Have you ever gotten a phone call that you just don’t know what to do with? No clue how to process. What to say? What to write? If it’s even OK to try and express anything at all?

Two short days ago, a colleague, co-laborer, and dear personal friend lost his life. As the new day was dawning, a woman walked into his church, pulled out a gun, and stole him away. From his wife and two year old daughter. From the community of Christ-followers that he heroically led. From all of us. He was 29 years old.

Heart attack and died.

Cancer and died.

Car accident and died.

Death is always tragic, but at least my brain can process those scenarios.

I don’t have a place for this one. It doesn’t fit. Doesn’t compute. I just don’t get it. And that insatiable need to explain can easily turn tragedy into triteness. These are the moments that birth cheap cliches.

Human beings are meaning machines. We need purpose. To know “why?” But I find, in times like these, my drive to understand is often a self-protection mechanism to dodge the pain.

On days like these, perhaps the most God-honoring response is just to grieve. Reflect. Remember. Weep. Feel it all. Fully.

Death will always feel foreign to us. Offensive. It wasn’t a part of God’s original design–a disastrous byproduct of man’s sin and rebellion. When we grieve, we acknowledge the imperfection of our current struggle and longing for the day when God will finally complete the restoration of His Creation. With that focus, grief itself can almost become an expression of worship.

Jaman my friend, I miss you already. Your wisdom. Your sense of humor. Your way of cutting through the bull and forcing the us to see the point. Knowing you changed me, and for that I am grateful.

Today we grieve. Not without sadness, but not without hope.

See you again buddy. But not soon enough.

Last year my sister in-law did something crazy (no, no….she married my brother 4 years ago).

She and her dad jumped out of an airplane. On purpose.

I’ve always wanted to skydive (theoretically), but the story that unfolded from the skies just outside of Houston, Texas gives me great pause. Britney’s dad, while plummeting to the earth at 125mph, encountered your worst possible skydiving fear.

His chute got tangled and didn’t completely open.

Thankfully, his tandem partner–the expert strapped to his back–was able to pull out a knife, cut away the worthless chute, and deploy the emergency backup just in time to bring them in for a safe (albeit somewhat harder than normal) landing. Best they figure, 30 seconds later and this story would have had a whole different ending (and point).

Free falls like this are why most people will only daydream of jumping from 10,000 feet. They’re also why most of us choose to stay locked up in assumptions about ourselves and God that simply aren’t true. The fear of the free fall outweighs the misery of the lies we’ve chosen to desperately cling to.

I’m unlovable.

I’m unqualified.

I’m the only one that struggles.

I can’t change.

God hates me.

I have to do it alone.

This is just the way I am.

I’m unforgivable.

We all claim to want freedom, but the responsibility that comes with it is often more than we can handle. It’s easier to be a victim than to embrace the identity God designed for us before the foundations of the earth were laid.

Trust me, I know.

Life can wound us (for some the trauma is horribly deep). Wounds are painful. So we fabricate stories, make vows, and construct an impenetrable fortress to protect ourselves from the hurt and shame. It’s natural. Understandable even. But these self-protections are lies that keep us enslaved. Unchecked, they become idols that we worship. Imposters of the one true God and false projections of our real identity.

Jesus offers liberty. Forgiveness. Hope. Life. But we have to let go of the lies. Repent. Risk the free-fall. And trust that in Christ, we have a tandem expert that ensures a safe landing. On free ground. In the truth–of who we are and Who He is.

You just have to find the courage to let go.

We’re talking about this for the next two months at City Community Church. You can hear my co-pastor Nathan LaGrange open the series by clicking here. You can also catch each week’s message on the CityCom mobile app, or even check in with us live online each Sunday at 11AM by clicking this link. Come free-fall with us.

What lies do you need to let go of? Start the conversation.

I don’t think it’s any secret that I’m a church rat. Contrary to popular rumors my mom did not give birth to me in the baptismal tank, but I pretty much grew up around the church. Developed my social circles there. “Found myself” amongst the pews and hymnals.

