The Elements of Joy: Water

Posted on March 22, 2026 by Mark

I grew up, mostly, on the Southern Oregon coast where there is often too much water. In fact, my first year there in the 6th grade, we had two weeks off from school because of the flooding. I thought the weeks of rain terrible until it closed the schools. Creeks overflowed their banks and the Coquille River filled the whole valley. Buses couldn’t run. It was wonderful.

Only after a couple visits to the desert did I come to see water for what it is—life itself. On one of our many trips between Kansas and Oregon, Teckla and I found ourselves in the high desert of Utah looking left and right for Maple Grove Campground. We were baffled because on each side of the road all we could see were miles of sagebrush. Suddenly, we spotted a little sign that pointed up a dirt road. We could still see no trees, but there was now a ribbon of green on each side of a stream flowing along the road. Suddenly up and over a little hill we drove into a beautiful grove of maples flush against the hillside out of which the stream flowed. We had driven through the night to get there, so we pitched the tent, unrolled the sleeping bags, and fell asleep to the music of water over rocks.

My second visit to the desert was during a family trip to Anza-Borrego State Park. Our whole family hiked up a desert trail that followed a small stream. Only the places in direct contact with the water were green. But whatever the water touched was alive. At the end of the trail the stream fell over a huge granite boulder into a large pool shaded by palms. The boys grabbed dead palm fronds, sat on them, and as slid down the mossy granite into the pool. The water’s power to give life and joy filled my heart with a longing for more of the water Jesus promised those who follow him.

I have often prayed the promise Jesus made: “He who believes in Me, as the Scripture says, ‘From his innermost being shall flow rivers of living water” John 7: 38. I wish I could testify that this prayer is always, or even usually, followed by a bubbling up of God’s Spirit within me. I can’t. I usually feel nothing. I have come to see, however, that this prayer gets answered when I least expect it.

Often joy springs up when I am serving someone, giving to someone, or in some way ministering to their needs. When I am giving, the joy is flowing. During the darkest days surrounding my son’s death, I was preaching once a month at the local Presbyterian church. Declaring God’s Word to these precious people was life giving. The flow of love out of me shot joy into my grief.

Occasionally, I have felt God’s joy in some spiritually dark places. Many years ago, I did some evangelism at a Grateful Dead Concert at Kansas City’s Swope Park. The parking lot was an open drug market where you could buy every hallucinogenic: shrooms, peyote, weed, acid. I was clueless as to where or how to evangelize. I ended up sitting on a grassy hill behind the concert shell. I told the young people around me that I was there to talk to people about Jesus and eternal life and would be happy to answer any questions they had. At first they were silly or mocking, but I gave a sincere answer to each question. One by one, they began asking deeper and more genuine questions. When they left, the most vocal of the group came up, shook my hand, and said, “You gave good answers. Sorry, we gave you hard-time.”  I was filled with a quiet joy because I knew God had flowed through me and helped me.

At the same the concert I young man brought his friend up to me and said, “Joe is having a bad trip. Can you help him?” Joe’s eyes were wide-open and full of terror. He was obviously seeing some horrible things. I have no idea why they had come to me, but I was filled with a joyful awareness of God’s presence. I asked, “Joe, do you want God’s help?” He just stared at me, so I asked a second time. Then I said, “He is here now.” When I said “now”, Joe was thrown back about ten feet onto the ground. As they scurried away, his friend said, “Dude, you are scary.” I had not felt anything except joy and the certainty God was present.

I have not had many of these kinds of power encounters. Usually, joy comes in the quiet upwelling of the Spirit when giving or serving. I have sometimes felt joy spring up while writing a check to someone who needs encouragement and some help. Blessing a grandchild always brings joy.

And of course, I experience joy when I get past myself and freely worship God. I often, as some say, begin in the flesh and end in the Spirit. In fact, sometimes the greatest joy comes when I make a decision to worship God despite how lousy I feel. There is a joy in knowing the enemy can’t touch my decision to praise God. My worship is out of reach and God’s unchanging goodness and kindness rules my life. Let it flow!

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For Elements of Joy: Fire

Posted on March 9, 2026 by Mark

If the winds of joy are mysterious, the fire of joy is mystical.  It is the joy of friendship with Jesus—communion with his presence deep in our spirit. It is Jesus—not just theology or biblical propositions about Him. We abide in Him, and He dwells within us (see John 17).

As with all mystical truths, we reach for analogies to explain them. This relational joy warms our hearts on the darkest and coldest days. It is the joy the two followers of Jesus felt on the road to Emmaus as Jesus spoke to them: “Were not our hearts burning within us while he talked with us on the road and opened the Scriptures to us?” (Luke 24:3)

This joy is available to believers all the time because Jesus, Emmanuel, has promised to never leave us or forsake us. But like natural fires, the fire of this joy needs tending. Paul uses fire language when he exhorts Timothy: “For this reason I remind you to kindle afresh the gift of God which is in you through the laying on of my hands” (II Timothy 1:6 NASB).

