Up in lights…

I’ve received a couple of emails, a couple of phone calls, and a personal conversation about it. Seems there’s a sign on 183, one of those programmable electric signs where the message changes every few seconds. Apparently this one frequently says, “Call Mike Robertson.” A few people have asked if that’s me, or if I’ve got a little business on the side.
Nope.
I just have one of those names which is very common. There are at least six Mike Robertsons in Austin alone. I did some online hunting and found about 80 in Texas, so there must be hundreds of us in the US. Maybe we should have a convention; nametags would not be necessary. Wikipedia says that Michael has been the first or second most popular name for boys in the US since 1954...which is when I got the name myself.
Not only is my first name ubiquitous, the 2000 US census located 150,299 people named Robertson. It’s the 159th most common surname in the country.
So being “Mike Robertson” is not all that special. We’re everywhere. Who could keep track of us all?
Well, my family has never confused me with the pro baseball player named Mike Robertson, or with the Mike Robertson who founded MP3.COM and other ventures.
And God has never mistaken me for anyone else. He apparently saw a sign one day that said, “Call Mike Robertson,” and He did just that; He called me to do something special with my life. This is part of it, writing these things each week. Teaching two wonderful classes each week is part of it, too, part of that “calling.”
But the coolest part is this: no matter if your name is John Smith or Stanford Alphin (the 1002nd most popular first name and the 18,836th most popular last name), God is calling you, too. You may share your name with a lot of other people. But God’s purpose for you is yours alone. He’s calling.
Aren’t you gonna answer that?

Do you read me?

I’ve noticed a disturbing trend recently…in myself. I’ve been a voracious reader since I first began to decipher those inky squiggles on a page at the age of four. I still buy a lot of books. But lately they seem to be piling up, unread. Some have a bookmark inserted after a chapter or two; others just lie there patiently, waiting to be conscripted into service. This is not like me. Why have my reading habits changed?
Is it because I spend so many hours looking at a computer screen? Or watching television shows which frequently cannot even keep me awake? Is it the video games or the Facebook or the iPhone? There are so many things competing for the time which was once reserved for reading.
It’s not just me. One Sunday, I was preparing the classroom for my 8:30 group. On a shelf was a stack of Bibles. I started to count them and found more than 25. Later, I looked in the other rooms at the Quads; each room had a similar number of orphaned Bibles. From the most modest paperback versions to the leather-bound, finger-indexed, gold-stamped-personalized study Bibles, it seemed to be an awfully large arsenal of abandoned swords, over a hundred of them.
Mark Twain is quoted as saying, “The man who doesn’t read good books has no advantage over the man who can’t read them.” It’s extremely unlikely that the wisdom contained in a book on the table will disseminate through the air like your fancy plug-in air freshener and find its way into your noggin. How many of those abandoned Bibles are the result of someone thinking, “There’s nothing relevant or interesting in this book for me?”
Some of those people probably bogged down in Leviticus when they should have started in Acts. Or they wandered into Revelation and gave up the ghost—the three-headed, seven-horned ghost whose name is Babylon—and never went back. Maybe the translation was cryptic and outdated or the print was too small. I don’t know. What I do know is this: if you don’t read the instruction manual, you’re never gonna know what the possibilities are. The most powerful notions in human history can be recorded by black ink on a white page. But the power is only unleashed when the words are read and converted into action.

Kidding me…

Here’s my plan: I’m going to Disney World. No, I don’t mean for a vacation. My plan is to move to Florida when I retire and get a job at Disney World. It doesn’t matter much to me whether I’m assigned to blow up balloons or take tickets or sell ice cream; I just wanna work there. Why? Because I’ve seen something amazing there. I’m not talking about the rides or the castle or the shows or the landscaping.
I’m talking about wonder, the wonder that you can see on the faces of kids when they enter the Magic Kingdom. It’s a tonic that’s good for what ails ya and you can see it dozens, even hundreds of times a day in a Disney park. I can’t think of anything better than causing a kid to break into a wide-eyed, open-mouthed grin of pure joy.
Jesus said that unless we could recapture our child-like joy and wonder, we couldn’t enter HIS magic kingdom — the Kingdom of God. And the Kingdom of God is even better than Disney World…and certainly closer.
Every year I get to see the faces of kids who come to Vacation Bible School at Riverbend. They have that wonder-full expression. So do those who come to the Hallelujah Hoedown. I see them in the petting zoo, chasing down a bunny or a tiny piglet, and sometimes the child squeals more than the little pig…with delight. With considerably less budget than Disney, our children’s ministry is still able to share the precious gift of wonder.
Perhaps you wouldn’t consider moving to Florida. Would you at least consider being part of the kingdom right here? If you have a heart for kids, there are plenty of ways you can share it. And when you do, you’ll have the same joyful expression on YOUR face. Try it. Take the step…a baby step.

