Church like a stream

A dear friend of mine is hearing God's mysterious voice, telling her to move to a new country and start a new thing. A few weeks back, another friend heard God's voice, moving him to a new place. In my heart, a wave of joy and sorrow -- joy will win. I know this because we, as a church family, are moving again. And when a church moves, so do her people.

Church should be like a stream -- water flows in the same direction, moving at different speeds, but all chasing the same destination. Creeks wind their way into the current and it pushes the water places the water never even imagined it could go. Sometimes a rock, tree or branch will send water on a different path, headed the same direction, but not traveling together. And then there is the noise of the stream -- babbling, full of life and joy and peace and hope.

You see, for a long time I was in a church that felt more like a pond than a stream. The difference is small but profound. Water moves in a pond, just slowly. Discussions around church always felt like building a dam, trying to stop the flow of movement. "How do we close the back door?" "How can we bring more people in?"  Good questions, but if there's no outflow, momentum slows, and we start to deposit our dirt. Algae starts to grow and the whole thing becomes stagnant. Then it starts to smell, really smell. The more and more we'd try to hold in, the more we kept finding leaks in ourselves, in the dam we built, until one day the whole thing just broke apart.

It's hard to come from the quiet pond and move to a babbling stream. Momentum is tricky, and makes a mess sometimes. It's loud and rushing and unfriendly -- it carries you along to places you may not want to go. But it makes the water clear and fresh and nourishing to people who are thirsty. So come join the stream, for a minute or for a lifetime. It's no longer my job to keep you swimming, just trust the One who is leading us to the ocean.

Cell Phone Pharisee

More and more lately, my big secret is coming out.

"Why don't you have a cell phone?"

"How can you manage?"

My reasons for not carrying a mobile device are many and varied. Here are a few I've said lately:

•  because I don't want to be available to people all the time
•  because I know my addictive nature and it's just easier to not have the temptation
•  because I choose to spend money on other things

As these conversations keep coming, I am finding a different, deeper reason. One that I must confess. I LIKE not giving in to the current culture that demands I instantly return texts, calls, beeps. It allows me to pretend that I'm morally superior to you. I can roll my eyes when you check a text cause "it might be important." I can snigger at the lady in the awards ceremony rooting through her purse because it's decided to play a symphony all on its own. I can laugh about the friend who answers the phone IN THE SHOWER, knowing that I will never be like that.

You see, in my eyes, cell phones have become a great evil in society. And I stand pure, unadulterated by the insidious, omnipresent portal to all things. I read articles and stories that back up my skewed view. Cell phones cause cancer, addict preschoolers, change our thought patterns so we cannot focus on one thing, make walking zombies out of pedestrians, and so on. I knew all along that they were trouble and I will stand against the overwhelming masses -- a pure, focused, productive member of society.

Only I'm not. I have become a Pharisee. I use my choice to not use a perfectly normal tool to make myself seem holier, closer to God and others, just because I don't give in. And other people help me distance myself when they say, "You must really trust your husband if you're not going to check on him while you're away."  "You are so strong. It must be very hard."

I don't need a cell phone to tune you out while we're supposed to be talking. I want you to wait for my time to return that call/ message/ whatever cause I want to control the situation. Oh, and I want you to know that I'm too important of a person to drop whatever it is I'm doing (probably nothing) to respond to you. From the outside I look strong, independent, and holy, but it's all a façade.

And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for considering you dependent, or less of a person because you have a cell phone.  I'm sorry for thinking that you don't trust your husband with your kids because you call to connect. I'm sorry for the anger that bubbles up in me when we are having a conversation and you look at your phone instead of being constantly riveted by my eyes and words. I'm sorry for this barrier in the way I think of you, or look at you.

I would love for you to look at me and not see some backward thinking, suspicious holdout. And I will try to no longer judge you. I will treat you as a real friend, who makes different choices than me because we live different lives. Unless we're stuck on the side of the road, with no where to turn. Then I will be grateful for your cell phone.