You might not be able to tell it from looking at my desk, but I’m a pretty regimented kind of guy. I like routine. My routine may not look like yours, and it probably wouldn’t work for you. But I like it. It brings me comfort to do familiar things in familiar, well-worn ways.

Over the years I’ve found that certain spiritual routines work well for me. I’ve gone through seasons where I prayed the Lord’s Prayer every morning. I’ve done the same with the 23rd Psalm. I’ve systematically read through the Bible in a year. Some may find these things boring, but they’ve been beneficial to me in the past.

But I went through a really, really rough patch in the last year. I’ve mentioned it before, but prayer was maddening. Reading the Bible was like eating stale bread. Nothing was working — especially not my normal routines. God seemed silent, distant, absent.

I trust you’ll excuse me for confessing that I began to pray less and read my Bible less. I began to journal more and listen to music and look at photographs of creation. Eventually, I chose to read smaller portions of the Bible — a paragraph each morning — instead of several chapters at once. I found that slowing down allowed me to think more deeply. The goal, after all, is not for you to get through the text but for the text to get through you.

And then, not too long ago, I felt God whispering something to me. It wasn’t a really big deal — the thing he told me that day. But it was huge for me. Since then, my routines have come back to life in a new way. It’s pretty exciting.

But it made me think about how Christians often talk about spiritual formation — as if there’s some kind of one-size-fits-all approach. Just recently, I heard someone say that if you’re not reading through the Bible each and every year, you’re just not taking your faith seriously. I also heard someone say that if you’re not having a daily quiet time of reading and praying (again, in a very systematic and routine sort of way), you’re just not taking your faith seriously.

Through the years, I’ve heard many variations of this theme. I remember when everything was about spiritual warfare and intercessory prayer. I remember when it was all about evangelism. I went through my contemplative and mystic stages — when it was all about worship and meditation.

But how much of this is really totally necessary? Is it absolutely essential to read your Bible if you want to grow spiritually? How much prayer do you need to make it as a Christian? Must you fast or intercede or spend an hour in solitude?

What are the mandatory items for spiritual growth?

Moses had his mountain top experience — literally. He went up to the top of a mountain and spoke with God. That must have been an amazing and overwhelming experience. Just imagine, sitting and listening to God and knowing that it’s really God and not just the leftover pizza you had for breakfast. It’s not your imagination. It’s not what you wish God would say.

You are sitting on top of a mountain listening to God, and — what’s more — you’re talking back and he’s listening to you!

That’s got to go down in history as one of the most spiritually formative event of all times, right?

It’s no wonder that Moses was glowing when he came back down to earth. Everyone must have noticed. There was a real, literal glow radiating from Moses’ face.

It certainly must have been more than a little distracting for people — trying to talk to a guy whose face is emitting light like that. Did they shield their eyes or make him face the other way? Did Moses’ wife ask him, “Could you bring your face over here to the corner? I dropped something and can’t find it.”

Was it his wife’s idea for him to put a veil over his face in the first place? “Moses, please, I can’t sleep. Can’t you turn that thing off?”

The veil was a good idea at first — helped people not think about the fact that his face was beaming while he was trying to talk about stuff. But, after a while, according to the apostle Paul, Moses kept the veil on even after his face had returned to normal.

What was that like? Did Moses lay awake at night watching the light grow more and more dim like a candle just before it goes out? Like an old TV set where the picture just gets darker and darker and darker?

Would people still think he’s special — even without the glowing face? Maybe it would be better to keep the veil on for a few more days. Maybe he could go back up to the mountain top and get another dose of whatever it was that caused this strange phenomenon in the first place.

When did he finally muster the courage to go outside without the veil?

It must have been when he finally realized the glow was gone and wasn’t coming back.

The apostle Paul says something interesting for those of us who live in this age where the Spirit of God is present and active in, among and through us. He says it’s possible for the mountain to come with us — at least the experience we had on top of the mountain. Jesus’ promise to never leave us, to never forsake us, the Immanuel presence of God, the indwelling of the Holy Spirit — all of that means the thing that charges us up isn’t in any fixed location. It’s not in the mountains somewhere waiting for us to plug it. It has plugged itself into us.

Any place is now a potentially holy place.

Any activity is now a potentially holy activity.

Spiritual formation doesn’t just take place somewhere “out there”. It can happen right here, too.

