Spring is beautiful in Grenoble. Gray gives way to green and the surrounding mountains cut a fantastically sharp horizon against brilliant blue skies. Enjoying this panoramic view today, I was mowing the pitiful piece of greenery in front of our door I generously refer to as our lawn. The smell triggered a very powerful springtime childhood memory of being on the baseball field and taking in the intoxicating, refreshing aroma of newly cut grass. As I was reminiscing about my early years when a love for baseball was instilled in me, a few images from America's national pastime ran through my mind. One was rather horrifying, considering I am a diehard San Francisco Giants fan. Like a painful memory dredged from the depths of my subconscious, this dark secret I have kept in lonely silence all these years surfaced suddenly and sent shudders of shame through my soul. When I played little league baseball in my small hometown of Quincy California, my team for three of those years was, and it pains me to say it, the Dodgers. That's right, I actually wore a blue Dodgers uniform each summer, one identical to my Giants' most bitterly hated Los Angeles rival. The realization almost made me sick to my stomach, but a few chants of "Beat L.A." uttered under my breath restored my resolve to push past the pain and finish my yard work.
A more pleasant memory was of my favorite player growing up - Johnny Bench. He was a catcher, and so was I. He wore number five, and I did the same. I wanted to play just like him. He played for the Cincinnati Reds, whose dominance of the league from 1970-1976 won them numerous world series and league championships, as well as the name "the Big Red Machine". Bench is a member of the Hall of Fame now, and is widely considered one of the best catchers of all time. His equally famous teammate was third baseman Pete Rose, who today is banned for life for having bet on baseball while a player and manager. Despite having the most hits, games played, and at bats of any player in history, and being voted an all-star 17 times, he is still not part of the Hall of Fame nor allowed to participate in any league activities. Despite many appeals, Major League Baseball has never once seriously considered forgiving him and lifting the ban. To the commissioner of baseball charged with upholding the image and sanctity of the game, Pete Rose is enemy number one. But imagine if one day, Bud Selig or the commissioner that will soon follow him, decides that even though he is guilty, they will no longer hold this punishment over him. Imagine if Pete Rose is forgiven and reinstated. Do you know what that would be like? Like us experiencing peace with God. We were guilty and enemies of God. Even though we deserve punishment, He doesn't want us to remain separated by a ban or an old mandate of justice. He wants to reconcile with us and let us back in the game, like former enemies who forget the past, are forgiven, and become reconciled. I hope it happens one day for old Pete. And I hope it has already happened for you, too.
Another vivid baseball image for me is of the home plate umpire There is no worse feeling than watching a ball whiz past you, hearing the thud in the mitt of the catcher, followed a "Stee-rike" thundered by a much older and less athletic masked man behind you. With almost a feeling of poetic justice, I recently saw an umpire get hit with a ball that had deflected off of a bat. As he was leaning in close enough to smell the catcher's brand of shampoo, he took a fastball to the shoulder and came away wincing. But that is a hazard of the job of carefully considering every decision on every action of a game where balls are thrown at you in excess of 90 miles-per-hour, with fairness and an eye for precision. The umpire hovers just behind the catcher, making a call whether the ball just thrown is on target (a strike) or out of the strike zone (a ball). He also makes the call at the plate to decide if a runner sliding into home plate is safe or out. Either way, his call must be clear and loud enough to be heard by all. And just in case one is hard of hearing, his ruling is accompanied by one of a variety of demonstrative gestures indicating the call. His decision is definitive and binding. Well, that is, until this season when they decided to introduce instant replay, but that is another subject entirely for this baseball purist. When Colossians 3:15 says "Let the peace of God rule in your hearts", it is this image of an umpire that is being used. The peace of God hovers close and gives a definitive ruling on the small and big decisions of our life, helping us to know whether a job, a marriage, a move, or any of a million possible actions and activities, are "safe" or "out", on target, or outside of the approved zone. We can argue or dispute the call, but God's ruling needs no instant replay. He gets it right every time.
