3 Observations About Work

I’m going to take a break from my typical post to share some thoughts that have been coalescing over the last few months. Over the last 15 years of my working life I have served in a variety of roles in a variety of organizations. I have had experiences as both an associate and a supervisor. My times in those capacities have led me to the following conclusions.

Most people think their skills are undervalued.

Most of us go through our workplace experience with the subtle (or not so subtle) belief that our talents are being wasted or squandered. We dream of bigger things we know that we are capable of. Often this belief leads to the temptation of bitterness as we see ourselves passed over for advancement while others we may view as inferior flourish. At its most cynical, it subconsciously casts oneself in the role of the oppressed and sets up a scenario of ‘us against the world’. Each of us tends to be our own biggest advocate. We act this way for two reasons (one positive, one negative):

1.      Simply put, we know ourselves better than anyone else. We have access to the full scope of our talents and experiences. Whereas others can only surmise what we are capable of based upon interactions and observation, we know better what we have to offer.

2.       The complete abundance of evidence of our own qualifications often leaves us with a disproportional understanding and sense of perspective. We overvalue our own skills and undervalue those of our co-workers.

Most people dislike their boss.

Although not necessarily the case in every instance, I often found this to be the root of workplace dissention. This is often the case even in instances in which one’s supervisor is an otherwise a rational and sensitive person. The tendency to equate a person with a title (supervisor, general manager, CEO) seems to clear the way to dehumanize the person in light of the position. This disconnect makes it easy to dislike anyone who exerts authority over others.

There are, of course, many supervisors and managers who give in to the temptation and pressure to exert unjustly the authority given to them by way of their position. The temptation is very real and pressure from other authorities (we’ll get to this later) often pushes otherwise generous people to behave selfishly.

That said, it is our pride that often pushes us to despise those who appear to be our superiors. Our constant desire to be recognized, respected, compensated, and (perhaps) feared draws us away from humility and the reality of our own weaknesses and frailty and insists upon our own worthiness and qualification. The natural reaction then, is to tear down anyone who impedes upon that version of reality.

Nearly everyone is working under someone else’s authority; or to put it another way, they are ‘just following the rules.’

On the flip side of the previous point is this one. Each of us answers to somebody. Everyone has a boss. I say this not to absolve anyone of responsibility. Each of us has a person or persons who lay down the rules for us. Often, when we give into the temptation to demonize our superiors we blindly believe (subconsciously) that each rule and demand comes solely from the person we directly report to. Our arrogance is happy to leave us blindly ignorant of that fact that we all answer to someone.

Those of us who may be tempted to lash out against a rule or directive would do well to remember that A) our supervisor is a human being and B) someone higher than they are passing down rules and expectations that they too must comply with.

To all of us who have a measure of influence, we must never believe that an order or directive must be blindly and thoughtlessly obeyed. Each of us is subject to the laws of God and of Man. Our allegiance is first and foremost to them. Blind obedience, while perhaps encouraged corporately, does not negate our responsibilities to God and our fellow man. We must always operate with the superior directive to live and conduct ourselves justly, understanding that each of our co-workers is a human being of equal worth as ourselves.

The Root

A common theme emerges from each of these points; a common causation: pride. It is the nagging root of pride that pushes each of these unhealthy attitudes. It is pride that views ourselves as inherently more worthy than our co-workers. Only bitterness and cynicism come from this seed. Only a healthy understanding of humility will allow us to both reach our potential AND conduct ourselves in manner which drives us to do our best in whatever endeavor we find ourselves in.

It is pride that chooses to tear down our superiors to raise ourselves up. It is pride that uses us to dehumanize rather than empathize. We must seek to see our authorities as people as human as ourselves and see the reasons (valid or not) for decisions we may disagree with.

It is pride that causes us to think our superiors have only ill-intent toward us, and such feelings as the driving force of their actions. Pride shrinks our view of the world to the size of our own head. In such confined places, it becomes all too easy to forget that those in authority too, have authorities who place demands and expectations on them. It is pride, too, that leads men and women to compromise their own conscience in an attempt to meet expectations at the cost (ultimately) of the dignity of others.

Only in striking at the deepest root of all: the desire to rule upon the throne of our own lives can we foster the kind of humility that deserves to lead and to be led. 

New Chains (an essay)

The first snowfall of the year brought about five inches of snow upon a chilly November afternoon. There were no "first snow" musings upon the introductory flakes but rather an instantaneous transition into the bold Michigan cynicism that comes along with having ones travel plans interrupted. Cars spun out, trees bent and branches fell. By six o’clock when darkness fell and the snow had not yet abated I returned home to find our internet had gone out. The dark, snowy evening was simply asking me to start a fire. So I obliged. As the hours wore on I sat (or lay) in front of the flames taking the ambient heat into my weary bones, something was missing. My mind raised some unknown objection. It felt as if I had misplaced my keys or a well-loved book. It was difficult to place but I finally pin-pointed the unease: the internet, it remained down.

No Netflix.

No Amazon music.

No Twitter.

I caught myself asking the subconscious question: ‘what am I going to do?’ and was appalled at my reliance upon something I once considered so trivial.

I hate that a wireless signal has become so ubiquitous that its absence creates a void within my heart.

I understand that utilities are conveniences which we cannot escape in our lives any more than we can escape our need for food or shelter, at least not in 2015 America. That’s not a bad thing necessarily. In fact, it would be wrong to decry and fight against the tide of technology. What is problematic is when anything takes a place upon some altar of our hearts. When anything, good or bad, becomes so ‘necessary’ to us that it pains us to let it go, we are treading upon dangerous ground. The throne of our hearts is meant only for our true King: Jesus and we should guard ourselves against getting so attached to things that we try and live our lives with divided loyalties.

Paul speaks of these inappropriate desires in his letter to the Corinthian church. [Note: the context for this verse is idol worship, but the underlying principle is transferable.]

All things are lawful for me, but not all things are profitable. All things are lawful for me, but I will not be mastered by anything. Food is for the stomach and the stomach is for the food, but God will do away with both of them.

Now, nourishment is obviously a necessity but the need for food (in this case) should not hold sway over our hearts. Nothing should have so much control over us --- nothing, not food or family or money. Christ alone should rule our hearts. We should allow no impediment to occupy the throne of our hearts. We live in this world but we must not be ruled by it, not only because it dishonors the Lord, but because it will ultimately leave us empty and unfulfilled for we were made to be satisfied only by one thing--- Jesus Christ our Lord.

Jesus himself posed the question more pointedly, “For what does it profit a man to gain the whole world, and forfeit his soul?”

Most of us would never think of our desire for a premium latte or access to Hulu as something we would forfeit our soul for, but the space these things occupy in our hearts and minds can often lead to bitterness and consternation when we are required to relinquish them.

“What will a man give in exchange for his soul?” Jesus continued.

We must continually keep our hearts in check; continually be self-diagnosing ourselves in order to determine where roots of materialism and pride are worming their way into the cracks of our hearts. No thing should in anyway come between us and our savior. No lingering doubt should exist in our hearts if we were asked to give up our possessions or our luxuries.

A.W. Tozer wrote of the aim of the believer who strives for such a state. “The man who has God for his treasure has all things in One. Many ordinary treasures may be denied him, or if he is allowed to have them, the enjoyment of them will be so tempered that they will never be necessary to his happiness. Or if he must see them go, one after one, he will scarcely feel a sense of loss, for having the Source of all things he has in One all satisfaction, all pleasure, all delight. Whatever he may lose he has actually lost nothing, for he now has it all in One, and he has it purely, legitimately and forever.”

May it be so with us.

The Shift (a short fiction)

Part One: The Shift

Jimmy D. dug into the left hand batter’s box carving a trough in the dry infield dirt. Although not a superstitious man he had maintained his elaborate at bat ritual throughout his career: holding out his hand in petition as he cleared the dirt from around the plate. Finishing, he adjusted each batting glove, right, and then left. Some said these mannerisms infuriated opposing pitchers but it had certainly never been his intent. Part of it he had done ever since Little League, maybe before, and the other part helped his loading mechanism giving the leg drive to generate power. As an older player, generating power and driving the ball was essential once the trim, svelte days of youth had passed like a wisp of a cloud in the clear blue sky.

