sermon. (wait. what? sermon?): evagrius ponticus and the eight deadly thoughts

IMG_1636Scott asked me a while back if I’d like to preach. My answer, like any sane, rational person, was NO WAY. But almost immediately I changed my mind. We are doing a series on saints of the church, so I decided to share on Evagrius Ponticus, a 4th century monk who devised a list called the Eight Deadly Thoughts. I’ve been studying about him for awhile, as these thoughts are the subject of a book I’m working on. 

My favorite part of the morning was hearing from some of the church ladies, who told me they were proud of me for being the first pastor’s wife to ever preach. It made my morning. Then they gave me flowers, which made it even more.

We are not very tech-savvy yet at our church so there is no video, but I thought I’d post the manuscript of the sermon here, for anyone interested. 

I am not a preacher, necessarily, so instead I will start with something more familiar to me: I will tell you a story. Six years ago, I was living in Kansas City. I was going to school full-time to earn a Master’s of Fine Arts degree at the University of Kansas, and, in tandem with that, I was teaching two sections of freshman writing course. Anyway, being a TA paid significantly less than being a public school teacher. Scott and I had recently purchased a house and so, for what we pay here in Santa Monica in monthly preschool fees, we had a mortgage. And, as he was still finishing school, we needed more income.  Thus began what was probably the busiest season of my life. I was working five part-time jobs at once: the college teaching, waitressing at a Mexican food restaurant, taking calls at the front desk of a snow removal company, selling candles as an independent rep, and proctoring college entrance exams. Oh– and remember I was going to school.

When I found out I was pregnant with Miles, my world got a lot slower very quickly. I quit work at the Mexican food restaurant, for fear that I would slip and hurt the baby. I took naps daily. I let Scott be in charge of most of the laundry, because doing laundry meant going up and down our very steep basement steps. And because I hate laundry. It was as if my body were preparing me, via pregnancy, for what I’d experience later.

Soon after Miles was born, I had to get used to living at a toddler’s pace. This, of course, is different from quitting jobs and taking more naps. This is meandering. Straggling. Lolly-gagging.

To say I have been bored and impatient for some of these years is not inaccurate, I’m afraid.  I have had to relearn how to go slow—or perhaps learn it for the first time—and young children are persistent teachers. I struggled, sometimes, with sitting on the floor to play a session of choo-choo trains with my son. Building the track was tolerable, as there are at least a few mental gymnastics involved in making sure the track eventually becomes connected at all the ends; it was what came after that drove me nuts. I couldn’t fathom how he could want to send the trains around the circular track again. We’d been around the track. A lot. I was the green train, he was the blue train. He got the biggest car. I tried injecting some imagination into this play—I came up with overused action movie plots in the quiet of my brain where the trains were transporting drugs or long-lost lovers or bombs or lethal assassins. That helped a little. But the plot always seemed to lag on the seventh or eighth lap. There is only so much excitement that happens in a loop.

Only recently have I begun to realize that the boredom had been teaching me something. It came as a surprise, because I have never given boredom a chance to be a teacher. In fact, I spent a good deal of time angry and frustrated that I was bored at all. It was during this time that I started studying a bit about the desert fathers and mothers, as they are so known (for their tendency to hang out in the desert, seeking solitude and stillness). They thought a lot about the practice of listening to the boredom, learning from it. They call it a “recollection of the self,” and Kathleen Norris describes well the sentiment behind the practice:

“Can’t we just call it a day, and give our overanxious and ironic selves a rest? Might we consider boredom as not only necessary for our life but also as one of its greatest blessings? A gift, pure and simple, a precious chance to be alone with our thoughts and alone with God.”

A recollection of self. We collect ourselves. Again. We remember that we are more than productivity machines; we are spirit and soul and heart and consciousness, too. So, after being kidnapped by the mundane for enough time, I began to discover a fresh desire to care for my inner world a bit. Cut its fingernails, wash its hair. I was spending a great deal of time with myself, so naturally I wanted to make my inner self a little cuter.

It was during this time that I was first introduced to the Eight Deadly Thoughts. A desert father, Evagrius Ponticus, compiled this list in the early 4th Century. He sought to itemize and label the most tempting “bad thoughts” that a monk might encounter. And while they may have been intended for an audience of monks and solitaries, they felt universal to me. I recognized myself in each of them (well, the ones I could define, at least): gluttony, impurity, avarice, sadness, anger, acedia, vainglory, and pride. The list felt even more true as I began to understand that Evagrius was not simply ranking the thoughts he believed were worst, but the ones he felt were part and parcel of every other sort of harmful thought. They were where harmful things might begin to be nurtured. These thoughts were the peat moss. The amniotic fluid.