I am a man of few skills, but I do know how to cut kindling and tend a fire. Years of camping along the coast of Oregon have honed the art of fire-poking. Every fire seemed to live its own life, beginning in a blaze of kindling carefully piled to burn quickly. But just at the right time, larger and heavier pieces are added. The bigger hunks of wood do not burn as brightly, but they last longer and burn steadily.

So what fuels our joy? One essential element, I have discovered, is honesty. Friendship with Jesus grows strongest when we are completely honest with him. Honesty is like the air that allows the fire to burn brightly. If the wood is piled too tightly, it doesn’t catch. If there are things we won’t allow God to speak to us about, the fire and joy of his presence sputters and smolders. We should tear down all our off-limit signs and throw them on the fire.

More of my prayer life has recently become poking the fire. I still pray for people and for needs, but I am often poking my attitudes, emotions, and thoughts so they are closer to the flame of Jesus’s presence. It is not just me letting rebellion or resistance be set ablaze; it is also pushing things toward Jesus that I didn’t know needed his touch.

The other day I was opening my heart up to Jesus. I was grieving Peter’s death. I have no bitterness or resentment toward God about his death—I simply cried out to Jesus, “But I loved Peter!” Out of nowhere and unexpectantly, there came into my mind, “I loved him first.” The words felt so tender that I knew they were spoken by Jesus. The joy of His presence burned brightly as we grieved together. And that is wonder and beauty of God’s joy, it can burn under water—in our deepest grief and greatest loss.

In my years of watching campfires, I have seen pieces of wood roll or fall away from the center of the fire. If left alone, it will burn awhile but eventually smolder and go out. I found that nudging everything to the center of fire—my work, my relationships, my leisure time, my finances, my study, my possessions—keeps the fire of burning. I taught for years at secular school where every perspective on anything seemed to exclude God. Again and again, I had to intentional bring my teaching and committee work into the presence of God and offer it as a sacrifice.

When camping with the boys, Teckla and I would sit around the dying campfire after they were all in the tent for the night. Often, we had burned through all the wood we had gathered, so we pulled our chairs closer to the fire. Sometimes I would grope around in the dark for dry spruce and fir cones to feed to the little fire. We moved closer to the fire and closer to each other. We would see the flicker of the little flame in each other’s eyes. And smile.

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The Four Elements of Joy: Wind

Posted on March 2, 2026 by Mark

The joy that comes like the wind is a mystery. We cannot command it or work it up. Like the wind, such joy comes from “out of the blue.” And sometimes just as mysteriously it leaves. If happiness is like a dog, joy is a cat that comes when it pleases.

Often, we read one dull verse of Scripture after another until the wind lifts a verse into our heart and fills us with joy. Sometimes in prayers of thanksgiving, we dutifully move from blessing to blessing when suddenly joy breaks out and carries our hearts into God’s presence.

Although we cannot make the wind come or go, we can set our sails. Long ago Teckla and I took my mom and our kids out into the bay on restored sailing ship The Lady Grey. It was fitted with a small diesel engine, but once in the middle of bay, the crew shut off the engine and scampered aloft to unfurl the sails. At first the sails hung loose, but as the ship turned slightly, the sails billowed out. All we could hear was the creak of the rigging and the slap of the waves against the bow.

So how do we set our sails to catch the wind of the Spirit? By slowing down, getting still, and being fully present. Often, we are like the noisy diesel engine—spouting fumes and running on our own strength. A verse of Scripture or the musky fragrance of spring may suddenly fill our sail and carry us into God’s presence. A child’s smile can be a gust that moves our heart out of the doldrums of depression.

Wordsworth famously defined poetry as “the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings . . . recollected in tranquility.” This describes the joy that comes on the wind that blows through our best memories. As we quiet ourselves before God and present a heart of gratitude, God’s Spirit brings memories of peace, joy, and wholeness. Sometimes the memory of smallest things brings the greatest joy.

A friend of mine described a time when he flew his kite on a day with almost no breeze. He ran hard to get his kite up. Little by little he let out more string. Eventually, it caught a current of wind undetectable from the ground. He let out the last of string and tied the end to fence. The wind held his kite in place.

The spiritual disciplines like prayer, Scripture, solitude, and silence are ways we set our sails or get our kite up when we feel no wind. Nothing we do can force the wind to blow, but if we have faith in God’s desire to fill us with joy, we are always ready for our sails to fill with joy and bring us into God’s presence.

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The Four Elements of Joy: Earth

Posted on February 26, 2026 by Mark

At first, or perhaps any glance, I am not the right person to write about joy. In the last five years my oldest son has died, Teckla and I both battled cancer, and Teckla has been diagnosed with dementia. Added to that is my retirement from teaching and leaving behind our friends as we moved from Oregon to Kansas. After moving, we discovered our house in Myrtle Point had been set on fire. What does the future hold? Teckla dying of Alzheimer’s and me dying of God knows what.

