"This is hard, and I'm confused."

Sometimes I steal blog ideas from my husband, but after ten years of staying up late to help him edit his sermons, we’ll consider it a fair swap.

This is one of those stolen posts.

Early this morning, he told me that he wanted us to memorize a passage from II Corinthians--verses Paul wrote about the challenges and purposes of keeping a right perspective during difficulty.

I’d read those verses about twenty billion times, but as he recited them to me again this morning, one particular word caught my eye. “Perplexed.” Paul said he was perplexed but not giving in to despair.

Several years ago, I was studying II Corinthians when I realized Paul had admitted depression so deep that he’d wanted to just check out and die (II Corinthians 1:8). I was astonished that the leader of the entire Gentile church had not only felt such deep doubt but was also admitting it to one of the most volatile churches under his care.

Today, the word “perplexed” helped me see even deeper into his openness. I realized that Paul didn't just speak about his disillusionment past tense. From the middle of trouble, he was still comfortable admitting confusion about his sufferings.

The Greek word for “perplexed” means “to have no way out” or “to be at a loss (mentally.” It means to stand in doubt. Its Hebrew equivalent means to be embarrassed because you are in doubt and you don’t know which way to turn. This isn’t the sort of thing charismatic leaders of fake religious movements say. Charlatans are always slick, always confident, always sure.

Paul, on the other hand, chose brutal honesty. He told his audience that he was confused. He let them see his doubt and uncertainty.

And yet, he also showed them how to let emotions take a proper role in the life of a person who had encountered the real Jesus. Paul said, “I feel this hard thing---and yet, because of what I know deep down—I will not despair.”

My husband said it is good for us to go through times of brokenness because our weakness provides an opportunity for God to demonstrate what he’s capable of doing—even in two fragile, clay pots like us. He also wanted to remind me that God can use (even) this difficult opportunity in our lives to create life in others (verses 11-12). I needed those two concepts.

I also needed to see Paul’s intense emotional honesty sitting alongside limits he gives to the reign of his feelings:

“What in the world? I’m getting hit from every side! -- But you know, I’m not crushed."

“I’m so confused about all of these painful things that are happening. I feel lost and embarrassed! -- But you know, I’m not giving in to despair."

“I’m disappointed and sore from being hit over and over again by selfish, wicked people! -- But, you know, I’m not  destroyed."

Me too, Paul. Me too.

It was good for me to hear Paul's vulnerability today. And I needed to be reminded that times like this can also be used by God to pour eternal significance from my little quivering pot of clay.

7 But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us. 8 We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; 9 persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed; always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in our bodies. 11 For we who live are always being given over to death for Jesus' sake, so that the life of Jesus also may be manifested in our mortal flesh. 12 So death is at work in us, but life in you.

II Corinthians 4:7-4:12

http://www.thistleandtoad.com/wwwthistleandtoadcom/writings/2018/7/5/this-is-hard-and-im-confused

When It Hurts.

Paul’s second letter to Timothy is one of my favorite letters in the whole Bible, though it’s so intimate, I always feel a little strange reading it. It's a message between two close friends, the kind of friends who go straight to the honest core of what’s really happening in a soul.

The older mentor wrote from prison, from the middle of intense physical suffering. You and I read Paul’s words in modern typeface on sheets of printed paper (or on a computer screen), but think about how Timothy would have actually received them—perhaps written with a shivering, dirty hand with dirty fingernails. His words were hard words--Paul was going to die soon, and he was sober and passionate in his final written commission to Timothy.

Timothy was a tender-hearted man, not Alpha, and not charismatic. He was my kind of guy, a thinker who doubted himself and felt his surroundings deeply. Timothy had to have cried when he read Paul's words, and I bet he held this letter to his own chest, aching for a way to comfort the friend and teacher he loved.

I believe this letter has a unique message for us in 2018 because it talks about specific troubles that have discouraged thousands of believers in our time. Paul’s message isn’t easy—in fact it’s incredibly difficult. But because “a thing resounds when it rings true,” studying this epistle can give us courage, reviving those whose deepest ache is for the Kingdom.

I was up until one this morning, reading and rereading this epistle, and as I read, I found myself jotting down notes and praying for you. I don’t have room here to write about every aspect of this letter, but I want to create some bullet points that will hopefully encourage you to go read II Timothy and pray through it. (I'm not including verse numbers here, but these points do flow in the same order, generally, as the letter.)
 
1. You have a spiritual legacy. Taking time to get reoriented inside of that legacy can be helpful.

Timothy’s legacy was his grandmother Lois and his mother Eunice. I don’t know who those people are for you, but I do know that you have your own cloud of witnesses, people who showed you the gospel and its beauty. My husband and I are going through a rough patch right now, so two weeks ago, he pulled out his old Andrew Peterson CD’s. He needed to be reminded of what those early songs once quickened in his heart.

Your legacy may sit on a shelf full of long-dead writers, and it’s okay if it does. But when you are weary, when you feel alone, go soak a while in the memory of the teachings God has used to win you to the beauty of the gospel. Even if your greatest spiritual influences have passed into eternity, they aren’t gone. At this very  moment, their souls keep company with the God you love. Even if you feel alone, your ministry fits into the framework they left for you. You’re part of a great team, and you belong.

2. The gift of God lives in you, waiting to be fanned into a flame. It’s not a spirit of fear, but of God’s power, and his love and self-control. This will be hard to remember. It’s going to be tempting to be ashamed of the gospel.

Paul was in prison, so people assumed he had done something shameful. Our dynamic is a little different—our shame comes from being affiliated with a religion that has been distorted into something ugly and selfish. But no matter what causes the believers of any era shame (for our enemy will always attempt to shame us into silence), we have still been given counter-cultural resources from the Almighty: supernatural strength, supernatural compassion, supernatural selflessness.

3. How does Paul counteract shame? He doesn’t lean into a cause for validation here. He leans into a person. He says “he knows whom he has believed,” and he is convinced that the living Jesus will be able to guard the commission given to him until his work here is finished. He also reminds Timothy that the Holy Spirit lives inside him and can be employed to guard his commission. When we are embarrassed by religion gone bad, it’s tempting to try to justify ourselves and our cause, but God is real, he is our worth and our defense. He is our lodestar.

4. A faithful life here may be incredibly lonely. The believers of Asia turned away from Paul--imagine being abandoned by the believers of an entire continent. As if that weren’t hard enough, there were two people who hurt him particularly, because Paul names them specifically.  (Whose names would you include here?) There was also one friend who didn’t turn away. If God has provided someone willing to search for you and find you in your moment of spiritual need, realize that’s a gift. That Facebook message. That text. That whisper to endure. It probably wasn’t just human; it was likely your Lord working through the body to remind you that he sees you and loves you.

5. The commission? Take a deep breath before you read it because it’s not easy. “Share in suffering as a good soldier of Christ Jesus.”

Does this mean you will suffer if you follow Jesus? I can’t say for sure. Paul’s commission is included in a personal letter to one friend; it’s directed to one personal, historical situation. But from what I’m seeing of our era and what it takes to walk with Jesus, I think a lot of us can expect the same. And if this commission does fall upon us, it’s going to require single-minded focus. Paul says, “No soldier gets entangled in civilian pursuits, since his aim is to please the one who enlisted him.” These words are super convicting to me because this is where I get lost most often. Our enemy knows that I will reject obvious evil—I’m much more likely to be distracted from the gospel by good but lesser causes. I’m definitely in the entangled by civilian pursuits camp.

6. If we do fight for what is best, there’s no promise God’s going to give us results the secular world considers positive. We aren’t told that we will win so much we will get sick of winning. We may be misunderstood. We may be falsely accused. Our family members may suffer hard consequences as we speak out about the religious evils of our day.

But even if we suffer, we will still be called “to endure everything for the sake of the elect.” Those who are watching and listening to our pain matter. Their souls matter. Paul was alone, imprisoned, cold, humiliated, prepared to die. In this circumstance, he knew his focus during agony would show those who were watching and listening the truth. He knew their salvation could be impacted by his endurance.

You might not know who these elect are. They might hear your story second hand, and you might never meet them in this earthly life. But stop right now to pray for all who will be influenced by your story of faith. Ask God to strengthen you for their sake, and to help you walk through whatever is hitting in a way that ministers to their deepest need.

So many people in our world are spiritually discouraged. They’ve seen false religion gravitate toward elitism, wealth, and comfort. They are finished with a church that runs on economic and cultural manipulation. You may be the only person in someone’s life who clings to the real Jesus in such a way that the true gospel is revealed. As hard as it is to walk that road now, it’s worth it. That soul is worth your investment.

7. We are called to be gentle.  To be patient. To correct those who are wrong with as much tenderness as possible, hoping that the opponents of Jesus will repent.

But that doesn't mean we stop speaking truth about evil. In fact, in the latter part of this letter, Paul describes a church culture that has fallen into many of the same bad habits ours has embraced, and Paul instructs Timothy to be exhortative and bold about naming those wrongs.

So it’s okay to speak with authority.

Kindness plus truth. It’s a rare and powerful combo.

8. Expect a fake religious culture with eight specific traits.

a. Fake religious people will love themselves and their money.
b. They are going to be proud, as if their merit has earned all they have, and they will be and abusive and arrogant with their power.
c. They are going to be heartless toward people who need compassion and care.
d. They will slander unfairly.
e. They won’t have any self-control, so their language and behavior will be brutal.
f. They won’t love what’s good—but they will love what goes against the ways of heaven.
g. Their words will be reckless and conceited, and they will gravitate to whatever feels good in the moment.
h. All the while, they will claim to be Christians—while denying the real power of the gospel.

And we aren’t supposed to hang out with people like that. Paul tells Timothy to avoid them. We’re supposed to mix it up with nonbelievers, but we aren’t supposed to mix it up with fake religious people. It’s healthy to draw a relational boundary there.

9. Fake religious teachers will creep into communities and allure weak people and lead them astray, filling them with teaching that never leads to truth.

We see this happen daily, but it’s good to know that Paul told us it was part of this journey. It doesn’t surprise God that this is happening. It shouldn’t surprise us.

10. If you’re going to stand up against fake religion and actually love Jesus, expect to have a really hard time of this life. This is a war, after all. You face unseen forces that despise you and your calling.

Paul says, “Indeed, all who desire to live a godly life in Christ Jesus will be persecuted, while evil people and imposters will go on from bad to worse, deceiving and being deceived.”

This is the weather forecast for your faith.

“For the time is coming when people will not endure sound teaching, but having itching ears they will accumulate for themselves teachers to suit their own passions, and will turn away from listening to the truth and wander off into myths.”

Great religious movements will find earthly pastors who are willing to betray the true gospel for the sake of supporting their own pet causes. Religious organizations will look for preachers who are willing to bend the truth for worldly goals. Sound familiar?

When that happens, we aren’t supposed to be shocked, sulk, and give up. Paul told us ahead of time that this would happen.

We are to endure suffering.
We are to keep doing the work of an evangelist.
We are to keep putting one foot in front of the other and fulfill the ministry we’ve been given.

11. As we focus, we will begin to live with a different values system.

It’s fascinating to see how Paul learns to perceive the world. Note how he assesses his condition.

While Paul sits cold and suffering in prison, he claims he was rescued from the lion’s mouth. As Paul tells Timothy that he thinks he will die in this prison, he rejoices that the Lord will rescue him. Rescue from what? From pain? No. Rescue from every evil deed so that he can safely enter heaven.

His safety isn’t earthy. His rescue isn’t earthly. His rescue is the gift of integrity--faith to endure difficulty so that his worship can be pure as he passes on to the next world.

I needed this epistle today. I needed the reminder to constantly transpose the stuff of earth into the currency of eternity. I needed to be reminded that it’s supposed to be hard here sometimes, supposed to be lonely, supposed to be a bad fit. I needed the phrase, “I know whom I have believed, and I am convinced that he is able to guard until that day what has been entrusted to me.”

