pullman progress.

In college, I attended a church where half of the congregation was under 25 and the other half of the congregation was over 60. This is not an overstatement, or for the sake of analogy, this was the truth of our gathering. One Sunday, our pastor stood up and spoke candidly to both sects of our church. He was a well spoken man who had spent many years on the mission field and had a way of telling you terribly hurtful things that somehow landed in your heart as encouraging.

He began by asking the college aged people in the room to try and take a look at life through a different lens. He told us that he was proud of our passion, our activism, and our appeal to many outside the church. Then he walked to the edge of the stage and said, but be careful not to become what you have grown to hate. He said that you may not even realize this now, but you can become suffocated in tradition even at a young age. He said be careful not to become crusaders on dressing a certain way to church, on singing certain songs a certain way in church, and not to become married to a way of doing church and forsake the beauty of the history that has pointed you to the one who is the way. He said when you think that your method is the only method, and you sell yourselves to doing something exclusively this way or that, then you have become just like previous generations and exactly what you hate.

Then he said be careful that your traditions are not what your energy is spent on preserving. Preserve the truth of gospel he said. Fight for the gospel, not for songs or for dress. He then changed his cadence, and in a more emotional tone he said, be careful, be careful, do not become like my generation. My generation fell into the same trap. We fought for the wrong things, and preserved too heavily a method rather than a message. At this point he began to cry and to clap, but the clapping was in a tired and very sarcastic sort of way. And he said these words through tears, words that I will not soon forget, “I would like to extend a congratulations to my generation, congratulations friends, we kept our traditions, but we lost our children.”

So, Josh is turning 27 today and as many of you know he has been counting down with his top 27’s. So I wanted to put in my top 27. So here are the top 27 reasons of why I am glad that he was born and why I love him so much (in no particular order…)


I LOVE JOSH because…

1. he likes to read. he is very smart.
2. he is willing to eat sweets with me.
3. he is a follower of Christ, is passionate about Jesus, and is real in his struggles.
4. he is pretty funny (but not more than me).
5. he has a deep appreciation for coffee, conversations, and the church.
6. he watches project runway and what not to wear with me.
7. my hand fits perfectly in his.
8. I do not ever doubt his love.
9. the way he laughs, especially when he thinks something is really funny. it is the best laugh in the world.
10. his ability to remember quotes. it’s ridiculous.
11. his love of words, his ability to articulate so well with words, to write so well with words.
12. he plans great surprises.
13. he believes in me.
14. people look up to him. when I first moved to Pullman I learned so much about josh by seeing how others interacted with him, and by what other people thought of him.
15. he asked me to marry him..
16. he challenges me to be better, to not be satisfied with the status quo, and to pursue holiness.
17. he cooks a mean bowl of top ramen.
18. he always smells good.
19. his family.
20. he has very nice and consistent handwriting.
21. my family loves him.
22. he makes me feel special and loved and lovely.
23. he is hot.
24. he is my favorite.
25. he is m best friend and he is a good friend to others.
26. his style has improved with age, it is simple, classic, and fits his personality.
27. he is a gift. and he is the love of my life.

If there is one thing that you can not choose in your life, it is your family. Where you are born and what you are born into is something completely out of your hands. It is one of the few things in life that you can take no credit for. On the first day of October in 1982 I was born in Galveston Texas to a loving Hispanic woman in her early twenties. Her name is Becky, she is my mother, and she had me out of wedlock. My birth certificate has an empty spot where a Father’s name would typically go.

When I was a year old my mom married a guy named Kenny. They were together about eleven months before they parted ways in the form of divorce. Later she told me that she only married him to get out of her parents house. All I got out of the deal was a stuffed animal named Floppy. I think I still have it somewhere. A couple years later, when I was not yet four, my mom married a man named Kyle. He is the man I call dad still to this day, a man who well deserves the title of Father. If I could I’d go back to my birth certificate and handwrite his name in that blank area. He’d probably appreciate that.