So let me tell you about joy! Joy, it turns out, is meant to be central to our experience of God. The Westminster Catechism proclaims the chief end of man is “to glorify God and enjoy him forever.” I am not certain, however, that a lot of believers are enjoying God much—even if fervent in their faith. And then there is Paul’s exhortation/command to “Rejoice in the Lord always, again I say rejoice.” Joy is not optional.

The “always” part is hard. Watching Teckla’s memory loss and cognitive decline is like the heart walking barefoot through the blackberry patch. Sometimes the ebb and flow of her memory loss hurts the most. Recently we laid face to face on the bed and she quietly said, “I’ve missed you”, even though we had not been apart for months. For a moment she was there again, knowing who I was and knowing in some way we had missed each other. Some months ago, a few tears ran down my face as sorted through pictures of my dead son, Peter. Teckla looked at a picture and asked, “Who is that?” I was crushed that I was now alone in my grief, even though it was a cruel mercy that she did not remember his death. I am not certain the stages of grief even apply to losing someone to dementia. So rejoice always!  But how? Joy comes from God, but I believe it comes in ways similar to the four elements: earth, wind, fire, and water.

Earth

For the believer, the most foundational source of joy are the hard facts of our faith—the earth on which we stand. The first set of facts are what we can experience with our five senses. We see from creation that God is good; the sun, moon, stars, and seasons proclaim the glory of God. The beauty of creation reflects the splendor and majesty of God.

Earth-born joy makes room for our grief. It grows best where our tears fall into the dust. This joy is (literally) a down-to-earth, mud-between-your-toes, rain-on-your-face, sun-on—your—back celebration of life. All of creation declares God’s glory, His love, and everlasting faithfulness. We rejoice in the untouchable and unstoppable beauty and goodness of God.

 It is possible, of course, to be so self-absorbed that we are untouched by creation’s beauty and grandeur. Grief, like a black hole, can suck everything into it—especially when drenched in self-pity. Black holes’ gravity can even bend light (this is how we know they exist). Anyone who has really descended into grief and brokenness has experienced how even good things get bent, making our grief even sharper and heavier.

The good news is that God is the lifter of our head, the help of our countenance. He lifts us from our downward and inward gaze not just so we can see his loving face—but so that we can see the splendor and goodness of the world. Though perhaps not flashy, this kind of joy in the facts of our world and our bodies is always within reach. We rejoice in a walk in the rain even if it mixes with the tears on our face.

Both our hearts and our minds must be trained to see the world around us. Learning the common names of wild things, birds, butterflies, flowers, and trees is an easy way to train the heart to see and value the world around us. To really see, is to rejoice. Walking and then sitting quietly teaches us to notice and listen to the wild things around us.

The natural world offers us an ever-present source of joy. We can, like a small child, delight in the smoothness of stone or the roughness of a tree’s bark. Or the cry of a hawk, and a duck’s startled squawk. I have learned to walk with all five senses. I roll the stems of some plants between my thumb and finger to see if they have the square stem of the mint family. Then I crush the leaves and see if they are aromatic. I munch a few hackberries. I listen for bird songs and the drumming of woodpeckers. All this brings me joy and is always available no matter how much I am grieving.

Recently a childhood friend died. We had reconnected on social media about ten years ago. We would reminisce about catching snakes and salamanders at the river and then scavenging bottles and scrap metal until we had fifty cents for the swimming pool. Summers were hot in Milton-Freewater, but I remember hopping out of the pool dripping wet and lying on the hot cement—almost sizzling like strip of bacon. A poor boy’s sauna. The memory of this sensory experience brings sadness because it is gone, but also great joy because it was so good.

The second set of facts are the eternal truths of Scripture. No matter how wild the storms of life, we can take root in what Jesus the Christ has done for on the cross, in his abiding presence with us always, and in our future hope of glory. Of course, all this includes the truth about our identity as a child of God whose sins are forgiven and whose destiny is be changed into the likeness of Christ when we see Him face to face. For believers, it is living out these truths that put them on the solid rock rather than the eroding sand (Matthew 7:20).

As with nature, the truths of Scripture can become so familiar that their power to give us joy fades. There are ways of reading that can break through the crust of familiarity and let the life of God’s Word touch our heart. Imagining ourselves in the scenes described in the gospels is an ancient and proven way of entering God’s story. Sometimes placing our hand on the page and praying for God to touch our hearts with His Word changes our expectations and opens us to God speaking. Reading aloud or listening to someone else read God’s Word helps us hear the cadences and the emphases of Scripture.

In the years we struggled to keep our son alive, I prayed my way through the Psalms several times. I would confess that God was with me, but I did not feel his presence or hear voice. Despite listening for God, all I heard was “trust me”—which comes up a lot in the Psalms. I would then ask, “Trust you for what? Can I trust you to keep Peter alive?” Silence and more silence.