The pitcher was a young dark-skinned man (man? Try boy) who looked to be half of his age. A lefty, he threw from a ¾ arm angle that made it difficult to pick up the ball leaving his hand. He threw consistently from the same keyhole, never changing his release point. In short, the kid would probably do well in the league. “Not today though,” Jimmy told himself. He was not going to get shut down by a seemingly pre-pubescent boy whom he could have conceivably sired after seventeen years of professional baseball, at least not in this at bat.

In the brief seconds during the pitcher’s wind-up, Jimmy Darnell Leamington surveyed the field as a cartographer might survey a hitherto unexplored valley. The second baseman was positioned close to first and the shortstop had shifted over and was standing nearly on second. Only the third baseman, a former teammate of his a decade before was playing the left side of the diamond, about midway between second and third. This was the way baseball was these days. Unless you proved yourself able to spray a single anywhere at any time, teams were going to shift you. In the age of statistics and sabermetrics, the facts were simply incontrovertible. If you shift pull hitters, especially left-handed hitters, you are going to get outs. Jimmy couldn’t refute this. He had seen it work too many times against him to believe otherwise. However, he could not bring himself to act accordingly. If you’d drop a bunt down the third base line, a former manager had told him in a moment of dugout tension years ago, they pull back and play you straight away. The truth was though that Jimmy couldn’t bring himself to do it. He wasn’t a great bunter but he was serviceable. He certainly wasn’t too proud to drop one down if it meant helping the club win. What he couldn’t abide however was the thought that the other team had him beat. If he dropped one down he’d make it to first easily, but he’d lose something too, something he had kept intact after seventeen years of baseball when seemingly everything else had been taken from him. Even the game itself had been taken from him for a time. No, there were some things that were too precious; too pure to relinquish. “Let them take it from me,” he thought, “let them try.”

He grew up in a middle-class neighborhood with middle-class parents in a suburb of Detroit. There were plenty of kids around his age so he never had any trouble fielding a team. He was particularly outgoing during his younger years (this would fade in middle-school) and he formed friendships easily. Most of these were on the diamond but many carried over into school and other areas of his life. He was a boy always at the center of activity and his house a hub of social contact (much to his mother’s chagrin sometimes). Once, a spaghetti dinner was interrupted by the crash of a tree limb against their house and a frenzy of boys scattering in all directions.

His town had a history of a significant Hasidic Jewish population and they could be seen walking to synagogue in their shtreimel and rekel. His two closest friends, Jered Racklin and Matt Trater were both Jews although not of the Hasidic temperament. For nearly five years they were inseparable and for five years the three formed the core of some spectacular city league teams. Jered dominated opposing hitters (he would go on to play ball at Western Michigan). Jimmy largely played short (even then he wasn’t a particularly great fielder) but he could destroy a baseball with such skill and force for his age that by the time he reached high school, scouts warily could be found sitting behind home plate. Matt was the least accomplished of the three, usually serving as Jimmy’s double-play partner. Even in Little League he never hit much, but what he lacked in offense he made up for in defense. He prided himself on his ability to reach any ball hit in his direction. After school he used to make Jimmy hit grounder after grounder forcing him to range far to his right and left before he had to go to Hebrew school. At the time, Jimmy couldn’t understand Matt’s devotion to anything but baseball. Baseball was Jimmy’s world. The sun, the moon, the stars all orbited the plain chalk diamond. Nothing mattered more that the game. That is what probably precipitated the slow dissolution of their friendship in middle-school. As Matt drew deeper into his faith and heritage, Jimmy couldn’t help but view it all with scorn. If there was a god then surely he would understand the need to practice every day.

In the end, the friendship faded not out of any slight or infraction but simply because it was always shrouded in the shadow of the great monolith that was home plate. This was a deeper faith and its god too, required sacrifice.

He takes a pitch on the inside corner for a strike and steps out of the box. Jimmy scans the beautifully verdant field from right to left. The tall light towers illuminating the impending twilight. Night came quickly to Traverse City even in late May. The smell of the lake came wafting in from left field and vast squadrons of fish flies dart about in the air above like drunken dancers enjoying the cool evening. It wasn’t long ago that this field sat empty and derelict, a product of the game’s precipitous decline. Much of what had been had been lost, abandoned. Historic stadiums left crumbling like the memories they represented. For Jimmy, who got called up to play for the Braves in ’21, there was always an ache of what might have been. What if, he pondered in his honest moments, what if I had got another chance at the bigs? The 21 games in which he appeared (mostly as a pinch hitter) never gave him the chance, he reasoned. After starting the next year at AAA, he hit well, but by August the corruption that had infested the sport became too top-heavy to ignore. At the age of 26, that October, just when he was entering his prime, the owners (many of whom were themselves were under indictment) gave up the league that long had been an American institution. The collapse left a hole not only in a country’s consciousness but also in the hearts of the men whose lives were dedicated to it.

That offseason was the longest of Jimmy Leamington’s life. He was an eight year veteran of the minor leagues and found himself firmly resting upon the seat cushions of his couch. Never had felt less sure about his future; less confident about his prospects. It wasn’t that he wasn’t considering other career options, but rather that he couldn’t even conceive that there were other options.

As a boy eminently talented, he progressed through each level of ball with the unwavering confidence of the next step; the next inevitable goal. Whether it was the Varsity team, or the draft, or rookie ball, there was never a doubt in his inner mind. Yet there he was, a man who had devoted his life to one singular end, left without a path to follow.

The world was alive with sound; a cacophony of noise pressing in upon him from all sides. In Atlanta, during his time there, the volume had been oppressive, enveloping, but one could at least lose themselves in it, normalize it away, like diving underwater, blocking it out, like a pristine island rising from a tumultuous sea. Even in Gwinnett this had been manageable with the drone of the carousel’s calliope music dulling the noise of its edge. Here though, he could make out each voice, distinguishing tones if not entire conversations.

Here on the shores of Lake Michigan the game took on a different feel.  It was as if you were trying to complete complex mathematical equations in your living room. Your father and mother might be discussing AARP benefits with the TV blaring. In fact, Jimmy could almost make out a couple having that very discussion seated behind home plate. He would never complain, he had been through too much to complain. In fact the beauty (if it could be called beauty) of baseball’s demise and rebirth was that it ignited a passion in its fans; a passion for the purity; the simplicity of the game. From those whom he had talked with (there were few divisions between player and fan these days) there was a longing for the simplicity of a game of baseball; the pitcher’s wind up, the arc of the batted ball, the leathery slap of ball against glove. Much of the commercialism that had defined the game in the late 2020’s had abated, leaving a population which craved (and appreciated) the very existence of an organized league even if it existed only in cities like Elkhart, Dayton, or Traverse City. No, he could never resent the evolution of the game. Instead, he simply evolved himself, incorporating a tuning-out ritual into his loading mechanism. “The world swirls around, but never in,” he told himself before each pitch, “always out, never in.” Slowly he let out his breath.

The pitcher released the ball, a white speck against the navy blue backdrop of his uniform. A batter has approximately ¼ of a second to decide to swing or not. Only ¼ of a second to think: “fastball? Change-up?”. Beyond that it is simply an issue of bat speed. Can the bat reach the ball (with the correct placement) to successfully transfer the energy of the 95(ish) mph ball back outward. Truly, Jimmy had once (drunkenly) pondered, it is a miracle that anyone could catch up to a pitch let alone direct it with any skill or precision. Yet he had watched and played with ballplayers that could place a ball seemingly wherever they desired. Jimmy D. had never had, nor claimed to have that level of proficiency. In truth, Jimmy simply let his hands and muscles direct the outcome. For seventeen seasons that had been enough. No overthinking, no calculated plans of attack, simple physics and luck.

