A New Birth Day.

Two days ago one of my best friends gave birth for the first time to a beautiful little girl named Ellie. 

In Italian “to give birth”— “Dare alla Luce”— is literally translated: “to give to the light”

If we think about birth this way, it makes sense why Jesus named what we typically call conversion, "the new birth." 

Peter Rollins says conversion is like birth because you don't experience your birth, rather, being born allows you to experience everything else. 

Conversion, then, is a transformative journey; one where God is continually bringing us into the light.

Each moment carries the opportunity to be transformed by the light of life, a new birth day. 

Will we allow ourselves to be given to it? 

Welcome to the light Ellie. 

Midrash

On Wednesday, my Emergent Gathering professor led us in an exercise called "Midrash." Midrash is the Hebrew term for a unique style of storytelling used by Jewish Rabbinic Sages to explain passages from the bible. 

Midrash is a creative way to fill in plot gaps, add detail to whats been left vague, and explore biblical personalities. Midrash is not exegesis, which seeks to extract meaning. Instead, midrash is a form of eisegesis, wherein meaning is given. The beauty of doing a group midrash is you get to hear a variety of voices all give their take on a single passage. 

In my very first month at Wesley I was accused of being a midrash-fangirl. While this statement is somewhat of a hyperbole, I do enjoy a good midrash. So, I thought I would post mine in the hope that something I've said will resonate with you, or perhaps cause a rupture that leads you to deeper truth. 

Given 15 minutes, we were asked to listen and then reflect on John 10:22-30.

The Sheep.
A sheep, on his way to the slaughter, overheard the words of Jesus as he walked through the temple. “How long will you keep us in suspense?” the teachers of the law asked him. “If you are the Messiah, tell us plainly.” The sheep, intrigued, lifted up his head to hear Jesus’ reply; even as it bumped and scraped across the cold floor of the temple through which he was being dragged.

“The works that I do in my Father’s name testify to me; but you do not believe, because you do not belong to my sheep. My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they will never perish. No one will snatch them out of my hand. What my Father has given me is greater than all else, and no one can snatch it out of the Father’s hand.” 

Hearing this, the sheep bellowed; hoping Jesus would recognize his voice and save him from the altar. Again and again he bleated, “Oh Lord, I am your sheep! Save me! Look how they have snatched me from your Father’s hand!”

But Jesus carried on teaching and admonishing; all the while unable to recognize the voice of the very sheep he brought to sacrifice.

As the sword traveled along its short path of destruction towards the sheep’s throat, he thought he heard the voice of Jesus — muffled by the crowds— proclaim: “The Father and I are one.”

By then it was finished.
Jesus’ sacrifice had been made. 

Reflection: 

In the John 10 passage, Jesus is walking through the temple in Jerusalem on the Feast of Dedication — known today as Hanukkah (v.22). As he walks, some folks gather around to ask about his messiahship. Jesus (like he does) gives them a vague and nuanced answer. But according to Jesus, his identity is clearly identified by those who believe. This group cannot believe because they do not belong to his sheep (26), but Jesus' sheep can hear his voice, he knows them, and they follow him (v.27). From this point on, he makes all sorts of claims about keeping them in eternal life and saving them from being "snatched" out of his Fathers hand (v.28-29). Jesus' monologue ends with: "I and the Father are one."  

In the past, I've heard sermons based on this passage focus on the intimate relationship between Jesus and his sheep. There is something almost romantic about the sheep being able to recognize the shepherd's voice. Earlier in chapter 10 Jesus calls himself the "good shepherd." But sitting in class after Monday's Boston Marathon bombing, I wasn't ready to see this passage through rose colored glasses. At this point, I'm not sure I'm ready to call Jesus good again. 

My parable of "The Sheep" is a reflection on the mutuality of our relationship with Jesus. We can recognize the voice of the good shepherd, but can he recognize ours? Because surely if he did our prayers and laments from this past week would not go unheard, or unanswered. Yet when I put myself in the shoes of the victims families, I imagine screaming into a dark abyss for the God who can make meaning out of meaningless, only to hear the echo of my own voice. Hollow, abandoned, deserted... 

