Cottonwood First Baptist Church

Paul is writing this letter to his friend and protégé, Timothy. Paul met Timothy and his family in a city called Lystra (Acts 16:1-3), this place right in the middle of what is now modern-day Turkey. Paul was going around starting new churches and raising up a large team of coworkers to accomplish this mission (hence the term, apostle). And Paul was impressed by Timothy’s devotion to Jesus, and so he mentored him and trained him to shepherd other churches. Timothy was, exactly as Paul describes him, “a true son in the faith.” Now, later on, Paul hears about this group of leaders that had infiltrated the church Ephesus (a seaport town in the same region). They were spreading ideas about Jesus that were off the mark, and then leading people to follow him in some messed up ways. So Paul sends Timothy to confront these leaders and restore some order and refocus the church. The letter of 1 Timothy is a follow-up to see how things are going and to offer some wisdom on how to fulfill his mission, to lead the church, to train up new shepherds, and to always keep the main thing the main thing—that is, to be a church utterly and singularly conformed to the gospel.

Paul is writing this letter to his friend and protégé, Timothy. Paul met Timothy and his family in a city called Lystra (Acts 16:1-3), this place right in the middle of what is now modern-day Turkey. Paul was going around starting new churches and raising up a large team of coworkers to accomplish this mission (hence the term, apostle). And Paul was impressed by Timothy’s devotion to Jesus, and so he mentored him and trained him to shepherd other churches. Timothy was, exactly as Paul describes him, “a true son in the faith.” Now, later on, Paul hears about this group of leaders that had infiltrated the church Ephesus (a seaport town in the same region). They were spreading ideas about Jesus that were off the mark, and then leading people to follow him in some messed up ways. So Paul sends Timothy to confront these leaders and restore some order and refocus the church. The letter of 1 Timothy is a follow-up to see how things are going and to offer some wisdom on how to fulfill his mission, to lead the church, to train up new shepherds, and to always keep the main thing the main thing—that is, to be a church utterly and singularly conformed to the gospel.

There’s a word in the Old Testament for something we really, truly need, something that God models for us, instills in us, offers us freely as a gift. It’s the word shabat, an action word (mind you) meaning to cease, to stop, to be absent, to come to an end, to perish, die, rest, and to celebrate. It’s a pretty diverse word in the Hebrew language, but essentially it is an active elimination of the human hustle. You can see that the word gets harsh sometimes (perish, die, eliminate), and that’s usually defined that way when YHWH is the active agent, particularly in the prophets. It’s often when Israel is so distracted by other human pursuits, other definitions of success, or what Abraham Heschel refers to as “the conquest of space at the expense of time,” that God himself has to put an end to their plans, to destroy their hurriedness, to eliminate the distractions, and so restore a season rest, even if he must do so drastically. God’s intent to shabat is very important to him. This action, this verb of ceasing and celebrating and resting, came to be known as a particular day, set aside just for human renewal and revitalization. It came to be known as Sabbath. And while we come to church on Sunday and many of us take off a day or two of working every week, but actually, conscientiously practicing the sacred art of Sabbath? Do we have a built-in pattern and practice of resting in the very presence of God the healer and redeemer? Or are we merely taking a break every so often because we are simply, utterly exhausted from all of our work? Is Sabbath an active resistance to the bondage of hurry and busyness, or a passive vegetative state we fall into when we have literally run ourselves empty? What if the church—what if our church—practiced Sabbath, the sacred art of stopping, the way God always meant for us to? Would that change anything? Would that communicate anything to the rest of society? Would that profoundly, eternally, change the nature of our spiritual life and community? One more question for you: would it hurt to try?

There’s a word in the Old Testament for something we really, truly need, something that God models for us, instills in us, offers us freely as a gift. It’s the word shabat, an action word (mind you) meaning to cease, to stop, to be absent, to come to an end, to perish, die, rest, and to celebrate. It’s a pretty diverse word in the Hebrew language, but essentially it is an active elimination of the human hustle. You can see that the word gets harsh sometimes (perish, die, eliminate), and that’s usually defined that way when YHWH is the active agent, particularly in the prophets. It’s often when Israel is so distracted by other human pursuits, other definitions of success, or what Abraham Heschel refers to as “the conquest of space at the expense of time,” that God himself has to put an end to their plans, to destroy their hurriedness, to eliminate the distractions, and so restore a season rest, even if he must do so drastically. God’s intent to shabat is very important to him. This action, this verb of ceasing and celebrating and resting, came to be known as a particular day, set aside just for human renewal and revitalization. It came to be known as Sabbath. And while we come to church on Sunday and many of us take off a day or two of working every week, but actually, conscientiously practicing the sacred art of Sabbath? Do we have a built-in pattern and practice of resting in the very presence of God the healer and redeemer? Or are we merely taking a break every so often because we are simply, utterly exhausted from all of our work? Is Sabbath an active resistance to the bondage of hurry and busyness, or a passive vegetative state we fall into when we have literally run ourselves empty? What if the church—what if our church—practiced Sabbath, the sacred art of stopping, the way God always meant for us to? Would that change anything? Would that communicate anything to the rest of society? Would that profoundly, eternally, change the nature of our spiritual life and community? One more question for you: would it hurt to try?

