Bob Stevenson

Pastor. Can’t get enough of the gospel.

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Death, the Breach

Death is a terrible breach.

It upsets a fundamental expectation of our humanity: that we are linear creatures, meant to progress indefinitely along the line of time. Death cracks that line with its gaping jaws and swallows us whole. Death is the recurring wound in the history of humanity.

And so we exist as lines stretched betwixt two points:

Beginning. End.

But not willingly. If we were meant to be so bracketed, why does the endpoint feel so consistently inappropriate? Why does it rudely interrupt, rather than elegantly complete? Why does it send shrapnel of existential doubt tearing through our souls?

Perhaps, it could be said, that humans are incurable optimists who simply cannot bear that the party should end. Perhaps the noble course of action would be to bow to the inevitable as we step off the merry-go-round and give some other kid a go at it.

Perhaps. If

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Ode to Marriage

“Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm, for love is strong as death, jealousy is fierce as the grave. Its flashes are flashes of fire, the very flame of the LORD. Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it. If a man offered for love all the wealth of his house, he would be utterly despised.” (Song of Solomon. 8:6-7, ESV)

There is a sense in which love is profoundly misjudged. Like an iceberg, its full depth is rarely exposed. The cynic imagines that love is a mere chemical reaction, that the poet is excessive in his hyperbolic adulation of love’s qualities. The rom-com addict and lover of fairy tales narrows love’s core, imagining it lives on forever in the passionate first embrace of lovers united.

I say they are both wrong. Love is fierce and mysterious and, as Solomon’s song declares, “strong as death.” But it diffuses past

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Why We Don’t Sing Patriotic Songs at Church

I was asked this week if we could sing a patriotic song at Village. To be honest, the question always makes me uneasy. However, I’ve not taken the time to really explain why. So here are three reasons for not singing patriotic songs at Village.

 1. The Center of Worship

The most basic question we need to consider is this: why do we gather on Sunday mornings? At Village, we gather to meet with, to encounter, the triune God. He lovingly and powerfully invaded history to save us for Himself and His kingdom. We gather weekly to corporately celebrate this good news, and to regularly orient our hearts to it. In other words, we worship.

We worship by submitting our hearts and ears to His voice (Scripture). We worship by talking to Him in dependence (prayer). We worship by thinking intentionally about how our lives should change based on His revelation (application). And of course

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Two hundred and forty years ago, a gunshot ripped across a small stretch of grass. That shot changed the course of the world. Two hundred and thirty nine years ago, a document of defiance was authored and distributed.

Independence declared.

The world would never be the same. The reverberations of the event we celebrated yesterday with our own explosions in the sky have altered world history in tremendous ways – for good and bad.

All birth is accompanied by blood, and the birth of the American nation was no different. The blood of rage, the blood of sacrifice. Blood shed to forge a society which would be unlike any other in the world. A nation independent and free.

We naturally celebrate this independence. We rightly honor those who suffered and sacrificed for our sake. Independence is a precious gift that bestows freedom to worship, freedom to speak, freedom to

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The Ache

“Breathtaking. Heartbreaking. Captivating.”

She grasps at vocabulary, drawing out synonyms like flashcards and tossing them away. Inadequate. Woefully inadequate.

“Lovely. Stunning.”

Scrambling for some way to capture the essence, the force, the jolly storm within her heart. Nothing. Yet here she stands, before this unnamed and untamed enigma. To properly express, or further, to name, is, after all, a form of mastery. Confine it within some semantic fence, and it is robbed of its freedom to wreak havoc on the human heart. But it will not be tamed.

“Glory.” She gives up. She weeps. She gazes.

Beauty is more storm than still. It excites within the soul an emotional whirlwind, spun together like a van Gogh. We speak of being captivated by beauty. Our breath is ripped from our chest. Beauty paralyzes us; it shocks us. And we cope with this trauma of delight by

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The Risky Business of Wide Relationships

I need to be known. If I don’t, I’ll shrivel into a lonely secret. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather not become a relational raisin. And yet… Blast the yets. I do such a good job at keeping people out. My default reaction is to hide behind all manner of disguises. If only I could be known without the risk of people knowing me. Rock, meet my friend Hard Place.


I recently shared my story with a small group of men in my community group. It wasn’t the smooth, gleaming story we relay at parties. It was the one with the dark, morbid bit in the middle. The one laced with redemption.

The final shards of narrative fell from my mouth and the room grew dense with suspense. “What will they think? Do they see redemption? Or humiliation?” I had just exposed a part of me. I’d revealed a chink in my armor. I had traced the curling (and humbling) path of sin and

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Hey, You There. Hiding Under the Bible. Come Out.

My boy loves to play the superhero. Some days its Spiderman, others Superman, but most often he’s FireShark (you’ll not find this gem in the Marvel books, folks). FireShark wears a mask, is crowned with a shark baby towel, and struts about with all the gritty confidence of a fireball-wielding do-gooder.

FireShark often appears when it’s time to play with other unsuspecting children, because FireShark protects this little boy from the raw pain of shyness. Most little boys must deal with the awkwardness of strangers head on. FireShark, however, is tough, steely-eyed and adventurous.

But FireShark is nothing more than a cloth force-field. The towel, threadbare mask and tough frown simply shield his shyness.

 Hey, You Under There

No good superhero reveals his identity. But I’m not going to let my son know that bit. I really like the boy under the mask, and he needs to know

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A Big, Hairy (and Needed) Idea: Being Known

Let’s talk about being known. You. Me. Me by you; vice versa. What comes to mind? Notions of authenticity, community and “real” relationships? Or maybe 1984 all over again? Do you feel welcomed in or creeped out?

Let’s be frank. We’re really good at playing the game. At wearing the mask. At laying a beautiful cherry wood veneer over our rough cut particle board interior. For many a Christian, the idea of being known…well, it just ain’t gonna happen.

But it should. It must. We were neither made to be anonymous nor painted over. So let’s talk about being known. You. Me. But we’ll start with me.

 What’s My Problem?

Let’s ask the obvious question. Why do I have a hard time being known? What’s so hard about swinging wide the iron (double-barred, reinforced) gates of my soul?

 1. I Don’t Trust You

There, I said it. Oh, don’t take it personally. It’s not

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