Literacy Gang Fights Summer-Setback in the Name of Jesus

My wife and I read to our children regularly. They have recently begun to read to us. Their voices convey the magic of early literacy. For children without books or an adult to read to them, I feel great pity. I've often wanted to counter this problem.

I first encountered the concept of a literacy gap when working in a Denver public high school. I grew up in the suburbs. Minorities were few and mostly Asian. Their school performance put mine to shame.

The kids at George Washington High School lived a different story. Many of them rode the bus an hour to attend their school of choice. Many associated with gangs--solid red tees and over-sized blues tainted the hallways. The White and Asian students secured their own wing of the school in the International Baccalaureate program. The remaining students pushed and shoved and meandered through the rest of the building. Fights broke out regularly. Class participation happened on occasion.

Perhaps my memory has dramatized the sights and sounds of inner city education. Nonetheless, I perfectly recall the impoverished sense of literacy and grammar. The epidemic has spread to Warsaw, Indiana.

Sociologists, politicians, and educators alike have tried finding ways to eliminate the achievement gap. Individualized education plans, full-day kindergarten, block scheduling, tutors, mentors, and after-school programing top the list.

But these solutions don't account for one major issue: summer break. For the student who comes from a home where reading is not valued, literacy will take last place to soccer camps, cartoons, and water play. This phenomenon has been deemed the "summer-setback theory."

The theory is straight-forward: Gains made in reading during the school year fade during the summer. Like any muscle suffering atrophy, the mental muscle grows from repeated practice. Daily reading groups help students learn to read; two months of video games, camping trips, daytime TV, and bike rides do not.

The problem continued to gnaw at me. I began to envision myself riding a golf cart through a nearby trailer park. I'd fill the vehicle with books, bags of candy, and a giant blanket to sprawl out on. I'd announce my visits with a PA system and ditty that put the ice cream truck's to shame. I'd ask other adults from my church to go with me. We'd be a band of readers: the Literacy Gang.

Perhaps my imagination exaggerated the sights and sounds of a mobile library ministry. Nonetheless, the Literacy Gang took flight today. Fifteen kids, twenty-five books, and one hundred Tootsie Rolls later, I believe we're on to something. A simple ministry is born.

Gleanings from My Trip to Urban Hope (Philly)

Eleven people crammed into a twelve-passenger van. We were under strict orders to shower and wear clean shoes. Nothing puts a damper on a road trip like foot and body odor. We left shortly after six AM on a Friday. Desintation: Urban Hope (UH) Training Center and Church in Philadelphia.

UH comprises a full block in the Kensington neighborhood of North Philadelphia. It is a city set on a hill. We intended to bask in their light.

Three married couples, two teens, and three college-aged students took their seats. We smelled fresh, looked forward, and set out to have God teach us something about His mission and compassion. We were not disappointed.

The majority of residents surrounding UH are Puerto Rican. Drug dealers stand on the corners next to men washing cars and kids playing in the spray of fire hydrants. Latin beats scream from passing cars; trash dances on the sidewalks as people walk by.  The need for Jesus is palpable.

Our team arrived on Friday night, in time to participate in the outreach program for teenagers (R.O.C.K.). Saturday 's events included prayer walks, service projects, a visit to little Cambodia, and feeding the homeless at Love Park. On Sunday we worshiped with the church family before beginning our long return trip.

All in all, the trip was memorable, enjoyable, and stretching. Like any ministry experience, it opened my eyes to needs beyond my typical range of vision and deepened my connected to my teammates.

In addition, several unlikely gleanings from Philly stand out. 
 
I like Christian rap. The small sampling of Lecrae and Toby Mac I heard on the trip led me to bob my head and pump my fist. But the KB's song "Church Clap" may have started a revolution, not only for me, but for our entire church.

