Yesterday’s I wrote about how churches often worry too much about picking “the right guy” — as if there is one and only one guy for them to choose. I also talked about how individuals seem to worry an awful lot about picking the right option for fear of missing out on the will of God for their life.

But there’s another side to all of this. Sometimes I’ll hear people and churches say, “I just don’t think God will let me make the wrong decision.” They figure that if they pray this kind of blanket prayer (“God, just close the door if it isn’t your will”), then God is obligated to ensure that their choice is the “right” one.

We ask God to remove options that aren’t his will and keep options alive that are his will. Then we act as if the decision that was made must be God’s will de facto.

What do you think about this? And what would you say to a church that says things like: “We just don’t believe the Lord will let us pick ‘the wrong guy’”?

Frequently, people ask me for suggestions on how to discern God’s will for their lives. I wrote a little about this recently, but today I feel like writing with a little more clarity about this topic.

I used to think God had one specific will for me. There was one woman he wanted me to marry. There was one place he wanted me to live. There was one job he wanted me to take. Sometimes I’d have options, but I thought only one of those options was God’s will. It was my job to pray hard enough to know which one to pick. If I picked the wrong one, terrible things might happen.

Ugh! What a load to carry!

I often hear churches use this kind of reasoning, too, especially when they’re looking for a new preacher. They receive a mountain of resumes and assume that God has one specific guy in mind for them. If they choose the wrong person, they’re in for trouble.

I simply don’t buy it. In fact, I sometimes wonder if they might have better success if they just put all the candidates’ names in a hat, pray over the hat and offer the job to the first name they pull. The over-analysis that accompanies the search process makes the entire thing a nearly unendurable ordeal for nearly everyone involved.

For what it’s worth, here are my thoughts on discerning God’s will for your life. Underneath it all, God’s will is for us to be his children and, as his children, to become more and more like Jesus. Whatever happens beyond that is never the primary issue. Have a personal, intimate relationship with God the Father through Jesus the Son, and, through the power of the Holy Spirit, grow in holiness. There’s God’s primary concern.

Sometimes — but not always — he calls some people to specific things in specific places. Usually, he calls us to tasks, and these tasks usually have an expiration date. Sometimes these tasks take a very long time. Usually, it’s for a season (perhaps a few years) and then we move on.

Personally, I believe I have been called to the task of teaching and preaching the timeless truths of the Bible in timely and relevant ways. I believe God has given me the ability to communicate with people through speaking and writing, and I believe God would have me use these gifts to build up the Body of Christ and support my family in the process.

I fear that we have a shortage of really good teachers in the Body of Christ, and I am convinced that the world needs more people who understand the primary purpose of the Bible — which is to reveal the character and nature of God and call us to godly living.

This brings up an interesting point that I should mention: I believe God calls us into areas where our gifts and desires intersect with the world’s needs. We naturally gravitate towards things we’re good at and find enjoyable. The reason we’re good at these things is because God made us good at them; the Holy Spirit has given us certain gifts and activates them as we participate with him. Perhaps one of the reasons we enjoy doing certain things is because we sense God working with and through us.

And when we sense God working through us to meet a need in the world…that leads to tremendous satisfaction.

Most people I know are far too worried about “getting it right”. The sad result is, we worry instead of preparing. As I move through this season of uncertainty, knowing what my task is but not knowing where or when it will happen, I’m going to try as much as possible to focus on getting ready rather than worrying about finding the precise place where God would have me.

He’s been faithful thus far — albeit in a roundabout and unpredictable fashion. I’m not going to start second-guessing him now. I trust that when the time is right, he’ll show me where to go and what to do.

What about you? Do you think there is just one “will” of God for a person’s life? Or is there some freedom?

Why do you think so many churches go about the process of finding a new staff member the way they do? And how might they improve the process?

Two weeks and 3,350 miles after it began, The Turner’s Great American Roadtrip ended as we pulled into my parents’ driveway in McDonough, GA. It has been said that we ate our way across this great country of ours. It has even been suggested that should I ever stop being a pastor, I could conduct travel tours of the great dining establishments found along the southern portion of the US.