There’s a word in the Old Testament for something we really, truly need, something that God models for us, instills in us, offers us freely as a gift. It’s the word shabat, an action word (mind you) meaning to cease, to stop, to be absent, to come to an end, to perish, die, rest, and to celebrate. It’s a pretty diverse word in the Hebrew language, but essentially it is an active elimination of the human hustle. You can see that the word gets harsh sometimes (perish, die, eliminate), and that’s usually defined that way when YHWH is the active agent, particularly in the prophets. It’s often when Israel is so distracted by other human pursuits, other definitions of success, or what Abraham Heschel refers to as “the conquest of space at the expense of time,” that God himself has to put an end to their plans, to destroy their hurriedness, to eliminate the distractions, and so restore a season rest, even if he must do so drastically. God’s intent to shabat is very important to him. This action, this verb of ceasing and celebrating and resting, came to be known as a particular day, set aside just for human renewal and revitalization. It came to be known as Sabbath. And while we come to church on Sunday and many of us take off a day or two of working every week, but actually, conscientiously practicing the sacred art of Sabbath? Do we have a built-in pattern and practice of resting in the very presence of God the healer and redeemer? Or are we merely taking a break every so often because we are simply, utterly exhausted from all of our work? Is Sabbath an active resistance to the bondage of hurry and busyness, or a passive vegetative state we fall into when we have literally run ourselves empty? What if the church—what if our church—practiced Sabbath, the sacred art of stopping, the way God always meant for us to? Would that change anything? Would that communicate anything to the rest of society? Would that profoundly, eternally, change the nature of our spiritual life and community? One more question for you: would it hurt to try?

There’s a word in the Old Testament for something we really, truly need, something that God models for us, instills in us, offers us freely as a gift. It’s the word shabat, an action word (mind you) meaning to cease, to stop, to be absent, to come to an end, to perish, die, rest, and to celebrate. It’s a pretty diverse word in the Hebrew language, but essentially it is an active elimination of the human hustle. You can see that the word gets harsh sometimes (perish, die, eliminate), and that’s usually defined that way when YHWH is the active agent, particularly in the prophets. It’s often when Israel is so distracted by other human pursuits, other definitions of success, or what Abraham Heschel refers to as “the conquest of space at the expense of time,” that God himself has to put an end to their plans, to destroy their hurriedness, to eliminate the distractions, and so restore a season rest, even if he must do so drastically. God’s intent to shabat is very important to him. This action, this verb of ceasing and celebrating and resting, came to be known as a particular day, set aside just for human renewal and revitalization. It came to be known as Sabbath. And while we come to church on Sunday and many of us take off a day or two of working every week, but actually, conscientiously practicing the sacred art of Sabbath? Do we have a built-in pattern and practice of resting in the very presence of God the healer and redeemer? Or are we merely taking a break every so often because we are simply, utterly exhausted from all of our work? Is Sabbath an active resistance to the bondage of hurry and busyness, or a passive vegetative state we fall into when we have literally run ourselves empty? What if the church—what if our church—practiced Sabbath, the sacred art of stopping, the way God always meant for us to? Would that change anything? Would that communicate anything to the rest of society? Would that profoundly, eternally, change the nature of our spiritual life and community? One more question for you: would it hurt to try?

There’s a word in the Old Testament for something we really, truly need, something that God models for us, instills in us, offers us freely as a gift. It’s the word shabat, an action word (mind you) meaning to cease, to stop, to be absent, to come to an end, to perish, die, rest, and to celebrate. It’s a pretty diverse word in the Hebrew language, but essentially it is an active elimination of the human hustle. You can see that the word gets harsh sometimes (perish, die, eliminate), and that’s usually defined that way when YHWH is the active agent, particularly in the prophets. It’s often when Israel is so distracted by other human pursuits, other definitions of success, or what Abraham Heschel refers to as “the conquest of space at the expense of time,” that God himself has to put an end to their plans, to destroy their hurriedness, to eliminate the distractions, and so restore a season rest, even if he must do so drastically. God’s intent to shabat is very important to him. This action, this verb of ceasing and celebrating and resting, came to be known as a particular day, set aside just for human renewal and revitalization. It came to be known as Sabbath. And while we come to church on Sunday and many of us take off a day or two of working every week, but actually, conscientiously practicing the sacred art of Sabbath? Do we have a built-in pattern and practice of resting in the very presence of God the healer and redeemer? Or are we merely taking a break every so often because we are simply, utterly exhausted from all of our work? Is Sabbath an active resistance to the bondage of hurry and busyness, or a passive vegetative state we fall into when we have literally run ourselves empty? What if the church—what if our church—practiced Sabbath, the sacred art of stopping, the way God always meant for us to? Would that change anything? Would that communicate anything to the rest of society? Would that profoundly, eternally, change the nature of our spiritual life and community? One more question for you: would it hurt to try?

