The Anakim!

General Joshua had a problem. His drive to conquer the land west of the Jordan had stalled at Hebron, the stronghold of the Anakim—the ancient race of giants (Rephaim) who served as mercenaries in the Ancient Near East (Joshua 14). No army could defeat these descendants of the great warrior of Anak (Deuteronomy 9:2). So tall and formidable were these soldiers, that their name and reputation injected panic and flight into the ranks of their enemies.

Joshua’s troops were all in the prime of life, the new generation of Israelites born during the forty years of wandering in the wilderness. All of them, officers and men alike, stood cowering at the base of “Hill Hebron,” staring up at the walled fortifications manned by men twice their size. Each man wished he possessed the courage to take the hill. But these were the giants their fathers had told them about.

The Warrior!

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Not Tonight!

It was the last thing I wanted to do—be around a group of people.

I was bone-tired and emotionally spent. A desperate phone call the night before had left Judy and me sleepless. Two of our very best friends had been killed in a car accident in Oregon. Not only did this news break my heart, it also drained me as it pressurized my insane schedule. Somehow I had to find time to fly to Portland, do a wrenching memorial service, fly home, and get back to everything else I had to do. (On that list was taking my teenage daughter to the DMV for her driving exam.)

“I’m not going to small group tonight,” I reported to Judy. “This is nuts!”

“You don’t have a choice. We’re baptizing Brian and Lori (two new believers) in the pool. Everyone’s expecting us,” my bride protested.

“You go if you want,” I replied. “I’m not going; I have too much to do.” (Though I didn’t say it, I was also thinking that the last thing I wanted to do at that moment was be around a group of people . . . even if it was our church small group.)

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There are a few places Judy and I go to that inspire, comfort, encourage, and heal our souls when life is hard. This is one of our favorites: Cannon Beach, Oregon.

We’ve walked that beach during some of life’s darkest days. Hand in hand we’ve cried, rejoiced, begged God for relief as we processed my diagnosis with this chronic disease, some of our children’s worst challenges and hurts, our son’s two tours in the war zone, and the many, many tests and trials of ministry.

The breathtaking landscape of that beautiful place helps in ways that I can’t really explain.

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Same Old Garbage

Every Sunday evening I fill a gray recycle bin with assorted cardboard boxes, empty bottles, crushed beverage cans and other stuff they tell me I shouldn’t throw away. Just before I close the lid and wheel it to the curb I notice that the contents look just like the junk I put in there last week. There’s something about the rhythm of the Underwood household that produces the same garbage, day in and day out, week in and week out, every month, every year.

I’m okay with that, as long as it’s only physical garbage that’s stinking up our lives.

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The pastor paced the floor screaming out to God. “What did I do wrong? All I ever wanted to do was serve you!”

I had just had breakfast with the chairman of his elder board who had asked me, “Where did we go south on this? All we ever wanted to do was see people come to Christ.”

Church fights, family tensions, embattled ministries, friends at odds—the most discouraging and damaging dynamic in Christianity.

I’ve been around churches and working with church leaders for decades, and I’m convinced that the number one reason church leaders fight isn’t doctrine or philosophy of ministry. Our problem is that in the furious blur of personal and corporate ministry, we begin to neglect our relationships.

I know, it happened to me fifteen years ago.

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Brace Yourself!

As a follower of Christ, I’m preparing myself for the Christmas Season, but not in the way you might think.

I’m bracing myself against the cascade of guilt and shame flowing from the so-called evangelical community every December.

There will be the usual degrading offering of “you’re spending too much money on this or that,” with a self-righteous sprinkling of “we buy a cheap tree,” one-upped by “we don’t buy a tree at all,” but trumped by the “we only talk and think about Jesus on Christmas” crowd.

Modern-day Pharisees throughout the church will boast of their “just right” limit on individual gifts, as they look for a verse to spew at anyone spending even a dollar more than their “sanctified” amount.

So, I’m supposed to feel guilty about decorating our home to celebrate the Lord’s birth and buying presents for the people I love?

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Main Street of  the small town in Iowa was lined with spectators. The grand procession of luxury cars and limousines followed the hearse toward the cemetery. Men removed their hats and mothers gathered children to their side. The richest and most influential man in the county had died and if you were anybody in the hierarchy of the little farming community, you were in the “pageant.”

Dick, a friend of mine recalled the big event from his perspective as a little boy standing next to his father outside the local barbershop. Nobody said a word as he watched wide-eyed, trying to be as somber as his wiggly body would allow.

It was 70 years later when Dick told me the story. He told it in a way that I could picture it in my mind and even feel his little-boy wonder. Dick continued:

“There was this goofy guy that hung around the barbershop. He was one of those guys that you knew would probably be sitting in the same barbershop when he grew old telling the same stories to his captive audience waiting for a haircut. I looked up at this guy. I remember him taking off his hat solemnly. And Ed, you know what he said as we watched the taillights of the last Cadillac turn down the road to the cemetery? ‘Man, that’s really living!’”

“Man, that’s really living,” Dick repeated. “Can you believe that? Even as a little boy I was thinking, ‘No, that’s really dying!’”

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I’m fascinated by God’s timing; always have been. A friend of mine use to say that it’s His signature on events. He sure signed off on the last two days of my life to teach me an important lesson.

Last Sunday our study of Mark brought us to chapter 9:30-37, a fascinating conversation between Jesus and His disciples concerning greatness. As they passed through Galilee, Jesus taught them again concerning His impending death and resurrection. This time He added the discouraging news that all of this will happen because someone will betray Him. They didn’t understand; it was just too much for them, and they were afraid to ask Him to explain further.

What they did understand were the prophecies that someday Messiah would rule and reign over His Kingdom on earth. Still clinging to their insistence that Jesus should be that Messiah—the ruling and reigning one, rather than the Messiah He was telling them He was—the One who would first suffer, die, and then rise from the dead, they did what everyone does when they are around someone they think has power and status: They postured for position in His Kingdom. They were about to learn Jesus’ definition of greatness—His radical, counterculture, counter-flesh, measure of greatness in His Kingdom: If you follow Jesus, He will ask you to serve everyone—especially the weak.

It’s an upside-down measure of greatness for most people. It’s not the number of people who serve you that matters to Jesus; it’s the number of people you serve.

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I’ve had it with Christianity!

When Christians get caught up in a system of works righteousness, failure is their only ultimate option. It all feels good, and holy… and even smug at the beginning.

“We’re the Christians who don’t do this, or this, or this, or this. We’re the ones with self-discipline. We’re the most committed, the least sinful, the truly spiritual.”

If they were totally honest, they would admit that it starts to unravel the moment they begin trying to restrain their sin. Even as they are following all the formulas and attending all the meetings, they can’t hide their dirty little secrets from themselves:

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My Daily Battle

Most of the time I’m fine with the “big” temptations like stealing and murder. I’ve felt like murdering a few petty, controlling, divisive, and mean Christians over the years, but never actually contemplated the act. The last time I actually stole something I was 18. So I’ve been doing pretty good in the murder/stealing category of sins for over forty years.

Yet hardly a day goes by that I don’t struggle with the sins of dissatisfaction and disappointment. Suddenly I realize that here I am again, dissatisfied with God’s provision or disappointed in His plan. The realization usually comes through one of my famous “if-only” thoughts or sentences.

The “If-Only” Sins

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