Tonight; at this moment, when the last of the pigeons and gulls were settling in on the exposed girders and wires; the pedestrians with their paper bags full of trendy apparel slowed to catch a glance, Jimmy swung with the intensity he had managed to maintain throughout his career from Little League to college to the minors, the majors, Japan, and back again. He swung with such bestial ferocity that his eyes momentarily shut and the world for a moment stilled. They opened again, as he broke for first, he saw no indication that anything had occurred or that any time had passed. The night seemed to slow and exhale laboriously. His feet dug in the soft clay composite and he pushed off with his tremendous calves. It was only when he saw the back of the pitcher unceremoniously turned toward him, with his head tilted upwards as if in prayer to the northern night sky that he broke into his customary trot. The ball flew, a pin-prick satellite in the night sky, out past the fence in right-center (390ft) and was momentarily lost to most observers before landing in an aisle way about twenty rows up into the bleachers.  In the silence, Jimmy made no conscious thought, no jubilation, no contemplation. It was all still part of the mechanism--- the drowning out. Passing second he caught the gaze of the opposing shortstop. No malice, he noted. Still he continued, unencumbered in his home run celebratory rounding of the bases. It was only when he saw Javier Deville, the on deck batter; standing at home plate that he had any conscious memory. It was simply a number: 480.

Four hundred and eighty, generally a number of little significance. However it had over the last two years become the focal point of Jimmy Leamington’s public life. It was, of course, the number of home runs he had amassed over his seventeen year minor league career. To some, minor league home run totals might be a point of derision rather than acclaim but this particular number’s significance came because it fell one short of 481--- the career minor league record set by Hector Espino. Espino (June 6, 1939 – September 7, 1997) was considered the greatest player in the history of the Mexican Leagues, sometimes called The Babe Ruth of Mexico. He played in both the Liga Mexicana de Beisbol during the summer and the Liga Mexicana del Pacifico during the winter. During the course of his storied career in which he became a Mexican sports icon he rejected offers from the Cardinals, Mets, Padres, and Angels. Over his long career he accumulated many records most of which had already fallen before Jimmy had even begun playing but no one had gotten within ten of his home run record.

No one, until Jimmy did it last August, on a hot, sweaty night in Covington, Kentucky. Since then race for the record had become the focal point of Leamington’s career and the Traverse City Plover’s marketing dollars (which largely consisted of billboards along M-37 and his regrettably larger-than-life face on local busses).

He had tried to not let it affect him; not let it affect the way he played or the play of his team, but it was inevitable. Everyone was aware of it. Attendance figures, which had never been astronomic since MLB’s collapse, rose markedly since the race began (although you could say the race had been on for 17 years). His teammates stopped chiding him for strikeouts or grounding into a double play as they had years before when his age and physical limitations had been sport for an array of dugout humor.  This fact seemed to frustrate Jimmy the most since he prided himself on being an unselfish player willing to give himself up for the team. Nothing infuriated him more than grounding into a double play. He felt like it was letting his team and himself down. Yet despite his attempts to stay on point, the race had affected him. Though he would never admit it, he took deeper cuts at fastballs; he expanded the strike zone when he chased juicy hangers around the letters. He was after all, a man like any other.  His failures stung like any man’s. His victories were as sweet as any. As he stepped on home plate after slapping hands with a dozen cheering teammates he wasn’t tallying his wins and losses on a scoresheet or mentally marking the location of the pitcher’s fastball (just a bit up and out of the strike zone) he was basking in the glory or mankind, which though fading is nevertheless intoxicating. 

The Bondservant

I am astonished that you are so quickly deserting him who called you in the grace of Christ and are turning to a different gospel

For am I now seeking the approval of man, or of God? Or am I trying to please man? If I were still trying to please man, I would not be a servant of Christ.

Galatians 1:6,10

The church walks a fine line between existing within, and ministering to, the culture that surrounds it and capitulating to the pressures from that culture. Just as Jesus came on His Father’s business into this world, and, more specifically, into the Jewish near-Eastern context He sought (and succeeded) in drawing the unrighteous and sinners near without being Himself drawn in. Such should our mission be as well--- to live within, and witness to, the society around us without having our identity and mission in Christ compromised. The balance is tenuous indeed--- focus too much on separating ourselves from the world and we risk becoming inappropriately isolated and disconnected from those we are called to love; conversely, if we allow ourselves to become complacent, we compromise our commitment to Christ, who called us out of our old lives of willful indulgence and hedonism into a new life of authentic surrender. We should strive, like Daniel exiled in Babylon, to honor our God without compromise yet also without antagonism; to bear witness by our devotion rather than our division. It is not that we engage with culture that is at issue but rather how we engage culture. We must taste with discernment, judging always the contents and purpose and placing them beside the standard of Jesus Christ. There are times in which we must stand, and stand firm for Christ against evil, indignity, or oppression to be sure but we must always be kept in check by the love which is ours through the Father who loves and has compassion on lost sheep and lost men alike.

We, too, should always be on guard for the cracks and fissures that sometimes appear in the foundation of our lives. They begin often innocently as playful indulgences or insipid doubts--- thought experiments really, but, like persistent dripping over centuries erodes caverns; these frivolous sins and doubts erode our commitment to Christ. All sin springs forth from a desire for the control to satisfy our wants and passions. Here too, even the most stalwart saint is vulnerable to minute and fleeting indulgences that create an avalanche of sin and doubt. How many of us who frequently serve the Lord today will persevere to the last? How much of our earnest devotion will burn away like the dew in the heat of the day?

Paul speaks to those in the Galatian churches who had traded their true Christ for cheap substitutes; false Christs with no power to save. He scolds them for their fickle faith which ran to serve the convenient; the expedient gods. They had warmed to the musings of teachers of style rather than substance. The appeal of social godliness (i.e. following the Mosaic Law) had trumped their devotion to the freedom of Christ.

In contrast, Paul challenges those who claimed that he was striving to please men rather than the Lord. In defiance, he states: If I were still trying to please men, I would not be a bondservant of Christ. What was true in 1^st century Palestine is true today. We must remain in constant submission to Christ, determining with whom our allegiance lies. While we live in, and engage with the world, our souls must ultimately choose (not once, but continually) what our purpose will be. The desires of this world are not always cloaked in self-indulgence but even the altruistic desire to affect change or give meaning is vapid compared to the complete fulfillment we find in surrender to Christ. It is His purposes which give us meaning and freedom. Any attempt, even if well intentioned, of finding meaning apart from Christ is futile and sinful. Each of our actions and decisions is born either from a desire to serve men (this present existence) or to serve the Lord. If we claim ourselves to be Christ’s slaves we must abandon our claim on the temporal, fleeting results of this earth. This does not mean abdicating our place in, or responsibility in helping to bring the kingdom of God to a hurting world. It simply means that we serve as ambassadors in this world rather than citizens tied closely to its successes or momentary pleasures. We are a royal priesthood in Christ Jesus.

Let us today decide whom we will serve.

A Lesson (Overheard)

Many years ago I attended a conference of a campus ministry. The event was several days long encompassing worship, teaching, prayer, and service. The last night of the conference (which happened to be New Year’s Eve) was to feature a concert with several nationally-known bands. The venue was packed with 3000 college students having just experienced a day of teaching and worship. The headlining band was Switchfoot, who, at the time had just broken out into the “secular” market with their album The Beautiful Letdown. The opening act, on the other hand, was a folk artist whose style contrasted greatly with Switchfoot’s southern California rock stylings. As the folk artist began her set, many of the attendees made their way toward the exits preferring to return when the main act arrived.

After the folk artist had finished her performance, the stage was reset, the drum kits and guitars brought in. Gradually the people, too, returned, taking their seats in anticipation of Jon Foreman and Co. I had taken for myself one of the quickly abandoned seats and now sat in the second row from the front.

The seats filled in around me and I was able to overhear the conversation of my neighbor. In reality, everybody was able to hear their comments for they had to shout to be heard over the pre-show playlist. Their exchange went something to the effect of: “That [folk artist’s name] was horrible. It was just her and a guitar. Yeah, she just sucked.”

I’ll be honest, I was somewhat ashamed by their comments but I was even more ashamed when I looked directly ahead of me in the first row and saw the folk musician sitting in for Switchfoot’s set pretending not to hear the criticism coming from directly behind her.