I needed the reminder to treasure and pray for those souls God will call to eternity as a result of the way I live my life here.

P.S. If you’ve never studied this book of the Bible, this video from The Bible Project is worth your time.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=urlvnxCaL00

The Smell of a Dead Monk

Father Zossima is the kind old monk in Dostoevsky’s The Brother’s Karamazov.  He’s similar to Bishop Myriel in Les Mis, an otherworldly sage who has learned to live out the gospel in a radical way.

Father Zossima is also the beloved spiritual mentor of Alyosha, the hero of the novel and the youngest of the three Karamazov brothers.  Aloysha is only twenty, and he’s a novice in the local monastery, so he trusts Father Zossima wholeheartedly, agreeing to follow whatever instruction the old man gives. Because Aloysha’s biological father has been distant for most of his  life, it’s easy to see why this young man gravitates toward kindly, paternal affection.

Father Zossima is also a local celebrity, known for spiritual access to healing and prophecy. It’s widely suspected that the old man will be sainted when he dies, so when his earthly life finally draws to a close, the townspeople grow to a frenzy. Expecting miracles, they bring family members who need healing to his coffin.

Yet at this critical moment in the novel, something terrible and unexpected happens—something which shakes Alyosha’s faith. Father Zossima’s body begins to decay.

At the time, tradition taught that a true saint’s body wouldn’t decompose—that it would even release a perfumed sweetness into the air. Yet within hours—even sooner than most—the scent of real, human death fills the room.

Several monks who had been jealous of Zossima’s fame and admiration seized this opportunity to mock and deride him. Soon, their whispers grew to open verbal hostility, and finally a hateful monk enters the mourning room to lambast the dead father as a false teacher.

Alyosha’s naïve young heart breaks.

He had not only loved the old man, he had lived inside a bubble of spiritual idealism, believing a string of religious fairy tales. When reality didn’t match his expectations, Alyosha was spiritually undone, overcome with doubt, devastated that all had not gone as he expected.

I read this section of Karamazov after midnight last night. I read because I couldn’t sleep because I was worrying. Though God tells us not to fear, I was afraid.

Beside me, my husband groaned in his sleep. He hurt his back pretty badly yesterday, and of all the times that injury could have happened to our family, this is one of the worst. Yesterday was our first day of switching to a new insurance with a new deductible, and after several nervous hours of Googling bulging and ruptured discs, I was trying to decide whether he needed an MRI.

For some of you, hits like this never seem to stop. There’s always one more kink in the happily ever after.

Even if you’ve never believed in the prosperity gospel, the theological promises of movies like Facing the Giants get into our bones. In the back of our hearts, we still expect faithful resignation to be blessed in visible ways. The follower of Jesus will coach the team to winning the championship, snag the new pickup truck, get the baby, and look at last around at his mortal life and find that all is well.

Some stories of faith certainly look like this, but in others, the blessings of God may smell more like a dead monk. That’s because God knows what each of his followers needs (truly needs), and his love allows different challenges for different Christians. He knows that coming face-to-face with deep disappointment can be critical to the maturity of faith.

As Alyosha comes to terms with the smell of death in his mentor, he faces,  “a crisis and turning-point in his spiritual development, giving a shock to his intellect.” Perhaps you’ve lived out a similar shock—perhaps you know what questions rise when we realize that God’s behavior does not fit into the tiny boxes we have made to hold Him. These moments of reorientation may be painful and bitter, and we may weep for days when we face them. But like Alyosha, they can also grow us up.

By his deepest disappointment, by this brutal blow to the crux of his security and idealism, Alyosha faith was strengthened. Because of the pain of a lost ideal, his belief was given a "definite aim.”

As I prayed this morning, I felt the onslaught of challenges facing our family. I prayed for direction. I prayed for sustenance and for miracles. I also prayed for the ability to worship God in rooms that reek of death.

On June 8, a team of scientists from Oxford published research addressing the Fermi paradox, the gap between our expectation that life exists somewhere in the universe and our inability to find it. This study concludes that we cannot find extraterrestrial life because it doesn’t exist.

Since I haven’t seen the Bible specifically negate the possibility of alien life, this has never been a major theological battlefield for me. I’ve always trusted that an infinite God could have simultaneous narratives running in different solar systems (or even in different dimensions). I’ve supposed that if he did have something like that going on, all narratives would one day fold together into a lovely story he knows we can’t comprehend with tiny mortal minds.

I haven’t obsessed about it, of course; I haven’t actively believed that life did exist elsewhere. I’ve just held the possibility loosely. I’ve let what God left unsaid remain mysterious.

So, it was strange to read the Oxford study and consider the thought that humans might actually be alone in the universe. I stopped to really think about that--we could be the only beings anywhere with souls. In all of this everything that goes on seemingly forever, our capacity for worship could be unique.

Maybe this won't hit you like it hits me--astronomy and I have kind of a "thing" going, and we have for a while. It’s more of a romance than an academic passion. I’m one of those weirdos who cries real tears when NASA releases new pics of Jupiter and Pluto. Star nebulae give me goose bumps. As a baby, my first sentence was, “The moon is in the sky, Mr. Hall.”

I have felt reverent awe for God’s artistry in the heavens every since I can remember, a sense of being pressed down to my knees by the all-I-am-not, a compression like gravity. The created order is so beautiful, so extravagant... I’m tempted to use the word “magical.”

Without that Oxford study, assuming that we could possibly be alone in all of this feels audacious. History has slapped the hand of the small-minded church too many times. My faith is post Copernicus, post Galileo—I don’t have geocentric impulses.

And yet, here is science telling me that we could be alone.

I wasn't expecting to be taken so seriously by my Creator.

What if He really did make all of this--the dimension of time--the capacity for sentience--the ability to praise--all poured into a handful of creatures placed on one tiny, tumbling rock? What if our hymns are the only hymns besides those songs the angels sing?

The circumstances which seem so grave to me--the challenges that make my belly quiver and my knees shake--readjust in light of this possibility.

My pain and fear are portals in all of space and time, and even when I face the smell of the decomposition of my theological fairy tales, I still stand before the God who was, and who is, and who always will be.

Here in the silence of the created order, I can speak trust to Him. I can yield to Him. Among all the cold rocks and the fiery gasses of all of creation, I have been given the capacity to hold my arms wide before all his mysteries and confess:

I did not see you lay the foundation of the earth.
I did not determine its measurements.
I do not know how its bases were sunk,
or who laid its cornerstone,
when the morning stars sang together
and all the sons of God shouted for joy.

I did not see you shut in the sea with doors
when it burst out from the womb,
I was not there when you made clouds its garment
and thick darkness its swaddling band,
and prescribed limits for it
and set bars and doors,
saying “Thus far shall you come, and no farther,
and here shall your proud waves be stayed.”

I have never commanded the morning since my days began,
or caused the dawn to know its place.
I have never changed its surfaces
l like clay under the seal,
or dressed the earth like a garment.

I have never entered into the springs of the sea,
or walked in the recesses of the deep.
I have never seen the gates of death or the gates of deep darkness.
I cannot comprehend the expanse of the earth.

Only by your hand, do I know the way to the dwelling of light,
because you are the Light of the World,
and amid all of the lesser lights of all You have made,
you, Great Light, have come to give light to me.

While a soulless Jupiter storms, while distant stars implode, while the red dust of Mars holds low in a lifeless hush, while no-man of the moon paints every grass tip silver, I can recline upon Jesus.

No matter what happens in my life, He is worthy. Though the good, dead monk reeks, Christ remains a center which cannot be shaken. And He has given me a voice that is able to praise Him. Thanks be to God.

The Sentence I Thought I'd Never Write

Yesterday, our minister delivered his last sermon.

Joe and his wife have been in church ministry for over 40 years, and the sweetness of two lives well spent filled the sanctuary with gratitude as this beloved couple urged us onward in love. I felt the eternal heft of their service. And somehow, it felt like the passing of a baton.

As I sat there, I scribbled out a confession. “I miss being a pastor’s wife.”

This was a big deal for me—a sentence I thought I would never write.

I suppose the ache was similar to the ache a former dancer must feel in her legs while watching a ballet, similar to the ache a retired musician must feel in his fingers while sitting in the audience during a brilliant symphony. That ache feels like, “Oh, there I am! That is who I am! But I am not that now.”

I ran to the Methodist church five years ago, after a hard breakdown in our last church. My denominational choice didn’t make much sense to some of my friends. They know Methodism through stories that hit the news—struggles over sticky cultural issues that will probably divide the denomination soon.

However, I don’t just know Methodism from the news. I know it from the inside.

While my husband was in seminary at Dallas Theological, he worked in a small town Methodist church. This baffled fellow students at DTS as well as some Methodists in our local conference.  On paper, certain differences seemed difficult to reconcile. Yet in practice, the blend was easy. In that congregation, we found older believers who knew their Bibles back and forth, people who were deeply committed to its truth and beauty. These gentle souls knew the Bible better than some seminary students, they trusted it, and they taught it with accuracy and passion in little groups of Sunday School classes.

We found Wesleyan hymns, rich and full of awe for the Living God. These weren’t just feel-good, Jesus-is-my-boyfriend songs. They made a person think. They cleared the fog of the world away from the soul and carried it to a place of reverence and trust.

We found dozens and dozens of good, kind people, accustomed to turning Sunday morning sermons into real-life service in the community. These church members didn’t serve as if service were shocking—they served as if it were the most natural thing in the world to let God’s love for the individual move outward into love for a lost world.

They rushed to care for the poor, the uninsured, children of working single mothers. They found ways to provide affordable clothes and food for those in need. They created venues for dignified help, and they didn’t do that condescendingly but giddy as children.

After my husband graduated from seminary, we went on to plant one of the theologically-accurate, culturally-accurate, new-and-improved non-denom churches that promised to save America in the early 2000’s.  We did strategic planning, and small groups, and relevant guitar songs, and there’s nothing inherently wrong with any of that.  But there was something wrong with how we did the right things. We trusted in methods and our own strength too much. As two first-born children, we tried to carry weight that only God can carry.

After ten years, we burned out, and our church hit the skids. In great pain, I ran to the oldest Methodist congregation in our town and sank exhausted into a creaky wooden pew.

I ran to the Methodist church because I knew how Methodists love. I knew they wouldn’t hyper-analyze, wouldn’t critique, wouldn’t shuffle me into the next new trend that promised to fix whatever was wrong with the last new trend.

The PCA folks might be more accurate. The Baptists might be more passionate about evangelism. The non-denoms might be more culturally-relevant. The Anglicans might be more gritty and thinky. I love those denominations and knew that I could fit (at least partially) in any of them. But I was wounded and needed a hospital.

Like so many conservative evangelicals, I’d cracked jokes about the Methodist slogan, “Open Hearts. Open Minds. Open Doors.” Yeah, it’s kind of cringe-worthy; how much more wishy-washy PC can you get? Nonetheless, experience had taught me the real-life safety that exists behind that slogan. I knew how Methodist hearts work. I knew I wouldn’t need to perform as a pastor’s wife. I knew I could be a broken soul needing spiritual help.

And you know, I wasn’t met with feel-good, wishy-washy theology.

I was met with liturgy, and by it, I was reminded that I was a part of ancient rhythms of worship that could not be thwarted by the mistakes of 250 people.

I was met with the sights and sounds of grey-haired believers reciting the creeds, walking through the seasons of the calendar. This was a parental comfort to me—something you (surprisingly) still need at 41 years old.

I was met with the operations of a church that expects to reach out into the world with compassion and service, a flurry of lay ministries providing dignified assistance to the broken. Free haircuts. Cheap appliances. A place for the homeless to sleep for the week. Breakfast for the hungry. And people offered these gifts with laughter and gratitude, not jumping through hoops or attempting to catch the next, new wave of strategic evangelism. They gave because God’s people overflow.

I shook off the heavy leadership demands I had been carrying and melted into a congregation. Like a surgeon who suddenly finds himself in need of surgery, I was shown how it feels to be a congregant in need of care. For five years, I’ve absorbed. I haven’t led. I’ve blended into the background. I’ve watched, and I’ve let my vision be restored.

