One of the worst things about being in my line of work is that I have all too often been up close and personal to witness the unevenness and lopsidedness of God’s miraculous activities.

This person misplaces his keys and prays to find them. Viola! There they are on the kitchen counter where he’s already looked twice!

That person can’t get pregnant and no amount of prayer opens her womb.

This person’s child has a fever. Her small group prays. The child recovers. God is good all the time, and all the time God is good.

That person is diagnosed with a rare blood disorder and dies a slow, miserable, painful, gut-wrenching death. His church wonders if their prayer vigil did any good at all.

This family sells their house two days after listing it…for $10,000 more than they asked. Then, they turn around and find their dream home listed for $20,000 less than they were willing to pay. He gets a promotion, and now they can afford to put the kids in private school.

That family loses their house because he was let go at work six months ago. Now they have to move in with her parents, halfway across the country. He’s starting to wonder if he’ll ever find a job.

One time there was a guy named John. He was a prophet. He was also Jesus’ cousin. And he’d seen some incredible things, heard some far-fetched stories, learned things, discerned things, revealed things. He was a good theologian and a trustworthy servant of God.

And his service to God earned him a spot in Herod’s dungeon.

It’s no wonder that his faith in his cousin began to waver, is it? Jesus knew what was happening, knew all about John’s situation. He wouldn’t leave John in there, would he? Jesus would show up and save the day, right?

But Jesus never shows up. He’s preaching in some Podunk place or other, telling hillbillies about the Kingdom of God.

John sends some of his friends to talk to Jesus, to ask him, “Are you the one who was to come, or should we expect someone else?”

Jesus’ response is interesting, but it’s cold comfort. He says, “If you want some proof, how about these miracles I’m doing? People are being healed and helped. Amazing things happen everywhere I go.”

And then he adds, somewhat enigmatically, “Blessed is the man who doesn’t fall away because of me.”

Taken by itself, the statement doesn’t make sense. Why would anyone fall away on account of someone doing miraculous things?

Well…if you’re the one sitting in prison, you’re the one Jesus said was the greatest prophet of all times, you’re the one who helped pave the way for Jesus’ whole enterprise, and not one miracle is coming your way….

“Blessed is the man who doesn’t fall away because of me,” he says. “You know…me…the one who does all this great stuff for seemingly everyone else but who sometimes leaves you to rot in prison.”

Sometimes, being blessed is hard.

Not too long ago I went to a big Christian conference. There were speakers and musicians and classes and keynotes. There was also a giant room filled with Christian products. Everything you can imagine from puppets to communion trays to computer software to t-shirts with terribly cheesy slogans printed on them like “Christians aren’t perfect, just forgiven” and “His pain, your gain”. Christian candle makers were there, as were Christian architects and Christian painters.

And there was a bookstore. All the usual suspects were well-represented. Max Lucado. Chuck Swindoll. John Ortberg. Andy Stanley. Beth Moore. Liz Curtis Higgs. Tons of Christian romance novels. Lots of sanitized, age-appropriate Bibles for the kiddos.

It was there, tucked away in a bargain bin, that I saw a book I’d written a few years ago, Hearts and Minds: Raising Your Child with a Christian View of the World (Tyndale, ‘06) on sale, 50% off.

I remember when that book came out. It had taken two years to research and write. I’d been thinking about that book for so long that when I finally held it in my hand, it seemed so perfect — like one of my children almost. All the contracts and editing and marketing and distribution. All the radio interviews and speaking engagements. All the prayers and hopes and efforts converging into that one amazing moment when I at last received that first copy from the publisher.

But I’ll tell you a secret: the same feelings I’ve been describing the past couple of weeks, those feelings of fullness and emptiness, that combination of happy and sad, sweet and sour simultaneously — that’s what I felt when I held that book initially.

As good as it felt, it wasn’t enough. It certainly didn’t satisfy me forever. It didn’t take away all my fears or quench my thirst once and for all. I still had longings and desires and insecurities. I wasn’t fulfilled by holding that book.

And now here it was reduced for quick sales, on the clearance shelf. My baby in a bargain bin.

In that moment, I was really glad that our accomplishments and triumphs aren’t all there is, that they are not the highest heights we’ll ever know, that the moment of my book’s unveiling will not be as good as it ever gets. I was glad because it also means that our tragedies will not have the last word. That my book’s failing does not destine me to failure.

I do not have to rise and fall with my Amazon.com ranking, if I just keep remembering that I’m made for something bigger, something better, something this world cannot provide because this world cannot contain it.

I was made for heaven, and, in heaven, there is no bargain bin.

