The View From the Bus: Gray Christmas

It's the Wednesday before Thanksgiving in 1991 and we're on our way to western Kansas to spend the holiday weekend with relatives. As we pulled off I-70 for a restroom break in Independence, Missouri, I pulled to a stop at the red light at the top of the exit ramp. When the light turned green, I stepped on the accelerator and the car inched forward like a turtle.

The transmission was shot. We spent the holiday in a hotel and then coaxed the car to crawl two miles to a transmission shop.

Thus began the most dismal holiday season of what has been a lifetime of holiday catastrophes for our family.

The repair shop took over a week to complete the repair.

After getting a lift back to Independence, I picked up the car and drove it 100 miles back to the exit ramp near my home. I pulled to a stop at the red light at the top of the exit ramp.

Stop me if you've already heard this.

When the light turned to green, I stepped on the accelerator and the car inched forward like a turtle: the transmission had once again failed. I coaxed the car toward the local shop of the same franchised transmission service.  They took another two weeks to do the warrantied repair, which then failed miserably during the test drive. The original shop had the car towed back to Independence, and then, after another two weeks, delivered it back to me, repaired.

So, from Thanksgiving through a few days after New Year's Day, we were without a car. I rode the bus every day to work and back. Our spirits were not merry and bright. Most of the things we would normally do to be out and about celebrating the season were called off. Our boys weren't happy campers.

One particularly wretched day in mid-December stands out to me.

Snow was falling when I boarded the bus at my workplace. The streets were already covered by the grayed and blackened snow leftover from previous snowfalls.

The windows of the bus were covered with a layer of the splashed-up dirty snow from the streets, quickly being topped by a coating of new-fallen snow. The only visibility to the outside of the bus was through the driver's front windshield, which the wipers were making a valiant effort at keeping clear.

A loose connection was causing the already dim interior lights of the bus to flicker on and off each time the bus hit a bump or shook. If you've ever ridden a city bus, you know that means the lights were constantly flickering, casting the scene with a surreal horror-movie atmosphere.

The interior heating system was also not keeping up, which meant that every rider sat bundled tight in their winter coats. Every time the doors opened for someone to board or exit, a gust of frozen air invaded the bus.

A young woman sat near the front of the bus with an infant in a car carrier. The poor child was doing what I and everyone else aboard wanted to be doing: he was cycling between crying, screaming, and whimpering in reaction to the nightmare surrounding him.

As the bus rumbled through the neighborhoods, we all sat staring out the front windshield, trying to keep track of where the bus was on the route. With darkness already upon the city and our view of the outside world constricted, I was more than a little concerned I would miss my stop and be stuck on this bus ride through hell for another circuit through its route.

Given the road conditions and the rush hour traffic, the ride took much longer than normal. The time finally arrived, though, when I saw the neighborhood of my bus stop past the driver's hunched shoulders.

I was almost late in pulling the cord to signal my stop, because judging distance was nearly impossible through the driving snow. When I did pull the cord, the driver looked up, startled, and began braking for the bus stop. The behemoth slid a few feet past its target, but finally found purchase among the snow and came to halt.

I was glad to leave the ghost of Christmas bus behind, but quickly discovered I was stepping into the gusts of Christmas present, with several inches of snow on the ground, more snow falling quickly around me, a bitter wind, and a two and a half block walk ahead of me.

When I finally opened our front door, my boys stared at me like I was the abominable snowman. I must have looked a fright, covered with snow, my body hunched down, and my face betraying the desolation of the long ride home.

From my point of view, though, the warmth of the house and the warmth of the welcome into my home was the greatest Christmas blessing I could want. And I knew full well that there were other people out there riding the bus on this dismal night who had much less than I. Did they have people to welcome them? Did they have a warm place to live?

God, bless them every one.

Originally posted 12/1/2014

The Holiday Curse: Thanksgiving

As mentioned before, my family has a Holiday Curse.  And Thanksgiving seems to have somehow been particularly cursed in regard to our cars.

Perhaps it's because so many of the cars we have driven have been real turkeys.

On a Thanksgiving weekend in the early 90's, we set out to spend a long weekend with relatives in Bennington, KS.  Leaving after work on Wednesday, we traveled west for over an hour and pulled off at the Noland Road Exit  in Independence, MO - an area renown for its plethora of fast food choices.

At the top of the exit ramp we waited for the light to turn green.  Then I pressed my foot to the accelerator and continued to wait.  And wait.  The car was going nowhere.

With a slight push I was able to pull on through the intersection and coast downhill and into the entrance to a Super 8 and Shoneys.  Which was a fortunate combination, since we wound up spending the next 48 hours in that Super 8 motel and eating at the Shoneys.

The transmission  had gone south on us as we were going west.  Thus began a the mother of all holiday curses, one that lasted through December, through Christmas and on through New Year's Day.  The car was in two different AAMCO shops to have the transmission repaired TWICE, over a total of over 40 days.