In all of this, I’ve learned that the church keeps going without me.  I can’t tell you how powerful that realization is to a first-born kid who feels like it’s her responsibility to carry the entire world. Jesus told us that the gates of hell wouldn’t prevail against his church, and I’ve had a little glimpse of that as an observer.  I’ve learned that the church isn’t about how much I can carry—a lesson that has stripped away my pride.

In non-denominational world, we were sometimes misled by training that used corporate terms and methodology to try to direct the church of Jesus. “Directional Leader” ministry models elevated alpha-charismatic, CEO personalities and created a pecking-order of importance in the body. How evangelicals talk about our churches shows how deeply we’ve fallen into this trap. Megachurches are usually mentioned by the lead pastor’s name, right? We don’t call it “The Wellspring,” we call it “Reverend Whatever’s” Church.

Yet, Paul compared members of a church to parts of a human body because we all need one another. In the Methodist church, I’ve seen that symbiosis in such a healthy way—a multi-gear machine in which the minister is embraced as a teaching shepherd while the members work hard to fulfill their roles. It’s been humbling and beautiful to watch, and it’s given me a clearer vision for how I would want to engage if we ever entered ministry again.

If you’ve seen the documentary Godspeed, you know how much an American pastor learned when he stepped out of the incorporated flurry of U.S. ministry into the community of a tiny parish in Scotland. This is the sort of fellowship I’ve found in small-town Methodism. It might not be trendy. It might be fodder for Babylon Bee’s next condescending Calvinist crack. But in real time, among real people, it’s been beautiful.

Yesterday, as I watched my pastor and his wife say their goodbyes before passing into retirement, I felt a squeeze in my heart that felt like a commission. I choked back tears as I realized how much I miss being a pastor’s wife—not those parts I did badly out of fear and strain—but I do miss the Spirit-led, maternal role of welcoming wandering souls.

Five years ago, I swore I would never, ever be a pastor’s wife again. But I’ve seen a lot since then. I’ve learned a lot about myself, and I’ve learned a lot about the church.

Toward the end of the second section of Beowulf, Hrothgar (king of the Spear-Danes) blesses the young Geat warrior before he returns home. Hrothgar has become a sort of father-figure to the young warrior, and he speaks words of wisdom and commission over the young man.

Hrothgar warns Beowulf that it’s easy for young leaders to get caught up in the strength of their own arms, but that a wound will come which sobers a man and shows him the end of himself. With this wound, the honor and possessions collected over a lifetime will suddenly hold no value, and all a man has strained to collect will pass on to another who will let a life’s worth of effort fall through his fingertips. It’s the Ecclesiastes of ancient literature, a confession that “all is vanity.”

But Hrothgar also urges Beowulf to strain for what cannot be lost.

”O flower of warriors,” says Hrothgar, “beware of that trap.
Choose, dear Beowulf, the better part,
eternal rewards. Do not give way to pride.”*

Listening to our pastor retire after 40 years of leadership reminded me of that scene. The strings of my heart were plucked, and (after a long, much-needed rest), I felt ready at last to head back into battle. From the balcony (where I hide almost every week), I gave Pastor Joe a spontaneous “thumb’s up.” I didn’t expect him to see it, but as he spoke, he gave me a “thumb’s up” back, and he smiled.

“Okay, God,” I said. “But if that’s what you have for us, I won’t fight the same way I fought last time. This time, I’m going to let you carry me.”

*© 2000 by Seamus Heaney. Used with permission of W. W. Norton & Company.

A Dangerous, Beautiful Prayer

About fifteen years ago, I got sort of obsessive about the song “One Pure and Holy Passion.”

At the time, my life was pretty easy. My husband was a pastor of a church that paid enough that I could stay at home with our kids. I was just over thirty, strong, and young. My parents were healthy. My kids were smart and sweet. I had time to invest in people and to home school.

But as I listened to that song, I kept wondering what it would be like for God to become a singular focus of a person’s life. I loved the idea of loving Him more than anything, and I asked Him to help me find that kind of love.

After this prayer, my life slowly started to shift.

First, serious relational breakdowns began to hit at the church. I don’t think this would surprise me now, but because I was young and naïve, I had trouble believing that such bad things could happen in the body of Christ.

Our marriage began to creak and groan under the strain of church complications. My husband was feeling a lot of pressure from the elders, so he went inward emotionally. I pushed too hard because his distance scared me, making things worse. We fought some, but mostly we found ways to survive the practical partnership—always hoping things would just get better eventually.

Those relational issues at the church turned into domino chain of consequences. In a congregation of about 250, relationships intersect, and discord spreads. Like a wildfire that smolders and reignites, it seemed like peace was impossible to keep.

My kids started to feel the strain. Church is hard for a preacher’s kids.

Since this is a public blog, I can’t tell you everything that happened inside of my family over the next few years. The story isn’t just mine, and I want to respect the privacy of people I love. I will tell you this. One at a time, the Lord has allowed most of the foundational, earthly aspects of my life to be shaken or destroyed.

My marriage.
My parenting.
My financial security.
My physical home.
My church home.
My political party.
My physical body.
My personal identity.
My sense of dignity.

Sometimes it’s hard for me to look around in Christian business world and see so many shallow people thriving. At least in my part of the country, it seems like real character matters less to the church than flamboyance, networking, and a country club social posture. And since we have been stripped of so many earthly comforts, it’s tempting to look at the machine of what seems to “work” and feel cynical.

But then I remember that prayer I prayed so earnestly 15 years ago. I asked God to give me a single passion, a holy passion, to love Him and his glory above anything on this earth.

I don’t see how he could have answered that prayer without breaking down my lesser allegiances.

It’s really, really hard to see comprehensive brokenness as a gift. Living inside it, that sort of demolition can feel more like you’re being scorned by God instead of that you’re being given an opportunity by Him. But then I remember how Paul’s ministry passed through a stage of depression so deep that he didn’t even want to live. When describing that brokenness, he wrote, “For we do not want you to be unaware, brothers, of the affliction we experienced in Asia. For we were so utterly burdened beyond our strength that we despaired of life itself” (II Corinthians 1:8).

God let the main leader of the Gentile church hurt so badly, be afflicted so deeply, that he wanted to die.

But God was also intentional about this brokenness. He didn’t just allow Paul to hurt, he intended that pain for a specific purpose.

Paul says: “Indeed, we felt that we had received the sentence of death. But that was to make us rely not on ourselves but on God who raises the dead” (II Corinthians 1:9).

It would take a lot to break someone like Paul that deeply. He was a tough cookie, smart, capable, and chosen to meet God by a blinding light like none that anybody else in the history of humankind had experienced. But after that light, God allowed darkness, suffering, even despair. He had to let Paul be demolished deeply enough that he would learn to rely on God and not himself.

For fierce, bright, or capable people, this sort of obliteration has to be intense, or it won't accomplish the goal. When light trouble comes, strong people just switch gears—turning from one of their strengths to another one of their strengths.

You have to get to the very last strength, and then see that this strength is still not enough, to believe that you’re dead in the water. You cannot, cannot, cannot learn that God raises the dead until you’ve been slain.

Recently, God has provided another opportunity for our family to learn this. I thought we had reached bottom several years ago. Now I see there was more self effort and self righteousness that God needed to remove before we could walk in utter reliance.

It’s hard to be grateful for this opportunity right now.

And yet, Paul wrote "...I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content. I know how to be brought low, and I know how to abound. In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and need. I can do all things through him who strengthens me.”

I used to read those verses from a secure, young, educated, American position. I see them so differently now.

“I have learned," Paul wrote. Time inside of pain is involved here, not just intellectual knowledge. This is more like learning that comes from riding a bike. The only way to learn this stuff is in flesh, while being uncomfortable. And to really learn the lesson, almost everything secure has to be removed.

“The secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and need,” he said.  There’s a secret to being stripped bare. Something solid that lingers when your body and soul are hurting.

“Through him who strengthens me.” How could we ever know that God is strengthening us if we have strength of our own left to use?

God is still answering the prayer I prayed fifteen years ago. He trusted me when I told him that I wanted Him more than anything in this world—that I wanted Him as my deepest passion. Have I learned contentment in all things yet? Not really. My body, my soul, and my emotions want the aftershocks to stop.

And yet, there is also a tiny flicker in my spirit that says, “If this is what it takes for me to really learn Him who strengthens me, it’s worth it.”

Because during this life, we learn lessons that transpose into an eternal currency.  We are being prepared for the fullness of a kingdom that runs on different sorts of values--a kingdom where the last shall be first, and the first shall be last.

In this kingdom, the American church is going to be jolted awake. The country club values, the CEO values, the earthly power and influence we have sought--all that will blow away like dust in the wind.

In that culture, only what was done in the Spirit will remain.

Charisma will mean nothing. EQ will mean nothing. Beauty will mean nothing. Political connections will mean nothing.

But those weak and broken ragamuffins who have met the end of themselves a thousand times, those who have been slain and resurrected, will find themselves inside of a familiar economy.

"Give me one pure and holy passion. To know and follow hard after you."

That’s not as easy to pray these days because I know God will grant it.  But also, so much has already been torn away, I don’t want to hold anything back. We’ve come too far.

Life here is short, and eternity is long.

http://www.thistleandtoad.com/wwwthistleandtoadcom/writings/2018/6/23/a-dangerous-beautiful-prayer

The God Who Hides

When Average Dude tells you that something can be proven “true,” he’s usually making a pretty simple statement. He's saying that either

(1.) his physical senses can validate a proposition (i.e. “I know that stove is hot! I touched it!”)

(2.) that logic can support his conclusion (i.e. “There is no largest whole number.”)

When Philosophy Jane claims that something is true, she often has a formal theory of truth in mind. Maybe she's a proponent of The Coherence Theory of Truth, The Correspondence Theory of Truth, or the Pragmatic Theory of Truth--you can read more about these on The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy.

But whether we are Average Dude or Philosophy Jane, most of us have some sort of truth theory which (intuitively or intentionally) moves us through daily life. And while it's normal and human for Christians to adopt these tools day-in-day-out, I think it's sad when we transfer the whole of our trust to them while attempting to regain cultural power.  

Quite a few training seminars promise to protect faith in Christ from godless, liberal progressives by hours of rational, logical, and philosophical arguments. These videos promise to clear away the fog and leave an undeniable gospel which can permeate the most stubborn secularism. Yet we seem to have forgotten that the Bible tells us truth cannot be obtained by such means alone.

WHAT DOES THE BIBLE SAY ABOUT TRUTH?

As someone who teaches Western philosophy, I spend several months every year walking through human attempts to nail down truth. I lead my students through the best attempts of Plato, Aristotle, Descartes, Hume, Hegel, the Marxists, the existentialists—and in doing so, I show them how the most learned individuals of civilization have spun their wheels in mud, looking for some way to prove reality.

At the end of this futility, it’s always so refreshing (and a bit funny somehow) to come back to what the Lord has said about the process of validation.

1. First off, God told us that reality isn’t limited to the physical.

He told us that reality is dual, comprised of a seen realm as well as an unseen realm. Theoretical physicists toy with this concept as they play with string theory and computer simulation theories; sci-fi writers and horror writers build plots around the metaphysical world; but thousands of years ago, God taught us that any material theory of the universe would be insufficient.

Hebrews 11:3 explains that the “word of God” was so powerful that it was able to form “what is seen” out of things that are invisible.  And II Kings 6:17 (one of my favorite verses in the whole Bible) shows us what happens when God peels away the visible world to let Elisha’s servant see the truer reality of hills full of horses and chariots of fire.

Even if I weren't a Christian, I would find it audacious to believe that the sum total of reality might be limited to mortal perception and cognitive processes. It's pompous and silly to assume that a little animal ball of cells, bones, and blood might have the gift of ultimate perception. When God shows us that reality transcends human perception of reality, he indicates what I think even a rudimentary imagination should assume about the universe.