The saddest part of this story (in my opinion) is when you realize the sheep going to slaughter was offered by Jesus himself. Jesus, whose presence is supposed to mean a year of Jubilee —a release for the captives— is still contributing to the burnt offering. The literal sheep of the story embodies the metaphorical sheep of Jesus' teaching. If we are the sheep in this passage, then in my parable Jesus is giving us up to be sacrificed. So while we like to think Christ's sacrifice has paid for the heavy wages of sin, that death has lost its 'sting,' sometimes it still feels as if we are the ones left to pay. Death still stings. 

There are all sort of other allusions I think this parable is making, but I will finish my thought process here. I pray for the victims and their families, and for consolation in the midst of unwarranted suffering. 

Crescendo

As part of my Spiritual Formation class, I'm required to visit a local non-profit with a small group of peers. This past week I visited the Father McKenna Center (a Jesuit run day shelter for homeless men) for a final time before the end of the semester. I chose the Father McKenna Center for a number of reasons, not least of which is the feeling of genuine concern for these men I get from the staff and volunteers.

Perhaps one of the more unique features of the center, is their midday "check in" group. During this time, the men (numbering in the 40s and 50s) share their feelings, anxieties, joys, and dreams with the group. A moderator oversees the meeting, answering technical questions about affordable housing or job training, and sometimes delivers a motivational message. In general, I tend to be suspect of self-help style pep talks. In my opinion, they have a propensity to communicate the destructive myth that your value comes from what you produce. However, I rather liked the message this last moderator had to deliver.

Speaking of his time on the street, he told the guys about his desire to reach a daily crescendo. Crescendo, of course, is a term used to describe the dramatic build up (usually in music) that leads to a final resolution. The speaker went on to say that over time drug abuse and random acts of violence desensitized him to a "normal" pattern of life. He was addicted to having an adrenaline rush, so for this reason he sought out highly dangerous and emotionally-charged situations. He found it difficult to let a day go by without incident.

After beginning a recovery program and landing a job with a steady income, he struggled with the uneventful nature of normality. One day, he says his brother sat him down and said: "You wake up in the morning and go to work. You come home, eat dinner, watch some TV, and go to sleep. If you're lucky on the weekends you can set work aside and catch a movie or something. This is normal life."

Compared to a daily crescendo of gun violence and other illegal activity, a little dinner and some TV sounds like a good alternative to most of us. But he confessed normalcy was actually a loss he had to grieve.

The more I think about this bizarre idea of "crescendo," the less I see it operating outside of what I expect from my own life. There's something about the nature of life that causes us to feel as if it is building up to something important. I suppose for some of us singles that "thing" is marriage; or if you're married, having kids. For others it might be a successful career, or even attaining a certain physical appearance. Essentially, we think of life "in the meantime" as a drumroll for what will ultimately give our existence meaning.

But I think the truth is that life, is just life. There is no intensifying movement towards an ultimate "resolution," at least not one that is capable of satisfying us in an eternal sense. Operating under an "if-then" paradigm (e.g. IF I get this job, THEN I will be happy) will always disappoint us because it promises what it cant deliver.

I think there's something to be said for the mundane details of our everyday lives.

I see the value of this sentiment most clearly when I reflect on my Dad's current health situation. Fully aware he will never have the physical capacity to achieve one of these "crescendo" moments we wait so fruitlessly for, he is holding onto life for the moments we so often take for granted: trips to the grocery store, making coffee, getting up early to go to work, staying up late to tell stories... All of these innocuous moments are precious because this is the stuff of life. On the surface they seem of little value, but in the finite reality of our humanity they should resonate as invaluable.

Every time I act as if my days are a "crescendo" and then they don't live up to what they've promised, I feel myself losing sensitivity to the present. When we can accept that life isn't actually building towards anything, we set ourselves free from the lie that what we have today is less than what we could have some day. 

Perhaps Abraham Joshua Heschel put it best, when he said: "Just to be is a blessing. Just to live is holy."

God rid me of my lofty expectations for the consolation of a simple life humming with reverence.

Resurrection

What does the resurrection have to do with my life now, today?

This question has been hounding me for the past week. 

On Easter, we tend to use vague religious vocabulary to explain the cosmic implications of the resurrection — aka. how God is putting the  world back together. 