Describing the condition of my home growing up is actually an interesting concept. I say that because I really enjoyed the life I was brought up in, I really enjoy the parents I was given, I really appreciate all the things we did not have, really thought it was normal. It is almost as if I did not know how other families function now, I would never consider my family dysfunctional. For instance, I can probably count on one hand the amount of times we actually sat down and had dinner together as a family. The idea is great, and it’s one of my favorite pastimes now as an adult, but it was a non-existing thing in childhood. Our supper was served on paper plates and eaten while sitting on the living room floor. Food never tasted so good. It’s not that we didn’t have a kitchen table, we did, but it was reserved for playing dominos and poker.

If my dad instilled one thing in me growing up that will probably never go away, it would be the importance of a good work ethic. He always said if a man does not do everything in his power to provide for his family then he is not a man. My dad worked in the oil field for as long as I can remember. Due to that, we moved around a lot during my elementary schooling; four schools in four years. When you work in the oil field, you work long hours in the heat, always have a sun burn and dirty fingernails, and you can not wash your work clothes with anyone else’s clothes. The oilfield promotes a certain way of life the transitions into the way things are in the family. You work hard, you play hard. Once you put in the hours on the clock, you have earned the right to be completely off the clock, sometimes too completely.

My dad is one of the easiest going guys in the world. He is stubborn and relentless in certain areas of thought, but he has a great sense of humor and really good friends, friends that have lasted a really long time, friends that would do anything for me, and that says a lot about him. I am not sure if my dad loves Jesus. I am not sure if he understands that salvation is not based on a “how good of a guy you are” basis. I am not sure he is willing to surrender, completely. Some of this has to do with his childhood. The way he was raised has a lot to do with how he raised us; my brother, my sister, and I. My dad had a tough dad and some tough moments in childhood. He always felt like he could not win his fathers approval no matter what he did. He was forced to go to church, though his dad never did. He thought things were so hypocritical. They probably were.

Due to this, my dad has shown the utmost approval of me and my efforts. He has shown pride in me, for what I am and who I am. Even when it comes to spiritual things, he supports my walk with Christ, he supported me in all my mission trips and church camps as a teenager, I just am not sure he owns this same faith for himself. My dad was there for me in things by nature, but not really there for me in things by spirit. My dad was a strong leader who showed love the only way he knew how. I do not fault him for that, I do not find myself looking back and feeling neglected at all. His affection was shown through teaching me things; how to shoot a gun, a jump shot, how to fix a weed eater, and so on, but he never really showed me how to deal with internal issues, how to enjoy the beauty of life, how to process hurt, how to struggle and endure. Maybe it is because I never asked. Maybe it is because I didn’t need to. Maybe that is why God gave me a mother.

My mom is the most giving woman I know. She has always done everything in her power to provide all the things my siblings and I ever wanted. Throughout all the moving we did growing up my mom took on various jobs some of which included being a waitress and a secretary, but her jobs never took away from her time from us. The relationship I have with my mom is one of utmost openness and security. She has been my solace and my joy. No matter the circumstances of adolescence my mom has served as an open door for me, a pillar of support, and the one I could talk to about anything. She trusted me with responsibility at a young age and was always willing to give me opportunities to lead, to learn for myself, and to fail. She taught me to wash my own clothes, wash dishes, wash floors, wash everything. She taught me that life is about family, that hard work is more valuable then talent, that beauty is everywhere, that I can be anything I want to be, and that trials are a gift. My mom is my dear friend.

Two years ago my mom saw the bottom of what life can offer. She experienced loneliness and hurt of the deepest kind. She spent 43 days in jail on charge of substance abuse. Four years before this when I was a senior in high school my parents divorced after 15 years of marriage. Supposedly it had to do with lack of trust and with money, I do not really know. This process sent my mom into depression and she slowly became less and less active, less and less alive. It really bothers me to think about. Sometime during the separation my mom turned to drugs to make the pain go away. I do not know exactly when this happened and I have never asked.

What I do know is that these events happened twos year ago, and my mom is no longer the woman she was then. She told me that while she was in jail she had time to think, time to remember, and time to repent. She told me that in jail she did not find God, but rather was gently reminded that He is always there, always faithful, and that the Jesus she read about for so many years in scripture proved to be a guy who would comfort rather then judge even in the most embarrassing, frustrating, heartbreaking, and troubling moments of life. My mom has been clean for over two years now. She still keeps a daily count. She still remembers what that lifestyle brought about and how she never wants to be there again. She is a truly pressed but not crushed, persecuted not abandoned, struck down but not destroyed. Her and my dad got back together and last year bought a house an hour away from all their bad memories. They seem so much happier now, so much more in love. This story really is a testament of God’s unstoppable love, a reminder that His grace knows no limits, and that His arm is not too short to save, no matter who the person is, or where they are in life. I rejoice in that.