Matching shirts are a blessing and a curse. For our prayer walk, the UH staff sent us out in matching green tee-shirts. If our pasty skin was not conspicuous enough, the clans of four clad in bright green sent off a signal: Prayer is coming. The first guy to see us headed in his direction, jumped from his stood, darted in his door, and turned the lock before we could say hello. The neighbors new the drill. It's why a guy named Josh hid his join and a kid named Christian invited into his home to pray for his cancer.
 
Water Ice tastes so good. Philly's homegrown product is a cross between Italian ice and sorbet. It comes in a variety of flavors--pina colada, lime, lemon, blueberry, and cherry, to name a few. And anyone with a cooler, chain, and padlock can sell it from her front porch. A kid named Nasir brought me to the porch where he purchases his Water Ice for fifty cents. I gladly indulged.

Not everyone has heard of Jesus. The guys on Ella Street had. Of course, their information didn't line up with Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John. They told me Jesus smoked pot. They must've been reading the Gnostic gospels. Sadder yet, when our team visited a Buddhist Temple in little Cambodia, the lady who gave us a crash course on how to pray to Buddah, admitted she had never heard of Jesus Christ. Twenty years in the US had not afforded her a single mention of the name above all names.

Church people and services need to loosen up. The kids ran circles in the basement before the service began. One lady drank a Mountain Dew and smoked a cigarette on the street before the opening song. Nothing started on time. One song switched from English to Spanish mid-chorus. Seven people took the microphone at various points to lead various elements. More than ten others walked up front to request prayer--for incarcerated family members, job needs, health needs, salvation needs. Toward the end of the morning, one girl committed her life to following Jesus. Neat and orderly worship services do not always produce life change.

Nicknames are crazy good. One of our team members was a quiet, college student. I personally invited him to join us a few months ago. He'd already returned home for the summer, but seemed eager to go with us to Philly. He started with the weakest connection to the rest of our team. Then he received his nickname. K-J-C. (The 'C' is drawn out). Twelve hours in a van and a few nasty dunks on basketball court brought him into the fold.

We never fully grow up. The amount of farting, dancing, teasing, and wrestling that took place on our trip underscore the fact that we never really grow up. Some of us less than others. The prime example of this child-likeness came at Love Park. After feeding and praying with several homeless people, we approached the fountain at the center of the park. The background of illuminated buildings created a magnetic glow to the water. It drew two of our team members in. Followed by six others. Within minutes, they were sopping wet and trying to dunk one another.

There is no Plan B. God uses people to reach the lost. It begins with prayer and moves to the streets. There is no perfect sales pitch for Jesus. Many of the lives that have been transformed in Philly were the spoils of weeks, months, and years of conversation. The decision to follow Him takes time when people realize what repentance truly means. Some folks don't want to or know how to turn from their misery, suffering, or selfish ways. But when Christ-followers model the Christian life and speak about it freely, it gives unbelievers a picture of God's love and patience.

White boards are good for praying. We wrote the name of every person we met on a white board. It quickly filled up. This is how they pray for people at UH. Learn a name. Pray for the person until they decide to follow Jesus. Time and time again, the staff encouraged us to pray for people in our sphere of influence. We were not expected to go home and pray for twenty names from Philly, but to find twenty names from Leesburg, Warsaw, and Winona Lake. Pray for my neighbors. Pray on my streets.

Becoming Awesome

I bought a self-help book. Start is the title. John Acuff is the author. He wrote it with wit, a wry grin behind every key stroke.


The dust jacket of Start tells me to "Punch Fear in the Face. Escape Average. Do Work that Matters." I'm a pastor: there's nothing average about my daily diet of coffee talks, mass emails, grammatical outlines, and youth group grocery stops.

But to call myself awesome is a stretch.

My blog readership remains low. My self-promotion leveled out in high school. My batting average in D-League church softball continues to decline. My only stupid human trick is the ability to stick out my stomach so that I look pregnant.

Awesome alludes me.

My hope, however, is that a focused read of John Acuff's book will begin the transformation. More readers, better self-promotion, increased batting average, and the ability to juggle flaming torches while reciting the alphabet backwards. Hebrew alphabet, that is.