But how is God putting me back together?

Truthfully, I don't know how Christ's resurrection works in my life. But on days like today, I like to think it has something to do with eating large quantities of jelly beans in rehab. 

The Gospel According to William Shakespeare: Loving God on Valentine’s Day

One Valentine’s Day while I was living in England, I gave out little cards and gifts to people at my work. I thought my peers would appreciate the gesture, but instead of gratitude what I got in return were looks of awkward confusion. As it turns out, in England Valentines Day is exclusively celebrated among couples. Translation: I had inadvertently hit on every one of my coworkers.

It seems to me Valentines Day has become a rather divisive holiday. A day once meant to spread the message of universal love, is now increasingly limited to people in romantic relationships. This has not gone over well with militant singles that annually come out in protest of V-day — wearing all black, and replacing romcom movie nights with stomach turning horror flicks.

            While I feel boycotting Valentine’s Day (or Single’s Awareness Day, if you like) is an over-reaction, I do think something must be said about our cultures affinity to elevate romantic love above every other kind of affection. 

A number of years ago, I heard a fascinating talk called “Your story and the Gospel of Jesus,” wherein author Donald Miller argues: “If we take Christian theology out of the context of love story, they die.” Further, he says our love stories don’t even make sense without first understanding God’s love towards us —or as scripture puts it, “We love because he first loved us” (1 John 14:19, nrsv). It is impossible, the bible says, to experience love outside of its very source: God. Therefore shouldn’t love for God be included in our February 14^th celebration?

One of the greatest love stories in English literature is the Shakespearian play Romeo and Juliet. In the aforementioned talk, Miller compares R&J to the Christian gospel.        His theory is that the classic balcony scene is actually Shakespeare’s illustration of Christian conversion: meaning, being “born again” is as much like falling in love as it is making a conscious decision.

            The tension of R&J centers on a bitter conflict between two warring aristocratic families, the Montague’s and the Capulet’s, in Verona, Italy.  Romeo, a Montague, sneaks into the Capulet’s party and falls in love at first sight with the youngest girl, Juliet. She likewise falls in love with Romeo, but the star-crossed lovers know they can never be together unless they cut themselves off from their families. In Act II Scene II, Juliet walks out onto her balcony and says:

O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?

Deny thy father and refuse thy name;

Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,

And I'll no longer be a Capulet.

What's in a name? That which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet;

So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,

Retain that dear perfection which he owes

Without that title.

Juliet acknowledges if it were not for Romeo’s connection to his family (his name) they could be united. She understands the enmity between their families is too great. The only way to be together is the total rejection of their identities. Therefore she promises to reject her family if he will do likewise:

Romeo, doff thy name,

And for that name which is no part of thee

Take all myself.

Unaware Romeo is hidden below the balcony listening, he quietly responds, saying:

I take thee at thy word:

Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized;

Henceforth I never will be Romeo.

 In the Bible, names are often synonymous with a person’s nature. When a character experiences a fundamental shift in identity they are given a new name to mark the transformation (eg. Abram to Abraham, Jacob to Israel, Simon to Peter, etc…). The character has to give up their old nature to fully embrace a new one. Thus, what does it mean when Romeo says he’ll be new baptized? Essentially Romeo is experiencing conversion. He is laying down his identity in order to be unified with the one he loves. In that process he will become someone new. Jesus essentially asks the same thing when he commands:

“Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and even life itself, cannot be my disciple.” (Luke 14:26, nrsv).

When we consider R&J denying their families to be with one another we think ‘what a beautiful example of true love!’ However, when we hear Jesus demand this of his disciple’s we think, “Isn’t Jesus asking a little much here?” Yet it is essentially the same command. This is what happens when we read the bible outside the lens of a love story.

            Jesus explains that to be united to him we have to deny every other allegiance, this is what the apostle Paul means when he says, “I have been crucified with Christ; and it is no longer I who live, but it is Christ who lives in me” (Galatians 2: 20a). When you become a Christian it’s a transformation that utterly rejects identification with sin. Through baptism we’re united to Christ, who becomes our sole identity.

