Monday, March 09, 2009
Friday, February 20, 2009
obama and jesus
A recent poll of American's showed Obama is its number one hero, followed by Jesus.
How sad. It makes me think of Psalm 146, which caught my attention shortly after the election.
How sad. It makes me think of Psalm 146, which caught my attention shortly after the election.
Psalm 146
1 Praise the LORD.
Praise the LORD, O my soul.
2 I will praise the LORD all my life;
I will sing praise to my God as long as I live.
3 Do not put your trust in princes,
in mortal men, who cannot save.
4 When their spirit departs, they return to the ground;
on that very day their plans come to nothing.
5 Blessed is he whose help is the God of Jacob,
whose hope is in the LORD his God,
6 the Maker of heaven and earth,
the sea, and everything in them—
the LORD, who remains faithful forever.
7 He upholds the cause of the oppressed
and gives food to the hungry.
The LORD sets prisoners free,
8 the LORD gives sight to the blind,
the LORD lifts up those who are bowed down,
the LORD loves the righteous.
9 The LORD watches over the alien
and sustains the fatherless and the widow,
but he frustrates the ways of the wicked.
10 The LORD reigns forever,
your God, O Zion, for all generations.
Praise the LORD.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
mercy (is flowing)
While busy working on the computer this morning, I glance toward the street to see a man unzipping his pants. He then begins urinating on our doorstep.
"Someone's pissing on our door!" I yell to the guys, and begin walking over for a confrontation.
By this time, the man's waving his junk around and is well on his way to watering our doorstep. I push my face up to the window to give him the evil eye, yet he continues, though now somewhat shocked, turning, subsequently spraying urine on our window.
The puddle starts rolling down the sidewalk toward the street.
"Call the cops," the guys say, and my brain freezes.
The guy looks helpless. He's drunk. He's old. He's weathered.
While I stand inside, I pull on the unlocked door toward me to make sure he doesn't open it. We make eye contact and our dance begins. He looks at me like as if he's a small child, yet is well over twice my elder.
He raises his hands in front of his face, folding them together like a child learning how to pray, as if I was preparing to jump through the glass and start rumbling.
It was his plea for mercy.
Public urination lands you a non-coveted spot on the sex offenders list, which can ban you from certain homeless shelters. (A man recently froze to death in Grand Rapids because he was denied a night in a shelter because it was too close to a public school).
"Sorry, I had to go," he says, among other mumblings.
In my anger and disgust, I want him to pay, but all I could muster was to open the door and say, "Don't do that here. Please find another bathroom." He continues his plea and eventually leaves.
Immediately, I fill up a Nalgene bottle from the sink and dump it outside, trying to wash away the pee. Then I head downstairs, fuming, scouring the basement for our red bucket. I find it and pour a cap of bleach in it, filling the rest with water, finally dumping it outside while Tingley holds the door.
With mumbles and disgruntled speech, I verbally vent to the guys and forget about it...until lunch.
"Uh oh, did you use bleach on the sidewalk?" Derek asks.
I look down. My favorite shirt. White spots. Destroyed.
Tonight there's an important party (hypocritically enough, I wore my best clothes), so I drive home to change, all the way, of course, blaming the walk-by pisser.
As I'm crossing the street on the way back, all I can think about is the look on this stranger's face, hands folded, begging for mercy.
And it reminds me of me.
I've done this before. (A story for another day).
There was a time I got drunk as a teenager. I came home, thinking my mother was going to be sleeping, peacefully unaware of her son's antics. After stumbling through the door, I stroll into the computer room, and there she is, watching TV on the couch. Playing it cool, I make small talk, then sign onto AOL and pretend like everything's normal.
She knew. (And FYI, this has since become a favorite story of mine to tell at family gatherings. I'm sure she's thrilled every time she has to relive it.)
So I go to bed, thinking I'm James Bond, reveling in the thought that I'd blown past mother's homeland security on Sunset Drive.
Then the room starts spinning. The puke alarm clock starts ringing.
Tip-toe running to the bathroom, I don't make it. A vomit tsunami rushes out of my inner-most being, tagging the carpet and splashing onto the bathroom floor.
Panicking, I close the door and begin "mopping" with a bath towel.
And then I hear a knock. The dreaded knock.
My drunk heart drops. Busted.
My mother opens the door, and I look up like a wet dog, seeped in my own puke pool.
She looks at me and simply says, "Go to bed."
When I wake up the next morning, I assemble fuzzy memories, hoping it was just a dream, but quickly realizing it was a real nightmare. Confronting me at the kitchen counter, she says, "Aaron, you were pretty drunk last night, weren't you?"
And I have the nerve to lie.
"No," I reply.
"Yes, you were. I could smell you when you walked in," she says.
