couldn't they cast someone who looked like a real band director?" The problem's much more noticeable when it comes to casting actors as athletes. Did any of us really see John Goodman as Babe Ruth in the movie about his life, or did he just seem like Roseanne's right-handed husband playing the left-handed Babe Ruth? Maybe that's why Kevin Costner makes so many sports movies. He, at least, is an athlete. Too bad he can't act. I know my bias is showing, but it seems like finding an actor with musical skills should have been a piece of cake. The other thing that bothered me about Mr. Holland's Opus was its overdrawn sentimentality. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out where ...