Later in the play, Juliet asks Romeo who he is, to which he responds:

By a name

I know not how to tell thee who I am:

My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,

Because it is an enemy to thee;

Had I it written, I would tear the word.

Shakespeare uses Romeo to show the need for repentance. To become one with our bridegroom Jesus, we have to totally renounce sin, because sin is what separates us from God. Jesus is a jealous lover who desires fidelity. Similarly, Romeo cannot even stand to think about his old family name because it separated him from Juliet.

Unlike most of our contemporary love stories, Shakespeare’s does not end with the lovers vow of commitment to one another. Because of their circumstances, R&J can only truly be together in death —and so they commit suicide. We see a reflection of this in Romans 6,

“Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death? Therefore we have been buried with him by baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, so we too might walk in newness of life. For if we have been united with him in a death like his, we will certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his.”

True love between God and us requires our death: thankfully, this time it is metaphorical. When we reject our sinful nature it is a sort of death of self. The good news is God promises our death will lead to a resurrection.

“For through the law I died to the law, so that I might live to God… And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me” (Galatians 2:19-20).

Just as R&J commit an act of mutual destruction for love’s sake, Jesus gives his life for us and invites us to do the same.

The bible describes what it looks like to radically love God in this manner, when Jesus commands us to love the least of these. How can you love God this Valentines Day? Well, it can also be said this way: how can you love the homeless folks in your city? Or the children in title 1 schools? Or the person whose been rejected because of their sexual orientation? Author/Pastor Rob Bell says, “How you love God is how you love others.”

May you remember your first love this Valentine’s Day, realizing every relationship is a picture of this grander reality. May this recognition lead you to serve the least of these. And may you be but sworn by love. 

A New Kind of Love

Found an old blog entry from a couple months ago. Not quite complete but I thought I'd share.

I've discovered recently that it's possible to go your whole life without knowing how to love someone unconditionally. 

It's frightening really, all the subtle ways we withhold our love from the people around us. Our insecurities determine the risks we take with our love. 

My affection comes with so many conditions. Subconsciously, a thousand little requirements dictate whom I love and how much I love them. 

I ask myself constantly: What can they offer? What do they expect from me? Will they leave me? 

It's easy to love someone when they have something to offer you. But what happens when they have nothing to give? 

What happens when they are lying ill in a hospital, unable to care for even themselves?

I've always loved my Dad, but not because its been easy. At times loving him has been really really hard, and I'm sure he would say the same thing about me — although he does a much better job loving me. 

He's my ultimate cheerleader. 

Times when I swore I had the worst day ever, he would reassure me there was no way that could be true. "You're still young," he says, "you've got plenty of time to have worse days." Oddly comforting. 

I've heard when people you love are in trouble it's easy to forget all the bad stuff about them. I can't say I've found that to be true. 

I remember all the bad stuff, it just doesn't matter. I see it for what it is: shallow, meaningless, temporal... 

Love is a much stronger emotion, because true love does not care about itself. Love does not say: "Look at me, aren't I beautiful?" Love turns the focus away from itself and says, "Look at that person, aren't they beautiful?" 

The Good News testifies to this ecstatic counter-intuitive message of love. The world says "you're beautiful, therefore I  love you." God says, "I love you, therefore you're beautiful."

Visiting my Dad for the first time after his surgeries two weeks ago,  I found myself sitting in his room contemplating this thought. 

Truth be told, he has never looked worse. Frankly, he looks like a nightmare. Right now he's totally unable to care for himself. He's absolutely has to rely on other people to take care of his basic needs. At the moment, he's not a whole lot like my dad of three months ago. 

Yet, as I sat in the ICU—machines beeping and chirping out information— I thought: Isn't he wonderful! And just like that my praise wouldn't cease:

"You're wonderful Dad! Brilliant! Glowing! Fantastic! Good! Worthy! In and out! This way and that way! From above and below, you're incandescently beautiful!" 

I mooned over him like the parents of a new born. The kind of dopey-love-drunk-praise you lavish on someone even though they have absolutely nothing to offer you. For a moment, I saw him through eyes of God. Perfect, just the way he is. 