The Biblical author James tells us that our words are “a restless evil and full of deadly poison. With it [the tongue] we bless the Lord and Father, and with it we curse men who have been made in the likeness of God. From the same mouth come both blessing and cursing. My brothers, these things ought not to be this way.”

We live in an age of citizen journalism and personal expression unprecedented in all of human history. We all have a platform whether it is our circle of friends, Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram. And that’s a good thing. It encourages government accountability. It gives voice to the voiceless. It allows the disenfranchised and lonely to find a people to identify with. Truly innumerable good flows from our technological advances. Yet… yet we often use our voice, our platforms to tear down, to criticize, to bludgeon our enemies rather than love them

.

Can a fountain send out both fresh and bitter water? James asks.

Our voices; our platforms give us the opportunity to speak life and hope into the world and into the lives of our circle of influence. We must wield well this piercing weapon of our words. Truth and honesty we must speak, but always they should be tempered with the additives of grace and love. Let us speak well; speak richly with words that build up; words that bring life.

Especially with an election approaching…

Beginnings and Endings

I’ve been thinking of life today as more fluid with less defined beginnings and endings yet pressed on toward the goal of full salvation. My best, most Christ-like moments are neither my beginning nor the end of my story. My most loathsome sins are neither the conclusion nor the start. Beyond conception and death (though that too, is not final) there are no true beginnings or endings here on earth. Our initial salvation began not with our momentary assent but with God’s prevenient grace which sought us and drew us imperceptibly through the peaks and valleys of our lives. Even our conversions are not truly complete until we see Christ face to face. Instead, they are a halting, staggering ascent on the best days, a dreadfully regretful decline on our worst. Still, this is (thankfully) not the end of us; the end of our story. We are drawn along always, on our best days and our worst by the thread of His grace which is offered in spite of our sin and regardless of our victories.

We tend to view life as a novel with a beginning, middle, and a conclusion because it is neat, orderly, and makes a simple testimony for church services. In doing so, we both rob the Lord of the glory He would otherwise receive for the pardoning grace which covers ALL of our faltering steps and only serves to confuse the sinners (that is, all of us) when we compare such sanitized repentance fables with our own messy, incomplete, yet grace-filled biographies.

My true life is not a solid ascent. It is a story of transcendent peaks, pathetic falls, and seemingly mindless slogs. Yet I am drawn on, ever on, by the pursuit of the one whose pardon covers it all; the one whose beauty pulls me back from the brink a thousand times (and a thousand more); and for whom even a passing glance or a solitary word is enough to devote my entire existence to. So I go on, some days running, some days erring, some days pulled, toward the promise of my full inheritance by His limitless grace.

The Witness of Life

“Men, why are you doing these things? We are also men of the same nature as you, and preach the gospel to you that you should turn from these vain things to a living God, who made the heaven and the earth and the sea and all that is in them. In the generations gone by He permitted all the nations to go their own ways; and yet He did not leave Himself without witness, in that He did good and gave you rains from heaven and fruitful seasons, satisfying your hearts with food and gladness.”

Acts 14:15-17

Paul implores the people of Lystra, who were attempting to deify Paul and Barnabas who had been healing and preaching, to honor God not mere men. They go so far as to tear their robes in anguish at the misunderstanding of the people. To clarify their thinking, Paul gives them a stunning refutation of the worship of mere idols. His words, which were spoken to a very spiritual yet ungodly people two thousand years ago, are particularly relevant for our world today. He acknowledges their spiritual fervency by calling them to: “turn from these vain things to the living God, who made the heaven and the earth and the sea and all that is in it.” Paul calls them to worship a bigger God, the living God, not a mute idol, not some dead pantheon.

In a world such as ours, which questions absolutes, worships honestly yet incompletely, and settles for cultural traditions rather than a living God these are words which should challenge us. Who do you worship? Is it a partial understanding? Is it an incomplete picture?

Even as believers we pick and choose the elements of the Lord we worship. We love Jesus the teacher but don’t like his challenging words of judgement. We love the freedom of grace but ignore the prickly realities of truth. We love the power evidenced in Acts but grow uncomfortable when we ponder its role today. Do we Christians worship the true God today? The whole God? The living God?

“In the generations gone by He permitted all the nations to go their own ways; and yet He did not leave Himself without witness, in that He did good and gave you rains from heaven and fruitful seasons, satisfying your hearts with food and gladness.”

Paul shows the people the real world, everyday examples of the grace of God--- the common grace. This parallels his exposition in Romans 1:18-21.

How often do we attribute those acts to the power of God today? How often do we see God working through the rains and harvest and food and gladness? In the agrarian culture he was speaking to, these things were equated to sustenance and bounty; goodness and plenty. These are the thing the living God provides. The good things in live, Paul says, the things you need to live and live well, come from God. They come from God in a very real and tangible way. Do we acknowledge that?

For those of us who identify themselves as Christians, do we praise God for all he does? If we, who claim to honor God and praise God, don’t acknowledge him, who will? How can we call those who do not yet know him to praise him if we ourselves are silent to the countless ways he provides for us?

The world needs to hear the call to worship the One God, the true God, the living God who has bestowed grace, common and saving upon us and we all need to praise him for all he has provided.

Eating the Unclean (A short note)

The next day, as they were on their journey and approaching the city, Peter went up on the housetop about the sixth hour to pray. And he became hungry and wanted to something to eat, but while they were preparing it, he fell into a trance and saw the heavens opened and something like a great sheet descending, being let down by its four corners upon the earth. In it were all kinds of animals and reptiles and birds of the air. And there came a voice to him: “Rise, Peter, kill and eat.” But Peter said, “By no means, Lord; for I have never eaten anything that is common or unclean.” And the voice came to him again a second time, “What God has made clean, do not call common.” This happened three times, and the thing was taken up at once to heaven.

Acts 10:9-16

Peter’s revulsion at the notion of eating the unclean animals is by no means irrational. All of his life, training, and social upbringing told him that this was not only immoral but also abhorrent. He does not understand the context of this vision at the time (as is so often the case when we are being taught or led) but comes to understand its significance when visited by Cornelius, the gentile, who, along with his whole household not only accepts Christ as Lord but is also given the Holy Spirit. 

Undoubtedly, Peter came to see the connection between the vision and the real world circumstance. This was a time, of course, when the question of whether the Gentile was able to follow Christ (let alone experience the filling of the Spirit) was very much still in debate. The (understandable) Jewish bias against Gentiles and Hellenistic Jews was deeply rooted in the hearts of the early Christ-followers (showing that we are all in the process of becoming more Christ-like).

Despite Peter’s initial complaints in the vision, he surrenders his will to the Lord when the parallel challenge occurs. Just as he had when the Lord sought to wash his feet, he gave over his misunderstanding and pride to the Lord.

The implications of the gospel constantly challenge our preconceptions. It is human nature to seek comfort above all things. The gospel, though, is constantly affecting us, shaping us into the image of Christ through the Holy Spirit. Though our very soul might cry out in protest, we must follow the challenge of the Lord no matter how disagreeable or uncomfortable. The aim of the Spirit is not our comfort but our sanctification. The Lord is concerned with making us holy first and foremost. Our happiness or comfort may follow but only after we have surrendered our will. In fact, true happiness and comfort can ONLY come following true surrender. The critical paradox of faith is that only in surrender can we ever experience true happiness. 

I Side With ...

Last night I learned of a website called www.isidewith.com. It is a quiz you can take that asks you questions about a range of social and political issues and how important they are to you, and then tells you which candidates you most closely align with. I’ll be honest, I was surprised at the results once I finished.

As I was answering questions on topics such as abortion, conservation, and education reform, I found myself struck by a question: “what does it matter what I believe?” Here I was spending a considerable amount of time essentially logging my own opinions on many important issues but I wondered: ‘what does my opinion matter?” If I say I feel strongly about something yet don’t actually work out what I believe in my life; don’t do anything about it, how strongly can I actually feel about it?