From the outrageously good burger at Joe’s Farm Grill just outside of Phoenix to the stuffed sopapilla in Flagstaff to the green chile stew at the Blue Corn Cafe in Santa Fe to the steaks at the Big Texan in Amarillo to the cheese enchiladas and margaritas at Joe T. Garcia’s in Fort Worth to the crawfish etouffee and alligator bites at the Cyprus Inn in Monroe to the Eggs Shannon and Bananas Foster at Brennan’s in New Orleans to the crab cakes at Crab’s in Pensacola — it was quite a culinary adventure.

And along the way — this is the best part — there were people who we love. Old friends and new friends who were extraordinarily hospitable and overwhelmingly generous. The Leeses bought us dinner at Disneyland. Jill’s family went with us to Joe’s Farm Grill, where we all ordered up and split our entrees with one another. The Powells opened their home to us, grilling steaks and inviting the Stowers and Deloaches over — even asking me to preach for their church. The Hughes family cooked southern fried chicken and green beans for us and let our kids run off some of the energy they’d accumulated. Christopher Green met us at the Dallas Farmers Market and bought us good, cheap Mexican grub. John and Maggie Dobbs (and the amazing wiener dog, Jackson — aka “Oscar Gorge”) took to our girls like few people have and allowed me to teach a Wednesday night class in the building where I went to elementary school. Denny and Philis Boultinghouse along with Johnny Howard and Leonard Allen treated us to lunch at Copeland’s as we talked about the rapidly-changing landscape of the publishing industry — especially as it has to do with my next book for Howard Publishing. Rick Hazelip and the folks at First City Church in Pensacola asked me to preach for them and allowed us to stay in a condo on the beach for next to nothing.

Jill and I constantly found ourselves wondering, gazing out the minivan windows as the terrain shifted from the rocky pacific coast of California to the painted deserts of Arizona to the badlands of New Mexico to the high plains of the Texas panhandle to the hill country of central Texas to the bayous of Louisiana to the white sandy beaches of the Gulf Coast — each beautiful in its own unique way — how in the world we’ve managed to collect so many wonderful friends in so many wonderful places.

All we can think of is God has been preparing us for a trip like this for a very long time. Knowing how vulnerable to disappointment and bitterness we would be at such a time as this, he made certain we could find the encouragement we so desperately needed.

Two weeks later, we find ourselves back in Atlanta, strangely less weary than when we’d first begun and greatly cheered by our travels, our hearts full to overflowing with gratitude for all those who helped, eager to discover what God has in store for us next.

Monday morning, I loaded up the family and the family dog and pointed the minivan southeast — down the 101 — down the 5 — into the heart of southern California. We hit traffic just like I suspected, and around 11:30am someone in the back uttered the words, “I’m hungry.”

“I think there’s a McDonald’s just off Harbor,” I said with a knowing smile.

“Yay! McDonald’s! We never get to eat there!”

As soon as we pulled off the freeway, we were inundated with signs pointing the way to the Magic Kingdom. “This way to the Happiest Place on earth!”

My children were so envious of all those people headed into the park, but they were trying to hide it from me. They were trying to just be content with their lunch at McDonald’s. They were absolutely not going to let their eyes… wander… over… there… and… wonder… what… kind… of… fun….

After lunch, I turned right out of the parking lot, headed back to the interstate. But then I made an abrupt U-Turn. The kids were still getting settled into their seats, and this sudden change was disorienting to them. What could it mean? Did we forget something? Had we left something at McDonald’s?

Another quick right turn into the parking lot for the…could it be?…Disneyland?!

For a moment, there was just an odd silence in the van. No one wanted to be the first to suggest what might be happening — for fear they might jinx it.

But when they saw the look on my face, they knew. And you never heard a sound like it in all your life!

Disneyland with children is truly wonderful. We walked into the park, and the first thing we saw was a Dixieland jazz band playing on Main Street while Mickey and Minnie danced with patrons. Then it was off to Pirates of the Caribbean. The Haunted Mansion. Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. The Tea Cups. All topped off by Space Mountain. We rode It’s a Small World, and — upon our exit — were treated to a fantastic fireworks display — complete with flying Tinkerbell.

Churros were consumed. The abominable snowman was seen. Rice Crispie treats in the shape of the disney logo (the ears dipped in chocolate).

Lines weren’t bad. Weather was perfect. It was idyllic.