There’s a word in the Old Testament for something we really, truly need, something that God models for us, instills in us, offers us freely as a gift. It’s the word shabat, an action word (mind you) meaning to cease, to stop, to be absent, to come to an end, to perish, die, rest, and to celebrate. It’s a pretty diverse word in the Hebrew language, but essentially it is an active elimination of the human hustle. You can see that the word gets harsh sometimes (perish, die, eliminate), and that’s usually defined that way when YHWH is the active agent, particularly in the prophets. It’s often when Israel is so distracted by other human pursuits, other definitions of success, or what Abraham Heschel refers to as “the conquest of space at the expense of time,” that God himself has to put an end to their plans, to destroy their hurriedness, to eliminate the distractions, and so restore a season rest, even if he must do so drastically. God’s intent to shabat is very important to him. This action, this verb of ceasing and celebrating and resting, came to be known as a particular day, set aside just for human renewal and revitalization. It came to be known as Sabbath. And while we come to church on Sunday and many of us take off a day or two of working every week, but actually, conscientiously practicing the sacred art of Sabbath? Do we have a built-in pattern and practice of resting in the very presence of God the healer and redeemer? Or are we merely taking a break every so often because we are simply, utterly exhausted from all of our work? Is Sabbath an active resistance to the bondage of hurry and busyness, or a passive vegetative state we fall into when we have literally run ourselves empty? What if the church—what if our church—practiced Sabbath, the sacred art of stopping, the way God always meant for us to? Would that change anything? Would that communicate anything to the rest of society? Would that profoundly, eternally, change the nature of our spiritual life and community? One more question for you: would it hurt to try?

There’s a word in the Old Testament for something we really, truly need, something that God models for us, instills in us, offers us freely as a gift. It’s the word shabat, an action word (mind you) meaning to cease, to stop, to be absent, to come to an end, to perish, die, rest, and to celebrate. It’s a pretty diverse word in the Hebrew language, but essentially it is an active elimination of the human hustle. You can see that the word gets harsh sometimes (perish, die, eliminate), and that’s usually defined that way when YHWH is the active agent, particularly in the prophets. It’s often when Israel is so distracted by other human pursuits, other definitions of success, or what Abraham Heschel refers to as “the conquest of space at the expense of time,” that God himself has to put an end to their plans, to destroy their hurriedness, to eliminate the distractions, and so restore a season rest, even if he must do so drastically. God’s intent to shabat is very important to him. This action, this verb of ceasing and celebrating and resting, came to be known as a particular day, set aside just for human renewal and revitalization. It came to be known as Sabbath. And while we come to church on Sunday and many of us take off a day or two of working every week, but actually, conscientiously practicing the sacred art of Sabbath? Do we have a built-in pattern and practice of resting in the very presence of God the healer and redeemer? Or are we merely taking a break every so often because we are simply, utterly exhausted from all of our work? Is Sabbath an active resistance to the bondage of hurry and busyness, or a passive vegetative state we fall into when we have literally run ourselves empty? What if the church—what if our church—practiced Sabbath, the sacred art of stopping, the way God always meant for us to? Would that change anything? Would that communicate anything to the rest of society? Would that profoundly, eternally, change the nature of our spiritual life and community? One more question for you: would it hurt to try?

The book of Ecclesiastes is, as some have described, the feeling of utter darkness so as to better realize the power of the light. The idea here is that we grow accustomed to grace and the goodness of God. We like the idea that church is never sad or uncomfortable. We want a life and a community that says bad things never happen to good people, where the right thing is always said and done, where Jesus is just a kind hippie, and where the wrath and punishment of God isn’t a thing. Our eternal sight grows accustomed to the light, and we lose the gravity of who we are in Christ, how we have been changed and transformed, how truly earth-shattering an act of grace the death of Jesus is, when all we practice and hear is sunshine and rainbows. Because all we need to do is look up and see that there are many in the world who walk around in the dark, feeling their way through in the absence of light, doing everything they can just to survive, hoping, endless, for the spark of light to guide their way. We need to remember our story is their story, and so the story Ecclesiastes is a momentary quenching of the light, a walk through the dark forest, and as our eyes adjust to hopelessness, and despair, and frustration, we can not only appreciate, but desire, the light of the world that John says the darkness cannot even comprehend. This is a journey in search of the ultimate goal of meaning for all of humanity, using the dark story of Ecclesiastes as the roadmap and legend. I encourage you to surrender to the experience, and to be honest with yourself and with your community—prayerfully, we will come to the same conclusion of what everything is all about.

