by Ronnie McBrayer

Years ago my sister returned from the Ukraine after a mission trip. She returned home with a heart full of joy, a head full of memories, and bags full of strange and wonderful souvenirs. She brought me a unique gift—a set of Matryoshka dolls, which are traditional Russian nesting dolls. When you open the first doll it has a smaller doll on the inside, so on and so forth, until you reach a tiny Weeble Wobble deep within.

The outer doll of my Matryoshka set was, entertainingly, Boris Yeltsin. When Yeltsin was opened, there was Gorbachev, then Khrushchev, then Josef Stalin, and finally Vladimir Lenin himself. I now keep all these little Communists boxed in the attic. They are much too dangerous to be let loose in the world again.

The deeper you went within the dolls, the closer you got to the essence of Soviet power, its source and beginning. As layer after layer fell away, and finally you held a tiny characterization of Lenin in your hand, you could truthfully say, “Ah, now I’ve gotten to the bottom of it all.”

Many have tried this same thing with Jesus. We try to unravel him and reduce him. We think we can get to the bottom of who he is. But there is a problem. When dealing with Jesus, we do not move to something smaller and more manageable. As the layers fall away, we move to something greater. He gets larger, more uncontrollable, inconceivable, and more wonderful. We are the ones left to weeble and wobble.

Yet, there is a seed, a core to the historical Jesus as well as the exalted Christ of our faith. It is the element of sacrifice. There at the end of it all, when the onion is peeled, is a cross. C. S. Lewis challenged us to look at the cross, not as a display of godly anger toward Jesus or the world, but as a Lover absorbing the shame and humiliation of betrayal. Lewis said, “Jesus shows on the cross that God’s love is not about violence and retaliation. The cross is the only true language of forgiveness.”

That cross shows us how far Love will go: God, humiliated and bleeding in a suffering mess, bearing up beneath the betrayal of his creation. If you can get to the bottom of that, please let me know. You’re a smarter person than most.

Ronnie McBrayer is a syndicated columnist, pastor, and author of multiple books. You can read more and receive regular e-columns in your inbox at www.ronniemcbrayer.me. 

by Ronnie McBrayer

The first Labor Day celebration was observed in New York City in 1882. It was a movement to honor “the contributions workers have made to the strength, prosperity, and well-being of our country.” Not many years later, it became evident that the American worker was such an exceptional and efficient creature, that work hours would soon be reduced to mere shadows of their former oppression.

For example, economist John Mayhard Keynes, in the teeth of the Great Depression, predicted that technological advancements would soon lead to a 15-hour work week. In the mid-1960s, congressional leaders boldly predicted a two-day work week by the year 2000. That prediction has apparently only rung true for congressional leaders, as the average time workers spend on the job has ballooned over the years to nearly 50 hours per week. The predictions of “less work more rest,” is a farce for today’s laborers.

In the book of Genesis, the ancient writer says that on that final day of the first week, God rested. The word for rest means “to enhance one’s soul,” or “to renew the spirit.” When we imitate God in this way, it is an act of worship.

Lettie Cowman, a devotional writer from a century ago, illustrates this with one of her stories from Africa. She wrote about an Englishman who was exploring the deepest jungles of the continent, traveling like British royalty. He had brought with him fine wines, his favorite foods, tons of books and parchments, furniture and clothing.

He had so much that he had to hire an army of strong men from the local villages to portage all this material through the jungle. On the first day of his grand safari he pushed the laborers at an exhausting, God-forsaken pace. But on the second morning, the hired Africans refused to move.

Finally, one of the young men explained that they were not especially tired. Rather, they had gone too far and too fast on the first day, and they had to “wait for their souls to catch up with their bodies.”

Ms. Cowman concluded her story (and I remind you, her words are a century old): “This whirling, rushing life which so many of us live does for us what that first march did for those poor tribesmen. But here is the difference: They knew what they needed to restore life’s balance; too often we do not.” Amen.

Ronnie McBrayer is a syndicated columnist, speaker, and author of multiple books. You can read more and receive regular e-columns in your inbox at www.ronniemcbrayer.me.

