They said to me, “Those who survived the exile and are back in the province are in great trouble and disgrace. The wall of Jerusalem is broken down, and its gates have been burned with fire.” (Nehemiah 1:3)
When my cell phone rang, disturbing the relative quiet of the Border’s bookstore, the caller i.d. displayed “Al’s Automotive.” I was eager to hear from Al – or his guys. Our not-often-trusty family vehicle had been leaving a spotty trail for some time. Seems that wherever we parked we would leave the world an oily reminder of our presence there. The left side floor of our garage was a mess. Time to get that fixed, and so to Al’s. When the call came in I found a secluded place between some tall bookshelves and answered.
Al – or whoever actually called me – didn’t have good news. With language that escapes me now, he detailed the parts of the engine that were loosing oil; this was done with a pleasant and helpful tone, as if he were giving me directions to the Georgia Aquarium. The report concluded with a grand total figure, a figure that easily exceeded the value of the vehicle. Reality began to set in as I realized that toddler-hood along with nine years of wear and tear had taken its toll. This time things were simply too far gone.
Nehemiah’s story is slightly different. When Nehemiah learned from Hanani about the condition of Jerusalem, he was not learning something new or unheard of. In fact, roughly 140 years before this event, long before Nehemiah’s birth, Jerusalem had been destroyed by Babylon (587 BC). To some extent, the destruction of Jerusalem had been a persistent problem throughout Nehemiah’s lifetime. He could have written Jerusalem off as too far gone . . . but he didn’t. One of the first remarkable things we notice about Nehemiah is the absence of a resigned fatalism. Nehemiah is deeply stirred by the plight of Jerusalem – even with its long standing and deeply entrenched problems. The city is not beyond hope and help; things are not too far gone.
The fact that Nehemiah can still weep is significant. Typically, long-term persistent problems that never change leave us numb. We wake up to the same thing every morning just as we have for a thousand mornings, bracing ourselves for a thousand more. Whatever it is, God seems to have forgotten it and we’re left to live with it. We stop weeping. Sure, we want to believe that God is still around, somehow tending the shop, but the realities we see mock that kind of thinking as escapist or childish; wishful thinking, not faith. When the world we see appears to be beyond repair, we don’t know what to believe. We don’t know how to believe. Nehemiah’s example emboldens us because he insists on dealing with God about an intractable issue that won’t go away and can’t be fixed, or so it seems.
Like Nehemiah, we bring before God those issues that have dogged us for years; a marriage that’s long been on the brink of collapse, an addicted family member who can’t get on top of their illness, a persistent health problem, relentless financial crises that won’t stop coming. Nehemiah reminds us that things are never too far gone, never beyond the scope of God’s reach, never outside the sphere of God’s grace. It was true of Jerusalem, it is true of Atlanta, and it’s true of your life.
But before Nehemiah formulates a plan he offers a prayer. His brokenness precedes his busyness. Maybe before we work with God we’ll need to deal honestly and directly with God. We’ll be thinking this week about what that means. With Nehemiah we go to our knees, and we start right now.
Prayer:
Merciful God, when I think about the problems that confront our city, I am tempted to see the place as beyond help, or at least beyond my help. The same is true of the wreckage I see in people’s lives and even in my own life. Give me a new vision for what you are doing in me and around me. I bring my city, my very life, before you today in Jesus’ name. Amen.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
What I'm Learning This Summer: Faith "in" or Faith "of"
“They say the same creed but do they share the same faith?”
With that question I was hooked. The teacher was John Ortberg, pastor of Menlo Park Presbyterian Church. The setting was the Christian Life Conference at Montreat, North Carolina, the opening plenary session on Saturday night.
The question came after an exercise in imagining two people who attend the same church every week where they regularly recite the same statement of faith, “The Apostles Creed.” One person is easily irritated, often caustic and unkind in their speech, a bit self absorbed, rarely generous with what they have, rarely evidencing joy in life, often proud and careful about impression management.
The other person is experienced as kind in both manner and speech, patient with others, frequently an encourager, genuinely interested in things and people beyond themselves, always eager to give or serve, always laughing or making others laugh.
They say the same creed, but do they share the same faith?
Ortberg eventually made this distinction:
There is faith “in” Jesus: usually presented as what one must believe about Jesus in order to be saved and go to heaven.
And then there is the faith “of” Jesus: this is the faith that Jesus himself had; it means believing as he believed so that we live the kind of life he lived.
The gist of the message that night was that the Christian life is really about living as Jesus lived; it is just that – a life. A way of being in the world. This life comes from having the faith of Jesus. It comes from believing and living in communion with God in such way that we internalize the life Jesus lived. What Ortberg called our “mental map.”
The Christian life is not about meeting the bare minimal entrance requirements to get to heaven. Here Ortberg acknowledges his indebtedness to the work of Dallas Willard. Simply giving assent to statements about Jesus (it was implied) will not produce the kind of life that Jesus lived. That’s why two people can state the same creed but have a different faith.
I agree with that. I am drawn to the distinction between “faith in” and “faith of.” And yet, now at a distance of more than a week from the conference, I sense some anxieties about this. My anxiety boils down to this: too many churches do not do a good job of teaching doctrine. In fact, too many churches don’t teach doctrine at all. While Ortberg would not intend this, his distinction feeds our proclivity to be dismissive of doctrinal language and ideas.
What would it take to present doctrine in such a way that it produced transformed lives that increasingly resemble Jesus? That’s what doctrine ought to do. In canonical scripture, the gospels are neighbor to Romans and Hebrews. The didactic voice harmonizes with the narrative voice. Teacher and story-teller, thinker and exemplar live side by side in the pages of the Bible.
Yes – there is a difference between “faith in” and “faith of.” And yes, I’ve heard far more in my lifetime about having faith in Jesus than I’ve heard abut having the faith of Jesus. And yes, my personal shortcomings have more to do with my life than with my knowledge.
But in my calling to live the Jesus way, I’m almost certain I’ll continually struggle with getting it right. The Christian life then becomes an exercise in frustration . . . unless we know some good doctrine that makes sense of it all.
With that question I was hooked. The teacher was John Ortberg, pastor of Menlo Park Presbyterian Church. The setting was the Christian Life Conference at Montreat, North Carolina, the opening plenary session on Saturday night.
The question came after an exercise in imagining two people who attend the same church every week where they regularly recite the same statement of faith, “The Apostles Creed.” One person is easily irritated, often caustic and unkind in their speech, a bit self absorbed, rarely generous with what they have, rarely evidencing joy in life, often proud and careful about impression management.
The other person is experienced as kind in both manner and speech, patient with others, frequently an encourager, genuinely interested in things and people beyond themselves, always eager to give or serve, always laughing or making others laugh.
They say the same creed, but do they share the same faith?
Ortberg eventually made this distinction:
There is faith “in” Jesus: usually presented as what one must believe about Jesus in order to be saved and go to heaven.
And then there is the faith “of” Jesus: this is the faith that Jesus himself had; it means believing as he believed so that we live the kind of life he lived.
The gist of the message that night was that the Christian life is really about living as Jesus lived; it is just that – a life. A way of being in the world. This life comes from having the faith of Jesus. It comes from believing and living in communion with God in such way that we internalize the life Jesus lived. What Ortberg called our “mental map.”
The Christian life is not about meeting the bare minimal entrance requirements to get to heaven. Here Ortberg acknowledges his indebtedness to the work of Dallas Willard. Simply giving assent to statements about Jesus (it was implied) will not produce the kind of life that Jesus lived. That’s why two people can state the same creed but have a different faith.
I agree with that. I am drawn to the distinction between “faith in” and “faith of.” And yet, now at a distance of more than a week from the conference, I sense some anxieties about this. My anxiety boils down to this: too many churches do not do a good job of teaching doctrine. In fact, too many churches don’t teach doctrine at all. While Ortberg would not intend this, his distinction feeds our proclivity to be dismissive of doctrinal language and ideas.
What would it take to present doctrine in such a way that it produced transformed lives that increasingly resemble Jesus? That’s what doctrine ought to do. In canonical scripture, the gospels are neighbor to Romans and Hebrews. The didactic voice harmonizes with the narrative voice. Teacher and story-teller, thinker and exemplar live side by side in the pages of the Bible.
Yes – there is a difference between “faith in” and “faith of.” And yes, I’ve heard far more in my lifetime about having faith in Jesus than I’ve heard abut having the faith of Jesus. And yes, my personal shortcomings have more to do with my life than with my knowledge.
But in my calling to live the Jesus way, I’m almost certain I’ll continually struggle with getting it right. The Christian life then becomes an exercise in frustration . . . unless we know some good doctrine that makes sense of it all.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Zeal and Affliction
Those whom I love I rebuke and discipline (Revelation 3:19).
More than once this week this point has been made: self-satisfaction kills spiritual zeal. A passion for God will not grow from the soil of boasting. A preacher from an earlier century (whose name escapes me now) has been quoted as saying that we cannot demonstrate that we are clever and that God is mighty to save at the same time. The church of Laodicea has been introduced as exhibit ‘A’ for this truth all week long.
It seems clear that self-satisfaction kills zeal, but what about affliction? What about suffering? I’ve wondered from time to time this week about readers who are reading these reflections, seeing passion and zeal exalted and encouraged while lukewarm faith is rebuked. I’ve wondered about anyone who might be feeling that lukewarm is about the best they can do right now.
Is there anyone who reads these reflections in the morning having not slept at night, having wept from grief and the memories that come with it, having received abusive words from a child or spouse or parent, having fought the nausea of a medication or the loss of appetite it brings? As James asked “is any among you sick?” (James 5:14) The answer, it seems to me, has to be yes. And if so, what does zeal look like? If the answer is yes, are the wounded among us consigned to a lukewarm faith?
The answer to that final question is a resounding and clarion “no.” There are some good scriptural reasons to support the answer and I’d like to enumerate them clearly and briefly.
1. It is possible to be zealous in the midst of affliction.
Job sat on the ash heap, using a piece of broken pottery to scrape the dripping sores that mottled his flesh. Things couldn’t be worse. He could not get any lower. His children had been killed by the kind of senseless tragedy that natural disasters inflict. He had lost his wealth, his assets. He had lost his health, gripped in excruciating anguish but not able to die. Things were so bad that his own wife counseled him to curse God. Curse God and die.
At one point Job processed the whole experience with these words: “Naked I came from my mother’s womb and naked I will depart. The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away; may the name of the Lord be praised.” This is zeal.