When I was growing up, spiritual formation was tied to a series of events. There were youth rallies and lectureships and retreats and, of course, summer camp (which always ended with a forced march into the darkness and a campfire and a story about a group of kids who were going home from this very camp a few years ago and died in a car crash so if there’s any unfinished business between you and the Lord you should make it right before you leave here).

These were our “Mountain Top Experiences”, and they were designed to charge us up enough to make it to the next event. It was like charging the battery on your laptop or your iPod. You knew the charge wouldn’t last forever; it just has to last until you can plug in again.

See, we knew that the “spiritual buzz” always fades. Moses experienced this in Exodus 34:29-35. He went up on a mountain to talk to God, and, when he came back down to earth, his face was actually glowing. I’m sure it freaked people out, so he put a veil over his face. At first, it was just to avoid freaking everybody out. But the Apostle Paul says it changed after a while (see 2 Corinthians 3:13). Moses started keeping the veil over his face longer than he needed to, because he didn’t want people to know that the glow had faded. He wanted them to think he was still charged up.

That’s one of the problems with events-based spirituality. It gets easy to fake that glow and pretend you’re still buzzed. But it fades. You know it. They know it. In fact, like your laptop, the charge starts fading more and more quickly over time.

In the end, you end up either faking it or looking for a bigger buzz, something that will give you a longer charge. If you went to one week of summer camp last year, go to two weeks this time. If your youth group had a fall retreat last year, add one for the spring this year and see what happens. What if we could have a youth rally every other weekend? Maybe that would give us the boost we need!

Yes, let’s have a retreat once per quarter and a mission trip and a youth rally and two weeks of summer camp! Let’s move to the mountain top so we never have to come unplugged!

Well, that’s not very realistic, is it? We have to live in our houses in our neighborhoods and go to our jobs and drive on these roads. We can’t spend every waking moment at an event designed to charge us up. We do not live on the mountain top, and, if we did, we’d grow weary of that life anyway. It’s unsustainable. Besides, someone some time would ask the inevitable questions: What are we getting charged up for? So we can say how charged up we are? You charge something for a reason, don’t you?

So, if real spiritual formation isn’t about super-charged events like these, how does it happen?

I grew up in a “free church”. That’s a technical term used mostly by church nerds like me. It means we weren’t tied to any formal denominational structure. It also means that the preachers could preach about nearly anything they chose on any given Sunday.

I continue to serve in and among “free churches”. I’ve never preached through the church calendar, though I have friends who have and do. I’ve even toyed with the idea a few times. But I continue to plan out sermons based on the freedom granted by the churches I serve to preach what I think is best and not be bound by any external structures.

Of course, there are some Sundays when you know what you’re going to get. Easter, obviously, tops that list. If you show up on Easter Sunday, and the preacher says, “Now, turn in your Bibles to the Book of Nehemiah,” you’d wonder if you heard him correctly. Nehemiah is a good book in the Good Book, and it should be preached — but not on Easter Sunday.

I grew up in a church that stubbornly (and foolishly) refused to talk about Christmas on Christmas. It’s not that we didn’t celebrate it at home; we did. We simply did not believe Jesus was actually born on December 25, so we did not do Christmasy things in our church building. No carols. No decorations. Certainly no trees with lights and presents. And no sermons on the birth of Jesus. None of that. Historical accuracy was a higher priority for us than cultural relevance, so the Sunday nearest Christmas wasn’t any different from a Sunday in July.

Most of that kind of thinking has gone away, and only the most die-hard fundamentalists refuse to preach a Christmas sermon in late December. Therefore, you may add a Christmas sermon to the Easter sermon in the “must preach this” column.

So, a Christmas sermon and an Easter sermon. Those are sermons you just have to preach.

But are there others? This Sunday, for example, is Valentine’s Day. I wonder if other preachers out there feel any compulsion to talk about love and relationships and marriage and dating and romance and all that.

Likewise, this year Halloween will also fall on a Sunday. Any preachers planning to mention Martin Luther and the whole Reformation thing? Or will they talk about the masks we all wear? The “tricks” we play on each other if we don’t get what we want?

What about the 4th of July? That’s a Sunday this year. How many preachers will talk about freedom and the price that’s paid for freedom and then relate it back to Galatians and Paul and Jesus?