Ronnie McBrayer

By Ronnie McBrayer

There is a story about a declining monastery. Once it had thrived, but now it was decimated; only a few old monks remained. Deep in the monastery woods was a little cabin where a rabbi occasionally came for retreat. No one ever spoke with him, but for as long as he was there, the monks would feel blessed by his presence.

One day the abbot decided to visit the rabbi and open his heart to him. As he approached the hut, the abbot saw the rabbi in the doorway. It was as if he had been awaiting the abbot’s arrival. The two entered the hut and simply sat in the stillness. Finally, the rabbi spoke, “I know you have come to ask a teaching of me. But it is the same in my town. Almost no one comes to the synagogue anymore.”

When the time came for the abbot to leave, he pressed the rabbi: “Is there nothing you can give us that would help us save our dying order?” The rabbi paused and said quietly, “Well, there is one thing: One of you is the Messiah.”

The next morning, the abbot called his monks together. He told them he had spoken to the old rabbi and said bluntly, “The rabbi said that one of us is the Messiah.” In the weeks that followed, the old monks thought about the rabbi’s words and wondered whether it could actually be true – the Messiah is one of us?

Thinking like this, the old monks began to treat each other with extraordinary respect on the off chance that one of them just might actually be the Messiah. A gentle, warm-hearted, concern began to grow among them which was hard to describe but easy to notice.

Over time, as people visited the beautiful forest in which the monastery was home, they sensed the extraordinary respect that now began to radiate from the place. People began to come back to the monastery more frequently to picnic, play, meditate, and pray.

Then it happened that some of the younger men who came to visit the monastery started to talk with the old monks. Then one joined them. Then another. And another. Within a few years the monastery had once again become a thriving order and light to the community, thanks to the rabbi’s gift, a gift that taught them to love others, expecting the very best.

Ronnie McBrayer is a syndicated columnist, speaker, and author of multiple books. You can read more and receive regular e-columns in your inbox at www.ronniemcbrayer.me. 

Ronnie McBrayer

By Ronnie McBrayer

Pastor Kyle was fresh out of the seminary—green, idealistic, and zealous. Wanting to make a difference by emphasizing the importance of world missions, Kyle invited one of his peers to be the special missionary speaker.
This peer was a young man who had been raised in Africa by missionary parents. He would soon be graduating with a missiology degree of his own, and would be returning to African soil to continue the good work. Perfect! But there was a problem. Kyle’s friend was an African. No person of color had ever stood in the pulpit of this Texas Baptist church.
Kyle pressed on with youthful enthusiasm. On the appointed day the young African arrived and spoke with passion and love for his continent. He was received well by the congregation, but not everyone was happy. At the next church business meeting, a man stood and said, “I’m tired of this preacher talking about race all the time, and I’m fixin’ to whip his #&$.”
Pastor Kyle said later, “At first the people got more upset that he said ‘#&$’ in church, than the fact that he was going to whip me!” But here the guy came, climbing over the pews like scaling a ladder toward Kyle. Just as he got to him, four big men intervened and said, “If you’re going to whip the preacher…take it outside.”
The entire congregation spilt outside and gathered in a circle to see the prize fight. Kyle had no idea what to do; but again, just as the first punch was about to be thrown, those same men intervened. “If you’re going to whip the preacher,” they said, “you’ll have to start with us.” The man backed down, never to return.
When Kyle returned to that church many years later for an anniversary service, to his jaw-dropping astonishment, half the congregation was African-American! “How could this be?” he asked a number of the “old-timers” still around from the younger days.
One man answered, “Well, preacher, after you left, the neighborhood around us began to change. And we had a decision to make: Dig in, move away, or open our doors to our neighbors. Thanks to what you taught us, we opened our doors.” Kyle’s few years at that little church in the Texas pines as an inexperienced, didn’t-know-any-better-than-to-try seminarian had really made a difference in the lives of the community – and the world.
Ronnie McBrayer is a syndicated columnist, speaker, and author of multiple books. You can read more and receive regular e-columns in your inbox at www.ronniemcbrayer.me.