I have a brother and a sister. My brothers name is Jeffrey and at the moment he is 18 years old and about to move into his second year at East Texas Baptist University, my alma mater. Growing up my brother and I had our issues, a lot of which came because we had to share a bed room for many years. I being the oldest, and going through personal growth and needing space and puberty and such probably bled into my relationship with Jeff. I never neglected him in an abusive sense, but rather always pushed him to either leave me alone or play at the level of my friends, which was completely unfair considering our age difference. Looking back our relationship was good, he always looked up to me and I never really excluded him from day to day childhood activities. My parents were both real intentional about making sure I included and took care of my brother. The only weird thing between my brother and I was that we had different dads, and we both knew it by the time I was 14 and he was 9. My parents dropped that information on me a couple years before. It really was no big deal. That may seem strange to many, my nonchalant attitude about it all, but honestly at the time I did not care. I had a father, I had a family, and I had support and love and provision, so I really never felt emptiness in my heart regarding a biological father. The way I see it is that he missed out, not me.

My brother and I look nothing alike. He is 6’2, has blonde hair, and pale skin. I am the opposite. No one believes we are related, much less have the same mother. My brother is better then me in so many areas of life. He has excelled in places where I tend to fail. It began in his teenage years when he started coming to church with me each week and getting really involved in the youth group. Jeff threw himself into any activity he could and became an example of servanthood to everyone in the church. Even now my brother gives himself to projects and volunteers for anything that has to do with helping others. His love for Jesus has grown over time and has led him to Japan on short term missions, vacation Bible school as the recreation leader, and to ETBU following his calling into ministry. Jeff and I have a good relationship, we don’t talk near as much as we should, but as we grow older, we grow closer, and that is an enjoyable thing. To know my little brother loves Jesus is an enjoyable thing.

My sister at the moment is 20 years old and her name is Jennica. She has a quiet but not really personality. All through our childhood Jennica and I really had what I felt like was a typical brother sister relationship. She and I were interested in different things so that left us struggling to find commonality and having almost 5 years of age difference between us naturally made things a little distant. What I remember most about my little sister is how she laughed at most anything. She was also very ticklish and very beautiful. Jennica is very caring and remembers birthdays and anniversaries and many other adult like things far better then me. The attribute that stands out the most about my sister outside of her loyalty to friends, and strong convictions, is her honesty. Jennica did not find herself following me and my brother to FBC but rather decided to go to a smaller Central Baptist church in town because it was where she felt most welcomed. She is a silent leader, and I really respect that about her. The summer after I graduated high school I was an interim youth minister at a church in Texas and my sister attended our group and even went to camp with us that summer. She gave her life to Christ and was baptized later that year at Central. Things have changed a little since then and she has struggled in her walk with Christ in post high school graduation life, but just last month she told me she picked up the newspaper and was looking up potential churches to visit in the new town she lives in. It was encouraging to hear her say these words, because I have worried about her, prayed for her, and hoped that soon Jesus is would draw her home.

I think my sister is great and really want the best for her. She and I have a slightly weird relationship now because sometimes I feel like she thinks I am disappointed with who she is. I think she feels that if she is not some missionary living in some place doing some amazing thing, living some completely pure life then big brother is not satisfied. The trouble is that is so far from the truth. I love who she is, I support what she is doing, and I have done my best to communicate that to her over the last year. That is not just rhetoric, but really it is truth. I do not want my sister to think I do not value who God has made her to be. I do not want my sister to think that if her big brother who is in ministry is disappointed with her then that must mean God is disappointed with her as well. There is no good that would ever come from that type of relationship, no redemption in that form of love, so I do not want to be that. The last thing I want is for my little sister becoming reluctant to follow Jesus on account of any form of assumed judgment passed down from me. May that never be so.