2. Secondly, God tells us that truth can’t be obtained simply by human effort.

God has put up strong barricades between ultimate truth and human ability to find it. Is this suggestion maddening for the secularist? Of course. "How dare he! It's not ethical!" he shouts.

Yet, no matter how hard the mind searches, God will hide certain realities from hearts that are stubborn, proud, and defiant. The door of truth is locked against certain types of searches. It will not open until the posture of the seeker changes.

A post-Enlightenment culture that trusts deeply in the power of the mortal mind cannot stomach such news. Isn't a holy Divinity obliged to create reality accessible through the force of human strength? Of course not. A holy Divinity would have the ability to perceive deeply enough to judge justly--the ability to permeate the deep recesses of a soul's posture and call a spade a spade.

This God sees us thoroughly, and this means no accusation against his judgment will stand. Because he is the fullness of Truth, he will be able to dissect every attempt at defense with surgical precision.

If we have spent our lives claiming to disbelieve because of a lack of historical or logical evidence while deep down, we have disbelieved because we are stubborn and indulgent, He will know. All shields will go down. All smokescreens will disappear. We will be bare with all of our truest motives before a God who sees everything.

This is why “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom...” Proverbs 9:10 a. Instead of a Cartesian starting point like “cogito ergo sum,” the foundation of all wisdom reduces to a posture of reverence. How we stand determines what we can know.

If we are defiant and haughty, we will not know ultimate truth no matter how smart we are. Inside of this dual reality, God has intentionally hidden himself from the proud. His “judgments are unsearchable, and his ways are untraceable.”

3. Thirdly, God tells us directly that he didn’t create a pathway to Truth through logic (rationalism) or sensory validation (empiricism) but through a living Being.

When Jesus said, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me,” he wasn’t just offering a religious dictum. He was consolidating every epistemological claim that the Bible makes, Genesis to Revelation.

Jesus isn’t just a proposition to be proven by coherence, correspondence, or pragmatism. He is the burning core of Truth—which means that all lesser truths (including all methods to finding truth) derive from him. 

IMPLICATIONS

I understand why Christians are nervous about losing cultural power, and as I watch us grasping for a means to regain influence, I feel a measure of empathy. However, even when fear bangs around in our hearts, we must stay grounded in what God has told us about how truth works instead of rushing desperately to bow before the epistemological idols of our time.

We’ve been given radical access to the Living Truth—a truth Jesus told us was intentionally hidden from the wise and understanding but revealed to those who stand in the posture of children. If God locks truth against the proud, our most fevered intellectual arguments can accomplish nothing.  We can strain and argue to our last breath, but the work of heaven cannot be accomplished by the flesh of man.

We can be ready to give an account to the curious. We can answer questions about historicity and systematic theology. We can offer an apologetic that resonates with rationalism and empiricism.  But ultimately, God’s work in our culture is dependent upon the Holy Spirit who searches the souls of men.

As we all jumped into the Yanny/Laurel debate this past week, we saw how two truths can sit superimposed upon one another. What we perceive depends on the frequency to which our ears are tuned.

There’s a spiritual correlation here. Two different souls walking in two different postures can hear the same gospel. One can hear foolishness. The other can recognize Truth. This is the universe God has given us.

We mustn’t attempt to flatten this duality because God has allowed it for a reason. God is an intentional creator, and there’s a divine purpose in a gospel that is “foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved"... "the power of God.”

Straining against this dynamic is straining against the sovereignty of God. Whatever his will is for the church, it exists within this very tension.

The Wisdom of a God Who Forbids Leaders Who Love Money

Sometimes I wonder if we fight so hard for the literality of Genesis 1 and 2 because those chapters ask so little from our daily lives. Whether the “yom” of Genesis was a 24-hour period or an extended season—whether the “aphar” was literal dust or some sort of material entity into which the imago Dei was breathed—we can still walk away from these passages challenged to change very little about how we operate day in and day out.

Both Old Earth Creationism and Young Earth Creationism mandate that God is all-powerful and sovereign. Both Old Earth Creationism and Young Earth Creationism mandate that the Bible is inerrant and trustworthy. Despite the claim of certain modern apologists--that a six/twenty-four model of creation is pivotal for the validity of Christendom--in practical reality, the issue has made little to no impact on discipleship or evangelism over the past few decades.

Despite the nervous twittering of YEC’s, Tim Keller (theistic evolutionist) has fought boldly for the inerrancy of Scripture and the glory of God. By every analytical means, his ministry has greatly outpaced the efforts of Ken Ham. While Ham has nitpicked and fussed, warning us sternly that Old Earth Creationism is destined to undermine the Bible--Keller has moved forward in faith, utilizing his background in philosophy, history, and reformed theology to help thousands embrace a complex and glorious God.

Watching this struggle has left me exasperated. Why are masses of Christians so willing to follow fear? Why are they so eager to major on the minors? Why do we believe leaders who create multi-million dollar empires by corralling us into seminars in which we lambast straw men? Why are believers are notorious for abandoning responsible methods of literary criticism, cherry picking verses that support their biases?

And why am I also so eager to do this. Why am I so quick to cite verses that emphasize my own values and so slow to rehearse passages that challenge the sins I would rather protect?

This morning, I was thinking about a command that is particularly embedded in modern, Western Christianity. This command appears in I Timothy 3:3, in the midst of a section describing qualities necessary for church leaders. The prohibition is clear--men who love money are forbidden from participating in Christian leadership.

Let the shock of that settle into your bones. In a list of warnings about the sexually immoral, the drunkard, and the violent--the man who simply enjoys having a lot of money is presented as equally dangerous to the church.

Does it feel like that prohibition is out of place to you? Can loving wealth really be as big of a threat as substance abuse, perversion, or physical aggression? Loving money is funny. It’s as neutral and as prevalent as gluttony. Pastors who would never make jokes about homosexuality get a weekly guffaw from cracks about overeating at the potluck and wanting new car or a raise.

If God said these things were sins, we disagree with him. We know what’s REALLY wrong, and loving the dollar isn’t on that list.

I grew up inside of an evangelicalism that had hard and fast ties to cultural power and wealth. For years, I loved Samaritan’s Purse without being bothered that Franklin Graham receives nearly a million dollars salary a year. I assumed he was doing something good with this money—money gleaned (at least in part) from the donations of little old ladies on limited incomes. It did catch my heart, however, when Graham began praising a President who has bragged “I am very greedy,” and “My whole life I’ve been greedy, greedy, greedy, ... "I’ve grabbed all the money I could get.”

Trump is a state leader, not a leader of a church. Hasn’t every Christian Trump fan repeated over and again, “We don’t need a Sunday School teacher; we need a President.” But watching Graham praise Trump’s character, even as Trump flaunted greed, has helped me realize how willing the modern church has been to abandon an aspect of leadership that God put in place because he was a wise and loving father.

If we fiercely defend the inerrancy of Genesis 1-2 but are comfortable reworking the “love of money” command, maybe we should ask ourselves which requires more of our daily lives. Which truth would cost us? Which truth would radically change the current dynamics of our Christian organizations?

As you look at the leadership teams presently driving your churches and mission organizations, do you see men who have clearly forfeited the love of money? Or do you see leaders from the community who can also check the “Christian” box—men who have a proven track record for fiscal success—elevated to positions of spiritual leadership? Is the trust of your organization embedded in the horses and chariots of men who are connected and successful, or do you see men who are committed above all lesser gods to the kingdom of God?

Because how we feel about money is so integral to our faith, the trajectory of your organization, in large part, depends on the answer to these questions.

“But we can’t judge other people’s hearts!” we cry. Actually, the Scripture clearly asks us to judge others in this way--asking us to find, identify, and evaluate greedy hearts, preventing them from taking leadership positions in the church.

Why would God ask us to do this? I think he knows what a love of money entails. A few aspects of this sort of idolatry are listed below.

1. The deformity of personal identity.

Most of us have something that tempts us to abandon our worth in Christ alone. We might be tall, smart, articulate, winsome, or gifted. Money isn’t the only threat here. But a love of money is particularly disorienting because most people respect wealth. Jesus told us that it would be harder for a camel to go through a needle’s eye than for the rich man to inherent the Kingdom of God because he knew how difficult it would be for someone who had access to external validation to depend wholly and continually upon the sufficiency of the gospel. While it’s easy enough for most of us to agree cognitively with Christ’s substitutionary atonement, carrying that cerebral agreement into pragmatics of daily life is not just difficult--but impossible--for those who worship money.

2. The deformity of wealth-based biases.

This tendency is ugly, and especially in a culture of PC police, most groups of comfortable white people don’t like to admit that we have biases of any sort. However, those who love wealth almost always find it tempting to categorize and dismiss marginalized groups of people instead of respecting the imago Dei in humanity as a whole. This isn’t an issue of conforming to a liberal ideology--it’s a theological shortcoming. A wealthy man who makes a dismissive joke about Mexicans, women, or immigrants is defying God’s respect for all humans, substituting his own values of money instead.

3. The deformity of limited exposure.

This seems counter-intuitive, but there are certain aspects of wisdom that can only be gained from lower-income leaders. Until you’ve struggled financially for many years, you cannot understand fully what faith in Jesus means. Just like there is wisdom people only learn from suffering from intense health or relational problems, poverty is a classroom that brings a depth of insight and awareness that a high income can never produce.

And no, those few short years of young adulthood when everybody is dirt poor don’t count. Being twenty-two and living on mac-and-cheese in a ratty apartment is not the same as being forty-five and wondering how you are going to take care of your teenage children. There is zero equivocation there, and the fact that so many wealthy folks reference those early years as proof that they “understand” financial hardship is actually evidence that they don’t.

4. The deformity of vision.

Men who love money will gravitate toward solutions that promise financial security. When a vision statement is chosen, when staff hires are made, when policies are created or enforced, men who harbor a deep love of the dollar will naturally be divided in their loyalties. They will feel most comfortable with the path that makes the most sense financially—and they will interpret that comfort as guidance from the Holy Spirit. God knew this when he warned us about this sort of sin. He knew that we would sometimes miss his true calling because we would be wrapped up in trying to sanctify temporal values instead.

I think the body needs a mix of leadership. We need wealthy leaders who have learned to hold wealth loosely in faith because this is a mark of deep maturity, indeed. We also need poor leaders who have learned to walk in faith with little to no resources. We need the humility to listen to one another and to hold the commodities of eternity in their proper bearings.

We also need to remember that God was just as intentional about practical New Testament commands that shake up our present organizations as he was about the narratives of Genesis 1-2, the Ten Commandments, or any other element of the inerrant Word. We cannot claim to be committed to the Bible as a whole if we are unwilling to embrace its most pragmatic instruction.

I love this section of the book of James, and I find that I am often guilty of committing the offense named here. It’s a plumb line. It’s a lodestar. It’s a call to a sort of holiness that is not of this world.

“My brothers, show no partiality as you hold the faith in our Lord Jesus Christ, the Lord of glory. For if a man wearing a gold ring and fine clothing comes into your assembly, and a poor man in shabby clothing also comes in, and if you pay attention to the one who wears the fine clothing and say, “You sit here in a good place,” while you say to the poor man, “You stand over there,” or, “Sit down at my feet,” have you not then made distinctions among yourselves and become judges with evil thoughts? Listen, my beloved brothers, has not God chosen those who are poor in the world to be rich in faith and heirs of the kingdom, which he has promised to those who love him? But you have dishonored the poor man.”

...” ... “But if you show partiality, you are committing sin and are convicted by the law as transgressors. “

Our Two Levels of Suffering

1. MATERIAL SUFFERING

Deep suffering occurs at two levels. The first is sort of animalistic—material human encountering material threat. It's the biochemistry inside us, the process of hormone generation that allows our bodies and minds to respond to a stimulus.

