Monday, August 27, 2012
The San Lotano Oval, Maduro - by A.J. Fernandez
The joy of cigar smoking is something I've become partially infamous for. In keeping with this reputation, and along with my other blogging, I plan to put down my thoughts regarding my favorite smokes and my favorite places to smoke them. Perhaps by sharing my thoughts, I might be able to help others in their pursuit of the pleasures of the perfect smoke.
One of the greatest discoveries I've made in my relatively short pilgrimage into the world of fine cigars, (which humbly began with Swisher Sweets in the 5th grade), is the delectable experience I am enjoying in this very moment - the Nicaraguan born San Lotano Oval in its various incantations. Today I happen to be enjoying the Maduro. I am not as versed as I hope to be on how cigars are made and what makes them so different. But I've developed a sophisticated enough palate over the years to know when I've placed a masterpiece in my mouth.
The name Oval indicates an innovation in cigar shapes. Most cigars are round - a few are box pressed. But the Oval contours to the mouth perfectly. Immediately the peppery, soft wrap tingles the lip and when the cigar is lit a delightful complexity of yummyness immediately greets the palate. Woody, rich spicy flavors are strong and variant. The cigar remained lit through the entire experience - a rare accomplishment. The draw is perfect - not too tight - but full. The lightly rolled cigar lends to a steady light and a relatively shorter smoke - but by the time you're done the partaker is satisfied with a pleasant light-headedness that cigar smokers know as a good cigar buzz. At no point during the smoke is there a bitter pill to swallow - rather its richness remains consistent while it evolves to a spicier motif. This cigar is not designed for the rookie smoker but for those who have a developed a palate for the heavier cigar. Yet, it is never meaninglessly potent - as some stronger cigars are. Its strength is met equally with the highest quality flavors.
For those of us who are aided by a good cigar to reflect, relax, converse and yes, in my case, to worship - this cigar is a sure stimulating delight. After this good stick I am more mindful than ever of the goodness of God and His sacred comforts.
Since discovering the San Lotano Oval, I have explored the world of A.J. Fernandez creativity. I have sampled many others and am looking forward to future creations of this great Cigar Entrepreneurial Roller and writing about them. For those looking for a variety of creations www.cigar.com offers a generous sampler of A.J. Fernandez smokes which includes some of his San Lotano creations and others from his Man 'O War series as well as his Diesel selections.
I enjoyed this cigar in the comfortable setting of Waterwheel Cigar Shop in Amelia Island, FL. Off the beaten path, in the quieter settings outside the metropolitan area of Jacksonville, FL on A1A, surrounded by leather seats, unfinished wooden walls and large flat screen TV's, tended to by the personable and knowledgeable staff - it is the perfect place to get some work done while being treated to the bellowing smoke of this wonderful A.J. Fernandez creation.
On a scale from 1 to 100 this cigar receives a happy and enthusiastic Mo rating of 97. Happy smokes to all and may the Lord bless you with many long ashes!
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Discovering Desire
It was simply breath taking. I had never seen anything like it before. I had grown up in the Deep South and had seen other pockets of poverty – but none like what I was staring at through the lens of my Yashika Camera and telephoto lens. My friend, who had brought me to see the Desire Housing Projects had been advised by everyone – not to drive into them – that they were exceedingly dangerous. He felt we were taking risks by driving on their outskirts. After seeing them firsthand – I understood his reservation.
We had only driven a little ways off of the interstate, over some railroad tracks. But it was like we had crossed a border and entered a war-ravaged third world country with seemingly endless rows of dilapidated government brick buildings covered with graffiti registering the deaths of dozens of youth killed within its darker corridors. Some buildings still standing, unrepaired after being damaged by fire. Busted out windows. Crumbling brick. Though it appeared unlivable – it was teeming with people – mostly children.
I zoomed in on one of the apartments deep in the heart of the vast housing complex – one that had obviously suffered fire damage – though it looked as though a bomb had gone off and had left crumbling brick, smoked doorways and broken window frames. I push my finger to take the snapshot and then suddenly held off. Out of the doorway came strolling small children – one still in diapers. My jaw dropped as well as my heart. People are still living there, I thought.
