Mike Stubbe

I recently messaged some of my high school friends via facebook about something significant that happened to me today; I thought I'd post it here as well. It's below:

Hey everyone,
Sorry to invade your facebook inboxes with a rather long and admittedly random note, but something has happened to me today that I'd like to share with you.

A man from our church passed away last week. Maybe some of you knew him; I didn't. His name was Mike Stubbe. He was 26, and a 2000 graduate of CF High. He had been married for 6 years, and had a 5-year old daughter. Mike's daughter found him lying on the couch one morning, covered in a blanket, but dead. He had passed away sometime during the night. The autopsy has been, so far, inconclusive.

I was asked to sing a couple of songs at his funeral today. That's a weird part of my job; I am confronted with the reality of death fairly regularly. Anyways, this one stood out to me. Maybe it'll stand out to you.

While I was getting soundchecked before the funeral, our tech guy was playing through some of the songs that Mike's wife had requested we play sometime during the funeral. One of them was a "blast from the past"--K-Ci and JoJo's "All My Life." As it came over the speakers, I thought to myself: "I have memories of that song." I remember that song playing on the radio right in the middle of college life, when communities and identities were forming, when most things were new or firsts, and when the future was finally starting to be written.

Mike and his wife, Tami, had memories of that song, too. It was playing at a similar time in their life together. It was significant enough to them to be played at Mike's funeral.

And that familiarity--that commonality I had with them in that song--shocked me. Normally I can wrap my mind enough around what happens at a funeral that I can remain somewhat detached, even when the cause of the funeral is pretty tragic. But it was more difficult with this one. He was my (read: our) age. He was in good health. He was a godly man. He wasn't screwing around with his life. Nevertheless, his set amount of days came to an abrupt end.

And that is the somewhat cold reality of life. It ends, and there's really no guarantee, and even the odds can be deceiving. Now, God is sovereign and faithful, and has been explicitly so to Tami, in ways that are too numerous to mention in this already lengthy note. Even with that being said: each of us simply does not know and can not know how much longer we will be here.

So, here's the encouragement that I've felt and that I'd like to pass on to you: no matter where you find yourself right now, or where you've been, or where you think you're going, remember that what really matters in life is knowing God, and living God's life. I listened to Mike's brother get up say as much; that's how he makes sense of this. And it's not an empty truth. God gives meaning and hope through Jesus, linking this life with the next. Clinging to him is our only chance of surviving and even thriving in the face of everything that comes our way.

I know it's not the same as you experiencing this firsthand, but I hope that God is able to draw you nearer to himself through these words, and that they help to keep things in perspective during what promises to be another hectic and loaded holiday season.

Authority

"But the gift is not like the trespass. For if the many died by the trespass of the one man, how much more did God's grace and the gift that came by the grace of the one man, Jesus Christ, overflow to the many! Again, the gift of God is not like the result of the one man's sin: The judgment followed one sin and brought condemnation, but the gift followed many trespasses and brought justification. For if, by the trespass of the one man, death reigned through that one man, how much more will those who receive God's abundant provision of grace and of the gift of righteousness reign in life through the one man, Jesus Christ. Consequently, just as the result of one trespass was condemnation for all men, so also the result of one act of righteousness was justification that brings life for all men. For just as through the disobedience of the one man the many were made sinners, so also through the obedience of the one man the many will be made righteous." [Romans 5:15-19]

I was asked once about this passage: "This doesn't seem equitable. How can one good act by one good man remedy the many evil acts by billions of people?" This question gnawed at me. Part of me thought, "It seems like the scales are very much still unbalanced. There is more evil in the world than good. There is more evil in my life than good." Is the work of Christ diminished to some other-worldly, future hope that "it'll all be different in heaven", while in the meantime the world seems to be going to hell, and parts of my life with it?

I revolt at that. Anger at the injustice and inequity in the world tempts me to point a finger at God, and shame at what I've done yet not been held accountable for bids me to run and hide. I feel both at the same time. Despite these conflicting emotions, I nevertheless conclude: heaven later does nothing to fix hell now.

These are the things the Enemy whispers into my ear.

The crux of the dilemma above seems to have something to do with justice. It doesn't seem "fair" or "right" that one man dying on one cross has the capacity to right all of the wrongs committed by all of the men and women who have ever lived. And perhaps it doesn't… at least in our ledgers. But our ledgers are far from balanced… at least in God's bookkeeping.