It reminds me of the words James wrote to the early Christians:

What use is it, my brethren, if someone says he has faith but he has no works? Can that faith save him? If a brother or sister is without clothing and in need of daily food, and one of you says to them, “go in peace, be warmed and filled,” and yet you do not give them what is necessary for their body, what use it that? Even so faith, if it has no works, is dead, being by itself.  – James 2:14-17

James asserts that our faith is tied directly to our actions. In fact, our actions validate our beliefs. James asks ‘how can you say that you have faith if you turn your back on the poor and needy?’ If we say we feel strongly about one issue or another, we need to ask ourselves: ‘what are we doing about it?’ If I feel strongly about abortion, what am I doing to help others avoid it? If I say I stand for education, what am I doing to help encourage it in others? If I claim to desire financial accountability, how am I stewarding the finances allotted to me?

Looking at it more broadly, if we call ourselves Christ followers, how are we living out that assertion? What difference is our faith making? What is it causing us to do? What changes is it producing in us? What compassion is it growing? What service? Is it creating a desire for the Word? A desire for justice? Compassion for those who are far away? In short, what difference does it make? Are our beliefs merely words? Are they simply a checklist of things we assent to? Or are they something more? Are they the defining focus of our lives? Is Christ a name that you tack onto a profile or is he the direction that drives you?

It is time to vote again. It is time to vote not merely with our ballots but with our lives; to become men and women who do not merely believe, but who live out that belief through action. We can say we side for many things, but what do our actions say we stand with? Do we side with Christ?

Untitled (as yet)

Tucker Anderson slept.

He slept and he dreamt.

This alone would have elicited a measure of curiosity for he seldom retained any recollection of his night-time escapades. What little he did recall he often wished he hadn’t, instead longing that those harsh realms had dissipated with the dew in the nourishing heat of day.

Tonight however Tucker suffered not through the haunting shadows of regret but rather experienced something new.

He found himself alone on a vast tropical beach. Yet this solitude brought neither fear nor unease but filled him with a sense of completeness he had not felt since coming to Donner Ranch. He could feel the grains of fine white sand sift gently between his toes as he stood barefoot in the heat of the day. Before him, the sea swept out in perpetuity meeting the land with a persistent whooshing noise. No waves of any magnitude rode atop its surface. Instead, the slow undulating expanse of aquamarine carried off to the horizon which seemed infinitesimally far away and was free from any obstruction. No sun reflected upon its surface but the day was as bright and as warm as an equatorial noon.

At first he didn’t want to move as if his own footprints might sully what was otherwise pristine. It was curiosity, as it always is, that drove him onward, taking tentative steps into the sand, which depressed and enveloped his feet in a blanket of warmth. With some difficulty he reached the waterline where the walking was easier. He turned his back to the sea, soaking in the nonexistent sun and saw that the island’s interior was a rich tangle of underbrush. Tropical palms, ancient in their broadness raised their branches high into the blue sky and from them thick vines dangled, swaying ever so slightly in the breeze.

He became aware of movement above and below him. Above, the sky rippled with the passing of many elegant birds of varying hues with long gaudy plumage. Their resplendent tails, which trailed behind them like kite strings called to mind the birds of paradise of New Guinea. These spectacular counterparts made no noise but surrounded him in great swooping arcs as if displaying their brilliance for him alone.

Beneath him scuttled thousands of tiny iridescent crabs; a sea of these miniature crustaceans parted with each step. Some shimmered as if coated with oil. Others were mildly translucent and their clockwork organs pumped and pulsed. Tucker watched their wave-like movements as they crested the beachhead and skittered into the forest, disappearing from view.

It was at this time that he realized that the birds too had fled, no longer miming their way through their acrobatic routines. He could not say where they had gone, for he had been watching the forest and had seen no sign of their disappearance. He felt strangely saddened by their departure.

He followed after the crabs, though they left no tracks, towards the jungle. There seemed to him a curtain which shrouded the island’s interior. The forest edge was clearly visible with its mossy tree trunks and slick-looking stones, but everything beyond was obscured somehow as if something didn’t want him to see.

He lingered little on this though for the air was warm and the breeze pleasant. He walked along the forest line, traversing much of the coastline, though he could not be sure of his progress for the swell-less sea provided little in the way of point of reference. He proceeded until he reached a small stream spilling out into the sea. He could have easily crossed it for it was only a foot wide and an inch deep but something stayed his feet. There seemed to be a queer mist coming from its surface and Tucker felt a chill. The water was cold, quite cold in fact. He could feel it on his exposed calves. His eyes followed the stream back to where it emerged from the jungle. The undergrowth was thick and the trunks of palms which had fallen in time immemorial lay crisscrossing its banks but the path was clearly evident. As far back as he could see the same cool mist rose. The shadows which obscured the forest’s secrets seemed thicker, more palpable here. Tucker heard something like whispers echoing as if deep inside something hollow, a cave or canyon somewhere. The voices were indiscernible but something in them invited, beckoned.

From the safety of the shore he watched as shadows twirled and twisted into something resembling a human shape. It rippled and swelled at times losing shape entirely becoming little more than a passing wisp, a morning fog clinging low in the valleys. Other moments it seemed achingly familiar, a vivid dream forgotten with the morning’s cleansing light. Suddenly, in the way only dreams allow, the shape appeared with clarity and standing ankle-deep in the freezing stream was a woman, little more than a teenager dressed in a red chambray shirt and a tight black miniskirt. In the recesses of his brain there was a simultaneous moment of recognition and revulsion. He looked away trembling.

“Don’t look away from me,” the thing spoke. It spoke in the voice of Caroline, or rather Caroline-that-was, Caroline-of-the-Dream. “Am I so disgusting to you now? It has been so long.”

Tucker said nothing but noted that silence had fallen over the island, no lapping of waves, no whooshing of palms. He realized with a start that he was wearing a suit, his suit.

“I know that you hate me, that you hate yourself,” she spoke in a voice soft, consoling. “I’m not here to bring up the past. To try for something that has long been lost. You have been missing some things for so long. I’m here to suggest that you find them.”

His skin, which had been crawling, warmed strangely.

“It’s time to step out. Not for me. Not even towards me or the memory of me. But for yourself. Towards what you can be, what you need to be. It’s not hard Professor Anderson. Just a step.”

She extended her hand or an appendage that seemed to him a hand for it drifted and wafted as smoky tendrils. The figure before him was Caroline but not Caroline. A fragment of a memory incomplete and warped yet not displeasing. It felt sanitized somehow, redeemed. Her voice spoke with something deeper than words, deep and enthralling. It called to mind many things: a spring breeze through an open window, Joe Castiglione’s voice on a summer night, freshly dried linens, and the answer to a long searched for question.

Her voice spoke.

“Just a step” he heard.

“No harm.”

 He stepped, now naked, with one trembling foot into the cool stream.

“Only warmth.”

He felt neither chill nor pain as he experienced the water, now rushing, rise up his legs; instead, there was a filling, a freshness, which rose progressively. Tucker closed his eyes. He heard at once the graceful wingbeats of the birds around him, the scurrying of the crabs, the whooshing of the waves on the beach. He closed his eyes more (for it seemed possible to do so) and sank deeper into the darkness. It felt refreshing, a thought which both tantalized and terrified. There was no stopping now, as he simultaneously rose and fell into the darkness and the light.

He heard a voice that was not Caroline’s.

“Wake up.”

He heard the voice.

He heard and obeyed.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tucker awoke reluctantly. He was still in his bunk surrounded by his meager possessions:  a sweat-stained Red Sox hat, a tattered copy of Walden. He rose and silently pulled on his jeans, which lay crumpled on the floor beside the bed. He slipped into his boots and rose shirtless in the rooms enfolding darkness. Old floorboards creaked beneath his footsteps. Closing the door to the room that, he in gratitude, received as compensation, he made is way down the silent hallway lit only with the dull light of the moon, that false and fickle orb. None of the house’s other occupants woke, but Tucker gave no conscious thought either way. Mechanically his body moved as if a loom set in motion long ago in a distant time by unseen hands and left to spin endlessly for eternity.