I am so grateful for every day I get to hear his voice. For the way he worries about me in the midst of his suffering. His love makes everything else so much more beautiful. He reminds me what a gift it is just to exist, and how much we take that for granted. 

Henri Nouwen says, “Every time we make the decision to love someone, we open ourselves to great suffering, because those we most love cause us not only great joy but also great pain. The greatest pain comes from leaving. When the child leaves home, when the husband or wife leaves for a long period of time or for good, when the beloved friend departs to another country or dies … the pain of the leaving can tear us apart. Still, if we want to avoid the suffering of leaving, we will never experience the joy of loving. And love is stronger than fear, life stronger than death, hope stronger than despair. We have to trust that the risk of loving is always worth taking.” 

Love and joy: they're both a choice. Yesterday at a church called New Leaf, a woman shared the stories of a number of people she knows who are suffering terribly as we speak. However,  it's not their suffering they have in common she said, it's their joy. 

Rob Bell has said that joy is learning to discern what God is up to even in this. 

Paul talks about this profound sense of joy in the book of Romans, wherein he says, 

"What then are we to say about these things? If God is for us, who is against us? He who did not withhold his own Son, but gave him up for all of us, will he not with him also give us everything else? Who will bring any charge against God’s elect? It is God who justifies. Who is to condemn? It is Christ Jesus, who died, yes, who was raised, who is at the right hand of God, who indeed intercedes for us. Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will hardship, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? As it is written,‘For your sake we are being killed all day long;  we are accounted as sheep to be slaughtered.’ 

No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord." 

A Single Thing

In our Spiritual Formations class we have been practicing different disciplines. Two weeks ago we practiced Lectio Divina. This form of prayer has you read the biblical text —or some other spiritual writing— a few times over, paying attention to what lines or words or feelings speak to you. For some reason, I felt drawn to a book of poems I own by Rilke. His collection, The Book of Hours: Love Poems to God, is one of my favorites. It's full of joyful reflections and heartbreaking laments. It is painfully honest and cuts to the heart of our longing for God. I flipped through the book until I came to "Ich Bete wieder, du Erlauchter." I must have read it out loud ten or twelve times, each time with more conviction than the last. I thought I would share it with you; in the hopes it will bring you solace. 

"I am praying again, Awesome One.

You hear me again, as words
from the depths of me
rush toward you in the wind.

I’ve been scattered in pieces,
torn by conflict,
mocked by laughter,
washed down in drink.

In alleyways I sweep myself up
out of garbage and broken glass.
With my half-mouth I stammer you,
who are eternal in your symmetry.
I lift to you my half-hands
in wordless beseeching, that I may find again
the eyes with which I once beheld you.

I am a house gutted by fire
where only the guilty sometimes sleep
before the punishment that devours them
hounds them out into the open.

I am a city by the sea
Sinking into a toxic tide.
I am strange to myself, as though someone unknown
had poisoned my mother as she carried me.

It’s here in all the pieces of my shame
that now I find myself again.
I yearn to belong to something, to be contained
in an all-embracing mind that sees me
as a single thing.
I yearn to be held
in the great hands of your heart -
oh let them take me now.
Into them I place these fragments, my life,
and you, God – spend them however you want."

Rainer Maria Rilke
Rilke’s Book of Hours – Love Poems to God

Hampton's Garage

"James Hampton's entire artistic output is this single work which he called The Throne of the Third Heaven of the Nations' Millennium General Assembly. Hampton worked for more than fourteen years on his masterwork in a rented garage, transforming its drab interior into a heavenly vision, as he prepared for the return of Christ to earth...

Hampton's full creation consists of 180 components... Massive wings, suggesting angels, sprout from most components; framed tablets line the walls, and crowns and other complex foil decorations fill every available space of the assemblage. The entire complex was originally placed on a three-foot tall platform set stage like against the rear wall of his garage.

The Throne and all of its associated components are made from discarded materials and found objects consisting of old furniture, wooden planks and supports, cardboard cutouts, scraps of insulation board, discarded light bulbs, jelly glasses, hollow cardboard cylinders, Kraft paper, desk blotters, mirror fragments and electrical cables and a variety of other "found objects," all scavenged from second-hand shops, the streets, or the federal office buildings in which he worked. To complete each element, Hampton used shimmering metallic foils and brilliant purple paper (now faded to tan) to evoke spiritual awe and splendor. Hampton's symbolism extended even to his choice of materials such as light bulbs, which represent God as the light of the world."

