I was there, too

I was there when He put together this thing in my life called the Kingdom, the unshakeable thing called Love. I was there when it happened, and yet I still fail to understand the gravity of what exactly is happening. It's not skepticism that elicits this confusion; it's realizing that I'm living the greatest mystery every conceived: God as Christ in man, for the glory of the Father. This is it. This is my life, just another day, just another chance to live this mystery. I've been commanded to "Walk by faith and not by sight," and I'll do just that today.

I would write you a sonnet

But that would be trying too hard. What am about to say is me, revealed through a keyboard, and published through electrons flying through some silicon circuits. If that isn't enough, you already know what I'm writing as I write, so there's no need to publish. Still, we go forward.

Jesus, I admire you, man. You really did it all. You lived a good life, with a job and maybe some friends to show for it all. You didn't have a wife or kids. Maybe, they wondered about that, but it didn't seem to bother them. I think they liked you, Jesus. I wouldn't say you were popular because I don't know, but I honestly believe you were a friend to many people before you started your public ministry.

And then, your mom came and tapped you on the shoulder, and you didn't want to start yet. But you did, anyway. Jesus, are you a mama's boy? I think that you are. That's not a bad thing; I am, too.

And then, you began pouring yourself out, Jesus. Every day you did. Why, sometimes, I can barely believe the stuff you put up with! Sinful people, unbelieving hearts, a rebellious generation. You just took it in stride; you knew you were here to serve. You didn't worry about yourself; you poured yourself out.

And here I am, Jesus, barely able to contain my love for you. I just suck at loving you. I feel that most days, when Holy Spirit fire doesn't burn a path from my car into the receiving dock where I punch the clock and pray for civility until I can go back home and wonder why I didn't do more for you.

And here I am, Jesus, barely able to contain my excitement for you. Jesus, your wedding is coming soon. You so deserve it, man! I can't wait to see you in your suit, the one you picked out just for the occasion. What will you wear? I'm sure you'll look awesome!

Sometimes, Jesus, I feel you're near and that the world is well. Actually, that's not true. You're near, but the world is not well. The world is swiftly going berserk. I promise you it is, Jesus. There's nothing good about the news that we see; it's all the same empty promises from politicians and no real hope for the future apart from you. Obama who? He's just a dude from Chicago; he's not going to save the whole world unless someone much bigger than him intervenes. Right?

Jesus, you've taught me so much in my short life. You instructed me about your Father's Law, and then you showed me how you would fulfill it. You fulfilled it in me. That's what I'm talking about, man! You really did it! Good job, Jesus! I love the works you've done. They are like fresh water in the mouth of a desert wanderer. Your works all add up to good!

Take these prayers, Jesus, and really think about them, because you deserve praise. No one deserves praise but you. I hope that, today, you see and hear and smell a whole host of people worshipping you in Spirit and in Truth. You deserve it.

Love,

Andrew

This is what you get

I'll tell you what I'll tell you, I'll tell it, and then I'll tell you what I told you.

God is faithful.

Many of the Christ follower's struggles come from wrong perceptions or beliefs about the character of God. Simply, we do not believe he is who he says he is. This lack of faith is unbelief, and unbelief is a sin. It's a crippling sin, too, because faith is what the ancients were commended for. Without faith, it is impossible to please God. No faith, no commendation, but if we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us.

God is faithful.

My prayer: That I might rise up from the decay of mediocrity into the truth of Christ, the Word and the Son of God. Christ is Lord over all things. I submit to his purposes. I think not of myself, in the end, but of Him and his calling. Presently, there is nothing I want more than to find myself on the receiving end of this prayer. Until then, God is faithful.

Together Again ... Newly

Dear God,

I make a bad show of following you, I really do. Because my life feels like a rollercoaster, and not the smooth kind with sexy inversions and air brakes that hiss pleasingly as the kids' screaming fades to laughter and smiles.

My roller coaster is the Chiropractor's Special, that 4:59 minute ride that jars every bone in your body at least ten times. My roller coaster is wooden, a bit mysterious and only ridden often by the kids who are too lazy to wait in lines.

I feel this way, I really do, like my attempts to follow you take me down the iron track of a vicious wooden monster. And so, to cope with the roller coaster, I turn to God. And back to God. And back to God again.

But what about the Gospel I know and believe? What about that? What does the Gospel have to do with the roller coaster? Well, not much, because the Gospel is about sin and salvation of the entire human race, not one person's struggle for significance and inner peace in his or her day-to-day life.

And I've struggled, for some time, with thoughts of selfishness when I know I ought to be selfless. I ought to give all I am for this Gospel, but instead I am inside my head. I'm perfectly content with who I am, I suppose. I'm a good and moral person; I lack in some ways. But there's this Gospel there, that calls me to follow Christ and spread the good news in ways that are unbelievable. Dead shall be raised. Blind shall see. Faith like a child shall rule the day.

I feel like a pile of crap because my brothers and sisters around the world are just fighting for bread, for freedom and for their lost countrymen. I so want to join in the fight, but I feel to rich, spoiled and selfish to even know where to start.

I suppose I shouldn't start with me or what I bring. For if I bring $1 million or $1, I bring me, all of me. That's all I can bring. I bring my love, my respect, my kindness, my ability to persevere, my sense of duty and significance, my wisdom, my hope, my peace, my joy. I bring all these things, by the grace of God.

I bring myself, just as I am. And that is always enough.

This time around, I bring myself, but it's not about me. I choose to go forward.