The book of Ecclesiastes is, as some have described, the feeling of utter darkness so as to better realize the power of the light. The idea here is that we grow accustomed to grace and the goodness of God. We like the idea that church is never sad or uncomfortable. We want a life and a community that says bad things never happen to good people, where the right thing is always said and done, where Jesus is just a kind hippie, and where the wrath and punishment of God isn’t a thing. Our eternal sight grows accustomed to the light, and we lose the gravity of who we are in Christ, how we have been changed and transformed, how truly earth-shattering an act of grace the death of Jesus is, when all we practice and hear is sunshine and rainbows. Because all we need to do is look up and see that there are many in the world who walk around in the dark, feeling their way through in the absence of light, doing everything they can just to survive, hoping, endless, for the spark of light to guide their way. We need to remember our story is their story, and so the story Ecclesiastes is a momentary quenching of the light, a walk through the dark forest, and as our eyes adjust to hopelessness, and despair, and frustration, we can not only appreciate, but desire, the light of the world that John says the darkness cannot even comprehend. This is a journey in search of the ultimate goal of meaning for all of humanity, using the dark story of Ecclesiastes as the roadmap and legend. I encourage you to surrender to the experience, and to be honest with yourself and with your community—prayerfully, we will come to the same conclusion of what everything is all about.

The book of Ecclesiastes is, as some have described, the feeling of utter darkness so as to better realize the power of the light. The idea here is that we grow accustomed to grace and the goodness of God. We like the idea that church is never sad or uncomfortable. We want a life and a community that says bad things never happen to good people, where the right thing is always said and done, where Jesus is just a kind hippie, and where the wrath and punishment of God isn’t a thing. Our eternal sight grows accustomed to the light, and we lose the gravity of who we are in Christ, how we have been changed and transformed, how truly earth-shattering an act of grace the death of Jesus is, when all we practice and hear is sunshine and rainbows. Because all we need to do is look up and see that there are many in the world who walk around in the dark, feeling their way through in the absence of light, doing everything they can just to survive, hoping, endless, for the spark of light to guide their way. We need to remember our story is their story, and so the story Ecclesiastes is a momentary quenching of the light, a walk through the dark forest, and as our eyes adjust to hopelessness, and despair, and frustration, we can not only appreciate, but desire, the light of the world that John says the darkness cannot even comprehend. This is a journey in search of the ultimate goal of meaning for all of humanity, using the dark story of Ecclesiastes as the roadmap and legend. I encourage you to surrender to the experience, and to be honest with yourself and with your community—prayerfully, we will come to the same conclusion of what everything is all about.

The book of Ecclesiastes is, as some have described, the feeling of utter darkness so as to better realize the power of the light. The idea here is that we grow accustomed to grace and the goodness of God. We like the idea that church is never sad or uncomfortable. We want a life and a community that says bad things never happen to good people, where the right thing is always said and done, where Jesus is just a kind hippie, and where the wrath and punishment of God isn’t a thing. Our eternal sight grows accustomed to the light, and we lose the gravity of who we are in Christ, how we have been changed and transformed, how truly earth-shattering an act of grace the death of Jesus is, when all we practice and hear is sunshine and rainbows. Because all we need to do is look up and see that there are many in the world who walk around in the dark, feeling their way through in the absence of light, doing everything they can just to survive, hoping, endless, for the spark of light to guide their way. We need to remember our story is their story, and so the story Ecclesiastes is a momentary quenching of the light, a walk through the dark forest, and as our eyes adjust to hopelessness, and despair, and frustration, we can not only appreciate, but desire, the light of the world that John says the darkness cannot even comprehend. This is a journey in search of the ultimate goal of meaning for all of humanity, using the dark story of Ecclesiastes as the roadmap and legend. I encourage you to surrender to the experience, and to be honest with yourself and with your community—prayerfully, we will come to the same conclusion of what everything is all about.

This series is a five-week journey through the Old Testament book of Ecclesiastes. For the most part, this series (and the book of Ecclesiastes itself) is super depressing. Ecclesiastes is actually quoted all time—the Byrds even wrote a famous song based on it (Turn! Turn! Turn! In 1962)—yet, because of the sometimes ranting and rambling nature of the text, these quotes are almost always out of context. It’s weird and strange and dismal, but I have come to this profound realization: humanity needs this story, desperately. The reason why Ecclesiastes is so important is the way in which Qohelet—or the Teacher—goes about discovering the meaning of all things. “Q” is like a tour guide, taking us, the readers, on a journey through the temporal, material world, in the hopes of finding something eternal, something truly and authentically tangible to hold on to, something that will make us matter in some way to someone, something that will give our lives meaning. What is unique to Ecclesiastes versus most every other book of the Bible is that Q does not start by affirming absolute truths about God as the pedestal from which subsequent thoughts about the world are supported; instead, Q’s understanding of the world flows out of his own reason, observation, and experience; his worldview is our worldview, his perception is our perception—there is nothing extraordinarily divine in his understanding. What the book of Ecclesiastes forces us to do is to take Q’s understanding at face value, to experience the world ourselves and to join him in his all-out search for meaningful existence, and to necessarily accept his conclusion of it all as our own. This is a journey in search of the ultimate goal of meaning for all of humanity, using the book of Ecclesiastes as the roadmap and legend. I encourage you to surrender to the experience, and to be honest with yourself and with your community—prayerfully, we will come to the same conclusion of what everything is all about.