Zeal isn’t always an enthusiastic charge forward. Sometimes it’s a deeply rooted stance that will not be moved; faith that doesn’t fold or whither. Sometimes zeal means we turn up the heat. Sometimes it means we take the heat. Zeal allows Paul and Silas to sit on the floor of the jail, shackled and beaten and bruised, singing hymns of praise. This is zeal, and occasionally we find it in the midst of affliction.
2. It is possible to forge zeal from affliction.
The words of Christ to Laodicea need to be read along with the words written to the Hebrews (see Hebrews 12:7-10). Listening carefully, here’s what we discover: we are to endure hardship as discipline. God disciplines those whom he loves. The hardships have a purpose, namely, that we may share in God’s holiness.
We suffer affliction as a means of participating in the holiness of God. God is at work, using our afflictions to forge his own character, his holiness in us. That holiness is sometimes pictured in scripture as a consuming fire, white hot holiness . . . zeal. Zeal can be forged from the experience of affliction.
If we were to travel to some of the most difficult places on the globe, places of deprivation and disease, places of war and persecution, we would likely find there Christians who are zealous for Christ, bold and passionate disciples of Jesus. They might tell us that their passion grows in the midst of affliction; that it is forged from their afflictions. And what is true for them can be true for us as well.
Is any among you sick? You need not settle for a lukewarm walk with Christ. The closing prayer is a prayer for all who suffer today. If you suffer, pray it for yourself if you wish, but know that many are praying it for you. May your heart be encouraged and strengthened in zeal, even in the midst of affliction.
Prayer: Almighty God, we pray today for the afflicted among us; for friends and co-workers, for our neighbors and loved ones, for people we know well and for those with whom we are barely acquainted. Lord Jesus, strengthen their hearts and use their hardships to form your character in them. In their suffering, make them zealous – and prepare us all for the day of trial and testing, that we may stand fast in passionate faith. Amen.
More than once this week this point has been made: self-satisfaction kills spiritual zeal. A passion for God will not grow from the soil of boasting. A preacher from an earlier century (whose name escapes me now) has been quoted as saying that we cannot demonstrate that we are clever and that God is mighty to save at the same time. The church of Laodicea has been introduced as exhibit ‘A’ for this truth all week long.
It seems clear that self-satisfaction kills zeal, but what about affliction? What about suffering? I’ve wondered from time to time this week about readers who are reading these reflections, seeing passion and zeal exalted and encouraged while lukewarm faith is rebuked. I’ve wondered about anyone who might be feeling that lukewarm is about the best they can do right now.
Is there anyone who reads these reflections in the morning having not slept at night, having wept from grief and the memories that come with it, having received abusive words from a child or spouse or parent, having fought the nausea of a medication or the loss of appetite it brings? As James asked “is any among you sick?” (James 5:14) The answer, it seems to me, has to be yes. And if so, what does zeal look like? If the answer is yes, are the wounded among us consigned to a lukewarm faith?
The answer to that final question is a resounding and clarion “no.” There are some good scriptural reasons to support the answer and I’d like to enumerate them clearly and briefly.
1. It is possible to be zealous in the midst of affliction.
Job sat on the ash heap, using a piece of broken pottery to scrape the dripping sores that mottled his flesh. Things couldn’t be worse. He could not get any lower. His children had been killed by the kind of senseless tragedy that natural disasters inflict. He had lost his wealth, his assets. He had lost his health, gripped in excruciating anguish but not able to die. Things were so bad that his own wife counseled him to curse God. Curse God and die.
At one point Job processed the whole experience with these words: “Naked I came from my mother’s womb and naked I will depart. The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away; may the name of the Lord be praised.” This is zeal.
Zeal isn’t always an enthusiastic charge forward. Sometimes it’s a deeply rooted stance that will not be moved; faith that doesn’t fold or whither. Sometimes zeal means we turn up the heat. Sometimes it means we take the heat. Zeal allows Paul and Silas to sit on the floor of the jail, shackled and beaten and bruised, singing hymns of praise. This is zeal, and occasionally we find it in the midst of affliction.
2. It is possible to forge zeal from affliction.
The words of Christ to Laodicea need to be read along with the words written to the Hebrews (see Hebrews 12:7-10). Listening carefully, here’s what we discover: we are to endure hardship as discipline. God disciplines those whom he loves. The hardships have a purpose, namely, that we may share in God’s holiness.
We suffer affliction as a means of participating in the holiness of God. God is at work, using our afflictions to forge his own character, his holiness in us. That holiness is sometimes pictured in scripture as a consuming fire, white hot holiness . . . zeal. Zeal can be forged from the experience of affliction.
If we were to travel to some of the most difficult places on the globe, places of deprivation and disease, places of war and persecution, we would likely find there Christians who are zealous for Christ, bold and passionate disciples of Jesus. They might tell us that their passion grows in the midst of affliction; that it is forged from their afflictions. And what is true for them can be true for us as well.
Is any among you sick? You need not settle for a lukewarm walk with Christ. The closing prayer is a prayer for all who suffer today. If you suffer, pray it for yourself if you wish, but know that many are praying it for you. May your heart be encouraged and strengthened in zeal, even in the midst of affliction.
Prayer: Almighty God, we pray today for the afflicted among us; for friends and co-workers, for our neighbors and loved ones, for people we know well and for those with whom we are barely acquainted. Lord Jesus, strengthen their hearts and use their hardships to form your character in them. In their suffering, make them zealous – and prepare us all for the day of trial and testing, that we may stand fast in passionate faith. Amen.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Free to Dance
Wearing a linen ephod, David was dancing before the Lord with all his might . . . (2 Samuel 6:14)
Were it not for my wife I’m not sure I would ever dance. My wife has exuberance built into her DNA. She brings a certain energy and delight to everything she does – and she shares that energy with me and it permeates our home. But at wedding receptions my range of motion takes place between the table at which I’m seated and the mashed-potato bar. Marnie gravitates to the dance floor, and eventually I find myself out there too. But it’s a stretch for me. I’m not sure why, but something about dancing makes me self-conscious. I feel dorky – and self-conscious people don’t dance well, not nearly as well as they could were they more self-forgetful.
There’s a wonderful story in 2 Samuel 6 about David bringing the Ark of the Covenant back to Jerusalem. For twenty years the Ark had been kept at Kiriath Jearim. At one point there was an effort to move the Ark, but it was done carelessly and God foiled the entire parade. When a priest dropped dead in the middle of the festivities everything came to a grinding halt and the ark went nowhere. After a while, it seemed right to try again. A celebratory processional escorted the Ark, and at the front was King David. And the King was dancing. What’s more, he was dancing in a rather exposed state, a bit like jumping around in your boxers in a public place (2 Samuel 6:20).
David’s wife was horrified, and later when the party had wrapped up and they were back home she lit into him. Her basic grievance reveals her high level of self-consciousness and impression management. “You’re the King . . . and you made a fool of yourself today. You’re the King . . . act like it!”
David answered her with the words of a God-centered zeal, a passion for the holy. “I will celebrate before the Lord. I will become even more undignified than this and I will be humiliated in my own eyes” (2 Samuel 6:22). David was zealous, and if others thought him foolish – or a dork – it mattered to him not at all.
Earlier this week we noted that the lukewarm Christians of Laodicea were quite self-satisfied. What’s more, the self-satisfied are often self-absorbed. The Laodiceans sound that way. They are highly aware of their wealth, of their productivity, of their resources for the production of goods and their skills in the healing arts. They are so aware of themselves, proud even, that they relate to Christ without urgency and without intensity. They have concluded that they have need of nothing. Thus they are lukewarm.
Zeal is stirred as the focus shifts away from us and toward Jesus. Christ invites us to shift our focus as he stands at the door and says, “Behold” or “Here I am.” We move our gaze Christ-ward as we come to him for what we most need. Christ is the source of true wealth that cannot be devalued with a bad market. Christ covers us with his purity – white garments better than anything we could make on our own. Christ gives us wisdom and insight and allows us to see things clearly, things our eyes cannot perceive. What we need comes from Jesus, not from ourselves.
David’s self-forgetfulness reminds us that zeal for God will not be too careful about remaining dignified. Zeal does not constantly measure public opinion. It’s not unusual for us to regulate our zeal depending upon our setting. We may be more zealous about our faith with this group, less zealous with that group – and then some groups may quench our zeal entirely. David’s example encourages us to be God aware no matter where we are or who’s around. How will you live his example today?
Living with passion will likely require us to get over ourselves . . . and get into God. As we look to Christ we get a passion for the holy. Christ breathes into us a sacred zeal. Christ sets us free to dance.
Prayer: Lord Jesus, I am easily preoccupied with myself – my successes and failures, my connections and reputation. I sometimes treat you as my assistant in the life-management program I’ve devised. Forgive me – and draw the focus of my life ever toward you. Be the center of my work, my home, my relationships. As you take center stage, breathe the zeal of your Spirit into my life. Amen.
Were it not for my wife I’m not sure I would ever dance. My wife has exuberance built into her DNA. She brings a certain energy and delight to everything she does – and she shares that energy with me and it permeates our home. But at wedding receptions my range of motion takes place between the table at which I’m seated and the mashed-potato bar. Marnie gravitates to the dance floor, and eventually I find myself out there too. But it’s a stretch for me. I’m not sure why, but something about dancing makes me self-conscious. I feel dorky – and self-conscious people don’t dance well, not nearly as well as they could were they more self-forgetful.
There’s a wonderful story in 2 Samuel 6 about David bringing the Ark of the Covenant back to Jerusalem. For twenty years the Ark had been kept at Kiriath Jearim. At one point there was an effort to move the Ark, but it was done carelessly and God foiled the entire parade. When a priest dropped dead in the middle of the festivities everything came to a grinding halt and the ark went nowhere. After a while, it seemed right to try again. A celebratory processional escorted the Ark, and at the front was King David. And the King was dancing. What’s more, he was dancing in a rather exposed state, a bit like jumping around in your boxers in a public place (2 Samuel 6:20).
David’s wife was horrified, and later when the party had wrapped up and they were back home she lit into him. Her basic grievance reveals her high level of self-consciousness and impression management. “You’re the King . . . and you made a fool of yourself today. You’re the King . . . act like it!”
David answered her with the words of a God-centered zeal, a passion for the holy. “I will celebrate before the Lord. I will become even more undignified than this and I will be humiliated in my own eyes” (2 Samuel 6:22). David was zealous, and if others thought him foolish – or a dork – it mattered to him not at all.
Earlier this week we noted that the lukewarm Christians of Laodicea were quite self-satisfied. What’s more, the self-satisfied are often self-absorbed. The Laodiceans sound that way. They are highly aware of their wealth, of their productivity, of their resources for the production of goods and their skills in the healing arts. They are so aware of themselves, proud even, that they relate to Christ without urgency and without intensity. They have concluded that they have need of nothing. Thus they are lukewarm.
