Okay, it's time I started writing again.
For several years I wrote a column for our weekly newspaper. It was well received by our community, and I enjoyed finding a way to gently communicate spiritual truths to a secular audience. Many of those articles found their way into this medium.
When the paper closed a year ago, so did the pressure to write. I've missed it.
I'm not making any resolutions, mind you, but at least, this is a start. "Beginning is half done," they say. We'll see....
Monday, April 20, 2009
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
A Christmas Letter
Merry Christmas from our house to yours!
What’s new with the Gilbertson household? Well, without dredging up a lot of ancient history, here’s the latest: for the past two years we’ve been living in our beautiful new home in Cave Creek, Arizona, working on staff at North Ridge Community Church, and enjoying our children as they grow toward adulthood.
Steve’s responsibilities at North Ridge include leading worship in our Coffee House Gathering, one of four Sunday morning services we offer. It features a casual, contemporary atmosphere with an acoustic style. As we lead worship, families enjoy coffee and goodies while sitting informally at tables. We like it!
In addition, Steve directs the small group ministry at our church. This fall, it included some 35 groups and nearly 400 people. Because our groups utilize a video-based curriculum written and produced in-house, there is a lot of creative design and development, something Steve particularly enjoys.
Steve’s responsibilities at North Ridge are only part-time, so a few days a week he works for one of the church members who has a pool cleaning business. That’s right: Steve’s a pool boy! It’s not something he wants to do long term, but for now it gives us an opportunity to serve in a ministry we enjoy, and stay in our home at least until Kurt finishes high school.
Speaking of our home, we’ve been here for two years, but it still feels brand new to us. (Maybe that’s because we’re still installing our own landscaping!) You may recall that Steve’s cousin, Dale, helped us to build a home in the foothills near Cave Creek. Every morning we wake up to a beautiful view of Black Mountain. We are grateful….
As for family news, Donna continues to teach water exercise classes at the Marriott resort near our home. In addition to satisfying her urge to be in the water, she especially appreciates the Marriott hotel discounts which she gobbles up as much as possible.
These have really come in handy as we have followed our son Kurt’s soccer adventures these past few years. Kurt (17) is now a senior at Cactus Shadows High School. In the past year his nationally ranked club team has been to Florida twice, New Mexico once, and to California more times than we can remember. They are looking forward to competing in the regional tournament next summer, and have hopes of making it to Nationals. In addition to this, he maintains excellent grades with an honors level school curriculum, and is looking forward to attending college next year.
As for college, our son Kyle (21) is completing his senior year at Biola University in southern California. His major is in Film, his minor is in English Literature, and his on campus job has been working for their award-winning school newspaper. This year he is the editor of the Features section of the paper. As for his plans after school, who knows?
Kyan (24) is living with two other girls in a Laguna Niguel apartment. Beautiful ocean views are a short walk away. She works in the Human Resource department for the Irvine Company in their Newport Beach headquarters, a job which she not only enjoys, but which also provides her invaluable experience for the future.
When our birthdays roll around in January, the cake will be covered with 49 candles. Hard to believe! Like everyone else, we’ve had our share of challenges: the buried dream of a thriving new church, financial difficulties exacerbated by our troubled economy, uncertainties about our ministry future, and the crotchetiness commensurate with our advanced age (just kidding about that one, sort of!).
But we have so much for which we can be thankful: good health, a loving family, kids to make any parent proud, work we care about in a place we love, and a faith which makes life purposeful and joyful. We are grateful … and thankful … and happy to wish you and yours God’s best this holiday season.
God bless you,
Steve and Donna Gilbertson
What’s new with the Gilbertson household? Well, without dredging up a lot of ancient history, here’s the latest: for the past two years we’ve been living in our beautiful new home in Cave Creek, Arizona, working on staff at North Ridge Community Church, and enjoying our children as they grow toward adulthood.
Steve’s responsibilities at North Ridge include leading worship in our Coffee House Gathering, one of four Sunday morning services we offer. It features a casual, contemporary atmosphere with an acoustic style. As we lead worship, families enjoy coffee and goodies while sitting informally at tables. We like it!
In addition, Steve directs the small group ministry at our church. This fall, it included some 35 groups and nearly 400 people. Because our groups utilize a video-based curriculum written and produced in-house, there is a lot of creative design and development, something Steve particularly enjoys.
Steve’s responsibilities at North Ridge are only part-time, so a few days a week he works for one of the church members who has a pool cleaning business. That’s right: Steve’s a pool boy! It’s not something he wants to do long term, but for now it gives us an opportunity to serve in a ministry we enjoy, and stay in our home at least until Kurt finishes high school.
Speaking of our home, we’ve been here for two years, but it still feels brand new to us. (Maybe that’s because we’re still installing our own landscaping!) You may recall that Steve’s cousin, Dale, helped us to build a home in the foothills near Cave Creek. Every morning we wake up to a beautiful view of Black Mountain. We are grateful….
As for family news, Donna continues to teach water exercise classes at the Marriott resort near our home. In addition to satisfying her urge to be in the water, she especially appreciates the Marriott hotel discounts which she gobbles up as much as possible.
These have really come in handy as we have followed our son Kurt’s soccer adventures these past few years. Kurt (17) is now a senior at Cactus Shadows High School. In the past year his nationally ranked club team has been to Florida twice, New Mexico once, and to California more times than we can remember. They are looking forward to competing in the regional tournament next summer, and have hopes of making it to Nationals. In addition to this, he maintains excellent grades with an honors level school curriculum, and is looking forward to attending college next year.
As for college, our son Kyle (21) is completing his senior year at Biola University in southern California. His major is in Film, his minor is in English Literature, and his on campus job has been working for their award-winning school newspaper. This year he is the editor of the Features section of the paper. As for his plans after school, who knows?
Kyan (24) is living with two other girls in a Laguna Niguel apartment. Beautiful ocean views are a short walk away. She works in the Human Resource department for the Irvine Company in their Newport Beach headquarters, a job which she not only enjoys, but which also provides her invaluable experience for the future.
When our birthdays roll around in January, the cake will be covered with 49 candles. Hard to believe! Like everyone else, we’ve had our share of challenges: the buried dream of a thriving new church, financial difficulties exacerbated by our troubled economy, uncertainties about our ministry future, and the crotchetiness commensurate with our advanced age (just kidding about that one, sort of!).
But we have so much for which we can be thankful: good health, a loving family, kids to make any parent proud, work we care about in a place we love, and a faith which makes life purposeful and joyful. We are grateful … and thankful … and happy to wish you and yours God’s best this holiday season.
God bless you,
Steve and Donna Gilbertson
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Strider’s Secret
Without the benefit of knowing the whole story, we are not sure what to think of Strider when first we encounter him. He lurks in the shadows of The Prancing Pony, keenly interested in the Halflings and their songs. It is evident he knows more than he reveals. Is he friend, or is he foe? We are unsure.
In time, we learn that Strider is in fact a friend, and will be a trustworthy guide for the hobbits on their journey. His true name is Aragorn, and as the story unfolds we discover there is much more to him than meets the eye. He is the heir of Isildur. He will not always lurk in the shadows. Someday he will take his rightful place as King of Middle Earth.
When J.R.R Tolkien first placed Strider in “The Fellowship of the Ring,” he wasn’t quite sure what he would do with him. Although he had already invested twenty months constructing what would become an epic story, only later would Strider, the vagabond Ranger, become the central character in the climax of “The Lord of the Rings.” At the first, he was merely a mysterious guide; later he became a magnificent king.
Aside from the “everyman” appeal of Frodo and Sam, Aragorn is the next most fascinating character in the famous trilogy. The burden of his mission is almost as great as that of Frodo, the designated Ring Bearer. Unlike his fateful ancestor, however, Aragorn refuses to accept the ring of power when it is available to him. He is willing to walk the path of humility until the appointed time.
In this way, Aragorn is a picture of Jesus Christ in his first advent. The Scriptures teach that Jesus, “being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness” (Philippians 2:6).
Like Aragorn in the days he was known as Strider, Jesus is often misunderstood. Some think him mysterious. Most assume him to be a particularly gifted teacher. Others, while calling him the son of God, mean only that his relationship with God is no more unique than any of us could potentially achieve.
But this is not the Christian understanding of Jesus. The reason we are so keen to celebrate his birth is that we believe that Jesus was not just a good man, or a great teacher. He was God in the Flesh, fully human and fully divine. His glory, like Aragorn’s, veiled during his life, and revealed at his resurrection, was nonetheless an essential part of his nature. He was the Son of God.
This is why multiplied millions of every race around the world pause each year to celebrate his arrival on planet Earth. For his was not merely an exemplary life. Nor did his birth simply signal the advent of an enlightened brand of teaching.
No. The coming of Jesus was a thunderclap in history. God himself invaded humanity. As such, he does not simply deserve our adulation; he demands our worship.
And when they were come into the house, they saw the young child with Mary his mother, and fell down, and worshipped him… (Matthew 2:11).
In time, we learn that Strider is in fact a friend, and will be a trustworthy guide for the hobbits on their journey. His true name is Aragorn, and as the story unfolds we discover there is much more to him than meets the eye. He is the heir of Isildur. He will not always lurk in the shadows. Someday he will take his rightful place as King of Middle Earth.
When J.R.R Tolkien first placed Strider in “The Fellowship of the Ring,” he wasn’t quite sure what he would do with him. Although he had already invested twenty months constructing what would become an epic story, only later would Strider, the vagabond Ranger, become the central character in the climax of “The Lord of the Rings.” At the first, he was merely a mysterious guide; later he became a magnificent king.
Aside from the “everyman” appeal of Frodo and Sam, Aragorn is the next most fascinating character in the famous trilogy. The burden of his mission is almost as great as that of Frodo, the designated Ring Bearer. Unlike his fateful ancestor, however, Aragorn refuses to accept the ring of power when it is available to him. He is willing to walk the path of humility until the appointed time.
In this way, Aragorn is a picture of Jesus Christ in his first advent. The Scriptures teach that Jesus, “being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness” (Philippians 2:6).
Like Aragorn in the days he was known as Strider, Jesus is often misunderstood. Some think him mysterious. Most assume him to be a particularly gifted teacher. Others, while calling him the son of God, mean only that his relationship with God is no more unique than any of us could potentially achieve.
But this is not the Christian understanding of Jesus. The reason we are so keen to celebrate his birth is that we believe that Jesus was not just a good man, or a great teacher. He was God in the Flesh, fully human and fully divine. His glory, like Aragorn’s, veiled during his life, and revealed at his resurrection, was nonetheless an essential part of his nature. He was the Son of God.
This is why multiplied millions of every race around the world pause each year to celebrate his arrival on planet Earth. For his was not merely an exemplary life. Nor did his birth simply signal the advent of an enlightened brand of teaching.
No. The coming of Jesus was a thunderclap in history. God himself invaded humanity. As such, he does not simply deserve our adulation; he demands our worship.
And when they were come into the house, they saw the young child with Mary his mother, and fell down, and worshipped him… (Matthew 2:11).
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Christmas Past, Present and Future
It is our twenty-eighth Christmas as a married couple. Twenty-eight freshly-cut Christmas trees. Twenty-eight years of hanging stockings. Twenty-eight Christmas mornings waking up together.
In the early days we traveled to someone else’s home for Christmas. But for the most part, Christmas has been our own private family tradition, a blending of the homes we grew up in, as well as those habits unique to our own family.
Growing up in Chicago, my wife never had a real tree. Every year her father pulled it out of the basement and plunked it in the living room. Consequently, one of the traditions in our home has been the annual trip to secure a live (or rather, dead) tree. While I once bemoaned the annual expense and the loss to the environment, I have come to enjoy our trees as much as she does.
The traditions evolve as our family grows up. In the old days, each kid took a turn being hoisted to the top of the tree to place the star. Nowadays, our boys are taller than me. They joke about hoisting me to the top.