Evagrius’s emphasis on the mind, and the discipline that goes along with contemplation and stillness, is what made me interested in studying him a bit. He was interested in how we practice our faith, every day, in the particular realm of ours that we think of as our “heads.” For me, though, it is difficult or perhaps impossible to separate the mind from the heart and even the gut. Our inner worlds are so rich and full, always with us, narrating the world for our, making sense of things, giving us complexes. In church, we often talk about actions, which, I think, is right: our outward expressions are of great importance. “Faith without works is dead,” James wrote. But we can’t ignore the mind, either, because how we think about things, and what things we think about, is important and, really, informs the way that we act. One commentator wrote that “For Evagrius, such observation was a form of searching for God,” (p 9) and that’s my desire, too. As I tell you a bit about what Evagrius thought and taught about, I hope that we may all get a little glimpse more of what God is like, what God wants for us, and the value with which He views us, His children.

Let me stop here and give you a little bit of information about Evagrius. He was born in the year 345 AD and, even though we’ve been learning that a “saint” is anyone who follows after Christ, he may be more in line with what you envision a “saint” to be. He had a beard, for instance. And most of the portraits that survive of him are ones that look like this: with the halo-ey thing and the crazy eyes. Right? Or is this only me that pictures a saint in this way?

He started his career in Constantinople, where he was quite a big deal and where he studied with other guys who were also very big deals. (I would give you a list, but most of us probably don’t have a good working knowledge of who was important in the theological world back in the fourth century, so I will skip it and you will just have to trust me.) There was a great deal of temptation in a place like Constantinople, for a person such as Evagrius, and he began to notice himself struggling spiritually. He was garnering lots of high praise from his contemporaries, so he struggled with vanity and pride. He was surrounded by good food and drink and found himself growing gluttonous. The final straw for him, perhaps, was when he fell in love with a married woman. He had a dream in which the woman’s husband had him imprisoned by the governor’s soldiers, and he decided immediately thereafter to high-tail it for Jerusalem. His insides were not matching his outsides, he realized– he had all this potential, was so well-regarded by others, and he felt himself constantly attacked by these vices that he just couldn’t escape. So he left.

I will tell you right now that that’s enough to get my attention. You hear a lot about people who hit rock bottom and then they decide they need God, but Evagrius was at the top of his game. He was at the pinnacle. And he knew that he had to do something because his heart was somehow getting away from him. I admire that quite a bit, and I don’t think it’s easy. Because when everybody likes you, and the food is good, and you have a cushy place to live, and you have everything under control– it’s easy to fall under the impression that, man, you are just awesome at life. But Evagrius knew otherwise.

I think what I like most about Evagrius is his emphasis on practice. Probably his most famous piece of writing is called The Praktikos, and I think, if you look at the way he lived, you get a good idea that when he practiced his faith, it was really more like he practiced and practiced and practiced it. It took a lot of practicing, and it seems to me that Evagrius was not one to just call it good enough. He was never like, “Well, now that I’m friends with Basil of Clement and the people in Constantinople listen to me when it comes to God, I should be a shoe-in for heaven so I can just chill.” No.

When you’ve been at faith a long time, I think it’s pretty easy to achieve a certain comfortableness with it. I think, for me, that was true. After college and getting married and attending church enough time, I felt like I was a pretty good Christian. Not great or anything, but I knew that I knew God, and I was a faithful member of a church and I’d gone on a few mission trips to Mexico and whatnot, and I tried to be nice to people, generally, and I knew the bible stories.  And I think I just stayed there for awhile. I coasted. Maybe it was because I didn’t know what else to do? Or maybe I was just content to be “good enough.”

So Evagrius moved to a little monastery near Jerusalem for a bit, and then finally to the desert. He was searching for stillness, I think. He spent the rest of his life in the desert, surrounded by a monastic community of solitaries who were in it for the same reasons. He wrote, and he prayed, and he taught until he died in the last year of the fourth century.

Now. I have a question for you. How many of you, at one time or another, have wished that you could know what someone else is thinking? Raise your hand. OK, most of us, right?  Second question: How many of you have ever wished that everyone else knew exactly what you were thinking? How dreadful would this be? On a first date? Or when you’re in over your head at work? Talking to your boss, maybe? Trying to be patient with your kids? In a conference with your pastor? Oh, Lord have mercy, right? That would not be for me! When you think about it, it is kind of amazing that we all have these personal little worlds that we cultivate in our heads. And the bible has a lot to say about our minds, how we tend to them.

