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Are You a Fig Tree?

Jesus tells a story in Luke 13 about a frustrated farmer stuck with a lousy fig tree. For three years he’s had this fig tree and it’s never produced any figs. I’m not sure why he’s so upset – Fig Newtons had not been invented yet and you can’t do anything else good with a fig. But, this guy’s finally had enough.

“Cut it down! This tree’s done! It’s nothing but a drag on my dirt!”

And the man’s servant says, “No. Forgive the tree.”

The Greek word in the original language is “aphes.” Leave it alone. In other contexts, the same word means forgive. Forgive the tree. Give it another chance. Let me work with it some more, the gardener says. Let me add some mulch and some Miracle Gro and let’s see what happens.

Have you noticed  that Jesus’ stories don’t really explain. They just start, almost out of nowhere, almost out of context, almost in the middle of the story instead of at the beginning. And the endings are never as clean as we want them to be. At about the time we figure out what’s happening and take some interest in the story, it abruptly ends, in what we thought was the middle of the tale.

Maybe the Lord’s parables aren’t meant to explain. Maybe he tells the stories to make us think, to make us dig a little deeper. Then God turns on the light bulb so you can see. Maybe this is why Jesus tells his stories.

It dawns on you while you’re lying in the ditch. You’re beaten up and broken, you’ve been robbed. Everything’s been taken from you and you’re moments away from death. And then you see your very best hope for rescue, your only hope to be saved – that guy from church! But he looks the other way and walks right by you. He doesn’t even acknowledge you. He doesn’t help. But, wait! Now you see it! Your true salvation, your real hope for rescue, actually comes from a lousy foreigner you’ve been conditioned by your culture to hate.

Do you see yourself in Jesus’ stories? Today. Right now. Do you see yourself wounded and broken, close to death in a ditch on the side of the road? Or are you the merciful foreigner? Or the church guy?

Jesus’ stories don’t have endings. We don’t know if the younger brother grew up and got a job or if he got mad and ran away from home again after six weeks. We don’t know if the older brother ever got over himself and went in to the father’s party. We don’t know if the manure worked around the fig tree. Jesus doesn’t end the story because these are the kinds of stories you finish yourself. You are in these stories, all of them, whether you know it or not. And you do finish these stories, even if you don’t realize it.

Where are you in these stories? Who are you? Are you in a ditch? Are you caught in a crime or a sin? Are you desperately praying to the Lord and not hearing an answer? Are you a fig tree with empty branches in need of one more chance? Are you a mustard plant only God could see as beautiful? Are you a runaway child?

And how do you want the story to end? You and the Lord both see it. You know how you want it to end. So does he. And if you’ll let him do his saving work in the middle of your mess, in the middle of your story, your branches will be full and the fruit and the shade will bless you and everyone who knows you beyond anything you could ever accomplish on your own.

Peace,

Allan

HBD EVH

On this date in 1955, the greatest electric guitar player, composer, innovator, influencer, and performer was born in Amsterdam. To celebrate, enjoy this video of Eddie Van Halen eradicating the dimensions of time and space on this earth with a twelve-minute guitar solo at the US festival in 1983.

Mustard Plant Faith

Jesus told us that the faith of a mustard seed could move mountains. Just faith, any kind of faith, any amount of faith, no matter how small, is all it takes to radically transform heaven and earth around us. It’s a captivating image that leads to a powerful question: Can we muster up any kind of faith at all?

What about the mustard plant faith of Jesus?

In Luke 13, Jesus says the Kingdom of God is like a mustard seed. It’s planted, it grows, it turns into a tree, and all the birds of the air make homes in its branches. It’s an interesting image when you consider the mustard plant is actually a nuisance weed. It’s a terrible weed that only grows to two or three feet tall at the most. Farmers hate the mustard plant. It’s a pain.

Can you hear the disciples? “Um, Lord, that’s a nice story, but, um, I’m not sure how much we like being called a bad weed.”

I can imagine Jesus looking up and down at the guys and saying, “Be thankful. Be happy I didn’t call you something worse. Like a tumbleweed. And rejoice that what is unimpressive to you is very impressive to me.”

Jesus gives us this image of a mustard seed, a mustard weed, a tiny scraggly mustard plant growing as tall as a mighty tree with every species of bird living in its massive branches. A mustard tree providing shelter and shade and homes for all the birds of the air. Jesus is telling us, “I see things you don’t see. I know things you don’t know. I’m busy right now doing things you can’t even imagine.”

It’s a captivating image that leads to a powerful question: If Jesus is already moving mountains around us, can we just put our trust in him?