Later I researched and discovered that the Desire Projects were deemed uninhabitable in the 70’s, were poorly constructed and built adjacent to a former municipal dump called the Agriculture street landfill. Interstate 10 and a railroad track on its northern and western boundaries along with a barbed wire fence encompassed it. The Industrial Canal ran along its eastern boundary, with lines of industrial warehouses, a railroad track and barbed wire fences. The Florida Canal, the Florida Housing Projects, a railroad track and a barbed wire fence, separated it on the southern boundary. There were over 1,800 apartment units that “officially” housed 16,000 plus residents. I say officially because there were undoubtedly more than reported. Single parents headed 98% of its units. 60% of its residents were under 16 years of age. The men were present – simply under-reported. This dynamic was indicative of the many ways in which federal government assistance programs had deleterious effects on family – the God-given infrastructure for social stability.
The sight was permanently branded upon the film in my camera – but even more deeply and permanently upon the film of my heart. Never had my heart been so moved. It is the closest encounter with heaven’s hand inviting me, even reaching out to me, I had ever had. And while I was not ready to vocalize it – I had undoubtedly found my new place of purpose and calling.
A couple of years later after having moved into this neighborhood to start a ministry from scratch, New Orleans earned the notorious distinction of capital city for homicides. Over half of the murders which took place in the city happened in this area. I’ll never forget the first New Year’s evening we slept in the neighborhood. Literally thousands of gunshots filled the night air. The next day I climbed upon the roof of our home – the house picked out by the kids we had begun to minister to – and gathered at least a dozen bullets that had previously fallen on our roof and rolled into its gutters.
My wife, Ellen, was 5 feet tall – she was not naturally a brave soul. She lived with normal feminine instincts to avoid danger. Yet here we were – the only white family within a couple miles radius starting an incarnational work in the nation’s worst housing project community.
Ironically, Desire Street ran through the middle of this – the nation’s worst public housing project – and was intersected by streets called Abundance, Benefit, Pleasure, Treasure, Piety and Humanity streets. Those inscriptions would seem more befitting the streets of gold in the Kingdom of Heaven – than these treacherous paths through dilapidated buildings in a forsaken part of New Orleans. Nevertheless those inscriptions became for us the content of our prayers and the contours of our mission – to see this community rise up to its lofty hyperbolic street signs, to defy human expectations and through gospel power become a desirable place to live.
We had only driven a little ways off of the interstate, over some railroad tracks. But it was like we had crossed a border and entered a war-ravaged third world country with seemingly endless rows of dilapidated government brick buildings covered with graffiti registering the deaths of dozens of youth killed within its darker corridors. Some buildings still standing, unrepaired after being damaged by fire. Busted out windows. Crumbling brick. Though it appeared unlivable – it was teeming with people – mostly children.
I zoomed in on one of the apartments deep in the heart of the vast housing complex – one that had obviously suffered fire damage – though it looked as though a bomb had gone off and had left crumbling brick, smoked doorways and broken window frames. I push my finger to take the snapshot and then suddenly held off. Out of the doorway came strolling small children – one still in diapers. My jaw dropped as well as my heart. People are still living there, I thought.
Later I researched and discovered that the Desire Projects were deemed uninhabitable in the 70’s, were poorly constructed and built adjacent to a former municipal dump called the Agriculture street landfill. Interstate 10 and a railroad track on its northern and western boundaries along with a barbed wire fence encompassed it. The Industrial Canal ran along its eastern boundary, with lines of industrial warehouses, a railroad track and barbed wire fences. The Florida Canal, the Florida Housing Projects, a railroad track and a barbed wire fence, separated it on the southern boundary. There were over 1,800 apartment units that “officially” housed 16,000 plus residents. I say officially because there were undoubtedly more than reported. Single parents headed 98% of its units. 60% of its residents were under 16 years of age. The men were present – simply under-reported. This dynamic was indicative of the many ways in which federal government assistance programs had deleterious effects on family – the God-given infrastructure for social stability.
The sight was permanently branded upon the film in my camera – but even more deeply and permanently upon the film of my heart. Never had my heart been so moved. It is the closest encounter with heaven’s hand inviting me, even reaching out to me, I had ever had. And while I was not ready to vocalize it – I had undoubtedly found my new place of purpose and calling.