One of my favorite verses regarding the mind is probably one that you’re familiar with:

“I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters,[a] by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual[b] worship. 2 Do not be conformed to this world,[c] but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect.[d]

I love the word “transform.” There is a certain magic to it, don’t you think? Perhaps that’s because, most of the time, we encounter the word couched in fairy tales: a pumpkin is transformed into a stagecoach with the flick of a wand and a Bibbity-Bobbity-Boo. With a simple kiss, a frog or a beast becomes a prince. A mermaid gains legs, a teacup becomes a little boy, an ice castle springs up where there was just lumps of snow.

Transformed, here, in the Greek is METAMORPHOMAI which means the that the outer form changes into something new because of something that happened inwardly. That’s what the Disney versions never seem to capture in the animation– the changes happen instantaneously and usually involve spinning sparkles, but we don’t hear that the outer newness is the result of some inner change. The pumpkin didn’t think long and hard about its place in the world and decide, instead, to pursue life as a carriage.

It’s a wonder, isn’t it, how people can change? How our minds, by continuous renewal and by the power of the Holy Spirit, can become new? Do you believe this? Have you seen it?

In Ephesians, Paul brings up the same idea again, writing:

You were taught, with regard to your former way of life, to put off your old self, which is being corrupted by its deceitful desires; 23 to be made new in the attitude of your minds; 24 and to put on the new self, created to be like God in true righteousness and holiness.

There’s that word again: “renewed.” The way the Greek word works, or so I’m told, by people who know Greek, which is not me, is that the construction of the word suggests a process. One that is ongoing. Continuous. Our minds are renewed again, and again, and again. This is reinforced by Paul’s use of “put off,” which is a figurative expression much like how one might “put off” their garments every day. We do it again, and again, and again. We practice, knowing that God is also at work in our very hearts.

As I mentioned earlier, Evagrius developed a list of eight thoughts that he believed every single one of us will struggle with. A few hundred years later, someone else tweaked these to become something you’re probably more familiar with– the seven deadly sins– but I happen to believe they are more helpful when you consider them as thoughts. Even more helpful is thinking of them as patterns of thoughts. A way of thinking.

In Romans, Paul talks about this dichotomy between a mind focused on the spirit versus one focused on the flesh. It is a relatively familiar passage, I think, but I want to share here the way The Message bible translates it, because I think it will help us consider it with new ears:

5-8 Those who think they can do it on their own end up obsessed with measuring their own moral muscle but never get around to exercising it in real life. Those who trust God’s action in them find that God’s Spirit is in them—living and breathing God! Obsession with self in these matters is a dead end; attention to God leads us out into the open, into a spacious, free life. Focusing on the self is the opposite of focusing on God. Anyone completely absorbed in self ignores God, ends up thinking more about self than God. That person ignores who God is and what he is doing.

So I want to delve into these eight deadly thoughts a little bit. I want you to get a feel for them, because I think that part of the way God works in us is by helping us recognize when these temptations occur, and by helping us discover a new way of thinking, of living.


This one, we usually think about in terms of food. It is over-eating, overindulging. But it isn’t ALL about food. It’s a bit bigger, and it refers to any time we over-do something that is necessary for us. Another way to think about it: it’s desire without restraint.


So lust is usually associated with sexual immorality. It has to do with bodies, and especially how we might take advantage of bodies without real concern or care, or how we might put more value in bodies than we do in the people they house. But lust isn’t only about sex. You can also have a lust for power, or blood lust. There’s also wanderlust, but I don’t know that the desire to travel is one to be real concerned about.  No, another way to think about lust is as a desire for something wrong.


Avarice is an unfamiliar word, but it’s definitely not an unfamiliar topic or feeling. Usually, now, it is translated into “greed.” It’s a specific type of greed, though. It is a hoarding, clenching sort of greed. It’s the kind of greed that stores and stores and stores up our things, just in case we might need them later. It is kind of how I think about baby clothes– a sickness that you might easily diagnose if you were ever invited into my garage! So, avarice is the desire for something more.


I had trouble with this one at first. How could sadness lead to sin? Well, it doesn’t always. Evagrius describes this sort of sadness as a wish that things were somehow different. It can trap you, really, into just wishing away your whole life. It is sort of related to envy. So sadness is the desire for something else.


Anger. Other words for anger might be indignation or bitterness. It’s when we look at something or someone, or the past, and think that we were right and someone else was wrong and now they have to pay. It’s where the whole idea of revenge comes from. So anger is the desire for something “right.”


Here’s another familiar word. I will be real honest here and tell you that this is the deadly thought that I struggle with the most. Acedia is what Evagrius calls the “noonday demon.” It’s the one that looks at the hands on the clock, and thinks about how many minutes there are until bedtime. It’s associated with sloth, with laziness, but it’s worse than those two because acedia is really a rejection of the day, of time. Acedia is the desire for something less.