Our ledgers allow us to easily see the injustices in our world. Women who are battered. Children who are hungry. People who have a target (literally or metaphorically) on their backs because of the DNA they were given at birth. Times and circumstances in which we've been treated unjustly or unfairly… or even hurtfully. And when our ledgers tell us that there are past due accounts like these, we cry out for them to be paid back in justice for the guilt they've incurred.

The problem is that there are flaws in our ability to book keep. For some reason, we are awfully good at keeping someone else's account (like that of the racist, or of the exploiter, or of the abuser), but absolutely terrible at keeping our own.

And I am reminded of a passage from Psalm 130, verses 3 and 4: "If you, O LORD, kept a record of sins, O Lord, who could stand? But with you there is forgiveness; therefore you are feared."

My conscience cries out for justice to be leveraged on me for my own sin every day. I cannot keep track of how many characters I've successfully assassinated in my own mind, how many adulteries I've had in my heart, or how many selfish interests I've protected over the course of my brief time here on this earth. Before I cry out for social justice, perhaps I should cry out for personal mercy:

"O Lord, hear my voice. Let your ears be attentive to my cry for mercy." [Psalm 130:1]

The fact that I am still standing and breathing is a testimony to God's mercy. The fact that the stain of humanity has not been completely and utterly wiped clean from God's good earth is evidence of a merciful God. Take a moment to look at your own ledger. You are forced to conclude that the amount of marks in the red far outnumber the marks in the black. And yet you remain, likely living a fairly blessed life by most of the world's standards. Why?

"The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness. He is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance." [2 Peter 3:9]

And then, all of a sudden, we're grateful for the apparently deferred judgment.

And then, we realize that this world can change only as we are changed.

And then, we realize that we are changed because God hasn't deferred our judgment, but has already punished humanity's representative for its sins.

And then, we realize that we are changed beause God is merciful, for He has elected his incarnated Son, Jesus, as humanity's representative.

event planning

One of the things that I am not very good at is event planning. Which is an ok thing to not be good at for most people… mainly people who don't plan events for a living. But it's a problem for youth pastors. Event planning is pretty much the scaffolding around which ministry in a youth setting is done. And I suck at it.

I guess I don't suck at it. But I'm not the best. And it stresses me out. So many details to remember. So many possibilities to forget. So many volunteers to ask to help, to follow up with, to support. So many questions from students. So many messages to plan, ideas to brainstorm, slides to make, multimedia to set up. It makes me tired to just list all of it.

I often wonder when it gets down to crunch time of one of these major events: is this all worth it? Is this what ministry is supposed to be about? It all costs so much… financially, physically, mentally, emotionally, and even spiritually.

I was pondering this tonite, while sitting around a bonfire at our college retreat. It's Saturday night, and I've just gotten over the "hump" of the retreat—I've given my 3^rd of four talks, after leading two worship sets, and tomorrow's talk is a done deal. We've gotten up here safely, the weather has been great, the students seem to be responding, the food's been good, and we haven't had any major tech issues. Looks like it's gonna be a success, which alleviates some anxiety, which gives me space to think.

And I think: could we have got more students to come? How many should we shoot for next year? Was all of this work worth it? Is this going to be significant in the lives of these students?

And as I thought that, a story popped into my head from the John Ortberg series my small group has been listening to and discussing. It's the one where Jesus is telling the parable about the man throwing this huge banquet, inviting everyone who's anyone, only to find that all of his A-list invites make excuses and go back on their RSVPs on the day of the party. They're snubbing the host.

The host responds by having his servants search everywhere—even the slums—to fill up his party. And fill up the party the servant does. He finds plenty of people who "aren't doing anything on Saturday night." And just like that, the disabled and feeble-minded are now walking the same red carpet as the stars would have… if only they had made good on their RSVPs.

God, of course, is the host in the story. The A-listers who go back on their initial acceptance of God's invitation are [most of] his chosen people, the Jews. And the disabled and feeble-minded… well, that's all of the rest of us who, disabled and broken from our own sin, have benefitted from the rescinded RSVPs.

God planned this amazing event… but even an event planned by God himself wasn't "attractive" enough to draw the "big names" in big numbers.

And I got to thinking: maybe "big names in big numbers" shouldn't be something that I worry about. Maybe it shouldn't be one of the things I use to determine how well one of my event-planning endeavors turned out. Maybe my events are a success for the same reason that God's event was a success: because God was there. Maybe my effort should be directed toward getting whoever will accept God's invitation to show up, rather than try to make the event attractive to the big names in big numbers… and to give God praise for filling his event with those who he has chosen.

So, God… thanks.

