This Sunday I’m preaching. And I’m finishing up the book of Joshua which our church has been going through for a while now.

I’ve been reading the end of chapter 24 over and over to prepare. The people of God in the land of rest. Joseph being laid to rest. Rest.

Rest.

And my own need for rest.

Rest from my works.

Rest from my worries. Worries about money. Worries about how I look in my work clothes. Worries about tomorrow. Worries about my kids. Worries about what people think. Worries about whether God loves me. Worries about having all the answers. Worries about so much that is out of my control. Worries about tomorrow in the middle of the night.

The need for rest is not mine alone. I am surrounded by the frantic and restless. The worried and troubled.

Just as there was a rest for the wandering people do God, there is a rest for the restless in America.

And I see them going to their inheritance in the words before me. A promised inheritance, one where God consistently showed them he was faithful to take care of them and fulfill his promises and care for them even when they could not see he was doing so.

And of course Joshua and Jesus share a name. And of course these stories are given so we might rest from all the worry and work in the finished work of the Christ. And so we may know he gives rest world without end.

I want to try and answer a few objections I’ve gotten about the SGM sexual abuse lawsuit

The question I get the most in response to my post, “The Silence of the Reformed” is –

“What do you want the Reformed leadership to do?”

Two things.

Say something and discontinue the invites.

Say something. What I keep hearing is we should wait till the verdict comes in to hear both sides because SGM has totally denied the accusations. Therefore no blog posts and no articles till then. Before the trial of Sandusky, an article “Love Notices Wet Hair” was published on The Gospel Coalition site and distributed widely. That article was posted 7 months before he was found guilty. Either we need an admission of how wrong that was, or we need a similar stance. Really all they would need to do is write a blog post that said, “in light of the accusations against SGM we offer this post.” That would be a start.

I would also like to see a public announcement about the need for any and all named parties to stop speaking at conferences. This would benefit everyone. I want you to imagine what it must be like for a victim of abuse to continually hear about the speaking engagements of those who enabled the abusers or were themselves an abuser. To see them rise in popularity. To see them above criticism. When the Reformed community does not see any problem with CJ Mahaney speaking at conferences because he has denied the charges against him and none have to be proven in the courts, our cult of personality has reached an apex.

These two things would go a long way.

Another question. I’ve been asked, “What if the Defendants are innocent?”

With so many testimonies and so many willing to give horrific details and to do so in their own name, not only should this give everyone reason to take this seriously (although we should have done that anyway), it should make us willing to be wrong. It would certainly be an elaborate hoax if the accusers are lying. But I’m more than willing to be wrong for their sake. Someone is going to be wrong. Either those who have said nothing of comfort to the accusers. Or it will be those of us who have pleaded with the Reformed community to speak up.

Last thing. It has been suggested that I write about these things because it helps increase blog traffic and book sales. Maybe those things have happened. But no one who writes for The Gospel Coalition has reviewed my book or even mentioned it. Now I’m small potatoes compared to most writers they deal with. But I’ve written for them. They know my book exists and they have written and linked to similar ideas. I’m afraid my criticism of SGM, Mars Hill and those who have been silent has hurt sales.

I admit I have worried about this. I can only say it has not felt very strategic, as an author, to criticize my own camp.

May God have mercy on us all.

I suppose it is possible I need to do some clarification on yesterday’s post.

There are a few folks worried about me. I appreciate that but I am not “depressed” in the clinical sense or otherwise. My disposition will not allow it.

I am far too inclined to laugh and laugh at myself. I have too much joy in my wife and children and music and food and friends and enjoy the comfort of the love of God to be in that place. and to be honest, I know people who are there and it would not dignify the intensity of their sufferings to equate mine with theirs.

But I know all those feelings yesterday. They have not all come at once for me. I am thankful for that. It comes in waves. And in fits and starts. Sunday nights are always hard, though….unless Monday is a banking holiday and then the dread, real dread comes on Monday night.

I did not say all this yesterday because those who do not feels things acutely get it. I know I didn’t. I just cruised along. And they hear someone use the word “depressed” and immediately go to the point of it being a medical condition. We need to be able to use the term without that kind of worry. Because sometimes there are seasons when a believer feels like a weight has been put on them and they feel smothered, depressed to the point where the only spiritual air they breathe chokes them.