So the next time you are either watching baseball or catch a whiff of freshly cut grass, let it remind of you of God's peace. Peace with God and the peace of God. That's a pastime we can all not get enough of.
As the self-proclaimed "capital of the French Alps", Grenoble is a city which provides visitors and residents alike unparallelled access to hiking trails, rock-climbing, skiing, and paragliding, just to name a few of its outdoor sport offerings. For those who explore the mountains and find themselves in need of shelter, there are quite a lot of alpine refuges available in these parts. These are some variation of small cabins nestled in the wilderness able to withstand the elements and provide a safe, dry place for adventurers. This can actually be a scary sight for those who may have been traumatized as children by images of forest houses found in the stories of Hansel and Gretel, Goldilocks and Snow White. For example, once when Emma and I were hiking, we came upon a stone and tin refuge high in the mountains and I swear that I heard someone cackling. Just remember, where one man sees a shelter, another man sees The Shack.
There are two types of refuges, guarded and unguarded. Though that might sound like a war zone, it just means that one is manned and the other is not. To stay at the guarded refuge, one has to book it in advance. The on-site caretaker makes sure the important things are taken care of, like keeping the spider population in check and providing something softer than leaves and smooth sticks next to the seat of porcelain. And guests, who sleep dormitory style here, can usually pay to have a hot meal prepared for them. But hiker beware, earplugs and deodorant are optional. As you might imagine, this type of refuge is not free. In other words, it's a refuge for those who know in advance they are in need of one.
But to me, that makes the first kind of refuge more like a hotel. If I plan and book ahead, is it really a refuge? It seems to me that a refuge is something one stumbles upon or runs to when really in need or difficulty. I think the second type of refuge fits this description better. There is no charge to stay in the unguarded refuge. Yes, things are more basic and the upkeep depends on volunteers or those who stay there tidying up after themselves. But there you'll find the necessary table, chairs, fireplace, and mattress on the floor. The door is always open and it operates on a 'first come first served basis'.
I would like to think of my family and our home as a refuge for students, travelers, and the needy. I remember growing up in a pastor's home, there were times when our meals or television time were interrupted by an unexpected knock on the door. I saw as my parents modeled the unguarded shelter to my watching eyes. Unfinished food or favorite TV programs were quickly left behind to attend to the need at the door. They never let on that their agenda had been interrupted, but rather communicated that there was no one more important at that moment than the unexpected guest. Our simple house with basic needs was, if nothing else, accessible, on a first come, always served basis.
Sad to say, too often today my heart and my house are like the first refuge, with the emphasis on being well stocked, clean and comfortable, but with a preference for advance bookings. The reality is, those I am called to serve in this city need to find a shelter they can stumble upon or run to and always find the warmth and welcome they may need. There are plenty of hotel chains that will cater to the pre-registered but rarely to those at the last minute or on their last dollar. So I am aiming to be more of a forest chalet than a fancy chain. And to be a destination of the unguarded variety.
France is famous for its cheese. One famous variety is Roquefort, which the uninitiated might say is just bleu cheese. Au contraire, mon ami, its much more than that. One doesn't call a Ferrari just a car and Roquefort is not just a bleu cheese. Rather, it is known as the cheese of kings and popes, said to be loved by none other than the emperor Charlemagne. To be officially donned Roquefort, a cheese must be aged in caves four miles deep into Mount Canbalou in the south of France, where the cool humid atmosphere gives it a characteristic blue-green marbling. Which is the color the face of a Velveeta-loving American tourist turns when tasting it for the first time. Who first decided to leave sheep cheese rotting in a cave for three months? Legend has it that it was a smitten shepherd who left his lunch at the mouth of a cave to woo a shepherdess, only returning to find it moldy. Let's just hope he got the girl. But, like it or not, Roquefort has been given Protected Designation of Origin status by the EU, rivaled only by something called the Yorkshire Forced Rhubarb, undoubtedly taking its name from draconian methods British mothers use to get their little Liam to eat the famous English veggie.