A couple of years later after having moved into this neighborhood to start a ministry from scratch, New Orleans earned the notorious distinction of capital city for homicides. Over half of the murders which took place in the city happened in this area. I’ll never forget the first New Year’s evening we slept in the neighborhood. Literally thousands of gunshots filled the night air. The next day I climbed upon the roof of our home – the house picked out by the kids we had begun to minister to – and gathered at least a dozen bullets that had previously fallen on our roof and rolled into its gutters.
My wife, Ellen, was 5 feet tall – she was not naturally a brave soul. She lived with normal feminine instincts to avoid danger. Yet here we were – the only white family within a couple miles radius starting an incarnational work in the nation’s worst housing project community.
Ironically, Desire Street ran through the middle of this – the nation’s worst public housing project – and was intersected by streets called Abundance, Benefit, Pleasure, Treasure, Piety and Humanity streets. Those inscriptions would seem more befitting the streets of gold in the Kingdom of Heaven – than these treacherous paths through dilapidated buildings in a forsaken part of New Orleans. Nevertheless those inscriptions became for us the content of our prayers and the contours of our mission – to see this community rise up to its lofty hyperbolic street signs, to defy human expectations and through gospel power become a desirable place to live.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
beginnings
a buoy on short rope in a rising tide
a kite in a waning wind
the hesitation before things collide
the lapse before the end
I tell this story reluctantly. I’ve been asked numerous times by various persons to do so, but have resisted until now. But one of my daughters has made a compelling argument – promising to stop talking to me if I don’t start.
This is not a story of personal triumph or accomplishment – but of brokenness and grace. It is not a story at all as much a rendering of random thoughts, knit together like a Carolina quilt. I live in a world of 7 billion people or so – each of us has a story – mine is not more or less interesting in my own estimation – or more worthy to tell. Nevertheless…
At this moment I sit outdoors a coffee shop in Tallahassee, FL – the place where my children and first wife live – a place where I once shepherded a church. Perhaps I will speak of this later – we’ll see. My son has a game tonight that I will attend. I rarely miss one, though I live almost 3 hours away. Yesterday he stroked a ball that hit the top of the fence about a foot short from going over. I’ve had similar hits – and never a home run. Such is the story of my life. I hope by my support and encouragement before the season’s over – he’ll have that memory of circling the bases triumphantly. Something his Dad has not yet known but aspired to and probably secretly continues to vicariously through him.
Men want that – to be celebrated, respected. Wise women understand. Our dream is not so much to be cherished but to be heroic. I always dreamed of being significant – I used to imagine myself on a field of football dreams making an incredible move, followed by overpowering an unsuspecting defensive cornerback or linebacker, accelerating with incomparable speed and crossing the goal line with football high-lifted in the air. That’s where my dreams began – with a football.
My father played football and we, my siblings and I, were immersed in it as a pseudo-religion. For me it was the only worthwhile life aspiration – to play professional football. Everything else was something short of the pinnacle plan. My love of football was in its essence a form of father worship. It was the place where I had hoped to please him, to gain his respect, approval and affirmation. For my father it was a place of discipline into the higher manifestations of hyper-masculinity.
Yet I was not blessed with exceptional athletic ability – above average perhaps – but again, that is the story of my life. I do a lot of things well – none with excellence – none that would allow me to trounce around the bases to the roar of the crowd and standing ovation, to the hugs and high fives of proud teammates. I did not score touchdowns or throw for any. My fate was to develop expertise in the most underappreciated and seemingly inconsequential position on the field – punter. If one aspires to fame – punting is not the path to take.
Few are inspired by a punter. Ray Guy – the greatest punter ever to walk onto a football field – just recently lost his final chance to be considered for the NFL Hall of Fame – a tragedy for him and all punters, yes, but indicative of the way that the rest of the football world views us – as an unfortunate necessity – and a non-athlete.
The art of punting requires incredible hand, eye and foot skill, balance, symmetry, timing and coordination. Line all the other position players on the football field – ask them to throw a football. Many can. Ask them to catch a football. Many still can. Now ask them to punt a football and watch it devolve into a live circus. Nevertheless we are the Rodney Dangerfield’s of football – we get no respect.