See, I’m using poetic language that makes it even harder for most folks to understand. Most have not searched for words to crawl into and take refuge in. They cruise along better and will just say “Sunday nights suck.” Whereas some of us are more prone to say something like…

Sunday nights are the darkest nights
No beams of light find their way in
The morning’s dawning darkness begins
Early, casting shadows, barring lights

What’s to come stands fell like a sentry
Between the soul and joy’s full reserve
Every sound a pound upon a tender nerve
Every smile broke upon the weight of plenty

See, you’re worried again. Don’t be. It is the most natural thing in the world to stretch out vocabulary in hopes of capturing what is felt. Sometimes it’s dark. Lets not be afraid of it. have you not read the Psalms of lament? Geez, that stuff is dark.

This is the kind of thing that makes my brothers think I’m adopted.

But yesterday’s post was worth it. It showed me two things. First, there are so many people who have trouble putting into words the turmoil of their inner life. They need someone to write for them in the church. And they need counsel that takes them seriously without just trying to fix their griefs and pains.

Second, it is good to hear we are not alone. And it is good because we need the company on the journey when it is dark the most. And we need perspective. My friends Adam and Howard are battling cancer. I need to remember that. My battle sometimes feels like a death, they are literally fighting for their lives.

One of the things we need to remember is that we follow and have been saved by a man “acquainted with sorrow and familiar with grief.” And in a way, that is good news in itself when I remember that it was for the joy set before him that endured the suffering of the cross.

(There is a part 2 here)

This morning I awoke to see this on Twitter -

A cool thing to do for your mom would be to stop worshipping your own depression and make strides to improve yourself and your life

I do not know who wrote it and I do not want to know. The only reason I saw it is because someone else retweeted it. And I can understand why someone might. It is painful watching someone hurt and it is easy to think they are wallowing in it. Especially if it looks at all like any kind of depression.

I am not offended at this. I am not mad. But I don’t think they get it.

I can only assume the person who wrote these words has not walked into that room within the soul with no lights or windows and often the memory of those things make it only that much darker.

That person has not looked at something beautiful and not been able to enjoy it because of the dread of the coming work week where shame is the order of the day.

That person has not looked at the bottom of the well and struggled to believe there was anything there of value.

That person does not wake after only a few hours of sleep with a pounding in the chest because his job is waiting on him.

That person has not wondered if God stands like sentry blocking all efforts to improve life or just abandoned him altogether.

That person does not understand that Sunday night is the darkest of nights.

That person does not know how hard it is to keep smiling and joking just so they will not ask.

That person does not know how it is to be at the apex of your emotional pain only to have someone taken from you with the expectation that life will gone and you must “improve” it.

That person does not know the complex weakness of those who want strength but cannot seem to muster it and only want to lie down for days on end.

That person has not had the promise “Blessed are the poor in spirit” on repeat throughout every. single. day.

That person does not know what it means to mine the Psalms for hope amidst the Psalmists’ “dark night of the soul.”

But some of you get it. Some of you understand. And the good news for us is there is another word to hang onto even when we wonder if the words are still true for us.

Thankfully I read another tweet titled “Fighting the Monday Feeling” and all it was was this…

Yet the LORD longs to be gracious to you;
therefore He will rise up to show you compassion.
For the LORD is a God of justice.
Blessed are all who wait for Him!”

And then I read this…

Only the gospel frees us to admit our weaknesses, because our worth is not based on our being strong, but in Jesus being strong for us.

And now I must iron a shirt and find a tie.

Today I went and picked up my lawn mower and the guy who repaired it was telling about some possible adjustments. My first thought was that Dad would explaina all this to me. And then like a rocket across a lonely sky, I realized he could not.

So I’m borrowing this truck and the first request to help someone with it is to haul…flowers. #manly

I’ve learned to be content that I am not the sort to read a lot of scripture. But am the sort that reads scripture a lot.

“Dad, can I get you anything?”
“I want a new body.”

This whole experience with my dad and my family and the grief has made me want more than ever to move towards the grieving and dying and hurting.

Blessed are the leaders, the happy-clappy,and the beautiful, for they shall be the marketing material of the American church.

On the day we buried my dad, Patty Griffin’s new album was made available to stream. She wrote it about her dad. While he was dying. And it’s about as beautiful as I could ever imagine.

Over against clever, in spite of all that is cool, let it be beauty.

With courage, my dad told us he was ready to go on ahead. I fear everything else. Even though the King whispers daily, “I’m here.”

Five Guys bacon cheeseburgers with mayo, BBQ sauce, and grilled onions.

Just when you thought it couldn’t get any crazier, my mom called me yesterday to say she heard on the local Christian radio station, “Matt Redman’s father has passed away and we offer our condolences.” Will it ever end?

Last night as we pulled out of the driveway of my parent’s house, the overwhelming feeling of not doing something I should have done came over me. And then it hit me. I had not hugged and kissed my dad before leaving. I had not told him how much I enjoyed seeing him and mom.

I didn’t do these things because he was not there.

