A Sentiment From the Past

So I ran across a scrap of paper a few days ago that I had penned the following words upon about six or seven years ago while sitting in my truck watching the sun set in late November:

As time is slowly dragging by,
I know the days are getting
longer.  Nights are getting
thicker and colder. But it's
not the weather causing these
changes. It's not the time
of year with the changing
of seasons. All this is in
my heart. Places in my
soul that were once kind
and soft are growing
older, being weathered as
an old stone gate. Friends
and strangers come and go.
As people pass through,
their hands pass
over my rough and
smooth edges. Slowly,
very slowly, small pieces
fall off. It's not time or
seasons that are causing
these changes, it's the
people that enter in and
stay for a while, but then
eventually they part from
me. Days grow longer as
the fear of friends leaving
comes more certain.

Writing is good.  Journals, diaries, memoirs, or scraps of paper tossed here and stashed there that one day they may be found and remind us of where we've been and hopefully point us towards where we are going.  I have had some very deep and dark nights of the soul and I expect to see more of them before my time here is done.

And just as the seasons change and give us a vast cycle of life here on earth, so the seasons of the soul change from Winter's Dark nights to Spring's Bright mornings.

Choices.

So I have been around some people the past few days who are all about choices.  Our choices can empower us.

Really?  You mean we can be who we choose to be?  I disagreed with that for years.  Now, I think our choices are paramount.

Years of the sovereignty of God not correctly processed led to some really incorrect ideas floating around my noggin.  And there's Joseph and all that happened to him.  I've been told dualism; I'm not sure about dualism.

I've been reading and thinking through some metaphysics lately.  Perhaps we have misunderstood the reality of God?  Perhaps the dualism of man's responsibility and God's sovereignty is only apparent because we have not grasped the reality of the Father.

I look back at the choices I have made in the past two years and wonder...

Did God intend good out of my thoughtlessness and carelessness?  Yeah, good has come.  But there's still this struggle.

With choices, is it about spending hours in prayer hoping God will change something, or is it making the choice to actively change things?  Is it both?  Neither?

If I say choices, then I get the credit.  If I say God, then perhaps the same nothing will continue to exist that has been floating around for quite some time.  If I say both, then I may have some logically inconsistent premises.  If I say neither, then I'm really screwed.

However, to say my choices are the key is just stupid or at least incomplete.  It may be my choices that turn the point, but experience has shown me I can't make the right choices.  Something has to flip.  A busted hammer can't mend itself.  And though I want to make right choices, I don't.  Is this where God comes in?

Twelve step programs say we need a higher power.  A man could choose a lamppost as his higher power.  It's always there.  It always serves its purpose.  I wonder if any studies have been done on the sobriety of men who chose the lamppost as their higher power.

So God causes the flip.  I ask Him and He does it.  I don't ask and He doesn't do it.  So does that mean the deciding factor is my asking?  Guess so.  Well that doesn't seem right because I get credit.  But the man with a pain who decides to go to the doctor doesn't get credit for the remedy the doctor applies.  What was it that caused him to go to the doctor or me to ask God?  We get into an infinite regress and someone wises up and just says God.  I don't buy it, at least not in that packaging.  Something doesn't quite connect here.  Out grasp of reality is likely a little shaky.

I don't have answers.  I have questions.  But I'm seeking the answers.

This isn't some crisis of faith.  This isn't questioning the existence of God.  This is a question of how well do we understand the reality of God and the reality of our existence.  Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life.  He is the way to live as social creatures.  He is our spiritual life.  But have we really applied ourselves to an understanding of what it means that He is the truth?

I only expect one reader to have any clue where I'm coming from.  For the rest of you, I hope that you can, like me, ponder whether we've believed things that are contradictory without thinking you're sinning and without doubting God's existence and Christ His Son.

Wrenches.