This afternoon, after helping to position the tree in our home, I went outside to do some chores. As I returned our found our sons, 16 and 20 years old, rummaging through the ornament box, laughing and reminiscing as they placed them on the tree.
When our first ornament came in the mail back in 1980, I had little idea how much I would come to appreciate these small tokens of Christmas past. Back then I thought them a cute trifle, a throw-in Christmas gift.
There are the countless engraved ornaments given by our parents in California and Illinois. I once wondered why they went to the time and expense of decorating every gift with an ornament. Now I know: long after the gift is forgotten or broken, the ornament has a home on our family tree.
The best ornaments are the ones crafted by our children as gifts when they were in Kindergarten. Each one is complete with a name and photograph. These are the ones that elicit guffaws from our grown children.
I imagine that someday many of these ornaments will move from our home to theirs. As their children trim the family tree, they, too, will laugh at pictures of mom or dad when they were small.
When the holidays arrive, my wife and I will show up at their house. After greeting our grandchildren, we will gaze long and wistfully at the tree. Chances are, it will be freshly cut. We will admire the handmade ornaments our grandkids made for their parents. We will search for the macaroni mug shots our children made when they were small and, seeing them, we will cast a grateful eye toward heaven.
We will remember Christmas past, when it was our children making the ornaments, when it was our children trimming the tree, when it was our children laughing at funky photographs. And we will pray for Christmas future: may our children’s children grow up in homes filled with memories as happy as those of their parents’.
In the early days we traveled to someone else’s home for Christmas. But for the most part, Christmas has been our own private family tradition, a blending of the homes we grew up in, as well as those habits unique to our own family.
Growing up in Chicago, my wife never had a real tree. Every year her father pulled it out of the basement and plunked it in the living room. Consequently, one of the traditions in our home has been the annual trip to secure a live (or rather, dead) tree. While I once bemoaned the annual expense and the loss to the environment, I have come to enjoy our trees as much as she does.
The traditions evolve as our family grows up. In the old days, each kid took a turn being hoisted to the top of the tree to place the star. Nowadays, our boys are taller than me. They joke about hoisting me to the top.
This afternoon, after helping to position the tree in our home, I went outside to do some chores. As I returned our found our sons, 16 and 20 years old, rummaging through the ornament box, laughing and reminiscing as they placed them on the tree.
When our first ornament came in the mail back in 1980, I had little idea how much I would come to appreciate these small tokens of Christmas past. Back then I thought them a cute trifle, a throw-in Christmas gift.
There are the countless engraved ornaments given by our parents in California and Illinois. I once wondered why they went to the time and expense of decorating every gift with an ornament. Now I know: long after the gift is forgotten or broken, the ornament has a home on our family tree.
The best ornaments are the ones crafted by our children as gifts when they were in Kindergarten. Each one is complete with a name and photograph. These are the ones that elicit guffaws from our grown children.
I imagine that someday many of these ornaments will move from our home to theirs. As their children trim the family tree, they, too, will laugh at pictures of mom or dad when they were small.
When the holidays arrive, my wife and I will show up at their house. After greeting our grandchildren, we will gaze long and wistfully at the tree. Chances are, it will be freshly cut. We will admire the handmade ornaments our grandkids made for their parents. We will search for the macaroni mug shots our children made when they were small and, seeing them, we will cast a grateful eye toward heaven.
We will remember Christmas past, when it was our children making the ornaments, when it was our children trimming the tree, when it was our children laughing at funky photographs. And we will pray for Christmas future: may our children’s children grow up in homes filled with memories as happy as those of their parents’.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Tennis Court Soundtrack
Although baseball and football were my passion in high school, I have always enjoyed competitive sports. If it requires skill and a ball, count me in.
That is why I was happy to pack my tennis racket when my friend and I went to a summer camp together. He was an avid player, and I was happy to give him whatever competition I could muster.
When we headed out to play, however, we were dismayed to discover that the courts were in disrepair. Massive cracks cris-crossed the playing area. Faded lines defined the boundaries. Worst of all, there were no nets.
That’s okay, we decided. We’ll just hit the ball back and forth. It will still be fun.
Wrong. After fifteen minutes of futility, we gave up and found something else to do.
I have often thought about this incident. Why did the game feel so futile? Was it that we could not bear to play without winning? It is a fair question. I have been accused of being overly competitive more than once in my life.
But it was more than that. A primary skill in tennis is the ability to navigate the ball over the net and into a defined boundary on the opposite side. Without nets and clear boundaries, the game had no point. It became an endless and meaningless circle of volley and return.
This is precisely the problem with the common worldview that permeates our culture. We assume that the world is ours to shape. There are no rules but the ones we make up. There is no point but that which we invent. Life is a spinning wheel. We are caught it in an endless circle of cause and effect, volley and return.
Privacy and tolerance have, predictably, become our supreme values. You play by your set of rules; I’ll play by mine. You stay out of my game; I’ll stay out of yours. There is no overarching objective to our existence. There is no intrinsic meaning to our connectedness to one another. We are merely molecules bumping into one another meandering down an endless maze to oblivion, or nirvana, or whatever.
If so, count me out. I want to believe that my life has meaning, and that there is a reason why I am here. I want to think that relationships matter, that love is real, and that suffering has significance. Don’t tell me that life is an endless circle with no rhyme or reason; make it a beautiful story, a tragic comedy, a divine drama, complete with beginning, middle and end.
Is that too much to ask? No, it isn’t. Not if you embrace the simple story found in the Bible and, better yet, rooted in human history. For Christianity is not merely a set of ideals and ethics. It is grounded in human history. A baby was born: we believe the baby was divine. A man was killed: we believe he rose again.
If it is true, then all of life – the good, the bad and the ugly – has meaning. If it is true, the rules are not ours to invent, the boundaries our not ours to create. If it is true, every life, every relationship has intrinsic value. If it is true, love and laughter, sorrow and pain, beauty and joy are worth cherishing.
If it is not true, well, whatever….
That is why I was happy to pack my tennis racket when my friend and I went to a summer camp together. He was an avid player, and I was happy to give him whatever competition I could muster.
When we headed out to play, however, we were dismayed to discover that the courts were in disrepair. Massive cracks cris-crossed the playing area. Faded lines defined the boundaries. Worst of all, there were no nets.
That’s okay, we decided. We’ll just hit the ball back and forth. It will still be fun.
Wrong. After fifteen minutes of futility, we gave up and found something else to do.
I have often thought about this incident. Why did the game feel so futile? Was it that we could not bear to play without winning? It is a fair question. I have been accused of being overly competitive more than once in my life.
But it was more than that. A primary skill in tennis is the ability to navigate the ball over the net and into a defined boundary on the opposite side. Without nets and clear boundaries, the game had no point. It became an endless and meaningless circle of volley and return.
This is precisely the problem with the common worldview that permeates our culture. We assume that the world is ours to shape. There are no rules but the ones we make up. There is no point but that which we invent. Life is a spinning wheel. We are caught it in an endless circle of cause and effect, volley and return.
Privacy and tolerance have, predictably, become our supreme values. You play by your set of rules; I’ll play by mine. You stay out of my game; I’ll stay out of yours. There is no overarching objective to our existence. There is no intrinsic meaning to our connectedness to one another. We are merely molecules bumping into one another meandering down an endless maze to oblivion, or nirvana, or whatever.
If so, count me out. I want to believe that my life has meaning, and that there is a reason why I am here. I want to think that relationships matter, that love is real, and that suffering has significance. Don’t tell me that life is an endless circle with no rhyme or reason; make it a beautiful story, a tragic comedy, a divine drama, complete with beginning, middle and end.
Is that too much to ask? No, it isn’t. Not if you embrace the simple story found in the Bible and, better yet, rooted in human history. For Christianity is not merely a set of ideals and ethics. It is grounded in human history. A baby was born: we believe the baby was divine. A man was killed: we believe he rose again.
If it is true, then all of life – the good, the bad and the ugly – has meaning. If it is true, the rules are not ours to invent, the boundaries our not ours to create. If it is true, every life, every relationship has intrinsic value. If it is true, love and laughter, sorrow and pain, beauty and joy are worth cherishing.
If it is not true, well, whatever….
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Missing Jesus
I’d like to introduce you to some fascinating folks. I wonder if you can recognize them.
These people are fanatical about living a good life. Models of personal purity, and careful to live above reproach, they are among the most respected persons in the community. They’re honest, hardworking, and conscientious.
They take their spirituality very seriously. They are scrupulous about attendance at religious events. They give generously. They fast regularly. They pray faithfully.
They have the utmost regard for scripture. They study it, memorize it, and conscientiously seek to apply it to their lives. They frequently gather to discuss its meaning and its application to their lives.
Do you recognize them? Are they Christians? Are they Mormons? Are the Muslims? No. None of the above. They are Pharisees.
Are you surprised?
Pharisees were one of the most prominent religious sects in Jesus’ day. They were precisely as I described them, distinguished from their peers by their religious sincerity, their personal purity, and their high regard for Scripture. They were considered by many to be the most “on-target” religious group of their day.
Which brings to mind a thought-provoking question: How is it that they missed – even rejected – Jesus?
After all, they were actively looking for the Messiah. They prayed regularly for his arrival. Why didn’t they recognize him when he came? Why did they miss the very one for whom they were waiting?
Among other things, they missed Jesus because they were more committed to their notions about God than they were to God himself. Their view of God was so rigidly defined that when God acted outside the box they rejected him.
Their belief system, intended to shield the truth from heresy, was so deeply entrenched that, of all things, it shielded them from truth. Their spiritual pride led to spiritual blindness.
When John the Baptizer began to preach near the Jordan River, he carried an astounding and troubling message. He claimed that the long-awaited Messiah was about to be revealed -- this was the good news. But he also claimed that the people of God were not ready for his coming. This was the bad news.
He called the people to repent, and thus to prepare their hearts for the coming of the Messiah. In an unprecedented move, he asked good, upstanding people to be baptized as a symbol of their humility and faith. Pharisees scoffed at the idea. Any suggestion that they were not prepared for the Messiah’s arrival was, to them, preposterous.
We are in the season of Advent. For fifteen centuries, it was assumed by the church that a time of preparation and repentance was needed in order for believers to sincerely and joyfully open their hearts to Jesus. Like the deep cleaning our homes receive before the arrival of important guests, Advent was a time for spiritual cleansing.
Nowadays, many churches skip over all that. We assume (as did the Pharisees?) that our hearts are already fully open to God, and that penitence is not necessary.
Speaking for myself, I am not so sure. Like the Grinch, I sense that my heart is often two sizes too small. I’m consumed with myself, my family, my agenda, my career, my convictions – my, my, my! Is it any wonder I am easily baited to buy the latest greatest toy every holiday season?
Frankly, the spiritual blindness among such well-intentioned people as the first century Pharisees frightens me. I don’t want to repeat their mistake.
After all, this Christmas, I don’t want to miss Jesus.
These people are fanatical about living a good life. Models of personal purity, and careful to live above reproach, they are among the most respected persons in the community. They’re honest, hardworking, and conscientious.
They take their spirituality very seriously. They are scrupulous about attendance at religious events. They give generously. They fast regularly. They pray faithfully.
They have the utmost regard for scripture. They study it, memorize it, and conscientiously seek to apply it to their lives. They frequently gather to discuss its meaning and its application to their lives.
Do you recognize them? Are they Christians? Are they Mormons? Are the Muslims? No. None of the above. They are Pharisees.
Are you surprised?
Pharisees were one of the most prominent religious sects in Jesus’ day. They were precisely as I described them, distinguished from their peers by their religious sincerity, their personal purity, and their high regard for Scripture. They were considered by many to be the most “on-target” religious group of their day.
Which brings to mind a thought-provoking question: How is it that they missed – even rejected – Jesus?
After all, they were actively looking for the Messiah. They prayed regularly for his arrival. Why didn’t they recognize him when he came? Why did they miss the very one for whom they were waiting?
Among other things, they missed Jesus because they were more committed to their notions about God than they were to God himself. Their view of God was so rigidly defined that when God acted outside the box they rejected him.