The good news is this: Change does not happen over night (pg. 28). In fact, it starts in the morning. At 5:30. My alarm goes off. I seize the day.

Awesome begins with an incredibly average routine: Bible reading and prayer; typing and jogging; making the coffee and walking the dog; rousing my children and kissing my wife. If I can set a good tone for my home before leaving for the day, I feel like I'm ascending the path of awesome.

Awesome husband and father may not result in a pay raise or keynote speaker slot at the National Awesome Conference in Atlanta, GA, but it pleases God, honors my family, and instructs my church. That's worth losing a little of sleep over.

I Might Be the Antichrist

I was having a crisis of faith. Most of us do—it’s not entirely novel. Either we question the fact of God or the sincerity of our belief. We don’t want to be fools and hypocrites. My crisis of faith, however, was different: I had reason to believe I was the antichrist.

I aced Bible college, stomped my seminary colleagues, and collected more honors than livestock at the county fair. Success fed my spiritual ambition. I wanted to build a mega-church, run for office, end war, alleviate poverty, cure cancer, star in a reality show, and walk on water. These were lofty goals, but in my mind, I had the spiritual charisma to achieve them.

I had grown bold, smart, strong, and which fed my antichrist inklings. The pieces seemed to fit.

What would the folks in my church think? I have a few announcements this morning. The Pierced Hands ministry will meet this afternoon. The Swollen Knees prayer meeting on Tuesday is moved to seven o’clock. And I am the antichrist. There might be a mass exodus, but, more likely, I predict an influx in our weekly attendance. Fanatics always draw a crowd. My better judgment told me that subtlety was a more effective strategy.

As I pastor, I manufactured smiles. Charm was my predominant quality. I laced sermons with humor and conversation with wit. I could get kids to giggle and old ladies to snort. Perhaps this steered from the typical caricature of the antichrist—the Russian tyrant, the Middle Eastern terrorist, the US president—but I was convinced the affable evangelical was a more likely candidate.

Subtlety is the mark of the beast. The antichrist is a con artist, not a carjacker. He is a magician, not a bully. He uses slight of hand, turn of phrase, and sustained eye contact to deceive. And he smiles.

I could mask a wicked heart with morality and bury a lie in the deck. I could preach the gospel of self-improvement, self-fulfillment, and self-actualization. Preach cheap grace—shallow friendships, minimal sacrifice, euphoric worship—and tickle people’s ears. The gospel of the con-Christ, the slight-of-hand Jesus.

The foolproof route to apostasy is to skirt the topic of Jesus altogether: speak solely to the Self. Use phrases like Reach YOUR full potential; Chase YOUR dreams; Embrace YOUR destiny. Strip people of the word obedience, and fixate on improvement. Show people how to smile. The antichrist’s job would be easy in America. Our culture is ready for such a time as this. Perhaps I’m the man to lead it. Then again, I may just be an average, self-possessed Christian.

NOTE: I wrote this several years ago after mixing up my pronouns while singing worship songs. Instead of singing "Thy will be done," for example, I'd sing "My will be done." It worried me. I submitted the article to a few online magazines. No one took it. Yesterday I resurrected it for a sermon on testing the spirits (1 John 4:1-6). When I read it to my congregation, the silence was eerie. I hope I didn't get myself in trouble!

More than Lip Service

I take Sunday mornings for granted. I won't deny the fact. I spend my week studying Scripture, consuming podcasts, highlighting books, and conversing with other people about their faith. For me the weekly worship service has become a rallying point, not a recharging station.

But for the masses who spend the week folding laundry, spreading sheets, filing papers, mailing invoices, cutting trim, answering emails, cleaning carpets, and grading tests, Sunday mornings take on a different meaning. For church service we settle mostly for lips: a little teaching, a sprinkling of songs, and some pleasant interchange with familiar faces.

The world wears us down.The daily grind can feel godless. Netflix, little league, and coffee breaks don't sustain our souls. We are starved by Sunday. So Sabbath rest sounds satisfying.