Life lived in the context of this family has really been a blessing. I would not trade them for any other. I’m sure who they are has helped form who I am and for that I am grateful. The story of me in adolescent years can really be summed up in playing sports and trying to be cool. I enjoyed any sport involving a ball and had parents who were willing to coach my teams and drive me to out of town games so I played as much as a kid can play. Junior high was much of the same, sports, embarrassing clothes, and beginning to realize that girls are pretty. When my feet hit the halls of high school is when I began to understand in a real sense that God had a calling on my life, and that His calling was more then church attendance. It was just two years before that I had given my life to Christ and I was still functioning under the impression that I was in training rather then an actual player in God’s eternal purpose for the world. The summer between my 7^th and 8^th grade year I met a man named Norman. He drove the big gray church van. He invited me to Wednesday night services and told me if I came I’d get to hang out with kids my age, play basketball, get free nachos and snow cones, and hear about Jesus. He picked me up for church every week for an entire year. He had a beard and a big smile.

After the year of Wednesday night meetings Norman told me that he was taking some students up to a summer camp and that he had paid my way if I would like to go. This camp is where things began for me. This camp is where so much of me ended. During my elementary years and even right up to when this guy Norman started giving me rides, on occasion my mother and I would go to a Catholic church. In fifth grade I even started the confirmation process with the church and made it through the book work, the classes, my first communion, and confession. It only took three confessions before I realized I wanted out. Going into a room and telling a guy that I didn’t know, or could even see, that I had a fight with my brother, had a bad thought about a kid at school, and cheated on my third period spelling test felt really awkward, empty, and irrelevant. I said my prayers during those years, tried my best, but still never met Jesus. I never heard the message of salvation by grace alone through faith alone. I am glad I had a mom who listened to my complaints, even resonated with some of them, and did not force me to continue going through that process. Looking back I think the Catholic season had much more to do with my grandmother then my mother.

There are only a few relatives of mine who are devote Catholics, outside of those few; I have a non church going heritage. For me to be at this Baptist camp having a real experience with Jesus was not only life changing, but also a little tradition threatening. When I came home from that week and explained to my parents what happened, my explanation was met with a bit of mixed emotion. My parents were happy for me, they were glad I had a good time, they were glad I learned to shoot a 22 and became a licensed canoe driver and they were glad I had met Jesus. They were happy to see me happy. The slight tension came between my mom and grandmother when I began attending the Baptist church regularly. The argument did not last too long and no one was hurt, but it was hard for grandmother to accept her grandson leaving the Catholic Church. Even now when I am spending time with my grandmother things will come up and she is quick to ask me questions about what Baptist believe on this or that issue. She is the sweetest lady, and she has been my prayer warrior for years, so I love her questions, I love her interest, and I love the fact that she stills gives me communion books from her church.

When I say everything began and ended for me by accepting Christ, here is what I mean. For years I believed I needed to appease God through good deeds and repetitious prayers. I thought Jesus was a really nice guy who enjoyed playing with children and had a beard and a big smile. What I realized at camp was that Jesus was far more then I imagined. The counselor I talked to explained to me the beauty of Jesus’ life and the purpose of his death. He told me stories that made my heart come alive. After our conversation everything had to be different. My understanding of God, of communion, of confession, of existence, and of church was no longer the same. Things had to change. Everything began and everything ended.

I became active in our church from that point on. The youth minister’s son was one of my best friends so their family started coming by and picking me up on Sundays. I remember having such a pure love for Jesus during my high school years. I remember having a hunger for prayer and for the knowledge of God. Sometimes I wish I could go back to that; that first love stage. During this time of my life I had issues with my identity, with my attitude, with bad skin, and with the tension between being a church going good kid and being a good athlete. Typically, at least where I am from, these two don’t really co-exist. A person must be one or the other. Partying never really appealed to me though, but neither did being an uptight boring kid. The first couple years of high school were really good for me socially. From fourth grade through graduation I lived in the same town, and it was a small town, really small; 900 people. Life was about having the right friends and being good at something, something involving a field or court and a ball. This was the way things were, and I was okay with those things, because those things fit into who I was. The trouble came in fitting those things into my new life in Christ. The trouble came when I went to Africa between my sophomore and junior year.