When something (or someone) we love is endangered, our hearts pound with feelings of loss, dread, or sorrow. Our minds race through both the past and the future. We are filled with regret for what we might have done differently, and we are filled with dread, imagining the worst-case scenarios that may befall us. Here at the material level, we react. We cry out in agony. We react in anger. We eat too much or nothing at all. We sink into depression.

ANIMAL EMOTIONS IN ANIMALS
Scientists disagree about the emotions of non-human animals, debating quality and capacity for "feeling" and whether chemical changes in the body initiate or result from a stimulus (or both).  Higher-level, intelligent animals (like a golden retriever or an elephant) seem to be more conscious of the results of chemical changes—actively demonstrating signs of sorrow or joy, while lower-level animals (like a flinching sea anemone) seem to have more instinctive reactions to danger.

Some Christians disagree with me on this, but as a dog lover who has spent decades in very close company with her pets, I believe that at least at some level, intelligent creatures are capable of feeling.  (By the way, check out Numbers 22:27-30 if you want to see a Biblical example of an animal being allowed to express sorrow over injustice.)

ANIMAL EMOTIONS IN HOMO SAPIENS
Because humans are more intelligent than other beings, our material capacity for suffering is complex. We don’t just fight or flight, we process and strategize. We experience surges of hormones, and flutters of feeling, and waves of agony. We reflect and react in a thousand different ways.

2. SPIRITUAL SUFFERING

But there’s also a spiritual realm in which suffering occurs, and I don’t believe non-human animals are capable of this sort of pain. Spiritual pain requires the imago-Dei--a godlike capacity for metaphysical (beyond the physical) awareness. Of all the animals, humans alone were given this ability during the separation of Adam and Eve from the rest of creation.

THE UNIQUE PAIN HUMANS FEEL: THE UNIQUE COMPLAINTS HUMANS MAKE
No matter what you believe about the nature of the narrative given to us in Genesis 1 and 2—no matter what you believe about theistic or literal evolution—I think it’s evident that humans are the only animals capable of carrying suffering beyond the physical realm, all the way to the throne of God.  

Apart from Romans 8:19-22 (which describes the general frustration of creation, longing for the healing of earth), I can’t think of an instance in which an animal brings grief to the Almighty. The ability to enter the intimate, invisible realm--that burning room in which we take our pain back to God--seems to be distinctively human.

It’s fascinating to see how the Bible handles this ability. So many times, atheists depict a sort of mindless, robotic, Stepford-wife nature to prayer,  but that’s not at all what we see in God’s word. So many of God’s characters experienced intense moments of conflict in which they confronted their Creator openly man-to-God.

Abraham challenged the Lord with a rhetorical battle for Sodom, dealing him a brazen accusation, “Shall not the judge of the earth do right?” (Genesis 18). Did God instantly obliterate Abraham for his audacity? No. He made time and space for his argument, and he changed his own plans to fit Abraham’s request.

In Genesis 32, Jacob contended with the pre-incarnate Lord, wrestling with him all night long and insisting that he would not let Him go until he was blessed. The Lord gave a response so unusual here, I wouldn't believe it had happened, if God had not left it in the text word-for-word. He said, “Your name will no longer be Jacob, but Israel, because you have struggled with God and with humans and have overcome.”

Over and again in the Psalms, David wailed out to God in honest sorrow. He used fierce and terrible words, expressing feelings of abandonment, betrayal, and doubt. Often when he returned to praise, he was expressing the sort of hope and the trust that come after the confession of fear and disappointment. This is the raw, real prayer book God left for us to use during our own moments of sorrow.

In the New Testament, this pattern of honesty is repeated. In Matthew 15, a Canaanite woman refused to leave Jesus and his disciples alone until he healed her daughter. Even after Jesus discouraged her appeal, she persisted in wrestling against him--at which point he not only conceded to her request, but also praised her for her stubborn faith (26-28).

When Lazarus died in John 11, both Mary and Martha openly expressed their disappointment with Jesus. “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” And Jesus was moved enough by their pain to weep with them before he raised Lazarus from the dead.

These honest, passionate, supernatural engagements with the creator are only found in Homo sapiens.  Even in non-Christian culture, the capacity to suffer metaphysically, crying out to a god of some sort is nearly universal.

THE INSUFFICIENCY OF MATERIAL ANSWERS FOR METAPHYSICAL QUESTIONS
Because humans have this dual capacity for pain, it’s insufficient to treat suffering at only the material level. If (as Christians) we medicate only our animal pain, there will be deep parts of our spirit that remain infected and broken.

The battles we must fight with God, the disappointment we must express to him, cannot be remedied by any other means.

But this is terrifying work because many of us have never been brave enough to identify what’s churning in this invisible part of our souls. We have tried to push those questions down and away. We have tried to patch them with self-control or with spiritual busyness. We have tried to maintain our Christian focus by the strength of our will, without ever admitting to the Living God why we are hurt or what’s broken in our trust.

In doing so, we are attempting to lie to God. We are like a child who withdraws, refusing to go to his parents to talk about his anger.  We are avoiding the real work we need to do the living God because we don’t truly trust him to love us or do us good.

We also know how dangerous he is. Every time I read Job 38 (one of my favorite chapters of the Bible), I am simultaneously thrilled and terrified because here God roars.

“Dress for action like a man;
    I will question you, and you make it known to me.

 “Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?
    Tell me, if you have understanding.
Who determined its measurements—surely you know!
    Or who stretched the line upon it?
On what were its bases sunk,
    or who laid its cornerstone,
when the morning stars sang together
    and all the sons of God shouted for joy?

 “Or who shut in the sea with doors
    when it burst out from the womb,
when I made clouds its garment
    and thick darkness its swaddling band,
and prescribed limits for it
    and set bars and doors,
and said, ‘Thus far shall you come, and no farther,
    and here shall your proud waves be stayed’?

On and on the monologue goes, the holy bellowing of Papa-is-in-the-house. I’m stunned, breathless, humbled.

But though I am flattened, I’m flattened with a comfort that could never have come had Job not been honest about his appeal.  I need to be overcome by the glory and holiness of God, just as much as I need to tactile answers to the material problems I face.

The answer to Job’s question was God himself. Job needed to know that, and I do, too.

WHAT WAITS ON THE OTHER SIDE OF SPIRITUAL HONESTY
A living God doesn’t work like a religious formula or equation. As Lewis wrote, "'Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you.”

This King might heal a child, or he might not. He might wrestle with you all night, bless you with a new name, and leave you with a limp. He might give your cause a second chance, or  sit and weep with you, or raise something you love from the dead. He might roar and say, “I am all the answer you need.”

I don't know. That's why I'm scared to go there. That's why I am way more comfortable with my primal, animal responses to suffering.

It’s hard to have the faith to enter into honest, necessary wrestling matches with my Father. I'm ashamed of the questions I need to ask him. I’m also not sure that I will like his answers.

I’d rather hide behind a bunch of spiritual fig leaves than stand before him and say, “You have known all along how weak I am! Why didn’t you come sooner? Now my world is broken and dead, and I was depending on you, and you didn’t come.”

But only when I’m willing to confess the real questions deep inside me can I exercise the unique capacity God has given me to interact with him. He's knows what's churning there anyway. He wants me to carry it to him instead of shielding my suffering with business, anger, and mistrust. He's strong enough to handle all of me.

This is some of the work I’m doing today in my prayer life. I could use your prayers for courage as I take these steps.

Cognitively, I know that God is good. I could give you systematic, theological arguments explaining the necessary presence of evil in the world as well as the exegetical mathematics of the justice of salvation. But these days, I am needing more than rational or empirical proofs because I'm more than a body attached to a mind. My invisible soul needs to encounter the resources of God at a level deeper than the mental gymnastics of an intelligent animal. I need to run deep, deep into the presence of my Father.

Know that I'm also praying for you. So often it seems like God carries me into private pain that resonates with what's happening inside my readers, and I can't help but think that this bond is intentional.  That modern readers (like you) would wade through 2,000-word posts in a world of bullet points and platitudes is astonishing to me. I don't take your camaraderie lightly.

A friend of mine (who has walked through similar pain) said to me last night, "I'll go to battle with you," and I didn't realize how much I needed that companionship until I heard the promise. So I'm extending the same offer to you. Here's where I am today. Take my hand; let's pray and walk together .

The Vast Difference between What We THINK and What We LOVE

Because I had only watched the Les Mis stage play and movies, my heart wasn’t prepared for a brutal plot twist included in Victor Hugo’s novel.

In fact, when I hit this section of the book, I was so devastated, I had to walk away from reading for several weeks. It was too painful to bear the images Hugo was asking me to carry.

In the book (as in the play/movies), Marius is an idealistic young man who embraces the democratic ideals of the French Republic. He rejects the Royalism of his wealthy grandfather to follow in the steps of his dead father, and he embraces severe poverty to study with a group of young rebels. Marius nearly dies in a street battle, but Jean ValJean rescues then carries him through a hellish labyrinth of Parisian sewers.

This rescue isn’t easy for ValJean. He hates Marius, resenting the threat romance presents to the happy home he’s created with his adopted daughter. Yet ValJean ultimately chooses the happiness of Cossette above his own, saving Marius’s life and providing for the marriage of the couple.

After the marriage, however, ValJean realizes that he must tell Marius the truth of his past. He confesses his life as a former convict.

Despite the young man’s democratic ideals, despite his compassion for the desperate, Marius slips immediately back into the prejudices of the upper class. He shuns the man who has saved his life and happiness, trying to force him out of Cossette’s life. The pain ValJean suffers as a result leads to his death.

THE ARCHETYPE OF THE YOUNG IDEALIST

While reading this part of Les Mis, I was reminded of Angel Clare’s behavior in Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Angel is a similar young man of high ideals, intent on defying the aristocracy and all of its silly conventions. When push comes to shove, however, Angel embraces the defaults of his privileged culture. He demeans Tess for a rape that wasn’t her fault, rejects her, and allows her to endure abuse and suffering that eventually kill her.

Reading both stories, my stomach churns with a grief particular to injustice. If these young men had been monsters throughout the book, the pain wouldn’t be so bad. However, there is a unique horror in discovering that a character who seems to believe what is right and true doesn’t actually live by those same principles.

THE INTUITIVE BACKBONE OF OUR ALLEGIANCE

Hardy and Hugo were so wise to show us this aspect of human nature. They knew that what we THINK doesn’t always indicate what we truly LOVE.

As writers like James K.A. Smith and Jonathan Haidt have revealed, most of our allegiances are formed intuitively, not rationally. Haidt writes, “don’t take people’s moral arguments at face value. They’re mostly post hoc constructions made up on the fly, crafted to advance one or more strategic objectives.”  This is why members of all political parties are willing to overlook flagrant facts and cling desperately to what they want to be true. “Intuitions come first, strategic reasoning second” (Haidt xx).

We see this tendency in Marius and Angel. Both men had processed truth cognitively, but neither was prepared for the mess of human reality intersecting with their ideals.  They didn't realize how the pressures of real life would divide their thoughts from their loves.

Like all of us, these young men made the mistake of oversimplification. They did this because sweeping generalizations may be true, but they are also terrifically easy.

The statement, “People should care for the poor,” will always be easier than, “I will invest long-term in one desperate person.”

“Women shouldn't have abortions,” will always be easier than, “I will be a foster parent until this young addict is recovered enough to parent her baby.”

“All men have sinned, and we should pray for our leaders,” will always feel truer when a politician we value is holding the office.

“God will provide,” is nice to say, and we might think we believe it is true, but until we are forced to release things that we hold most dear, we cannot have operational, love-based, living faith in that statement.

THE DIVINE GIFT OF TIME

Lately I’ve been wondering why a God who exists outside of time would bother to include this dimension in his physical creation. An omnipotent being knows what’s going to happen. It’s not like he needs a chronological limitation—a thousand years are like a day for him.

Surely, though, time accomplishes something powerful in us. Time allows us to think about what we believe—then it allows us to test those ideas out in reality. It allows us to identify the gap between our intellect and our deep allegiance. It forces us to carry the weaknesses we find back to the Father and dig into his resources.