And let’s not forget about Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. Personally, I don’t like the idea that people expect to hear a sermon thanking mothers and a sermon scolding fathers once a year. But you tell me: How would people react if they showed up on Mother’s Day and heard me say, “Now, turn in your Bibles to the Book of Nehemiah”?

National Day of Prayer.

National Right to Life Day.

Memorial Day Weekend.

Thanksgiving.

How many sermons are there now that you just “have” to preach?

I’ve been going to church for nearly 40 years now. Okay, so I took some time off there in the late 80s and early 90s, but, given the fact that I grew up hearing two sermons every Sunday, I figure I must have heard at least 2,000 sermons in my life. Oh, and throw in the fact that, as a preacher and a consultant, I listen to other guys’ sermons for fun or for educational purposes, I could probably up that number to somewhere in the neighborhood of 2,500.

That’s a lot of sermons.

Because I listen to so much of what’s being preached out there, I can spot trends. I remember when it seemed like everyone was doing a series on the Sermon on the Mount. That was right before everyone did a series on the 10 Commandments and just before a lot of guys got in some hot water doing a series on sex (the one where they challenged married couples to do it more). First John seems to be going around a little now.

I’ve noticed over the past decade or so that Nehemiah has been a mainstay of churches transitioning from a more traditional model to a more contemporary model. That makes sense, I guess. “We’re building something here, and there will be some who try to stop us. But we’re not going to let them keep us from doing what we know God has called us to do. We’ll defend what we’re doing. We’ll plan well and execute diligently and celebrate when we’re done.”

But no one preaches much from Ezra anymore (if they ever did). Ezra was a contemporary of Nehemiah, but his message is a little different. Ezra is less concerned about building structure (walls) and more concerned with building priorities (true worship of the one God). It’s less tangible, more difficult to apply to today’s business-savvy person.

One other thing I’ve noticed is how much we preachers love to come from the second half of one of Paul’s letters. Paul had a pretty predictable structure to his letters. He began with theology, unpacking what God has done and has promised to do. Then, somewhere in his letters, you’ll read the word “therefore”, and Paul switches into practical mode. It’s an intentional shift for him because one follows the other. It is because of what God has done and has promised to do that we are then to do this and stop doing that.

But it takes too long to exegete the first part of Paul’s letter AND also exegete the second part, so we just skip to the back half of the letters — the really practical stuff.

Personally, I don’t like that. If we don’t give folks a “why”, they’ll never really be motivated to do the “what”.

None of this is what I want to talk about, though. I’m guessing you’ve heard more than a few sermons in your lifetime, too, and I’m wondering this:

What’s that one thing you’ve always wished a preacher would talk about but you’ve never heard? Is there anything you think a preacher can say over and over without it getting old? What are you tired of hearing?

Today I’m thinking through this story in John 11 from the perspective of Lazarus.

When this chapter is busted out in church, we typically think about what Mary and Martha are thinking. Sometimes, we think about the disciples and their feelings. We may even think and talk about Jesus and his experience here.

But we don’t often take the time to ponder what’s going on with Lazarus.

After all, he was Jesus’ friend. He’s referred to as one of Jesus’ loved ones. They’d spent time together, hanging out, eating, talking, laughing. They had history, and I’m pretty sure Lazarus figured Jesus had his back. He got sick, but probably thought he’d get better like usual. But he actually started getting worse. Eventually, he’s in bed and it must have occurred to him that he might not get better.

Did it ever cross his mind to ask Jesus for help? Did he think Jesus may be too busy? Did he assume, once his sisters had sent a message to Jesus, that the one who’d walked the countryside healing total strangers would certainly come rescue a close friend?

What must it feel like to know your life is ebbing away and one of your best friends has the power to fix it? What must it feel like to have that friend not show up?

It’s probably not that hard for you to imagine what Lazarus must have felt. You’ve probably felt it at some point in your life. You believe God could fix things, but he delays his arrival. While you wait and wait and wait, well-intentioned people say things like, “I’m sure he’ll be here soon.” Or, “I’m sure he’d be here if he could. Something must have come up.”

But he said he was your friend. Was he just saying that? Did he say that to everyone? Why would he help people he didn’t even know but not help you now?

And then you die….

Something’s not right about that. Something about it rubs us the wrong way. Sure, we may pretend it doesn’t bother us, or we may pretend like we’re not supposed to ask questions like this. The Psalmist didn’t carry any of those illusions. In fact, the psalms can be divided into several categories — different kinds of psalms — and the largest category of psalms are the psalms of lament (which is a fancy theological way of saying “psalms of complaint”).