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There’s an interesting moment in the history of Israel. The people return from exile, wondering if God may have finally had enough, wondering whether he still intends to keep his promises to them, wondering if they may have blown it all. The temple is a heap of rubble, and they can only assume that means one of two things. Either God himself has been defeated, or he has abandoned them.

Neither prospect is good.

But the people are back, and what else are they to do? They begin to rebuild the temple. They clear away all the debris, and their goal comes into sight as the foundation is laid.

This moment calls for a celebration, and, if there’s one thing Jewish people know how to do, it’s throw a party. Here’s how it’s described in the Bible:

When the builders laid the foundation of the temple of the Lord, the priests in their vestments and with trumpets, and the Levites (the sons of Asaph) with cymbals, took their places to praise the Lord, as prescribed by David king of Israel. With praise and thanksgiving they sang to the Lord: “He is good; his love toward Israel endures forever.” And all the people gave a great shout of praise to the Lord, because the foundation of the house of the Lord was laid. (Ezra 3:10-11)

Such a great sound that must have been! Like all of those times I’ve been describing lately — times of great singing, times of great rejoicing, times of wonderful fellowship.

And yet….

There was something wrong with the celebration; something was missing.

But many of the older priests and Levites and family heads, who had seen the former temple, wept aloud when they saw the foundation of this temple being laid, while many others shouted for joy. No one could distinguish the sound of the shouts of joy from the sound of weeping, because the people made so much noise. And the sound was heard far away. (Ezra 3:12-13)

Weeping and laughing and singing and crying and shouting and sobbing all blending together in a great cacophony of sound, indistinguishable from one another. That’s precisely what I have felt during all those Sunday night singings and days of praise and concerts of worship. I scale the heights of joy, but I also feel the pains of sorrow.

I am happy and sad simultaneously, because I know — deep in the marrow of my bones — that no matter how good it gets here on earth, I am not home yet. I am still in exile, and all the foundations I lay are merely a shadow of what I really crave.

For we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands. Meanwhile we groan, longing to be clothed with our heavenly dwelling. (2 Corinthians 5:1-2)

That’s eternity that’s been set in my heart. Programmed into my DNA is the knowledge that I’m made for something earth cannot contain.

I grew up among singing people. The first church I remember attending was in West Monroe, LA. Alton Howard was one of the elders there. He’s the man responsible for the hymnal that had 728b in it.

That’s an inside joke for all the folks who grew up in my heritage: the non-instrumental Churches of Christ.

He was a singing man. He led singing at church most Sundays (back then we didn’t call it “leading worship”). He wrote new songs and rearranged old ones with people like Peggy West and Ben Cumnock and Pam Stephenson (she was my piano teacher once upon a time), and he knew how to get a church full of working-class folks on their feet singing with full voices. I think it’s largely because of Alton Howard that I love to sing and that some of my favorite songs are great, old hymns of the church. I’m honored to have my next book published by a company that still bears his name, Howard Publishing (which is now an imprint of Simon & Schuster).

When we moved to California, we found another good-singing church. Glen Stice was the song-leading elder at this one. He’d led a traveling gospel quartet at one time, and he led a chorus that rehearsed every Sunday night before evening services. That was really smart on his part, because it ensured that the people who did come back for Sunday evening services would at least sing well. Some Sunday nights we’d do nothing but sing. And once a year we’d do a Top 10 hymn sing, taking votes for weeks leading up to the main event.

My father worked with church leaders throughout Southern California for a few years to host an event called The West Coast Soul-Winning Workshop on the campus of Cypress College. It was there, under a tent outside and in one of the two gymnasiums, that I remember hearing Keith Lancaster and his singing group Acapella. I remember Jerome Williams. I remember huge choirs from African-American churches in Los Angeles. Over the course of Memorial Day Weekend, it seems like we must have sung every song we knew…twice.

When I got into student ministry, the church I served liked to sing and liked to learn new songs. We were among the first to use a praise team — a small group of singers instead of one solo worship leader — and in those pre-PowerPoint days, we used an overhead projector to show the words on the wall. I led worship a lot back in those days — on Sundays, at youth rallies, church camp. I loved putting together an order of music that flowed from contemplating the holiness of God to recognizing the sinfulness of humans to celebrating the forgiveness found in Jesus. I just loved doing that.

I remember when my roommate, Ben Wall, first told me about this event he wanted to put on. It would be called “Day of Praise”, and it would be six-hours of singing. He brought in Ken Young and his worship team, Hallal. He rented out the Bren Events Center on the campus of UC-Irvine. We sang until our throats gave out, and then we sang a little bit more.

One of the great joys of the past year was being a KidStuf singer in California, getting back up in front of folks and leading them in song. The music put out by The reThink Group and Integrity’s “Shout Kids” line is really fun to sing. I hadn’t realized how much I missed singing until I started doing it again.