Yesterday I listened to Tim Keller’s sermon, “Your Plans: God’s Plans,” and Keller affirms this principle in the life of Joseph. God didn't wrap up injustice, betrayal, need, and redemption in a 30-minute Touched by an Angel segment. He let time do hard work in Joseph and his family. He let long-term suffering bring about realizations that can’t be sped up.

In Greek drama, the word, “anagnorisis” refers to a moment in which a character recognizes his or her true character. Time in pain provides this this same gift to us off stage—it helps us come to the “aha!”--the awakening. Time is the vehicle that allows us to truly confess, “I knew truth, but I didn’t internalize it like I thought I did. Help my unbelief.”

This is the sort of breaking point Peter found during his denial of Jesus. The Savior he had sworn to follow, he abandoned. Had Peter not been given time to see his unbelief, he could never have known his ultimate need.

Likewise, in my own life, there are many Biblical truths I would have said I believed ten or twenty years ago. But not until God used the dimensions of time and pain did I find out that these convictions were only intellectual assent and not any sort of reality inside me.  Like Marius or Angel Clare, I am (still) being deconstructed by suffering, forced to realize that I have been infected by oversimplifications and religious platitudes, distracted by the biases and allegiances of my culture.

PENITENCE FOR THE THINKER OF GOOD THOUGHTS

Thankfully, Hugo shows us a repentant Marius at the end of Les Mis. The young man sees the full scope of his foolishness, and he is crushed before ValJean with a holy sorrow. Marius then lets the truth change him. He sees what he thought he was, then he admits who has been in reality.

Such confession is hard and frightening work--like the peeling of Eustace’s dragon skins in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. But this is vital penitence, something evangelical Christianity should embrace—of all times—especially now. Especially now when the gospel is being corrupted by political distortions--especially now when Christian leaders are allowing the love of power and the love of wealth to distort the eternal good news--now is the best of all times for God’s people to take up serious individual and corporate confession. Now is the best of times for the church to kneel beside the feet of the Savior who carried us through a hellish sewer to save our souls, the best of times to whisper, “We thought we knew what was right, but we have never let Truth sink into our deepest loves.”

This process is going to feel very naked, and we will want to reach for fig leaves. The zeitgeist is swollen with dismissive, arrogant postures, and modern Christians aren’t accustomed to feeling vulnerable in any way.

We like being dominant, not humble. We like being certain, not sorry. We like showing others how they need to repent, not repenting of our own failures.

But Truth personified sees us so clearly. We can hide nothing from him. We may sulk like the hard-working older brother standing grumpily in the field of his own labor,  but the Father who loves us knows we need resources and weapons that can’t be formed by human reason or effort. He knows when we've missed the point of sonship.

This Father stands waiting to revive the thinker of right thoughts--the spewer of proper apologetics--the knower of everything but nothing at all--by imparting true belief. He stands ready to break down Peter the Denier-Who-Didn't-Actually-Believe-What-He-Thought so that he can come to him gently, commissioning him in the midst of his penitence with the divine ability to feed God's sheep.

Finding the Seed of "I Want to Kill."

When my dad was a boy, he and his friends would leave their shotguns and rifles on the school bus in the mornings so that the bus driver could drop students off to go hunting in the woods after school.

When I was a kid, student parking lots were full of pickup trucks with rifle racks in the back windows.

These weren't semi-automatic weapons, of course; but they were weapons capable of killing human beings.

The world felt different back then.

Yeah, there were isolated incidents. Two years after I was born, an honors student shot eleven people and killed three in a school in New York. When I was four, a student shot four in Missouri. Twelve were injured in '84. Seventy-four were injured in Wyoming in '86. Between, before, and after these incidents, there were dark stories long and complicated--horrors which unraveled in time pre-web, years when Florida felt far away.

But now we have an Internet that allows us to see it all real time, making the worst of human nature a "thing." The celebrity of mass murder has become a potential high to the social outlier. It's an identity. It's an opportunity to become legendary.

Last night my daughter kept saying, "Students want to kill students now, Mom. It's not just about weaponry; there's something really wrong with people. There's something wrong down in their hearts."

And she's right. Though a thousand oversimplified flame wars rage across Facebook, driven by fallacies and recalibrated semi-facts--though a thousand micro-attacks diffuse the adrenaline and cortisol we rightly feel in a world gone all wrong, linear answers like "Arm the teachers!" and "Destroy the guns!" are two sides of the same coin, really--two variants on the core lament of all our hearts, which is "MAKE. THIS. STOP."

I want some magic wand, some spell to whisper, some "Bibbity-Bobbety-Boo" to make this nightmare end. But I live in a culture where people want to kill people, and when people want to kill, they will find a way to do it.

Teenagers especially. Teenagers always find a way to do what they want to do.

Teenagers find a way to have sex when they are grounded.

They find a way to drink when they are underage.

They find a way to sneak out of their rooms and into strip clubs.

They find a way to smoke pot when it's illegal.

They drive too fast.

They make fake ID's.

They hack into databases, and grade banks, and government websites.

The defiant teenage spirit cannot be bridled; it is liquid, and hot, and amphibious.

This means that teenagers who want to kill a lot of people will find a way to kill a lot of people.

Teenagers who want to kill people will make crockpot bombs. They will poison cafeteria food. They will stick other kids with syringes. They will plow cars through crowds in school parking lots.

A gun may be the easiest (and most glamorous) way to kill people for now; but teenagers who morph from skinny, low-rise jeans to baggy, high-waisted jeans in a matter of weeks--teenagers who live adapting constantly--teenagers who want the glory of being mass murderers will find a way to become mass murderers.

When the gun door shuts, they will crawl through a window.

Our present situation isn't equivalent to Australia's Port Arthur massacre. No, we are in deeper trouble than this. We live in a nation in which "teenage killer" has become an identity.

This means the threat is far more dire than most of us realize. For no matter what we do about guns and schools (and something does need to be done about guns and schools)--we will still have a fundamental problem after the best of all possible legislative decisions has been made.

We will still have children who want to kill children.

Like the second wave of danger in a horror movie, like the killer who resurrects after we all know for sure that he's dead, like the scream after the scream, even the noblest and wisest legislative efforts will ultimately prove insufficient here.

This is why America's youth need us.

No matter what you believe about guns, America's youth need us.

I'm not going to talk about my theories on this blood-thirsty zeitgeist--theories about what happens to the deep psychology of a country when the sanctity of life is diminished en masse, corralled into political camps and leveraged so that human hearts break only selectively over the desperation of immigrants or unborn children.

This isn't the time to dig into those theories. Not yet. But it is time to talk about how we must invest in the children of our local communities.

Like lazy parents handing a kid an iPad and disengaging, we cannot expect a law to do what only human contact can accomplish.

Where there is young pain, we must engage.

Where there is young loneliness, we must engage.

Where there are children consumed by horror and abuse, we must seek out those deep cancers and help the vulnerable fight emotional disease before it becomes lethal.

We have to find the seed of, "I want to kill," and realize that it means, "I want to die," because it was once, "I am not seen," or "I am alone," or "I have no hope."

Work for guns. Work against guns. Do good, hard research and fight for those laws you believe will do the most good.

But however you work with legislation, make it a bigger priority still to work with real, live kids. Because all around us, young people are trying to grow up in a world going to hell. Those kids need us desperately, and they need us even more than they need our arguments.

Escaping from a Manipulator (Genesis 31)

Any survivor of an emotionally-manipulative relationship should identify with Genesis 31. It’s crazy how many techniques of narcissistic, abusive people are found in this one story.  

Jacob the Deceiver has met his match in Laban, an opportunistic father-in-law who takes advantage of Jacob’s every weakness. I’m going to list several elements of Laban’s narcissistic abuse below.

If you’ve made it out of a relationship with someone like Laban, you’ll remember what it feels like to be in this sort of situation. You’ll also see how God sees what Jacob has endured and helps him escape it.

Even though Jacob hasn’t been perfect in his own choices, God helps him find a new life post trauma. That’s encouraging to me as someone who has lived a broken life. He’s in the business of redemption. We can trust him to lead us out of emotional chaos.

GAS LIGHTING occurs when an abuser attempts to control a situation by challenging your perceptions. He uses rhetorical force to reorient your understanding by superimposing his views on your memories. Over and again, a gaslighter will contradict your complaints with, “It didn’t actually happen like this...here is the REAL situation.” Over time, this erodes your trust in your own observations.

“Then Laban answered and said to Jacob, ‘The daughters are my daughters, the children are my children, the flocks are my flocks, and all that you see is mine.’”  31:43a).

No, Laban. They aren’t yours. Jacob worked for them.

PROJECTION occurs when an abuser is unwilling to admit is own failures, instead projecting all blame on his victim. For example, when a sexual abuser claims that a woman seduced him instead of owning his choices, he is projecting or blame shifting.

“Now Jacob heard that the sons of Laban were saying, ‘Jacob has taken all that was our father's, and from what was our father's he has gained all this wealth.’ And Jacob saw that Laban did not regard him with favor as before.”

Though Jacob has been upright, helping grow Laban’s business, Jacob is still blamed for Laban’s inability to meet his own goals.

CASTING YOUR STRENGTHS AS WEAKNESSES. Because your gifts are a natural threat to a narcissist, he attempts to recast them in a negative light, causing you to feel shame and hesitation.

“These twenty years I have been with you. Your ewes and your female goats have not miscarried, and I have not eaten the rams of your flocks. What was torn by wild beasts I did not bring to you. I bore the loss of it myself. From my hand you required it, whether stolen by day or stolen by night. There I was: by day the heat consumed me, and the cold by night, and my sleep fled from my eyes. These twenty years I have been in your house. I served you fourteen years for your two daughters, and six years for your flock, and you have changed my wages ten times.” (31:38-41)

Though Jacob had been a faithful and productive partner, Laban accused Jacob of being damaging and selfish instead of helpful.

MOVING THE GOAL POSTS: Demanding more an more from someone after he or she has met your initial requests.

“You know that I have served your father with all my strength, yet your father has cheated me and changed my wages ten times. But God did not permit him to harm me.” (31:6,7)

Laban didn't just switch Leah for Rachel. Over and again, he used his position of power to shift his demands of Jacob. It’s impossible to please someone like that. It’s a game the abused can never, ever win.

THREATS: Subtle or overt claims that an abuser could hurt you, if he wanted to.
“It is in my power to do you harm. But the God of your father spoke to me last night, saying, ‘Be careful not to say anything to Jacob, either good or bad.’ “ (31:29)

Laban feels the need to flex before Jacob. “I could hurt you if I wanted to.” It’s ugly and ridiculous because he’s posturing before a man God has promised to bless and protect.

FALSE GENEROSITY and HOOVERING: Pretending to be benevolent. Promising to change after the abused has left.

“Why did you flee secretly and trick me, and did not tell me, so that I might have sent you away with mirth and songs, with tambourine and lyre? “ (31:27)

“The daughters are my daughters, the children are my children, the flocks are my flocks, and all that you see is mine. But what can I do this day for these my daughters or for their children whom they have borne? (31:43b)

Laban is pretending to be what he is not—a kind and loving father-in-law. This attempts to create shame and dependency in Jacob, as well as allegiance that he does not owe.

In the New Testament, we find a Christ who embodies the Truth. Jesus is the living standard for veracity, Facts Incarnate. Because of this, he is able to judge us (and those who oppress us) perfectly. Because of this, he is able to see and heal us. It’s so important to run to him when a manipulator is attempting to lead our lives because he can see through the rhetorical fog and divide light from darkness. He can tell us who we truly are and explain our calling with utter clarity, though the noise and accusations of the world threaten to sink our hearts.

Notice how God sees straight through all of Laban’s posturing. He states: “for I have seen all that Laban is doing to you.  I am the God of Bethel, where you anointed a pillar and made a vow to me. Now arise, go out from this land and return to the land of your kindred.’” (31: 12b,13.) He’s ready to lift Jacob out of this trap and put him in a place where he can grow. This same voice can lead you home as well.