He crossed the field to the barn, the grass wet with dew, beaded on his slick boots. He slipped into the darkness, the stalls on either side, lit by the pallid moonbeams. The horses initially stirred but settled when they saw who had entered. It was this gift, this calmness he elicited, that had won him the job at Donner Ranch when he had arrived six months before. Having little background with animals or horses in general still he managed to quickly befriend the ten equine occupants. Owners Marjorie and Bill first viewed this trait with skepticism but quickly came to trust their strangely literate guest. Soon he had their complete trust, won by his hard work and humility. He did not view himself better than any task, mucking stalls with diligent resolve. At dinners, to which he soon became a guest, he often spoke in words which seemed to come from some deep tome or rippled with some unseen power, a power of words, of poetry that captured the attentions of all who heard him. Yet he said few words, made few personal requests and generally carried about his personal business with an openness and simplicity that called to mind the innocence of a child. In short, he was viewed as a man of benevolent shadows.

Into the shadows he strode now, stopping at the stall of Roy Neary, a magnificent sorrel quarter horse he had quickly befriended upon arrival. Roy accepted the saddle Tucker offered without complaint and hardly needed reins to be led out to the meadow, so pleased was he that his friend and frequent companion had roused him. Tucker mounted the horse fluidly and with absolute confidence led him into a trot.

In the moonlight they reached the edge of the pasture surprisingly quickly. Tucker dismounted and opened the gate. Together, the pair crossed the eerie country filled with shadows and ghosts lurking behind each copse of trees and dilapidated barn. With efficiency, Roy crossed several irrigation ditches without truly breaking stride. Tucker offered no nod of approval but rode one, eyes fixed ahead as the country passed in an unrelenting blur. They passed through neighboring farms: the Richardson’s, the Archer’s, and the Slalley’s. Miles and minutes faded behind and still they proceeded undaunted by time or exhaustion. Roy seemed to catch his rider’s focus and slipped across the countryside with wraithlike efficiency. He was only beginning to tire, though never slackening, as his rider pulled back his reins at the face of a grassy hillock. The hill did not however draw Tucker’s attention but rather the field beyond. He dismounted and with unsteady steps walked twenty to thirty feet away from the horse.

A veil of fog hung over the grass which licked at his kneecaps with each gust of wind. The sky was cloudless and impossibly starless, a canvas of violet intruded upon only by the ethereal moon which shone in its pale fullness. The disgraced college professor walked forward absently about five feet before stopping. He heard again the hollow indistinct whispers surround him like a cloud of bats, hovering, swirling. He dropped to his knees, more content than he had ever remembered being. Ray stirred nervously. Tucker felt the wave of warmth hit him bringing with it sweet assurances. All pain and regret, guilt and fear slid aside like a discarded garment, a derelict identity now lost. The breeze increased whipping the grasses against his face as he knelt.

His eyes were beyond the point of registering images for he was lost in this perfect state of bliss inclining every ounce of gumption into making out the voices swirling about him. Had he comprehended, what he would have seen was a vast, perfectly round borehole nearly fifty feet in diameter spread out before him. The hole’s sides were of packed earth, unnaturally smooth. It descended for depths unknown and from this cavity the unrelenting songs arose, ghostly, yet inviting. Distant and unseen, he knew that far below the cool mist rose. Tucker heard nothing, saw nothing but the dark ribbons that were leading him on.

Ray stamped but his rider and friend knelt oblivious, entranced. One thing though Tucker did perceive: a voice seeming to coalesce from the shapeless void. At first he did not understand but gradually he heard the whisper. The whisper he had always heard became clear:

“Come.”

Trickle and Torrent

Boredom is an easy thing to fall into. The line between living life and simply living is a thin one that is easily crossed. Often, crossing over into the land of mere existence begins in assenting to the patterns and routines that we all must navigate in this life. Over time, we begin to accept those patterns as inevitable. From there, it is a short descent into mediocrity. Another word for this mediocrity is shallowness.

Lately I’ve been feeling very shallow. Patterns that I have endeavored to shape have ended up shaping me. Such revelation hasn’t come like a thunderbolt but rather in simple, minute observations. For instance, I haven’t really enjoyed a meal that I’ve eaten in over a month.

I have searched for the source of this discomfort and I have come to this diagnosis: I am lacking in the presence of God. Now I know theologically the presence of the Lord always surrounds and dwells in the heart of the believer but there is also a sense in which we allow the Spirit to work in our lives through living lives of righteousness and by keeping our senses trained to notice his whispers and appearances. My times in the word have lacked the affectation and potency of the past. Like a hike through the desert, life has left my body alive but thirsty.

As I drove through the fields of southern Ohio recently a severe storm, with its dark and threatening thunderheads chased me. I couldn’t resist the temptation to roll down the window and feel the humid air upon my arms burgeoning with elemental fierceness. The clouds broke unleashing a torrent of water. Wave after wave broke upon my car as if I were a ship caught in a nor’easter. In farm land such as this deluges such as this rapidly overwhelm the ability of the ground to absorb the rain. Flash floods are common and streams quickly over-run their banks. Trails become waterlogged. Fields transition into ponds.

There are times in our lives when the vibrancy of life dries up to a trickle. It happens subtly but its occurrence has dramatic effects. Our spirits languish and we fail to live the lives of righteousness that we were created for. More devastatingly, we can find ourselves not even looking for or expecting the power and presence of the Lord. Rather we grow increasingly content with lives of shallowness, what Thoreau called “lives of quiet desperation,” until the word of the Lord is neither experienced nor expected. We settle for a life of dehydration rather than seeking out the fullness of the Lord. And like physical dehydration, spiritual dehydration lessens the soul’s ability to weather the storms of life or even to enjoy the blessing of life at all.

The cure is simply but not easy. It is approached in confident uncertainty for we do not know where to look but live in the assurance that if we seek we will find. This is our course: like the explorers of old, to live comfortable, predictable lives of slow extinction or to set out confidently expecting to encounter the presence of the Lord behind every bush and tree; every stranger and friend. In every word we read we should be anticipating a Word from on high. Every prayer we pray should bristle with the energy of an oncoming storm for we know whom we seek is capably and willing to distribute not only life but lives of abundance.

Power of the Story

I deal in stories. I am an experience vampire and I will create them myself if need be. I look out at a street and I see dozens of stories walking to and fro; each a living spark of creation; a precious glowing ember. I read stories and see the light of life refracted as through a prism exposing the precious, the authentic, the story. A city is a river of stories teeming from every shop, loft, and hotel room. Every streetlight and cobblestone is a testament to the spark of the Divine. Each story, each circumstance, speaks of the Story. Each joy, each pain sings of blessing and screams for justice; true justice.    I am a gunslinger. I deal in story.

I Am Prejudiced

I’ve been doing a great deal of thinking about prejudice, racism, and its place in our country and the world. Numerous public incidents have rightly brought the issue to the forefront of our cultural conversation. I have come to the belief that we are coming to the wrong conclusion. We have traded the noble quest for justice for one of finding scapegoats. In our discussions on the matter we have rightly sought to root out injustice but our means to do so is by labelling people as “racist” or creating racist monsters. In the age of social media and instant new feeds it has become par for the course to scour a persons’ tweets, public statements, or Facebook posts for instances of prejudice. When we find them, we label that person a “racist” or the crime a “hate crime.” In doing so, we do not accurately address the problem. Instead of addressing the issue we instead create an “other” that allows us to shift the focus off ourselves. A celebrity with a twitter post becomes a “racist”. A police officer who allows his biases to affect his actions becomes a “racist.”