My senior year in high school I averaged over 40 yards a punt. I must admit to having felt proud of myself. I had worked really hard to perfect the craft. My father, who was my first mentor in the art of punting, had died two years previously – but I imagined that he would be proud too – I prayed before every game that I would play in a way that would make him so. Yet, there were no awards, no recognition for my accomplishment, no scholarship offers. A kind high school referee noticed me game after game – saw that I was talented and took it upon himself to market me to colleges and encourage me to attend. I was so grateful.
He brought me to see a college game in Athens, GA. There I saw true football greatness – the incomparable and incarnate Herschel Walker – all I can say is that whatever you saw of Herschel on TV does not compare to what I saw in person. What a human specimen of football divinity he was that day – and I was in football heaven. It was not destined for me to play between the hedges – too intimidating and large a stage for me. Rather, I chose to go to the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga. They were graduating a senior punter – which was my open door and opportunity for greatness, as I then perceived it.
I offered to God an irresistible and generous plan. If He were to give to me the desire of my heart and allow me to play professional football – I would use that platform as an opportunity to witness for Him. How could He possibly turn that down? I thought. But I did not end my regretful prayer there. So confident was I that God was impressed and enticed by my offer, I continued…but if it is not Your will for me to do so, make it obvious. Injure my leg in a way that I will not be able to recover from or return to the aspirations of this dream.
Silliest prayer I’ve ever prayed and God has chosen to ignore many of my silly prayers before. Yet predictably, He was faithful to answer this one. During spring workouts I tore tendons in my hip, eventually requiring invasive surgery. An insecure ego and a room full of weights can be a dangerous equation. But I have always perceived this as no simple mishap or accident but an answer to my prayer – for I had torn the same tendons that Jacob tore when he wrestled with God. Now not a day goes by in my life that this particular injury does not remind me of God’s fateful answer – and that my destiny were different from my dreams.
My son and I discuss major league pitchers and hitters like the Apostle Paul talked with Timothy about discipleship. We study the craft that has become his dream. I know in my heart that he will not only hit homeruns but in my mind and heart he already is one. There is a sense in which my greatest feat of accomplishment stands before me in the towering grandeur of an aspiring son – who has chosen his own dreams. I for one, whether he hits it over the fence or not, will stand to my feet and feel surging and swelling pride – every time he comes to bat.
God did not give me my heart’s desire but He gifted me another – a better one – one that I would not trade for anything in the world. I have had the unusual opportunity and privilege not only of raising my son – and three beautiful daughters – but also to play a surrogate role in the lives of many additional sons and daughters who see me as a spiritual Dad. This enterprise is one that is dear to the heart of God who makes it His own mission to “Father the fatherless.” Ironically it was the art of punting that allowed me access to their lives and even more uniquely to do so in a neighborhood – ironically called Desire.
By the way – my son did not hit a homerun this night – he struck out 10 of 12 batters he faced and threw a no hitter. ☺
a kite in a waning wind
the hesitation before things collide
the lapse before the end
I tell this story reluctantly. I’ve been asked numerous times by various persons to do so, but have resisted until now. But one of my daughters has made a compelling argument – promising to stop talking to me if I don’t start.
This is not a story of personal triumph or accomplishment – but of brokenness and grace. It is not a story at all as much a rendering of random thoughts, knit together like a Carolina quilt. I live in a world of 7 billion people or so – each of us has a story – mine is not more or less interesting in my own estimation – or more worthy to tell. Nevertheless…
At this moment I sit outdoors a coffee shop in Tallahassee, FL – the place where my children and first wife live – a place where I once shepherded a church. Perhaps I will speak of this later – we’ll see. My son has a game tonight that I will attend. I rarely miss one, though I live almost 3 hours away. Yesterday he stroked a ball that hit the top of the fence about a foot short from going over. I’ve had similar hits – and never a home run. Such is the story of my life. I hope by my support and encouragement before the season’s over – he’ll have that memory of circling the bases triumphantly. Something his Dad has not yet known but aspired to and probably secretly continues to vicariously through him.