Amazingly, I have the audacity to lie again, fabricating a story about friends of friends daring me to drink vodka or some booze that made me unknowingly drunk, when the truth is, I set out to bong beers. I was trying to throw randoms under the bus.
But still, my mother cleaned up my mess. She had mercy on me. Why?
Because of her immeasurable love for me. It broke her heart realizing her son drank, and shattered it while mopping up my boozey vomit in the middle of the night.
What my mother felt, and what I caught a taste of this morning, is a glimpse into the depth of God's mercy on us, despite our disobedience and poor choices.
This old street man, with his tattered hands elevated, looked me in the eyes to remind me of the mercy I've been shown: by God and others.
And I think of all the times we've collectively peed on God's doorstep, and the sheer volume of requests where we've stood before the Creator, our hands held out, asking for mercy, not wrath.
"Speak and act as those who are going to be judged by the law that gives freedom, because judgment without mercy will be shown to anyone who has not been merciful. Mercy triumphs over judgment!" (James 2:12-13)
"Someone's pissing on our door!" I yell to the guys, and begin walking over for a confrontation.
By this time, the man's waving his junk around and is well on his way to watering our doorstep. I push my face up to the window to give him the evil eye, yet he continues, though now somewhat shocked, turning, subsequently spraying urine on our window.
The puddle starts rolling down the sidewalk toward the street.
"Call the cops," the guys say, and my brain freezes.
The guy looks helpless. He's drunk. He's old. He's weathered.
While I stand inside, I pull on the unlocked door toward me to make sure he doesn't open it. We make eye contact and our dance begins. He looks at me like as if he's a small child, yet is well over twice my elder.
He raises his hands in front of his face, folding them together like a child learning how to pray, as if I was preparing to jump through the glass and start rumbling.
It was his plea for mercy.
Public urination lands you a non-coveted spot on the sex offenders list, which can ban you from certain homeless shelters. (A man recently froze to death in Grand Rapids because he was denied a night in a shelter because it was too close to a public school).
"Sorry, I had to go," he says, among other mumblings.
In my anger and disgust, I want him to pay, but all I could muster was to open the door and say, "Don't do that here. Please find another bathroom." He continues his plea and eventually leaves.
Immediately, I fill up a Nalgene bottle from the sink and dump it outside, trying to wash away the pee. Then I head downstairs, fuming, scouring the basement for our red bucket. I find it and pour a cap of bleach in it, filling the rest with water, finally dumping it outside while Tingley holds the door.
With mumbles and disgruntled speech, I verbally vent to the guys and forget about it...until lunch.
"Uh oh, did you use bleach on the sidewalk?" Derek asks.
I look down. My favorite shirt. White spots. Destroyed.
Tonight there's an important party (hypocritically enough, I wore my best clothes), so I drive home to change, all the way, of course, blaming the walk-by pisser.
As I'm crossing the street on the way back, all I can think about is the look on this stranger's face, hands folded, begging for mercy.
And it reminds me of me.
I've done this before. (A story for another day).
There was a time I got drunk as a teenager. I came home, thinking my mother was going to be sleeping, peacefully unaware of her son's antics. After stumbling through the door, I stroll into the computer room, and there she is, watching TV on the couch. Playing it cool, I make small talk, then sign onto AOL and pretend like everything's normal.
She knew. (And FYI, this has since become a favorite story of mine to tell at family gatherings. I'm sure she's thrilled every time she has to relive it.)
So I go to bed, thinking I'm James Bond, reveling in the thought that I'd blown past mother's homeland security on Sunset Drive.
Then the room starts spinning. The puke alarm clock starts ringing.
Tip-toe running to the bathroom, I don't make it. A vomit tsunami rushes out of my inner-most being, tagging the carpet and splashing onto the bathroom floor.
Panicking, I close the door and begin "mopping" with a bath towel.
And then I hear a knock. The dreaded knock.
My drunk heart drops. Busted.
My mother opens the door, and I look up like a wet dog, seeped in my own puke pool.
She looks at me and simply says, "Go to bed."
When I wake up the next morning, I assemble fuzzy memories, hoping it was just a dream, but quickly realizing it was a real nightmare. Confronting me at the kitchen counter, she says, "Aaron, you were pretty drunk last night, weren't you?"
And I have the nerve to lie.
"No," I reply.
"Yes, you were. I could smell you when you walked in," she says.
Amazingly, I have the audacity to lie again, fabricating a story about friends of friends daring me to drink vodka or some booze that made me unknowingly drunk, when the truth is, I set out to bong beers. I was trying to throw randoms under the bus.
But still, my mother cleaned up my mess. She had mercy on me. Why?