Ronnie McBrayer

By Ronnie McBrayer

“Be sure your sins will find you out.” That’s what the Good Book says, and my mother quoted those words to me a lot while I was growing up. In fact, she once arranged for the public demonstration of this proverb.

I was in the seventh grade, and someone was habitually stealing my lunch from my classroom cubby. My mother complained, vigorously. Still, the thievery continued. So, she then did something unexpected: She took matters into her own hands.

My mother made a sandwich combining dog food with that greasy potted meat compost. Then she sweetened the deal with a nicely baked brownie, Ex-lax being the main ingredient. The thought of my good Christian mother orchestrating and executing such a devious plan of revenge made my teenage heart leap with joy.

On the Day of Judgment I placed my lunch in its usual location and went to math class. Later, when I returned to fetch it – to my sinister delight – it was gone. I nearly hyperventilated with delight. I watched the absentee roll for the next several days, and discovered that Dexter Wilkey missed three days in a row. When he finally returned to school, he was still a little green around the gills. Obviously, mother and I had our man.

How is it that our wrongdoings always float to the surface? Cheat on your taxes and lo and behold that’s the one year you get audited. Cheat on your wife and that will be the inopportune time she investigates the extra charges on your Visa card. Steal from your boss and expect a pink slip. It might take a while to catch up with you, but “catch up” is coming nonetheless.

Sure, some will get away with it – but not many. Call it sin, the inescapable justice of the universe, karma, or bad juju – whatever. “It” has a way of catching up with you no matter what. So what is the solution?

Wave the white flag of surrender. Stop skimming off the till. Stay faithful to your spouse. Cut up a credit card. Be honest at work. Quit stealing little boys’ lunches (Shame on you Dexter! I thought we were friends.).

It’s never too late to do the right thing. Never. Unless of course you’ve got that brownie shoved half-way down your throat already. If that’s the case, well, Godspeed. Your sins have caught up with you after all.

Ronnie McBrayer is a syndicated columnist, speaker, and author of multiple books. You can read more and receive regular e-columns in your inbox at www.ronniemcbrayer.me. 

Ronnie McBrayer

by Ronnie McBrayer

On the wall of my childhood Sunday School class was a giant, gridlined poster board that looked sort of like an Excel spreadsheet. There was a place for each child’s name, and then all of these vacant boxes running to the right, eager to be filled with shining gold stars. Did you bring an offering? Put a gilded check in the box! Are you staying for worship? A trophy is yours. Read your Bible every day this week? Another star blesses you from heaven.

I always had a shining wall full of stars, hungry as I was for that elusive divine and adult approval; and I sometimes led the class. But then there was Philip Johns, my most fierce competitor. He was a religious machine. I could only beat him a few months out of each year, and in my daily prayers I had to often repent for wishing he would get struck with the flu, chickenpox, or leprosy – anything – so that he would be sidelined just long enough for me to squeak out the winning margin.

It was that simple: Complete a religious assignment and get a star. Those with more stars were more dedicated, more spiritual, more committed, and obviously more beloved by God. Those with fewer stars, well, their faithfulness was suspect at best. When we engrain a competitive spirit into faith—a culture of public shame and reward—is it any wonder we end up with some really faith-damaged adults?

There is plenty to compete for and against in this world. But Christianity is not one of those things. Spiritual formation is not a competition. Faith is not – or at least it should not be – an instrument to humiliate those who just “can’t measure up.”

And then there are those of us who “won” the religious game, we who earned our bounteous gold stars with pride. We are committed – let there be no mistake about that – but committed to what, exactly? Obligation? Checklists? To the fawning cheers of the spectators? To seeing our name high and lifted up in heavenly constellations?

Our religious efforts and activities to please, praise, or placate God can become the very things that actually distract us from God. For if Christian faith becomes a work-based, blood-sweat-and-tears, incentive-driven, reward-acquisition staircase that compensates the winners and shames the losers, then the focus is placed on us and our rivals, not upon Christ.

Ronnie McBrayer is a syndicated columnist, speaker, and author of multiple books. You can read more and receive regular e-columns in your inbox at www.ronniemcbrayer.me. 