His body was over in a funeral home, where instead of getting the service times right in the obituary, they told my brothers and I how much we could save on funeral packages if we bought now.

On each of the eleven days in the hospital I told him how much he meant to my brothers and myself. How much he meant to my wife and kids. And mom. So he died and I watched, both of us, as he said, “with no regrets.”

So that’s not it. No regrets. But the realization that I’ll not tell him these things again in this life is beyond me. I understand the desire for the grieving to want to communicate with the departed much more now. Some do it because of regret, while others, like myself, have this emptiness because a habit of love has been interrupted.

The emptiness is only beginning, I know. Right now only the knowledge fueled by the memory of watching him take his final breath distinguishes this absence from his many other stints in the hospital. But the next two days of the visitation and funeral will make it clear he has gone on ahead of us and is not returning to his blue chair by the fireplace in the downstairs den.

Usually emptiness describes the lack of the presence of something. It is not a thing itself but the lack thereof. The emptiness signals the void where my dad once was. Sitting in the chair, smiling. Talking about books. Our kids. My dreams. So it feels like a thing…a thing I will walk around with for a good long while. It is nothing to what my mom will have to endure…lovers to the end, they were.

But it is a thing, this emptiness. And I am glad to have it.

The encouragement given by others of God being able to fill the emptiness is understandable. I get it. But I don’t really want him to. And I’m not sure that is what God is for. Do I want to be reminded of God’s love in the midst of the emptiness? Yes. Do I want to lean on the bare of God in the grief? Of course. But I want the emptiness to remain and even grow. Not so I can wallow in the pain but so that I can grow in it. Not in lieu of joy but because of it.

As we watched him die, a deep dread of emptiness hung heavy over me. But just as Jesus has conquered death and made it gain, so also the emptiness. The emptiness is not just a grim reminder of him no longer being with us. In all honesty, it is still that. Still. Still. But it is also the reminder of the gift that he was.

My mom and brothers and I have consistently talked of him as a gift. He was that. A tangible, living and breathing, smiling and laughing, poem-writing and ball-catching, tennis-playing and God-honoring, ministering gift of grace, always giving what he was. Always glad to graciously give himself and what he could. His life was a rare gift, and I am sure we will feel as if the gift has been taken away. And those will be bitter moments. But even as I write this I know there will be a sweetness too in the missing. The tears salty, the memories sweet.

The hope of the cross is wide and varied. One sliver of all that hope is the end of the emptiness we all feel. It’s end, when all the dead in Christ will rise and death will end and there will only be life and more life, world without end, and we will only know life, and death with all it’s rattles and disfigurements and shortness of breaths and those left behind to wait on hospice nurses and pronouncements of death and sales pitches from funeral homes –  that will be forgotten, time out of mind.

Until then may we be glad for all of what the emptiness represents. All the memories. All that was. All that will be.

For the past two weeks I’ve been listening to Rich Mullins each morning as I drive to work. This past friday I wrote a short post about the one song I’ve listened to each morning. I make sure I get those words I heard before I turn off my car and exit into what has made me appreciate the word “labor.”

Friday night after kids went to bed, I got on YouTube and watched Homeless Man, a documentary about Rich. Friends and other christian artists are interviewed telling his still very unique story. Brennan Manning is among them.

It’s almost impossible for me to separate Rich and Brennan in my head.

When I was done, I went back to my office – which really is where I just have stacks of books and where Bethany works on necklaces. The book I came out with was Manning’s memoir, All Is Grace. I walked back into the den. Put it down and decided to pick up the iPad for a few minutes before digging into Manning’s life once again.

A friend on social media sent me a message telling me Brennan Manning had passed away.

It was no surprise, the dragon of alcoholism had dogged him for years. His health was tenuous, I knew. So this was no surprise at all. But the timing. The timing. I was not sorry to hear of him passing. It felt right. And yet, death does still sting in the sadness of those of us who have drunk deeply from the well he dug for us.

A few years ago. I had been given a gift card to a bookstore. Normally, it would never make it to wallet. But it was to a bookstore we did not have where I was living at the time. So I had forgotten about it till a few weeks later and we were living in Birmingham.

The card then burned a hole through my wallet and threatened my pocket. So I went to that bookstore and searched the shelves. I need to back up a little.

We had just moved to Birmingham, our hometown to be involved in church planting. The last church we had been in had paid me to leave and it still stung. It still stings to this day, if I’m honest. It was a wound that would continue to grow. Most of the time, I would go to a particular author in my Reformed tradition to get some help. Perspective. But none of the people I normally read and listened to sounded appealing. It may be telling to say that I was looking for comfort and none of those men sounded comforting at all. I kept going to them for grace but it was always a word of grace with “but” attached….hell, it sure felt that way.