Their belief system, intended to shield the truth from heresy, was so deeply entrenched that, of all things, it shielded them from truth. Their spiritual pride led to spiritual blindness.
When John the Baptizer began to preach near the Jordan River, he carried an astounding and troubling message. He claimed that the long-awaited Messiah was about to be revealed -- this was the good news. But he also claimed that the people of God were not ready for his coming. This was the bad news.
He called the people to repent, and thus to prepare their hearts for the coming of the Messiah. In an unprecedented move, he asked good, upstanding people to be baptized as a symbol of their humility and faith. Pharisees scoffed at the idea. Any suggestion that they were not prepared for the Messiah’s arrival was, to them, preposterous.
We are in the season of Advent. For fifteen centuries, it was assumed by the church that a time of preparation and repentance was needed in order for believers to sincerely and joyfully open their hearts to Jesus. Like the deep cleaning our homes receive before the arrival of important guests, Advent was a time for spiritual cleansing.
Nowadays, many churches skip over all that. We assume (as did the Pharisees?) that our hearts are already fully open to God, and that penitence is not necessary.
Speaking for myself, I am not so sure. Like the Grinch, I sense that my heart is often two sizes too small. I’m consumed with myself, my family, my agenda, my career, my convictions – my, my, my! Is it any wonder I am easily baited to buy the latest greatest toy every holiday season?
Frankly, the spiritual blindness among such well-intentioned people as the first century Pharisees frightens me. I don’t want to repeat their mistake.
After all, this Christmas, I don’t want to miss Jesus.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
The Politics of Polio
Tony had polio. I presume he was one of the thousands of children who contracted the disease during the epidemic in the mid-twentieth century. Like most self-conscious adults, however, I never asked him about it.
His right leg was stiff. He walked with a cane. Once I got to know him, I hardly noticed it. His quick humor and keen insight quickly captured my affection.
As best I recall, he only spoke about his condition once. We were camping together on the Mogollon Rim. Have you ever noticed that stepping out of the world of asphalt and concrete, and into the world of trees and cool breezes opens your heart and clears your mind? It refreshes the spirit like a dive in a pool on a sweaty hot day.
Anyway, Tony and I were having one of those philosophical discussions that typically emerge in such settings. He was an avid reader and excellent teacher; I always enjoyed our conversations.
I related to him a discussion I had with another friend of mine, who a hard time accepting the existence of a personal God. He surmised that there was a cosmic life force, but the idea of a single God with Personality who ruled the earth? Not convinced. He was more comfortable with a divine earth than with a divine creator.
When I shared this with Tony, he said, “Suppose he is right; there is no personal God outside the universe. Who determines right and wrong? What is the basis for morality?”
I had asked my friend about this once, so I had a ready reply. “He would say that the survival of the species is hard-wired into our collective consciousness. What is good for the whole of the universe is the standard for right and wrong.”
“But who decides this?” Tony pressed. “Do you decide? Do I decide? The government? Which government?”
When I affirmed Tony’s point, he continued, “Your friend’s evolutionary hypothesis assumes there is no objective standard for right and wrong. The truth is, questions about good and evil are ultimately irrelevant in your friend’s world view.”
“You seem pretty worked up about this, Tony,” I observed. “Why is that?”
“I’ve heard the argument before,” he said. “We think that we can have an objective standard for morality by merely appealing to the greater good of human consciousness. But this is the forbidden fruit which has made humans a god to themselves. Without a personal God, there is no inherent good or evil, there is no right or wrong. Think about it, Steve: if the universe is amoral, can anything be fundamentally immoral?"
“Ivan and his religious brother were discussing this very issue in ‘The Brothers Karamazov’,” I interjected. “Based upon the injustice in the world, Ivan believed there was no God. But the thought frightened him, for as he said, ‘Without God, everything is permissible.’”
“Exactly,” Tony replied. “Without God, the holocaust is not immoral, and the genocide of Stalin is inevitable. There is no objective morality outside the whim of human fancy, no protection for the weak and defenseless, and no inherent value to human life.
“In fact,” he said with a wave of his cane, “without God, there is nothing to protect the life of a little boy with a bum leg.”
His right leg was stiff. He walked with a cane. Once I got to know him, I hardly noticed it. His quick humor and keen insight quickly captured my affection.
As best I recall, he only spoke about his condition once. We were camping together on the Mogollon Rim. Have you ever noticed that stepping out of the world of asphalt and concrete, and into the world of trees and cool breezes opens your heart and clears your mind? It refreshes the spirit like a dive in a pool on a sweaty hot day.
Anyway, Tony and I were having one of those philosophical discussions that typically emerge in such settings. He was an avid reader and excellent teacher; I always enjoyed our conversations.
I related to him a discussion I had with another friend of mine, who a hard time accepting the existence of a personal God. He surmised that there was a cosmic life force, but the idea of a single God with Personality who ruled the earth? Not convinced. He was more comfortable with a divine earth than with a divine creator.
When I shared this with Tony, he said, “Suppose he is right; there is no personal God outside the universe. Who determines right and wrong? What is the basis for morality?”
I had asked my friend about this once, so I had a ready reply. “He would say that the survival of the species is hard-wired into our collective consciousness. What is good for the whole of the universe is the standard for right and wrong.”
“But who decides this?” Tony pressed. “Do you decide? Do I decide? The government? Which government?”
When I affirmed Tony’s point, he continued, “Your friend’s evolutionary hypothesis assumes there is no objective standard for right and wrong. The truth is, questions about good and evil are ultimately irrelevant in your friend’s world view.”
“You seem pretty worked up about this, Tony,” I observed. “Why is that?”
“I’ve heard the argument before,” he said. “We think that we can have an objective standard for morality by merely appealing to the greater good of human consciousness. But this is the forbidden fruit which has made humans a god to themselves. Without a personal God, there is no inherent good or evil, there is no right or wrong. Think about it, Steve: if the universe is amoral, can anything be fundamentally immoral?"
“Ivan and his religious brother were discussing this very issue in ‘The Brothers Karamazov’,” I interjected. “Based upon the injustice in the world, Ivan believed there was no God. But the thought frightened him, for as he said, ‘Without God, everything is permissible.’”
“Exactly,” Tony replied. “Without God, the holocaust is not immoral, and the genocide of Stalin is inevitable. There is no objective morality outside the whim of human fancy, no protection for the weak and defenseless, and no inherent value to human life.
“In fact,” he said with a wave of his cane, “without God, there is nothing to protect the life of a little boy with a bum leg.”
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Thanks for the Memories
I have always loved Thanksgiving. I don’t know if it is the mild climate, the scrumptious turkey, the fall football, or the family gatherings – I’ll take them all!
Growing up in Lake Havasu City, we’d squeeze the whole family, Mom and Dad, three boys and our little sister, into the ’69 Rambler wagon. Our goal was to reach Phoenix and my uncle’s Moon Valley home by noon.
Upon entering Wickenburg we knew we were only an hour away. Somewhere near the tiny berg of Surprise, we’d make a left on Bell Road and head toward Phoenix. Other than the section that ran through Sun City, most of it was dirt back then.
After arriving, we’d eat dinner somewhere during the end of the Lions game and the beginning of the Cowboys game. I hate to admit it now, but there were few options in Arizona back then: I was a Cowboys fan. Of course, God was a fan, too. The open domed stadium gave him a ring-side seat to cheer on his favorite coach and quarterback, the equally devout Tom Landry and Roger Staubach.
After gathering for a family prayer, we’d devour turkey and ham and all the great stuff that goes with it: mashed potatoes and gravy, cranberry salad, yams, corn, stuffing, and the like. I’d eat until my sides ached, but I always made room for Grandma’s pumpkin pie with a healthy helping of Cool Whip. I still say it is the best I’ve ever had, although my mom, following her recipe, comes pretty close to it.
The men would go through the line first, eating at their own table – or in front of the ballgame. The ladies would go next and eat in the adjacent room. Once my wife-to-be (we’ve been together since we were sixteen) began to join us for these gatherings, we thought this was a great hardship. When we asked about it, the ladies said, “Well, we like to talk about different things.” I didn’t understand it then, but I do now.
Before long, Grandma and Grandpa would sit down to play Rook with whoever was willing to join them. As you no doubt realize, Rook was the only appropriate card game for Christians to play, since its simple, numeric cards were not used for gambling. After all, it was important to avoid all appearance of evil. You never knew what company might arrive unexpectedly at the door.
As a child I would watch them play; later I would squeeze into games when I could. It’s probably the most I ever heard my grandfather speak. Other than his penchant for singing “Oh, Dear, What can the Matter Be?” whenever the mood happened to strike him, he didn’t have much to say.
Late in the evening we’d make cold turkey sandwiches on dinner rolls, perhaps squeezing in another slice of pie. Even today, I think leftover turkey is as good as the hot meal earlier in the day.
The night would loll leisurely on. We’d make small talk (and big talk, too), play games and watch TV. A day or two later, we’d return home. Nothing particularly special: just a family gathering like families do. Now that I think of it, maybe that is pretty special after all. Thanks, family, for the memories.
Growing up in Lake Havasu City, we’d squeeze the whole family, Mom and Dad, three boys and our little sister, into the ’69 Rambler wagon. Our goal was to reach Phoenix and my uncle’s Moon Valley home by noon.
Upon entering Wickenburg we knew we were only an hour away. Somewhere near the tiny berg of Surprise, we’d make a left on Bell Road and head toward Phoenix. Other than the section that ran through Sun City, most of it was dirt back then.
After arriving, we’d eat dinner somewhere during the end of the Lions game and the beginning of the Cowboys game. I hate to admit it now, but there were few options in Arizona back then: I was a Cowboys fan. Of course, God was a fan, too. The open domed stadium gave him a ring-side seat to cheer on his favorite coach and quarterback, the equally devout Tom Landry and Roger Staubach.
After gathering for a family prayer, we’d devour turkey and ham and all the great stuff that goes with it: mashed potatoes and gravy, cranberry salad, yams, corn, stuffing, and the like. I’d eat until my sides ached, but I always made room for Grandma’s pumpkin pie with a healthy helping of Cool Whip. I still say it is the best I’ve ever had, although my mom, following her recipe, comes pretty close to it.
The men would go through the line first, eating at their own table – or in front of the ballgame. The ladies would go next and eat in the adjacent room. Once my wife-to-be (we’ve been together since we were sixteen) began to join us for these gatherings, we thought this was a great hardship. When we asked about it, the ladies said, “Well, we like to talk about different things.” I didn’t understand it then, but I do now.
Before long, Grandma and Grandpa would sit down to play Rook with whoever was willing to join them. As you no doubt realize, Rook was the only appropriate card game for Christians to play, since its simple, numeric cards were not used for gambling. After all, it was important to avoid all appearance of evil. You never knew what company might arrive unexpectedly at the door.
As a child I would watch them play; later I would squeeze into games when I could. It’s probably the most I ever heard my grandfather speak. Other than his penchant for singing “Oh, Dear, What can the Matter Be?” whenever the mood happened to strike him, he didn’t have much to say.
Late in the evening we’d make cold turkey sandwiches on dinner rolls, perhaps squeezing in another slice of pie. Even today, I think leftover turkey is as good as the hot meal earlier in the day.
The night would loll leisurely on. We’d make small talk (and big talk, too), play games and watch TV. A day or two later, we’d return home. Nothing particularly special: just a family gathering like families do. Now that I think of it, maybe that is pretty special after all. Thanks, family, for the memories.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Marital Muse
The picture commanded a torrent of memories. How old was she? Twenty-five, he guessed.
He remembered those blue jeans like yesterday. High on the waist, loose on the hips, straight down the leg, folded at the ankle…. Her waist-length golden brown hair rested casually over her shoulders, nesting on the tan knit vest and short-sleeved shirt. It must have been late summer, early fall.