I saw Hampton's Garage for the first time a few weeks ago. His entire work is in the Smithsonian Portrait Gallery waiting to be displayed as it was first arranged 40 years ago. What this brief summary of the garage doesn't mention, is Hampton never once —in fourteen years— told anyone what he was working on. It was only after his death all of this was discovered. 

Can you imagine being the first one to see it? Talk about surprise... It's obvious Hampton was passionate about His project. In another article, they mention the fact that he had several dozen notebooks written in code. This code has yet to be broken. One thing they know for sure is the garage was set up for the return of Christ.
 It all sounds a little crazy. However, I think we're inclined to overlook a little crazy in Hampton's case. We say 'At least he wasn't one of those doomsday prophets preaching destruction on a street corner.' Rather, the message seems to be personal rather than public. Hampton's garage speaks to his personal desire for salvation; to his longing for the return of Christ. I think my favorite part of Hampton's work is the fact that it was in his garage. You've got to admire a guy who says, "Sure the Messiah's coming back! When he does, he's coming straight to my garage!'

 In the Gospel of Matthew Jesus tells the disciples, "Therefore you also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an hour you do not expect..." (Matthew 24:44). The funny part is the Son of Man was speaking these words to them. Jesus had arrived and yet he was announcing he had not yet come. 

Jesus continually said these kinds of things throughout his ministry. His stories point to the kingdom of God being now and not yet. He spoke about the kingdom as incoming. Author Peter Rollins has explained it this way: You begin dating someone and everything is new. You learn about their life and their passions. They are a finite person, but as you get to know them you realize they're like a window into a world of depth and possibilites. Their soul opens up like a vacuum. Even when you're with them you miss them, because there is still so much to be understood. Your life together becomes an ongoing exploration of the person you love. 
In seminary we might refer to this as eschatological inbreakings. Eschatology, dealing with "end things," and hope of the second coming. 'Inbreakings' are evidence of heaven temporarily invading earth; because we have to acknowledge how these 'end' things have all sorts of implications for the present. Christianity — contrary to what our critics say—  is not an escapist religion. Jesus did not come to tell us everything would be ok someday in the future / after death. Jesus came to declare healing and restoration NOW. He said the Kingdom of God is at hand. 

But where does God dwell in the world? The writer of first Corinthians says,"Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God?  You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your body..." Again in Roman's the author states,"I appeal to you therefore, brothers, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship. Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect." The truth is Christ is made manifest through the Spirit which dwells inside each of us. Our hearts are like Hampton's humble garage-sanctuary. 

The incarnation speaks to the grand irony of an all powerful God choosing to be born in a common, unextraordinary space. As a post-incarnation community, we should know to search for God in the mundane places of everyday life. Could Hampton have known his aluminum tabernacle was only a shadow of the holy spirit already living in him? Perhaps we need a project like Hampton's garage — a tangible process of making a place for the kingdom to become manifest in the world. 
Each time I've returned to the museum to contemplate Hampton's work, I'm reminded of the story in which Jacob dreams of a heavenly ladder with angles going up and down. "Jacob woke up from his sleep. He said, 'God is in this place—truly. And I didn’t even know it!' He was terrified. He whispered in awe, “Incredible. Wonderful. Holy. This is God’s House. This is the Gate of Heaven.' Jacob was up first thing in the morning. He took the stone he had used for his pillow and stood it up as a memorial pillar..." (Gen 28:10-18a) When Jacob encounters God he sets up a "pillar" to mark the location as a significant moment of revelation. I can't claim to know what what happened to Hampton which inspired him to spend 14 years working in his garage. But clearly something powerful took place in Hampton's life. God became manifest to Hampton, and that impact point laid the foundation for his project. 
So now, until that glorious day when Christ returns, may you join me in preparing for all the ways heaven is invading earth. May you expect Jesus to show up in the ordinary garage of your heart. May you prepare a place for him using what gifts and graces God has given you. And may you never run out of people to tell about it.