And this shall be a sign…

You see them all over town. It seems like every stoplight is manned by someone with a homemade sign, hoping to get some money from you. These folks seem to have more religion per capita than any other group in the country: every sign expresses their wish that God will bless you.
But I saw a new twist on this ubiquitous sight last week. I pulled up to an intersection to see a guy holding…nothing. Oh, he was pretending to hold up a sign, but there was nothing there. He was awfully amused, too, shrugging his shoulders and grinning a mostly-toothless smile as he pointed at the sign that wasn’t there. I had to smile, too. Did he misplace his sign? Was he suffering from writer’s block? I know from experience that some days it’s hard to come up with just the right words to fill your space; maybe you could just imagine there’s something really great written here, okay?
One of the best things about God is that He shows up...even when I’m not totally present myself. There have been many Sundays when I’ve been driving to church early in the morning and said to my wife, “I don’t feel like I’ve got much today,” or “This is gonna be a real short lesson. I have no idea what I’m trying to say.” Invariably, when we’re heading to lunch a few hours later, she will ask, “So how were your classes today?” And I say, “It turned out great! The people seemed to really enjoy it!”
Even on the days when I’m holding my little imaginary sign, God fills in the blanks and keeps me from being clueless, speechless and worthless. I have to relearn the same lesson almost every week: even when I can’t do something, God can. It delights and surprises me every time. See, when I think I have all the answers, I don’t leave any room for God to show up. But when I just get out of the way, He can write something beautiful. He just needs a blank canvas. There’s an old saying: “I don’t know much about art, but I know what I like.” For me, it’s more like: “I don’t know much about teaching...but I know who likes me.”
And the One who likes me is able to make something from nothing.

Party hearty

Tony Campolo was speaking at a conference in Hawaii several years ago. Jet lag awakened him at 3:00 in the morning and he roamed the streets until he found an all-night diner. As he had coffee and a donut, a group of flamboyantly-dressed prostitutes entered the coffee shop and sat down all around him. One mentioned that tomorrow would be her birthday. The others teased her, saying, “What do you want, a party?” The woman was embarassed and replied that she’d never had a birthday party in her life and she was sorry she’d brought it up.
After the women left, Tony learned from the diner owner that the women came in every night. Tony suggested they throw a surprise party for Agnes, whose birthday would be the next day. The cook agreed to make a cake and Tony bought crepe paper streamers and decorations.
On the following night, the women entered the diner and saw the decorations. Agnes was stunned, speechless. She couldn’t even blow out the candles on the cake. She asked if she could take the cake home, just to hold on to the experience awhile longer.
After she left, there was silence. Finally, Campolo said, “How about we say a prayer for Agnes?” After he finished, the diner cook said, “I didn’t know you was a preacher. What kind of church are you from, anyway?”
“The kind that throws birthday parties for whores at three in the morning,” Tony answered.
“There’s no church like that,” the cook replied. “If there was...I’d join it.”
I would, too. That’s the kind of church Jesus came to establish. The Kingdom of God was introduced by a man who partied with the lowest people on the societal totem pole. I can’t find a verse where he handed those people a tract or told them to come back when they were done sinning. So how’d we get so prim and proper? How did we get such bad moods from the Good News?
The Kingdom of God is among you. Celebrate!