 

When God is Slow (Psalm 9)

Sometimes the Lord loves us enough to work slowly.

In the physical world, he will occasionally create material age in an instant—transforming water to wine or void to earth in a period of seconds or days.

But spiritual growth is rarely rushed. For this work of creation, he employs the tool of time. We can’t understand it. We fight against it. We beg him to hurry.

Yet by his slow and intentional hand, we are transformed.

I thought of this while reading Psalm 9 today, and particularly at verse 18.

For the needy shall not always be forgotten,
    and the hope of the poor shall not perish forever.

It is difficult to follow the guidance of the first part of this Psalm when we feel forgotten, but there a unique beauty to trusting God in the slowest of times, when it seems that the ache will never end. Reading the Scriptures, we find old stories of gradual, deliberate work in his followers--work accomplished over years and years of difficulty. To "recount his wonderful deeds" doesn't just take his cosmic blasts of intervention into account, but also the meticulous labor of an artist willing to take time to perfect what he has begun.

I will give thanks to the Lord with my whole heart;
    I will recount all of your wonderful deeds.
I will be glad and exult in you;
    I will sing praise to your name, O Most High.

We choose thanks because we are tempted to despair. We tell ourselves the old stories because it's difficult to see the big picture while crouching in a foxhole. We testify to the eternal end He has begun for us when we declare against the darkness:

The Lord is a stronghold for the oppressed,
    a stronghold in times of trouble.
And those who know your name put their trust in you,
    for you, O Lord, have not forsaken those who seek you.
 

Beowulf and Jacob (Genesis 29-31)

For the past few weeks, I’ve been teaching through Beowulf. While I’ve always liked the story, Seamus Heaney’s translation and audio reading have won my heart. I see now why Tolkien was enthralled by this old story.

When I was twenty and reading Beowulf, I was caught up in the epic heroism of this tale--the superhuman strength and the glory of slain monsters. But as an older reader, I am moved by flashes of vulnerability and honesty in the protagonist. It feels so human to me, and I’ve been brought to tears in strange plot moments that I don’t even remember from twenty-five years ago.

The scene in which Beowulf and Hrothgar bid one another farewell. The gravity of Beowulf’s attempt to fight a dragon, even in his old age. A life spent in defense of others. The sorrow of having no heir.

As a Christian, one of the most interesting aspects of this tale is the mix of pagan and orthodox beliefs. We see superstition and allegiance to darkness intermingled with trust in the Almighty. Neither the narrator nor the people (Danes nor Geats) are seem quite able to process how faith in Jesus is supposed to impact the struggles and battles of daily life.

In the intersection of Christianity and 1000 AD Anglo-Saxon paganism, people weren’t sure what God did and what he didn’t. So, they relied on a strange mix of the values of the old way and whatever it is a living God might do for them.

I see a similar struggle in Genesis 30, where Jacob attempts to separated his goods from Laban’s. These two tricksters are going head-to-head, Jacob, the wiley blessing-birthright stealer and Laban, the wife-swapper. They deserve each other, I suppose, and somehow it’s satisfying to watch them take a dose of their own medicines.

Jacob doesn’t seem to realize that God doesn’t need his tricks, so in this pre-Mendelian world, he attempts to use stripped sticks to influence the birth of speckled sheep. We look at that and sort of laugh because if he is the chosen of God, what could a little superstition do to top off the blessings ordained by heaven?

Yet if we look closely to Jacob’s life (and Beowulf’s life), we might find a mirror of sorts. How often do we hold our breath and try to finagle the blessings of  God, begging and maneuvering for abundance that he has already ordained? Instead of resting in his resources and love, we see God as a hard-dealing businessman, for whom we must perform.

Like Beowulf, we stand still at the intersection of a works-driven culture, unable to realize the comprehensive impact of the sacrifice of a Christ who IS our righteousness in full. The work is over. He has done it all. Our identity is secure. The power is ours. The rising action is complete, the climax has been reached, we live in the denouement. The great change has been accomplished.

Rain on a Barren Land (Genesis 25-28, Psalm 8)

"Drought and Downpour" by Mayard Dixon, 1944

This week was kind of crazy for our family. We took our adopted son to the gastroenterologist and learned a little bit more about his past as well as some medical needs he may be facing in the future. M was born with gastroschisis, a condition in which the intestines were present outside of the body. I won’t expand more on that here, but I will say that it’s been sort of an emotional week with a few sweet discoveries and also some hard possibilities.

If you’re keeping up with our reading, yesterday we read Genesis 25-28 and Psalm 8. Briefly, I want to make sure you think about the theme of barrenness that began with Sarah. We find out that Isaac’s wife, Rebekah, is barren in Genesis 25, and as God heals her from this, she conceives twins who struggle hard in the womb—Jacob and Esau. Later, we will read about the physical barrenness of Jacob’s loved wife Rachel and the barrenness of affection his wife Leah faces.

Isaac also faces a famine which drives him back to Abimelech (remember the second king Abraham who took Sarah because Abraham claimed she was his sister?) Isaac makes the same mistake, and it’s a king of the Philistines—not the chosen people of God—who makes the moral call here.

Then we see the impulsiveness of Esau, the duplicity of Rebekah and Jacob, the conflict that rises among broken people trying to figure out the intersection between the blessings of God and the activity of men. It’s kind of a mess—barren people in barren lands making mistakes.

By the time I got to the Psalm 8 section of the reading, I was moved by these lines, “What is man that you are mindful of him, and the son of man that you care for him? Yet you have made him a little lower than the heavenly beings and crowned him with glory and honor. You have given him dominion over the works of your hands; you have put all things under his feet...”

This psalm rings a lot truer to my own experience than some of the psalms that claim a human righteousness that deserves rescue. I can’t identify with feeling like i deserve God’s help. I know how messed up I am and how barren my moral ability actually is.

But when I read David’s stunned gratitude that God would bother with us at all, I feel some of his same questions fall naturally upon my soul. Who are we that you would trust us like you do?

His love is extravagant favor. Rain on a barren land. A child in a barren womb.

The LaLeche League division of the AARP (Genesis 21)

“And Sarah said, ‘God has made laughter for me; everyone who hears will laugh over me.’ And she said, ‘Who would have said to Abraham that Sarah would nurse children? Yet I have borne him a son in his old age.’ And the child grew and was weaned.”

Genesis 21:6-8

When I was in my thirties, I didn’t understand all the wrinkle cream ads. I thought older women were beautiful--that the lines on their faces made them interesting. But as I’ve grown into my mid forties, I’ve realized that there’s more to aging than charming little crow’s feet around my eyes. The skin around my mouth is changing, growing heavy, and often my expression looks tired or angry when I’m not.

It can be a little distressing to look in a mirror and see a reflection that doesn’t show my true heart. The stress of the past few years is visible in my countenance.

Yesterday I bought my first pair of reading glasses. They were just 1.0 in strength, the lowest possible lenses. But still, there was something about that purchase which marked a definite transition.

A couple of older folks watched me trying them on in the grocery, trying to read the back of a Pepto bottle (the closest label I could find), and they chuckled. Clearly, I was new at this. One kind older man reached out and told me he remembered his first pair of reading glasses, and he told me a couple of those medical stories you often hear grey-heads telling a little too loudly in public.

It was an initiation. I was in the club now. He was showing me how to laugh at my body as it ages, modeling the humor that maximizes the latter years.

The jokes older people tell aren’t always what young people would consider “nice.” Jokes about the bathroom. Jokes about the bedroom. Jokes about colonoscopies. Jokes about parts of your body withering away and yielding to gravity. Yet the sort of bodily humor that hits in the second half of life isn’t sexual so much as confessional—there's usually an “all is vanity” punch line reminiscent of Ecclesiastes.

That’s the sort of punch line feel when I read Sarah’s statement, “Who would have said to Abraham that Sarah would nurse children?”

I’m not sure if you’ve ever seen a medical diagram of the breasts of a 99-year-old woman, but if you have, you’ll understand why nursing a child wouldn’t be the first possibility that comes to mind. Yet these dry and fallen breasts would fill up with milk, filling the belly of an impossible promised child until he is weaned.

It's the sort of story that would make a couple of old folks chuckle in the reading glasses aisle of the grocery. “Did you hear about old Sarah?”

Yes, we’ll give that image a laugh—and for just a moment or two, we will let the levity of the presence of a comedic God fill us with hope that such a winsome Lord might also revive our own dry and cranky bones for the work of another day.

I do believe. I don't. I do. I don't. (Genesis 19-20)

The Bible is painfully honest about human nature. That’s what we get in Genesis 19-20--close ups that show us just how messed up Abraham and Lot actually were.

Lot is no longer living near Sodom (Genesis 13:12). He’s moved inward through the gates of Sodom (Genesis 19:1) and is now living in the inner city. When you and I hear the words “Sodom and Gomorrah,” we think darkness, fire, and destruction, but surely it was a beautiful, wealthy, comfortable city by day. Why else would Lot have hesitated to leave? Why else would he complain at the prospect of taking refuge in the mountains--even as he is being rescued?

Lot had spent years caravanning in the wilderness. He could handle the mountains. But instead of being grateful for God’s miraculous and merciful intervention, Lot has grown picky, begging for a small town in which to live. He says he will die without that convenience. (No, Lot. You’ll die if you stay in Sodom. Years of moral compromise have made him dense.)

By night, Sodom shows us the telos (the end) of humanism—greed that demands whatever it desires. In unison, the men of this wicked city convene to demand homosexual rape of two heavenly visitors. Lot defaults to compromise, offering his own two daughters for the rape fest instead.

Imagine what it’s like to be one of these two young women, hearing the crowds rage outside, then hearing your own father offer you to a riot. These women have grown up in a godless town with a self-indulgent and spineless father, as well as a mother who doesn’t fear God’s commands (Genesis 19:26). Is it any wonder that these girls (who I seriously doubt were virgins, BTW, Genesis 19:8) eventually get their own dad drunk and impregnate themselves by them?

But Lot’s family isn’t the only one that’s messed up. We also see Abraham stumble in fear. In fact, he makes the same exact mistake that he made in Egypt, worried that King Abimelek is going to be overwhelmed by his gorgeous wife, Sarah, so he plays the “sister” card again. We thought he’d learned better by now, right? Big fat backslide.

Don’t forget that she’s at least 90 at this point and post-menopausal (Genesis 18). In my mind’s eye, I’m seeing this little old couple wobbling into Gerar--a white-haired man who still believes the wife of his youth is a total catch...

Also, don’t forget that God has been talking with Abraham directly, providing stunning evidence that Abraham won’t die until he’s produced an heir with Sarah. He’s one of very few humans who has ever had a guarantee that he won’t die—and yet, Abraham blanks on all that, trying to take charge of his own protection and trading away the very woman who is an essential part of God’s promise.

I wish I could know what Sarah felt here. Is she angry about his passivity or was she old enough at this point that she shook her head like a little old woman who is resigned (at last) to the fact that her husband is never going to shut the toilet seat? Is she giggling to herself that she’s now 90, married to a husband who is still convinced that she’s a major hottie? (<<That would be me. “You just go ahead and worry about that, honey. BTW, somebody bring me some Aspercreme.”)

Abimelek receives Sarah but doesn’t sleep with her, which is actually pretty important because the whole line of Abraham could have been threatened by Abraham’s lack of faith here.

It’s all kind of funny, and pretty dark, and also achingly sad. Here we have the crème of the crop, the best of the people of God. Abraham was willing to be circumcised as a grown man (which would have been excruciating and bloody), so he’s already banked on God to an extreme that I’ve never had to attempt.  Still, he believes like a sputtering candle, all in, sometimes out, threatened by the winds.

God is so patient and so proactive here, as he was with Lot. Over and again, we see a God who rescues men against their belief and trust, and even against their own desires. Yet he doesn't dominate them fully. After making extreme attempts to save Lot's family, God eventually allows Lot's wife to chase what she loved more than God.