Vainglory is a concept that the church needs to think about more, I think. It’s an old word, one that we don’t really use all the time, but I have heard it said that this particular deadly thought is especially associated with the clergy and with religious people in general. Vainglory is smugness, thinking that we are somehow better or more righteous than other people. It’s the idea that comes into your mind, even while I’m describing these eight deadly thoughts, that you know someone who really needs to work on their lust problem or their anger issue. Do you recognize that thought? Oh man, I do. It’s so much easier to diagnose other people’s problems, isn’t it? Vainglory is the desire for superiority.


For Evagrius, pride was the biggest. This one is similar to vainglory, but not the same. It is the belief or the attitude that you can do it on your own. That you don’t need others. That you don’t really even need God. You can handle it. This one sneaks in everywhere, and it is amazing how easy it is for us to not even realize its deadliness. Pride is the desire for independence.

Do you hear it there? In these explanations? Every one of these deadly thoughts is focused on the flesh. On self. On me. On what I get out of life, on how I view life, in how comfortable I am in my life.

But Romans says: “Obsession with self in these matters is a dead end; attention to God leads us into the open, into a spacious, free life.” It’s not that God wants to give us all of these rules to control our lives, it’s more that freedom, a truly free and beautiful and good life, comes when we learn how to put off these desires of the flesh, when we learn how to put off the old self and put on the new self, the self which is transformed and renewed to look more and more like Christ.

Sometimes, the bible is just great because you have a question, and it just answers you flat out. Sometimes, that’s not the case, and there’s no easy answer, but sometimes, there just IS. And this time, there IS. Philippians 2:5, in one translation, says: “Think as Christ Jesus thought.” Wow. Why, thank you very much, God, for spelling it out this way. Here’s that verse and what follows it:

5 Have this attitude [e]in yourselves which was also in Christ Jesus, 6 who, although He existed in the form of God, did not regard equality with God a thing to be [f]grasped, 7 but [g]emptied Himself, taking the form of a bond-servant, and being made in the likeness of men. 8 Being found in appearance as a man, He humbled Himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death[h]on a cross. 9 For this reason also, God highly exalted Him, and bestowed on Him the name which is above every name, 10 so that at the name of Jesus every knee will bow, of those who are in heaven and on earth and under the earth, 11 and that every tongue will confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.

There is nothing inherently magic about Evagrius’s list of eight thoughts. You can’t think about them and then work on them, one by one, checking them off like a to-do list. It’s not the be-all, end-all of Christian living, or the trick it takes to move up a level in spirituality. Darn it. In fact, the list is nowhere specifically in the bible– rather, traces of these thoughts show up all over the text. It’s just one way to get closer to what we’re really called to, and that, my friends, is no small thing. We’re called  what we’re called to do is to become more like Christ, in our actions as well as in our thoughts. (You can fake the actions, you know, but it’s a little trickier to fake your thoughts.)

The mind of Christ is humble, it is generous, it is trusting, it puts others ahead. It does not seek the desires that an earthly mind might, but it is transformed by and into love. “In the beginning was the Word.” Not the law. Not the rules. John is not even talking about the bible here. He’s talking about Jesus. “The Word became flesh and walked among us.” The Word of God put on skin. So when we seek to live with a mind focused on the spirit, I can’t help but realize how incredibly blessed we are to have had the example of someone, of God even, who came before us and showed us how to live, how to be, and even, how to think. What a beautiful story to remember, again and again, in the stillness and the boredom. In the quiet.

*I would like to give credit to my new email-friend Frank Murphy, who is the driving force behind a website that has helped me interact with the deadly thoughts. “The desire to…” ideas are his. Visit for more of his work!


evie dances


There are some Christian praise songs that leave me feeling a bit uncomfortable because, not to put too fine a point on it, they sort of sound like a pack of lies. When I was in college, maybe a decade or so ago–though I’m actively trying to rationalize a way to state differently that so it doesn’t so far away–there was a song with this lyric: “We lift our holy hands up/ we want to touch you.” I used to get physically annoyed when that part came. I’d shut up, stop singing, purse my lips like your very disappointed substitute teacher. Not just because of the “holy hands” part, though my hands were far from holy.  Nor from the creepy feeling that “we want to touch you” seemed to give me. It was the part about lifting our hands. I always looked around the chapel at that point, tried to count the number of holy hands that were raised in song. Not many. So basically we were just lying to God. In melody form.

There are a number of songs like this, that advertise how we’re dancing or standing or lifting our hands or clapping our hands or waving our hands for Jesus. Maybe I am too much of a literalist. After all, I don’t necessarily shake when listening to Taylor Swift. Not always, at least.