At some point in time, I looked around and was stunned by the sheer diversity of the people who are drawn to Disneyland. I stood in line next to people wearing Slipknot t-shirts, tatoos spilling down their arms, studs and rings dotting the landscape of their faces. These people are normally too jaded for fun, nothing is cool enough for them. Yet here they were, laughing and shrieking along with the rest of us. Just beyond them was a family on vacation from Brazil. To their right stood a Hasidic Jew and his family. European tourists mingled with Japanese families. Soccer moms chaperoning their daughters’ dance team stood next to a couple who I would bet rode up on a Harley together. I saw a man roll out a small carpet, face Mecca and pray. At least I think it was Mecca, but it looked for a moment like he was praying towards ToonTown.

Let there be no doubt about it: The Disney magic still works. And it works for just about everyone.

It made me think about the crowds you see at most churches.

Wait…it didn’t make me think about that at all. It made me wonder why the crowds we see at most churches all look exactly the same. That’s what it made me think about. And it made me wonder if the magic of Easter still works.

“My love is like a red, red rose” does not mean that the poet is praising roses under the allegory of a young lady. “My love is an arbutus” does not mean that the author was a botanist so pleased with a particular arbutus tree that he said he loved it. “Who art the moon and regent of my sky” does not mean that Juliet invented Romeo to account for the roundness of the moon. “Christ is the Sun of Easter” does not mean that the worshiper is praising the sun under the emblem of Christ. Goddess or god can clothe themselves with the spring or summer; but the body is more than raiment. Religion takes almost disdainfully the dress of Nature; and indeed Christianity has done as well with the snows of Christmas as with the snow-drops of spring. And when I look across the sun-struck fields, I know in my inmost bones that my joy is not solely in the spring, for spring alone, being always returning, would be always sad. There is somebody or something walking there, to be crowned with flowers: and my pleasure is in some promise yet possible and in the resurrection of the dead.”

G. K. Chesterton, A Miscellany of Men

Another post from a few years ago. I think it’s particularly relevant today:

It is such a beautiful day to be alive. I could be out taking a drive, or jogging, or getting a latte. I could be playing golf, or tennis, or having lunch with friends.

So many things I could be doing besides sitting here right now contemplating an instrument of torture. The cross wasn’t just designed to kill someone but to keep them alive as long as possible, so that they could experience as much pain as possible without passing out, and finally die an excruciating death from suffocation as their lungs collapse from the weight of their body suspended from iron spikes.

God, that’s brutal.

What brings me to this contemplation today? What draws me? I sit here thinking, concentrating on a cross. It’s worse than contemplating an electric chair or a hangman’s noose. At least those are quick forms of death. But if you were at a great party and told the host you had to go because once a year you always went and meditated in front of a guillotine or a syringe holding a lethal injection, the host probably wouldn’t invite you over again.

I could be doing something else right now that was upbeat and had more to do with living. Everything out there tells us that we can save ourselves by getting on with the business of living, right? There’s not a commercial or an advertisement campaign in the world that entices you to buy something that will hasten your death.

The whole point of advertising is that products will enhance your life. Take that vacation, get that new car, find the best food and stay looking young with all the wrinkle cream and hair dye available. That’s what we want: a beautiful life — as long as possible, as rich as possible, as pleasant as possible.

So why am I here — thinking about an instrument of torture — a crossbeam of suffering? Am I crazy? Are Christians all nuts? Why not get out there and enrich my life? It can’t be healthy to think about death. It’s certainly not popular.

The truth is there comes a time in everyone’s life, a time when we become painfully aware that we cannot save ourselves by living. We’re dying to live, but the allure of our own life — to possess it — if that’s our dream — can never be realized in the fullness that we would desire it. It slips away — life has a way of ebbing out of even the healthiest among us — and it becomes something so much less than what we had tried to grab hold of.

A relationship fails.
A loved one dies.
The opportunity of a lifetime falls through.
Illness strikes.
People betray us.

And all of a sudden, the life we tried so hard to create, the life we thought we had, is suddenly so much less than what we hoped for. The truth is that what draws me to the cross of Jesus is something deep inside of me that says: Jesus’ dying was the real currency that purchased my freedom from all this “try-to-save-yourself-by-living” frenzy.

Trying to save yourself by living is like trying to buy groceries at Safeway with Monopoly money. You’ve got the wrong currency. It may be good when you’re playing the game, but it won’t work when you want some real food. All the little properties and accumulated achievements that enable us to own the board and win the game having nothing to do with God’s economy.