This trip took place at the end of the summer and because of its length I was forced to miss the first two days of summer football practice. When I got back to school I was flooded with questions about my trip; why I went, who I talked to, what was their response, and so on. I had just spent three weeks sharing my faith with everyone I came in contact with and now I was with my teammates, back in Texas, back at school, back in routine, and I was sharing my faith. As strange as this may sound strange, sharing the story of Jesus at school was a revolutionary concept to me. This experience launched me into a new frame of mind, a new frame of confidence. Living out my faith in a holistic sense came to be truth my junior year of high school. My identity transitioned from being all about sports and approval of peers to trying to be an influence on those who didn’t know Christ. During that year a couple of friends and I started a weekly prayer meeting that met before school. The meeting had its ups and downs throughout the next two years but we were not really concerned about the number of people attending as much as we were concerned with the number of our lost friends who were not attending. We felt like prayer was important, that fellowship of believers in school was important. So we met. We would have donuts and orange juice and invite a different adult to share each week. Many teachers and administrators got involved. This ministry still goes on today at the school. My little brother helped carry the torch during his high school years.

High school finished as a beautiful time of life. During that time I established myself as someone who was trustworthy to my lost friends and I was able to talk to them regularly about faith and struggle and life. I was learning to live with intentionality, even in the midst of typical teenage issues. When that chapter of life came to a close, a new chapter opened; the chapter of college. I attended East Texas Baptist University where initially I went due to being recruited to play basketball. The collegiate basketball venture lasted only a year though. It was a full time job, and honestly my passion for the sport had become far more recreational then competitive. I enjoyed the year, enjoyed the team, but I needed far more time to enjoy a social life, and slowly but surely ministry opportunities were presenting themselves to me. My junior year of high school I learned to play guitar and within 6 to 8 months I was leading songs for our youth group. The guitar became a great outlet for me in the midst of some of the family issues that began brewing before my parents divorce. Worship through music was becoming a passion and a gift I wanted to explore to its full potential. To explore this gift meant giving up the sport I had spent so much time practicing in previous years. So I gave up one thing that was becoming more work then pleasure and began working on something that brought me much pleasure; worshiping God, through music.

I did not regret quitting basketball. I did not feel bad about it at all actually and only missed it in moments when I was at games. God blessed that decision and allowed me a great opportunity in the worship leading just a few months later. The summer after my freshman of college I was hired as a music leader for the ministry of World Changers and served for 10 weeks on the Northwest travel team. That was a great experience that completely affirmed my love for leading worship and serving the lost. When I got back to college life was really good. I had a great roommate and great surroundings and found myself getting submerged in any ministry opportunity available. Honestly I got involved in too much. That year went by in a flash and I found myself overloaded with service and having to learn the invaluable lesson that serving God can not be a supplement for knowing and loving God on a personal level. The next summer I served with World Changers again as a music leader and again was sent out to the Northwest. This part of America was beginning to hold a special place in my heart, not only for its natural beauty, but for its vast lostness. Christians in the Northwest were so real, so un-awkward, so un-trendy, and so needy for Jesus. Here is where I breathed fresh air; not only in the Northwest skies, but in the Northwest believers.

My junior and senior years of college were the most character building years of my life. I was in fellowship with some of the most amazing men of God that I know. Guys who loved Christ because of what He had done in their lives, guys who were not afraid to admit struggles and failures, not afraid to rejoice in victories, small or large, and guys who prayed, really prayed. These 3 guys showed me what it means to live in community. These guys saved my life. The previous two years of college seemed to be all about serving, about being active for the Lord, about leading worship everywhere that I could, about being in every bible study, every prayer group, every mentoring relationship; these years were all about me. When I moved in with these guys I realized that loving the Lord does not mean you have to be in high profile ministries. By this time I was getting into my major and my schedule was filled with Bible courses and I really wanted to honor God with my studies. The thing I learned most in this season is that having people think I’m spiritual is not very satisfying, and not near as fulfilling as actually spending time with Jesus in my room with the door closed. It was also during this time I learned that God seemed nearer to me when I was feeding homeless guys at the local mission then when I was in a surface level bible study or prayer group. This was also the time when I really got involved in the local church.

