Restoration and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

I've got a 1971 350 Honda motorcycle. It's in relatively decent shape, until I look at the fully restored ones online. Then, not so much. Would I like to restore it? Yes. Wait. No -- I'd like it to be restored.

Mine doesn't look like this...

I don't want to do the restoration. To restore it means tearing it apart. Removing dents. Repainting. Getting intimate with grease that predates my birth and dealing with gunk that remembers Nixon. I'm learning that if one owns a vintage bike, one either needs the skills to fix said bike, or enough money for someone else to do it. I have neither. So it runs, usually. And I smell like gasoline after I ride it.

I got mad at my 6-year old son the other day, madder than the situation warranted. Afterwards, I told my son, "Daddy's sorry." And I meant it. I asked God for forgiveness. And I meant it.

But I stopped there. Confession was easy. Saying 'sorry' is even simpler. But I wasn't restored.

Restoration's expensive. The price is the costly question "why?" Why did I get so mad? And the cost of asking why leads to the tough work of dismantling my heart and finding the broken piece. And the broken piece is a boy not much older than my son Aedan. Wounded by the words and actions of another. And then believing that this broken piece is who he truly is.

But seeing that broken part isn't enough. I need listen as the voice of the Restorer speaks truth into the heart-lie I'm holding. I need to let the hand of the Healer reach in and return that soul-part to its original glory. I need to succomb to the embrace of the Abba Father and, from there, forgive those who wounded me.

I'd like to be restored. But until I'm ready to pay the price of intimacy, I guess I settle for a life that's in relatively decent shape and runs, usually.

Sloppy Wet Kiss

If you know John Mark McMillan, you know my title.

Last night he performed at Christian Musician Summit in Buffalo. And all of us who knew him were waiting for How He Loves. You've probably heard David Crowder's version, or several other artists who covered him.

The screens projected the words, and when the 2nd verse came up, it said "heaven meets earth like a beautiful kiss." You may have heard "unforeseen" to describe the kiss. But McMillan's original lyrics are "heaven meets earth like a sloppy wet kiss."

One of my team members hates that line. I love it. But I don't fault the other artists or churches for changing that line. I know I'd get quite a few comments at my church if I used that song with those lyrics.

But have you ever been on the receiving end of God's working? A mighty work of God in someone's life sounds great in a "testimony" six months later. Revivals sound almost romantic in the history books. But when the infinite invades the finite, it's not tidy. It's messy. It's sloppy. It's doesn't fit our ideals.

So maybe our worship songs should start to reflect the mess. As long John Mark McMillan is writing them, they will.

grace waits

At the moment temptation pulls us in, grace is there. Somehow we think we need to grit our teeth and try to withstand it. We need to prove we are worthy of grace. Grace just waits.

When we have sunk into the comfortable company of a familiar friend--that certain sin that keeps a warm seat for us--grace is there. Even while the rush of returning to our old companion is still fresh, that quiet call of grace can still be heard. But shame shouts louder. And grace just waits.

With enough time together, we remember why we had left our old friend earlier: he has drained our hearts and strip-mined our souls to the point where grace seems absurd. But grace is there.

We come to our senses and leave our sin the best we can. We journey back home as hollowed-out shells, rehearsing even hollower words about how we'll make it right. We hear the footsteps of grace walking beside us, ready to lift us in His arms and carry us home. But to stop and give in to grace seems too easy. Too cheap. We don't deserve it. So grace just waits.

We come to a table that's set just like we left it. We slide into the booth and order a cup of what we've got coming. Two large mugs are set before us. One is just what we expect - the self-poured cup of just deserts. The other is the cup that grace has poured for us. Before we can reach for the putrid cup of penance, the scarred hand of grace pushes his cup in front of us.

Grace waits for us to drink. But he doesn't wait long.

Before we have a chance to protest, he takes the repulsive crap-filled cup meant for us and drinks it. Then he lifts the cup of grace to our lips.

Grace waits for us to drink.