Zeal is stirred as the focus shifts away from us and toward Jesus. Christ invites us to shift our focus as he stands at the door and says, “Behold” or “Here I am.” We move our gaze Christ-ward as we come to him for what we most need. Christ is the source of true wealth that cannot be devalued with a bad market. Christ covers us with his purity – white garments better than anything we could make on our own. Christ gives us wisdom and insight and allows us to see things clearly, things our eyes cannot perceive. What we need comes from Jesus, not from ourselves.
David’s self-forgetfulness reminds us that zeal for God will not be too careful about remaining dignified. Zeal does not constantly measure public opinion. It’s not unusual for us to regulate our zeal depending upon our setting. We may be more zealous about our faith with this group, less zealous with that group – and then some groups may quench our zeal entirely. David’s example encourages us to be God aware no matter where we are or who’s around. How will you live his example today?
Living with passion will likely require us to get over ourselves . . . and get into God. As we look to Christ we get a passion for the holy. Christ breathes into us a sacred zeal. Christ sets us free to dance.
Prayer: Lord Jesus, I am easily preoccupied with myself – my successes and failures, my connections and reputation. I sometimes treat you as my assistant in the life-management program I’ve devised. Forgive me – and draw the focus of my life ever toward you. Be the center of my work, my home, my relationships. As you take center stage, breathe the zeal of your Spirit into my life. Amen.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Do Open Doors Let Out the Heat? A Meditation on Revelation 3:20
Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with him, and he with me. (Revelation 3:20)
Christ stands at the door knocking. It is he who extends the first invitation as he asks us to open the door. Typically those on the inside invite the one knocking to come in. But our invitation is always a response to his.
I remember very well the day I opened the door. The tradition that nurtured my young faith was very clear and specific about how the door was opened. There were even a series of questions to be answered that would help one open the door (if you were to die tonight . . . etc.). Of course, there were variations on the theme, but generally the time for door opening came every week at the end of a worship service. A hymn was sung, and in one way or another, the invitation to open the door to Christ was extended.
Now, even in our reformed tradition invitations are still offered. At Peachtree we endeavor to do this every week. But in the church of my childhood the invitation assumed a specific action that constituted opening the door. One who was answering the door would walk forward and basically say to the pastor “I’m here to get the door.”
I was eight years old when I slipped out my pew and went forward to get the door. The preacher standing at the front to receive me was my uncle Earl. The pastor seated on the platform who had just preached the message was my dad. So I was walking toward my uncle and my dad . . . and I was still nervous, petrified actually. It was April of 1970 as I recall. I don’t remember exactly what I said. I think my desire to avoid hell was in there somehow – but whatever it was, the door was opened.
To read the words of Christ to Laodicea might leave you with the impression that the way to take care of a lukewarm faith is to open the door to Jesus who patiently knocks and waits and wants to have fellowship with us. No doubt, that’s part of the solution. But when I think about that I realize that I opened the door long ago . . . and I’ve been lukewarm; long stretches of lukewarmness.
As a kid I’d sometimes run into the house after being outside, and I’d leave the door open. This would evoke a short lesson from one of my parents about the science of indoor refrigeration and / or heating. In the summer, open doors let out the cool air. In the winter, open doors let out the heat. Those lessons sunk in. Just last week I pulled into my own garage to see the door to the house standing open. “That’ll be great for our heating bill,” I said to myself - the voices of my parents channeled through my own.
As with houses, so with the soul. The open door sometimes lets the heat out. After we’ve invited Christ to come in, after we’ve given him a seat at the table, eventually the conversation lags. Some of you who are reading this have walked with Jesus for a long time. You too opened the door years ago.
It may be that your parents turned the knob and left the door cracked slightly when you were an infant; you opened it wide at your confirmation. And what’s more, it may be that you too know of a dulling familiarity in your walk with Jesus. Perhaps you’ve told yourself that you are “seasoned” in the faith. The truth of the matter may be more Laodicean. You’re lukewarm.
For those of us who opened the door only to let the heat out, we may do well to focus carefully on the image in Revelation 3:20. Christ comes in; we give him a place at the table. This is good – but being at the table gets old if nothing is served. Jesus says he comes in for a reason. He comes to eat or “to sup” with us. What we need is a regular, continual feeding on food that nourishes our life with Christ. Passion grows as we feed on the word of God, on worship with God’s people, on service for God’s glory. Apart from these things there’s not much on the table. Soon we find ourselves fiddling with the utensils in our awkward lukewarm silences.
I guess what I’m writing today is a confession. I opened the door years ago. And I still battle a lukewarm soul, a lack of zeal, the absence of spiritual passion. The question I know I need to answer every day is this: what’s on the table. Maybe that’s the question for you today as well. How will you keep company with Jesus and feed your soul today?
Prayer: Lord Jesus, the doors of my life are open to you, and yet somehow the heat escapes and my zeal fades. As you meet me at the table today, feed me by your Holy Spirit. Give me insight into your word, move my heart to worship, lead me to avenues of service – and in all this kindle a growing passion for you. Amen.
Christ stands at the door knocking. It is he who extends the first invitation as he asks us to open the door. Typically those on the inside invite the one knocking to come in. But our invitation is always a response to his.
I remember very well the day I opened the door. The tradition that nurtured my young faith was very clear and specific about how the door was opened. There were even a series of questions to be answered that would help one open the door (if you were to die tonight . . . etc.). Of course, there were variations on the theme, but generally the time for door opening came every week at the end of a worship service. A hymn was sung, and in one way or another, the invitation to open the door to Christ was extended.
Now, even in our reformed tradition invitations are still offered. At Peachtree we endeavor to do this every week. But in the church of my childhood the invitation assumed a specific action that constituted opening the door. One who was answering the door would walk forward and basically say to the pastor “I’m here to get the door.”
I was eight years old when I slipped out my pew and went forward to get the door. The preacher standing at the front to receive me was my uncle Earl. The pastor seated on the platform who had just preached the message was my dad. So I was walking toward my uncle and my dad . . . and I was still nervous, petrified actually. It was April of 1970 as I recall. I don’t remember exactly what I said. I think my desire to avoid hell was in there somehow – but whatever it was, the door was opened.
To read the words of Christ to Laodicea might leave you with the impression that the way to take care of a lukewarm faith is to open the door to Jesus who patiently knocks and waits and wants to have fellowship with us. No doubt, that’s part of the solution. But when I think about that I realize that I opened the door long ago . . . and I’ve been lukewarm; long stretches of lukewarmness.
As a kid I’d sometimes run into the house after being outside, and I’d leave the door open. This would evoke a short lesson from one of my parents about the science of indoor refrigeration and / or heating. In the summer, open doors let out the cool air. In the winter, open doors let out the heat. Those lessons sunk in. Just last week I pulled into my own garage to see the door to the house standing open. “That’ll be great for our heating bill,” I said to myself - the voices of my parents channeled through my own.
As with houses, so with the soul. The open door sometimes lets the heat out. After we’ve invited Christ to come in, after we’ve given him a seat at the table, eventually the conversation lags. Some of you who are reading this have walked with Jesus for a long time. You too opened the door years ago.
It may be that your parents turned the knob and left the door cracked slightly when you were an infant; you opened it wide at your confirmation. And what’s more, it may be that you too know of a dulling familiarity in your walk with Jesus. Perhaps you’ve told yourself that you are “seasoned” in the faith. The truth of the matter may be more Laodicean. You’re lukewarm.
For those of us who opened the door only to let the heat out, we may do well to focus carefully on the image in Revelation 3:20. Christ comes in; we give him a place at the table. This is good – but being at the table gets old if nothing is served. Jesus says he comes in for a reason. He comes to eat or “to sup” with us. What we need is a regular, continual feeding on food that nourishes our life with Christ. Passion grows as we feed on the word of God, on worship with God’s people, on service for God’s glory. Apart from these things there’s not much on the table. Soon we find ourselves fiddling with the utensils in our awkward lukewarm silences.
I guess what I’m writing today is a confession. I opened the door years ago. And I still battle a lukewarm soul, a lack of zeal, the absence of spiritual passion. The question I know I need to answer every day is this: what’s on the table. Maybe that’s the question for you today as well. How will you keep company with Jesus and feed your soul today?
Prayer: Lord Jesus, the doors of my life are open to you, and yet somehow the heat escapes and my zeal fades. As you meet me at the table today, feed me by your Holy Spirit. Give me insight into your word, move my heart to worship, lead me to avenues of service – and in all this kindle a growing passion for you. Amen.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Zeal: A Meditation on Revelation 3:19
“Zeal for your house will consume me.” (John 2:17)
“. . . be zealous and repent. Behold I stand at the door and knock. (Rev. 3:19-20)
John tells us that Jesus made a whip. He made a whip out of cords. I imagine him having to braid the cords together, a task that took a little time. All the while he’s thinking, praying. As his fingers weave and wrap he’s pondering what he’s just seen, and as he ponders he burns. He can feel it in his face. It’s anger, yes – but not petulant anger. The sight of money-changers in the temple, the shouts of sleazy opportunists selling animals for sacrifice to pilgrims at a jacked-up price, this he would not bear. So he made a whip, deliberately, patiently, with steely resolve. And he walked back to the temple courts.
As he overturned tables, as the coins jangled and bounced across the stone floors, as the small-time hacks ducked or scattered, grabbing their goods and shouting back their curses, as all of this was happening the disciples of Jesus watched and remembered. They remembered a line of scripture from the “Tehelim,” the book of praises or Psalms. We know it as Psalm 69:9. “Zeal for your house will consume me.”
It’s interesting that the Greek word for “zeal” used in this line from John 2:17 is the same word that shows up in the words of Christ to the church at Laodicea; words also written by John’s hand. In Revelation 3:19 Jesus calls upon the Laodiceans to “be zealous and repent.”
If we ponder that word from John 2 and the same word in Revelation 3:19, we gain some insight into the nature of both zeal and repentance. We get an idea of where zeal comes from, and what it means to repent of our lukewarm condition.
Jesus cleared the temple of money changers because he saw something about the holiness of God and the sacredness of worship that was being defamed by the carnival-like bazaar that had been set up in the temple courts. His vision of God gave birth to his zeal. His braiding of the whip, his shouting of Jeremiah’s words – these were not a temper tantrum. This was a God-drenched zeal, a zeal that the Psalmist described as consuming.
This kind of vision and the zeal that it exudes will never be had as long as Jesus is left standing at the door, outside the intimacies of the home and heart. That’s exactly what had happened in Laodicea, and that partially explains their lukewarm state. Christ, standing on the outside or in the margins, appeals to them with words that convey a kind of longing. “Behold, I stand at the door and knock.” As long as Christ as left at the door our vision of him will be stunted and our zeal will be, well, lukewarm.