Ronnie McBrayer

By Ronnie McBrayer

My family and I made a trip last summer to the Midwest. We stopped for lunch in the megalopolis of Carmi, Illinois, population 5,240. Most of these people must be scarecrows, because the only thing we saw there was a sandwich shop, a gas station, and cornfields.

While munching on sandwiches, our dog locked us out of our rental van. I tried to coax that little Shih Tzu over to the door locks for nearly an hour, but he was so enjoying the air conditioning, he wouldn’t budge. I went back inside the restaurant and told the sandwich-making lady that I needed a locksmith, knowing that one would probably have to come all the way from Peoria bearing a four-digit bill. She said, “I’ll call my friend, Rick. Trust me.” I cringed.

Rick showed up, walking out of the cornfields like Kevin Costner, and for $20 and the words, “Trust me” (There it was again!), had us in the van quicker than you can say “Carmi.” I kissed the sandwich maker, tipped Rick an extra $40, and we jumped back on the road with grateful laughter.

Then we had a tire blowout on the rental van in a place even more remote than Carmi. Our eight-hour joy drive devolved into a twenty-hour living hell, and frankly, I never want to see another Illinois cornfield again.

Still, it could have been worse. Where would my family and I have been without the sandwich maker who knew just who to call; without Rick, and his door-jimmying abilities; without the customer service rep at the rental agency who told me over the phone, “Trust me (Again!); it’s going to be okay”?

It would have been an even more rotten experience without the unknown, unnamed person who wrote the rental van manual, explaining where to find the infernal spare tire; without the young man at a tire service center in Mt. Vernon, Illinois who was the epitome of kindness; and there was the waitress, who at the diner when it was all over, seemed to understand that ice cream makes all disasters just a bit more tolerable.

All along the way I met people—honest, good people—who asked only for my confidence. That confidence was not disappointed, and I learned again that you have to trust a few people every now and then if you are going to make it safely home.

Ronnie McBrayer is a syndicated columnist, speaker, and author of multiple books. You can read more and receive regular e-columns in your inbox at www.ronniemcbrayer.me. 

Ronnie McBrayer

By Ronnie McBrayer

Beware of the multitasker. He or she isn’t being honest, for anyone who claims the ability to talk on the phone, surf the web, cook dinner, send a text message, balance the checkbook, and fly a crop duster all at the same time is terribly misguided.

Neuroscientist Earl Miller says, “People can’t multitask very well, and when people say they can, they’re deluding themselves.” What we humans can do, according to Miller, is shift our focus from one thing to the next with astonishing speed. So when we think we are paying careful and skillful attention to everything around us, but this is a trick of the brain.

The stupefying effect of multitasking may have been first observed in felines, not humans. Many years ago it was observed that cats could not focus on more than one target at a time. But scientists did not make this breakthrough. Lion tamers did.

Thankfully, the lion taming business has fallen on hard times in recent years. After all, such magnificent creatures were never meant to be caged. But some of us still remember the sensational lion tamers of the great circuses who would strut into the steel cage with little more than a cracking whip in one hand and a chair in the other.

Of course, these big cat masters knew that a dining chair wouldn’t keep the lions from devouring them (nor would the whip). What they knew was that the chair would confuse the lion. The four points of the chair’s legs, bobbing about as they were, tangled the lion’s mind just enough so that the animal could not act on his carnivorous intentions.

What an apropos parallel for those of us living in a world gone mad with multifarious activity – so appropriate it barely deserves comment. Our energy is so entirely defused and our attention so thoroughly diverted, that we are essentially incapacitated. We would do well to hear the words of Jesus for ourselves as he gently but categorically rebuked a dear friend by saying, “You are so worried and distracted by many things, when only a few things are needed.”

We aren’t super-sized computers built and equipped with central processing units. We are human beings, born to laugh and to love; born to take life slowly and deeply as it comes to us; and we are born to be uncaged, set free from the madness of multitasking.

Ronnie McBrayer is a syndicated columnist, speaker, and author of multiple books. You can read more and receive regular e-columns in your inbox at www.ronniemcbrayer.me. 