My dad has this thing about being told what to do in church services. He doesn’t like it. He’s a grouch like that, but I totally get it. If the guy leading the singing says, “Everybody stand with me,” my dad will just sit there. Because he is awesome like that, and because he is an Enneagram 8– The Challenger– and he likes to challenge authority, even if the authority is only a skinny kid with a guitar on a tiny stage. (It was rough on my dad for a few years, being this grumpy, but now I feel like he’s finally hit his stride– he’s old enough where it is endearing in a Walter Matthau sort of a way. It works for him.) He says that Jesus told us to pray in secret, not out loud in front of a bunch of church people. That philosophy extends, for him, to dancing and clapping and all that. I’m pretty sure my dad dances in secret, but don’t tell him I said that.

I don’t necessarily hate being told when to stand or sit during a service, probably in part because my dad has given me permission to worship whatever way feels right and true. I never feel pressure that the skinny kid or Jesus or really anyone is disappointed in my choice to stand or sit or close my eyes.

I do sometimes wish there was a little more Pentecostal in me, though. Have you ever visited a really participatory church service? I went with my friend to her church in Kansas City a few times. Risen Lamb. The congregation was mostly African American, and their style of worship was so fun. They sang “hallelujah” and “amen” just whenever the mood struck–even during announcements, like when someone mentioned there was going to be an all-church BBQ and people should sign up to bring potato salad. They danced. They waved their hands around. They were very noisy. By contrast, I have never felt quite so stiff, and I actively tried to mentally convince myself to “get my groove back,” so to speak.

It was like the time when my friend Nick invited me to homecoming. He was the best dancer in the whole school. I will always remember how he break-danced on stage to a Beastie Boys medley in the talent show. Anyway, I probably should have thought about that before saying yes. The entire night, I danced really, really poorly and really, really self-consciously, as I always do. And he danced, as he always danced, like someone who could have been on Soul Train. It was a little awkward. And that is how I felt at Risen Lamb, even though nobody was trying to make me feel that way.

Anyway, this week, during service, we sang another song with lyrics that made me uncomfortable: “Lift my hands and spin around/ See the light that I have found/ Oh the Marvelous Light!/ The Marvelous Light!” But this time, my Grinchy heart grew three sizes or so, because my three-year-old was in front of me doing just that. Hands lifted, denim dress spinning, chubby little legs peeking out. She does this every week, in fact, during whatever song we are singing, sometimes during the prayer or the Scripture reading, when it is totally inappropriate and somewhat distracting, she is dancing. Usually, she has flung off her shoes by this point, but my favorite is when she is wearing the beat up red and black cowboy boots that are flaking from the amount of love and wear they’ve received.

At first I wondered if I should let her do this. Would it bother other church members? I was silly to worry, though, as no fewer than, well, everybody at church, has sidled up to me at some point or another to tell me how charmed they are by watching Evie. It is as if she has injected a fresh sense of wonder into all of us.

She is unconcerned about how she looks or what other people will think. She is dancing because she likes how it feels to spin, because that is what the music or the Lord or maybe just her boredom compels her to do. She is free. O Marvelous Light.

when you visit my church

The past month or two, I have noticed a small trickle of visitors coming into our church. Usually not more than two or three people a week, most come because they live in the neighborhood and have noticed, themselves, a trickle of life in the old building. So they show up for Sunday morning worship, not knowing quite what to expect, other than, perhaps, that our web page is a little outdated or that the plants outside look pretty.

I have been struck with how difficult it is to be in this position– a person on the hunt for a body of believers to belong to. Only once or twice in my life have I really been there. You can’t count childhood, because the decision to try a new church belonged to my parents. But in college I looked, and when we first moved to Kansas City, a new place and a new part of the world, Scott and I church-hopped then, too.

Church hopping was a goal of ours for a few months. Scott was in school to become a pastor, so we knew that soon enough we wouldn’t be able to have the opportunity to see many other church services than the ones he led. We kind of liked being the visitors at first– no responsibilities, no one asking you to volunteer in children’s church or troubleshoot some sound problem. We got in, we found the donut table, we listened to the service, we got out. Afterward, we critiqued the pastor on his (usually his) sermon and his hair and sometimes his voice. (Actually, this was mostly me. I am not a good example. But one guy sounded so much like Jon Lovitz that I couldn’t concentrate on anything else.)