There’s a satisfaction in turning a wrench or a screwdriver or ratchet that just isn’t found anywhere else.  It seems that whether the task is simple or complex, I derive a singular and unique pleasure from working with simple tools.

I bought a motorcycle a few weeks ago and just now I was spending a few moments adjusting the right side of the handle bars.  The next project is to sort out an oil leak.  The previous owner had a shop fix an oil leak; I’m inclined to believe they may have taken money for services NOT rendered.  That’s the way it goes sometimes.

This morning we enjoyed a sermon on mature masculinity.  Many points were made, among which was the fact that our masculinity is measured within the context of our interactions with and concerning females.  How do I treat them, talk about them, and think about them?  It was much needed for many of us, for myself particularly.  It gave me much to think about in addition to the countless other topics that I consider each day.

This bike doesn’t make me more manly.  Like so many other things, it just is.  The guns I own do not make me more manly, they just are.

I’ve not written anything recently and perhaps I’m a tad rusty.  Or at least many of my thoughts over these recent months are not as ordered and fully articulated as I would like them to be for sharing with others.  I hope to tidy up a bit and see if I can get some thoughts out.

I enjoy turning wrenches, running my saw, or wielding my axes and hammers.

I hope to get my hands dirty and mind tidied a bit.  You’ll know if either happen any time soon.

Preciousness.

So I just got back from the vet.  I am not a perfect pet owner.  And my dogs are certainly not people.  They live outside and do what they want.  They sleep on our front porch and bark at night just to be sure we know they’re keeping the forest creatures at bay.  I pet them daily and they greet me morning and evening.  I don’t really play with them.  I work a lot, but when we’re working in the yard, they’re with us.  If one of them were to run off and not return, I wouldn’t really be devastated.

But this morning the vet told me they both have heart worms.  It is a recent infection.  It’s fatal if untreated and she said that even now if they’re out running about there is a chance they could just drop dead.

And so two hours ago they were just dogs I was taking to get rabies shots, but now I face not only the dilemma of lacking $1400, I am also left considering why it is that we hold life to be so precious.

Completely unrelated to this little story is the movie currently playing on the screen, “Blood Diamond.”  I’ve already gotten teary eyed a few times... not the first time I’ve seen it.  I know how it ends and I hate it.  The romantic in me wishes the love story ended happily ever after, but it does not.

For those of you who catch the reference, theology aside, I wish love would win in the end.  Life is precious.  I’ve known a number of judgmental, self-righteous hypocrites over the years.  Hell, I’ve been one myself and still have relapses.  

No human is dirty.  There are no untouchables.  And I know I’ll make myself a hypocrite a million times over before I’m dead and gone for having made this statement.

Why is life precious?  Why do I suddenly have a burden for these dogs that I did not previously have?  They’re just dogs, right?  I have problems of my own.  Moral, ethical, philosophical dilemmas that they know nothing of or ever will.

I’m tired.

Released.

Do you remember the Shawshank Redemption?  There was an old man who had been in prison for decades.  Finally, he had served his time.  He was released and tried to reenter society.  It was not long before he hanged himself in his small apartment.  It was tragic!  I remember crying hard the first time I saw this when I was younger.  I didn’t really understand the depths of my emotions then and I don’t know if I do even now.

I was recently released from a voluntary imprisonment.  It would have been a decade this July, but I received an early release.  I was floundering, totally adrift at sea for about a week.

I’ve adjusted a little since then, but I still have a “lost” feeling about me.  It’s like I know there is some question to be answered, I just haven’t discovered the question yet?

I haven’t written in some time and that may not be good.  But what is good?  

Freedom is much more frightening than enslavement.  You have no choice as a slave and are not allowed much room for error by your master.  The freed man has choice and great room for error.  The slave has goals set for him.  The free man must set his own goals.

What are my goals?  Am I even free to set them?

Recently, I’ve made many new friends.