The two AAMCO shop owners bickered and fought over who was responsible to do the re-repair after the warrantied initial repair (which took two tries over 10 days) failed miserably during the trip back east to Columbia.  I received an education in the truth about those warranties - the shop is going to lose money on the re-work, which means they have very little motivation to complete the job quickly.

Back in those days, we were a one car family.  That meant I rode the bus to work, my wife took two small children to the store and other errands on the bus, and anything we wanted to do to celebrate the holiday season was only accessible by bus.

Any missional Christ-following blogger worth his salt would have some great stories at this point about the people I met on the bus during those weeks, about the relationships I made with people who are down-and-out enough to be riding the bus during the holidays.

But all I could think about during those weeks was how depressed I was.  How totally out of control my life had become.  How miserable this holiday season was.

I learn slowly.  but I have a patient Teacher.

O Master,
these are the conditions in which people live,and yes,

in these very conditions my spirit is still alive —

fully recovered with a fresh infusion of life!

It seems it was good for me 

to go through all those troubles.

Throughout them all you held tight to my lifeline.

You never let me tumble over the edge into nothing.

But my sins you let go of,

threw them over your shoulder - 

good riddance!

The dead don't thank you, 

and choirs don't sing praises from the morgue.

Those buried six feet under

don't witness to your faithful ways.

It's the living —

live men,live women —

who thank you, just as I'm doing right now.

Parents give their children full reports on your faithful ways.

Isaiah 38:16 (The Message)

A sign you're growing in grace:  Even when you fail to live up to your calling, you trust in God's patience and learn from your mistakes. #asygig

That's What HE Said

“No one wants to die. Even people who want to go to heaven don’t want to die to get there. And yet death is the destination we all share. No one has ever escaped it.” (Steve Jobs)

• "Just as people are destined to die once, and after that to face judgment, so Christ was sacrificed once to take away the sins of many; and he will appear a second time, not to bear sin, but to bring salvation to those who are waiting for him." (God, Hebrews 9)

Hello, my name is Tim, and I'm an Introvert

Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World
 That Can't Stop Talking, by Susan Cain

I was asked to preach at our church a few months ago. I debated between spending the entire time talking about prison ministry and using the sermon time as a recruiting opportunity vs. sharing about the blessings of being messily involved with the messy lives of messy people.

So I did both.

My philosophy of teaching and preaching is simple: the vast majority of people in any audience will have forgotten most of what a speaker said within a few short days, if not hours. What they will remember is  perhaps one or two stories or a quote or a single idea that resonated with them. Each listener will respond to something different, based on what resonated with him or her at that moment.

The teacher or preacher has no way of knowing, predicting, or controlling which things will be remembered. It may even be something that wasn't in the speaking notes at all but instead some off the cuff comment. All the best communication tricks, carefully emphasized signposts, or alliterative outline points will not likely have much effect on what each individual listener takes away from what you've said.

I have a pretty good idea what will be the most remembered thing I said in my sermon, based on the comments I received afterward.

I told attention-grabbing stories about the lives of prisoners. I offered practical and detailed encouragement about how everyday outside-the-prison ministry can in fact plant seeds that diverts someone from a path toward prison. I quoted scripture. I talked for about 40 minutes.

And the number one comment heard by both my wife and I during the post-sermon mingle was about my admission that I'm an introvert.

I talked about what qualifies someone for prison ministry, or any ministry where you're messily involved with the messy lives of messy people. As part of that thought process, I shared that in many ways I'm the last person anyone would think would be qualified to teach and counsel a room full of prisoners every week, because I'm an introvert.

I told everyone in my home church how, if they had been paying attention, they would have noticed that during the mingle times they'd most likely see me standing on the edge of a group of people, pretending to be part of the conversation. Or, just as often, I'm standing off by myself, watching the rest of the people chit chat.

But when I walk into the prison chapel, God somehow transforms me into a person who can lead a free-wheeling conversation with a roomful of convicted criminals.

And, of course, what most people will remember from my sermon is the morning Tim Robertson came out of the closet as an introvert.

The View From the Bus: God on the Bus

Atheist Bus Campain, Great Britain, 2008

I'm pretty SURE God rides the bus, even if the bus doesn't believe in God.

I can't be certain I've ever seen God on the bus. He doesn't always make himself obvious. But I suspect I've seen him there.

Jesus says, in Matthew 25:61-46, that anytime we feed the hungry, give a drink to the thirsty, welcome a stranger, clothe the naked, or visit prisoners, we've done the same for Him.

I've never seen a naked person on the bus, bus I certainly see people who are hungry, thirsty, just out of prison, poor, and generally needy.

I've also met people on the bus who know God.

If you were to have ridden the 109 bus in Buenos Aires a few years back, you might have found yourself seated across from a friendly Catholic priest in a plain dark suit. A conversation with him might be remembered on a future date when you saw his face on the news, now wearing the clothing of the pope.