Unfortunately, church services often fail to satisfy. The unmarked sermon notes and empty sign-up sheets scattered about the building serve as a metaphor. We deliver content without an opportunity to practice. We collect tithes without catalyzing mission. We pay lip service, but our hearts and hands are far from the God who ransomed us.

This is the story of Israel repeated in the modern day church. This is fallacy that worship is for me and my needs, not God and His mission. This is church as a recharging station.

To expect the majority of Christ-follower to study Scripture, consume podcast, highlight books, and converse with others about their faith is far-reaching. However, as a pastor I must call others to practical application (i.e., maturity) and collective action (i.e., mission).

This is the story of the Pentecost repeated in the modern church. This is the truth that love is not merely word and tongue, but deed and truth. This is church as a rallying point.

Below are a few idea to make Sunday morning a platform for mission and maturity.

• Dedicate several Sunday mornings a year to service projects.
• Send out random groups to prayer-walk around the community during the sermon.
• Go two hours past the regular "closing time" to interact with questions, prayer requests, or impromptu singing. (Don't ask for permission from the nursery workers, but beg their forgiveness afterwards!)
• Move singing and preaching to a public location and invited people to join us.
• Send out a group of people to pursue a prodigal from the church.

NOTE: In the past year, I've seen a few of these things happen at our church. Sunday became a rallying point. It was beautiful.

Thin and Noble Core of the Local Church

Adults scattered themselves about the library. They sat in little chairs waiting for the students to arrive with their lunch trays. For an hour the adults and students would interact over carrot sticks, chapter books, and board games. This was the Reading Buddy program at Leesburg Elementary School.

The librarian resurrected the program after a two-year hiatus. The school had changed locations and a new business arrived in town. A fresh pool of volunteers was ripe for picking. She made the call; several showed up.

As I scanned the tables, I noticed something interesting: several of adults were the same ones who volunteered at their church, organized the community parade, and served meals at the community fish fry. They were the thin and noble core who came to everything. Without them, little would happen.

A few months later my own neighborhood started a program to build a sense of community. Meetings and picnics crowded our calendars. The same thin and noble core came to every event. The pattern held true at concerts, PTO meetings, church events, and other social gatherings.

Twenty percent of people come to everything. Twenty percent of people do everything. Eight percent of people come and do few things.

The thin and noble core holds things together. The thin and noble core makes things happen.


In a world of endless opportunities, limited loyalty, and declining energy, it is more and more challenging to motivate the masses. Worse yet, our technologies give us the illusion that the masses are a click, post, tweet, or text message away from gathering, organizing, and making a great name.

But we would be fools to disparage the core to corral the masses.

In the world of local church ministry, leaders must celebrate the thin and noble core. And invest in the core. And strengthen it.

Questions to Consider:
Who constitutes your core?
Who thinks they are in your core, but you know they are not?
How strong is your core? Where is your core weak?
How do you intentionally invest in your core?

Marmie: A Companion

Liz and her mother, Marcella Elaine Regier

My mother-in-law passed away a week ago. Her family surrounded her in bed as she breathed her last earthly breath. Her soul departed with little sting. As we prepared for her memorial service, I earned the honor of reflecting on her life. I did so by revisiting memorable phrases. For a woman who struggled to speak during the past fourteen years, her words indeed made an impact.

I've copied my transcript from her service. It was my pleasure to give her back her voice for a few minutes.

Marmie: A companion

In Little Women, the four sisters call their mother Marmee. It’s a term of endearment. Marmee shaped her daughters, loving, teaching, and modeling the character of a strong woman.

Every little woman needs a bigger woman to direct and guide and cherish her. Most people call this bigger woman Mother or Mom. Sarah, Liz, and Bekah called her Marmie. She was their mother. The grandkids likewise called her Marmie. But she was also known as wife to Mel, sister to her siblings, aunt to her nieces and nephews, and mother-in-law to me, Jeremy, and Aaron.

The rest of you know her as Marcy: co-worker, neighbor, church member, prayer partner, and friend.