I can’t help but think of a recent ad campaign for Domino’s pizza. The brand line on the commercials says “Get the door . . . it’s Domino’s.” At the risk of irreverence, “Get the door . . . it’s Jesus.”
What does it take to be done with a lukewarm faith and to be consumed with zeal? Nothing less than a vision of God, revealed to us in Jesus Christ, and as close to us as a friend across the table. Do you see him that way? Do you know him that way? Until you do your zeal will be short-lived, sporadic. So get the door.
Prayer: Lord Jesus, I yearn to be consumed with zeal – not the kind of zeal the world offers me, but the kind that comes from seeing you in a fresh and powerful and compelling way. So many things in my life, in my daily routine, eclipse that vision of you. Come today and restore it; I gladly invite you in. Amen.
“. . . be zealous and repent. Behold I stand at the door and knock. (Rev. 3:19-20)
John tells us that Jesus made a whip. He made a whip out of cords. I imagine him having to braid the cords together, a task that took a little time. All the while he’s thinking, praying. As his fingers weave and wrap he’s pondering what he’s just seen, and as he ponders he burns. He can feel it in his face. It’s anger, yes – but not petulant anger. The sight of money-changers in the temple, the shouts of sleazy opportunists selling animals for sacrifice to pilgrims at a jacked-up price, this he would not bear. So he made a whip, deliberately, patiently, with steely resolve. And he walked back to the temple courts.
As he overturned tables, as the coins jangled and bounced across the stone floors, as the small-time hacks ducked or scattered, grabbing their goods and shouting back their curses, as all of this was happening the disciples of Jesus watched and remembered. They remembered a line of scripture from the “Tehelim,” the book of praises or Psalms. We know it as Psalm 69:9. “Zeal for your house will consume me.”
It’s interesting that the Greek word for “zeal” used in this line from John 2:17 is the same word that shows up in the words of Christ to the church at Laodicea; words also written by John’s hand. In Revelation 3:19 Jesus calls upon the Laodiceans to “be zealous and repent.”
If we ponder that word from John 2 and the same word in Revelation 3:19, we gain some insight into the nature of both zeal and repentance. We get an idea of where zeal comes from, and what it means to repent of our lukewarm condition.
Jesus cleared the temple of money changers because he saw something about the holiness of God and the sacredness of worship that was being defamed by the carnival-like bazaar that had been set up in the temple courts. His vision of God gave birth to his zeal. His braiding of the whip, his shouting of Jeremiah’s words – these were not a temper tantrum. This was a God-drenched zeal, a zeal that the Psalmist described as consuming.
This kind of vision and the zeal that it exudes will never be had as long as Jesus is left standing at the door, outside the intimacies of the home and heart. That’s exactly what had happened in Laodicea, and that partially explains their lukewarm state. Christ, standing on the outside or in the margins, appeals to them with words that convey a kind of longing. “Behold, I stand at the door and knock.” As long as Christ as left at the door our vision of him will be stunted and our zeal will be, well, lukewarm.
I can’t help but think of a recent ad campaign for Domino’s pizza. The brand line on the commercials says “Get the door . . . it’s Domino’s.” At the risk of irreverence, “Get the door . . . it’s Jesus.”
What does it take to be done with a lukewarm faith and to be consumed with zeal? Nothing less than a vision of God, revealed to us in Jesus Christ, and as close to us as a friend across the table. Do you see him that way? Do you know him that way? Until you do your zeal will be short-lived, sporadic. So get the door.
Prayer: Lord Jesus, I yearn to be consumed with zeal – not the kind of zeal the world offers me, but the kind that comes from seeing you in a fresh and powerful and compelling way. So many things in my life, in my daily routine, eclipse that vision of you. Come today and restore it; I gladly invite you in. Amen.
Monday, February 05, 2007
Reality Check: A meditation on Revelation 3:14-22
You say, 'I am rich; I have acquired wealth and do not need a thing.' But you do not realize that you are wretched, pitiful, poor, blind and naked. (Revelation 3:17)
Never be lacking in zeal, but keep your spiritual fervor, serving the Lord. (Romans 12:11)
When my children were a few years younger, Marnie and I realized that their experience of dining out almost always included fried chicken tenders and a placemat that came with crayons. This was not good. My imagination got away with me when I pictured them at their wedding rehearsal dinner . . . coloring at the table. It was time for some parental intervention. Time to school them in the experience of eating at a “real” restaurant. Time to help them identify a salad fork and a butter knife. I was further convinced that the time was right because I happened to have in my possession a treasured gift: the much-loved Buckhead Life card.
With the card tucked safely in my wallet I made reservations at Chops. We put on dressier clothes – the kind you wear when you don’t plan to romp in the play room at Chik-fil-a.
It was a great time with the kids, and the meal was fantastic; not carrying our trays to the trash can afterwards. . . this was living! The Buckhead Life card emboldened me. We felt free to order whatever we wanted and we even did dessert. Then came the check.
Having given my card the server, he very politely returned to our table and handed me the elegant black folder into which the record of our damage for the evening had been tastefully placed. “This can’t be right,” I said (not out loud – not yet). But a murmured conversation with our server confirmed the dreaded truth. The card I had placed in my wallet was an old card with a balance left on it of $15.00. That meal stung more than I had thought it might. My dinner check had become a reality check.
The letter to Laodicea is a reality check. They are primarily rebuked for being lukewarm, but their lukewarm condition is simply a consequence of a deeper problem. Their real problem is that they think they are one way (wealthy, sufficient) – but in reality they are not.
It might help us to understand that being lukewarm is not a feeling; it is not an emotional state in which we dangle between eager excitement on one hand and bored disinterest on the other. Lukewarm is a condition, a reality. It is a reality rooted in a false sense of satisfaction; a false security with how we’re doing. It’s a reality rooted in a deception that has us thinking we’re bringing far more to the table than we really are. Spiritually speaking, we find we’ve only got $15.00 credit when we thought we we’re bringing far more to our relationship with Jesus Christ.
And here’s the real kicker. Not only is the lukewarm state not an emotion, most of those bogged down in it do not perceive it at all. Most lukewarm followers of Jesus are actually quite content in their lukewarmness. Lukewarmness is masked by satisfaction.
This connection quickly becomes apparent. Where there is no sense of need, there will be no passion. If we want to get zeal, we had better get real.
As we begin our reflections on the words of Christ to Laodicea, perhaps the place to begin is with a reality check. As you spend some time in prayer today, invite the Spirit to show you where you need to be restless, dissatisfied. Be honest about the gradual complacency that might have taken up residence in your soul. Ask the Spirit to do a reality check. And know this: whatever is lacking, Christ will gladly and abundantly supply.
Prayer: Lord Jesus, create within me a restless desire to know you better. Let that desire become a passion. Free me from any sense of satisfaction or complacency that makes me lethargic and lukewarm in my walk with you. Amen.
Never be lacking in zeal, but keep your spiritual fervor, serving the Lord. (Romans 12:11)
When my children were a few years younger, Marnie and I realized that their experience of dining out almost always included fried chicken tenders and a placemat that came with crayons. This was not good. My imagination got away with me when I pictured them at their wedding rehearsal dinner . . . coloring at the table. It was time for some parental intervention. Time to school them in the experience of eating at a “real” restaurant. Time to help them identify a salad fork and a butter knife. I was further convinced that the time was right because I happened to have in my possession a treasured gift: the much-loved Buckhead Life card.
With the card tucked safely in my wallet I made reservations at Chops. We put on dressier clothes – the kind you wear when you don’t plan to romp in the play room at Chik-fil-a.
It was a great time with the kids, and the meal was fantastic; not carrying our trays to the trash can afterwards. . . this was living! The Buckhead Life card emboldened me. We felt free to order whatever we wanted and we even did dessert. Then came the check.
Having given my card the server, he very politely returned to our table and handed me the elegant black folder into which the record of our damage for the evening had been tastefully placed. “This can’t be right,” I said (not out loud – not yet). But a murmured conversation with our server confirmed the dreaded truth. The card I had placed in my wallet was an old card with a balance left on it of $15.00. That meal stung more than I had thought it might. My dinner check had become a reality check.
The letter to Laodicea is a reality check. They are primarily rebuked for being lukewarm, but their lukewarm condition is simply a consequence of a deeper problem. Their real problem is that they think they are one way (wealthy, sufficient) – but in reality they are not.
It might help us to understand that being lukewarm is not a feeling; it is not an emotional state in which we dangle between eager excitement on one hand and bored disinterest on the other. Lukewarm is a condition, a reality. It is a reality rooted in a false sense of satisfaction; a false security with how we’re doing. It’s a reality rooted in a deception that has us thinking we’re bringing far more to the table than we really are. Spiritually speaking, we find we’ve only got $15.00 credit when we thought we we’re bringing far more to our relationship with Jesus Christ.
And here’s the real kicker. Not only is the lukewarm state not an emotion, most of those bogged down in it do not perceive it at all. Most lukewarm followers of Jesus are actually quite content in their lukewarmness. Lukewarmness is masked by satisfaction.
This connection quickly becomes apparent. Where there is no sense of need, there will be no passion. If we want to get zeal, we had better get real.
As we begin our reflections on the words of Christ to Laodicea, perhaps the place to begin is with a reality check. As you spend some time in prayer today, invite the Spirit to show you where you need to be restless, dissatisfied. Be honest about the gradual complacency that might have taken up residence in your soul. Ask the Spirit to do a reality check. And know this: whatever is lacking, Christ will gladly and abundantly supply.
Prayer: Lord Jesus, create within me a restless desire to know you better. Let that desire become a passion. Free me from any sense of satisfaction or complacency that makes me lethargic and lukewarm in my walk with you. Amen.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Not Quite Right
O.K. . . .so I need to check my references to scripture before posting statements about biblical content or attempting to quote passages that I haven't memorized.
I said in my last post that Paul repeatedly states in Philippians 2 that he wants to know Christ. That's not quite right. If you're interestred in reading what the apostle actually said, you'll need to go to Philippians 3. There are a couple of places there where Paul speaks of knowing Christ. In v. 3 he speaks of the "surpassing worth" of knowing Christ as compared with a life of rule keeping and points earned for good behavior. In v. 10 Paul says his aim is to "know him and the power of his resurrection."
I was off a little: one chapter and a few turns of phrase. Still, knowing Christ was a big deal for Paul. May it be likewise for us.