Coming into a church service you don’t know is brave. You are the stranger for a bit.  You wait for cues to tell you how the community does things, or, like, where the bathroom is. Maybe you are overdressed. Maybe you are underdressed. If you are an introvert like both Scott and I are, then you save up your energy for the “meet and greet” time, when, at many churches, you are meant to shake hands and make small talk with strangers. Sometimes the church community is friendly, sometimes it is aloof. Sometimes they do things you don’t like or understand, but you also realize that you are the outsider here. Sometimes you are astounded at the beauty of it all.

The smaller the church, the braver the visitor, I think. You are bound to be noticed when the congregation is small. You stick out a little, just by virtue of us not knowing your name. But I continue to be impressed by the people who do it, who risk the vulnerability to find a church home. Some of them are long-time Christians, others come from completely different traditions, and some are just sticking their toes in the water of faith.

Only a small handful of visitors have decided to stay at our church in the last few months. Three, to be precise, so that is a baby-sized handful. It’s a Denise-from-Saturday-Night-Live-sized handful.

I suspect that many of the other visitors came in, looked around, realized that there were not too many people like them in the service, and decided to go elsewhere. I understand this, and I recognize that some people, at some points in their lives, desperately need a ready-made community who looks like they do. But it only serves to increase my respect for people who do stay. It shows vision and a lot of hope, I think, to invest in a church body that is in your neighborhood, even if it is not yet the church of your wildest dreams. If there are only a few young people, you become one of them. If the music’s not great, you add your voice to the choir. If you wish there was more of an emphasis on missions, you set up a laundromat ministry. You decide, again, to be in a position where you’re not quite comfortable, to help the church become more like the one in your wildest dreams. You stick around. Like the adage, “You’re not IN traffic, you ARE traffic,” we sometimes don’t realize just how integral our role in making up a church body actually is.

So, church visitors, keep coming. There is a reason our sign says “All are Welcome,” and it’s not just because I’m too lazy to change the lettering every week. You’re not only welcome, but you’re wanted, in whatever way you choose to come, for however long you choose to stay.

on delighting in each other

One of the things we do for fun around here, now that we are Californians again after eight years in the Midwest, is to go to Disneyland. Scott’s parents, Rick and Vonnie, gave us Annual Passes to the Magic Kingdom as a welcome-home present, and we are using them any chance we get. (This means we are frugal, right? We save more and more money every time we go? It’s good for the budget? Even though we find ourselves spending fifty dollars on ice cream and churros each trip? Right?) But I digress.

During these excursions, it’s easy to get annoyed. There are just so many people! Rick said he heard a rumor that Disneyland will intentionally over-sell tickets, disregarding the expensive fine the park is subject to if an inspector from the city were to show up, because the money they make on the extra sales will far outweigh the cost of the fine. I don’t know if this is true, but it certainly feels true when you have to wait forty minutes to ride the Peter Pan ride.

Throughout the day, it is not uncommon for me to get annoyed at bad drivers on the way there, or at people who cut in line, or at people who dart in front of you with their unwieldy double stroller (oh wait, that was probably me), or at people who don’t wear enough clothing, or at grown people who wear clothes with giant Mickey heads embroidered on the front, or at people who make out in public in front of my kids, or at people who curse loudly, or at people who are just innocently ahead of me in a long line, or at a giant horde of teenagers on a field trip with their student government class. If I let myself, I can become a big ball of annoyance.


My favorite memory from the park on Friday happened in the parking lot. We were meeting Rick and Vonnie there, and we saw them walking toward us from a long way off. Evie, my almost-three-year-old, took off running for her Papa at her first glimpse of him. It is so cute how she runs– chubby, shorts-clad legs, the shuffle of someone who is still growing and growing-into herself, her arms crooked at the sides like a PE teacher’s. She ran for a hundred feet, perhaps, and practically sprung into Papa’s outstretched arms.

The scene is familiar. Anyone who has raised a child can resonate with it. Near us that morning was a gentleman who could, and his smile–this total stranger’s–matched Evie’s completely.

There is something quite spiritual about watching other people enjoy each other. After seeing this man’s reaction to my daughter’s run, I did my best to recognize moments of delight that day. And you know what? Despite the culture wars you find on the Internet—mothers and fathers debating everything from breastfeeding to spanking to packing a school lunch– it turns out that most parents really, truly love their children–even the people who are wrong about breastfeeding and spanking and even the people who don’t fashion their children’s bananas into Jedi swords each morning. At Disneyland, their eyes gleam with pride when a child is finally brave enough to try the rollercoaster. They lift up babies on shoulders for a better view of the fireworks. They are more excited than their five-year-old Toy Story fanatics to meet Buzz Lightyear. They can’t stop taking pictures on i-Phones– sometimes stealthily so a teenager won’t object. They lovingly drape arms around each other, they share their water bottles and their jackets, they explain in sweet tones why another bit of cotton candy would be a bad idea. It’s not relegated only to parents, either. Boyfriends and girlfriends, grandparents, best friends, little brothers.