Because of her immeasurable love for me. It broke her heart realizing her son drank, and shattered it while mopping up my boozey vomit in the middle of the night.
What my mother felt, and what I caught a taste of this morning, is a glimpse into the depth of God's mercy on us, despite our disobedience and poor choices.
This old street man, with his tattered hands elevated, looked me in the eyes to remind me of the mercy I've been shown: by God and others.
And I think of all the times we've collectively peed on God's doorstep, and the sheer volume of requests where we've stood before the Creator, our hands held out, asking for mercy, not wrath.
"Speak and act as those who are going to be judged by the law that gives freedom, because judgment without mercy will be shown to anyone who has not been merciful. Mercy triumphs over judgment!" (James 2:12-13)
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
two cents
The neighborhood where we've planted our business growing. It's changing. It used to be the roughest part of downtown. Tomorrow night we'll go to a fancy party where the short film we created is being premiered, and all the who's who of the city will be in attendance.
But yet, the neighborhood remains a mix of the swanky and downtrodden.
Yesterday, we were talking to a guy who owns a music venue on the strip, and we started swapping stories about panhandlers. Naively, when asked for change, I've always thought they really needed to use the bus (though on many occasions, they've walked in a direction opposite of the stop), but this guy lives on a different part of the street, where drugs and sex are the currency.
On a delivery walk this afternoon, warm for February yet rainy, a man stopped me, asking for gas money. He had (what I'm assuming) is crack pipe burns on his lips.
Then there's Rodney, who is mentally challenged but a man of God, who comes in regularly and asks if he can help. He brought our mail to the post office last week in exchange for a few minutes of warmth on our couch.
There's another guy who helped us bring in a chair last week. He openly admitted to being an alcoholic, and asked for a dollar for a beer to go to the liquor store down the street in exchange for his 15 seconds of labor. I told him I didn't want to buy him beer, and he responded by criticizing me, saying, "What? You don't drink?"
I told him I drink occasionally, but it's not adversely affecting the rest of my life.
I'm torn between the Scriptures that often come to mind when I'm faced with these situations. There's times when I have compassion, there's times when I don't. James 2 is a perfect example:
But yet, the neighborhood remains a mix of the swanky and downtrodden.
Yesterday, we were talking to a guy who owns a music venue on the strip, and we started swapping stories about panhandlers. Naively, when asked for change, I've always thought they really needed to use the bus (though on many occasions, they've walked in a direction opposite of the stop), but this guy lives on a different part of the street, where drugs and sex are the currency.
On a delivery walk this afternoon, warm for February yet rainy, a man stopped me, asking for gas money. He had (what I'm assuming) is crack pipe burns on his lips.
Then there's Rodney, who is mentally challenged but a man of God, who comes in regularly and asks if he can help. He brought our mail to the post office last week in exchange for a few minutes of warmth on our couch.
There's another guy who helped us bring in a chair last week. He openly admitted to being an alcoholic, and asked for a dollar for a beer to go to the liquor store down the street in exchange for his 15 seconds of labor. I told him I didn't want to buy him beer, and he responded by criticizing me, saying, "What? You don't drink?"
I told him I drink occasionally, but it's not adversely affecting the rest of my life.
I'm torn between the Scriptures that often come to mind when I'm faced with these situations. There's times when I have compassion, there's times when I don't. James 2 is a perfect example:
My brothers, as believers in our glorious Lord Jesus Christ, don't show favoritism. Suppose a man comes into your meeting wearing a gold ring and fine clothes, and a poor man in shabby clothes also comes in. If you show special attention to the man wearing fine clothes and say, "Here's a good seat for you," but say to the poor man, "You stand there" or "Sit on the floor by my feet," have you not discriminated among yourselves and become judges with evil thoughts?Listen, my dear brothers: Has not God chosen those who are poor in the eyes of the world to be rich in faith and to inherit the kingdom he promised those who love him? But you have insulted the poor. Is it not the rich who are exploiting you? Are they not the ones who are dragging you into court? Are they not the ones who are slandering the noble name of him to whom you belong?
If you really keep the royal law found in Scripture, "Love your neighbor as yourself," you are doing right. But if you show favoritism, you sin and are convicted by the law as lawbreakers. For whoever keeps the whole law and yet stumbles at just one point is guilty of breaking all of it. For he who said, "Do not commit adultery," also said, "Do not murder." If you do not commit adultery but do commit murder, you have become a lawbreaker.
Speak and act as those who are going to be judged by the law that gives freedom, because judgment without mercy will be shown to anyone who has not been merciful. Mercy triumphs over judgment!
Faith and Deeds
What good is it, my brothers, if a man claims to have faith but has no deeds? Can such faith save him? Suppose a brother or sister is without clothes and daily food. If one of you says to him, "Go, I wish you well; keep warm and well fed," but does nothing about his physical needs, what good is it? In the same way, faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead.But someone will say, "You have faith; I have deeds."