And as surprising as this may be to some of you–I’m grateful for that. I don’t remember one day when I wouldn’t have considered myself a sincere follower of Christ (even during the MTV rebellion of ’89).

I remember praying the magic salvation prayer for the first time in my bedroom when I was about 5 years old.

And then again at church on a Sunday morning (or seven….seventeen….ok, seventy).

And at church camp (every July from 1986 through the first Bush administration).

And those were good moments. Beautiful moments. Of decision. Of conviction. When my soul responded to a prick of the Holy Spirit and my heart surrendered to the voice of the Master.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past three (ok, nearly four) decades, it’s that transformation is a journey. A process. It may start with a momentary decision, but it’s all about movement and motion.

Last week I wrote a post defending church people, outlining our imperfections, admitting our humanity, and asking for a little grace (that we often forget to give). Not surprisingly, I got some push-back. But not from church haters. From church people.

“If the church is full of flawed human beings, how and when do the broken people get healed? If we’re just the same as everybody else, then what’s the point?” A valid question. If Jesus really is who we say He is, when do we get “better?” When does the change come?

My answer: It’s an ongoing journey of discovery, repentance, healing, & grace. Jesus isn’t a momentary magic elixir, He’s an active pursuit.

My adventure started with a simple bedroom prayer over 30 (some) years ago. Since then, it’s had numerous twists and turns and countless highs and lows. The most recent leg has been scary. Painful. Gut-wrenching. About 36 months long. And it’s not quite over yet.

I’ve outlined quite a bit of it here on the blog. I’ve been a meticulous people pleaser. I determined my value by how others perceived me. It’s rooted in some old wounds of rejection, and vehemently protected by lies about who I am and how God perceives me.

Three years ago, a few good books, some challenging sermons, and a dear friend helped shine light on those lies and the idols they had fashioned in my life.

Discovery.

Then over time, with the help of strong community, I began to acknowledge and ask forgiveness for embracing those deceptions. Not just a one-time prayer, but an ongoing recognition of when I was falling back into old habits and patterns, asking Jesus to do what only He can do to help me combat it.

Repentance.

As recently as this week (over 3 years later!), I’ve begun to notice different responses to my old sinful triggers. I’m stronger. Bolder. I know Who gives me value. I don’t own things that aren’t mine to own. I’ve changed.

Healing.

And the journey continues. New legs. New adventures. New discoveries. More repentance. Unending forgiveness. Renewed healing. Ongoing transformation. A journey of grace–that’s how we change.

How have you seen transformation happen in your life?

I was unpacking my bag on the bench when I caught two guys walk into the locker room out of the corner of my eye. There are three identical, contiguous locker bays at my gym–the other two were completely empty–yet this duo chose to pile their bags up next to mine and squeeze (just closely enough to make it awkward) into the same locker space I was occupying.

Alright. Relax. No big deal.

But when a fourth guy walked in, assessed the situation, completely ignored the other two empty locker bays, and proceeded to lean impatiently against the wall until I was finished, I had a sudden, involuntary flashback.

This is the same guy that used to attend my church when I was a kid! He and his wife would insist on the same seat each Sunday and go all wrath of God if your cheeks dared imprint on “their” cushion.

Wait a second. Maybe this isn’t a religious, “church-people” issue after all. Could it possibly just be a human issue?

I know you get a lot more attention when you rip on your own. Democrats who bash Obama. Republicans who light up Newt Gingrich. Pastors who criticize the church. That moves the needle. Makes people look. I’ve been known to do it myself (and sometimes it’s absolutely necessary).

But today I want to do something that may be a bit unpopular…

…come to the defense of church people.

(I know, I know….where’s he gonna go next? Mahmoud Ahmadinejad? Lindsay Lohan?)