Somewhere along the line, you’d think someone would realize that if we could save ourselves by living we would have been able to pull our sorry little planet up by its bootstraps a long time ago. If we are going to wait until we all save ourselves by human effort and wisdom — by using Monopoly money — we’re going to be waiting a long time. As one theologian put it, from Socrates to Dr. Phil the world has taken a 5,000 year bath in human wisdom and come out just as dirty as ever.

So, that’s why I’m here, thinking about a Jewish carpenter hanging on a Roman cross.

I can’t save myself by living. I haven’t, and I won’t. So God has come to save the whole world by dying.

I posted this a couple of years ago, but I think it has some relevance still:

It had been a busy week, and it was just Wednesday. Things had started off with a bang and a parade, Jesus looking more like a comic rendition of a conquering king — riding into town on the back of a donkey with hundreds (perhaps thousands) of peasants throwing down their coats before him and waving palm branches. It looked like the Messiah was coming to claim Jerusalem.

But all was not well.

The Pharisees complained about the level of excitement (Pharisees frequently do). Can’t you get those kids to calm down and be quiet? Jesus goes toe-to-toe with the religious establishment and refuses to back down. They lack the popular appeal and the official power to enforce their demands and can only stand there red in the face.

Jesus, however, does not rejoice in his temporary victory. Instead, he weeps over the city of Jerusalem. This is the last time he’ll see the city like this. In a few short decades, the city itself will be ripped to shreds by the Romans. And he knows what this passionate week will cost him. So, he sobs. Undignified, gut-wrenching sobs.

Bright and early Monday morning, Jesus and his disciples make their way to the Temple. On the way there, he curses a fig tree. Once he gets there, he turned over the tables and benches. People and animals scrambled this way and that. The Sadducees must have joined the Pharisees now in the anger and hatred of this man. But he had the people on his side. If they tried to stop him, they might have a real fight on their hands. And the ever-present Romans were not too far away, hands on swords, watching and waiting for their cue to quell a potential rebellion.

Tuesday was a day of conversation. Following two days of action, everyone wants to talk to Jesus now. Some Greek people. Members of the Sanhedrin. Herodians. Sadducees. Pharisees. The people. Everyone wants to hear Jesus talk about who he thinks he is and what he intends to do. They question his identity, his authority, his politics, his eschatology, his ethics. The whole series of conversation builds to a fever pitch as Jesus launches into a diatribe against the Jewish leaders (specifically the Pharisees).

Afterwards, Jesus breaks down in tears again.

But Tuesday ends on a positive note. As he is leaving the Temple, he sits down in the court of the women and watches people as they approach the 13 trumpet-shaped bronze receptacles. Each was labeled, telling what the money would go towards. Jesus sees wealthy people casually tossing money, the coins sliding down the bronze, clanking metallically, attracting attention.

That’s when he sees her. Unnoticed by anyone else, an unassuming widow drops two tiny coins in the coffer.

Jesus gets so excited that he calls his disciples over to tell them her story. It must have seemed strange to them, given the scale of everything else that’s been happening this week, that Jesus would get this worked up over a mere shaving of metal. But to Jesus it’s a big deal.

The week has been full to overflowing, pregnant with meaning and import. It will get heavier as we move towards the finale: the brooding tune of Thursday evening’s meal, the somber note of devastating loss that is Friday afternoon, the silent and uncertain pause that is Saturday, the eternally resonating major chord of victory that is Sunday morning.

But before we get there, Jesus, it would appear, takes a day off. Nothing is recorded about his whereabouts or activities on Wednesday. Perhaps he was making plans with the cryptic man who appears to Peter and John carrying a water jug. Perhaps he was watching Judas wrestle with the demons that eventually prompt him to do his dastardly deed. Perhaps he spent the day praying and gathering his thoughts.

Regardless, it’s instructive enough that Jesus — knowing full well that he had less than a week to live — chooses to do nothing the biblical writers deemed noteworthy on one of his days.

Given my normal level of activity and busyness, I should probably follow Jesus more closely — especially when it’s Jesus’ day off.

Because the economy has recently forced me out of my job, I’ve had the chance to look around at my friends who serve churches from a slightly different perspective. This is a week filled with all sorts of frenetic activity. Extra services to plan. Egg hunts to coordinate. Rehearsals. Videos. Sermons. Guests. So many of them seem to be running at breakneck pace.