Ronnie McBrayer

By Ronnie McBrayer

There is a Zen parable about a man who surprised a tiger while walking through the jungle. The ferocious animal pursued the man, and with the tiger tightly on his heels, the man came to a steep cliff. He saw a vine dangling over the edge, quickly grabbed it, and began shimmying down the vine narrowly escaping the teeth of the tiger who glared at him from the rim above.

This put the traveler in a predicament. He was high in the air with no place to go. The vicious tiger was overhead; jagged rocks were below; and he was clinging to a vine that was not nearly long enough to lower him to the ground. Then, as if things could not be direr, a mouse emerged from its den and began to nibble at the vine.

At this moment the traveler saw a perfect, plump strawberry within arm’s reach, growing out of the face of the cliff. He picked it, ate it, and exclaimed, “Wow!!! That is the best strawberry I’ve ever tasted in my entire life!”

The story ends there (leaving the man hanging in a lurch), but the lesson keeps going: If the man had been preoccupied with the rocks below (his possible future), or the tiger above (his past troubles), or the mouse chewing away at the vine (his vanishing present), he would have missed the strawberry within the present moment. He would have missed the joy of now.

Those of us who have fixed our eyes on the rearview mirror feel the days gone by slashing angrily at our heels with the unanswerable questions of regret. Yet, countless people live their lives in a hypothetical time machine, always worrying and fretting over a distant yet-to-come that might never materialize.

And of course there are those who are preoccupied with the future differently. They say things like: “I’ll do it one day (whatever ‘it’ is). Life will be better next week…next month…next year…next decade.” But in the end, the end comes far too soon, and all the best-laid plans never materialize.

If we are engrossed with the snarling monsters of our past, obsessed with the fearful uncertainties of tomorrow, or spend our precious few days prepping for an ethereal future, this much is certain: We give away today; we miss the now. Right now might not be your greatest moment, but now is all you have.

Ronnie McBrayer is a syndicated columnist, speaker, and author of multiple books. You can read more and receive regular e-columns in your inbox at www.ronniemcbrayer.me.

Ronnie McBrayer

By Ronnie McBrayer

The words “holy” and “sacred” are used interchangeably. But, I think there is a huge difference between the two. Sacred comes from the Latin, “sacrum.” You might recognize that “sacrum” is also the name of the bones in your pelvis. The ancient Romans called this part of the body “sacred.” It is from where life springs. Thus, the sacred was anything that had to be protected.

That is an excellent picture of how we employ sacredness. People create sacred rituals that draw lines, build barriers, and protect and secure space and turf. We feel we have to keep everything that is perceived as a threat on the outside.

During one of my pastorates, we moved from a shabby little storefront building to a beautiful, magnificent sanctuary. It was an incredible upgrade with pews, a baptistery, a steeple, and other sacred things. We had been picking up children on our little church bus and bringing them to worship. When we moved to our new building we kept picking up these children, but I knew it would not last.

During our first week of Vacation Bible School in the new building one of the church mothers became enraged when a group of “those dirty bus kids” ran their hands down the newly painted wall as they walked to class. A campaign began immediately to stop the bus ministry. There would be no place or space for such children.

The sacred is the ritualistic dividing behavior of people; but the holy is something different. The holy is something that is “whole” or “healthy.” Holiness is something that cannot be divided. It is something that is complete, unbroken, and intact.

Thus, holiness is not something defined by lines of segregation or by different shades of acceptance. It is defined by openness and welcome. The holy doesn’t alienate, it invites. The holy doesn’t separate, it welcomes. The holy doesn’t divide, it embraces.

Whereas what is sacred is a small, restricted space that must be sheltered and guarded, the old Norse word for “holy” means “a large living room,” where people are made to feel very much at home. I pray that God makes us holy: Whole, healthy, welcoming people! But I also pray that he never allow us to become a sacred people, for when we lose our ability to be hospitable, inviting the outsider in, we have lost our unique witness in the world.

Ronnie McBrayer is a syndicated columnist, speaker, and author of multiple books. You can read more and receive regular e-columns in your inbox at www.ronniemcbrayer.me.