And yet….

After each of these times of singing — whether it was outside under the stars or in a hall with perfect acoustics — whether it was Sunday morning or Friday night — whether it was with acappella or with a full band or with tracks — when the music died down and my heart was filled to overflowing with emotion — I felt like something was missing.

I used to think something was wrong with me. Singing was supposed to bring joy, but it had a funny aftertaste in my mouth. I figured I was just insatiable, ungrateful, incapable of feeling fulfilled, chronically discontent.

I don’t think that way anymore. I’ve come to believe that this is not so much a flaw in my design as it is a designed flaw from the manufacturer. God knew what he was doing when he made us this way.

We experience such joy as a foretaste of glory divine. An appetizer meant to awaken an even deeper hunger. A preview of coming attractions. Something even bigger and better than any of our gatherings here on earth awaits us, and something deep inside knows this.

If you’ve been keeping score at home, you know that I’m in the midst of a job search. And it’s not been very fun so far. Churches, by and large, do not handle this whole process well at all. In fact, here’s a recent scenario that I wish could be classified as fiction.

I found a church’s want ad, but it was dated a couple of months ago. I sent them an email asking if they’d filled the position yet and for more information if not. They wrote back that they had not filled the position and asked for my resume. Before I could reply with my resume, I received a standard rejection email from their committee saying, “After much prayerful consideration, I did not seem to be a good fit.” They assured me, however, that someone with my skills and experience would certainly be able to find a place to serve in God’s kingdom.

How they know anything about my skills and experience are a mystery to me, since they never got my resume.

Two weeks later, I received an almost exact email as the first one they’d sent — the one telling me that the position hadn’t been filled and asking for my resume (again).

I found another church’s ad and sent my resume to the proper people but never heard back. Three weeks after my initial email, I wrote again asking for confirmation of receipt. Two weeks later, I wrote again and received this reply, “We’re sorry to inform you that the cutoff date for receiving resumes was last week.”

There has to be a better way, and I think I may have found it.

A friend of mine sent me a note today, suggesting that the next time I get a rejection letter, I should send this in return:

Dear Committee Chairperson:

Thank you for your letter of July 17. After careful consideration I regret to inform you that I am unable to accept your refusal to offer me employment with your congregation. This year I have been particularly fortunate in receiving an unusually large number of rejection letters. With such a varied and promising field of ministry opportunities it is impossible for me to accept all refusals for employment.

Despite your congregation’s outstanding qualifications and previous experience in rejecting applicants, I find that your rejection does not meet with my needs at this time. Therefore, I will initiate employment with your congregation the first of next month. I look forward to seeing you then.

Best of luck in rejecting future candidates.

Sincerely,
John Alan Turner

It seems strange to me that I started writing almost five years ago. It seems even stranger to me that what started as a simple online journal for my family and a few close friends now has hundreds of readers from all over the world.

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Yesterday, as I was driving down to Macon, GA, I listened to some Garrison Keillor podcasts I’d been saving up on my iPod. In one of his “News From Lake Wobegon” monologues, he stopped and led the entire audience in the first and last stanzas of “It Is Well With My Soul”. And I nearly drove off the road.

It was so beautiful, so earth-shatteringly beautiful, so hauntingly beautiful. I could hardly stand it.

It awakened within me a memory so old It’s just flashes and highlights. I remembered the neighborhood where I spent the first decade of my life. My father taught in a seminary, and most of the people who lived around us were colleagues of his. These were men who taught things called “homiletics” and “hermeneutics”, men who made their living explaining God and the things of God, the Word of God and how to properly outline it for the people of God.

But one night, for some reason I cannot recall, someone started a big bonfire. It wasn’t long before we were all out there, roasting hot dogs, making s’mores and drinking hot chocolate. A blanket of stars spread like a canopy overhead, and someone began to sing.

It seems like we started with camp songs. “Seek Ye First” was still new, but we knew our way around it like an old familiar road. Someone had been somewhere and just learned “A Common Love”. Someone else taught us “Jesus Is Lord, My Redeemer”.

New songs. Simple songs. Sung simply, without accompaniment, by neighbors and co-workers gathered impromptu around a fire.

Someone said, “It’s too early to sing sleepy music” and they broke into some Stamps-Baxter tunes — “Just A Little Talk With Jesus” and “Victory in Jesus” and “When All of God’s Singers Get Home”.

But then, something changed. The group collectively took a deep breath and submerged itself, sinking into the depths of worship. We sang “How Great Thou Art” and “Rock of Ages” and “We Praise Thee, O God”. And when we were all nearly sung out, someone sang the words, “When peace like a river attendeth my way.” A few more joined in, “When sorrows like sea billows roll.” Everyone now was nearly shouting to the sky, “Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say, ‘It is well. It is well with my soul.’”