Years ago I wrote a poem about my friendships.  It was a grey poem, fated and gloomy.  It was about the transitory and fatal quality of my own friendships.  I do not know if it was pessimistic dribble or some ill-fated prophecy of times to come.

We are told we must have friends.  We must be social.  Being lonely and alone is bad.  But what is bad?  What if it’s good for me to be alone?  What if there are those of us who are designed to be desert dwellers for some time and then meet our end?  

I’m reading a book write now that I am enjoying, but not because of some derived ecstatic pleasure.  I feel that some question may result from it and thus my enjoyment.  I’ve never thought much about creativity.  Now I am beginning to.  Am I supposed to be creative?  If I am, then how, where, why?

What about all the systems I am in?  Will they permit it?

I’ve always reckoned that to be creative you must be a genius, public, prominent, and displayed, which I certainly am not.  But maybe there is private creativity that will never be appreciated by anyone.  Maybe creativity is simply being fully and completely oneself.  

I don’t have answers because I don’t even know the questions.

I have a new friend.  And we chatted creativity recently, briefly.  I’ve always written myself off as being uncreative, but maybe it’s some type of self-indictment that I’ve not been fully myself.  I do not want to be someone else, I want to be me.  I don’t want to be told who I am, but rather I want to be myself.  I want to be insanely me.

But you know what?  I want to be insanely me with others who are insanely themselves!  I think the only reason to be a desert dweller is because you’re the only one insane enough to be yourself in a society of men who are sanely others.

I’m suspicious of people who might claim their own insanity, but I’m not sure they are, I think they may be self-deluded impostures.  

Perhaps I’ve just said nothing.

At least nothing has now been released.

Supplanter.

Boredom generally overtakes me, not owing to a lack of anything to do, but due to the lack of proper location.  If I were at home right now, then I would have plenty to do.

Yesterday I was bored enough to look up the meanings of names.  James means supplanter.  Edward means wealthy guardian.  Bradley means wide meadow.  I have no clue what it means to put them all together.

I don’t know if I have ever supplanted anyone.  And I am pretty sure I’ll never be the wealthy guardian of anyone.  All I can figure is that Bradley is prophetic for where I will die or be buried or something.

I say all that for no reason at all.

However, last night I did watch “Far and Away” with some friends.  If unfamiliar to you, it is a tale of two Irish immigrants come to America seeking land and fortune.  It is a good movie.

There is one scene midway through the movie where the two main characters experience a little bit of sexual tension.  And so, in a moment of genius, the Irish scrapper gets into a few fights to release a little built up frustration.  And he turns out to be a bare-knuckle boxing champ.

I shall now attempt to turn this all spiritual.  

Recently, I was talking with a friend about Lent and fasting.  And that conversation seems somehow to relate to this Irish fighter.  The LORD says in Isaiah 58 that he doesn’t really like the fasting that is taking place.  He says that true fasting is a time to “loose the bonds of wickedness, to undo the straps of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free,” to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and house the homeless. (I know I’m not citing properly, but God, as the author, doesn’t care if I don’t do the APA or MLA thing)  Anyway, sorry for that there!

So here is this young Irish fella who is frustrated because of unreleased sexuality.  He turns to boxing.  Now we may be inclined to pass judgement on such a violent remedy, but he was able to begin earning wages and make it a productive venture.

And isn’t that what God is saying about fasting?  Don’t fast for stupid religiosity, but rather be productive in helping the helpless while you abstain from food or drink or whatever it is that you deny yourself having.  And that makes sense. 

If, for forty days, I am refraining from $5.00 FrappaDappaLatteCinos, what am I doing with that money?  Buying new, overpriced wardrobe accessories?  Or the latest Passion “Worship” albums?  Or new trendy Chuck Taylors or Toms like all the other Christians? Or do you take the money and feed a hungry man?  Or give it to a friend struggling to make rent?