I’m tasked with telling her story. So consider this a companion (a handbook) to Marmie: Marcella Elaine Harter Regier. This companion will not flow chronologically (those details are in the obituary), but rather thematically.

We all know that speech challenged Marcy the last fourteen years. The last few years she was limited to but a few phrases. This companion attempts to interpret her phrases—some pre-stroke, many post—and honor her legacy.

Our words outlive our bodies. Marcy, our companion, knew this fact well.

Marcy said, “I can do it myself!”

Toward the end of her life, Marcy’s communication withered to five expressions. Of all them, “I can do it myself” was the most ironic. To eat, she needed help with her spoon. To move, she needed help with her wheelchair. To clean her teeth, she needed help into the bathroom. To sleep, she needed help into her pajamas and onto her bed.

But Marcy was stubborn. Shouts of self-sufficiency echoed in every room.

“I can do it myself,” said Marcy at the dinner table.

“I can do it myself,” said Marcy on couch.

“I can do it myself,” said Marcy in the bathroom.

“I can do it myself,” said Marcy from her bed.

Sadly, she could not. We knew it and so did she. Marcy needed us. Perhaps, this is why she followed up so often with two of her remaining phrases: “I’m sorry” or “Thank you so much.”

Marcy said, “Itty-bitty-nitty-gritty.”

When Mel and Marcy moved from Hutchison, Kansas to Warsaw, Indiana, God had given them a baby named Sarah and a job called Seminary. God clearly led the way. Unfortunately, He did not provide much money. Instead, He supplied two more babies: Elizabeth and Rebekah. Three girls less than five years apart.

After Bekah’s birth, Mel quit seminary and got a real job at Zimmer. Still, it took several years to repay hospital bills and school fees. A lean budget meant no Happy Meals, county fair rides, or pop corn at the movies. Marcy deemed these the “nitty-gritty-itty-bitty days.” The classic picture sets her with her three daughters sharing two McDonald’s hamburgers. Two puny burgers divided among four hungry mouths.

Note: One time Marcy accidentally threw a burger out of the car window trying to swat a bee, but upon rescuing it, she still served it to her children. Now that’s nitty-gritty.

Second note: McDonald’s does not actually endorse their burgers for swatting away bees or a healthy diet.

Marcy said, “Aphasia.”

Marcy would hold out a card out. “I have had a stroke,” it read on the front. On the back it named her disability: Aphasia. “I have difficulty talking, reading, and writing. Please be patient.” She would display the card at the grocery store, Wellness Center, Church, and Boathouse.

Her stroke took place 14 years ago. Her motor skills returned to near full capacity. Her blue eyes and winsome smile remained bright. But her speech lagged behind. Even with therapy, phonics books, and support groups, words remained elusive. So she carried a card to pass out in public. Aphasia.

Marcy said, “Oh, Dirt!”

Marcy’s stroke brought me and Liz together. Within weeks of the incident, Liz called me on the phone to weep. I was the first non-family member she confided in. I played Rachmaninoff's Vespers in the background to soothe her as she sobbed.

My introductory meal at the Regier home came on Mother’s Day—less than two months after Marcy’s trauma. The whole family wept and there was no Rachmaninoff at my disposal. I just shifted in my chair.

I survived the first year and eventually became a fixture in this emotionally fragile family. Marcy honestly made me nervous. I knew she couldn’t speak fluently, but I was convinced she could read minds. Recently, my fear was confirmed, when I read that stroke victim’s brains become heavily right-hemisphere dependent. They learn to intuit body language and facial expressions as they interact with others. AKA: They read minds.

I often wondered what she read when she looked at me. One day she let me know. I walked into their kitchen. She smiled, pointed, and blurted, “Oh, Dirt.”

Her daughter was dating Dirt. Soon enough, I became her son.

Marcy said, “Water, Water, Always Water.”

