posted by Peter at 1:53 PM
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posted by Peter at 1:39 PM
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posted by Peter at 3:10 AM
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Anyone who says that it is easy to follow Jesus is a liar. He Himself said that the way is narrow. But nothing we forgo in the cause of Christ—wealth, popularity, kudos, not even our very lives—can come anywhere close to the return. The way of discipleship—of covenant commitment and sacrificial worship—is costly and hard.

I was giving a friend a lift in my car one time, and we got to talking about life. "I don't know what God's calling me to do," he confessed, and asked me to pray about what it might be.

"Why?" I asked. "I already know what Jesus wants you to do!"

"You do?" he gasped with ill-concealed excitement. "So, what is it? What's my call?"

I paused, enjoying the suspense. Drums rolled. String quartets tuned up. My friend held his breath …

"Your call," I said slowly, "is to be a worship leader …"

He looked pleased, really pleased, so I continued: "… but not necessarily with a guitar in your hand."

"Okayyy," he murmured.

"Your call is to befriend that funny little lady at the end of your street …"

He seemed less pleased with this prospect.

"Your call is to feed the hungry and to spend yourself on behalf of the poor …"

By now he was looking distinctly troubled.

"… and to offer hospitality to strangers who just turn up in town needing a place to crash."

Consternation.

"And it's to fast."

He was starting to look furious.

"And it's to pray so long and hard that you run out of words and tears."

There was no going back: "Your call," I continued, "is to preach the good news of Jesus to every person who will listen and a few who won't. Your call is to go somewhere, anywhere, wherever, whenever, for Jesus, and never stop. Your call is to love people no one else loves and to forgive them when they treat you like dirt—or worse. Do your job to the very best of your ability without grumbling about your boss or whining about your colleagues. Your call is to pray for the sick, and when they are healed, to dance all night. And when they aren't, to weep with them and love them even more."
I glanced across at him and was relieved to see that his expression was beginning to mellow.

"Your call is to honor your parents, pray for your leaders, study the Scriptures and attend plenty of parties. Be a peacemaker in every situation: when the fight breaks out on the bus home late at night and when the gossip starts to circulate at church. Your call is to pick up litter in the street when no one else is looking, to wipe the toilet seat, to pull the gum off from under the desk. It's to get to meetings early to put out the chairs."

By now he was smiling.

"Your call is to make disciples and to teach them to obey everything Jesus commanded. And don't forget to minister grace to them when they sin. Which they will. Your mission is to baptize and to cast out evil spirits. Your call is to bind up broken hearts wherever you find them, and you will find them wherever you look. It's to visit prisons. And hospitals. And to …"

"Yeah, yeah," he interrupted good naturedly, trying to shut me up, but I was on a roll—and I knew he couldn't leave, because I was driving the car.

"Your call," I continued resolutely, "is to listen more than you talk and to listen with your eyes as well as your ears."

He was shaking his head in mock despair. I carried on: "It's to do the chores again and again without grumbling. It's to buy ethical coffee and to recycle your bottles. And while you're at it, don't forget to leave anonymous gifts on people's doorsteps."

By now we were both laughing, and I was finally running out of steam: "And when you've done all that," I grinned, jabbing him in the ribs at each syllable, "come back and see me, and we can spend a little time praying about phase two!"

posted by Peter at 10:56 AM
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posted by Peter at 11:42 AM
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The hyper-individualism and narcissism that have taken deep root in America have led to a current notion that the only good prayers are spontaneous, created on the spot and issuing from the unique persona of the one praying. Conversely, there's a pervasive sentiment that to recite the prayers of others is somehow less authentic, less real, and certainly less efficacious. It only takes a moment's reflection to see that both of these views are nonsense. The fact that Jesus memorized and prayed the Psalms, using them extensively in his teaching, should adequately squelch any doubts about the validity and helpfulness of praying 'second-hand' prayers.

The effect of establishing fixed times in the day for centering attention on God is that your life starts to bend around these significant moments. A rhyme and pattern develop to your day, and the recital of meaningful prayers and psalms slowly fills an interior spiritual reservoir which carries you through the craziness of modern life with your head screwed on straight. You become, as the ancient poet says, "a tree planted by streams of water, which yields its fruit in season and whose leaf does not wither."

Smack dab in the middle of the hotel lobby is a squared-off bar area that is raised up off the floor by a couple of feet, carpeted and outfitted with tables. The room is populated with up to several hundred men—agents, scouts, front office assistants, kids looking for jobs, and of course, the members of the media. Essentially, it is a big cocktail party. Groups of guys cluster together and chat. It’s the kind of scene where you see a guy pull another guy aside and say, “Step into my office.” The rest of the men stand around nervously, as if they were limo drivers at the airport waiting to pick someone up.

It is an inherently tense and uncomfortable atmosphere. The mood isn’t dour, it’s just forced. After all, this isn’t a social gathering, this is business. The teams are in the business of signing players and making trades; the agents are in the business of selling their clients, and the media’s business is to be up in everybody’s business. As a result, everyone is checking everybody else out. This is amusing. When I first walked in, I was getting the once over too. Some guys shot me suspicious, dark looks, as if to say, “Now who the hell is this?” Others looked at me more openly, with curiosity, as if to say, “Who the hell is that?”

What's a blog-writing outsider like me doing at Major League Baseball's Winter Meetings? That was a question I couldn't adequately answer, not even after Alex Belth and I entered the lobby of the New Orleans Marriott and cut through a swarm of baseball executives, agents and writers in search of the Baseball Prospectus contingent who had encouraged us to come down. Traveling on my own dime, lacking media credentials and anonymous to all but a small handful of people in the room, I shook my head as I surveyed the spectacle. What had I gotten myself into?

The answer turned out to be four days of pure sensory overload, intensive immersion in a realm of the baseball world I had only previously imagined. I watched, talked, argued, networked, laughed, ate, drank, gambled and strolled through the human sewer of degradation that is Bourbon Street. But mostly I just listened to a wide variety of perspectives about the game and the weekend's happenings. I cemented friendships with people who had previously been only names at other nodes of this electronic wonderland. The whole experience left me so giddy I was unable to fall asleep at night no matter how exhausted my body was.

posted by Peter at 11:30 PM
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