Think of the Psalms as what Dietrich Bonhoeffer calls the “prayer book of the Bible.” Have you ever thought about your default setting for prayer? It’s usually a very narrow definition. You have needs, you ask God for your needs, you hope that those needs get met, and you do your best to credit God for meeting those needs. And this pretty much summarizes the prayer life of 90% of us, 90% of the time. And yet there is so much more. To quote Bonhoeffer, “we confuse wishing, hoping, sighing, lamenting, rejoicing—all of which the heart can do on its own—with praying. But in doing so we confuse earth and heaven, human beings with God. Praying does not mean just pouring out our hearts. Instead, it means finding the way to and speaking with God, whether the heart is full, or empty.” This is what the Psalms do for us. The Bible is God’s word spoken to us, given to us, providing us with the words to say to him, unlocking communion and community with God. It’s powerful, and freeing. The Psalms invite us to speak God’s words after him, not just about him, but to him. They exist not only to teach and instruct us, they are not merely reflections on the condition of the soul; they are the vehicle through which we make deep connection with the divine Creator. Even when our hearts are empty and impoverished, and there are no words, no emotions, no impulses pulling ourselves toward this connection, we may find in the Psalms the expression of truth and reality of God that subverts and overcomes even the poverty of our own hearts. With this in mind, each Psalm we encounter this summer explores a different facet of prayer, a different and unique expression of our human condition and of God’s incredible character, to pour out from our beings these explosions of praise, or these cries of sadness and lament, or bursts of frustration, or statements of peace and assurance.

Think of the Psalms as what Dietrich Bonhoeffer calls the “prayer book of the Bible.” Have you ever thought about your default setting for prayer? It’s usually a very narrow definition. You have needs, you ask God for your needs, you hope that those needs get met, and you do your best to credit God for meeting those needs. And this pretty much summarizes the prayer life of 90% of us, 90% of the time. And yet there is so much more. To quote Bonhoeffer, “we confuse wishing, hoping, sighing, lamenting, rejoicing—all of which the heart can do on its own—with praying. But in doing so we confuse earth and heaven, human beings with God. Praying does not mean just pouring out our hearts. Instead, it means finding the way to and speaking with God, whether the heart is full, or empty.” This is what the Psalms do for us. The Bible is God’s word spoken to us, given to us, providing us with the words to say to him, unlocking communion and community with God. It’s powerful, and freeing. The Psalms invite us to speak God’s words after him, not just about him, but to him. They exist not only to teach and instruct us, they are not merely reflections on the condition of the soul; they are the vehicle through which we make deep connection with the divine Creator. Even when our hearts are empty and impoverished, and there are no words, no emotions, no impulses pulling ourselves toward this connection, we may find in the Psalms the expression of truth and reality of God that subverts and overcomes even the poverty of our own hearts. With this in mind, each Psalm we encounter this summer explores a different facet of prayer, a different and unique expression of our human condition and of God’s incredible character, to pour out from our beings these explosions of praise, or these cries of sadness and lament, or bursts of frustration, or statements of peace and assurance.

Think of the Psalms as what Dietrich Bonhoeffer calls the “prayer book of the Bible.” Have you ever thought about your default setting for prayer? It’s usually a very narrow definition. You have needs, you ask God for your needs, you hope that those needs get met, and you do your best to credit God for meeting those needs. And this pretty much summarizes the prayer life of 90% of us, 90% of the time. And yet there is so much more. To quote Bonhoeffer, “we confuse wishing, hoping, sighing, lamenting, rejoicing—all of which the heart can do on its own—with praying. But in doing so we confuse earth and heaven, human beings with God. Praying does not mean just pouring out our hearts. Instead, it means finding the way to and speaking with God, whether the heart is full, or empty.” This is what the Psalms do for us. The Bible is God’s word spoken to us, given to us, providing us with the words to say to him, unlocking communion and community with God. It’s powerful, and freeing. The Psalms invite us to speak God’s words after him, not just about him, but to him. They exist not only to teach and instruct us, they are not merely reflections on the condition of the soul; they are the vehicle through which we make deep connection with the divine Creator. Even when our hearts are empty and impoverished, and there are no words, no emotions, no impulses pulling ourselves toward this connection, we may find in the Psalms the expression of truth and reality of God that subverts and overcomes even the poverty of our own hearts. With this in mind, each Psalm we encounter this summer explores a different facet of prayer, a different and unique expression of our human condition and of God’s incredible character, to pour out from our beings these explosions of praise, or these cries of sadness and lament, or bursts of frustration, or statements of peace and assurance.