Driving Miss Lindsey

This past year I took on a sobering task. My daughter took an online version of driver’s ed, which meant I would be the one to do all her practice driving with her. How hard could it be?
The first day she got behind the wheel, I showed her how to adjust the mirrors and the seat, where to put the key, how to shift into “drive.” She fiercely gripped the wheel at 10 & 2 and touched her foot to the accelerator. Soon we were flying along at eight miles an hour; ants were passing us. I looked over at Lindsey and she began to sing in a la-la-la manner. Yep, driving was pretty easy…at eight miles an hour…on a straight road…with no traffic.
A few Saturdays later, I asked if she was ready to drive into Austin. She said sure. I screamed a few times that day, my friends. Once on MoPac when she started to change lanes while a large truck was occupying the space she wanted. Again when we drove down Guadalupe. Oops, there was a UT home game that afternoon and the street was packed, with cars parked in every available space. I got a lot of ideas for columns that day because my entire life passed before my eyes.
Seriously, though, she did well. After awhile, I knew I had to have a little talk…with myself. I realized I needed to relax. Take my hand off the emergency brake. Trust that she had actually listened and learned. Have some faith in the kid I’ve been guiding all these years.
Sometimes as we drive down the path of life, we think that it might be nice to have someone else controlling things. We expect God to be in the passenger seat of our driver’s ed car, ready to step on His brake if we’re about to crash, ready to reach over and take the wheel when we head into a bad turn. And sometimes we get upset when that doesn’t happen. How could God let me end up like this?
But like any father, He lets us do the driving, going wherever we’re determined to go. God is not the copilot; He’s the passenger. He watches and He worries, hoping we’ve listened, hoping we’ve learned, and loving the ride.

Creative license…

2008 was a banner year for me in one particular way. I’ve loved music all my life and I’ve devoted considerable time, money and space to acquiring music that was meaningful to me. But something happens when you reach middle age. You stop seeing people your age at the record store. You start complaining about what passes for popular music these days. And the artists you loved in your younger years get dropped by their record labels.
But there have been some changes in recent years. It’s now possible for an artist to record a quality-sounding record in his spare bedroom. It’s possible for him to distribute it through his website, without some record label telling him it’s not commercial enough. And it’s possible for me to buy that record without leaving home, downloading it directly to my computer or iPod.
In 2008, more than half a dozen of my favorite artists recorded new albums, only one of which was on a major label. And these records were not just retreads of their old hits; they were solid, challenging works which required great singing and talented playing. Even my old favorite, Brian Wilson, put out an ambitious new album...when he’s old enough to start collecting Social Security.
There’s enormous truth in a motto I saw on a sign not long ago: “We don’t stop laughing because we get old; we get old because we stop laughing.” Substitute “creating” for “laughing” and the message is even stronger. Nobody can put you out to pasture if you can still remember how to open the gate…or jump the fence.
I’m pretty sure at this point that I’ve missed my chance to join the Beach Boys. But in the past couple of years, I’ve written some good songs, filled a weekly column, produced some visual art on the computer or with a paintbrush. I’m not gonna go gently into retirement...unless it gives me more time to do creative stuff.
Wanna stay young? Create. Wanna enjoy your life more? Create. Wanna be more like God? Create.
Consider this to be your creative license; use it or lose it.

Walk a mile in my shirt…

Last time I preached at Riverbend, I was wearing someone else’s jacket. And shirt. And tie. And pants. I don’t even know whose they were. See, I buy most of my clothes at a men’s resale shop. They’re picky about the clothes they accept on consignment, so their selection is always high quality, name-brand stuff.
I don’t shop there just because I’m cheap. But I will probably never be comfortable going into a store and paying $160 for a Tommy Bahama shirt. That’s why I like the resale shop; I can buy several shirts for the price of one new one. And the shirts are always laundered, pressed, on hangers—ready to wear. I also like the idea that these clothes are “broken in.” If they were ever going to shrink, they’ve already done it, so I don’t have to worry about the shirt that fits today being too small after a wash. I walk out of that store, feeling like a big spender, but only paying a fraction of the real cost. What a deal.
There is benefit in choosing things that are pre-tested, things that have proven their dependability. I take comfort in the fact that my faith is in something that has been tested over time, something that is as fresh today as if it were brand new. It fits me like it was made for me…which it was. And talk about a master designer! But because I’m not the original owner, I don’t have to pay the very high price that it cost. I could never afford that and I'm so glad someone else was willing to pay that enormous price. The most unusual thing about this garment, though, is that I can pass it along to someone else, and still wear it myself at the same time.
Here. Try it on. Doesn’t it feel good?