I wonder how many of them would be willing to follow Jesus in taking some time to sit and do nothing productive or remarkable for a while.

I believe it matters where a person goes to church. I know that terminology is considered clunky and inaccurate in many circles, but I trust you all understand what I mean. It makes a difference which congregation you join. Churches, like people, have distinctive personalities. Hang around with this church, and they’ll influence you in this way. Hang around with that church, and they’ll steer you in that direction.

The Obama family has an interesting choice this week: Where will they attend Easter services?

This will probably be an indication of which church in the DC-area will be there default church home for the next few years. And, as I said, I believe it matters. Will they go High Church and WASPy? Will they identify with one of the many vibrant and healthy African-American churches there? Will they choose someplace theologically liberal (as they did in Chicago) or more biblically conservative?

These things matter, and I believe it’s important to pray for them as they make this decision.

And…think of this…pray for whoever it is who will be preaching there this Sunday. Words matter, and our current President has a good appreciation for the power of rhetorical speech. There will be a lot of pressure placed on the shoulders of the Presidential Preacher.

I’ve preached for some impressive and important people before. I’ve spoken for churches filled with powerful and wealthy, influential folks. And I’ve asked those people to do some difficult things. I’ve challenged them to become more generous, to value life, to be truthful and ethical, to demonstrate their love for God and others in practical ways.

But I’ve never preached for the Leader of the Free World.

Think of what might happen. Then pray for the President. And pray for the President’s Preacher.

I’m a music guy. I almost always have some kind of music playing in the background (right now it’s pianist Brad Mehldau’s “The Art of the Trio, Volume 1). I find myself far more productive when I have some kind of music going, and I create playlists for different moods. I have “Jazz for a Sunny Day” and “Jazz for a Rainy Day”. I have one playlist called “Block Party” and one called “Coffee House”.

I used to love putting about four or five different CDs in my stereo and hitting the “shuffle” button. I’d think a lot about which CDs mixed well, providing that perfect balance of continuity and variety.

Now iTunes allows me to take that to another level by tailoring these playlists down to the order of the songs. It’ll even create “Smart” playlists for me with the assistance of this new feature called simply “Genius”.

As I’ve gotten older, however, I’m coming to appreciate those artists who intentionally craft not only a good handful of songs but an entire album of songs. There are some recordings that are meant to be heard in context. For example, John Coltrane’s rendition of “I’m Old Fashioned” is especially humorous coming on the heels of “Blue Train”, “Moment’s Notice” and “Locomotion”.

There’s a reason why U2 put “When I Look at the World” after “Peace on Earth”. There’s a reason they put “Breathe” — a song about someone who has been reborn through an encounter with the grace of Jesus — after “White As Snow” — a song sung from the perspective of a dying soldier. These songs mean more when they’re placed in their proper context. You don’t get that context when you hit “shuffle” on your iPod.

And here’s why I bring this up.

I was raised in a church that was prone to “proof-texting”. We believed we could settle any doctrinal and ethical dispute by quoting a single, isolated text — more often than not — ripped completely out of its context. We were bullet-listers of Scripture. We would pick and choose our favorite verses and read them over and over.

But a mature Christian must repent of those childish ways of reading God’s Word. That elusive thing called “A Christian Mind” (the thing we were talking about in yesterday’s post) is formed as we saturate ourselves in the fullness of Scripture. After all, God did not choose to give us a bullet list of items. Instead, he has given us a comprehensive revelation.

So, please, when you’re reading the Bible — or even talking about the Bible — do not hit “shuffle”. It’s not as helpful as you might think.

In 1963, Harry Blamires popularized this phrase, “The Christian Mind”, in a book of the same title. He wasn’t talking about “The Churchy Mind” — where one simply thought about how the events of the world would impact the church; nor was he talking about “The Compartmentalized Mind” — where one schizophrenically jumped in and out of a Christian framework when the topic shifted from the Bible to the morning headlines.

He wanted a mind that could think about everything “Christianly” — a mind that could interpret everything from movies and music to politics and business from a Christian perspective. Blamires wrote that it would have “a framework of reference which is constructed of Christian presuppositions.”

What do you suppose would be the “marks” or anchor points of such a mind? What would be those “Christian presuppositions”?