Yet, there was a deep-rooted, planted-by-the-stream joy even in the midst of my tears and prayers for my son. Not that I wandered the house giddy or giggling.  I was sad but not depressed. Perplexed but not despairing. Praying the Psalms every day, even though feeling nothing, gave me a quiet joy—joy I needed to be of any good to those I loved.

The facts of God’s Word and the facts of God’s good creation were the earth on which I stood. I was moved with sorrow and compassion, but not despair or anger. Like spring rain, joy rose through my roots and kept me steadfast in the storm.

Both sets of facts, one from Scripture and one from creation, create relational joy in us. We are God’s creation and made to enjoy the world He has created. We are saved by the Son’s death and resurrection and filled with His Spirit that testifies that we are His children. Into this good soil we can sink our roots and rejoice.

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A Lonely Church Kid Blues

Posted on January 29, 2026 by Mark

I feel alone. I have been reading all the stuff online by ex-evangelicals who are “deconstructing” their faith in favor of a faith less traumatic, legalistic, shaming, silencing, and controlling: a more affirming faith—or in some cases, no faith at all. Many comments declare solidarity and cry, “Me too! I also suffered under the tyranny and trauma of evangelical churches!” Without some dishonesty, I can’t join this chorus.

I feel alone because although in the depths of evangelical tradition, I have no trauma. I am missing what seems universal online—trauma and resentment from a childhood in evangelical culture. I was the son of a pastor and attended church twice on Sunday, once on Wednesday and every day during revival services. I also attended an evangelical college. In graduate school at Washington State University, I helped lead an Intervarsity Bible study for graduate students. Although I spent most my life teaching at community college, I taught long enough at an evangelical college for them to ask me to resign (regarding the gifts of the Spirit).

Despite all this, I find myself on the outside of the community of traumatized ex-evangelicals who are helping one another heal. I read about their hurt with sympathy and curiosity. I can only listen carefully. I am in no position to challenge or validate their pain. My mother survived the trials of being a pastor’s wife whose appearance and parenting skills were constantly critiqued by congregations. And then there were the expectations that if Dad was hired as the pastor, mom was part of the package. She was criticized for teaching school instead of being a full-time pastor’s wife and keeping us completely dependent on the meager and sporadic tithes. Yet, I never heard or saw any signs of trauma in my mother.

Nor did I see any signs that patriarchy had robbed her of her voice. The whole community discovered this when she was elected president of the local teacher’s organization. She confronted male superintendents and school board members and nearly led the organization into a teacher’s strike. Mom was articulate, well-read, and loved Jesus and my Dad. She had a keen sense of what was just and ethical. Before the Americans with Disabilities Act, she valiantly defended a male teacher whose job was threatened because of his “poor eyesight”.

Neither as a parent or a pastor, did my father ever shut down questions. In high school when the Black Panthers, Weathermen, and protests were a thing, I could ask him anything without being shut down. I let my hair grow when the Jesus Movement hit the west coast. Although a few people in the local church were critical of my ragged bellbottoms and long hair, Dad asked one question, “Mark, do you love Jesus?” When I said, “Yes”, Dad said, “Then wear your hair how you want.” Well, there went my chance to complain about controlling and legalistic parents.

Another common complaint is that evangelicalism is shallow. Maybe it is/was for some, but that was not my experience. I grew up in a home that was churchy to the core, but well-read and intellectually active. Dad and I discussed the ontology of time and how it is that God’s foreknowledge is or isn’t causative. We argued about different theories about theodicy, epistemology, and eschatology. Mom’s Quaker parents thought, even in the 30’s, that all their daughters should have a college education. Mom taught grade school but her first love was botany—so our whole family grew up knowing the names of plants, birds, and butterflies. We grew up camping and loved all that is natural and wild.

I attended an evangelical college (Northwest Nazarene in Idaho) and found it more intellectually challenging and wide-ranging than my graduate program in English. I took a lot of philosophy and history classes. My junior and senior year I was invited to enroll in Doctor Woodward’s history seminar where we read a stack of challenging books from the left and right of the political spectrum. Because of Doctor Woodward, I was much better prepared to tackle difficult works than most of classmates. Amazingly, I was even more familiar than my secular classmates with the texts of those on the left.

It may be that my lack of trauma is simple because my parents were extraordinary. However, much of what I read online makes evangelical culture seem so toxic that healthy parents could never protect a kid and adult as immersed in it as I was. (And yes, I went to church camps and had fun and went to the altar.) I am aware that I deliberately chose an intellectually challenging course of study in college. Other students may have chosen a narrower and more provincial path. And maybe the Christian liberal arts college I attended was unique.