I said in my last post that Paul repeatedly states in Philippians 2 that he wants to know Christ. That's not quite right. If you're interestred in reading what the apostle actually said, you'll need to go to Philippians 3. There are a couple of places there where Paul speaks of knowing Christ. In v. 3 he speaks of the "surpassing worth" of knowing Christ as compared with a life of rule keeping and points earned for good behavior. In v. 10 Paul says his aim is to "know him and the power of his resurrection."
I was off a little: one chapter and a few turns of phrase. Still, knowing Christ was a big deal for Paul. May it be likewise for us.
Friday, November 10, 2006
New on the iPod
Some of the best bible teaching in the country is available via podcasting. In addition to our own Dr. Vic Pentz here at Peachtree Presbyterian (link on right of this page) I'm enjoying a new podcast from Ken Myers and the folks who do the Mars Hill audio journal. It's called "Audition" and you can subscribe by going to the Mars Hill website. The Catalyst podcast is great and you'll find good stuff from Melo Park Presbyterian Church, Rob Bell at Mars Hill Church (not connected to Mars Hill audio journal in any way), and Mark Batterson at NCC in Washington, D.C.
On the way to the church this morning I heard part of a song that caught my attention for it's vocals and lyrics. I never actually listen to the country-western stations in Atlanta, so this was a random find while scanning for something else. The group is Sugarland and the song is "Want To" from their CD Enjoy the Ride.
I can't say exactly why I like this song beyond obvious things like the tune and the singer, etc. The song captures a moment between two people - a moment of decision, the precipice of something new between them. This is not an unspoken love from a distance, and it's not a declaration of commitment. It's the moment of what's next. There is mingling of clear desire and hesitant, tentative living.
"We could keep things just the same
Leave here the way we came, with nothing to lose
But I don't want to, if you don't want to."
I'll confess to being somewhat averse to risk, to the unknown. As far as I'm concerned you can never have enough clarity and certainty. This presents a problem when it comes to living by grace. I've got much to learn.
So the song expresses something that for me has significance in the life of faith. In this regard "Want To"is a modern day Song of Songs. It says something about devotion to and love for Jesus. There is always an inclination to settle in to something safe and familiar - even years into the Christian life. We want more, we know there's something more to be known of Jesus and the life he offers us - but there's this tentative stutter step we take before jumping in.
And the bottom line is I don't want to be that way. Paul says over and over in Philippians 2 "I want to know Christ." That's what I want too.
On the way to the church this morning I heard part of a song that caught my attention for it's vocals and lyrics. I never actually listen to the country-western stations in Atlanta, so this was a random find while scanning for something else. The group is Sugarland and the song is "Want To" from their CD Enjoy the Ride.
I can't say exactly why I like this song beyond obvious things like the tune and the singer, etc. The song captures a moment between two people - a moment of decision, the precipice of something new between them. This is not an unspoken love from a distance, and it's not a declaration of commitment. It's the moment of what's next. There is mingling of clear desire and hesitant, tentative living.
"We could keep things just the same
Leave here the way we came, with nothing to lose
But I don't want to, if you don't want to."
I'll confess to being somewhat averse to risk, to the unknown. As far as I'm concerned you can never have enough clarity and certainty. This presents a problem when it comes to living by grace. I've got much to learn.
So the song expresses something that for me has significance in the life of faith. In this regard "Want To"is a modern day Song of Songs. It says something about devotion to and love for Jesus. There is always an inclination to settle in to something safe and familiar - even years into the Christian life. We want more, we know there's something more to be known of Jesus and the life he offers us - but there's this tentative stutter step we take before jumping in.
And the bottom line is I don't want to be that way. Paul says over and over in Philippians 2 "I want to know Christ." That's what I want too.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
A Bad Week for Tires
We replaced three tires this week. Two on Wednesday, one on Friday.
On Wednesday I hit a hole in the road that should have been covered by a thick steel plate where construction was being done. I drive over those plates and past that construction site every day - but on Wednesday I was careless,not paying attention to the road. Honestly, I don't know what I was doing that allowed me to hit the open space just perfectly, the impact busting two tires and bending my front wheel.
On Friday my wife was in our Honda Accord and barely out of our driveway when she knew something was wrong. I came to the rescue, changed the tire and took it to a local auto repair shop where two small nails were found in the tread. The tire was plugged and I was back on the road within an hour.
Idolatry shows itself in some peculiar ways in my life. I've been teaching on the Ten commandments this Fall, and I'm forced to reflect on the "no other Gods" mandate given to the Israelites through Moses. I never consciously create or craft another God; they have a way of simply showing up in my life and in my mind, in my behavior and in my thinking. They are there without my knowing it . . . until something happens.
Like two flat tires and a bent wheel that costs me a good chunk of change and eats up hours in my schedule. Then I sense that something inside of me has been kneeling at the altar of control where I manage the details of my life. I regularly worship in the temple of modern machinery that allows me to come and go as I wish. I sense the anxiety that creeps into my heart when money is suddently re-directed and taken from me. Plenty of little idols, a menu of gods.
We're back on wheels - a must in Atlanta. We have to drive to live in this place. I'd gladly drive less than we do, given the horendous traffic. What I know I've also got to do less of is depend on driving and tires for my sense of well being. Time to repent of some little idolatries.
On Wednesday I hit a hole in the road that should have been covered by a thick steel plate where construction was being done. I drive over those plates and past that construction site every day - but on Wednesday I was careless,not paying attention to the road. Honestly, I don't know what I was doing that allowed me to hit the open space just perfectly, the impact busting two tires and bending my front wheel.
On Friday my wife was in our Honda Accord and barely out of our driveway when she knew something was wrong. I came to the rescue, changed the tire and took it to a local auto repair shop where two small nails were found in the tread. The tire was plugged and I was back on the road within an hour.
Idolatry shows itself in some peculiar ways in my life. I've been teaching on the Ten commandments this Fall, and I'm forced to reflect on the "no other Gods" mandate given to the Israelites through Moses. I never consciously create or craft another God; they have a way of simply showing up in my life and in my mind, in my behavior and in my thinking. They are there without my knowing it . . . until something happens.
Like two flat tires and a bent wheel that costs me a good chunk of change and eats up hours in my schedule. Then I sense that something inside of me has been kneeling at the altar of control where I manage the details of my life. I regularly worship in the temple of modern machinery that allows me to come and go as I wish. I sense the anxiety that creeps into my heart when money is suddently re-directed and taken from me. Plenty of little idols, a menu of gods.
We're back on wheels - a must in Atlanta. We have to drive to live in this place. I'd gladly drive less than we do, given the horendous traffic. What I know I've also got to do less of is depend on driving and tires for my sense of well being. Time to repent of some little idolatries.
Missed Encounter
“To draw near to listen is better than to offer the sacrifice of fools . . .” (Ecc. 5:1 ESV)
“You can do church and not do God.” I heard my wife say that recently and when I read the opening verses of Ecclesiastes 5 the same idea seeps through the text. Offering the sacrifice of fools is contrasted with drawing near to listen. The fool is the person who made it to the place of worship, but rushed through the familiar practices of the sacrificial act, saying the right words in the right place, but never truly encountering God. A genuine connection with the Holy was neither sought nor anticipated.
In contrast, the one who draws near to listen is after something more, something risky and potentially life changing. God is speaking and the one who listens is open to being addressed by those words; open to an encounter that could lead to God-knows-where.
After a late shift at the hospital during my chaplaincy days I was eager to get home. I had done my eight hours, the midnight chaplain had arrived to take over for the deep night shift, and I was getting to the parking lot as fast as I could go without actually running. I was carrying a small cooler in which I had packed my less than satisfying dinner. Down the hall in front of me a bath-robed patient was walking slowly. My strategy was to blow by on the opposite side of the hall. Without the slightest glance in his direction I passed him, only to hear him say, “You don’t have a liver I there do you?”
Moment of decision; I could laugh that off with a quip and barely lose a step, or I could listen. Transplant patients waiting on an organ know that organs usually arrive in something that looks like a cooler. That robed and unhurried person wasn’t really asking me a question. He was telling me something about himself and in doing so was inviting me to an encounter. By grace I managed to stop, to ask a few questions, to learn that Bill was from Florida waiting on a liver, waiting on a visit from his wife and daughter. It didn’t take too long. But the choice to listen opened up things that I would have missed entirely by refusing to be interrupted in my power walk to the parking lot.
God invites us to an encounter. Perhaps the single most significant factor in whether the encounter will take place is our capacity to listen. It’s so easy to come before God planning our next stop, obsessing over things left undone, our heads full of conversations we need to finish. But this is the way of fools. The invitation to encounter is the invitation to listen. God addresses you today; will your pace permit a response?
Prayer: God, my mind is so full of things that feel urgent to me and all of them seem to keep me from hearing you. As I make my way through this day, help me to hear your invitation, to vary my pace, to encounter you in the details of my life. Amen.
“You can do church and not do God.” I heard my wife say that recently and when I read the opening verses of Ecclesiastes 5 the same idea seeps through the text. Offering the sacrifice of fools is contrasted with drawing near to listen. The fool is the person who made it to the place of worship, but rushed through the familiar practices of the sacrificial act, saying the right words in the right place, but never truly encountering God. A genuine connection with the Holy was neither sought nor anticipated.
In contrast, the one who draws near to listen is after something more, something risky and potentially life changing. God is speaking and the one who listens is open to being addressed by those words; open to an encounter that could lead to God-knows-where.
After a late shift at the hospital during my chaplaincy days I was eager to get home. I had done my eight hours, the midnight chaplain had arrived to take over for the deep night shift, and I was getting to the parking lot as fast as I could go without actually running. I was carrying a small cooler in which I had packed my less than satisfying dinner. Down the hall in front of me a bath-robed patient was walking slowly. My strategy was to blow by on the opposite side of the hall. Without the slightest glance in his direction I passed him, only to hear him say, “You don’t have a liver I there do you?”
Moment of decision; I could laugh that off with a quip and barely lose a step, or I could listen. Transplant patients waiting on an organ know that organs usually arrive in something that looks like a cooler. That robed and unhurried person wasn’t really asking me a question. He was telling me something about himself and in doing so was inviting me to an encounter. By grace I managed to stop, to ask a few questions, to learn that Bill was from Florida waiting on a liver, waiting on a visit from his wife and daughter. It didn’t take too long. But the choice to listen opened up things that I would have missed entirely by refusing to be interrupted in my power walk to the parking lot.
God invites us to an encounter. Perhaps the single most significant factor in whether the encounter will take place is our capacity to listen. It’s so easy to come before God planning our next stop, obsessing over things left undone, our heads full of conversations we need to finish. But this is the way of fools. The invitation to encounter is the invitation to listen. God addresses you today; will your pace permit a response?