Show me your faith without deeds, and I will show you my faith by what I do.You believe that there is one God. Good! Even the demons believe that—and shudder.
There's also Jesus' comments in Luke 6:29-31, and 31-34 (via The Message):
"To you who are ready for the truth, I say this: Love your enemies. Let them bring out the best in you, not the worst. When someone gives you a hard time, respond with the energies of prayer for that person. If someone slaps you in the face, stand there and take it. If someone grabs your shirt, giftwrap your best coat and make a present of it. If someone takes unfair advantage of you, use the occasion to practice the servant life. No more tit-for-tat stuff. Live generously.
"Here is a simple rule of thumb for behavior: Ask yourself what you want people to do for you; then grab the initiative and do it for them! If you only love the lovable, do you expect a pat on the back? Run-of-the-mill sinners do that. If you only help those who help you, do you expect a medal? Garden-variety sinners do that. If you only give for what you hope to get out of it, do you think that's charity? The stingiest of pawnbrokers does that.
And, finally, there's the admonition in Romans 14:13 to not put any stumbling block in others paths, which is readily applicable when your pocket change may go to crack or booze or prostitutes.
Interestingly enough, it talks about not judging (something I do instantly when I'm asked for change).
"Therefore let us stop passing judgment on one another. Instead, make up your mind not to put any stumbling block or obstacle in the way of a brother or sister."
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
mugabe
It's being reported that Zimbabwean dictator Robert Mugabe has put his hand out to celebrate his 85th birthday in unthinkable excess, while nearly all people in the country are starving and unemployed. Here's the dictator's wish list...
Birthday list
2,000 bottles of champagne — Moët & Chandon and ’61 Bollinger
500 bottles of whisky — Johnny Walker Blue Label, 22-year-old Chivas
8,000 lobsters
100kg king prawns
3,000 ducks
4,000 portions of caviar
8,000 boxes of Ferrero Rocher
16,000 eggs
3,000 cakes — chocolate and vanilla
4,000 packs of pork sausages
500kg cheese
4,000 packets of crackers
If you want to support a cause that will actually help the people of Zim, visit VC's website here.
Monday, February 09, 2009
Friday, February 06, 2009
cupoftea
Idumpedawholecupofteaintomycomputerandnowthespacebarandenterkeyarebusted.butthankGodiwasabletogetthefilesout.
help send emily to zimbabwe
Friends, I've been to Zimbabwe twice. At first, it seemed like an unlikely partnership, but both trips have been literally life-changing. Now, my amazing girlfriend electric Emily is going in April. (Editorial note: Emily made her decision to go independently of our relationship).
Here's Emily's support letter; let me know if you want to help send her to Zim!
Here's Emily's support letter; let me know if you want to help send her to Zim!
Dear friends and family,
It’s with sheer excitement and anticipation that I write to you! A few months ago, I met with friends and was given the opportunity to join a team of young adults heading to
Though I signed up with eagerness, I wanted to make sure I knew what I was getting into. I have heard stories over the last few months from friends who have been a part of the Zimbabwe Missions team in the past, and was educated on the nation’s history and current state of affairs. Not a pretty picture to say the least.
Once a thriving nation and Africa’s “bread basket,”
But hope is not lost.
Through Vital Connections, the long-standing ministry in
The group I have the privilege of joining through Vital Connections and
We’ll also be traveling to local villages to work in feeding centers and orphanages, delivering much needed supplies. The team will be developing a children’s program that we can perform many times to connect with children and their families.
Our goal is to involve as many friends, family, and community members as possible for this missions project. Involvement will be in the form of support teams:
• Team members traveling to
• Prayer supporters
• Financial supporters
I don’t want to sound cliché, but prayer truly is the foundation in which this trip is possible. Our team wants to be following the Spirit’s direction in which He takes us—both before and during our time in
Because of this, we will need as many prayer supporters rallying for us in Christ.
Though our economy is tight, I strongly believe the Body can work together to do Kingdom work and continue to build this bridge to
c/o Kim Rankens
I want to thank you ahead of time in joining me on this great adventure Christ has impressed upon my heart.
Your friendship, prayer and financial support makes all this possible. I‘m eager to report back to you the ways in which Christ moved in the hearts of our team and the new friendships we will have in Zimbabwe.
In Christ,
Emily
Thursday, February 05, 2009
short film article + party
Rapid Growth covered the short-film debut happening in downtown Grand Rapids next Thursday night. You're invited. Click here to check it out. If you want to sign up for our company updates, enter your email below.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Thursday, January 15, 2009
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