Think of the Psalms as what Dietrich Bonhoeffer calls the “prayer book of the Bible.” Have you ever thought about your default setting for prayer? It’s usually a very narrow definition. You have needs, you ask God for your needs, you hope that those needs get met, and you do your best to credit God for meeting those needs. And this pretty much summarizes the prayer life of 90% of us, 90% of the time. And yet there is so much more. To quote Bonhoeffer, “we confuse wishing, hoping, sighing, lamenting, rejoicing—all of which the heart can do on its own—with praying. But in doing so we confuse earth and heaven, human beings with God. Praying does not mean just pouring out our hearts. Instead, it means finding the way to and speaking with God, whether the heart is full, or empty.” This is what the Psalms do for us. The Bible is God’s word spoken to us, given to us, providing us with the words to say to him, unlocking communion and community with God. It’s powerful, and freeing. The Psalms invite us to speak God’s words after him, not just about him, but to him. They exist not only to teach and instruct us, they are not merely reflections on the condition of the soul; they are the vehicle through which we make deep connection with the divine Creator. Even when our hearts are empty and impoverished, and there are no words, no emotions, no impulses pulling ourselves toward this connection, we may find in the Psalms the expression of truth and reality of God that subverts and overcomes even the poverty of our own hearts. With this in mind, each Psalm we encounter this summer explores a different facet of prayer, a different and unique expression of our human condition and of God’s incredible character, to pour out from our beings these explosions of praise, or these cries of sadness and lament, or bursts of frustration, or statements of peace and assurance.

Think of the Psalms as what Dietrich Bonhoeffer calls the “prayer book of the Bible.” Have you ever thought about your default setting for prayer? It’s usually a very narrow definition. You have needs, you ask God for your needs, you hope that those needs get met, and you do your best to credit God for meeting those needs. And this pretty much summarizes the prayer life of 90% of us, 90% of the time. And yet there is so much more. To quote Bonhoeffer, “we confuse wishing, hoping, sighing, lamenting, rejoicing—all of which the heart can do on its own—with praying. But in doing so we confuse earth and heaven, human beings with God. Praying does not mean just pouring out our hearts. Instead, it means finding the way to and speaking with God, whether the heart is full, or empty.” This is what the Psalms do for us. The Bible is God’s word spoken to us, given to us, providing us with the words to say to him, unlocking communion and community with God. It’s powerful, and freeing. The Psalms invite us to speak God’s words after him, not just about him, but to him. They exist not only to teach and instruct us, they are not merely reflections on the condition of the soul; they are the vehicle through which we make deep connection with the divine Creator. Even when our hearts are empty and impoverished, and there are no words, no emotions, no impulses pulling ourselves toward this connection, we may find in the Psalms the expression of truth and reality of God that subverts and overcomes even the poverty of our own hearts. With this in mind, each Psalm we encounter this summer explores a different facet of prayer, a different and unique expression of our human condition and of God’s incredible character, to pour out from our beings these explosions of praise, or these cries of sadness and lament, or bursts of frustration, or statements of peace and assurance.

Think of the Psalms as what Dietrich Bonhoeffer calls the “prayer book of the Bible.” Have you ever thought about your default setting for prayer? It’s usually a very narrow definition. You have needs, you ask God for your needs, you hope that those needs get met, and you do your best to credit God for meeting those needs. And this pretty much summarizes the prayer life of 90% of us, 90% of the time. And yet there is so much more. To quote Bonhoeffer, “we confuse wishing, hoping, sighing, lamenting, rejoicing—all of which the heart can do on its own—with praying. But in doing so we confuse earth and heaven, human beings with God. Praying does not mean just pouring out our hearts. Instead, it means finding the way to and speaking with God, whether the heart is full, or empty.” This is what the Psalms do for us. The Bible is God’s word spoken to us, given to us, providing us with the words to say to him, unlocking communion and community with God. It’s powerful, and freeing. The Psalms invite us to speak God’s words after him, not just about him, but to him. They exist not only to teach and instruct us, they are not merely reflections on the condition of the soul; they are the vehicle through which we make deep connection with the divine Creator. Even when our hearts are empty and impoverished, and there are no words, no emotions, no impulses pulling ourselves toward this connection, we may find in the Psalms the expression of truth and reality of God that subverts and overcomes even the poverty of our own hearts. With this in mind, each Psalm we encounter this summer explores a different facet of prayer, a different and unique expression of our human condition and of God’s incredible character, to pour out from our beings these explosions of praise, or these cries of sadness and lament, or bursts of frustration, or statements of peace and assurance.