Nor was I just a mild and compliant kid that did not make waves. Like my mother, I was not compliant. In high school and college, I had conflicts with administrators. I once confronted the college president about his silly censorship of some the plays being staged on campus. I wrote a couple articles in an underground campus newspaper whose editors were discovered and suspended by the college president.

I don’t think it was because I grew up in an idyllic time. My parents lived through WWII and the Depression. I had one brother in the army in Vietnam and one brother marching against the war and then serving in the Peace Corp in Korea. (Strangely and wonderfully, they met up in Japan and had a great time seeing Tokyo.) Comparing the difficulties of past and present is probably a fool’s errand; different times are hard in different ways. In my times, there was certainly more legalism than today. If legalism is part of evangelical toxicity, I was certainly exposed to more of it than most of those deconstructing their faith.

There are probably multiple evangelical cultures, and some may be more toxic than others. Most of the ex-evangelicals I read, however, present their experience of evangelicalism as universal and don’t acknowledge that West Coast evangelicals (me) might have a better experience than a deep south Baptist.

I attribute my lack of trauma to the fact that my parents were the real deal—and lived their faith behind the scene and in the hardest times. So, no matter how many legalistic busybodies or anti-intellectual bigots I encountered, my parents were a spiritual compass that always pointed to Jesus. Had they been hypocrites, I would be a mess, even today. But this would be true no matter what religious tradition I was raised. Hypocrisy is always a disaster for kids–whether in Catholicism, Orthodoxy, or evangelicalism.

It is at this point, I want to let everyone know that I have real skills when it comes to criticizing the church. I was pastor’s kid, so I saw behind the curtain. I saw all the meanness and pettiness of people. I could throw theological and sociological and ethical critiques at the church. Whether they are egalitarian or complementarian, evangelicals have not done enough to protect and value women. We have not been in the fore-front of every battle against racism and antisemitism. Almost all my adult experience as an evangelical has included serving the poor, but here we, like all American Christians, could do much more.

I do not offer my experience as vindication of evangelicalism, but nor do I receive the accounts of trauma as discrediting of evangelicalism. I simply offer my experience as something that is also true. In all areas, it is important for the voices of victims to be heard clearly and fully. And where the trauma is the result of institutional evil or cover-ups, it is important to demand repentance, transparency, and change.

But it is just important to hear from those who were blessed, helped, and nurtured by the evangelical tradition. One reason I am still an evangelical is that in Scripture we have a rudder that can steer God’s people when they drift off course. Any look at the use of Scripture by the abolitionists shows how powerful a force it can be for moving the church away from sin and injustice—even when entrenched in a culture. It is evangelicalism’s high view of the authority of the Bible that I treasure most and gives me hope. If “deconstructing” our faith loses this, we have lost our way and risk losing the Way.

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Sunday Morning Light and the Sweet Rhythms of Church Kid Life

Posted on January 25, 2026 by Mark

Here in Kansas we are snowed-in after a day and half of flurries, but now sunlight slides across the snow. All is bright and white. Teckla and I have been sitting on the couch looking out the window at the melting snow sliding off the redbud tree. All is clean.

 For some Sunday memories are sad, or even angry. I would like to sing a different song this morning. I have been sitting by a stream of Sunday church kid memories. When I was a boy, I played outside all week: catching snakes, climbing trees, digging tunnels, and throwing dirt clods. Come Saturday night I turned the bath water brown and had to scrub the dirt from around my neck and knuckles with a brush.

We cleaned up for church. I am sure I was cute as all get-out when Mom clipped a bow tie on me. These were the days before churches were fragrance-free, so not only was I free of wild-boy stench, but Mom’s perfume and Dad’s Aqua Velva (sometimes Bay Rum) filled the air. During the week my brothers and I went our own ways, but on Sunday there we were all cleaned up together in the car (without seat belts) and then in a row on a wooden pew.

I grew up in church, so the tunes of the hymns were familiar before I learned the words. I often mumbled through the verses and sang the chorus with gusto. I especially liked the song “Whiter than Snow” which ended with “Now wash me and I shall be whiter than snow.” The dirty bathwater from the night before helped me sing this with certainty that my heart also needed washing.

I still need Jesus to wash away my sins. That Jesus makes me whiter than snow gives me even more joy now since I am closer to seeing Him. I am grateful for all the church-kid rhythms of Saturday bath and Sunday worship. I am grateful for the fragrance of Christ that filled my life because of a mother and father that loved Jesus. I am grateful for lilacs that bloomed outside the door of the little Nazarene church in Milton-Freewater even though the parsonage was tiny and white-board church hot in the summer.

We ate better on Sundays. Mom had mastered the pastor wife’s art of putting food on to cook so that it would be done when we got home. This was before crockpots, so it was often a roast in the oven. During the week we ate poor—at least economically (chicken necks, liver, meatloaf). Sunday was a feast day—often with mashed potatoes and gravy. We even put out a tablecloth. In all this there was the gentle glory of love’s labor.