Joseph, Jesus’ Dad

There's a line in Mercy Me's song "Joseph's Lullaby" that grabbed me tonight. The song, as its title communicates, is written as if Joseph was singing a lullaby to his infant son, Jesus. The scene of the song takes place sometime shortly after Jesus is born—perhaps the very night Mary gave birth. And Joseph sings:

"You have a long road before you—rest your little head."

The long road before you. That part of the line struck me. I feel like that a lot—like the road ahead of me is long. I started to think of the road that is set before me each day:

I am undisciplined. I let my appetite go unchecked too often, let my eyes linger too long, and let my spending run too far ahead of my paycheck. I am quick to judge, and rarely quick to listen. I get angry, and am a master at justifying it, spinning it to serve my own interests. And that's the short list.

These things litter the road that is set before me. I am who I am. This is the road I will travel, and these are the obstacles looming out ahead of me.

And God the Father sees this. Every day He sees this. He sees me walk this road and, as I come upon these obstacles, He sees me falter. In fact, He saw me walk and falter long before I even began to do it with my skin on. He saw that what I was going to do, if He didn't do something about it, was eventually going to lead to my death. My death—me being separated forever from the Life He Has. Me walking a road that leads away from him, toward my self-destruction.

And so he gave his Son a road to travel—an even longer road than mine:

"Walk his road, so that he can walk with Me on mine." That was the road that was set before Jesus: change me.

I think that changing someone—I mean, truly changing another person, permanently and for the better—is the single most difficult thing to do in this world. Think about it. Let's say your job is to spend 8 hours a day, 5 days a week, 49 weeks per year (that's right… you get 3 weeks vacation!) with a gang member who has known the way of violence for as long as he can remember being alive. Your task is to change him into being a non-violent, legitimately-working citizen.

How would you do it? How long would you need? Could you stay with it, walking with him through the ups and downs, through the dangers and snares, all the while remaining an attractive and alternate option to the lifestyle he has grown so accustomed to? Would your mercy know no bounds as he returned to that lifestyle periodically despite showing some growth? Would the life that you produced in him, if you were successful, remain in him even apart from your physical presence? Would you be willing to count the daily cost necessary to change just one person's life?

Jesus was willing. I don't know how he was able, but he was, and he is. And he walks my long road with me even today.

room for mystery

The Lord has been whispering to me, which is a funny thing to say. On the one hand, I feel like He's not close enough to whisper. But this is only from my perspective. Indeed, he must be close enough for me to type what he's been whispering.

He's been whispering something along these lines:

"Can your eyes see, your mind allow, and your heart accept my mysteries?"

His mysteries. Here's how he has been whispering them to me:

Jesus' kingdom message is itself an embrace of mystery. Jesus proclaims to us: my Father's rule is mythically and supernaturally breaking into this world right now through Me, your Curse-Bearer.

He goes on to illustrate this new kingdom reality with more mystery. Jesus says his Father's kingdom is like a seed that is scattered on the ground, remains untended by human hands, and yet grows from the earth all by itself. He goes on to say that this kingdom is like a tiny "pine nut" growing into a massive pine tree (the Message's rendering of Jesus' mustard seed parable).

Stop for a second. When you read that last paragraph, did you think: "Well, perhaps the original readers of those accounts of Jesus simply didn't know how a seed grows." Or, "Actually, a pine nut contains all of the necessary DNA coding to grow a pine tree to its maturity."

Now, without traveling down some sort of long and uncalled-for defense of the intellect of Jesus' contemporaries, suffice it to say they knew enough about how seeds grow to know that if it did not get planted in properly tilled soil, receive adequate water, and protected from the sun and weeds that chances are, it was not going to grow--as any green thumb can readily attest to. And when a seed did manage to grow up into a plant without any sort of human intervention, well, that was so unlikely that it was indeed mysterious.

To look at a vast forest of pine trees, and know that no one planted them. To see a a sapling at the base of a great tree, and to know that it sprouted because a nut dropped from one of the branches. No hole was dug. No food was added. But roots found their way in, and lo and behold, it is on its way to taking its place in the canopy.

It inspires mystery. Awe. Wonder. Even amazement. Mouths dropped at something so unlikely.

Like a God who knows and sees the depths of our (most often hidden) evil and devises an elaborate plan, not for our eradication, but for our redemption.

Stop and let him grow his mystery up in you. Let this great mystery overwhelm your doubt, your shame, your guilt, your fear, your pain, your anxiety. Let your mouth open, your heart well up, and your eyes shed tears at a God who loves so mysteriously.

bigger

"You have to keep in mind the big picture."