Think of the Psalms as what Dietrich Bonhoeffer calls the “prayer book of the Bible.” Have you ever thought about your default setting for prayer? It’s usually a very narrow definition. You have needs, you ask God for your needs, you hope that those needs get met, and you do your best to credit God for meeting those needs. And this pretty much summarizes the prayer life of 90% of us, 90% of the time. And yet there is so much more. To quote Bonhoeffer, “we confuse wishing, hoping, sighing, lamenting, rejoicing—all of which the heart can do on its own—with praying. But in doing so we confuse earth and heaven, human beings with God. Praying does not mean just pouring out our hearts. Instead, it means finding the way to and speaking with God, whether the heart is full, or empty.” This is what the Psalms do for us. The Bible is God’s word spoken to us, given to us, providing us with the words to say to him, unlocking communion and community with God. It’s powerful, and freeing. The Psalms invite us to speak God’s words after him, not just about him, but to him. They exist not only to teach and instruct us, they are not merely reflections on the condition of the soul; they are the vehicle through which we make deep connection with the divine Creator. Even when our hearts are empty and impoverished, and there are no words, no emotions, no impulses pulling ourselves toward this connection, we may find in the Psalms the expression of truth and reality of God that subverts and overcomes even the poverty of our own hearts. With this in mind, each Psalm we encounter this summer explores a different facet of prayer, a different and unique expression of our human condition and of God’s incredible character, to pour out from our beings these explosions of praise, or these cries of sadness and lament, or bursts of frustration, or statements of peace and assurance.

Think of the Psalms as what Dietrich Bonhoeffer calls the “prayer book of the Bible.” Have you ever thought about your default setting for prayer? It’s usually a very narrow definition. You have needs, you ask God for your needs, you hope that those needs get met, and you do your best to credit God for meeting those needs. And this pretty much summarizes the prayer life of 90% of us, 90% of the time. And yet there is so much more. To quote Bonhoeffer, “we confuse wishing, hoping, sighing, lamenting, rejoicing—all of which the heart can do on its own—with praying. But in doing so we confuse earth and heaven, human beings with God. Praying does not mean just pouring out our hearts. Instead, it means finding the way to and speaking with God, whether the heart is full, or empty.” This is what the Psalms do for us. The Bible is God’s word spoken to us, given to us, providing us with the words to say to him, unlocking communion and community with God. It’s powerful, and freeing. The Psalms invite us to speak God’s words after him, not just about him, but to him. They exist not only to teach and instruct us, they are not merely reflections on the condition of the soul; they are the vehicle through which we make deep connection with the divine Creator. Even when our hearts are empty and impoverished, and there are no words, no emotions, no impulses pulling ourselves toward this connection, we may find in the Psalms the expression of truth and reality of God that subverts and overcomes even the poverty of our own hearts. With this in mind, each Psalm we encounter this summer explores a different facet of prayer, a different and unique expression of our human condition and of God’s incredible character, to pour out from our beings these explosions of praise, or these cries of sadness and lament, or bursts of frustration, or statements of peace and assurance.

Think of the Psalms as what Dietrich Bonhoeffer calls the “prayer book of the Bible.” Have you ever thought about your default setting for prayer? It’s usually a very narrow definition. You have needs, you ask God for your needs, you hope that those needs get met, and you do your best to credit God for meeting those needs. And this pretty much summarizes the prayer life of 90% of us, 90% of the time. And yet there is so much more. To quote Bonhoeffer, “we confuse wishing, hoping, sighing, lamenting, rejoicing—all of which the heart can do on its own—with praying. But in doing so we confuse earth and heaven, human beings with God. Praying does not mean just pouring out our hearts. Instead, it means finding the way to and speaking with God, whether the heart is full, or empty.” This is what the Psalms do for us. The Bible is God’s word spoken to us, given to us, providing us with the words to say to him, unlocking communion and community with God. It’s powerful, and freeing. The Psalms invite us to speak God’s words after him, not just about him, but to him. They exist not only to teach and instruct us, they are not merely reflections on the condition of the soul; they are the vehicle through which we make deep connection with the divine Creator. Even when our hearts are empty and impoverished, and there are no words, no emotions, no impulses pulling ourselves toward this connection, we may find in the Psalms the expression of truth and reality of God that subverts and overcomes even the poverty of our own hearts. With this in mind, each Psalm we encounter this summer explores a different facet of prayer, a different and unique expression of our human condition and of God’s incredible character, to pour out from our beings these explosions of praise, or these cries of sadness and lament, or bursts of frustration, or statements of peace and assurance.

