July 11, 2007

Sherry and I rolled out of bed early, and quietly snuck out for breakfast while the kiddos were still fast asleep. We headed for the 2nd Avenue Pier. Their breakfast served outside on the pier and next to the compelling coastline is as good as it gets. This worn and tattered establishment, affectionately named “Big Daddy’s” by the big guy behind the cash register, has been one of my favorite study break hang outs for years. Sherry and I soaked in the sights and smells and placed our order. Trying to revive and restore my southern ways, I even had grits with my eggs, bacon and greasy hashbrowns.
At about 8 a.m. there were two cussing salty dogs who came in and sat a couple tables away from us. Their repetitive use of the “f” word and other verbal bombs were indication of either occupations involving the sea… or their grits were overcooked. They ordered Bloody Marys. A few minutes later, a couple of loud, female, vacationing carnival workers came in and sat right behind Sherry and I. Their language seemed equally colorful, and their early-morning thirst had a bend for frozen daiquiris… “as strong as you can make them.”
Somewhat sheepishly, I sipped on my water… with a lemon.
With the many pages that have been unfolding during this study break, it occurred to me that on a pier in South Carolina where salty dogs and carnival workers are ordering drinks way too strong for a breakfast of champions --- this is where the Church is supposed to BE.
So why did I feel such a distance, disconnect, and pious wall between myself and these who are closer to the Kingdom than they know? Why was one of my initial reactions leaning towards how my breakfast company needed to GO to church… and not for me to BE the church right there at Big Daddy’s?

Oswald Chambers says the aim of a spiritually vigorous saint is to achieve the realization of Jesus Christ in every set of circumstances --- not dividing life into the secular and the sacred.
I sat on the beach today and read more of Mark Driscoll. More great stuff. Driscoll tells a funny but insightful story about a pervert in his church that was caving in to porn. This perv called Driscoll in the wee hours of the night wanting help. Driscoll writes: “The church phone in our house rang at some godforsaken hour when I’m not even a Christian, like 3 a.m.” Driscoll ends the story giving the wayward sinner this advice: “You need to stop watching porno and crying like a baby afterward and grow up, man. I don’t have time to be your accountability partner, so you need to be a man and nut up and take care of yourself. A naked lady is good to look at, so get a job, get a wife, ask her to get naked, and look at her instead. Alright?” (The guy actually did what Driscoll said and today has a wife, some kids and no longer watches porn.) Just a bit further in chapter two, Driscoll muses: “I decided that though a pastor was supposed to answer the phone and help people, I would end up with a gun to my head if I did. And since I had no boss and the church was not paying me, I decided to just keep doing what I thought Jesus wanted me to do instead of doing what the people in the church wanted me to do.”
Is the church (little “c”) doing much, but not doing what Jesus wants? Am I? Has the idea of what a successful church (little “c”) looks like so infected us that we have become blind to the mission of Christ and the desperate needs of culture? Is there so much crippling activity in our local churches that no one has time, as Driscoll suggests, to work on the Church (big “c”)… consequently we have been doomed to merely work in the church (little “c”)?
I laid Driscoll’s poignant paperback on my chest, and contemplated an empty water bottle lying in the sand. Another scorching-hot July day had descended, and my two oldest daughters lay on the beach next to me trying to golden up. They each had full, cold bottles of water by their sides. I heard Brooklynn say something about how she could just keep drinking and drinking her water because it was so terribly hot. A full bottle of cold, purified water on a hot beach is like a steaming hotdog at a Braves game… necessary.
However, I noticed how an empty water bottle in the hot, white sand becomes trash nobody even bothers picking up. Nobody wants to claim or touch it. This became my afternoon metaphor for, perhaps, what many local churches have become. Empty. While thirst and hunger is increasing, few are looking to the church (little “c”) for quenching. Some may even go as far as seeing the local church as useless trash… unnecessary for their spiritual journey. Some won’t even touch it.
Dear God, please help me to lead Your Church in ways that dispense your Living Water.
Jesus, you are stirring millions to BE Your Church. Many are growing divinely tired of merely going to church. For the sake of salty dogs, carnival workers, and Your Kingdom come, please show me how to simplify, clarify, seek movement, lead alignment, and stay focused on your mission, Jesus.
Too much sun on my already burnt and glowing face pushed me to do additional reading from the condo balcony. The view from the 5th floor is relaxing and conducive to reflect on more Psalms (74-80). The Psalms, I’m finding, are great prayer companions. There’s so much bona fide soul to these Biblical songs. Personalizing and praying through them make for great connection times with a sovereign-yet-personal God. It felt right and good to write my prayers out in my journal.
On a final note... Somewhere in between our rationalized eavesdropping at Big Daddy’s, Sherry said the phrase that all study breaks dread… “Only a few more days left.” Two more days, to be exact, are on this study break’s calendar. They will be full days. I’m praying and anticipating God will being tying many thoughts and ideas together. I sense He already is.