Instead of serving on campus I began pouring my efforts into Bel-Air Baptist church, a congregation of about 100 people; 50 or so under the age of 25 and 50 or so over the age of 60. It was fantastic. I joined the church and began spending substantial time with the pastor and college minister, both of whom I still have a relationship with today. I felt my soul come back to life those years, when things were about serving others and not having others serve me. Leading worship can make you a rock star and I hate that. It frustrates me that singing songs to a holy and worthy God somehow tends to make the singer the spotlight and not the God. Serving in the church with people two and three times my age brought me back to reality, back to my love for people and for God’s beautiful bride, the church. I learned so much in my college years. I learned how to approach scripture with humility and knowledge, how to appreciate Christian history, and I learned that ministry is about relationships, and success therein is not measured by programs or size or years or but rather by the names of individuals. There exist names of individuals who changed my perspective in college, changed my attitude, my heart, and my purpose. The Lord used these people to change me and challenge me to be more, so much more. These people and their names made college quite a success for me.

After college is where a journey began that would take another ten pages to write about. Upon graduation my friend Drew Worsham and I decided we were going to go on a road trip of sorts; a sojourn if you will. Both of us had summer jobs that would have us busy for a full ten weeks, me with a camp ministry called Centrifuge and Drew with a similar group called Student Life. During that summer and even before that, Drew and I were contacting people we had met through the years and telling them about our desire to travel the country sharing our heart and our gifts and our story. We said this was not a money making venture but rather something we both wanted to do because we felt God’s leading and had the time and the ability. This actually worked and for 10 months we traveled from North Carolina to California to Washington to Indiana and most places in between. At the end of the trip we had driven 20 thousand miles and performed in over 50 venues, whether they be youth groups, college groups, whole church groups, coffee shops, clubs, concert halls, and anywhere that had a sound system and a gathering. The Lord showed himself so faithful on so many levels; from providing enough money to get from place to place to always getting us set up with an amazing family that would let us sleep on their couch or their guest bedroom. We never paid for a place to sleep the whole time we traveled. Even when the clutch went out in our vehicle, it happened in the perfect place, and the pastor of the church we had just performed in knew a mechanic who fixed our problem and sent us on our way owing nothing. I still think the pastor picked up the bill, but he never would admit to it. People always picked up the bill for us and never admitted to it. It seemed that in every location people stored up much treasure in heaven on our behalf. God’s can be so good.

In the midst of those months, those endless hours in the car, and those many miles God began to whisper to my heart. What He said was so simple, so true. “Josh, you need community again.” Being with one guy all the time is not bad, and staying with a loving family each night is also not bad, and having people clap for you while your on the stage singing songs is really not that bad either, but in the midst of that, if one is not careful, you can become starved of authentic relationships. One or two nights in each town only flirt with the idea of relationships, and e-mails and phone calls can not serve as your source of accountability, not fully anyway. I began to feel God calling me back to the Northwest, back to that fresh air, and back to the local church. While in Washington, Drew and I spent a substantial amount of time in the city of Pullman. It was in Pullman that I met some amazing people that reminded me of what it was like to have friends who love me and speak into my life. It was also in Pullman that the lostness of a community overwhelmed me. Pullman is home to Washington State University, 18 thousand students, and just 7 miles down the road in Moscow, Idaho is the University of Idaho, another 13 thousand students. In this small corner of southeastern Washington and western Idaho was the population of over 30 thousand college students. After recognizing this mass congregation of the 18-24 year olds I began doing some research and talking to some local staff and found out that out of all of these students less then 3% of them will attend church during their college tinier. This truth bothered me for the remainder of our time on the road, this truth still bothers me.

It was nine months ago that Drew and I packed our bags and moved from Texas, the land of church on every corner, to Pullman, the land where the local church is ever so needed. Since being here I have had to consistently take inventory of my heart and consistently remind myself that without God’s leadership and without prayer, nothing of long term difference will happen here. The comforting thing about the move is that I feel that this is something God has been revealing to me for years. Three out of my four summers in college I served in camp/mission trip ministry here in the Northwest, namely Washington. God began this love for the Northwest in me years ago and this love has yet to disappear. The story of my life has placed me where I am now, has placed me in this moment, trying to reach the unchurched in the Pullman/Moscow collegiate scene. My story has not been easy, it is been filled with hurt and struggle and redemption and joy, and people, people have filled my story. Jesus has also filled my story. He has placed in my soul a hope that satisfies in the midst of all hardship, that fulfills even in the midst of great joy. He called me out of death and then into the local church and now back into the college campus for the sake of his kingdom.