Think of the Psalms as what Dietrich Bonhoeffer calls the “prayer book of the Bible.” Have you ever thought about your default setting for prayer? It’s usually a very narrow definition. You have needs, you ask God for your needs, you hope that those needs get met, and you do your best to credit God for meeting those needs. And this pretty much summarizes the prayer life of 90% of us, 90% of the time. And yet there is so much more. To quote Bonhoeffer, “we confuse wishing, hoping, sighing, lamenting, rejoicing—all of which the heart can do on its own—with praying. But in doing so we confuse earth and heaven, human beings with God. Praying does not mean just pouring out our hearts. Instead, it means finding the way to and speaking with God, whether the heart is full, or empty.” This is what the Psalms do for us. The Bible is God’s word spoken to us, given to us, providing us with the words to say to him, unlocking communion and community with God. It’s powerful, and freeing. The Psalms invite us to speak God’s words after him, not just about him, but to him. They exist not only to teach and instruct us, they are not merely reflections on the condition of the soul; they are the vehicle through which we make deep connection with the divine Creator. Even when our hearts are empty and impoverished, and there are no words, no emotions, no impulses pulling ourselves toward this connection, we may find in the Psalms the expression of truth and reality of God that subverts and overcomes even the poverty of our own hearts.

The mission given to Jesus’ followers is to make more Jesus followers. Jesus says, “your old vocation, your old identity, was fisherman. You fished for your family, you fished for your money, you fished for your future, you fished for your life. Your new vocation, your new identity, is a fishermen of men.” In calling them to follow, Jesus calls them to reorient their entire identity, everything they know and believe about themselves, around a new vocation. When Jesus enters your life, he is calling you to the same thing. He is calling you to join with him on his mission, to be changed, and to multiply. Will you lay down your life so that others can live?

We are wired for community. Not to rule over it, not to suck life out of it, but to contribute to it—to share yourself and what you have in service to others. Your life was meant to be spent. Christianity is not an individualized religious system of belief. It is communal by nature. But sometimes our natural tendency to turn inward upon ourselves and our own needs and insecurities prevents us from experiencing life in Christ the way it was fully intended—together. And yet, you were made to be shared. Each one of us is an incredibly valuable component to the life of the church. The only limit to the life of a church is the limits we place on ourselves to participate.

When it comes to growing deeper with Jesus, your job is not to construct or manufacture our own spirituality. Your job is merely to garden, to cultivate, to invest time and energy and provide the right environment for your life with Jesus to grow. You cannot control how your spiritual life grows or where it will take you. You cannot determine what God is going to do with your life when you hand it over to him. But you have a role to play, to remain connected to the life-giver. Remaining with Jesus is the most actively passive thing you can do.

Jesus says, “if anyone wants to follow me, let him deny himself, take up his cross daily, and follow me. For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but however loses his life because of me will save it.” Jesus is not talking about some figurative cross here. This is not some metaphorical burden. It is choosing daily, moment by moment, to follow the ways and the paths of Jesus in love and service and sacrifice, whatever that may be. Following after Jesus means practicing the ways of Jesus. It means in the smallest, most insignificant moments of tomorrow, you choose following him over following something else. One opportunity at time. Take up your cross, daily, and follow.

While it’s easy to get going on the idea that there is something or someone amazing that we should believe in or trust because it’s going to affect our lives in this really positive way, it’s not nearly as easy to face the reality that a big part of the reason why we need to put our trust in something or someone else is because we have failed so miserably at it ourselves. If we truly, actually grasp the wrath of God and how seriously God expects us to take him, we will inevitably grieve all the times we have walked away, fought him, pushed him away, kept him at arm’s length. Grief that points us to our need for God will lead us to repent.

What does it mean to believe? The reality is that God is revealing himself to you every single day, who he is, and why you should follow him. Throughout the Bible, God keeps revealing himself, and calling out to his creation to do one thing: to believe him. Not to believe ourselves, not to believe our hearts, not to believe others, but to believe God’s words, that he is who he says he is.

The only way that we can make followers of Jesus is by being and becoming followers of Jesus ourselves. And it starts by recognizing our identity as children of a loving, patient, generous Father, who is encouraging and raising us up into maturity, not simply to become more knowledgeable or to do right things without cultivating right relationship, but to become like the Father. To grow in compassion and mercy and forgiveness and justice. To reveal the goodness and greatness of our Father to the world, as the world sees his goodness and greatness reflected in us. To see God’s kingdom expand, to see earth transformed into something that looks more like heaven. This is why we follow. It doesn’t start with our heads, (what we know) and it doesn’t start with our hands (what we do). It starts with our hearts (what, how we love). Following in the ways of our Father means following in the footsteps of the Son. Jesus is God the Father come to earth in flesh and bone and spirit. Jesus, in his words, in his life, and even in his death, reveals the glory of God, the promise of God, the hope of God, the plans of God, the word of God. Jesus shows us the way. And this way is the key to life in our church.