So there I am, walking among those shelves, not even knowing what I’m looking for. And for some strange reason I picked up The Ragamuffin Gospel. Only God could’ve done it. I’d never wanted to read it before. Seemed too popular and not Reformed. Maybe rebellion made me do it. Glorious holy rebellion.

I’ve never been the same since. Only the Scriptures have comforted me more. While I do not believe in must read books, this is the one book I would recommend to anyone and everyone. If you only read one Christian book, this is it. A part of me still wishes I had read that book many years earlier. But I know I read it at just the right time. When I needed it.

So this is my tribute to Brennan Manning. I love him. He keeps me honest with myself and he has helped keep me honest with God.

This is my tribute to Brennan Manning. I love him.

Last night, in the dread of today, I read a sermon, “The Calling of Voices” by Frederick Buechner. The text was Isaiah’s vision in chapter 6 with the culmination of “Here am I, send me!”

My sons and I had driven clear across town for this book. No library near us had it. So we went. Them, to spend time with their dad. I, the same. The rain had just stopped and the grass and the trees were a green I’ll never forget. Azaleas and Dogwoods lined the streets we slowly traveled for to get this book.

He sets up three scenarios – a phone call for help in the night, a seagull carrying a mussel in its beak and then dropping it to the rocks below, a young boy realizing “with a kind of panic almost” his kindness to a handicapped boy is like “Christmas morning and a rocket to the moon.”

And he says about the young boy and anyone else these events might happen to…

“It was the summons that he had to answer somehow, or at considerable cost, not answer. Or in the year that King Uzziah died, or in the year that John F. Kennedy died, or in the year that someone you loved died, you go into the temple if that is your taste, or you hide your face in the little padded temple of your hands, and a voice says, “Whom shall I send into the pain of a world where people die?” and if you are not careful, you may find yourself answering, “Send me.” You may hear the voice say, “Go.” Just go.”

The rest of the short sermon is worthy of reflection. And maybe that will come. But it was this section that struck like lightning in the night. The kind of lightning you never forget, the brightest of all bolts in the darkest of all nights. The kind that pushes away fear if even for a moment so you can take a step in the right direction.

On Tuesday, I attended my uncle’s funeral. The dark blue suit was bought for the pastor-to-be but has of late been worn by the banker, was worn. Worn. And there it hit me how much more comfortable I was there among the mourners than I was at the bank, behind the desk. The wrong desk.

Whom shall I send into the pain of a world where people die?

I would not have planned to read this sermon just before attempting sleep had I known. I might as well be honest, it does no one any good for me to talk in code or veiled allusions. I dread each day of work and rarely sleep less than fitfully. Could I have ever known two years ago when I began to walk away from vocational ministry, this darkness would come? I don’t know. But it has happened and now I’ve read these words.

And last night’s sleep was sweet. Like a death itself. For I have not been careful.

Yesterday I was asked to be “sneaky” at work. My conscience reeled. And I asked again, “How did I get here?”

Fitful sleep and awaking with dread, while getting ready for another day of it, I turned on the cd I’ve been listening to every morning on the way to work. And then I realized I’d been praying this each morning…

“You who live in heaven
Hear the prayers of those of us who live on earth
Who are afraid of being left by those we love
And who get hardened by the hurt
Do you remember when You lived down here where we all scrape
To find the faith to ask for daily bread?
Did You forget about us after You had flown away?
Well I memorized every word You said
Still I’m so scared, I’m holding my breath
While You’re up there just playing hard to get

You who live in radiance
Hear the prayers of those of us who live in skin
We have a love that’s not as patient as Yours was
Still we do love now and then
Did You ever know loneliness?
Did You ever know need?
Do You remember just how long a night can get?
When You were barely holding on
And Your friends fall asleep
And don’t see the blood that’s running in Your sweat
Will those who mourn be left uncomforted
While You’re up there just playing hard to get?

And I know you bore our sorrows
And I know you feel our pain
And I know it would not hurt any less
Even if it could be explained
And I know that I am only lashing out
At the One who loves me most
And after I figured this, somehow All I really need to know

Is if You who live in eternity
Hear the prayers of those of us who live in time?
We can’t see what’s ahead
And we can not get free of what we’ve left behind
I’m reeling from these voices that keep screaming in my ears
All the words of shame and doubt, blame and regret
I can’t see how You’re leading me unless You’ve led me here
Where I’m lost enough to let myself be led
And so You’ve been here all along I guess
It’s just Your ways and You are just plain hard to get”

– Rich Mullins’ “Hard to Get”