I recall a stooped older man who seemed to always be riding the bus a few years ago, his straw boater sometimes on his head, other times on the seat beside him. Always, though, he held a large opened Bible in his hands. More than once he engaged my boys in conversation about what he was reading. At first they were wary of a man who seemed unspeakably old. Soon, through, they got to know him and would greet him when they boarded the bus and found him in his usual spot. Both he and the boys were pleased whenever they discovered they both knew details of a Bible story he brought up.

What if God was one of us
just a stranger on the bus
Just a slob like one of us
trying to make his way home.

(from "One of Us", written by Eric Bazilian, recorded by Joan Osborne, 1995)

Five Signs You're a Chaplain and Not a Pastor

Thom S. Rainer's Labor Day blog post is entitled Ten Signs a Pastor is Becoming a Chaplain. I generally find Rainer's blog to be a mixed bag. I'm not fond of blogs about "leadership", so I tend to pass over those posts. I have seen church plants thrive under Rainer's "Simple Church" approach, though, so sometimes his blog posts provide useful information.

Today's blog caught my interest because, as a volunteer prison chaplain, I thought it would be interesting to see what he had to say about the different approach a chaplain learns to take, as opposed to being a congregational pastor.

I even hoped it might be a little funny.

Instead, I read a post about pastors who spend so much time meeting the felt needs of people in the congregation that they have no time for other tasks. To make this point, Rainer compares his ideal of a pastor with his wholly warped understanding of what a chaplain actually does.

A couple of other chaplains replied to Rainer's post with complaints about his misunderstanding.  He responds, saying his chaplaincy metaphor is “far from perfect,” I don't think that goes far enough.

I suspect several chaplains clicked on this blog post hoping to see a constructive list of ways what we do is different from a congregation-based pastor. Instead, we read a list that discourages people from being chaplains, since what we do just doesn’t quite measure up to a pastor’s job.

As a volunteer prison chaplain, I recognize very little of the picture Rainer painted of a chaplain’s approach to ministry. Perhaps we need a more realistic list of ways to tell a pastor has become an actual chaplain.

1. The chaplain is constantly connecting with non-believers and seekers, many of whom have never considered setting foot inside the doors of a church.


2. The chaplain is actively equipping believers among the prisoners, military personnel, or hospital/nursing home workers who have more access and can do more to help people in need than the chaplain will ever be able to reach. 


3. The chaplain is always learning, always pursuing new initiatives and new ways to address the specific spiritual, emotional, and physical needs of people in situations and environments that have removed them from the sort of "normal" daily life of the average church member.


4. The chaplain is always planning for the future, but it’s often the future of the people he or she is ministering to, rather than the future of a program or an organization.


5. The chaplain, on a regular basis, experiences the lowest of lows but also experiences the greatest of joys in following the mission God has assigned to her or him. The chaplain constantly deals with people who are bitter, angry with God, and in constant life threatening situations. "Failure" in the chaplaincy often has immediate and soul-wrenching consequences. "Success" in chaplaincy can be an exhilarating victory in a very real spiritual battle.

I could go on, but won’t.

Mr. Rainer, I understand your point about church-bound pastors needing to do more than hold the hands of the flock. But you’ve chosen a way to make your point that wholly misrepresents chaplaincy.

I'd encourage you and every pastor who reads your blog, to wade into the waters of chaplaincy and experience its joys and heartaches.

The View From the Bus: Fellow Travelers

A wiry, shirtless man pedals a bicycle down the side of the street, a sullen pit bull riding behind, seated on a grubby pillow atop an obviously homemade bike trailer.

Were I at the wheel of my car, I’d see the matched pair only at a glance, it not being prudent to rubberneck while driving. With a city bus driver as my chauffeur, I can afford the luxury of turning to gawk as we pass.

The old meme about dog owners resembling their dogs certainly holds true in this instance. The bicycle rider's face and body are not just nicely tanned, but tanned like a tanner tans leather. His face is etched with the sort of deep personality lines you expect in a person who has lived and worked hard. The hot breeze is unable to ruffle his close-cropped hair, which looks like a mere upward extension of his day or two growth of beard. His clothes, a t-shirt and khakis, are not dirty but they are worn and stained with sweat.

His companion, seated in luxury on the grubby pillow, is approximately the same color as his master's skin, with his own personality wrinkles and stubbly whiskers. The wind of their passing has a greater effect on the dog's features, producing that face-flapping that seems to delight all traveling canines, whether stretching they're head out the window of a car or riding serenely on a bicycle trailer.

Both man and dog are intent upon the road ahead, not distracted by the scenery or other vehicles. They no doubt travel this route frequently on their way to or from their home, wherever that may be.

As the bus passes on, the bicycling pair dwindle out the back window of the bus, and then the driver makes a right turn along his appointed route. The view from the bus is always traveling on toward the next stop.

This world is filled with people who are quite unlike me and yet not that different than me. They carry on with their lives, thinking whatever thoughts meander through their minds, inhabiting a world centered on them. The dog and the bicyclist's worlds intersected with mine for less than a minute. Then we went on our separate ways, though ultimately headed toward the same destination.