When does God intervene, and when does he let us find our own end? This image is complex, just like modern theological attempts to reconcile free will and predestination.

God lets this story stand instead of reducing it to a single axiom, but by it we are at least shown this much: key figures in the narrative of the Old Testament are human beings with emotional and spiritual traits very much like our own. These are real people who sometimes got it right and often got it wrong, humans who could eke out a mustard seed’s worth of faith now and then—but who stumbled, too.

God is used to dealing with our type. He's loved us despite us for thousands of years, knowing us well enough to realize that even for those who love God most fiercely, even for those who commit most radically, our only hope could be a Savior stronger than any promise we ever make.
 

QWERTY vs. The Art of the Fika

READING/LISTENING: Genesis 16-18, Psalm 5, "The Covenants" video

So yesterday we began reading Genesis 16-18 and Psalm 5. I'm keeping today's post short to leave you room for that reading but also because I'd like for you to watch The Bible Project video "The Covenants" (https://thebibleproject.com/videos/covenants/) and read this beautiful essay by Dr. Russell Moore on the the irreducibility of Biblical narrative. https://www.russellmoore.com/2018/01/17/you-cant-have-ethics-without-stories/

It's rare for a contemporary article to move me as much as Dr. Moore's did, but so much of what has frustrated me about pop-evangelical treatment of the Scripture is addressed in this essay. He writes:

"Most of us who are conservative evangelicals rightly reject the idea that the history of the Bible is merely illustrative–stories not grounded in fact but that point to the “real issue” of some experience with God or some demonstration of the way to live. The problem is though that sometimes we use the Bible the same way, only with the understanding that these stories really happened in space and in time. That’s true, they did in fact happen, but we sometimes assume that the narrative is simply the way God is feeding us the abstractions of moral principles or doctrinal axioms."

I don't know if you remember the QWERTY section of the Veggie Tales videos, but the little jingle went like this:

"And so what we have learned applies to our lives today,
and God has a lot to say in His book.
You see, we know that God's word is for everyone
And now that our song is done, we'll take a look!"
 

I get why Veggie Tales did this. It's a standard teaching technique for elementary-aged kids. But when reading mass-produced Christian books, you'll often find a QWERTY section at the end of a well-formed adult narrative--a few sentences in which a writer includes a forthright moral or axiom to complete a powerful story. Sometimes this works. Other times, it feels forced and cheesy, as if the writer doesn't trust the reader to engage with the story.

So I was deeply relieved, both as a reader and as a writer, that Dr. Moore is addressing the problem of narrative reduction. It's something the Christian community needs to consider.

My oldest son just returned from six months in Sweden, and one of his favorite Scandinavian traditions is called fika, a mid-day coffee in which friends and co-workers put the to-do list aside and sit down together to catch up. Workers who skip fika to be "productive" aren't admired; they are seen as selfish. Swedes realize that taking time to listen, and to really listen, is valuable.

Swedish conversation tends to be more focused, and Swedes are comfortable with longer periods of silence between sentences. They take time to think before responding, not desperate to fill up all the room, but respecting concepts enough to let them sink in and roll around.

When you are reading the Bible, perhaps the concept of fika can free you up to encounter the narrative in a much deeper way. Instead of rushing, you can linger. Instead of checking off boxes and driving to QWERTified conclusions, you can slow down and absorb a story as a whole. And God can meet you there--not in just in bullet points or axioms--but complex and holy as mysterious as living beings always are.
 

A Long Road Trip with an Angry Woman (Genesis 11-15, Psalm 4)

Old man Terah got an itchin’ to leave home, so he packed up his son Abram and his grandson Lot (and all their people) and headed out of town. Every time I read this passage, I see the opening theme song from the Beverly Hillbillies, Terah’s little wife sitting in a rocking chair, strapped to the top of a camel, and teenaged Lot all wide-eyed, carrying a rifle and looking for adventure.

The clan had a plan to make it to Canaan, but they only got to a little town called Harran, and that was far enough for the old man’s bones. So he settled down a while to rest, which turned into the rest of his life.

I don’t know what drove the old man that far, and the Bible doesn’t say. But it does tell us that somewhere along that journey God spoke directly to Abram and told him to finish the trip. In fact, God tells Abram to stop settling into whatever had become comfortable, to go out from his country, away from his people, and away from even his father’s household into a land God would show him. The purpose of this land was very specific—Abram was to launch a nation that would bless all the people of the earth.

Critics of the Old Testament tend to rail on Israel for committing genocide, and they don’t care much for a God who operated by choosing a favorite nation. These critics also miss the deeper context of these passages. Fast forwarding to Genesis 15, we see a prophesy about Israel being stuck a while in a foreign land because the “iniquity [sin] of the Amorites is not yet complete.”

“Complete” is a strange word for sin, isn’t it? In Hebrew, it means “full” or “perfect.” I think this shows us how God’s mercy will sometimes allow human rebellion to grow into its own telos (or end). In yesterday’s passages about the Tree of Life and Babel, God intervened to thwart human rebellion—but here, God allows evil to run its natural course—ripening into full defiance against the creator.

So on those occasions when the nation of Israel steps into the Middle East as a militant, conquering kingdom, it’s functioning within the script of God’s perfect timing. Any nation that faces God’s justice (meted out by Israel) has reached its final moral tipping point—additional time or opportunity to live uprightly will do that nation no good.

I’m reminded of C.S. Lewis’s description of a hell-bound soul here, the man to whom God says, “Not my will but thine.” For such a soul, another day on earth would not lead to a desire for greater union with God. The fullness of rejection has been completed, and God at last permits a man’s will to chase his own sovereignty into the darkness.

Contrasted against such a posture, we see Abram, an imperfect man who slowly learns to trust a invisible God for a future he will never see in full.  God tells him to go somewhere he’s never been for the sake of people he can’t even imagine. He is promised children, though his wife is barren, and it’s all sort of comic and ridiculous. Here's the sort of story Christian rationalists and empiricists couldn’t begin to explain away in  a debate with Bill Nye.

But all this mystery heads toward one big purpose--God's intent to bless the world. So the covenant is not about elitism; it’s about the beginning of a holy movement that’s eventually going to undo all the damage Adam and Eve brought to this broken planet.

God’s ways are quirky, though--Abram is actually kind of ridiculous in the beginning. Sure, this man would eventually trust God deeply enough to offer him an only son, but he isn’t any kind of hero in his early years. In fact, he bails on his wife, abandoning her to a foreign king.

I’ve been married long enough to know what kind of lecture that poor dude was likely to face after this whole mess was straightened out.  If you've ever been trapped in a car with an angry woman, just imagine miles and miles on the road with angry Sarai. She was cynical sort, anyway—we get that from the whole tent/laughter debacle. And by how she treated Hagar, we know she could be cold as ice when she felt threatened.

Abram had to travel all the way from Egypt to Canaan with this woman after betraying her. “You just HANDED ME OVER like a PIECE OF MEAT!” Did he hear that a thousand times? I hope so.

If you wonder why Abraham grew so much spiritually between Harran and Caanan, you need to get to know the fury of a scorned female a little bit better. Makes me laugh every time. God works in mysterious ways, and we've got some serious sanctification going on here, folks.

By the time Abram rescues Lot from the King Kedorlaomer (et al.), he’s grown. Abram refuses the spoils of war saying that he’s not willing to risk belittling God by making alliances with an earthly ruler who could someday make a claim on Abram’s success. Abram wanted to offer that sort of allegiance only to God. (Some of our modern religious leaders could learn a lot here, right?)

Soon after he makes this leap, God speaks to Abram in a vision saying, “Do not be afraid, Abram. I am your shield, your very great reward.” Don't miss the contrast here. As Abram turned down the protection and wealth of the stuff of earth, God said that he was going to offer his own presence and resources instead. Abraham has chosen the Living Lord himself, and God's going to make good on that decision.

I wish I had time to write through the next few chapters. They are so beautiful and so ruggedly honest. God presents his covenant with visual symbols that would take our breath away, if we could see them with our own eyes. Then Abram fumbles in his faith again as the glory settles and as silence rises. (Don’t we all?) I see myself in these chapters. I cheer for Abram. I cringe for him. He is all of us, isn’t he?

How fitting that this section of the story hits in our reading alongside Psalm 4, one of my favorite Psalms in the Bible because it’s just so raw. David pours out his feelings. He appeals. He tries to cling to the truth. He collapses in surrender. He rests.

http://www.thistleandtoad.com/wwwthistleandtoadcom/writings/2018/1/17/a-long-road-trip-with-an-angry-woman-genesis-11-15-psalm-4

"We can do anythiiiiiiiiing." But should we? Genesis 11:6-7

Genesis 11:6-7

“And the Lord said, ‘Behold, they are one people, and they have all one language, and this is only the beginning of what they will do. And nothing that they propose to do will now be impossible for them. Come, let us go down and there confuse their language, so that they may not understand one another's speech.’” 

Every time I run into these verses, I flinch a little. At first glance, they feel almost mean. What’s wrong with people understanding one another? What’s wrong with “nothing being impossible” for humans? (Imagine a 1980’s theme song, here. “We can do anythiiiiiiing.”)

Even more baffling? God gave humans a command to create and cultivate. So what’s the deal? Why would he tell humans to do something, then stop them mid stream?

This story jolts me like Genesis 3:22-24. Remember this section we read a few weeks ago?

"Then the Lord God said, "Behold, the man has become like one of us in knowing good and evil. Now, lest he reach out his hand and take also of the tree of life and eat, and live forever—”' therefore the Lord God sent him out from the garden of Eden to work the ground from which he was taken. He drove out the man, and at the east of the garden of Eden he placed the cherubim and a flaming sword that turned every way to guard the way to the tree of life."

What’s wrong with knowing good and evil? What’s wrong with living forever? Wouldn't that be a good thing?

I think these sorts of passages are sort of enthymematic—they leave out an implied major premise that must be understood to get the full meaning. And in both cases, the omitted premise is pretty much the same: “Power in the hands of people who are out of sync with God will lead to disaster.”

Eternal life for Adam and Eve (and their offspring) in a post-sin world would not be pleasant. Imagine endless existence in a fleshly state that had no possibility of indwelt communion with the Creator. Adam and Eve didn’t just need physical immortality, they needed redemption.

In the case of Babel, a similar trajectory is noted. The progress of secular humanism would provide empty success. Sure, stuff would get accomplished. Research and development would happen. But while a proud, godless humanity was trying to “make a name for itself," the results would be fragmented and disjointed because civilization wouldn’t operate in harmony with the Creator of the universe. If left to their own skill sets, humans would learn to rely on themselves more and more, growing increasingly dependent upon their own minds and strength and less open to the sort of Divine trust and reliance that the imago Dei was created to experience.

I’m reminded of one of my favorite Chesterton quotes here—a quote that I have mentioned dozens of times already and plan to mention dozens of times more. It’s that good.

"The modern world is not evil; in some ways the modern world is far too good. It is full of wild and wasted virtues. When a religious scheme is shattered (as Christianity was shattered at the Reformation), it is not merely the vices that are let loose. The vices are, indeed, let loose, and they wander and do damage. But the virtues are let loose also; and the virtues wander more wildly, and the virtues do more terrible damage. The modern world is full of the old Christian virtues gone mad. The virtues have gone mad because they have been isolated from each other and are wandering alone."

What can we learn here about rooting our gifts in the center of Jesus? The temptation to "make a name for ourselves" is still kicking today. How do we do the work of creation and cultivation without running into dependence upon our own strength? How do move outward in faith from a true, operational core?

Genesis 12-15, Psalm 4

After six months overseas, our oldest son came home this week for a few days before returning to college. We won’t see him again for a good long while yet, so I’m soaking up the hours while he is here.  I’ll write more after he leaves tomorrow, but for now, here’s the reading and a video for this part of the week.


Genesis 12-15, Psalm 4
Video: Genesis 12-50