Hoisted upon her waist, in her favorite purple overalls, was their two-year-old daughter. They waved to the camera in the phony style of a princess on the back of a convertible, both sporting an impish grin. He had forgotten how bald she was. Still, no one ever mistook her for a boy; her beautiful eyes gave her away even as an infant.
They stood in the kitchen of the country farmhouse where they lived while he was in graduate school. Linoleum flooring, Formica countertops, painted cabinets -- he loved that home. He smiled as he thought of its crooked floors. What a time he had jimmying the fridge so the door would close! He could still taste the sulfur smell of the well water dripping from the sink behind them. He felt like Helen Keller every time he cranked the pump out back.
He stumbled across the long-forgotten photograph while cleaning a box in the closet. His throat thickened as he recalled the innocence and simple joy of their brief country life. Life was good back then.
Within three years, they were divorced. What happened to their idyllic marriage? How did they grow so distant so rapidly? He hardly remembered anymore. No cataclysmic event forced their hand. They simply drifted apart. Communication dried up. Joy evaporated. Their relationship felt beyond repair. They broke up.
Life since then had been good to both of them. She had two more children in her next marriage. She seemed happy. He was glad for that. He had some rough spots, but after several years of being alone he married someone with two children of her own. He loved his wife and step children and, generally, had no regrets.
Until today. Finding that picture unleashed a flood of unexpected thoughts and feelings. He wondered what might have been. What other children might they have had if they had stayed together? Would the little girl in the picture have had a sister or brother? He felt guilty for the thought.
What would it have been like to have his daughter always at home, rather than face the delicate balancing act of alternating schedules? How difficult was it for her to juggle two separate homes? How much of her growing up years had he missed despite his best efforts to stay active in her life?
When they broke up twenty years ago, all they could see was the insurmountable challenge of salvaging their relationship. Fearing a lifetime of unhappiness, they made the best decision they could. He knew now that the ramifications of their decision had been much greater than he had imagined. He quietly admitted to himself that their problems hadn’t been as catastrophic as they had appeared at close range.
Tomorrow was his daughter’s wedding day. She was twenty-five years old, just as her mother was in the picture he now held in his hand. He would proudly walk her down the aisle and tearfully say, “Her Mother and I” when the minister asked the question. He would offer a strong hand to his new son and a gentle kiss to his beloved daughter.
He would not say it, but he would certainly think it: “Dear children, please do not be as short-sighted as your mother and I were. Twenty years from now, when you stumble across the pictures of this day, may it bring you tears of joy, not pangs of regret.”
He remembered those blue jeans like yesterday. High on the waist, loose on the hips, straight down the leg, folded at the ankle…. Her waist-length golden brown hair rested casually over her shoulders, nesting on the tan knit vest and short-sleeved shirt. It must have been late summer, early fall.
Hoisted upon her waist, in her favorite purple overalls, was their two-year-old daughter. They waved to the camera in the phony style of a princess on the back of a convertible, both sporting an impish grin. He had forgotten how bald she was. Still, no one ever mistook her for a boy; her beautiful eyes gave her away even as an infant.
They stood in the kitchen of the country farmhouse where they lived while he was in graduate school. Linoleum flooring, Formica countertops, painted cabinets -- he loved that home. He smiled as he thought of its crooked floors. What a time he had jimmying the fridge so the door would close! He could still taste the sulfur smell of the well water dripping from the sink behind them. He felt like Helen Keller every time he cranked the pump out back.
He stumbled across the long-forgotten photograph while cleaning a box in the closet. His throat thickened as he recalled the innocence and simple joy of their brief country life. Life was good back then.
Within three years, they were divorced. What happened to their idyllic marriage? How did they grow so distant so rapidly? He hardly remembered anymore. No cataclysmic event forced their hand. They simply drifted apart. Communication dried up. Joy evaporated. Their relationship felt beyond repair. They broke up.
Life since then had been good to both of them. She had two more children in her next marriage. She seemed happy. He was glad for that. He had some rough spots, but after several years of being alone he married someone with two children of her own. He loved his wife and step children and, generally, had no regrets.
Until today. Finding that picture unleashed a flood of unexpected thoughts and feelings. He wondered what might have been. What other children might they have had if they had stayed together? Would the little girl in the picture have had a sister or brother? He felt guilty for the thought.
What would it have been like to have his daughter always at home, rather than face the delicate balancing act of alternating schedules? How difficult was it for her to juggle two separate homes? How much of her growing up years had he missed despite his best efforts to stay active in her life?
When they broke up twenty years ago, all they could see was the insurmountable challenge of salvaging their relationship. Fearing a lifetime of unhappiness, they made the best decision they could. He knew now that the ramifications of their decision had been much greater than he had imagined. He quietly admitted to himself that their problems hadn’t been as catastrophic as they had appeared at close range.
Tomorrow was his daughter’s wedding day. She was twenty-five years old, just as her mother was in the picture he now held in his hand. He would proudly walk her down the aisle and tearfully say, “Her Mother and I” when the minister asked the question. He would offer a strong hand to his new son and a gentle kiss to his beloved daughter.
He would not say it, but he would certainly think it: “Dear children, please do not be as short-sighted as your mother and I were. Twenty years from now, when you stumble across the pictures of this day, may it bring you tears of joy, not pangs of regret.”
Saturday, November 03, 2007
Carpe Diem
In the movie "Shawshank Redemption," Red speaks about Brooks, his beloved inmate friend. After a lifetime in prison, he was released -- only to take his own life. He couldn’t live on the outside. “Brooks is just institutionalized," Red mused.
This is the sad state of many Christ followers. We have been “institutionalized.” Set free from the sentence of death, we have never learned how to live. Our lives lack joy, passion and peace. Sins continue to imprison us. We circle our wagons and decry the sad state of affairs on the outside. Like the sincere but misguided saints in "Babette's Feast" we are content to wait out their days until Jesus returns. We are institutionalized, and we like it that way.
Another of my favorite movies is "The Dead Poet’s Society." John Keating is the new teacher a stuffy private school. In his first class meeting he asks his students to read aloud the introduction of their poetry textbook. After they have done so, he demands that they rip the page right out of the book.
Keating explains to his startled students, "We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for."
He wants them to discover that poetry is not a “paint by numbers” affair. It is not formulaic and pedantic, as the textbook suggests, but that it is … life. And life, he wants them to see, is not merely biology; it is passion, beauty, pain, joy, love. “Seize the day boys,” he says, “make your lives extraordinary.” Carpe diem.
Implicit in these cinematic stories is a powerful message for the follower of Jesus Christ. Pardoned from the sentence of death, we are set free to -- how shall I say it? We are set free to live!
We honor Christ’s death and resurrection not merely by avoiding sin, but also by drinking deeply from the “wells of living water” which Jesus says he came to offer. After all, didn’t he say, “I came that they might have life, and have it to the full?”
In celebration of your freedom, then, live life fully. Love passionately. Celebrate riotously. Risk precipitously. Laugh uproariously. Cry unashamedly. Give abundantly. Dream impossibly.
When it rains, jump in the puddles. When you come to a fork in the road -- take it! (Apologies to Yogi.)
I don’t know what that means for you in this moment. It may mean telling someone that you love them. It may mean repenting of your sin and receiving his grace. It may mean letting go of the bitterness which consumes you. Or it might mean letting go of selfishness and embracing love.
It might mean painting a picture, writing a story, or taking a hike up Black Mountain. I don’t know what it is. But I'm sure that if you listen carefully to that little voice inside you, you will know.
Carpe diem!
"To Life!"
This is the sad state of many Christ followers. We have been “institutionalized.” Set free from the sentence of death, we have never learned how to live. Our lives lack joy, passion and peace. Sins continue to imprison us. We circle our wagons and decry the sad state of affairs on the outside. Like the sincere but misguided saints in "Babette's Feast" we are content to wait out their days until Jesus returns. We are institutionalized, and we like it that way.
Another of my favorite movies is "The Dead Poet’s Society." John Keating is the new teacher a stuffy private school. In his first class meeting he asks his students to read aloud the introduction of their poetry textbook. After they have done so, he demands that they rip the page right out of the book.
Keating explains to his startled students, "We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for."
He wants them to discover that poetry is not a “paint by numbers” affair. It is not formulaic and pedantic, as the textbook suggests, but that it is … life. And life, he wants them to see, is not merely biology; it is passion, beauty, pain, joy, love. “Seize the day boys,” he says, “make your lives extraordinary.” Carpe diem.
Implicit in these cinematic stories is a powerful message for the follower of Jesus Christ. Pardoned from the sentence of death, we are set free to -- how shall I say it? We are set free to live!
We honor Christ’s death and resurrection not merely by avoiding sin, but also by drinking deeply from the “wells of living water” which Jesus says he came to offer. After all, didn’t he say, “I came that they might have life, and have it to the full?”
In celebration of your freedom, then, live life fully. Love passionately. Celebrate riotously. Risk precipitously. Laugh uproariously. Cry unashamedly. Give abundantly. Dream impossibly.
When it rains, jump in the puddles. When you come to a fork in the road -- take it! (Apologies to Yogi.)
I don’t know what that means for you in this moment. It may mean telling someone that you love them. It may mean repenting of your sin and receiving his grace. It may mean letting go of the bitterness which consumes you. Or it might mean letting go of selfishness and embracing love.
It might mean painting a picture, writing a story, or taking a hike up Black Mountain. I don’t know what it is. But I'm sure that if you listen carefully to that little voice inside you, you will know.
Carpe diem!
"To Life!"
Friday, October 26, 2007
Straight Talk
All right, brothers and sisters, it’s time for some straight talk.
If you are serious about following Jesus, you will be active in a local church. Otherwise, you are only playing pretend. Period.
The idea that you can follow Jesus without being part of a local fellowship of believers? Forget it. It’s not in the Bible.
I’m not saying you’re not a Christian. I’m not questioning your faith. I am saying you ought to be in a church.
What we self-absorbed, Lone Ranger-type, pick yourself up from the bootstraps, individualistic, consumer-driven Americans often forget is this: Jesus didn’t just die to rescue individuals; he died to create a new community. Whether you like it or nor, when you committed your life to following Jesus, you became part of a family.
Other than that famous thief who died on a cross – and he had a pretty good excuse – there is no hint, not even a whisper, of anyone who followed Jesus without being part of a local gathering of Christ-followers.
“Love one another. Admonish one another. Encourage one another. Bear one another’s burdens. Pray for one another.” These are not suggestions. They are directives, and they can only be fulfilled in the context of Christian community. If nothing else, committing to a local gathering of believers is a matter of obedience, plain and simple.
Yes, the church is flawed. Like every family it has its dysfunction. It is politicized, institutionalized and stultified. We are critical, judgmental and hypocritical. It's not a pretty sight.
Still, the church is the Bride of Christ and, if I were you, I’d be careful what I said about her, no matter how homely she might appear to you. According to the Bible, Jesus “nourishes and cherishes” the church. He loves his Bride, and so should you.
In every American community there are churches of all shapes and sorts. This is not a mistake: it is part of the beauty of God’s design. God paints in a kaleidoscope of colors. Everything he creates is filled with variety and beauty. Even the reclusive Gila monster has a colorful coat!
It stands to reason that the church – Christ’s beloved bride -- would display a magnificent mosaic of contrasts and apparent contradictions. The beauty is not in its sameness, but in its differences. So long as a church affirms the authority of the Scriptures, the resurrection of Jesus Christ, and the message of grace, let it wear whatever coat it likes.
Find the one that you like best and make it your home. Stop being a prodigal child to your spiritual family. Determine that you will submit to its leadership, forgive it for its failures, and love it through thick and through thin. After all, isn’t that what families do?
If you cannot find a church that meets your standards, choose the one you find least objectionable and inflict yourself on them. Then stay put. You probably deserve each other.
“Let us not give up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing…” (Hebrews 10:25).
If you are serious about following Jesus, you will be active in a local church. Otherwise, you are only playing pretend. Period.
The idea that you can follow Jesus without being part of a local fellowship of believers? Forget it. It’s not in the Bible.