But I can't. Because I've been riding this coaster for a couple weeks now, and all I know is I want to get off. I don't know how. God will have to take me off. God will have to help me. I could keep writing, or I could start praying. The choice is entirely mine.

I choose the latter.

Love,
Andrew, your human/perfectionist son

p.s. Maybe this prayer/letter is too personal for a blog, but nobody reads this anyway!

Evil days

Positively, wherever you go, there you will be
But if you are asked to leave that place,
Don't hesitate.
Don't wait.
Run.
Fly.
GO!

Deity

a poem by John F. Deane

Unholy we sang this morning, and prayed
as if we were not broken, crooked
the Christ-figure hung, splayed
on bloodied beams above us;
devious God, dweller in shadows,
mercy on us;
immortal, cross-shattered Christ--
your gentling grace down upon us.

Side story: The 2009 Tour de France

I don't keep photo albums, but occasionally I file away a memorable image. Something like the above pic has staying power for me. It's two brothers and a Spanish guy who climbs like a mountain goat that's been puffing meth.

A caption might read: "With the hopes of Team Saxo Bank on the line, Andy Schleck pulls brother Frank (Saxo Bank) and archrival Contador (Astana)."

By scheduling the gnarliest climb stage 'till the second to last day, the 2009 Tour de France organizers saved the best action for last, assuring better TV ratings and more overall interest. By delaying the fireworks, the best riders would save their most brilliant moves for last, as the final stage in Paris is more-or-less a parade on the Champs d'Elysse.

On that penultimate day, Spanish prodigy Alberto Contador, already winner of the 2006 TdF by default [American Floyd Landis was DQed for doping], held several minutes over Andy Shleck in the general classification. Seven-time Tour winner Lance Armstrong, whose gray hairs now peek out from under his cycling cap, held third at the age of 37. Britain's Brad Wiggins, new to the Tour after winning a gold medal in track cycling in Beijing, was a nice surprise in fourth, especially for Garmin Slipstream fans like this blogger. Wiggins had a minute and change over Frank, the elder Schleck, who rounded out the top 5.

The Schlecks promised they would attack on the penultimate day. They would lose Lance and Wiggins. They would weaken Contador. They would carry out their plan to disrupt Astana's dominance.

So, the Top 5, in review: two Astanas (1 and 3), two Saxo Banks (2 and 5) and a British guy riding for an American team and hanging on for dear life!

The scene of the shootout? Perfectly horrid.

"It's more like the moon than a mountain," Lance Armstrong once said of it, and with its lack of vegetation, abundance of rocks and desolate, intimidating atmosphere, it's an apt description.

It's been the scene of meltdowns, breakdowns and even death.

Britain's Tom Simpson, the first Anglo Saxon to lead the race, died there in 1967 on a 43-degree day. -ABC Sport

So, Andy saved all his guile and vengeance for Ventoux.

He delivered. Ventoux is a bald mountain that kills people, and Shleck was riding it like a rented horse. At 24 years of age, his thin arms guiding his Specialized S3 up the windswept mountain, Andy's aggressive attacks shredded the entire field.

Only two riders on a long breakaway escaped Shleck's briliance: Spaniard Manuel Garate (Rabo Bank) and German Tony Martin (Columbia-HTC). Garate won the stage, but look for the latter rider in GC contention someday-- what a ride from the 24-year old.

Despite his brilliance on Ventoux, at no point did Andy Shleck appear to test Contador's otherwordly climbing abilities. Contador matched every attack, his yellow shoes dancing on the pedals of his Trek Madone. Contador made Ventoux look easy.

In the end, despite repeated attacks, Team Schleck failed to unseat Astana. Contador lost no time, Lance held onto 3rd, and Garmin Slipstream rider Wiggins somehow squeezed by Frank Schleck with three seconds in the GC.

Frank looked flat; he never dropped Armstrong, despite Andy's repeated attempts to open a hole.

Combine Contador's newfound skill in the time trials (he won the final TT), and you have a crystal clear picture of why any rider, let alone the confident Schleck, may not dethrone Contador for some time.

I saw three quarters of the TdF coverage, and I saw Contador grimace-- once. He made the rest of the mind-bending Tour looked easy, even his dash up Ventoux. In fact, Contador said that, with the internal tension between he and teammate Lance Armstrong, he had more trouble in the hotel than the road. I believe it.

Today, Contador finally spoke candidly about his strained relationship with Armstrong. The truth comes out, and it sounds ugly.

My advice to Contador: work on your English some, so you can talk to the media in the world's second language of choice; join Spanish squad Caisse D'Epargne, where it's rumored you'll go to ride with your buddy Luis Leon Sanchez; and don't cross Armstrong.

Everything 80s American cycling legend Greg LeMond was-- that chip-shouldered Yank with legs to back the mouth-- I think Lance is more. And he's riding next year, at 38 years of age, with his Blackberry chirping today with texts from riders interested in riding with his new team, backed by Fort Worth, Tex.-based Radio Shack.

It's too early to say whether Lance can attract enough talent to take on Garmin Slipstream (now officially as hot as the red sauce at Chipotle) or Saxo Bank (Swiss time trial champ Fabian Cancellara + Schlecks), but one thing is certain: Lance would love to take a yellow from Contador.

Enjoy your splendid victory, Alberto. You were bulletproof this Tour, but remember that someday you'll be Lance, 37 and legs aching all the way up the bald mountain of death.