Prayer: God, my mind is so full of things that feel urgent to me and all of them seem to keep me from hearing you. As I make my way through this day, help me to hear your invitation, to vary my pace, to encounter you in the details of my life. Amen.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Uprooted
A time to plant and a time to uproot . . . (Ecclesiastes 3: 2b)
My Dad is a pastor. I remember well being in the car with him one day during my junior year of high school and telling him, “I’ll never do what you do.” The remark was not intended as a criticism. I wasn’t arguing with him. I wasn’t making a statement of rebellion and asserting my independence. I just didn’t want to be a pastor – because growing up in a pastor’s home I had come to associate ministry with moving. Leaving one place and going to another, leaving friends and making new ones, leaving the school I knew and going to one that I didn’t know, leaving the familiar for the strange.
When Solomon said there is a time to plant and a time to uproot, he probably had something agricultural in mind. But for me, to “uproot” isn’t something you do to a plant. It’s something you live; you may choose to do it or it may be done to you. It’s a life experience in which you are pulled away from your source of nourishment, strength, even life. This may be a move to new city, the loss of a job, the loss of memory, a death or a divorce. It can happen in so many ways, but what they all have in common is this: being ripped up from anything hurts.
God is a gentle gardener. He doesn’t tear us from the life-giving soil only to let us dry up or languish. Being uprooted means being planted again. The two belong together. The interesting thing about these seasons is their interdependence. You can’t get planted one place without being removed from another. Saying yes to one thing always means saying no to something else. As Frost’s famous poem reminds us, to take one road means another will not be traveled.
Some of you this morning are in a season of being planted, putting down roots as you work hard at your career, raise your family, remodel the kitchen. Others of you are uprooted, not sure what’s next. Like a trapeze artist, you’re in that split second of being totally airborne, letting go of one thing, reaching for the next. It may feel like an eternity, but it’s only a season.
I’ve heard this line attributed to theologian Karl Barth: “Shall we never allow our hands to empty so that we can receive what only empty hands can receive?” That’s a great question to ponder in the “uprooted” season. We don’t like empty hands, but deprivation is a prelude to more grace.
Prayer: God, I will gladly put down roots where I am today, knowing that there may be a season when life is uprooted. In all seasons teach me to live before you open-handed, ready to receive grace in whatever form you choose to give it. Amen.
My Dad is a pastor. I remember well being in the car with him one day during my junior year of high school and telling him, “I’ll never do what you do.” The remark was not intended as a criticism. I wasn’t arguing with him. I wasn’t making a statement of rebellion and asserting my independence. I just didn’t want to be a pastor – because growing up in a pastor’s home I had come to associate ministry with moving. Leaving one place and going to another, leaving friends and making new ones, leaving the school I knew and going to one that I didn’t know, leaving the familiar for the strange.
When Solomon said there is a time to plant and a time to uproot, he probably had something agricultural in mind. But for me, to “uproot” isn’t something you do to a plant. It’s something you live; you may choose to do it or it may be done to you. It’s a life experience in which you are pulled away from your source of nourishment, strength, even life. This may be a move to new city, the loss of a job, the loss of memory, a death or a divorce. It can happen in so many ways, but what they all have in common is this: being ripped up from anything hurts.
God is a gentle gardener. He doesn’t tear us from the life-giving soil only to let us dry up or languish. Being uprooted means being planted again. The two belong together. The interesting thing about these seasons is their interdependence. You can’t get planted one place without being removed from another. Saying yes to one thing always means saying no to something else. As Frost’s famous poem reminds us, to take one road means another will not be traveled.
Some of you this morning are in a season of being planted, putting down roots as you work hard at your career, raise your family, remodel the kitchen. Others of you are uprooted, not sure what’s next. Like a trapeze artist, you’re in that split second of being totally airborne, letting go of one thing, reaching for the next. It may feel like an eternity, but it’s only a season.
I’ve heard this line attributed to theologian Karl Barth: “Shall we never allow our hands to empty so that we can receive what only empty hands can receive?” That’s a great question to ponder in the “uprooted” season. We don’t like empty hands, but deprivation is a prelude to more grace.
Prayer: God, I will gladly put down roots where I am today, knowing that there may be a season when life is uprooted. In all seasons teach me to live before you open-handed, ready to receive grace in whatever form you choose to give it. Amen.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
This Season and the Next
To everything there is a season . . . (Ecc. 3:1)
If you live in North Carolina for very long you quickly realize that life is defined by two seasons. The first is basketball season. To be more precise, ACC basketball season. The second of the two seasons – at least where I lived in Wake County – is tobacco season. As Ecclesiastes says, there is a time to plant and a time to uproot. For four years I marked the season by seeing Richard Jenks on his John Deere tractor, plowing the field across the street from my house.
To my distant and citified observations, tobacco farming was a seasonal endeavor marked by planting (settin’ out) and harvest (putin’ in). I assumed that tobacco growers worked hard in spring and late summer /fall, recuperating from their labor in the cold months. I learned differently when Donny Olive showed me the greenhouse on his farm that sheltered thousands of tiny tobacco plants and supplied growers throughout the state.
Beneath a massive canopy was an expansive array of small plastic trays with little square compartments like the ones you used in the days before ice makers in your freezer. Each little compartment held a tiny tobacco plant, no bigger than the end of my little finger. These plants were carefully nurtured, watered on a schedule, never allowed to get too cold. It became clear to me that the success of what happened in the spring and summer depended upon the success of preparations made in winter. One season was integrally connected to the other and the “tobacco season” was actually happening all the time.
Chances are, the season you’re in right now doesn’t stand alone. If you know joy now, you may know it well because you’ve tasted sorrow. If you’re feeling smothered by sorrow now, past joy may be what you cling to as a source of hope for your future. What’s more – God works year ‘round, and the season you’re in today may well be preparation for a season yet to come, a season not yet available to your imagination.
Here are two questions for you to ponder today: can you identify a past season that somehow prepared you for where you are today? Further, can you see that the present season may in fact be God’s way of preparing you for a season yet to come?
Prayer: Merciful God, I’m thankful that you are always working and that you are faithful in every season of my life. Work in me today by your Spirit to prepare me for whatever you have for me in the coming seasons of my life. Amen.
If you live in North Carolina for very long you quickly realize that life is defined by two seasons. The first is basketball season. To be more precise, ACC basketball season. The second of the two seasons – at least where I lived in Wake County – is tobacco season. As Ecclesiastes says, there is a time to plant and a time to uproot. For four years I marked the season by seeing Richard Jenks on his John Deere tractor, plowing the field across the street from my house.
To my distant and citified observations, tobacco farming was a seasonal endeavor marked by planting (settin’ out) and harvest (putin’ in). I assumed that tobacco growers worked hard in spring and late summer /fall, recuperating from their labor in the cold months. I learned differently when Donny Olive showed me the greenhouse on his farm that sheltered thousands of tiny tobacco plants and supplied growers throughout the state.
Beneath a massive canopy was an expansive array of small plastic trays with little square compartments like the ones you used in the days before ice makers in your freezer. Each little compartment held a tiny tobacco plant, no bigger than the end of my little finger. These plants were carefully nurtured, watered on a schedule, never allowed to get too cold. It became clear to me that the success of what happened in the spring and summer depended upon the success of preparations made in winter. One season was integrally connected to the other and the “tobacco season” was actually happening all the time.
Chances are, the season you’re in right now doesn’t stand alone. If you know joy now, you may know it well because you’ve tasted sorrow. If you’re feeling smothered by sorrow now, past joy may be what you cling to as a source of hope for your future. What’s more – God works year ‘round, and the season you’re in today may well be preparation for a season yet to come, a season not yet available to your imagination.
Here are two questions for you to ponder today: can you identify a past season that somehow prepared you for where you are today? Further, can you see that the present season may in fact be God’s way of preparing you for a season yet to come?
Prayer: Merciful God, I’m thankful that you are always working and that you are faithful in every season of my life. Work in me today by your Spirit to prepare me for whatever you have for me in the coming seasons of my life. Amen.
This Season and the Next
To everything there is a season . . . (Ecc. 3:1)
If you live in North Carolina for very long you quickly realize that life is defined by two seasons. The first is basketball season. To be more precise, ACC basketball season. The second of the two seasons – at least where I lived in Wake County – is tobacco season. As Ecclesiastes says, there is a time to plant and a time to uproot. For four years I marked the season by seeing Richard Jenks on his John Deere tractor, plowing the field across the street from my house.
To my distant and citified observations, tobacco farming was a seasonal endeavor marked by planting (settin’ out) and harvest (putin’ in). I assumed that tobacco growers worked hard in spring and late summer /fall, recuperating from their labor in the cold months. I learned differently when Donny Olive showed me the greenhouse on his farm that sheltered thousands of tiny tobacco plants and supplied growers throughout the state.
Beneath a massive canopy was an expansive array of small plastic trays with little square compartments like the ones you used in the days before ice makers in your freezer. Each little compartment held a tiny tobacco plant, no bigger than the end of my little finger. These plants were carefully nurtured, watered on a schedule, never allowed to get too cold. It became clear to me that the success of what happened in the spring and summer depended upon the success of preparations made in winter. One season was integrally connected to the other and the “tobacco season” was actually happening all the time.
Chances are, the season you’re in right now doesn’t stand alone. If you know joy now, you may know it well because you’ve tasted sorrow. If you’re feeling smothered by sorrow now, past joy may be what you cling to as a source of hope for your future. What’s more – God works year ‘round, and the season you’re in today may well be preparation for a season yet to come, a season not yet available to your imagination.
Here are two questions for you to ponder today: can you identify a past season that somehow prepared you for where you are today? Further, can you see that the present season may in fact be God’s way of preparing you for a season yet to come?
Prayer: Merciful God, I’m thankful that you are always working and that you are faithful in every season of my life. Work in me today by your Spirit to prepare me for whatever you have for me in the coming seasons of my life. Amen.
If you live in North Carolina for very long you quickly realize that life is defined by two seasons. The first is basketball season. To be more precise, ACC basketball season. The second of the two seasons – at least where I lived in Wake County – is tobacco season. As Ecclesiastes says, there is a time to plant and a time to uproot. For four years I marked the season by seeing Richard Jenks on his John Deere tractor, plowing the field across the street from my house.
To my distant and citified observations, tobacco farming was a seasonal endeavor marked by planting (settin’ out) and harvest (putin’ in). I assumed that tobacco growers worked hard in spring and late summer /fall, recuperating from their labor in the cold months. I learned differently when Donny Olive showed me the greenhouse on his farm that sheltered thousands of tiny tobacco plants and supplied growers throughout the state.
