During all of Jesus’ homilies on money and greed and God’s provision, two of his disciples received his words radically differently. One was a former tax collector, Matthew, who had enlisted with the Roman occupiers essentially to extort money from his fellow Jews. But he left his lucrative career to follow a homeless teacher. The other disciple was Judas Iscariot, whose occupation we know nothing about.

At my church, a Brethren denomination that has German Baptist roots, we hold an annual council meeting every October. These are mostly business meetings for the election of committee chairs and such, as well as for the approval of the next year’s budget. Each of us pastors is expected to give a brief summary of our particular ministry. I’ll never forget the meeting in 2010.

Several years ago I was packing my bags for an international flight, a trip that would take me to Guatemala, and I felt I needed to write Cindy and the girls a letter. Three letters, one each to be read in case something fatal happened to me.

I’m not sure if this has ever happened to you, when it feels like something you read in Scripture punches you in the gut. In the quiet of the morning with but a single lamp on in the house, my freshly brewed coffee on a little tray I set next to me on the couch, and my Bible open to the tenth chapter of the Gospel of John, a little phrase — two short words — jump off the thin page and smack me a few times, knocking the wind out of me, nearly spilling my coffee.

I think in school I just liked the rules, the 2+2 always equals 4. My favorite subject, English, also contained rules: grammar rules. I don’t remember all the names of the parts of speech, but I know how to use them and when I can break them. The same is true in music.

Two for one today in our look at the eighth chapter of John. It could have been three, but I’m skipping over the account of the woman caught in adultery. In this read of John’s gospel, I’m intentionally looking at the stories I may have missed before, so I’ve purposed to skip over my favorites…. I wonder if you have ever been arguing with someone and your opponent says something so ridiculous, so outlandish, so blatantly false that you can only laugh at their logic. Such is an argument the Pharisees posed.

I didn’t attend a Christian university or a Bible college. I don’t have a Masters of Theology or any kind of seminary training. I don’t even have a Bachelor’s degree. I completed about sixty credit hours at the community college in my hometown, and those classes were nearly all music related. After two years of the first five of a Bachelor’s of Music, Lindsay happened along, and I halted my studies to work full-time as a secretary, lead a worship ministry, and take gigs whenever I could.

Some have claimed that Jesus would not have been a good church planter, for he was always saying things that drove people away from, instead of to, himself. One day he feeds thousands of people who were listening to him preach, so they return the following day anticipating another free meal.

Someday I might buy a motorcycle. Not now, but maybe when our kids are grown and don’t need me as much. And when Cindy has endured me enough for one lifetime. Yes, I secretly admire motorcycles. I’ve never been one who willingly seeks adventure, but a part of me imagines the thrill of an open freeway at 70 mph. (I likely wouldn’t go much faster.) I haven’t been on a bike, though, since that fateful day when I was 5.

I wrote back in the spring about the seven churches I’ve been a part of. What I didn’t write then is that to varying degrees I was wounded at those churches. (I’m sure I did some wounding myself, but I tend not to remember that.) Looking back I realize now that I left each church with just a little more resentment towards my fellow saints. This continued to build until I could no longer ignore it.