I’m not saying you’re not a Christian. I’m not questioning your faith. I am saying you ought to be in a church.
What we self-absorbed, Lone Ranger-type, pick yourself up from the bootstraps, individualistic, consumer-driven Americans often forget is this: Jesus didn’t just die to rescue individuals; he died to create a new community. Whether you like it or nor, when you committed your life to following Jesus, you became part of a family.
Other than that famous thief who died on a cross – and he had a pretty good excuse – there is no hint, not even a whisper, of anyone who followed Jesus without being part of a local gathering of Christ-followers.
“Love one another. Admonish one another. Encourage one another. Bear one another’s burdens. Pray for one another.” These are not suggestions. They are directives, and they can only be fulfilled in the context of Christian community. If nothing else, committing to a local gathering of believers is a matter of obedience, plain and simple.
Yes, the church is flawed. Like every family it has its dysfunction. It is politicized, institutionalized and stultified. We are critical, judgmental and hypocritical. It's not a pretty sight.
Still, the church is the Bride of Christ and, if I were you, I’d be careful what I said about her, no matter how homely she might appear to you. According to the Bible, Jesus “nourishes and cherishes” the church. He loves his Bride, and so should you.
In every American community there are churches of all shapes and sorts. This is not a mistake: it is part of the beauty of God’s design. God paints in a kaleidoscope of colors. Everything he creates is filled with variety and beauty. Even the reclusive Gila monster has a colorful coat!
It stands to reason that the church – Christ’s beloved bride -- would display a magnificent mosaic of contrasts and apparent contradictions. The beauty is not in its sameness, but in its differences. So long as a church affirms the authority of the Scriptures, the resurrection of Jesus Christ, and the message of grace, let it wear whatever coat it likes.
Find the one that you like best and make it your home. Stop being a prodigal child to your spiritual family. Determine that you will submit to its leadership, forgive it for its failures, and love it through thick and through thin. After all, isn’t that what families do?
If you cannot find a church that meets your standards, choose the one you find least objectionable and inflict yourself on them. Then stay put. You probably deserve each other.
“Let us not give up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing…” (Hebrews 10:25).
Friday, October 19, 2007
Nothing Less, Nothing More
James had a problem, and it was about to split the church.
The good news was that hundreds of new people were beginning to follow Jesus. The bad news was that they were not the right kind of people.
No one doubted their sincerity. No one questioned their devotion. However, their habits were disgusting. Their hygiene was despicable. Their respect for the traditions which had birthed their faith? Deplorable.
Most people wanted them to clean up their act before being welcomed as bona fide church members. After all, for generations a definite separation had existed between them, affirmed and perpetuated by both sides. It was hard enough to accept them at all – couldn’t they at least clean up a little?
A church meeting was called to resolve their differences. Respected leaders from around the country arrived to state their case. For several hours, James carefully listened to both sides.
“The same God who sent Jesus gave us the rules of our behavior. God is not inconsistent. These new believers must follow our old ways, or we must not accept them into fellowship,” said one contingent.
Their argument was attractive. For centuries they had observed a carefully prescribed regiment of behavior. Shouldn’t these new believers be expected to follow suit with a thousand years of religious tradition? What kind of chaos would result if they didn’t?
“But don’t you see?” interjected the opposing side. “Jesus fulfilled our rigorous religious tradition. His sacrifice satisfied the requirements of our laws. If we demand obedience to our old ways, we diminish the value of Jesus’ sacrifice. The message of grace is lost. Either faith in Jesus is sufficient, or faith in Jesus futile.”
This was the essence of the difficulty. As important as the venerated traditions were, they were secondary to the message of grace.
Peter, a good friend of James’, stated it best. “We believe that it is through the grace of our Lord Jesus that we are saved, just as they are. Why burden them with rules that we ourselves couldn’t bear?”
It was time to put an end to the debate. Sensing the gravity of the situation, and accepting his responsibility as the accepted leader of the new movement, James asked for the floor. He paused a moment to gather his thoughts.
“We should not make it difficult for those who are turning to God,” he said. “For the sake of unity we will ask them to observe some guidelines, but we will not require them to adopt our religious traditions in order to become followers of Jesus. The message of grace will stand alone.”
Thank you, James. Despite the pressure of your peers and your personal discomfort, you took a stand for what was right. You discerned what was at stake: if it was Jesus AND something else, the gospel would be compromised. Faith in Jesus ALONE was to be the hallmark of this fledgling movement.
With grace and courage, you forged a path for people of every race and nation to follow Jesus in the context of their own culture. You made concessions on things which mattered less, but you held fast to that which mattered most. Oh, for similar wisdom today. God knows we need it.
The good news was that hundreds of new people were beginning to follow Jesus. The bad news was that they were not the right kind of people.
No one doubted their sincerity. No one questioned their devotion. However, their habits were disgusting. Their hygiene was despicable. Their respect for the traditions which had birthed their faith? Deplorable.
Most people wanted them to clean up their act before being welcomed as bona fide church members. After all, for generations a definite separation had existed between them, affirmed and perpetuated by both sides. It was hard enough to accept them at all – couldn’t they at least clean up a little?
A church meeting was called to resolve their differences. Respected leaders from around the country arrived to state their case. For several hours, James carefully listened to both sides.
“The same God who sent Jesus gave us the rules of our behavior. God is not inconsistent. These new believers must follow our old ways, or we must not accept them into fellowship,” said one contingent.
Their argument was attractive. For centuries they had observed a carefully prescribed regiment of behavior. Shouldn’t these new believers be expected to follow suit with a thousand years of religious tradition? What kind of chaos would result if they didn’t?
“But don’t you see?” interjected the opposing side. “Jesus fulfilled our rigorous religious tradition. His sacrifice satisfied the requirements of our laws. If we demand obedience to our old ways, we diminish the value of Jesus’ sacrifice. The message of grace is lost. Either faith in Jesus is sufficient, or faith in Jesus futile.”
This was the essence of the difficulty. As important as the venerated traditions were, they were secondary to the message of grace.
Peter, a good friend of James’, stated it best. “We believe that it is through the grace of our Lord Jesus that we are saved, just as they are. Why burden them with rules that we ourselves couldn’t bear?”
It was time to put an end to the debate. Sensing the gravity of the situation, and accepting his responsibility as the accepted leader of the new movement, James asked for the floor. He paused a moment to gather his thoughts.
“We should not make it difficult for those who are turning to God,” he said. “For the sake of unity we will ask them to observe some guidelines, but we will not require them to adopt our religious traditions in order to become followers of Jesus. The message of grace will stand alone.”
Thank you, James. Despite the pressure of your peers and your personal discomfort, you took a stand for what was right. You discerned what was at stake: if it was Jesus AND something else, the gospel would be compromised. Faith in Jesus ALONE was to be the hallmark of this fledgling movement.
With grace and courage, you forged a path for people of every race and nation to follow Jesus in the context of their own culture. You made concessions on things which mattered less, but you held fast to that which mattered most. Oh, for similar wisdom today. God knows we need it.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
The World Serious
Watching Cleveland in the playoffs is a huge memory jolt. In a story I’ve recorded here previously, my ten year old son and me had the privilege of attending a World Series game there in 1997.
It was a gift from Major League Baseball – a prize I won when my wife entered me into a contest while we attended an Arizona Fall League game in Scottsdale. All I had to do was throw a strike between innings of a game. It took me two tries, but I did it, and three days later we boarded a plane for Cleveland.
As you might imagine, it was the experience of a lifetime. Die-hard fans may recall that it was the coldest World Series game in history, even boasting a light skiff of snow. Despite the last-minute purchase of a blanket in Cleveland, we were embarrassingly unprepared for the cold weather. The kind gentleman next to us bought my son a cup of hot chocolate.
Cleveland fans went home happy with a convincing victory. Bryan Anderson and Matt Williams, soon to join the fledgling Diamondbacks franchise, both played prominent roles in the game.
My son and I had a great time on that trip. As you might imagine, we experienced it somewhat differently from one another. For him, there were no worries, only the wonder and joy of attending the biggest game of the year with his Dad. Everything caught his attention: falling snowflakes, roaring crowd, thrilling ballgame, cool train rides, smoky hot chocolate – you name it, he enjoyed it.
For me, although I enjoyed the experience immensely, there was an added level of pressure about which he had no clue. I had been given very little instruction by Major League Baseball. I was to take a train to the team hotel, ask for tickets, get to the ballpark, and find my way to a different hotel following the game.
A flood questions formed the background noise to my experience. “Where do I go to find tickets at the hotel? What if my name is not listed? How will we get to the ballpark from there? How will I find the hotel where we are staying ? We’re going to freeze! Where can I find a blanket?”
I was extremely careful to keep these issues out of my son’s purview. He was a ten year old kid going to Cleveland to watch a World Series game with his dad. Why should he fret? His dad was right next to him. He’d take care of things.
In the ten years since that memorable trip, I have reflected about it as a parable for my own relationship with God. All too often I behave more like the father than the son as I navigate my way through life. My way is filled with difficult decisions, uncertain futures, complicated connections. What if I make a bad decision? How will I fix things when I do?
How much better it would be if I remembered that I am the son, not the father. My Father will keep me out of harm’s way. He’ll make sure I get to where I need to be. If I make a mistake, he’ll work things out. As long as I am with him, why worry?
One day Jesus’ disciples asked him, “Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?” I wonder what kind of answer they were expecting. Maybe they thought one of them would be commended for their faith. Or perhaps there was a well-known teacher or holy man or historical figure that had caught their fancy. Who knows what they thought?
Imagine their surprise when, instead, Jesus did this: He called a little child and had him stand among them. (Jesus had a flair for the dramatic.) “Whoever humbles himself like this child,” he said, “is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 18:4).
It was a gift from Major League Baseball – a prize I won when my wife entered me into a contest while we attended an Arizona Fall League game in Scottsdale. All I had to do was throw a strike between innings of a game. It took me two tries, but I did it, and three days later we boarded a plane for Cleveland.
As you might imagine, it was the experience of a lifetime. Die-hard fans may recall that it was the coldest World Series game in history, even boasting a light skiff of snow. Despite the last-minute purchase of a blanket in Cleveland, we were embarrassingly unprepared for the cold weather. The kind gentleman next to us bought my son a cup of hot chocolate.
Cleveland fans went home happy with a convincing victory. Bryan Anderson and Matt Williams, soon to join the fledgling Diamondbacks franchise, both played prominent roles in the game.
My son and I had a great time on that trip. As you might imagine, we experienced it somewhat differently from one another. For him, there were no worries, only the wonder and joy of attending the biggest game of the year with his Dad. Everything caught his attention: falling snowflakes, roaring crowd, thrilling ballgame, cool train rides, smoky hot chocolate – you name it, he enjoyed it.
For me, although I enjoyed the experience immensely, there was an added level of pressure about which he had no clue. I had been given very little instruction by Major League Baseball. I was to take a train to the team hotel, ask for tickets, get to the ballpark, and find my way to a different hotel following the game.
A flood questions formed the background noise to my experience. “Where do I go to find tickets at the hotel? What if my name is not listed? How will we get to the ballpark from there? How will I find the hotel where we are staying ? We’re going to freeze! Where can I find a blanket?”
I was extremely careful to keep these issues out of my son’s purview. He was a ten year old kid going to Cleveland to watch a World Series game with his dad. Why should he fret? His dad was right next to him. He’d take care of things.
In the ten years since that memorable trip, I have reflected about it as a parable for my own relationship with God. All too often I behave more like the father than the son as I navigate my way through life. My way is filled with difficult decisions, uncertain futures, complicated connections. What if I make a bad decision? How will I fix things when I do?
How much better it would be if I remembered that I am the son, not the father. My Father will keep me out of harm’s way. He’ll make sure I get to where I need to be. If I make a mistake, he’ll work things out. As long as I am with him, why worry?
One day Jesus’ disciples asked him, “Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?” I wonder what kind of answer they were expecting. Maybe they thought one of them would be commended for their faith. Or perhaps there was a well-known teacher or holy man or historical figure that had caught their fancy. Who knows what they thought?