Peace,

Allan

Val Pal is 25!

Valerie Nicole is 25 today. Our little middle has been blessing us and everybody in her world now for a quarter century. Her creativity. Her wicked sense of humor. Her passionate heart for the marginalized. Her fierce loyalty to her friends and family. Her careful attention to our Lord’s call and her faithfulness to follow.

Twenty five years ago she was a nine-and-a-half pound newborn, amazing the nurses, dwarfing all the other babies at South Austin Medical Center, and nearly killing her mom. Since that day, Valerie has been the light in every dark room. For twenty five years she has been the source of the funny lines, the keeper of the family traditions, the carefree wearer of socks and sandals (together), and the lover of Little Debbies.

Today she is making a Gospel difference in the lives of troubled teenagers in Tulsa. She is a Holy Spirit indwelled and empowered daughter of God and a brilliant Youth Minister in his eternal Church. She is doing what our Lord puts in front of her to do with all her talents and energy in a way that changes lives and points to Christ Jesus. Those kids are blessed. And so am I.

Happy Birthday, Val-Pal. I love you. And I thank God for what he is doing in you and through you to his glory.

Dad

And Then There Were Five

After Cincinnati’s thrilling win over the Titans, there are now five teams in the NFL that have not won a divisional playoff game in at least 26 years. Five teams middling in mediocrity. Five teams that don’t know what they’re doing. Five teams that for more than a quarter century have been irrelevant patsies on those rare occasions they do qualify for the playoffs. Five teams consistently at the bottom of the mix.

Browns. Dolphins. Lions. Deadskins. Cowboys.

That’s some mighty fine company there.

Peace,

Allan

It Was Bound to Happen

For ten years now, Carley and I have played Ping Pong together every single week – sometimes multiple times per week, but always at least once, and always at least two games every time we play. We got the table in the summer of 2011 when Carley was twelve and I imagine we’ve played probably 1,200 or 1,300 games of Ping Pong. And I’ve never lost.

I’ve never let Carley win, probably, because my dad never let me win. My dad and I duked it out under the aluminum patio cover on the back porch of our family home about as often as Carley and I play – it was constant. I don’t remember ever not having a Ping Pong table. It started out in the garage when I was too little to play and would only be set up when we had company. Couples from church, Uncle Gerald and Aunt Alice – after dinner we always wound up in the garage playing Ping Pong. But sometime in the mid ’70s, when I was about ten or so, we added another four feet to the concrete patio, had the cover installed, and got a new Ping Pong table to go with it. My dad and I played almost every day and he never let me win.

And then, one evening, during the summer between my sophomore and junior years in high school, under the glow of the yellow bug light on that back porch, I beat him. And it was a big deal. I don’t remember the score. But I remember celebrating very loudly. I remember yelling at the top of my lungs in great relief and tremendous joy. I remember running inside to tell my mom and my sisters. I remember feeling like I had really accomplished something really great. He did not let me win. He did not take it easy on me. I beat him one-on-one at his own game and it meant something. It was significant.

Carley’s never beaten me. She’s come close a half dozen times – I think we’ve gone to deuce once, maybe a couple of years ago. We play together as partners when my siblings and their families come to visit. But she’s never beaten me.

Until today.

It was bound to happen.

At about 1:20pm this afternoon, Carley had me down 15-10. Then she had me 19-16. Then she was up 20-18. I took the next two points on my serve to force the deuce. And then she got the next two points, on her serve, to take me down.

In victory, she did not disappoint. She was gone out of the room before I could even look up. “I am the champion!” she sang at the top of her lungs. “I am the champion, my friend!” It was more shouting than singing, through the kitchen, into the living room. “And I’ll keep on fighting, to the end!” Now it sounds like she’s coming back to the game room. “I am the champion! I am the champion!” I can hear her coming back down the hall. “No time for losers!” She synced up her song and her walk so that she re-entered the game room in time to point at me as she emphasized the word “losers.” Nice.

Carrie-Anne walked in. Well? She won? I was on my knees at my end of the table, still not quite believing what had just happened. Uh, yeah. She did. By this time, Carley was on the phone to Valerie, telling her middle sister about her victory. Whitney was beside herself with glee at my demise. The above picture was taken to commemorate the occasion.  And Carley left for work.

It was going to happen. Carley’s paid attention to improving her forehand over the past month and for the past couple of weeks she’s concentrated on her serve – both have improved significantly. I just wasn’t ready for it to happen today. But it has.

She’s a winner. And I’m a loser.

Peace,

Allan

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