"Don't miss the forest for the trees."

What exactly is the big picture?

What's the biggest picture?

I'd guess that it's redemption. God redeems broken humanity in a broken world. When it comes to a mission or a vision, what could possibly eclipse God's redemption?

And yet.

And yet, every day I find myself getting sucked down undercurrents, enticed off of the way, compelled to take a side in some battle masquerading as the war itself.

This person felt mistreated. That person felt mismanaged. This person feels like they were given the runaround. That person feels like another is getting more than they deserve. This person feels like they're not getting as much as they deserve.

And each "situation" balloons up, appearing to be about one hundred times more significant than it really is... or, more accurately perhaps, than as it should be.

And yet.

And yet, there are some real mistakes being made, and some real injustices being permitted. It's not right. It's not fair. It's irresponsible to ignore. It's lazy not to take a side.

And yet.

And yet, we're all on the same side. Not in terms of peformance, or of decision-making, or of preference, or of gifting, or of perception, or of opinion, or of philosophy, or of conviction. No, all of those things differ, sometimes radically, from person to person. My conviction seems to imply that yours is all wrong. Your perception seems to imply that mine is at its best misinformed. You might be right; I might be wrong. No, we are indeed not at all on the same side when it comes to matters that are subjective, even if we ascribe to (differing) objective standards.

We are, however, on the same side when it comes to spirituality. No, not subjective spirituality, like your preference in preaching styles or subjects, your tastes in music, or whether you prefer Sunday school or small groups. In fact, the further we are polarized on such matters, the more content we are with ourselves that our particular preference is the "right one." Which brings me back to the first sentence of this particular paragraph.

We are on the same side when it comes to objective spirituality. Objective spirituality. Who you are objectively as a spiritual being. Who I am objectively as a spiritual being. You are the same as me, I as you, and you and me as anyone else. You, me, and everyone else who has ever walked anywhere on this earth. An American, a Roman, an Israelite, a son of Eden. We all have been, we all are, and we all will forever be objectively--absolutely, regardless of our particular circumstances or experiences or whatever--dead without Jesus, and redeemed in him.

The big(gest) picture is redemption in Jesus. The biggest picture is not who the next staff person should be, or which philosophy should win out, or where the damned music is heading. Now, to be fair and realistic, those types of things rise in their importance relative to the local church. But not everything is relative to the local church. The local church is not simply local; she is a part of the universal church, and should first gather her identity from her solidarity with all of humanity at all times. Humans are dead and dying without Jesus. And humans are redeemed to life and freedom with Jesus.

What might our normal, everyday transactions look like if we kept before our hearts and minds this big picture? What if we dedicated as much of our ministry effort toward keeping the big picture before our eyes every day as we do on everything else? Perhaps it wouldn't "solve" everything else, because to be sure, differences exist, and a direction will have to be established in spite of them. Nevertheless: I wonder how much of our squabbling comes about as a result not of our differences, but of our myopia.

May our vision never be reduced to something that is lesser than redemption, O Lord.

maturity

Well, I've gotten through an entire calendar year now, at least from a ministry programming standpoint. I think the word that best captures it is this: humbling.

This is the pattern for me: I thought I knew / I didn't know as much as I thought I did / I didn't know as much as I needed to know / the things I do know are still the things that matter the most. How much sense does that make? A lot to me, but perhaps not a lot to anyone else.

The steepest learning curves? There have been two. First: practical, earthy, everyday knowledge. Managing and forecasting a budget towards effectiveness, growth, and clarity. Utilizing various multimedia tools creatively and coherently. How to observe what other ministries do in a way that is both appropriately critical and appropriately helpful to my own. Learning how to organize and manage a calendar, communicate with a team, and honor life outside of ministry.

Second: working from a low position. Better first to understand and serve rather to critique and judge. Figuring out which hills are there for you to die on, and which hills are there for your education. Earning trust instead of deserving it. Having the courage to be silent rather than speak your mind. Discerning how to help before learning how to lead.

And yet, the things that I do know are the things that matter the most. And that is encouraging. Living life in God's presence--my presence to his Presence, moment by moment--matters. Encouragement and exhortation toward that life is worth the cost. Protecting that life from the packaging or trappings of culture matters. Producing disciples--from either side of the faith line--matters. Preaching the Bible matters. Serving the community matters. Being local and not copied matters. These are the things that I know, and these are the things that matter. Not that the things that I didn't know and had to learn don't matter; it's just that they don't matter as much.

And that's my (brief) summary of year one as a young pastor.