Men want that – to be celebrated, respected. Wise women understand. Our dream is not so much to be cherished but to be heroic. I always dreamed of being significant – I used to imagine myself on a field of football dreams making an incredible move, followed by overpowering an unsuspecting defensive cornerback or linebacker, accelerating with incomparable speed and crossing the goal line with football high-lifted in the air. That’s where my dreams began – with a football.
My father played football and we, my siblings and I, were immersed in it as a pseudo-religion. For me it was the only worthwhile life aspiration – to play professional football. Everything else was something short of the pinnacle plan. My love of football was in its essence a form of father worship. It was the place where I had hoped to please him, to gain his respect, approval and affirmation. For my father it was a place of discipline into the higher manifestations of hyper-masculinity.
Yet I was not blessed with exceptional athletic ability – above average perhaps – but again, that is the story of my life. I do a lot of things well – none with excellence – none that would allow me to trounce around the bases to the roar of the crowd and standing ovation, to the hugs and high fives of proud teammates. I did not score touchdowns or throw for any. My fate was to develop expertise in the most underappreciated and seemingly inconsequential position on the field – punter. If one aspires to fame – punting is not the path to take.
Few are inspired by a punter. Ray Guy – the greatest punter ever to walk onto a football field – just recently lost his final chance to be considered for the NFL Hall of Fame – a tragedy for him and all punters, yes, but indicative of the way that the rest of the football world views us – as an unfortunate necessity – and a non-athlete.
The art of punting requires incredible hand, eye and foot skill, balance, symmetry, timing and coordination. Line all the other position players on the football field – ask them to throw a football. Many can. Ask them to catch a football. Many still can. Now ask them to punt a football and watch it devolve into a live circus. Nevertheless we are the Rodney Dangerfield’s of football – we get no respect.
My senior year in high school I averaged over 40 yards a punt. I must admit to having felt proud of myself. I had worked really hard to perfect the craft. My father, who was my first mentor in the art of punting, had died two years previously – but I imagined that he would be proud too – I prayed before every game that I would play in a way that would make him so. Yet, there were no awards, no recognition for my accomplishment, no scholarship offers. A kind high school referee noticed me game after game – saw that I was talented and took it upon himself to market me to colleges and encourage me to attend. I was so grateful.
He brought me to see a college game in Athens, GA. There I saw true football greatness – the incomparable and incarnate Herschel Walker – all I can say is that whatever you saw of Herschel on TV does not compare to what I saw in person. What a human specimen of football divinity he was that day – and I was in football heaven. It was not destined for me to play between the hedges – too intimidating and large a stage for me. Rather, I chose to go to the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga. They were graduating a senior punter – which was my open door and opportunity for greatness, as I then perceived it.
I offered to God an irresistible and generous plan. If He were to give to me the desire of my heart and allow me to play professional football – I would use that platform as an opportunity to witness for Him. How could He possibly turn that down? I thought. But I did not end my regretful prayer there. So confident was I that God was impressed and enticed by my offer, I continued…but if it is not Your will for me to do so, make it obvious. Injure my leg in a way that I will not be able to recover from or return to the aspirations of this dream.
Silliest prayer I’ve ever prayed and God has chosen to ignore many of my silly prayers before. Yet predictably, He was faithful to answer this one. During spring workouts I tore tendons in my hip, eventually requiring invasive surgery. An insecure ego and a room full of weights can be a dangerous equation. But I have always perceived this as no simple mishap or accident but an answer to my prayer – for I had torn the same tendons that Jacob tore when he wrestled with God. Now not a day goes by in my life that this particular injury does not remind me of God’s fateful answer – and that my destiny were different from my dreams.
My son and I discuss major league pitchers and hitters like the Apostle Paul talked with Timothy about discipleship. We study the craft that has become his dream. I know in my heart that he will not only hit homeruns but in my mind and heart he already is one. There is a sense in which my greatest feat of accomplishment stands before me in the towering grandeur of an aspiring son – who has chosen his own dreams. I for one, whether he hits it over the fence or not, will stand to my feet and feel surging and swelling pride – every time he comes to bat.