Beneath a massive canopy was an expansive array of small plastic trays with little square compartments like the ones you used in the days before ice makers in your freezer. Each little compartment held a tiny tobacco plant, no bigger than the end of my little finger. These plants were carefully nurtured, watered on a schedule, never allowed to get too cold. It became clear to me that the success of what happened in the spring and summer depended upon the success of preparations made in winter. One season was integrally connected to the other and the “tobacco season” was actually happening all the time.
Chances are, the season you’re in right now doesn’t stand alone. If you know joy now, you may know it well because you’ve tasted sorrow. If you’re feeling smothered by sorrow now, past joy may be what you cling to as a source of hope for your future. What’s more – God works year ‘round, and the season you’re in today may well be preparation for a season yet to come, a season not yet available to your imagination.
Here are two questions for you to ponder today: can you identify a past season that somehow prepared you for where you are today? Further, can you see that the present season may in fact be God’s way of preparing you for a season yet to come?
Prayer: Merciful God, I’m thankful that you are always working and that you are faithful in every season of my life. Work in me today by your Spirit to prepare me for whatever you have for me in the coming seasons of my life. Amen.
Monday, September 25, 2006
Mingled Seasons
To everything there is a season . . . (Ecc. 3:1)
For three years I served on the chaplaincy staff of Baylor University Medical Center in Dallas, Texas. In the first six months of my work there I was the chaplain to the maternity area of the hospital. Whenever I would mention this to people, it usually evoked a smile along with a comment that went something like this: “How nice that you get to work in the happy part of the hospital!”
The comment was understandable. Birth is a miracle, and for most couples it ranks near the top of joy-filled, awe-inspiring moments of life. But it isn’t always this way. Sometimes the miracle of birth is mingled with financial anxieties; the presence of the new baby sometimes presses against an already fragile marriage; the celebration that brings in the entire family also opens the door to stressful dynamics that crop up when the entire family gathers in one place.
Even in the hospital, maternity involves more than a much welcomed and prayed for birth. On the sixth floor of Hoblitzelle Hospital I passed out little white New Testaments and prayed prayers of thanks for healthy babies. Down on the lowest floor of the same building was the special care nursery. There I walked into rooms where couples were reeling from words like “stillborn” or septic phrases like “failure to thrive.” Words came easier upstairs. Silence was often most fitting downstairs.
While Ecclesiastes 3 moves back and forth rhythmically between the varied seasons of life, life’s seasons don’t actually come to us that neatly. The joys and blessings are often mingled. The lines blur between birth and death, between weeping and laughing. It isn’t uncommon to be with a grieving family as they cry one moment and then laugh out loud at some memory or story. The tears call forth the laughter that in turn gives rise to more tears.
The seasons of life do not define life. If they did we’d join Solomon and conclude that life doesn’t make sense. We’re whipsawed between different kinds of experience that bring joy and sorrow. But there is a center, an anchor. The Psalmist used words like fortress, rock, foundation, stronghold. This is God. God transcends the seasons. Remember, every season is under heaven.
Prayer: “Praise the Lord, O my soul; all my inmost being praise his Holy name . . . praise the Lord all his works everywhere in his dominion. Praise the Lord, O my soul” (Psalm 103: 1, 22)
For three years I served on the chaplaincy staff of Baylor University Medical Center in Dallas, Texas. In the first six months of my work there I was the chaplain to the maternity area of the hospital. Whenever I would mention this to people, it usually evoked a smile along with a comment that went something like this: “How nice that you get to work in the happy part of the hospital!”
The comment was understandable. Birth is a miracle, and for most couples it ranks near the top of joy-filled, awe-inspiring moments of life. But it isn’t always this way. Sometimes the miracle of birth is mingled with financial anxieties; the presence of the new baby sometimes presses against an already fragile marriage; the celebration that brings in the entire family also opens the door to stressful dynamics that crop up when the entire family gathers in one place.
Even in the hospital, maternity involves more than a much welcomed and prayed for birth. On the sixth floor of Hoblitzelle Hospital I passed out little white New Testaments and prayed prayers of thanks for healthy babies. Down on the lowest floor of the same building was the special care nursery. There I walked into rooms where couples were reeling from words like “stillborn” or septic phrases like “failure to thrive.” Words came easier upstairs. Silence was often most fitting downstairs.
While Ecclesiastes 3 moves back and forth rhythmically between the varied seasons of life, life’s seasons don’t actually come to us that neatly. The joys and blessings are often mingled. The lines blur between birth and death, between weeping and laughing. It isn’t uncommon to be with a grieving family as they cry one moment and then laugh out loud at some memory or story. The tears call forth the laughter that in turn gives rise to more tears.
The seasons of life do not define life. If they did we’d join Solomon and conclude that life doesn’t make sense. We’re whipsawed between different kinds of experience that bring joy and sorrow. But there is a center, an anchor. The Psalmist used words like fortress, rock, foundation, stronghold. This is God. God transcends the seasons. Remember, every season is under heaven.
Prayer: “Praise the Lord, O my soul; all my inmost being praise his Holy name . . . praise the Lord all his works everywhere in his dominion. Praise the Lord, O my soul” (Psalm 103: 1, 22)
Thursday, August 31, 2006
The Poem I Left at Home: For Marnie on Our Tenth Wedding Anniversary
Marnie,
Earlier this morning I was trying to think about what I might write, what one thing begs to be said on this our tenth wedding anniversary. Something about the occasion seems to raise the stakes and put pressure on me and my words. I do this to myself, I know. I’m tempted to think it might be best not to write anything at all. Would silence be preferable to a failed attempt at being profound and poignant? It might be, but I know that such thoughts are wrong because they mean I’m more concerned about being seen as “good” at this, rather than concerned with saying something true to you on this day.
I opted not to write a poem – but I found one that started me thinking about our decade of marriage and the love we’ve nurtured across three states and among two other little people who demand their share of what we need to be giving each other.
The poem was by Wendell Berry (yes, the only poet I’ve actually read) and it was called “The Mad Farmer’s Love Song.” Romantic title, yes? It was a short poem and my intent was to reproduce it here for you. That plan went south once I left the house without the book – a fact that itself has meaning for me; meaning which I hope to share with you in a moment.
The poem basically said that when there is peace in the world and all the work has been done "then I will go down unto my love." And then it added a line that said that said something like, “and I might just go down several times before then.”
Love doesn’t wait for perfect conditions: peace in the world, all the work done, plenty of money in the bank, perfect health. There is something in us that wants all the pieces neatly in place, and then we can give ourselves to the business of loving another person.
But the last line of the poem seems to embrace reality and in doing so it embraces the way love and marriage truly are; we don’t wait for peace in the world and tidy conclusions to all the lose ends and complexities of life. We love now. We love in the midst of laundry and meetings and practices and home-repair. Just this morning you spoke to me of how complicated our days can be. Most of them are – but they are the setting into which the diamond is placed, the gift of life and love that God allows us to share.
On this day that marks our tenth year of marriage I know there is no time for waiting. I also know myself well enough to know how inclined I am to wait and anticipate the turns in life that will free me up to love you better. Maybe that means the kids being older, maybe that means being less distracted by my ambitions. I fear that too often over the past ten years I’ve waited and lost time in loving you as I should.
Leaving the poem at home was probably a good thing. The conditions for writing my thoughts were not what I had planned – not as smooth as I wanted to sound.
But I write for you anyway. This day is moving by quickly, as all the others have since we made our vows; days that have not slowed in the least since we welcomed our Son and moved to North Carolina and welcomed our daughter and moved again to Atlanta and bought our first home and continued to make a life together. Knowing how quickly ten years has passed, there is no time for waiting.
Today I am the “Mad Farmer.” I will not wait for peace in the world and finished tasks and all just right. I will go to you my love several times, often even, before then. I will speak my love to you at the risk of sounding plain. With these words I do so now.
Earlier this morning I was trying to think about what I might write, what one thing begs to be said on this our tenth wedding anniversary. Something about the occasion seems to raise the stakes and put pressure on me and my words. I do this to myself, I know. I’m tempted to think it might be best not to write anything at all. Would silence be preferable to a failed attempt at being profound and poignant? It might be, but I know that such thoughts are wrong because they mean I’m more concerned about being seen as “good” at this, rather than concerned with saying something true to you on this day.
I opted not to write a poem – but I found one that started me thinking about our decade of marriage and the love we’ve nurtured across three states and among two other little people who demand their share of what we need to be giving each other.
The poem was by Wendell Berry (yes, the only poet I’ve actually read) and it was called “The Mad Farmer’s Love Song.” Romantic title, yes? It was a short poem and my intent was to reproduce it here for you. That plan went south once I left the house without the book – a fact that itself has meaning for me; meaning which I hope to share with you in a moment.
The poem basically said that when there is peace in the world and all the work has been done "then I will go down unto my love." And then it added a line that said that said something like, “and I might just go down several times before then.”
Love doesn’t wait for perfect conditions: peace in the world, all the work done, plenty of money in the bank, perfect health. There is something in us that wants all the pieces neatly in place, and then we can give ourselves to the business of loving another person.
But the last line of the poem seems to embrace reality and in doing so it embraces the way love and marriage truly are; we don’t wait for peace in the world and tidy conclusions to all the lose ends and complexities of life. We love now. We love in the midst of laundry and meetings and practices and home-repair. Just this morning you spoke to me of how complicated our days can be. Most of them are – but they are the setting into which the diamond is placed, the gift of life and love that God allows us to share.
On this day that marks our tenth year of marriage I know there is no time for waiting. I also know myself well enough to know how inclined I am to wait and anticipate the turns in life that will free me up to love you better. Maybe that means the kids being older, maybe that means being less distracted by my ambitions. I fear that too often over the past ten years I’ve waited and lost time in loving you as I should.
Leaving the poem at home was probably a good thing. The conditions for writing my thoughts were not what I had planned – not as smooth as I wanted to sound.
But I write for you anyway. This day is moving by quickly, as all the others have since we made our vows; days that have not slowed in the least since we welcomed our Son and moved to North Carolina and welcomed our daughter and moved again to Atlanta and bought our first home and continued to make a life together. Knowing how quickly ten years has passed, there is no time for waiting.
Today I am the “Mad Farmer.” I will not wait for peace in the world and finished tasks and all just right. I will go to you my love several times, often even, before then. I will speak my love to you at the risk of sounding plain. With these words I do so now.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Everything
“For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven” (Ecclesiastes 3:1 ESV)
“I haven’t got time for this.”