We sang the final verse with gusto: “And, Lord, haste the day when the faith shall be sight, the clouds be rolled back as a scroll. The trump shall resound and the Lord shall descend. Even so, it is well with my soul.”

We would not have been surprised if the skies parted and Jesus came back right then and there.

When we were done with the song, we knew we were done. The music rang in our ears for several moments after, and we knew we had been part of something special, something unusual, a time of unrehearsed emotion, a spontaneous outpouring of praise.

To this day, I remain haunted by those melodies. I miss them, and I wonder what it would take for me to do something like that again.

Once, in a prior life, I worked as a professional actor, writer and director for theatre companies all across the country. And, this may come as a shock but, I was a bit of a snob. I know that’s hard for some of you to imagine, but it’s true.

I did not like most modern theatre, preferring the classics. Shakespeare. Miller. Williams. Shaw. Ibsen. Chekhov. These were the plays I cared about.

The problem was…no one wanted to come and see the shows I wanted to do. They wanted to see Neil Simon comedies and the great American musicals like “Oklahoma” or “Camelot” or “Annie”. Spectacle and dancing and a rousing happy ending! That’s what people like to see!

I was moody and temperamental. If I was going to sing, I wanted to do “Threepenny Opera” or at least “Sweeney Todd” or something dark and brooding like that. Musical comedies seemed contrived and manipulative to me.

But, being the practical-minded working professional I was at the time, I gave in to the fact that musicals are simply a way of life for a working actor/director, so I better learn something about how to do them with integrity. I found a workshop and took copious notes which are somewhere in the boxes that never get opened but get carted from one garage to the next as I’ve moved over the last couple of decades.

The one thing I remember learning (and this is where the post gets relevant to what I’ve been blathering on about lately) is that, in musicals, people break out in song whenever they experience and want to express an emotion that simply cannot be expressed through dialogue alone. The music adds a necessary element to convey what they’re really feeling.

I experienced something like that at the birth of my first child. Having been adopted in the days of closed adoptions meant that Anabel would be the first blood relative I’d ever laid eyes on. And then there were some serious problems that arose during labor and delivery which put the whole pregnancy in jeopardy. We thought for a while that we might lose her.

So, when she came out and the nurse handed her to me, I was overwhelmed with emotion. And for some mysterious reason, I started singing “Jesus Loves Me”. It was totally spontaneous, but it was also the only thing that seemed remotely appropriate for the moment. Nothing contrived or manipulative about it. It was the only way I could express what was going on inside of me. I was completely unaware of anyone else’s presence. It wasn’t about them or for them. It was just me and my baby girl and this overwhelming sense that Jesus must love us both an awful lot.

Now, I’m wondering if maybe the reason people don’t like to sing in public these days is because they either don’t feel their feelings very deeply or they’re embarrassed by their feelings and don’t want to express them in front of other people.

What do you think?

Most people do not like to sing.

I have no research on this, and my personal circle of friends has kept me believing otherwise all these years. But this morning, as I was staring at a blank white page on my computer monitor, distracting myself with the Internet and drinking coffee (ah, the life of a big time author!), that sentence formed in my head and would not leave me alone.

Most people do not like to sing.

In fact, when asked to sing, most people come up with any and every excuse imaginable. They hate the sound of their own voice. They don’t know the words. Can’t remember the tune. Have a sore throat. Recently had surgery. They’d rather let you measure their body mass index than burst out singing in public.

Now, maybe if you’re out with some friends, throwing back in some margaritas in a dimly-lit bar near the airport and some tragic Muzak arrangement of a Billy Joel song comes on, your inner “Piano Man” will come out. Or if you’re in Japan, where the mysterious fascination with Karaoke still hasn’t subsided.

But most people – regular people – do not like to sing.

I grew up among singing people. Our church had no piano, no organ, no guitar. We had people, and the people raised their voices in song every Sunday, singing in four-part harmony. We knew the harmony lines to everything from “How Great Thou Art” to “Jesus Loves Me” to “Happy Birthday” to “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow”. Seriously, we flocked to four-part harmony like geese take to a V-formation; it was instinctual.

I think there was a time when it wasn’t just in church where you found yourself singing. People used to sing at baseball games and Rotary club meetings. Obviously, singing “congregationally” was part of pub life in a lot of places, and patriotic songs galvanized people in a way speeches never could.

To my knowledge, though, church is now the only place where most people might find themselves expected to sing. Is that weird?

The Bible not only commends singing; it commands it — several times. Now, if most people do not like to sing, why in the world would God command it? Is it good for us somehow? Are we missing something by not singing?