Imagine their surprise when, instead, Jesus did this: He called a little child and had him stand among them. (Jesus had a flair for the dramatic.) “Whoever humbles himself like this child,” he said, “is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 18:4).
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Idiot's Muse
Writing during a period of philosophical and spiritual upheaval in Russia in the latter nineteenth century, Fyodor Dostoevsky brilliantly depicted the futility of a world view which marginalized God.
I first read him as a young college student. Wading through “The Brothers Karamazov,” my primary motivation was to complete the weekly reading requirement as painlessly as possible. Only later did I realize the brilliance of his portrayal of the three brothers, the spiritual Alyosha, the sensual Dmitri, and the intellectual Ivan. Each one, in his own way, was responsible for their father’s murder.
A Christian himself (admittedly, not a perfect one, like you!), Dostoevsky was once challenged to write a novel expressing the results of Christian worldview in contemporary culture. His classic novel, “The Idiot,” is the result. The protagonist’s name is Prince Myshkin, an epileptic who represents the ways of Jesus in the world.
In many ways, Prince is too good for the world. Unerringly loving, honest and generous, trusting to a fault, the world spits him up and chews him out. It is a fascinating portrait, and raises the question: “Is Dostoevsky right? Is the Jesus way so out of step with our dog-eat-dog world that it invariably leads to misunderstanding and suffering?”
I want to say that Dostoevsky is wrong. I’d like to believe that living for Jesus brings blessing: spiritual, physical, financial, sociological. I’ve certainly heard a lot of sermons to that effect!
But it’s hard to find supportive evidence for this in the New Testament. “In the world you shall have tribulation,” Jesus said (John 16:33). The Apostle Paul confessed, “Everyone who wants to live a godly life in Christ Jesus will be persecuted” (2 Timothy 3:12). The Apostle Peter affirmed, “To this you were called, because Christ suffered for you, leaving you an example, that you should follow in his steps” (1 Peter 2:21).
There are those who believe that suffering is to be expected in other countries, but that due to its accommodation to religion, America is relatively exempt. To which I muse, “Who has accommodated whom?”
By any honest appraisal, Christianity simply is not the salt and light to American culture that Jesus imagined. As Lot “pitched his tent toward Sodom,” American Christianity has too comfortably aligned itself with the gods of our day: money, sex, and power.
Could it be that we fail to take the teachings of Scripture and the lifestyle of Jesus seriously? Are we afraid of being thought an “idiot” by our culture? Are we so busy seeking an abundant life that we’ve neglected the “dying to self” part?
In “The Idiot,” Myshkin says, “The world will be saved by beauty.” However, the integrity and beauty of his own life is unable to overcome the moral vacuity around him. Apparently, Dostoevsky believed that although the world would crush honest to goodness goodness, it was still the right way to live.
While I admire his philosophical integrity, I’m not certain I share his pessimistic point of view. It seems to me that as salt preserves, and as light penetrates, living according to the principles of Jesus has a redemptive effect on society. It happened in the first century; it can happen in the twenty-first.
However, as long as followers of Jesus (myself included) are content to fritter away their lives in the pursuit of pleasure, possessions and power, we’ll never know, will we?
I first read him as a young college student. Wading through “The Brothers Karamazov,” my primary motivation was to complete the weekly reading requirement as painlessly as possible. Only later did I realize the brilliance of his portrayal of the three brothers, the spiritual Alyosha, the sensual Dmitri, and the intellectual Ivan. Each one, in his own way, was responsible for their father’s murder.
A Christian himself (admittedly, not a perfect one, like you!), Dostoevsky was once challenged to write a novel expressing the results of Christian worldview in contemporary culture. His classic novel, “The Idiot,” is the result. The protagonist’s name is Prince Myshkin, an epileptic who represents the ways of Jesus in the world.
In many ways, Prince is too good for the world. Unerringly loving, honest and generous, trusting to a fault, the world spits him up and chews him out. It is a fascinating portrait, and raises the question: “Is Dostoevsky right? Is the Jesus way so out of step with our dog-eat-dog world that it invariably leads to misunderstanding and suffering?”
I want to say that Dostoevsky is wrong. I’d like to believe that living for Jesus brings blessing: spiritual, physical, financial, sociological. I’ve certainly heard a lot of sermons to that effect!
But it’s hard to find supportive evidence for this in the New Testament. “In the world you shall have tribulation,” Jesus said (John 16:33). The Apostle Paul confessed, “Everyone who wants to live a godly life in Christ Jesus will be persecuted” (2 Timothy 3:12). The Apostle Peter affirmed, “To this you were called, because Christ suffered for you, leaving you an example, that you should follow in his steps” (1 Peter 2:21).
There are those who believe that suffering is to be expected in other countries, but that due to its accommodation to religion, America is relatively exempt. To which I muse, “Who has accommodated whom?”
By any honest appraisal, Christianity simply is not the salt and light to American culture that Jesus imagined. As Lot “pitched his tent toward Sodom,” American Christianity has too comfortably aligned itself with the gods of our day: money, sex, and power.
Could it be that we fail to take the teachings of Scripture and the lifestyle of Jesus seriously? Are we afraid of being thought an “idiot” by our culture? Are we so busy seeking an abundant life that we’ve neglected the “dying to self” part?
In “The Idiot,” Myshkin says, “The world will be saved by beauty.” However, the integrity and beauty of his own life is unable to overcome the moral vacuity around him. Apparently, Dostoevsky believed that although the world would crush honest to goodness goodness, it was still the right way to live.
While I admire his philosophical integrity, I’m not certain I share his pessimistic point of view. It seems to me that as salt preserves, and as light penetrates, living according to the principles of Jesus has a redemptive effect on society. It happened in the first century; it can happen in the twenty-first.
However, as long as followers of Jesus (myself included) are content to fritter away their lives in the pursuit of pleasure, possessions and power, we’ll never know, will we?
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Baseball Gods
On the one hand, my editor wants this article by a certain date and time. She wants to make sure that everything fits, that nothing is objectionable, that all the words are spelled correctly, and that obfuscation is eschewed.
I have no problem with that. In fact, I am grateful someone is willing and able to correct my mistakes before they become public knowledge. If only that were the case for the rest of my life!
But this week is different. There are more important issues at stake. As much as I’d like to, I simply cannot turn this article in on time.
I must make sure I do not offend the baseball gods. Everyone knows that you cannot tempt fate. If you are so brash as to make assumptions about what will happen next, sure enough, the baseball gods will come crashing down to exact vengeance.
So as much as I’d like to meet deadline, I just can’t. If I dare to write as if the Diamondbacks had reached the postseason before it actually happens, it most definitely will not happen. And it will be my fault.
Jose Valverde is on the mound. He’s struggling. You can always tell. When he is confident he struts like a proud rooster awaiting his next conquest. When he’s not, his shoulders sag, his paunch extends, and he looks like he wants his mommy.
Two consecutive walks. Daron Sutton has already tempted fate by revealing that, since the Mets lost, the Diamondbacks postseason berth is secure if they hold on to win.
“Shut up, Daron!” I scream to the television. This is not the time to worry about that. There are still two outs to get. The Rockies’ winning run is at the plate. It does not look good. I’m feeling guilty for starting this article early.
Just when I think all hope is lost, Valverde pulls it together. He strikes out the final two batters. Diamondbacks win! We’re going to the postseason! The baseball gods are not angry with us. I will not have to do penance.
Have you ever considered how utterly illogical it is to assume that superstition has anything to do with the outcome of a sporting event? Why is it that, as enlightened as we are, we still behave like savages at the whim and fancy of unpredictable gods when it comes to sports?
If you believe what the Bible says about these things, our superstitions reveal something about the collective human condition. In virtually every religion outside the Judeo-Christian tradition, religious ritual is an attempt to appease the gods. From Marduk’s conquest of Kingu, to Odysseus’ quest, we find this theme in ancient religions.
But it doesn’t stop there. Whether it’s the pantheon of gods in Hinduism, the eightfold path of Buddhism, or the five pillars of Islam, all of these reflect the notion that there is something humans can do to put themselves on good footing with the Deity or deities. Humans can effect their own salvation.
Only in Christianity do we find the exception. In the person of Jesus, grace trumps karma. God’s wrath is not appeased by the religious devotion of faithful adherents, but by the voluntary sacrifice of his own Son. Salvation is not a status to achieve by good deeds; rather, it is a gift to receive by faith. God will not be manipulated by our devotion, no matter how earnest we are.
When it comes to my eternal destiny, I believe this truth with all my heart. But I’m not so sure when it comes to baseball. I dare not tempt the baseball gods. I just hope the newspaper goddess is merciful.
I have no problem with that. In fact, I am grateful someone is willing and able to correct my mistakes before they become public knowledge. If only that were the case for the rest of my life!
But this week is different. There are more important issues at stake. As much as I’d like to, I simply cannot turn this article in on time.
I must make sure I do not offend the baseball gods. Everyone knows that you cannot tempt fate. If you are so brash as to make assumptions about what will happen next, sure enough, the baseball gods will come crashing down to exact vengeance.
So as much as I’d like to meet deadline, I just can’t. If I dare to write as if the Diamondbacks had reached the postseason before it actually happens, it most definitely will not happen. And it will be my fault.
Jose Valverde is on the mound. He’s struggling. You can always tell. When he is confident he struts like a proud rooster awaiting his next conquest. When he’s not, his shoulders sag, his paunch extends, and he looks like he wants his mommy.
Two consecutive walks. Daron Sutton has already tempted fate by revealing that, since the Mets lost, the Diamondbacks postseason berth is secure if they hold on to win.
“Shut up, Daron!” I scream to the television. This is not the time to worry about that. There are still two outs to get. The Rockies’ winning run is at the plate. It does not look good. I’m feeling guilty for starting this article early.
Just when I think all hope is lost, Valverde pulls it together. He strikes out the final two batters. Diamondbacks win! We’re going to the postseason! The baseball gods are not angry with us. I will not have to do penance.
Have you ever considered how utterly illogical it is to assume that superstition has anything to do with the outcome of a sporting event? Why is it that, as enlightened as we are, we still behave like savages at the whim and fancy of unpredictable gods when it comes to sports?
If you believe what the Bible says about these things, our superstitions reveal something about the collective human condition. In virtually every religion outside the Judeo-Christian tradition, religious ritual is an attempt to appease the gods. From Marduk’s conquest of Kingu, to Odysseus’ quest, we find this theme in ancient religions.
But it doesn’t stop there. Whether it’s the pantheon of gods in Hinduism, the eightfold path of Buddhism, or the five pillars of Islam, all of these reflect the notion that there is something humans can do to put themselves on good footing with the Deity or deities. Humans can effect their own salvation.
Only in Christianity do we find the exception. In the person of Jesus, grace trumps karma. God’s wrath is not appeased by the religious devotion of faithful adherents, but by the voluntary sacrifice of his own Son. Salvation is not a status to achieve by good deeds; rather, it is a gift to receive by faith. God will not be manipulated by our devotion, no matter how earnest we are.
When it comes to my eternal destiny, I believe this truth with all my heart. But I’m not so sure when it comes to baseball. I dare not tempt the baseball gods. I just hope the newspaper goddess is merciful.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
To Free or Not to Free
Ivan gave his brother a penetrating look. “The question is this: is freedom a gift or a curse?”
“Are you serious? Of course it’s a gift!” The provocative question unnerved Alvin. Why would anyone question the value of freedom?
“Be careful what you wish for,” Ivan cautioned. “For if you embrace the gift of freedom, you can no longer blame God for evil. You can’t have it both ways.”
Alvin was incredulous. “Wait a minute! How does freedom let God off the hook?”
This was a sensitive issue for both of them. They had lost their sixteen-year-old sister to a drunk driver ten years ago. Traveling home from a football game, someone crossed the center lane and killed her. Alvin had been angry at God ever since.