God did not give me my heart’s desire but He gifted me another – a better one – one that I would not trade for anything in the world. I have had the unusual opportunity and privilege not only of raising my son – and three beautiful daughters – but also to play a surrogate role in the lives of many additional sons and daughters who see me as a spiritual Dad. This enterprise is one that is dear to the heart of God who makes it His own mission to “Father the fatherless.” Ironically it was the art of punting that allowed me access to their lives and even more uniquely to do so in a neighborhood – ironically called Desire.
By the way – my son did not hit a homerun this night – he struck out 10 of 12 batters he faced and threw a no hitter. ☺
Friday, June 27, 2008
Mastering the Art of Pressing On
Today, I’m sporting a T-shirt designed by my beautiful daughter Maggie - who, along with her sister Lacey, is my world’s favorite artist! It has a beautifully crafted rendition of our ministry name - Rebirth International - on the front, along with a wooden cross and spiraling vine. On the back it has our website clearly spelled out - www.myrebirth.org, along with her personal recommendation - GET INVOLVED!
Trust me if you saw it, you would be inspired by Maggie’s mature artistry. And if you had the privilege of knowing my Mags-a-million you would be equally inspired by the artistry of her sheer determination.
I wear it with pride. It represents more than naturally proud father sentiments. It also symbolizes the level of support I’ve enjoyed from this amazing family that I husband and father.
I remember the first economic downturn we endured. It was right after we built a $3 million facility across from the Desire Projects. Our budget tripled, as did our staff. Opportunities were bursting at the seams. There was more than we could handle - more than we could afford.
I knew of many other ministries that went under or were in the risk of doing so. We were vulnerable too. At the end of the summer I was staring at a $200,000 deficit.
I had two undesirable choices - either drastically cut staff and programs or hustle. I chose to hustle.
I remember coming home and sheepishly looking at my wife, telling her, “Honey, I need to travel.” What that meant was that I was needing to travel more - almost perpetually - that every invitation would be accepted - no opportunity ignored. I was determined. Our ministry was not going under, not if I had anything to do with it. Nor would any of my staff lose their jobs.
I’m now in the middle of our second major economic downturn. Everyone is hurting - feeling the pinch. I know that. Frankly, though I’m not an economist, I feel this one may last longer and cut more deeply than the first. So what’s a guy who’s committed his life to developing ministry among the poor to do?
We have now consulted with ministries and churches all across the eastern U.S. We are looking to launch new ministries along the I-10 and I-55 corridors - E. St. Louis, New Orleans, Mobile, Tallahasse, Orlando and more. We are connecting with my alma mater - Reformed Theological Seminary - around a partnership to prepare future urban missionaries for the unique task before them. There is a lot of opportunity. But there’s a shortage of funds.
Nevertheless we endure and press on. I am hustling. But I’m not willing to become the road hog I once was.
I am pursuing alternative possibilities for creatively funding the Rebirth vision. I’m not sure how the Lord is leading, but I’m listening and looking.
Despite the shortfalls, my sweet family is doing amazingly well. Ellen is a woman of tremendous faith and long-suffering - a woman of tremendous stature - despite her 5 foot frame. My children are, simply put, the best Christians I know.
I am thankful.
I watched my daughter Lindsay play in the championship game in her fast-pitch softball league last night. You’ll never see anyone more attractively determined than my Dee Dee Brown (one of her Daddy’s favorite nicknames for her - there are more). Whether she is running after overthrown balls, sliding into bases or swinging for the fences, I realize that my daughter Lindsay, like her sister Maggie, has been cursed with her Daddy’s DNA. She’s also learned, for better or worse, from my example. We all have reduced drive and determination to an art form.
And so the Leverett’s are pressing on. We are encouraging others to get involved - hopefully in the most artistic of ways!
Trust me if you saw it, you would be inspired by Maggie’s mature artistry. And if you had the privilege of knowing my Mags-a-million you would be equally inspired by the artistry of her sheer determination.
I wear it with pride. It represents more than naturally proud father sentiments. It also symbolizes the level of support I’ve enjoyed from this amazing family that I husband and father.
I remember the first economic downturn we endured. It was right after we built a $3 million facility across from the Desire Projects. Our budget tripled, as did our staff. Opportunities were bursting at the seams. There was more than we could handle - more than we could afford.