France has some of the strictest copyright laws there are, due to its famous brand names and the creativity of its artistic firms. When you are a world capital of fashion, food and the arts you have to be on your toes to both stay at the pinnacle of refined taste and culture, as well as hide the fact you enjoy an occasional Big Mac at the drive-thru. At France's borders, customs agents seized 7 million counterfeit objects in 2010, yet that still did not prevent losses of 40,000 jobs and six billion dollars to counterfeiting. It's a big business world-wide, making up seven percent of total world trade, a testimony to the fact that it's hard to turn down paying $20 for a Louis Vuitton purse while on vacation in Thailand. Just be careful if you happen to have that little status symbol on your arm when passing through Charles de Gaulle airport. It could cost you as much as five years in a French jail or a maximum fine of €500,000. It seems there is a high price to pay for being fake.
The French can teach us a lot about the authenticity of things. Here, everything from sculptures to speeches to screen plays can be strictly copyrighted. And the biggest criteria to qualify for a copyright protected by French law? It has to be original. And the definition of an original work is that it is "endowed with the personality of its author". I can't help but draw a comparison to us as people who Genesis says were created in the image of God. You, my friend, are an original who bears the stamp of authenticity from the universe's number one unrivaled Designer. So why would we settle for being a cheap counterfeit of something else? When we are not authentic, our true selves are imprisoned in cells of shame and fear and our lives pay a price, becoming bankrupt of real value. We were made to be more than cheap knock-offs of something else. We were fashioned out of the creative genius of a perfect Creator. In the kingdom of God, we as Christ-followers should police ourselves as diligently as the douane - the French customs agents - who search the bodies and baggage of people entering the Republic for anything suspected as fake. Counterfeits and lack of authenticity rob the originators of design the recognition and recompense they deserve. Equally, the inability to be our true selves ultimately deprives God of the glory due Him. So in our believing communities, we should uphold a strict ban on counterfeits in our personal relationships with one another and our spiritual relationship with God.
I really do want to be more authentic, both relationally and spiritually - in the way I talk to and about God, in the way I relate to people, and in the way I daily walk with Christ. It is not easy, especially when there are people with whom we compare ourselves that we consider to be the Yves Saint Laurents of the church - high quality and out of our price range. But that's part of the problem. When no one, especially leaders, lets down their guard long enough to be real - to cry, to confess, to show weakness, to voice doubt - then we all think the only way to preserve our value is to be an imitation. But that is not real Christian living. Believers in Christ are not inhuman, and to be human is to hurt, to feel deeply, to struggle, and yes, to fail. When we do not manifest this humanness, we inadvertently encourage those around us to join in trying to be some other kind of species, which is what super-spiritual, unreal believers come off looking like to the world.
The Gillette Company launched an ad campaign in 1980 for its antiperspirant, Dry Idea called "Never let them see you sweat". In one television commercial, actress Lauren Hutton says to the camera, "Three things I have learned in being an actress: never audition first thing in the morning; never try to play a character half your age; and even if your leading man is prettier than you are, never ever let 'em see you sweat". This is the mantra of a society whose heroes are people who excel at pretending to be someone else on camera. There is a huge difference between being an actor on a stage and an athlete in a stadium. When you have a teammate out on the playing field, not only can you see them sweat, but after a hug or a high five, you can surely smell and even feel the sweat. Communities of Christ-followers are called to keep it real with one another. No make-up. No posturing. No rehearsed lines. I'm tired of acting and trying to hide my sweat. We were not called to be carefully staged and preplanned but rather fully spontaneous and authentic. We're called to be on a team that, win or lose, sweats and smells together. There is a high price to pay for counterfeits, so why be anything other than an original?