That’s a reflex line when some inconvenience manages to stick its foot into the door of my plans. I use it for choice moments - when the sound of flapping rubber accompanies the violent shimmy in my car while I’m on the highway; when I wake up with that feeling in my throat that tells me I’m well on my way to a full blown head cold; when my best intentions to be careful with my cup of morning-drive coffee don’t hold up against sudden braking and the subsequent sloshing on my tie. These annoyances, minor though they are, usually get the line: “I don’t have time for this.”
Ecclesiastes 3:1 is one of the most familiar and beautiful lines of poetry in the Old Testament. The rhythm of the language and the profundity of thought endear it to us. But it is a disturbing verse of scripture. In our coziness with the words, the offense of what it says is lost on us. The uneasiness can be attributed to one word: Everything. For everything there is a season. “Everything” encompasses some aspects of life that I typically regard as a mistake or an aberration from God’s plan and purposes.
I can accept that God wills my joy and laughter, my efforts to build up and to plant, my embracing others and making peace - but are my grieving and weeping, my casting away and losses also included in God’s economy? The scripture answers “yes.” There is a season for everything. And everything includes all of those things of which I would readily say, “I don’t have time for this.”
But God has time for them. What’s more, God has reasons for them. This is a hard truth, but one which brings us good news if we’ll hear it. It means that nothing in your life is wasted. Nothing. The realities you woke up to this morning may be a source of joy for you; they may be a source of anguish. Whatever they are, whatever they feel like – they aren’t wasted. To say there is a season for everything means that God ignores nothing.
Prayer: I thank you God that nothing in my life is wasted – even the circumstances that seem like a total waste to me. Teach me to trust you in every season of life. Amen
“I haven’t got time for this.”
That’s a reflex line when some inconvenience manages to stick its foot into the door of my plans. I use it for choice moments - when the sound of flapping rubber accompanies the violent shimmy in my car while I’m on the highway; when I wake up with that feeling in my throat that tells me I’m well on my way to a full blown head cold; when my best intentions to be careful with my cup of morning-drive coffee don’t hold up against sudden braking and the subsequent sloshing on my tie. These annoyances, minor though they are, usually get the line: “I don’t have time for this.”
Ecclesiastes 3:1 is one of the most familiar and beautiful lines of poetry in the Old Testament. The rhythm of the language and the profundity of thought endear it to us. But it is a disturbing verse of scripture. In our coziness with the words, the offense of what it says is lost on us. The uneasiness can be attributed to one word: Everything. For everything there is a season. “Everything” encompasses some aspects of life that I typically regard as a mistake or an aberration from God’s plan and purposes.
I can accept that God wills my joy and laughter, my efforts to build up and to plant, my embracing others and making peace - but are my grieving and weeping, my casting away and losses also included in God’s economy? The scripture answers “yes.” There is a season for everything. And everything includes all of those things of which I would readily say, “I don’t have time for this.”
But God has time for them. What’s more, God has reasons for them. This is a hard truth, but one which brings us good news if we’ll hear it. It means that nothing in your life is wasted. Nothing. The realities you woke up to this morning may be a source of joy for you; they may be a source of anguish. Whatever they are, whatever they feel like – they aren’t wasted. To say there is a season for everything means that God ignores nothing.
Prayer: I thank you God that nothing in my life is wasted – even the circumstances that seem like a total waste to me. Teach me to trust you in every season of life. Amen
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Satisfaction
A man can do nothing better than to eat and drink and find satisfaction in his work. This too, I see, is from the hand of God, for without him, who can eat or find enjoyment? (Ecclesiastes 2:24-25).
Some time ago I was to attend a Monday meeting at the church that would include lunch. I’d been to these meetings before and knew that the lunch would be good. Usually we had a sandwich on whole wheat bread along with a serving of fruit.
On this particular Monday I was running a mid-morning errand that took me right by a Krystal. My wife doesn’t care to eat at Krystal, so being alone in the car at this place and at this time presented a rare opportunity for me. It was, as Presbyterians are fond of saying, divine providence. The meeting would not convene for more than an hour and besides, Krystal burgers are so small. This wouldn’t really be a lunch, but a mid-morning “snack.”
I pulled into line at the drive-thru, making my way with great anticipation to the raspy little speaker where I ordered my snack – four Krystals, fries, and a medium diet Coke. The aroma of those warm little burgers was like incense, turning my car into a chapel for junk food lovers. I ate my snack as I drove back to the church.
By the time my lunch meeting rolled around, the fruit and whole wheat bread sandwiches looked pretty lame in light of my mid-morning snack. A perfectly good and healthy lunch was being offered to me, but I didn’t want it. I was full. I had traded a good meal with Christian friends for the greasy processed stuff eaten in the lonely confines of my car. Having filled myself with fast-food, I wasn’t able to enjoy a truly decent meal.
What the world calls “satisfaction” is really more like being full of junk food. It’s a kind of fullness that takes away our appetite for what is best and good. C. S. Lewis is often quoted as saying that God faults us not for wanting too much, but for being satisfied with so little. We glut ourselves on what the world offers, and then find that we have no appetite for God. When we are Solomon-like in obtaining possessions and pleasures, denying ourselves nothing, our hunger for the Holy is quenched.
Real satisfaction comes from God and involves God. Solomon rightly knew that it is good to eat and work and be satisfied – but without God it isn’t possible. So how’s your appetite?
Prayer: God, in my own search for satisfaction, the options around me are so alluring. Cause me to hunger for you today and help me to seek you as the source of true satisfaction in my life.
Some time ago I was to attend a Monday meeting at the church that would include lunch. I’d been to these meetings before and knew that the lunch would be good. Usually we had a sandwich on whole wheat bread along with a serving of fruit.
On this particular Monday I was running a mid-morning errand that took me right by a Krystal. My wife doesn’t care to eat at Krystal, so being alone in the car at this place and at this time presented a rare opportunity for me. It was, as Presbyterians are fond of saying, divine providence. The meeting would not convene for more than an hour and besides, Krystal burgers are so small. This wouldn’t really be a lunch, but a mid-morning “snack.”
I pulled into line at the drive-thru, making my way with great anticipation to the raspy little speaker where I ordered my snack – four Krystals, fries, and a medium diet Coke. The aroma of those warm little burgers was like incense, turning my car into a chapel for junk food lovers. I ate my snack as I drove back to the church.
By the time my lunch meeting rolled around, the fruit and whole wheat bread sandwiches looked pretty lame in light of my mid-morning snack. A perfectly good and healthy lunch was being offered to me, but I didn’t want it. I was full. I had traded a good meal with Christian friends for the greasy processed stuff eaten in the lonely confines of my car. Having filled myself with fast-food, I wasn’t able to enjoy a truly decent meal.
What the world calls “satisfaction” is really more like being full of junk food. It’s a kind of fullness that takes away our appetite for what is best and good. C. S. Lewis is often quoted as saying that God faults us not for wanting too much, but for being satisfied with so little. We glut ourselves on what the world offers, and then find that we have no appetite for God. When we are Solomon-like in obtaining possessions and pleasures, denying ourselves nothing, our hunger for the Holy is quenched.
Real satisfaction comes from God and involves God. Solomon rightly knew that it is good to eat and work and be satisfied – but without God it isn’t possible. So how’s your appetite?
Prayer: God, in my own search for satisfaction, the options around me are so alluring. Cause me to hunger for you today and help me to seek you as the source of true satisfaction in my life.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Restless
. . . My heart took delight in all my work, and this was the reward for all my labor. Yet when I surveyed all that my hands had done and what I had toiled to achieve, everything was meaningless, a chasing after the wind (Ecclesiastes 2:10-11).
What we delight in one day, we despise the next. Go figure.
We put in the time and get the degree only to realize that our study earned us a piece of framed gothic script. The real world grades on a different scale. We’re not through with hustling to stay at the head of the class.
We get the dream job and find it’s not so dreamy. After a while we start to look longingly at a different place or a different title. We toy with the resume, casually scan journals and papers for “the next chapter” of our lives. Tuition and mortgage keep us anchored, but a part of us envies Tom Hanks’ character in Cast Away.
The same happens with the things we own. We grow tired of what we have because we’re convinced there’s something better, faster, more improved, better located. Sadly, relationships are not immune. We interpret well worn familiarities as incompatibility. We start believing the lie that someone else is out there who can truly understand and love us. We are restless, literally without rest. Like Solomon, we’re fickle. We take delight in “all that our hands have done” on one day, and then finding those very same things meaningless the next.
The rest we seek, the rest that seems so absent in Ecclesiastes, isn’t found externally. We don’t obtain it by doing something different or going somewhere different or meeting someone new. It’s worth noting that when Jesus said “come to me all who are weary and I will give you rest,” he went on to say clearly that in coming to him we would find rest for the soul (Matt. 11:29).
Rest is a spiritual reality before it is a physical reality. It is an inward condition that manifests itself outwardly – in our demeanor, in our work, in our families. Maybe successful people aren’t the ones who work hard, but the ones who can work hard and all the while be at rest.
Prayer: Gracious God, remind me that nothing will happen today that will catch you by surprise. I praise you that are sufficient for my every need and every yearning. Teach me to rest in you. Amen.
What we delight in one day, we despise the next. Go figure.
We put in the time and get the degree only to realize that our study earned us a piece of framed gothic script. The real world grades on a different scale. We’re not through with hustling to stay at the head of the class.
We get the dream job and find it’s not so dreamy. After a while we start to look longingly at a different place or a different title. We toy with the resume, casually scan journals and papers for “the next chapter” of our lives. Tuition and mortgage keep us anchored, but a part of us envies Tom Hanks’ character in Cast Away.
The same happens with the things we own. We grow tired of what we have because we’re convinced there’s something better, faster, more improved, better located. Sadly, relationships are not immune. We interpret well worn familiarities as incompatibility. We start believing the lie that someone else is out there who can truly understand and love us. We are restless, literally without rest. Like Solomon, we’re fickle. We take delight in “all that our hands have done” on one day, and then finding those very same things meaningless the next.
The rest we seek, the rest that seems so absent in Ecclesiastes, isn’t found externally. We don’t obtain it by doing something different or going somewhere different or meeting someone new. It’s worth noting that when Jesus said “come to me all who are weary and I will give you rest,” he went on to say clearly that in coming to him we would find rest for the soul (Matt. 11:29).
Rest is a spiritual reality before it is a physical reality. It is an inward condition that manifests itself outwardly – in our demeanor, in our work, in our families. Maybe successful people aren’t the ones who work hard, but the ones who can work hard and all the while be at rest.
Prayer: Gracious God, remind me that nothing will happen today that will catch you by surprise. I praise you that are sufficient for my every need and every yearning. Teach me to rest in you. Amen.
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