Sometimes, in my petty mind, I wake up and remember how like the final scene of Love, Actually this world really is. When I do, I pray like crazy that this is how God sees us, and I am filled with hope because I believe that God does. I believe it in my bones, and I am challenged, then, to be more like Him, to see more like Him, to love with wild abandon and with a little less of a chip on my shoulder because someone weasled their way ahead of me in line because his son had to use the restroom or something.

To love God and to love neighbor– the two greatest commands, Jesus said. I am startled, sometimes, by how intertwined they always are.

a text for the little guys

Last week, one sweet parishioner pulled me aside after the Sunday service and whispered in my ear, “Don’t worry—it will happen.” She must have noticed me scanning the crowd (can you call it a crowd when only twenty of the, perhaps, 200 seats are filled?). To be honest, I wasn’t necessarily concerned about the numbers at that moment.  But there are always reminders that, culturally at least, I should be.

“The church is facing a huge problem,” writes author and pastor Tim Suttle. “We have become enamored with size. We have become infatuated with all things bigger, better, stronger, higher and faster.” In his new book Shrink: Faithful Ministry in a Church-Growth Culture (Zondervan, 2014), Suttle attempts to change the Christian leadership conversation. Faithfulness, he reiterates again and again, is the name of the game, not success.

This seemingly simple shift is a pretty big leap to make, though, when one considers the hold that success has on our culture. The first section of Shrink is titled “Don’t Try to Be Great.” In it is some of Suttle’s bravest stuff, and though it is written with church leaders in mind, it is valuable for anyone who calls her- or himself a Christ-follower. It is brave in articulating how easy it becomes for us to revere the giants, or to stroke our egos by striving for greatness and fame. Suttle says it this way: “If we honestly and critically assess the basic underlying assumptions on which we operate as Christian leaders, at the heart of the current leadership conversation we will find not the Christian narrative, but the American narrative of growth and expansion.”

The Jesus way, Suttle says, is down. It is humility, vulnerability, brokenness, generosity. Through our weakness, God’s power is made perfect, the Scripture tells us. Counter-cultural to say the least, and probably not how most would describe the culture of today’s church.

Suttle is not one to stop at a critique, though, and the gift of this book is how encouraging I believe it will be to pastors who feel that somehow they’ve failed or fallen short, whether they are pastors of megachurches or tiny congregations who meet in someone’s living room. Perhaps my favorite section is the last one, which is titled “Growing in Virtue.” It is about 100 pages in length– almost half the book– and it describes in very practical terms six virtues that will help pastors focus on faithfulness as they lead. It challenged me to nurture Christlike characteristics in myself and to go out of my way to care for the broken and weak in our neighborhood.

What sets Shrink apart from so many other church leadership books is its heart, which, of course, is the best kind of guts. As I read this book, it was easy to remember back a few months ago, when Tim was my pastor and I was sitting in one of the wooden chairs at his church in Olathe, Kansas. Included in the text are illustrations he’d used before in sermons, real-life examples from the life of our church, and a choked-up quality that Tim’s voice takes on whenever he talks about something he really cares about.

Since my husband took over as lead pastor almost six months ago, lots of things have changed at our church: the preaching, the order of service, the children’s ministry, the look of the building.

The numbers, though, haven’t. We are still the same twenty or so.

What an incredible blessing it is to read words like this from Shrink: “When church leaders focus on faithfulness (read: fidelity, virtue, and an active, living, breathing allegiance to the way of Christ), they have done all they are meant to do– regardless of their ministry’s results. Faithfulness is our part; growth is God’s part.”

in praise of the small church

The first thing you realize, probably, when you join a small church is how integral you are. Just super, super important. Pivotal, really. Entire ministries, and probably the pastor’s general feeling of adequacy, rise and fall based on whether or not you show up. This is not something easily understood by mega-chuch-goers. If you don’t show up at a mega-church, nobody notices. Not one single being. Which is, of course, the appeal of mega-churches: you don’t have to be in charge of the choir, count the money, and serve a two-week-a-month shift in the nursery at a mega-church. At a mega-church, you are in and then, after the service, you are out.  Like you’re attending a matinee at the movie theater, you throw your coffee cup in the trash at the door and then make your way to the car, which is parked in the Donald Duck lot, third level.

Although I’ve only been at my current tiny church for a couple months, I already feel it. In fact, as early as Scott’s interview, before I was officially attending and living in the state, I was asked: 1. Whether or not I could sing, 2. Whether or not I could play the piano,  and 3. How I would feel about re-vamping the children’s ministry? I was ready for these questions, in some respect. I’ve done the small church thing before. I’ve felt the overwhelmedness that comes from attempting to run a church with fewer able-bodied people than a little league line-up.