I'm a loser…

For me, the magic number was 294. Actually, since I had a shiny new digital scale, it was 294.3…pounds. I was in the neighborhood of three hundred pounds and it wasn’t a neighborhood I wanted to live in. That meant it was time to go on a diet…again. But I wanted it to be different from previous diets; I wanted to accomplish more than losing some pounds. Although I had done lots of diets, I’d never tried adding a spiritual aspect to losing weight. See, people always say, “You have to want to lose the weight for yourself.” The problem is that virtually everything I’ve ever done has been for myself. I wanted to do it for someone else.
Now, I don’t think God is the sort who would see me offering myself to Him as a living sacrifice and say, “Gee, do you have anything smaller?” I know He loves me regardless of my size. But I had an idea.
I’ve been a creative person all my life. For me, imagination makes life worth living, keeps me excited. I’ve written dozens of songs and a novel. I’ve drawn and painted and done endless graphic design projects. I’ve sung and played and acted and directed and edited. And now the idea beckoned: what if I was the art project? What if I took the time and effort to make myself into something nice for my father—my heavenly father?
So began my regimen. Installing a treadmill in our spare bedroom meant that I wouldn’t have to go to a gym to exercise. I roll out of bed at 5:25 each morning and do 30 minutes of brisk walking while listening to music. I’m in the shower by 6:00. I stop sweating by about 10:30. I’m watching every calorie. And when I feel a hunger pang or I’m tempted to eat something I shouldn’t, I stop and think, “Can I withstand this tiny bit of discomfort for someone who has given me so much?”
And it is working. So far I’m down 34 pounds; that's only one extra chin for me, but I’m excited...not just about losing weight, but about finding a new thing to give over to God. If you’ve got a habit that you just can’t seem to break, you might want to try changing your motivation. You may discover that in God’s illogical algebra—where the last get to be first and the meek get to inherit the earth—apparently losing can make you a winner.

All spruced up…

There’s a soft spot in my heart for those people who make anonymous gestures that the rest of us can see and appreciate. You know, like the person who puts a little red dot on the “deer crossing” signs, converting an average buck into Rudolph the Red-Nosed You-Know-What. I’m also fond of the people who are responsible for the guerilla Christmas trees. I’ve seen them along Loop 360 and down on Redbud Trail near Tom Miller Dam and they’re probably in some other spots around Austin, too. They’re ordinary cedar trees, growing wild by the road. But someone has decorated them with tinsel and ornaments. Sometimes it looks like a “drive-by” decorating job, as if the tinsel was thrown from a slow-moving car. But others have been carefully draped, with each ornament hung in just the right spot. There might be a dozen or more in one spot, forming their own holiday parade.
And it makes me happy. Seeing a Christmas tree with no agenda—no corporate sponsorship, no donor recognition plaque, not even a donation box—well, that just warms my heart. It’s a true example of doing something unselfishly, with no thought of reward...and it benefits many others.
I don’t want to get all Barbara Walters here, but if I were a tree, that’s the kind of tree I’d want to be: a tree that someone took time to dress up and beautify. Wouldn’t it be great if you were just another member of the crowd and someone stopped and gave you a beautiful gift, made you feel like royalty?
It would be great. It is great. Because, just as a lowly cedar tree—usually considered a parasitic scourge by landowners—can be transformed into a celebration symbol of the most important event in history, so can you. All it takes is the touch of a loving hand to change us into something poignant and inspirational. I’ve been touched like that; have you? I bear markings from the very first Christmas.
If we can do this for trees, I wonder if we could do it for people, too? Not for recognition, not for glory...but just to celebrate the birth of a King.

Outside the box… [a poem]

My brain is full of boxes,
Each one labeled with a name.
There’s one for music, one for family,
One for wealth and fame.