“Either God was not powerful enough to stop her death, or he was not loving enough to prevent it,” Alvin contended. “Either way, count me out.” And so he had.
“No joke. Are you serious? Is there really a connection between freedom and evil?” Alvin asked.
“Let’s suppose, for example, that you remain angry with God,” Ivan answered. “You don’t betray God altogether, but you keep him on the periphery of your life. You agree that you have the freedom to do that, don’t you?”
“Absolutely,” Alvin responded. “Freedom is what makes us fundamentally human. Without it, we are little more than intelligent apes.”
“Right. Now let’s assume that your one of your children develops a drinking problem. He gets in a car when he shouldn’t and before you know it, he has repeated the accident that took our sister’s life.
“Here is the big question. Whose fault is it?”
Alvin paused. He could see where this was leading. If the accident was his son’s fault, then how could he blame God? If it was God’s fault, then was his son truly free?
Seeing his path, he said, “Each must be accountable for his own level of responsibility. My son is responsible for the misuse of his freedom. I am responsible for short-comings in my child rearing. But God is also responsible for not preventing the accident from occurring. If he is God, he could have prevented it. Since he didn’t, he must be either impotent or impertinent. My argument stands.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Ivan conceded. “But let’s take it a step further. Suppose your son is an infant. Imagine that you are granted the opportunity give him a special potion that would guarantee that he would always make the right decision. No terrible twos, no temper tantrums, no disobedience, no drinking problem. We might call it the ‘perfect child’ pill. Do you give your kid the pill?”
Alvin paused. “No, I don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because perfection is not worth it at the expense of freedom,” Alvin continued. “In order to choose right, there has to be the potential to choose wrong. After all, angels are perfect, but they have no choice. I want my child to do right because he wants to, not because he has no choice.”
Ivan clarified, “I take it, then, that even if you had the power to do otherwise, you think the truly loving thing would be to give your son freedom, even knowing it could lead to disaster for him or others?"
"That's right," Alvin said.
"Then tell me this: why don’t you grant God the same prerogative with humanity that you would exercise toward your son?”
Now it was Alvin’s turn to be sarcastic. “I think I’ll give my kid the pill.”
“Are you serious? Of course it’s a gift!” The provocative question unnerved Alvin. Why would anyone question the value of freedom?
“Be careful what you wish for,” Ivan cautioned. “For if you embrace the gift of freedom, you can no longer blame God for evil. You can’t have it both ways.”
Alvin was incredulous. “Wait a minute! How does freedom let God off the hook?”
This was a sensitive issue for both of them. They had lost their sixteen-year-old sister to a drunk driver ten years ago. Traveling home from a football game, someone crossed the center lane and killed her. Alvin had been angry at God ever since.
“Either God was not powerful enough to stop her death, or he was not loving enough to prevent it,” Alvin contended. “Either way, count me out.” And so he had.
“No joke. Are you serious? Is there really a connection between freedom and evil?” Alvin asked.
“Let’s suppose, for example, that you remain angry with God,” Ivan answered. “You don’t betray God altogether, but you keep him on the periphery of your life. You agree that you have the freedom to do that, don’t you?”
“Absolutely,” Alvin responded. “Freedom is what makes us fundamentally human. Without it, we are little more than intelligent apes.”
“Right. Now let’s assume that your one of your children develops a drinking problem. He gets in a car when he shouldn’t and before you know it, he has repeated the accident that took our sister’s life.
“Here is the big question. Whose fault is it?”
Alvin paused. He could see where this was leading. If the accident was his son’s fault, then how could he blame God? If it was God’s fault, then was his son truly free?
Seeing his path, he said, “Each must be accountable for his own level of responsibility. My son is responsible for the misuse of his freedom. I am responsible for short-comings in my child rearing. But God is also responsible for not preventing the accident from occurring. If he is God, he could have prevented it. Since he didn’t, he must be either impotent or impertinent. My argument stands.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Ivan conceded. “But let’s take it a step further. Suppose your son is an infant. Imagine that you are granted the opportunity give him a special potion that would guarantee that he would always make the right decision. No terrible twos, no temper tantrums, no disobedience, no drinking problem. We might call it the ‘perfect child’ pill. Do you give your kid the pill?”
Alvin paused. “No, I don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because perfection is not worth it at the expense of freedom,” Alvin continued. “In order to choose right, there has to be the potential to choose wrong. After all, angels are perfect, but they have no choice. I want my child to do right because he wants to, not because he has no choice.”
Ivan clarified, “I take it, then, that even if you had the power to do otherwise, you think the truly loving thing would be to give your son freedom, even knowing it could lead to disaster for him or others?"
"That's right," Alvin said.
"Then tell me this: why don’t you grant God the same prerogative with humanity that you would exercise toward your son?”
Now it was Alvin’s turn to be sarcastic. “I think I’ll give my kid the pill.”
Saturday, September 08, 2007
"You're Outta Here!"
Milton Bradley was miffed. Not the company that makes the games. The athlete who plays the games. That Milton Bradley.
Baseball players have some of the strangest names. What other sport can claim someone who is a toy-maker (Milton Bradley) and a breakfast cereal (Coco Crisp)?
Anyway, Milton was miffed. “Strike Three!” said the umpire. Milton didn’t think so. He remained in the batter’s box, staring down the umpire. Moments passed. Finally the umpire had enough. “You’re outta here!” (I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone thrown out of a game without saying a word.)
Bradley headed to the showers. The game continued without him.
Milton Bradley is a temperamental ballplayer. Those of us who follow baseball can name several famous incidents involving his out-of-control antics. In comparison, this episode was a minor incident.
All of which leads to an interesting question: why did Milton Bradley, despite his objections, acquiesce to the umpire’s edict? Why did he accept a call he disagreed with and obey a command he felt was unfair?
Two reasons: in the first place, he knows that resistance is futile. The umpire’s word is law. He may object, but it will not change the outcome: he gets an early shower.
But there is a deeper reason, even more fundamental. Bradley knows that the integrity of the game he loves (and gets paid obscenely well to play) depends upon rules and their enforcement. Simply put, without rules there is no game.
Witness the recent furor over the revelation that an NBA referee gambled on games he officiated. We instinctively know that the integrity of the game is dependent upon fair rules and honest officiating. We feel violated by his unscrupulous behavior.
Last spring Amare Stoudemire and Boris Diaw were suspended when a vicious foul on Steve Nash incited them to break the rules by leaving the bench during the playoffs. Despite the apparent inequity, the integrity of the game and its rules was at stake. “Next year I’ll wear seatbelts,” Stoudemire recently quipped.
When it comes to sports, we stubbornly cling to rules even when we find them unfair. Why is it, then, that we are so opposed to standards when it comes to life itself?
Abolish referees at sporting events, and chaos will result. Ignore the laws of engineering, and buildings will collapse. Likewise, without boundaries in life, chaos and collapse are inevitable.
Think about it: what if each subcontractor who built your home used a different standard of measurement? Would you want to live there? Of course not. Why is it, then, that while we insist on standards in most areas of life, we resist standards when it comes to life itself?
One can’t help but surmise that the current chaos of our culture stems, at least in part, from the willful suspension of all rules of accepted behavior. Baseball has its rulebook. Contractors have the Uniform Building Code. Life has, well, what does life have?
Call me old fashioned, but I subscribe to the notion that the Good Book is still the best guide to life. Many opt for the flavor of the day, but long after those tomes are on the clearance rack at Barnes & Noble, the timeless, elemental wisdom of the Bible will continue to speak the truth about life.
Like Milton Bradley, sometimes it makes me angry. I stare it down, looking for loopholes. But in the end I know it is futile. I can follow its wisdom and enjoy the blessings of playing by the rules, or balk against it and find myself heading for an early shower.
There is a way that seemeth right unto a man, but the end thereof are the ways of death (Proverbs 14:12).
Thy Word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path (Psalm 119:105).
Baseball players have some of the strangest names. What other sport can claim someone who is a toy-maker (Milton Bradley) and a breakfast cereal (Coco Crisp)?
Anyway, Milton was miffed. “Strike Three!” said the umpire. Milton didn’t think so. He remained in the batter’s box, staring down the umpire. Moments passed. Finally the umpire had enough. “You’re outta here!” (I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone thrown out of a game without saying a word.)
Bradley headed to the showers. The game continued without him.
Milton Bradley is a temperamental ballplayer. Those of us who follow baseball can name several famous incidents involving his out-of-control antics. In comparison, this episode was a minor incident.
All of which leads to an interesting question: why did Milton Bradley, despite his objections, acquiesce to the umpire’s edict? Why did he accept a call he disagreed with and obey a command he felt was unfair?
Two reasons: in the first place, he knows that resistance is futile. The umpire’s word is law. He may object, but it will not change the outcome: he gets an early shower.
But there is a deeper reason, even more fundamental. Bradley knows that the integrity of the game he loves (and gets paid obscenely well to play) depends upon rules and their enforcement. Simply put, without rules there is no game.
Witness the recent furor over the revelation that an NBA referee gambled on games he officiated. We instinctively know that the integrity of the game is dependent upon fair rules and honest officiating. We feel violated by his unscrupulous behavior.
Last spring Amare Stoudemire and Boris Diaw were suspended when a vicious foul on Steve Nash incited them to break the rules by leaving the bench during the playoffs. Despite the apparent inequity, the integrity of the game and its rules was at stake. “Next year I’ll wear seatbelts,” Stoudemire recently quipped.
When it comes to sports, we stubbornly cling to rules even when we find them unfair. Why is it, then, that we are so opposed to standards when it comes to life itself?
Abolish referees at sporting events, and chaos will result. Ignore the laws of engineering, and buildings will collapse. Likewise, without boundaries in life, chaos and collapse are inevitable.
Think about it: what if each subcontractor who built your home used a different standard of measurement? Would you want to live there? Of course not. Why is it, then, that while we insist on standards in most areas of life, we resist standards when it comes to life itself?
One can’t help but surmise that the current chaos of our culture stems, at least in part, from the willful suspension of all rules of accepted behavior. Baseball has its rulebook. Contractors have the Uniform Building Code. Life has, well, what does life have?
Call me old fashioned, but I subscribe to the notion that the Good Book is still the best guide to life. Many opt for the flavor of the day, but long after those tomes are on the clearance rack at Barnes & Noble, the timeless, elemental wisdom of the Bible will continue to speak the truth about life.
Like Milton Bradley, sometimes it makes me angry. I stare it down, looking for loopholes. But in the end I know it is futile. I can follow its wisdom and enjoy the blessings of playing by the rules, or balk against it and find myself heading for an early shower.
There is a way that seemeth right unto a man, but the end thereof are the ways of death (Proverbs 14:12).
Thy Word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path (Psalm 119:105).
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Mom Knows Best
We didn’t know any better. After all, what kid would question the opportunity to go play at a friend’s house?
“I’m going to drop you off at so and so’s for a while. You boys play while I go shopping,” Mom said. “Does that sound like fun to you?”
What’s not to like about that? After all, these were the days (please don’t call Child Protective Services) when it was fairly common for Mom to leave us three boys in the car while she bought groceries. (Not that I recommend it, mind you!)
Even so, playing at a friend’s house beats shopping any day of the week. (Come to think of it, that’s still true.) She dropped us off, we played together, she came back, and we went home. End of story.
A week later all three of us had the chicken pox.
Why would Mom play such a sinister trick on us? Why would she deliberately expose us to disease? Because she knew that this short-term childhood pain would result in long-term physical health.
Moms have a way of knowing such things.
I often wear a T-shirt that says, “Mom Knows Best.” It invariably elicits smiles. When I tell people that I stole it out of my wife’s closet, which is true, they think it’s funny. I can’t imagine why.
This is not a story about parenting, though perhaps it should be. After all, with three kids in the ministry and all four devout Christ-followers, I’d say Mom and Dad did a few things right….
At this very moment while writing this story, I was interrupted by a phone call from my daughter. “Guess what, Daddy! I have good news!”
What happened, I wondered. Did she get a raise?