Now, only four or so months in, I am already on the other side of the conversation; I’m already the one looking around wondering who might be available to bake communion bread next week, and whether or not I could get them on a semi-permanent rotation.

But it’s not only about the tasks. Whether we want it to be true or not, success sometimes feels tied to the number of bodies that are occupying seats on Sunday morning, and this is especially apparent on Sundays when people are out of town. All it takes is one or two families to go on vacation and it feels like the whole thing is a sinking ship. Likewise, visitors become something of a hot commodity. Have you ever heard someone complain that “Not a single person at that church even said hello to me”? At Santa Monica Nazarene, the opposite is true. You may be driven away by our desperation, but not by our aloofness. In fact, you will probably leave with the phone numbers of people who have volunteered to water your plants if you ever go on vacation, a few hard candies, and maybe a lipstick stain from somebody’s grandmother on your cheek.  A few weeks ago, we had a new couple from around the neighborhood show up, and I had to almost physically restrain myself from hugging them too tightly and begging them to never, not ever, leave me, in the vein of the overzealous redhead Elmyra Duff from Tiny Toons Adventures, who loved fluffy animals so much she veritably choked them to death with affection each episode. So that is a little bit of what I feel for Fred and Valerie.

While all of this might be interpreted as a warning to avoid churches like mine at all cost, it’s far from it.

I first realized this a few years ago when I attended one of the most memorable church services I’d ever been part of. One I shared with only twenty-three others.

The church was my father-in-law Rick’s. It has been around for millions of years, and, if you added up the years of the thirty or so regular attendees, it would probably be in the millions, too. (My father-in-law often joked that he and his wife were the “youngsters” in attendance.) The building itself was beautiful if a little aged—wooden pews, a stained glass of Jesus as the Good Shepherd, an old piano, dark wood beams flanking the ceiling.

After the singing, which was just Rick and a pianist, and neither could quite agree on a tempo, came the Scripture reading. It was from Romans—the passage that includes the “more than conquerors” verse. An older gentleman read for us, and he began with a shaky voice and the disclaimer that he hoped he would be able to get through it, as he seemed on the verge of tears. He almost didn’t. He had to pause a few times to collect himself, run his handkerchief gruffly across his nose, clear his throat. “The Word of the Lord,” he said after what seemed like ages. I don’t know whether he was embarrassed by this show of emotion, the stuttering and the pausing and the obvious nose running, because everyone in that arched sanctuary knew what was on his mind.

You see, their pastor, my father-in-law, had just been diagnosed with cancer– and this, the second round. That Romans passage speaks differently to you when you’re faced with circumstances like those. The twenty-four of us “suffered with,” so to speak, in the moments in which the Word of the Lord was read in our hearing.

Rick asked me later that evening if I thought that a church like his was still relevant in today’s world. They were just a bunch of old folks, only a handful of them at that, and, in the interest of full disclosure, that church body is no longer in existence anymore– swallowed up and taken on by a bigger church.

But I suppose that this is my answer.  

This week, I was back with the kids– we’ve got everyone, from our tiniest two-year-old to our most mature teenagers– in one room. I had prepared a craft I was excited about: they were glitter bottles that swirled and twisted and glittered and then, after a few minutes, settled. These bottles are used often as “time out” bottles for kids– watching the falling glitter is calming and peaceful and something to take one’s mind off of all of the feelings he or she might be feeling. I thought we could all use a little of that. Plus, the story that week was on Jesus’s parable of the leaven, which basically says: The kingdom of heaven is like yeast. So, yeast or glitter, we were getting mixed up and overwhelmed by that little image. 

I continue to be a terrible planner who is only motivated by the thought of impending doom, so, while I had put together the lesson and the craft only the night before, I was obsessed with making it just right, so much so that I was fifteen minutes late to church because I couldn’t find a store that sold clear glue. (What is the deal with Elmer? Is he trying to take over the world?) Anyway, after the hassle of two days’ worth of searching for stupid clear glue (five stores, to be precise), my kids were the only ones to show up to Sunday School. My kids and three teenagers who looked as if they would rather be anywhere else than listening to the kids’ sermon that Sunday morning. 

Total flop. #fail. #whybother. But you know what? The six of us, plus my mom, who had driven a few hours to help– and who had braved Walmart in search of the blasted clear glue– made glittery bottles together. Some of the teenagers might have even laughed. And maybe that made all of it worth it. Maybe that will be a Sunday morning I will remember for the rest of my life.