I am grateful to be where I am and to be who I am. Though I am still working on so many aspects of my character, and I still need to change so much, I find beauty in the truth that all of this, all of these words, they are unique to me. These words are more then the story of me, they are story of others as well, and the story of Jesus, and a story that is far from over. In that truth and in light of all this, there is much to be grateful for.

of the 27 assignments i received before i failed out of seminary this was my favorite:

Josh,
You are a Jew in Jerusalem who was born in the year 70 B.C. It is now the year 7 A.D. and you have decided to write a brief memoir to describe how times have changed in Israel and how you feel about it. What do you say? - Dr. Roberston

Israel as I have know her has had many rulers, but only one Lord, many masters, but only one King, and much turmoil but only one Prince of Peace. I was born a generation removed from an Independent Jewish state and a generation and a half away from Judas “Maccabeus” blessed cleansing of our sacred temple. This meant that the world of my childhood was rooted in Jewish customs while simultaneously saturated by the Greeks and their Hellenistic worldview. My parents have told me stories about times from before I have memory in which the Jews could hardly function under the pressure of the Greeks. In response, many of them revolted violently, while others, later to be known as Pharisee’s, revolted spiritually. Whether the battles were internal or ex, it was not long before the pressure was so intense that a battle took place when I was about five year old between Hyrcanus II and Aristobulus II.

What followed I cannot soon forget. About the time my memory was accessible to me our region was under the leadership of the world power Rome. Hyrcanus II was the ruler throughout my upbringing and Herod the Great has reined the majority of my adult life. Being under the leadership of Rome meant a few things to be sure of. You see, Rome had power over a vast amount of land and a vast amount of people, so in order to keep things in line, Rome needed to have quick strike ability, so there were soldiers everywhere. These soldiers seemed to have only a few responsibilities and number one on their list was to be sure everyone understood the same thing. Rome is the empire above all things, what Rome says is not negotiable, it’s law, and if you are not in agreement with that, then you can be tortured and killed and put on display for all to see.

My friends and I would always try to make friends with the soldiers growing up, always asked them if they wanted to take part in our game, but rarely would they give us a look of anything but disdain. Truth is we didn’t want to play with those guys anyway, we just wanted an opportunity to make spectacle of them, to show them that we were real people and in our games, Rome didn’t always win. As I grew older the politics of Rome began to really weight heavy on me and I could see why my parents struggled to pay taxes and struggled to love their neighbors who were serving as tax collectors for Rome. Times were tough for the Jews and there were times when God seemed far away. But there was also a wrestling going on deep within as if something was stirring in our midst though no one could quite put his or her finger on it. This unease was not coming from the expansions that were happening all around and it wasn’t coming from the forced peace, or travel, it seemed to be coming from within, from afar, from ever so near.

Herod the Great is what I remember most, and I remember that he tried to kill every bit of passion that everyone in our world had. Maybe this was due to his extreme inferiority complex or just his disdain for Jews and their hope in a Messiah that had nothing to do with him. He raised taxes, he fought unfair, and he always seemed to have another legislation that had more to do with his gain than anyone else’s. He was a man in need of humbling, and I remember so well the night that humbling appeared, and the irony of it all is that it appeared in the most humble of places.

Jesus who some say is the Christ we have long waited for was born on a cool night in Bethlehem while the sky was lit with affirmation. Herod heard the rumor from three astrologers. I heard when they saw Jesus they were afraid of what Herod might do to him, so they spoke falsely to cover his where about. Herod ended up doing the most despicable thing of my lifetime by ordering the deaths of all male children under the age of two in that area. Fortunate for me, my children and grandchildren were older at that time but my neighbors lost a dear child to this mad mans pride. Thankfully Herod the Great lost his throne about three years ago. It is our hope that things will change, because Israel is certainly in need of redemption, and if that must come from a child born in a stall that I have as well heard rumors about, then may it be so, and may his rule and his kingdom surely come soon.