“I’ll have ten days to come home for Christmas” she said.
“Wow!” I said. “You know what? I’m not just glad you’re coming home,” I said. “I’m also glad that you want to come home.”
She seemed incredulous as she replied, “Why wouldn’t I want to be with my family?” My thoughts, exactly.
Fifty-two minutes flew by as we talked about everything in general and nothing in particular.
Returning to this page I muse about the women in my life. There have been precisely four: my grandmother, my mother, my wife, and my daughter. Each one has loved me unconditionally and blessed me magnificently. Every man should be so lucky. I hope it’s contagious.
Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the LORD is to be praised” (Proverbs 31:30).
“I’m going to drop you off at so and so’s for a while. You boys play while I go shopping,” Mom said. “Does that sound like fun to you?”
What’s not to like about that? After all, these were the days (please don’t call Child Protective Services) when it was fairly common for Mom to leave us three boys in the car while she bought groceries. (Not that I recommend it, mind you!)
Even so, playing at a friend’s house beats shopping any day of the week. (Come to think of it, that’s still true.) She dropped us off, we played together, she came back, and we went home. End of story.
A week later all three of us had the chicken pox.
Why would Mom play such a sinister trick on us? Why would she deliberately expose us to disease? Because she knew that this short-term childhood pain would result in long-term physical health.
Moms have a way of knowing such things.
I often wear a T-shirt that says, “Mom Knows Best.” It invariably elicits smiles. When I tell people that I stole it out of my wife’s closet, which is true, they think it’s funny. I can’t imagine why.
This is not a story about parenting, though perhaps it should be. After all, with three kids in the ministry and all four devout Christ-followers, I’d say Mom and Dad did a few things right….
At this very moment while writing this story, I was interrupted by a phone call from my daughter. “Guess what, Daddy! I have good news!”
What happened, I wondered. Did she get a raise?
“I’ll have ten days to come home for Christmas” she said.
“Wow!” I said. “You know what? I’m not just glad you’re coming home,” I said. “I’m also glad that you want to come home.”
She seemed incredulous as she replied, “Why wouldn’t I want to be with my family?” My thoughts, exactly.
Fifty-two minutes flew by as we talked about everything in general and nothing in particular.
Returning to this page I muse about the women in my life. There have been precisely four: my grandmother, my mother, my wife, and my daughter. Each one has loved me unconditionally and blessed me magnificently. Every man should be so lucky. I hope it’s contagious.
Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the LORD is to be praised” (Proverbs 31:30).
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Eschew Obfuscation
Eschew Obfuscation. Two words, bold white letters, light blue background. I saw them on a poster while studying in my high school library.
Eschew I thought I knew; obfuscation was unclear. Ever inquisitive, I looked it up in the dictionary. Thirty years later, I have forgotten neither it nor the ironic library poster.
In an effort to eschew obfuscation, then, let me be perfectly clear: the key to Christianity is found in your honest answer to this question, “Who is Jesus, and how will I respond to him?”
Jesus is a universally admired figure. Virtually every religion or spiritual belief system acknowledges his life and teachings. Many consider him a prophet, a visionary, a great teacher, a worthy example.
Christians acknowledge these things. But we go a significant step further: we believe Jesus was God Incarnate.
Jesus was unique in all history: no one like him before or since. He was fully human and fully divine. He died, was buried, rose from the dead, is still alive, and will someday return to assume his rightful place as Lord of the Universe.
Admittedly, these are outlandish claims. If they are true, they set Christianity apart from every other faith system. If they are not true, Christianity is a farce. “If Christ has not been raised, our preaching is useless and so is your faith” (1 Corinthians 15:14).
That is why the stakes are so high. Whatever your religious persuasion, the person of Jesus deserves your honest investigation. Was he, as Christians believe, God clothed in human flesh?
If Jesus was God, then by definition, he is worthy of your worship. Put aside your pride, your doubts, and your fears. Surrender to him, receive his forgiveness, and commit your life to him. Make it your life’s ambition to love him, know him, and follow him.
If he was not God, if he was merely a good example, or a moral teacher, then Christianity is a fraudulent faith. It’s as simple as that.
Let’s take it a step further. Many people mistakenly assume that simply acknowledging the deity of Jesus is adequate. They readily admit, “I believe Jesus is the Son of God,” not realizing that in the Bible, even demons acknowledge this fact (Mark 1:24, for example). Obviously, Jesus deserves more from us than mental assent.
Christianity is not merely a belief to which we adhere. Instead, Christianity is a relationship to which we commit. At its heart, Christianity is a love story. It is surprisingly similar to the courtship between a man and woman. Jesus is the Groom. We are the Bride. He has proposed to us. How will we respond?
For my part, everything I know about Jesus encourages me to trust him for those things I do not understand. He has invited me into a relationship which I can enjoy now and forever.
My response is simple, succinct and sincere. Eschewing obfuscation, I say "I Do."
“Let us rejoice and be glad and give him glory! For the wedding of the Lamb has come, and his bride has made herself ready.” (Revelation 19:7-8).
Eschew I thought I knew; obfuscation was unclear. Ever inquisitive, I looked it up in the dictionary. Thirty years later, I have forgotten neither it nor the ironic library poster.
In an effort to eschew obfuscation, then, let me be perfectly clear: the key to Christianity is found in your honest answer to this question, “Who is Jesus, and how will I respond to him?”
Jesus is a universally admired figure. Virtually every religion or spiritual belief system acknowledges his life and teachings. Many consider him a prophet, a visionary, a great teacher, a worthy example.
Christians acknowledge these things. But we go a significant step further: we believe Jesus was God Incarnate.
Jesus was unique in all history: no one like him before or since. He was fully human and fully divine. He died, was buried, rose from the dead, is still alive, and will someday return to assume his rightful place as Lord of the Universe.
Admittedly, these are outlandish claims. If they are true, they set Christianity apart from every other faith system. If they are not true, Christianity is a farce. “If Christ has not been raised, our preaching is useless and so is your faith” (1 Corinthians 15:14).
That is why the stakes are so high. Whatever your religious persuasion, the person of Jesus deserves your honest investigation. Was he, as Christians believe, God clothed in human flesh?
If Jesus was God, then by definition, he is worthy of your worship. Put aside your pride, your doubts, and your fears. Surrender to him, receive his forgiveness, and commit your life to him. Make it your life’s ambition to love him, know him, and follow him.
If he was not God, if he was merely a good example, or a moral teacher, then Christianity is a fraudulent faith. It’s as simple as that.
Let’s take it a step further. Many people mistakenly assume that simply acknowledging the deity of Jesus is adequate. They readily admit, “I believe Jesus is the Son of God,” not realizing that in the Bible, even demons acknowledge this fact (Mark 1:24, for example). Obviously, Jesus deserves more from us than mental assent.
Christianity is not merely a belief to which we adhere. Instead, Christianity is a relationship to which we commit. At its heart, Christianity is a love story. It is surprisingly similar to the courtship between a man and woman. Jesus is the Groom. We are the Bride. He has proposed to us. How will we respond?
For my part, everything I know about Jesus encourages me to trust him for those things I do not understand. He has invited me into a relationship which I can enjoy now and forever.
My response is simple, succinct and sincere. Eschewing obfuscation, I say "I Do."
“Let us rejoice and be glad and give him glory! For the wedding of the Lamb has come, and his bride has made herself ready.” (Revelation 19:7-8).
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Profanitease
Some people swear because they are angry; others swear because they are stupid.
That at least is my opinion. I state it merely for shock effect, for calling someone stupid is practically the same as swearing at them.
Angry swearing I can understand. I can see why, for some, “shoot!” just doesn’t capture the moment of frustration. For my part, the guilt of saying something unseemly would outweigh the satisfaction in saying it. Ned Flanders would be proud.
Mindless swearing is simply … mindless. It’s the kind used so commonly that it loses all meaning, the kind that merely evidences a lack of vocabulary, the kind that loses all sense of propriety in a public place.
I encountered it while traveling home from vacation yesterday. We stopped into Arby’s for a bite to eat. The gentleman in front of me, and I don’t dare try to publish the words he used, was frustrated because the person across the counter didn’t catch his order the first time.
In edited form he said, “Isn’t there an American who works here? Someone who speaks English?”
The manager came to the rescue of the flustered clerk. She, too, was Hispanic. Not yet mollified, he continued his profanity-laced tirade about the decline of our country before placing his order.
Ignoring the personal affront, she kept her cool. Handing him his order, she said, “Would you like some Horsey or Arby’s sauce with that?”
He, fittingly enough, did not understand the question.
I was riding my bicycle up Cave Creek road a while ago. Crossing the intersection at Tom Darlington road, it was my responsibility to stop at the sign.
But I’d already been riding six miles uphill and the hardest miles were still ahead. I assumed, as is sometimes done, that no one would mind if I continued through the intersection without stopping.
Boy, was I wrong! (“Boy” is a Ned Flanders-type invective, I know. Okily-dokily.) Anyway, the driver of the truck whose turn it was sped up, honked, and called me many nasty things.
I was sufficiently chastised. He had made his point. I just wish he’d done so without involving my mother.
None of this is very surprising. We are a nation with few taboos. Once the domain of trashy magazines or seedy theaters, lewd pictures are now a simple mouse-click away. Television advertisements remind us to drink responsibly, to gamble responsibly, and to fornicate responsibly. Conversation once kept inside the locker room is now spoken at fast food counters.
Which reminds me: when the girl at the counter repeated the question about sauce to my fast food neighbor, he said, “No. Just send me to a blankety-blank country where they still speak English.”
I guess you know what I think about that.
Watch the way you talk. Let nothing foul or dirty come out of your mouth. Say only what helps, each word a gift (Ephesians 4:29).
That at least is my opinion. I state it merely for shock effect, for calling someone stupid is practically the same as swearing at them.
Angry swearing I can understand. I can see why, for some, “shoot!” just doesn’t capture the moment of frustration. For my part, the guilt of saying something unseemly would outweigh the satisfaction in saying it. Ned Flanders would be proud.
Mindless swearing is simply … mindless. It’s the kind used so commonly that it loses all meaning, the kind that merely evidences a lack of vocabulary, the kind that loses all sense of propriety in a public place.
I encountered it while traveling home from vacation yesterday. We stopped into Arby’s for a bite to eat. The gentleman in front of me, and I don’t dare try to publish the words he used, was frustrated because the person across the counter didn’t catch his order the first time.
In edited form he said, “Isn’t there an American who works here? Someone who speaks English?”
The manager came to the rescue of the flustered clerk. She, too, was Hispanic. Not yet mollified, he continued his profanity-laced tirade about the decline of our country before placing his order.
Ignoring the personal affront, she kept her cool. Handing him his order, she said, “Would you like some Horsey or Arby’s sauce with that?”
He, fittingly enough, did not understand the question.
I was riding my bicycle up Cave Creek road a while ago. Crossing the intersection at Tom Darlington road, it was my responsibility to stop at the sign.
But I’d already been riding six miles uphill and the hardest miles were still ahead. I assumed, as is sometimes done, that no one would mind if I continued through the intersection without stopping.
Boy, was I wrong! (“Boy” is a Ned Flanders-type invective, I know. Okily-dokily.) Anyway, the driver of the truck whose turn it was sped up, honked, and called me many nasty things.
I was sufficiently chastised. He had made his point. I just wish he’d done so without involving my mother.
None of this is very surprising. We are a nation with few taboos. Once the domain of trashy magazines or seedy theaters, lewd pictures are now a simple mouse-click away. Television advertisements remind us to drink responsibly, to gamble responsibly, and to fornicate responsibly. Conversation once kept inside the locker room is now spoken at fast food counters.
Which reminds me: when the girl at the counter repeated the question about sauce to my fast food neighbor, he said, “No. Just send me to a blankety-blank country where they still speak English.”
I guess you know what I think about that.
Watch the way you talk. Let nothing foul or dirty come out of your mouth. Say only what helps, each word a gift (Ephesians 4:29).
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