Marcy’s faith seeped into every aspect of her life. She was raised on German hymns and Gaither sings. She went to Grace Bible Institute, worked at Grace College, attended Winona Lake Grace Brethren Church. And she loved books by Edith Shaffer, Joni Erickson Tada, and King David (i.e. the Psalms). She and Mel passed their faith down to their children.

One time Marcy read about the health benefits of drinking water in a Joyce Meyer book. She took the exhortation to drink water to heart. Half-full glasses of water lay about the house. More than once in her aphasic days, Marcy pointed at a glass and said, “Water, water, always water.”

In the last few months, Marcy rarely sat in a room without her water bottle nearby. (Along with her blanket, mittens, and heater.)

Marcy said, “No. No. No.”

Marcy often spoke in triplets. A smaller vocabulary meant a higher rate of repetition for her. When she needed help, she’d say her nickname three times, “Marmie, Marmie, Marmie.” When she bid us farewell, she’d say, “I love you. I love you. I love you.” When she wanted Peanut Butter cups, she’d say, “Yes, yes, yes.” When we misunderstood her gesture or request, she said, “No, no, no.”

The tricky part was that sometimes “No, no, no,” meant “Yes, yes, yes.” Other times “No, no, no” meant “No.” She’d let us know other ways.

“Marcy, do you want to go for a walk?” I ask. “Yes.”

I put Marcy in the wheel chair. She seems confused. She looks at me and says, “No.” I thought you wanted to go for a walk,” I reply. “Yes, yes, yes.” I move her through the kitchen. I open the garage door. I begin to push her through the threshold, but both her arms turn into door jams. She clenches the casing and arrests us.

No walk today. Marcy wins. Her fingernails have left scars in every doorway and hallway in the house.

Marcy said, “Oh, yes I love Jesus”

Marcy ushered her daughters to sleep by singing The Deep, Deep Love of Jesus most nights. Music played a central role in their family—from piano lessons to choir performances—song was a blessed tie that bound them.

Marcy even turned car trips into catechisms. “Oh Bekah do you love Jesus?” Marcy would sing from the front seat of the station wagon. “Oh, yes, I love Jesus,” Bekah cooed from the back.

“Do you know you love Jesus?”

“I know I love Jesus.”

“Oh, Sarah, do you love Jesus…”

As Marcy’s speech began to fade, familiar choruses or traditional hymns revived Marcy’s voice. Whether it was a daughter with a hymnal, friend at the piano, son-in-law on his guitar, holiday sing-a-long with extended family, or the Doxology at Sunday dinner, song was Marcy’s mother tongue. She kept singing till her evening came.

And I trust she’s singing right now.

Marcy said, “Pew-tinka”

Marcy would pull the girls shocks off, press her nose to their feet, pinch her face in mock disgust, and say, “Pew Tinka.” Mothering lends itself to silliness.

But Marcy exposed her playfulness in all relationships. The way she cut her husband’s hair; the way she hiked up her pantyhose and laughed with co-workers; the way she tickled her grandkids; the way she stole her kids’ candy and shared a box of chocolate covered cherries; the way she collected teacups and restricted their use to Valentine’s day; the way she logged her husband’s jogging mileage and likened it to Magellan’s circumnavigation of the globe; the way she pretended to be Pippit; the way she made play dough; the way she talked about Gila Monsters; the way she said, “Oh, Golly,” when she spilled or no one understood her; the way she went to the grave with black socks on.

Marcy said, “I love you.”

The first years as a wife and mother Marcy said, “I love you.”

The formative year as a wife and mother Marcy said, “I love you. I love you.”

The final years as a wife and mother Marcy said, “I love you. I love you. I love you.” Love in triplets.

And in the days and hours before she departed her earthly body, between shallow breaths and soft groans, she only spoke a single phrase clearly: “I love you.”

Aphasia, dementia, and fourteen years of isolation rendered her near speechless, but it never reduced her love. For Mel. For her little women and their motley men. For her grandchildren, siblings, and friends. And Marcy loved her God who never left her in the valley of the shadow of death.

Indeed, He was with her. And now she is with Him.