I wish I could sing or dance all this. Words fall short. Teckla laughs when I dance, and that too gives me joy on a Sunday morning filled with light, blanketed with white

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The Explosive Truth about Contemporary Worship

Posted on January 16, 2026 by Mark

Many of those exiting the evangelical tradition for liturgical churches list dissatisfaction with worship as a main reason. I have friends that have found a home among Anglican, Catholic, and Orthodox worshippers. I have read some cutting criticisms of contemporary worship by some of ex-evangelicals—criticisms that, I think, sometimes go astray.

Although I grew up on hymns and holiness gospel songs, I enjoy contemporary worship. At the Vineyard where I worship, there is no hint of entertainment, nor much emotionalism. But most folks stand with their hands raised throughout the service, but I saw more emotionalism in my early days in The Church of the Nazarene. Then people shouted, waved hankies, and occasionally would run the aisles while shouting, “Glory.” We called this being “blessed”. We sang some hymns, but mostly rousing gospel songs. I lived through and participated in the Jesus Movement which gave birth to contemporary Christian worship. I deeply appreciate both worship traditions.

One criticism which may be true in some instances is that evangelical worship appeals too much to people’s emotions—it tries with music or lighting or amplifiers to create a religious feeling. This criticism, however, assumes anything felt is merely emotional. But must the desire to experience the presence of God—the moving of the Holy Spirit—be reduced to emotionalism? Can we worship and adore Emmanuel, God with us, without in sensing His presence? When we are together as living stones made into a temple of the Holy Spirit, is it not good and right to experience the Spirit’s presence? Must this be dismissed as an immature need for feelings or exploitive emotionalism.

An emotional response to the good news of God’s love and our salvation through the grace of Jesus is simply realism. I would argue that even where I worship, we need more emotion, not less. Feelings of adoration, celebration, and gratitude should flood our hearts as we worship God. I have always objected to idea that one could express such emotions only if “blessed” or “moved by Spirit”. I worship because I am moved by the truth and because God, no matter how I feel, is worthy of all my praise. I am a realist.

Regarding worship, it is easy to confuse personal taste with critical evaluation. The result is that we sometimes criticize contemporary worship for things rampant in the Psalms. Contemporary worship is repetitive, some complain. Not like hymns that have the same chorus after each verse? Have they ever read Psalm 136? Really, can’t we just say once that “God’s lovingkindness endures forever”? When we shift from worship that is mental assent to biblical propositions to worship that adores, exalts, and praises God repetition is less likely to exhaust our patience.

Others complain it emphasizes the individual’s experience too much instead of teaching deep theological truths. Have they read David’s songs of complaint and praise? I read one critic who complained about how often the personal pronoun “I” comes up in contemporary worship.He cited this as evidence of narcissism. I took this criticism seriously until I looked at the personal pronouns in “Amazing Grace”. I think there is nothing narcissistic about proclaiming “I once was lost, but now am found/Was blind but now I see.”  Celebrating grace that saves a “wretch like me” is humble. The hymn “Love Lifted Me” like many gospel songs is a testimony to power of God’s love to save us out of sin and despair. I suspect, however, if we added some drums and lighting some would be quick to call it shallow and narcissistic.

We should also avoid skewering contemporary worship for what it omits. I recently read a list of contemporary worship songs that should be avoided because they failed to place God’s love and our salvation in the context of covenant. Since I begin each day singing hymns with my wife, I noticed that none of the ones we regularly sang mentioned our covenant relationship with God. Some failed to mention the trinity. In fact, almost any hymn can be criticized for what failed to include.

Special effects and staging, I suspect, are a matter of taste and tradition. If you think about it, Catholic tradition is full of special effects. The architecture, acoustics, stained-glass windows, and candles offer amplification and special lighting. Cathedral pipe organs playing Bach can not fail to leave a believer untouched by glory of God. I once worshipped in an Anglican church in Nampa, Idaho (of all places) where the priest swung the censor as he walked down the aisle at the beginning of the service. I liked it but some old-time Anglicans complained.

Most Protestants, however, have viewed all special effects with suspicion. In fact, we are sometimes guilty of acting as if ugly is more spiritual. Part of my spiritual heritage is Quaker—who celebrated plainness in everything, including their meeting halls. No pastor preached but all waited until someone felt led by the Spirit to speak. The goal these days for Protestant buildings is usually functionality rather than beauty. It seems, however, that if God is the Lord of our body, soul, and spirit that is right for worship to appeal to both our senses and our minds, our body and our spirit. Maybe God likes beauty.

A final criticism of contemporary worship is simply that it has become too much like the world. If worship looks too much like a rock concert, it is inherently worldly. But, it is implied, if people sit quietly like those attending a classical music concert, they are not worldly. It is equivalent of saying jeans are worldly, but the suit worn by a greedy Wall Street tycoon isn’t. Too often Christians stand or sit frozen in their pews singing psalms about shouting or dancing unto the Lord.