The reality is that we are all prejudiced. All of us. Racism is not something “other people” are. Each of us comes into people and situations with preconceived notions about others whether that is due to race, gender, age, socioeconomic statues, or what have you. When we walk into a convenience store, or a library, or an opera house, we all make judgements about the people we see there. Racism is merely one form of prejudice. The problem is when we let our prejudices outweigh logic and our command to love our neighbor. All crime is hate crime because we are asserting that our needs or beliefs outweigh the rights of others. When we turn our God-given desire for justice into a witch-hunt to find “those racist people” we do not accurately understand the problem. The problem is in us as much as it is in the neo-Nazi, or the abusive cop, or the militaristic regime. Throwing the term “racist” about like a grenade may be the easy way of addressing the issue but it will be ultimately unsuccessful. Until we admit that we are all biased, we can never have a real conversation about how to remedy it. Until we admit that we are all biased, we can never truly fulfill Christ’s command to love our neighbor as we love ourselves. The only cure for prejudices is found in admitting that we have them. I fear that we are becoming a society in which it is not safe to admit this. Just as the addict cannot hope to have victory until he turns the mirror upon himself and sees the truth of his addiction, we cannot hope to address the injustice of systematic prejudice until we see it within ourselves. Only then can we start down the path of allowing logic and real experiences to outweigh the prejudice.

Speaking to the prejudice of his day, Paul wrote: “There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free man, there is neither male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus, then who are Abraham's descendants, heirs according to the promise”.

It is only when we turn the mirror upon ourselves and our own prejudices can we (as a society) ever hope to understand the unity in Christ that Paul was writing about. Unconfessed sin sickens the heart and is loathsome to the Lord. Let us come together and confess that we are influenced by our prejudices. Only then can light ever shine into the darkness.

Yes, I am prejudiced. Yes, I have let those prejudices lead me to sin. I am sorry. Let’s talk about this.

A Theology of Community

It’s graduation party season. One can hardly drive down a street without seeing lines of cars, colorful balloons, and signs with 2015 stretched across driveways. I was driving to one yesterday in fact (Congratulations Josh and Andrew!) and the first thought that popped into my head was this: ‘It’s such a shame that parents have to go through the rigmarole of having an elaborate party just because it’s a social convention.’ The way I’ve always viewed social gatherings is that they are purely utilitarian. You have a birthday party to honor someone’s birth, give gifts, and have some cake. At a wedding shower you give gifts and play some party games. This kind of thinking has even influenced the way I look at church gatherings. Church events fall into some pretty well-defined categories:

1.           Sunday service – purpose: worshipping God, prayer, being edified by a sermon

2.           Prayer gatherings – purpose: prayer

3.           Outreaches- purpose: attracting and reaching non-believers

4.           Small groups- purpose: discipleship

Books such as Rick Warren’s The Purpose-Driven Church (and the student ministry focused Purpose-Driven Youth Ministry) have helped to shape my beliefs. I don't want to slander those needed and we'll-intentioned books but I think they've reinforced my own personal eccentricities. You see I've always been a bit awkward in social situations. I loathe small talk and honestly have always thought I communicated better I writing (you are the judge). I always wanted to be the quiet, introspective guy who said little but when he spoke, spoke with such profundity that he was always well-regarded. I think though I've just become a guy who doesn't talk.

I've always been a bit socially-averse. That is if you count wanting to "pull a Thoreau" as socially averse. Recently I was checking out these (http://www.relevantmagazine.com/slices/these-eco-friendly-tiny-house-pods-look-amazing) as a real option. All of this has shaped my life thus far. Lately though, I've been pondering the validity of my beliefs.

The Bible is a record of community. The history of the nation of Israel is one of festivals, remembrances, and celebrations (prescribed by God, nonetheless). Social interaction was not only a practical necessity in the context, but also instituted by the Lord. The lines between social life and religious life were blurred. Passover was as much a communal event as it was a religious one. The New Testament continues the trend of social interaction. Jesus engaged his audience at dinners and parties. The first disciples embraced the concept of communal living even further. Not limited by perceived notions of sacred and secular, they ate and prayed; they celebrated and sang; they served and they shared. So how did we end up in a climate where we are so compartmentalized and isolated? How did we end up where the social and the spiritual exist in completely separate worlds? I'm sure there are a lot of deep societal reasons (Western culture, technology, and travel among them) but what I am left contemplating is how to embrace a healthier level of engagement.

In reading Shauna Niequist on the topic (http://www.shaunaniequist.com/) I've been left unsettled by the level of disengagement I see in my own life. To be sure, we want our gatherings to be purposeful when they need to be. We should pray when we need to pray. We need to teach and to learn when the situation arises. We do need to make sure that we don't shy away from the spiritual to ensure that things don't get awkward or complicated. We need to engage. Perhaps, though, the line between purpose and pleasure needs to be bent. Perhaps we need to view community in less utilitarian terms. We need to take down the doors of our homes (probably not literally) and invite people in. It seems like that’s what Jesus did. 

I envy my friends who see this more clearly than I. Those who understand that there is value (to use my logical terms) in being around friends and family live a far healthier existence than I. Those who can see that surrounding oneself with others is not merely the setting but also the plot are getting something out of life that (if I'm honest) I'm not. A chef (or Shauna Niequist) might say that the sauce is as much a part of the meal as the meat. Perhaps, no, not perhaps, certainly, I have lost out on something by approaching life and faith piecemeal, taking the elements without embracing the whole community (even if it is awkward and messy).

Census-taking

Then Satan stood up against Israel and moved David to number Israel. So David said to Joab and to the princes of the people, “Go, number Israel from Beersheba even to Dan, and bring me word that I may know their number.” 1 Chronicles 21:1-2

God was displeased with this thing, so He struck Israel. David said to God, “I have sinned greatly, in that I have done this thing. But now, please take away the iniquity of Your servant, for I have done very foolishly.” 1 Chronicles 21:7

On the surface of things, we of course are prompted to ask the question: ‘how bad is a census really?’ It seems to us an arbitrary reason to incur the Lord’s wrath. What was it about David’s push to number the people of Israel that prompted such a response? We see that it is not only is the Lord displeased by David’s decree but even Joab, who is assigned to carry out the task, tries to push back against it.

First, the Chronicler gives us additional information that the 2^nd Samuel recording of this event does not, namely that Satan prompted David’s actions. Not a good sign for success. The instances of Satan directly referenced in the Bible are so comparatively few that we are bound to notice when he is mentioned.

Secondly, the purpose of a census was to determine (and muster) how many fighting men there were to be found. The strength of the nation of Israel was always to be derived not from its armies or chariots but rather from the Lord. Historically, they had always been the underdog, the oppressed, and underprivileged. That is why the Lord’s assistance is so revealing about His character. He chooses those who are not strong to demonstrate His power. Israel’s victories, and indeed, their very existence came only when they trusted in the Lord for their survival. Think of the moments throughout history when this is demonstrated. Gideon’s army is purposefully reduced to show that the victory came from the Lord. Caleb confidently entrusts himself to the Lord’s will despite the odds stacked against him as he ventured forth to take his portion of the Promised Land. Complete reliance upon the Lord was to be the hallmark of the nation of Israel.

To take a census of the eligible warriors in a nation is to consider the likelihood of victory in war. ‘How do we stack up against our enemies?’ This type of economics makes perfect sense in worldly thinking. It was (and is) the prudent method of weighing the risks and rewards of a military engagement. Israel, however, was not to be a worldly nation and its determining factor in victory or defeat was not numbers or arms but rather the good pleasure of the Lord.

This is why David’s decision smacks of arrogance. It flies in the face of the radical dependence that the Lord required of Israel, His chosen nation and covenantal partner. In evaluating strengths and weaknesses, as other nations did, the census essentially said, ‘we only have ourselves, let’s see if victory is expedient,’ rather than asking whether the Lord would provide the victory in spite of the odds.

Observing and understanding David’s sin must not lead us to a pharisaical self-righteousness though. In fact, it is the very fact that I can empathize with David’s fleshly calculations, which brought this verse to my attention in the first place. I tend to be an over-thinker (that might be an understatement, let me think about it) who often finds himself crippled by the possibilities of success and failure. I think that we all have tendencies toward self-reliance in this regard. We see with our eyes the temporal and earthly facts. It is much harder to focus instead upon the Lord who controls unseen the world. I can think of a half dozen areas in which I try and analyze myself to victory rather than trusting instead the Lord.

-          Money – how often does my prudent approach to money deprive the Lord the chance to provide for me?

-          Conversation – how often does fear and ‘rational’ thinking rob me of situations to tell others of the glory of God?