Maybe Lazarus quoted some of those psalms on his deathbed. Jesus sure did.

Regardless, Jesus didn’t show up to help Lazarus until it was (from our perspective) too late. Lazarus was dead for four days. He closed his eyes and stopped breathing.

Then the next thing he knew he heard a familiar voice. It was Jesus telling him to come out. Did Lazarus know where he was or why he was all wrapped up? Was he consciously aware of being dead?

I don’t know about you, but I’ve got lots of questions about this.

At some point in time, the dots must have gotten connected. Lazarus either figured it out or was told that he’d been dead and brought back to life. But did he realize that it was just temporary? That he’d have to go through death all over again at sometime in the not too distant future? I wonder how that would make you feel.

How would you live if you knew you’d already died and been brought back to life on this earth for a finite period of time?

In some ways, that’s the challenge to all of us. Those of us who have died to self and been brought back to a new kind of life know that our remaining time on earth is short. So, as much as I’m called to live like Jesus, I’m also busy being Lazarus over here — wondering why Jesus didn’t show up when and how I wanted him to but thankful for another chance — brief though it may be — to really live before I die.

The other day I began telling you a story about Jesus. A good friend of his (Lazarus) is sick — really sick — like about to die sick. Lazarus’ sisters (Mary and Martha) send word to Jesus in the hopes that he’ll come see Lazarus and heal him.

But Jesus doesn’t do that. Jesus stays where he is. Jesus does nothing.

Or so it seems.

Then, after two days of staying put, Jesus announces to his disciples that he’s going to Judea.

His disciples, however, are not keen on the idea. The last time they were there, some folks tried to kill Jesus. As if he’d forgotten that episode, his disciples remind him and suggest that they stay where they are until the heat blows over.

“No,” says Jesus, “Lazarus has fallen asleep, and I should go wake him up.”

They think Jesus means literally “asleep” instead of dead, so they say, “Let Lazarus wake up on his own. Let’s stay here where there’s no trouble.”

Jesus says, “Did I say ‘asleep’? I meant ‘dead’ — Lazarus is dead, so let’s go.”

And Jesus leaves.

Thomas looks around the room and says, “Well, come on, let’s go die with him.”

This is where the story I told you the other day comes in. Martha sees Jesus and runs out to him, dropping a guilt trip on him. “If only you’d been here, maybe he wouldn’t have died.”

Then her sister Mary comes to Jesus and says the exact same thing (Jewish women…oy vey…the drama!).

Jesus gets emotional seeing his friends in pain, but he’s got a little surprise for them.

At this point, the sequence of the story is really important. Jesus and his followers, along with the two sisters and several other people from the village, are standing there at the grave-site (which was most likely a cave with a large stone blocking the entryway (to keep animals out). Jesus tells them to remove the stone. They object. He’s been dead for four days now, and, in that climate, there’s going to be a smell. A bad smell. In the King James vernacular, “Lord, by this time he stinketh.”

Jesus insists. The stone is moved. And then Jesus prays an odd little prayer. He says, “Father, I thank you that you have heard me” (emphasis mine).

Have heard — as in past tense.

Then he shouts, “Lazarus, you can come out now!”

And, in what must have been a sight that was at least a little bit funny, Lazarus shuffles (or maybe hops) out, bound tightly from head-to-toe in his burial cloth.

Lots of stuff to talk about here, but this is what struck me today: Jesus uses the past tense in that little prayer — indicating that he had prayed about this earlier — probably while everyone else thought he was doing nothing. Everyone — Mary, Martha, Lazarus, the disciples — assumed Jesus was just staying put, laying low, doing nothing.

But Jesus was praying. For what we’re not exactly sure. But it probably had something to do with asking his Father to preserve Lazarus’ body — maybe keep it from beginning to decompose so he could come out of the tomb intact. After all, it’s after the stone is rolled away that Jesus seems to know for sure that his prayer had been heard (no stink?).

Here’s the point (and this is extremely relevant to me given the 100 days of silence from which I am just now beginning to emerge): Jesus does some of his best work immediately after it would appear he has been doing nothing. Buckle up, folks, I believe we’re in for the ride of our lives, because miracles start to happen when Jesus does “nothing”.