Last of all, I think it is easy for ex-evangelicals to fall prey to “convert zeal” when looking back at their evangelical experience. I have a taste of this as I have read Catholic and Orthodox writers on the contemplative tradition and attended some masses. I feel like I have stepped off into the deep end as I read Ignatius Loyola’s Spiritual Exercises or St. John of the Cross’s Dark Night of the Soul.The need to practice spiritual disciplines to grow in Christ seem practical and refreshing. Even the sacrament of confession, seems needed and powerful—if not limited to priests.

But if I am honest, those in these liturgical traditions did not share my excitement—most had not read their own spiritual fathers. Many went to church occasionally and for many God had little impact on their daily lives. It is therefore important to see that spiritual stagnation is not limited to the evangelicals or any one group. It also true that nationalism can take the church captive anywhere—as we see with Orthodoxy in Ukraine and Russia right now.

What then brothers and sisters? First, let’s not mistake nostalgia or personal taste for discernment. Let’s reject all emotional manipulation whether done with liturgy and ritual or lasers and smoke machines. Third, let’s not raise any tests for worship that David’s psalms or our beloved hymns cannot pass.

Lettuce worship!

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Life is a River, Not a Road

Posted on January 2, 2026 by Mark

We figured three hours would be long enough to canoe from Myrtle Point to Coquille which was only nine miles by Highway 42. The plan was Aaron and his two boys plus my four boys would fill the bottom of big Coleman canoe and Aaron and I would paddle from each end of the canoe. We slid into the Coquille River at the boat ramp near the end of Spruce Street.

Friends and family were going to meet us at Sturdivant Park in Coquille where we would pull out the canoe and celebrate Peter’s birthday. As soon as we passed the place where the north fork of the Coquille comes into the river, we knew we had a problem. Here the dark water was still, and the fallen alder leaves floated up the river. Turns out that the Coquille River is one of the longest tidal rivers on the Oregon Coast and the tide, unfortunately, was coming in. Not only did we have no current, but we had to paddle just to keep from drifting upstream.

Soon a second problem emerged. Three hours was plenty of time to walk to Coquille on the road, but the river looped and meandered all over the Coquille Valley. Ancient myrtles and broadleaf maple trees hung over the river—the last remnant of the trees that once owned the valley. We glided past blue and green herons as osprey wheeled in the sky above us. Occasionally, a beaver would slide off a riverbank or slap the water with its tail. Everything was beautiful, but we were moving slowly.

Just a little past the Arago boat ramp, we realized that we were an hour late and probably had another hour of paddling to do. Fortunately, Aaron had grown up around Arago, so we pulled the canoe up a steep bank and Aaron went for help. The boys were exhausted from cramped quarters in the bottom of the canoe. They were ready for the adventure to be done. We were at least an hour and a half late for the party and gave our apologies to those who had waited. (These were those amazing days before mobile phones.)

I have often expected and even wanted life to be a road, but it is much more like a river. I went to college as religion major, changed to a English major. On a whim, I took a Graduate Record Examination and had my scores sent to graduate programs. After a graduate degree in English, my life looped through pastoring for three years, teaching third grade six years, returning to Oregon to teach at the community college for thirty years while preaching here and there. Now I have looped back to Kansas where I pastored forty years ago.

In evangelical circles, especially Baptist I suspect, people would be invited to Christ because “God loves you and has wonderful plan for your life.” It is certainly true that God has a wonderful plan for our lives, but sometimes we think that the plan includes the job we get, the person to marry, the place to live, and kids we have. But then we discover the GPS of the Holy Spirit isn’t telling us where to turn, that people have free-will, and that God may leave some choices to us. Suddenly, life is much more like a river than road, and we worry we missed God’s plan A are forever doomed to second best plan. You may even find the tide is coming in—and that you need to paddle hard just to stay afloat spiritually.

Our plan would have worked if we had taken a whole day, packed a lunch, and taken time to swim and stretch our legs. I have learned to take life as it comes, to wander with the river. If you allow enough time, even the tide changes and suddenly you are freely gliding on the current of the river rushing to the sea.

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Framed

Posted on December 22, 2025 by Mark

Once again God has hemmed me in with limitations. Until this last year my life had if not fewer, at least different limitations. In Oregon, I had job with what  seemed like unlimited contact with people. Each term there were new groups of students, each like a strange new planet. Teckla and I lived in a rambling four-bedroom house with a yard and garden. We shared the house with our son Peter and his son Ari, and an unruly Doberman named Pharaoh.

I was rooted in two churches and a men’s Bible Study that had met for years. Three Sundays each month we attended the little Nazarene Church across street–a church my father pastored for several years in the seventies. We had friends and saw those friends regularly. Once a month, I preached at the local Presbyterian church—a place full of wonderful people.