Look, I admit, we’re quirky, hypocritical, naive, simplistic, condescending, annoying, unforgiving, myopic, rote, and graceless (at far too many times). And I’m guessing what probably irritates you the most is when we act like we’re better than you. Like we’ve got it all figured out. Like we’ve solved all the mysteries and our bathrooms don’t need air freshener. Nobody likes to feel “less than” (I’ll put myself at the top of that list).

You hate when we “church folk” seem to forget that we’re broken, fallen human beings.

So please, please, please do me a favor: don’t you forget it either.

We’re sheep following the Good Shepherd. Sometimes we wander. Sometimes we take our eyes off the Master. Sometimes we break a leg or fall in a ditch. Sometimes we make Jesus look real bad. We’re the sheep (not the brightest of animals), not the Shepherd.

That’s the beauty of the Gospel. Because of Jesus, God always welcomes us back.

Our issues aren’t “church people” issues. They’re human issues. That’s why I love this tweet from the pastor of the LA Dream Center, Matthew Barnett:

“The church is not a social club of fake perfection, it’s a place where broken people fall in love with a perfect God.”

We “church people” will do our best not to forget that, but do us a huge favor and please remember it, too.

What’s your “church pew?”

Some people make me uncomfortable. They say hard things. Offensive things. Their very presence makes me bristle. Raises my blood pressure. Makes me flat out angry.

And it’s good.

They’re called prophets. A term we don’t hear thrown around much in pop culture today (unless they’re referencing some crazy in a sheltered compound with a chalice of red kool-aid and 300 blank-eyed followers). But I believe the prophetic gift is still alive (Ephesians 4:11), and at times the brokenness and deception in our lives will be violently accosted by very difficult truth. Painful truth. Prophetic truth.

The Old Testament prophets were nut jobs. Often outcasts. Recluses. They’d marry prostitutes or walk around naked to visually illustrate the sins of God’s people. Their call was to repent. They weren’t easy to ignore, but they were pretty easy to marginalize.

I undoubtedly face the same impulse when encountering a prophetic voice today. They like to point at things in me that I don’t want you to see. That I really don’t even want to see myself. I prefer to move them to the crazy line and get on with my life.

But there’s another kind of voice that can sound strikingly similar. That also leaves you bristling, irritated, and maybe even a little PO’d (for a whole other reason).

The cynic.

Haters. Full of self-righteous condescension, a sharp tongue, caustic wit, and an uncanny ability to make you feel like a pile of dog crap. And here’s the difficult thing about The Prophet and The Cynic…

…sometimes it’s really hard to tell the difference between the two.

I’m a pastor, so I live and breathe in “church world.” Admittedly, this can become it’s own subculture of competing philosophies and debate. The tension between prophet and cynic is one I wrestle with every day (at times even in my own soul).

The Western Church could use a good kick in the pants. A cold bucket of wake-up reality check. We’ve bought into some idolatrous (and perhaps even dangerous) lies. At times, we’ve even misrepresented the Gospel. We need the prophetic voices to radically and urgently point us back towards the truth.

But some of you so-called prophets need a gut-check of your own. You’re not oracles, you’re just haters – finding visceral satisfaction in expressing your animosity towards things that may have hurt you, that make you envious, or that simply don’t line up with your own personal preferences.

You’re just negative people. Nothing’s good enough for you – ever right or worthy of celebrating. When you’re not bashing mega-churches, worship styles, church structures, or the latest comment made by some well-known spiritual leader, you’re angst turns towards the idiot repairman, the forgetful waitress, your overbearing boss, or the ridiculous common area mowing schedule of your neighborhood association.

You’re not a prophet, you’re just a whiner with verbal acumen. Having a condescending opinion might make you a great ESPN analyst, but it doesn’t qualify you as the voice of God.

How do we know the difference? I fear mistaking prophetic words for the ramblings of a cynic. But I also fear gravitating towards the emotional woo of a hater assuming I’m hearing from God. So here’s a simple thought:

The prophet is motivated by redemption.

The cynic just wants to feel right.

What do you think? How do we discern between the two?