Most contain a few things,
Though they’re constantly adjusting.
But there’s one box—marked “Troubles”—
Which is always full to busting.

Oh, sure, a major problem
Can fill up that box, it’s true,
But even tiny issues
Will expand to fill it, too.

I’m skilled at taking molehills and,
When once I’ve started countin’,
I find I don’t have faith to move
That self-created mountain.

I magnify my troubles
‘Til it seems they grow so large
They block my view of that One who
Should always be in charge.

I need some help rememb’ring,
When my “Troubles” box gets fat,
I will always hear Him say to me,
“Here, let me carry that.”

Subtracting digits…

I did something that I’ll bet nobody reading this has ever done. I cut off my finger…at church. I was a little kid, three or four, and I was in a church classroom with other kids my age on a Sunday night. We were taking turns singing our favorite songs. When it was my turn, I stood before the class, singing, “It ain’t gonna rain no more, no more, it ain’t gonna rain no more. How in the heck can I wash my neck when it ain’t gonna rain no more.” Maybe not a sacred song to you, but...
As I sang, I leaned on a small, child-sized table. In those less-litigious days of lead paint, asbestos siding and DDT, the table had a silver metal strip around the edge. I leaned too hard, the table fell forward, and the metal strip sheared off the tip of my left ring finger. Someone went to find my parents while I was picked up and taken to the bathroom. They washed my hand, wrapped a towel around it, and gave me my fingertip to hang onto. Off to the emergency room we dashed, where the errant digit was reattached. But I have never played the violin since that day.
Okay, I never played the violin before that, either; it’s an old joke. My finger recovered pretty well; it’s not quite as fully-rounded as the other finger tips, but it’s never been a problem.
“So what’s the moral, Mike?” I hear you asking. Hmm. Never lean on a table while singing? No, that’s no good. Keep your fingers close at hand? (Sorry.)
How about this? Even in the most serene, holy settings, real life can intrude with startling suddenness. Even in a “sanctuary,” there can be pain and suffering as easily as there can be peace and contentment. There’s a story in the New Testament about a guy who fell out the window during prayer meeting and died! Church is not necessarily a place to escape our troubles. It’s a place to find healing, a place to be comforted, a place where people will come running to help.
It’s a good place to be. Take a tip from me. (Sorry again.)

Zing went the strings…

It’s been 21 years since Lisa and I got married. We had a modest wedding: one bridesmaid, one groomsman, a few potted plants instead of flowers. But we wanted the music to be special. Lisa’s brother and niece sang a duet, accompanied by my sister. I wrote a song and sang it to Lisa. But what about the processional? We decided to hire a harpist. I contacted someone at UT and made the arrangements a couple months before the wedding. Two weeks before the big day, I checked in with the harpist. He said he couldn’t make it after all, but he’d enlisted another harpist from UT to play. Okay.
Just a few days before the wedding, harpist number two got a better offer, but he assured me that he’d passed the gig to a very talented young woman. On the day of our wedding, everything was ready. Every thing except one. No harpist. In the little room where I stood with my brother and my preacher daddy, I paced. I wasn’t nervous about getting married; I was nervous about having to hum the wedding march. Five minutes before start time, a breathless young woman hurried down the aisle, lugging her harp. She was apologetic, saying she’d gotten lost. I calmed myself down and we strolled out to the front of the church. The wedding march began and it sounded classy and different from the usual organ rendition. My beautiful bride started down the aisle with her father. The processional was about six notes from the end when the harpist hit a chord which had never been played before…not anywhere, not any time. She stopped, adjusted her fingers and hit the chord again. It was worse. She hit it a third time and decided that was as close as she was gonna get, then finished the last two bars. That was when I quit believing that the harp was a heavenly instrument.
It was one sour note on an otherwise-beautiful day. Although I obviously still recall the incident, it’s now more amusing than annoying. And I’ve found that, when it comes to a marriage or any other sort of relationship, you can dwell on the one bad note or you can delight in the beauty of the overall song, the excitement of another day, the celebration of love. Yes, there’ll be an occasional clinker. But you’ll feel much better if you quit harpin’ on ‘em.