We were also rooted in the beaches, forests, and creeks we haunted. I can still tell you where the trout lilies, grass widows, and larkspur bloom on Euphoria ridge. On the beaches I know the best places to find sea stars and anemones, the places to get out of north wind that whistles down the beach in the summer.

All that has been left behind for a two-bedroom townhouse in the suburbs. Ari has been adopted and we gave up Pharaoh. This might be the first time in our married life that Teckla and I are living alone. Even though Dylan and Vanessa and their four kids live only a couple blocks away, it is odd for it to be just us.

Although we are free of parental responsibilities, a dog, and a job, Teckla’ dementia presents more limitations each day. The usual formula of retire and travel will not work in our life’s equation. The things time and money make possible must be surrendered.

God is like a photographer who keeps zooming in for a close-up and cuts more and more out of the frame. Of course, for both paintings and photographs, what is left out is as important as what is put in. A skilled photographer can snap a picture of something we see everyday and make us feel that only now do we really see it. A still life of an apple can make us see apples for first time. The limits of the frame help us see clearly.

We live in a culture that hates limits and celebrates personal autonomy as the highest good. But the limits that God uses to frame our lives should be embraced—it is what gives meaning and beauty to our lives. God calls us to love—and love places limits and demands on our lives. When we adopted and then homeschooled four boys, we embraced a slew of limits on our time and finances. It was hard, and it was wonderful.

What is marvelous and mysterious is that when God enters into our picture even the smallest place with tightest frame becomes panoramic. I see clearly his presence in my life over the years, and a whole universe of eternity opens for before me as death and resurrection move closer. As the frame gets smaller, the picture gets bigger. When God is with us, nothing good is truly or forever lost.

So much has been pared away from our lives—in Teckla’s case even memories—that it feels like God is asking, “Are you ready for your close-up?” Teckla is certainly ready. I am sprucing up my heart and trusting God to frame the picture perfectly.

This time of year we celebrate how God framed love and salvation with a stable. A manger framed the Ancient of Days and King of Kings. And in the smallest place we see the greatest glory.  

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Kirby’s Gift

Posted on December 15, 2025 by Mark

I don’t remember how Kirby and I became friends in 2nd grade in Miss Brook’s class. Kirby was a tall and lanky kid; I was short and quick. Somehow we discovered we loved playing outdoors together. In those days fear had not yet gripped the hearts of parents, so it was common for them to yell at their kids to get out of the house. Kirby and I did, again and again.

Sometimes we just went a few blocks from his house to the abandoned log pond and the irrigation ditches behind the park and tennis courts. We caught crawdads and snakes and waded the ditches. Once we built a “fort” out of a stack of railroad ties and defended it from other kids with our BB guns. However, we beat a hasty retreat when some of the Zaragoza boys started raining down boulders with their slings.

On many summer mornings, I would say to Mom, “Kirby and I are going to play together at the river.” The Walla Walla River ran through the east edge of town. In the spring we flipped logs to find the black salamanders with yellow spots. In the summer we tried to catch every snake we could find. On sweltering days, we would drag home for lunch and then comb the alleys for enough beer and pop bottles to get fifty cents for the swimming pool. A couple times, Kirby, with a treble hook and a quick wrist, caught some trout and sold them to the neighbor for pool money. Even in those days, Kirby could catch fish.

As we got older, Kirby and I sometimes climbed the hill above the pool park and dug for opal in the bank behind the reservoir. We rode our bikes down the dusty and rock-strewn road from the top of the hill—occasionally crashing. It was not uncommon for us to come home with bleeding knees, sun burnt necks, and torn jeans. Turns out we both still have a couple pieces of green “opal” we dug up.

I have often said the only thing I have ever really been good at is being a boy. I am grateful for my parents for their free-range approach to parenting. I am just as grateful to Kirby, a friend who made being a boy in Milton-Freewater everything it should be.

After the 5th grade my parents and I moved to Myrtle Point, on the other side of Oregon. The place was beautiful, full of creeks and woods and near some wild beaches, but I never stopped wishing I had a friend like Kirby to explore it all with me.

About ten years ago Kirby and I reconnected on social media. We tried to track how each other was doing in our old age. I explained that I had never stopped catching snakes or flipping logs to find salamanders. I thought perhaps I had over-romanticized my boyhood in Milton–Freewater; it turned out Kirby also thought those years of friendship and adventure were grand. Kirby and I never stopped loving nature and letting it fill us with wonder. It is a gift that Kirby did not know he was giving but one that has blessed me all my life.

Teckla and I moved to Kansas a year and a half ago and about five months ago moved into our new place. I messaged Kirby and asked for advice about planting irises around my house. He didn’t just send advice; he sent a whole box of bulbs. Kirby died last week. I was hoping to send him pictures of the irises when they bloom next summer. Instead, with each bloom I will whisper a prayer of thanksgiving for a good friend who helped give me an amazing boyhood.

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