I knew of many other ministries that went under or were in the risk of doing so. We were vulnerable too. At the end of the summer I was staring at a $200,000 deficit.
I had two undesirable choices - either drastically cut staff and programs or hustle. I chose to hustle.
I remember coming home and sheepishly looking at my wife, telling her, “Honey, I need to travel.” What that meant was that I was needing to travel more - almost perpetually - that every invitation would be accepted - no opportunity ignored. I was determined. Our ministry was not going under, not if I had anything to do with it. Nor would any of my staff lose their jobs.
I’m now in the middle of our second major economic downturn. Everyone is hurting - feeling the pinch. I know that. Frankly, though I’m not an economist, I feel this one may last longer and cut more deeply than the first. So what’s a guy who’s committed his life to developing ministry among the poor to do?
We have now consulted with ministries and churches all across the eastern U.S. We are looking to launch new ministries along the I-10 and I-55 corridors - E. St. Louis, New Orleans, Mobile, Tallahasse, Orlando and more. We are connecting with my alma mater - Reformed Theological Seminary - around a partnership to prepare future urban missionaries for the unique task before them. There is a lot of opportunity. But there’s a shortage of funds.
Nevertheless we endure and press on. I am hustling. But I’m not willing to become the road hog I once was.
I am pursuing alternative possibilities for creatively funding the Rebirth vision. I’m not sure how the Lord is leading, but I’m listening and looking.
Despite the shortfalls, my sweet family is doing amazingly well. Ellen is a woman of tremendous faith and long-suffering - a woman of tremendous stature - despite her 5 foot frame. My children are, simply put, the best Christians I know.
I am thankful.
I watched my daughter Lindsay play in the championship game in her fast-pitch softball league last night. You’ll never see anyone more attractively determined than my Dee Dee Brown (one of her Daddy’s favorite nicknames for her - there are more). Whether she is running after overthrown balls, sliding into bases or swinging for the fences, I realize that my daughter Lindsay, like her sister Maggie, has been cursed with her Daddy’s DNA. She’s also learned, for better or worse, from my example. We all have reduced drive and determination to an art form.
And so the Leverett’s are pressing on. We are encouraging others to get involved - hopefully in the most artistic of ways!
Friday, June 20, 2008
Punting Perfection
I was a punter in high school and college. Nobody likes a punter. The punter only comes on the field when the offense has failed. Punters are most despised by perfectionists - persons who think failure an unacceptable option.
When we consider the men of the Bible - we get a picture of the nature of achievable spirituality. Often they fail. And yet it is wrong to hyper-moralize their failure. Their failures not only open the door for grace, it demonstrates what is non-achievable spirituality - perfection.
I think one of the most unbecoming features of the American evangelical church is the perpetual state of surprise with failure. And while it is good to strive for holiness, even perfection, it is not good what we do to those who naturally fall short of it.
Ironically and sadly the church is no longer a safe place for sinners. An institution who is a recipient of the Kingdom of Heaven precisely because it acknowledged its state of sinfulness, is now in the state of denial about that same spiritual state - as if her sinfulness was a brief episode, a bad moment.
The biggest surprise for the perfectionist will be when the sinners they once judged and condescended to, will be appointed to judge them. Perfectionism is among the greatest of sins, not only because the perfectionist assumes the place of God - but perhaps more poignant than that, they withhold the grace that God so freely offers.
Despite the fact that David, for instance, King David, was a murderer and an adulterer - he was also a man after the heart of God, the author of divinely inspired psalms and the leader of an incomparable army of men. And while he has landed a sacred place in the family tree of Jesus, so that Jesus, the KING of kings is called the Son of David - it is quite uncertain whether or not the American church would receive him, much less defend his right to leadership.
Despite the fact that Elijah brought down fire from heaven and was the greatest of the prophets, he was bedeviled by a single solitary woman, sank into a great depression, wallowed in doubt and self-pity as he was exiled in fear.
The American church tends to worship perfection, therefore its leaders pretend to be so. And as the church perceiving the men of God statuesque in virtue behind their fancy pulpits, it should be known that their wives could pull the chord on the curtain in a moment’s notice, unless they too have fallen prey to the Christian masquerade. Some pastor’s wives are expected to represent a level of spirituality that sweet Mother Mary herself wouldn’t aspire to - no offense intended to my Catholic brothers.