-          Spontaneity – Oh, how few are the times that I promptly answer the call that the Lord has placed upon me. Instead I analyze and rationalize away that which the Lord desires for me.

-          Prayer – How rarely I pray when I should. Instead I put my requests on a ‘prayer list’ for some future time of concentration that never comes.

How different are we from David really? He wavered and trusted in his own reasoning and in the forces available to him. We seem to trust in anything but the Lord far more often than we would dare to admit. How different are we from Ananias and Sapphira who in their human reasoning saved some of the sale of a house for themselves? May we make choices in a way to be rewarded by the Lord rather than punished as David (and Israel) was or with the finality of that young couple in Acts.

Logic and wisdom in such calculations may be all the world has to depend upon, but we who follow Christ and who abide in His Spirit are not confined by rationality. Our God is bigger. Our God is stronger. Our God is not limited by that which is visible. That is the God that we must embrace.

Our aim is complete surrender; complete and absolute dependence. Our aim is to be so deeply embedded with the Holy Spirit that we see the power and trustworthiness of the Lord rather than the twisted prudence and logic of this world. To be sure, we use the wisdom and intellect He has given us, but never should we let mathematics trump the call of the Lord.

Our aim is simple:

The Lord calls,

We promptly answer.

Blue Jays, or, What We Must Never Mistake

It started as a Wikipedia search (doesn’t it always?) after I had bought some new birdseed and refilled my feeders. I was doing a little research on goldfinches which led to looking up interesting facts about several common backyard birds. I looked at the House Finch, the Starling, and the Blue Jay. It occurred to me that I hadn’t seen any Blue Jays in my yard in a while. They seem to come out of the woodwork the second I put a peanut outside but since I hadn’t put any out in a while, they too, were noticeably absent. In addition, my neighborhood lacks the tall oak trees that the birds adore.

Later in the day I was trying to decide where to go for a walk. I try to find time to unwind every weekend (so that I don’t go crazy, as my wife will tell you). I finally settled on Lower Huron Metropark, which is a ten minute drive from my house. As I walked along the bike path there I realized that I had subconsciously chosen this park in part because of the oak trees with form a canopy over a portion of the trail. I was struck at how remarkable (and scary) the human brain is. I gave no conscious thought to seeking out oak trees and the Blue Jays that inhabit them, but something in my mind pushed me towards that environment. Something within me wanted to experience the thing I had been thinking about earlier.

Knowing God is a similar experience. Despite our assertions to the contrary and the other things that draw us, we desire to know and experience the Lord. We want to know God not just know about God.

I don’t know about you, but every once in a while I will find myself with vague notions of pious intent. I want to surround myself with godly things, hang out with my Christian friends, and do good, righteous, Christian things. I want to change my behaviors to be more ‘Christian’. But the truth is, just like every other idol we seek in this life, these pious intentions will not sustain me. Only the true experience will do. Just like reading about Blue Jays still left me with the desire to see them. Much of our Christian life is built around the trappings of experience. If we’re honest though, the experience of knowing the Lord comes far too rarely. We know volumes about God but have little in the way of practical knowledge of Him.

J.I. Packer puts it this way: “A little knowledge of God is worth more than a great deal of knowledge about Him.”

We are always longing. We long for objects. We long for people. We long for emotional experiences. All of these things, however, are substitutes for what we truly desire: a vivid, personal relationship with the Lord.

Even our “spiritual” inclinations can, by themselves, be poor substitutes for the real thing. At the end of the day we don’t want to be longing for a great Bible study, but rather a transformative, intimate moment with the Lord. All the trappings of the Christian faith, necessary as they may be, are tools and practices to take us to where we desperately need to go --- into the arms of our Lord. We get into trouble, however, when we mistake the journey for the destination. When we substitute anything, ‘Christian’ or otherwise for intimacy with God, we have gone the easy way and set up our own idol and altar.

Packer again writes: “We must seek, in studying God, to be led by God. It was for this purpose that the revelation was given, and it is to this use that we must put it.”

It is only in moments of great clarity and humility do we see that what we’re really longing for is the only fulfilling thing: our Creator and Lord. We must turn our knowledge about God into knowledge of God. We must seek humbly to search out the Lord through His word, through fellowship, through prayer but never losing focus of our aim: the only One thing; the only satisfying Thing --- God our Father and Christ Jesus His Son.

Wins and Losses

For over a hundred years a baseball pitcher’s effectiveness has been determined (largely) by one overarching statistic: wins. It seems logical enough. At the end of the day, what matters more than whether a team was victorious or not? And who affects that more than the starting pitcher? Salaries, bonuses, and accolades are awarded based on the number(s) in the Win column. In fact, the highest award a pitcher can achieve is named after Cy Young, who is most remembered for accumulating 511 wins over the course of his career, the most in league history.

However, recent observers of the game have suggested that this stat is not a true measure of a pitcher’s worth. What about the starting pitcher who allows no runs but is replaced by relief pitchers who blow their team’s lead and thus deny the starter with a win? Many say that once the ball is put in play, the outcome is out of the pitcher’s hands and thus he should not be punished for being on a team of less than excellent defenders. These fans and statisticians have created new metrics such as WhiP (walks + hits / innings pitched), FiP (fielding independent pitching), and WAR (wins above a hypothetical league average player). The key theme in all these is that perhaps the outcome of the game (of which a pitcher’s performance is merely one factor) is not a proper metric for measuring a pitcher’s success. Perhaps winning, after all, isn’t everything.

Many of us (and when I write ‘us’, I mean ‘me’) have a tendency to view life in a similar regard. What is more quantifiable than results? At the end of the day, are we not judged by what we have accomplished? Modern logic would confirm this.

Perhaps though, there is more to life than cut and dry results. Perhaps unintended outcomes pulse with just as much opportunity and potential as desired ones.

My father and I set out to hike the Manistee River Trail this weekend. We’ve had it planned for a couple of months. I bought the maps and planned the hike. We calculated our days and divided our snacks. When the day arrived, we drove the four hours north to Mesick, Michigan. The hiking was warm and humid and we were glad to finally set our packs down in a gorgeous meadow beside the Manistee River to watch the swallows dart joyously in the air above our heads. At about 8:30 that evening we were forced to retreat into our tent by the arrival of a rain shower.

 At 8:30am, it was still raining. At 9:00am it was still raining. While we took down our tent it was still raining. When I put on my raincoat it was still raining. I noticed that the rapidly falling water seemed to seep right through what I thought was a waterproof coat, soaking my skin. We had a brief conference about the now-waterlogged coat. The temperature was to drop into the mid-thirties that night. We made the decision to not risk a 30 degree night in wet clothes (and hypothermia) and instead return the four miles we had hiked and drive home.

My first thought as I led the way back over the slippery roots and muddy soil was this: ‘What a failure.’

Hiking has a funny way of eroding and shaping your thoughts over the long haul of a day’s walking.

My mind turned back to baseball (as it often does) and upon wins and losses. We attribute wins and losses in life based upon our expectations of what a desirable outcome would be. To be sure, there are times when we all need the motivation and accountability that this type of thinking brings but it also smacks of hubris and defeatism. Where we might not accomplish a particular goal or outcome, we may at the same time, achieve another desirable result. When our desire for success robs us of noticing other positive outcomes, it becomes a hindrance that we must either shed or use as fuel. We must never drag it behind us like an anchor.

Beyond that, our goals are driven by a severe ignorance of the larger picture. In light of an omniscient God, who lays the plans of this world (and our lives) out before Him in His hand, our personal goals must be held lightly and with the greatest humility. We don’t really know what we need. We only know our personal preferences and desires. We must always be quick to defer to the One who holds our life and knows our needs. These are not excuses for inaction but rather assurances that His plan for those who love Him is far beyond our meager imaginations.

At the end of the day, I spent a day and a half hiking with my father, a fact to which few can joyfully claim. We sat beside a marvelous river in the amber rays of sunset. We marveled at the beauty of a created world; the grasses, the rocks, the hills. We heard the symphony of falling water amid the boughs of silent pines. We spent hours together of a life on this earth that is far too brief to be taken lightly.

We may not have gotten the win, but perhaps we gained something greater.