Ronnie McBrayer

By Ronnie McBrayer

In the coming days the world’s two billion Christians will begin celebrating Holy Week. Not to be missed in this week of activity is Maundy Thursday. “Maundy” comes from the Latin word mandatum, meaning “commandment.” On Jesus’ last night before his crucifixion, he gathered his disciples and gave them the commandment to love and serve one another. Then he showed them how.

Jesus rolled up his sleeves, threw a towel over his shoulder, and with a basin of water, squatted down to wash the filthy feet of his disciples. Yes, God stooped. The Christ crawled. The Master became the servant. Jesus took the position of a slave and honored those who had not the slightest indication of how holy his act was.

Walter Brueggemann describes this scene: “To kneel in the presence of another is to be totally vulnerable, because you are in an excellent posture to have your face or your groin kicked in. Our Lord made himself vulnerable precisely in that way! He knelt, not in humility or in fear, but in strength and confidence, opening himself to others.”

In the midst of this week of festivities, I wonder if we Christians might pause to consider vulnerability as a holy exercise. See, Jesus never maintained feelings of superiority over others; he eagerly gave up his rights and privileges. Jesus didn’t defend himself with angry tirades or theological manifestos; he taught – and manifested – vulnerable love.

Jesus’ instruction on Maundy Thursday was not a how-to lecture on proving how “right” his followers were; it was a demonstration course for how to live. Thus, the Christian means and method of confrontation is not condemnation, but naked service.

A follower of Jesus testifies to and celebrates the truth he has come to know, but knows in equal measure that the truth has been washed through and through with a foot wash basin. The power of the disciple of Christ is a power wielded, not by force or fist, but by a holy hand towel.

He who would be like Jesus does not lord over others. He gets down on the ground, down on his face, down in the dust, the mire, and the mud. He makes himself completely and totally exposed. Even if those whom he serves kick him in the face; even if they stone him to death; even if they crucify him on a cross: There is no other way.

Ronnie McBrayer is a syndicated columnist, speaker, and author of multiple books. You can read more and receive regular e-columns in your inbox at www.ronniemcbrayer.me.

Ronnie McBrayer

By Ronnie McBrayer

Jesus once told a story about a landowner who hired laborers to harvest grapes from his vineyard. Some employees worked all day, others labored for part of the day, and some arrived to work only at the last hour. The landowner, inexplicably, pays those who were hired last (and worked the least), the same wage as those who were hired first and worked all day.

No matter which way you cut it, this doesn’t seem very fair: Especially for those of us raised with the good old Protestant work ethic, with entrepreneurial capitalism passed along to us in our mother’s milk.

So imagine the scene as it plays out. The tired workers form a line at the end of the day to receive their wages. When the Director of Human Resources arrives with their paychecks, regardless of the hours on the time card, everyone is paid the same! Quickly there is the threat of a labor riot or at least a lawsuit for unfair labor practices. The landowner is summoned an gives this response, “I haven’t been unfair! Should you be jealous because I am kind to others?”

It is a direct and accurate reply, for the angry workers were not enraged over injustice. They were angry because the landowner was generous and gracious to others that had not “earned” their way. The landowner gave grace—making the last first, opening the door to all—and this is what infuriated the other workers.

With this story, Jesus has dug his fingers into a very sore spot for we who are religious people. We preach grace, but we don’t always practice it. We talk about God’s mercy, but we don’t always want the people who need it most to get in on it. We say we are in the redemption business, but we are not eager to open the doors to all would-be patrons.

Landon Saunders says it like this: “Figuring out who is in and who is out is just too much work. It’s too heavy of a burden! Just try to treat every person you meet as if they will be sitting at the table with you in eternity.”

That small change of perspective would do more to advance the kingdom of God on earth than a thousand aggrieved churches that pound their pulpits, point fingers, and exclude others from the love of God and the gates of heaven.

Ronnie McBrayer is a syndicated columnist, speaker, and author of multiple books. You can read more and receive regular e-columns in your inbox at www.ronniemcbrayer.me.