Perhaps we should become more like Paul, also a murderer, and glory in our sinfulness, and wear the title with pride - Chief of Sinners, not because we love our sin, but because we love what our sin has wrought - the precious and limitless supply of grace that flows to us through Christ.
And when one pretends that he is not a sinner, he prohibits the flow of grace. Rather that we cut off our own limbs than to cut off God’s grace.
True men of God are measured not by the sins they’ve avoided in this life, but by their authentic encounters with grace. Fortunately, access to grace is not restricted to those who have achieved perfection, rather to those who have rejected it.
I for one want to be in the fellowship of sinners when they encounter the final dose of God’s grace. Then and only then will we be made perfect. And until that day comes, we will fail, fall short and miss the mark.
Rather than surprised, we should be supportive. For until that final day, we need each other. And we need from each other the identical grace that has been so lavishly offered to us. Then the church will regain her beauty and irresistibility to a lost, dying and sinful world.
So will you join me in realizing that there are times to punt. And while we’re at it, maybe we should give some thought to punting perfection.
When we consider the men of the Bible - we get a picture of the nature of achievable spirituality. Often they fail. And yet it is wrong to hyper-moralize their failure. Their failures not only open the door for grace, it demonstrates what is non-achievable spirituality - perfection.
I think one of the most unbecoming features of the American evangelical church is the perpetual state of surprise with failure. And while it is good to strive for holiness, even perfection, it is not good what we do to those who naturally fall short of it.
Ironically and sadly the church is no longer a safe place for sinners. An institution who is a recipient of the Kingdom of Heaven precisely because it acknowledged its state of sinfulness, is now in the state of denial about that same spiritual state - as if her sinfulness was a brief episode, a bad moment.
The biggest surprise for the perfectionist will be when the sinners they once judged and condescended to, will be appointed to judge them. Perfectionism is among the greatest of sins, not only because the perfectionist assumes the place of God - but perhaps more poignant than that, they withhold the grace that God so freely offers.
Despite the fact that David, for instance, King David, was a murderer and an adulterer - he was also a man after the heart of God, the author of divinely inspired psalms and the leader of an incomparable army of men. And while he has landed a sacred place in the family tree of Jesus, so that Jesus, the KING of kings is called the Son of David - it is quite uncertain whether or not the American church would receive him, much less defend his right to leadership.
Despite the fact that Elijah brought down fire from heaven and was the greatest of the prophets, he was bedeviled by a single solitary woman, sank into a great depression, wallowed in doubt and self-pity as he was exiled in fear.
The American church tends to worship perfection, therefore its leaders pretend to be so. And as the church perceiving the men of God statuesque in virtue behind their fancy pulpits, it should be known that their wives could pull the chord on the curtain in a moment’s notice, unless they too have fallen prey to the Christian masquerade. Some pastor’s wives are expected to represent a level of spirituality that sweet Mother Mary herself wouldn’t aspire to - no offense intended to my Catholic brothers.
Perhaps we should become more like Paul, also a murderer, and glory in our sinfulness, and wear the title with pride - Chief of Sinners, not because we love our sin, but because we love what our sin has wrought - the precious and limitless supply of grace that flows to us through Christ.
And when one pretends that he is not a sinner, he prohibits the flow of grace. Rather that we cut off our own limbs than to cut off God’s grace.
True men of God are measured not by the sins they’ve avoided in this life, but by their authentic encounters with grace. Fortunately, access to grace is not restricted to those who have achieved perfection, rather to those who have rejected it.
I for one want to be in the fellowship of sinners when they encounter the final dose of God’s grace. Then and only then will we be made perfect. And until that day comes, we will fail, fall short and miss the mark.
Rather than surprised, we should be supportive. For until that final day, we need each other. And we need from each other the identical grace that has been so lavishly offered to us. Then the church will regain her beauty and irresistibility to a lost, dying and sinful world.
So will you join me in realizing that there are times to punt. And while we’re at it, maybe we should give some thought to punting perfection.
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