If I seem harsh, that’s just fine.  How about I think of my crap?  Excuse me, stuff.  Crazy surround sound system?  Slick digital gadgets?  More running shirts than I could possibly run in at any given time?  And hey, I’m terrible at self-denial!  I can often be heard to jokingly say, “I do what I want!”  How often we find truth in jest?!

I think the point of this is that I need to find a bare-knuckle boxing club.  My own fight club.  I’m not the type to just up and practice self-denial for its own sake; I’m not that strong.  I need some side motivation.  I need to know that I am helping someone or doing something productive.

We shouldn’t practice self-denial just for the sake of being a modern day Pharisee.  We must practice it because self-denial teaches us to hold lightly, if at all, the things of this world and be ever ready to cast them down.  We must brutally pursue Christ, otherwise we are unworthy to be called his own.  I must learn to deny myself, to be disciplined, such that there is some eternal benefit from the act of denial.

If you see me clinch my fists, you know I’m about to start denying.  I expect this line will make no sense to anyone, unless of course you’ve played battle ball with me or heard tales of such...

Oh yeah, this is not great writing.  My apologies

Virginity.

Saturday, I was pretty bored at work.  I started reading random articles online.  I came upon some articles concerning courtship or biblical dating; consequently, I was led to an article concerning the amount of knowledge one should seek concerning the sexual past of a potential spouse.  It was an article that held my attention to its end.  The final line of the article was thus: “Jesus was a virgin. His Bride wasn’t. He loved us anyway.”

The line stopped me.  Jesus was perfect, free of sin.  I was not free of sin.  Scripture teaches that I was a whore.  I was an enemy and hater of God.  Christ loved me despite my past.  In fact, one could say he loved me even because of my past.  Jesus himself said that he didn’t come to love perfect people.  He didn’t come to save spiritual virgins.  He came for the very men and women who had gone full throttle after the idols of their own hearts.  Hosea was told by God to take a wife of whoredom, a prostitute.  And isn’t that exactly what Christ did?

And so this line hits me doubly hard.  It hits me with the gospel force of the salvation Christ came to bring.  It also hits me with the force of the gospel lived out in the relationships we have with one another.

It reminds me that the only virgin, spiritual or otherwise, was Christ.  It reminds me that sexual virginity must take a back seat to spiritual virginity.  When I approach any relationship, I must recall that Christ has loved me despite my lack of chastity.

As I consider relationships with others, particularly courtship or dating, I must keep the gospel at the forefront of my heart’s and my mind’s activity.  It is bold faced hypocrisy if I demand of others what I have not done in myself.  The sexual past of a potential spouse is not without importance, but it is nothing in comparison to the profundity of the gospel and it’s implications in relationships.

What is more important: my sexual past or the way I regard it now and the way I look to the future of my physical body?  Is it more important to me that a possible wife be a virgin or that she understand the weight of her spiritual infidelity to God?  Oh, how often I ask the wrong questions!

“And you, who were dead in your trespasses and the uncircumcision of your flesh, God made alive together with him, having forgiven us all our trespasses, by canceling the record of debt that stood against us with its legal demands.  This he set aside, nailing it to the cross.  He disarmed the rulers and the authorities and put them to open shame, by triumphing over them in him.”  Colossians 2:13-15

If Christ has not held the sins of my past against me, then who am I to hold someone’s past against them (or they against me)?  I do acknowledge that sins are not without consequences, one of which being the baggage we carry with us.  The time must come when that baggage is dealt with, but not before its time and certainly not without the gospel as the context in which we deal with it.

Chastity unto Christ must be the most important consideration when looking at a potential husband or wife.  Is this person pursuing holiness and living for the glory of God?  If the answer is an undeniable yes, then fret not over the baggage of the past.

“Jesus was a virgin.  His Bride wasn’t.  He loved us anyway.”

Be humbled.

Humility? I'm not so sure...

My own lack of humility has been forefront on my mind since Sunday.  I have tried just now to put my thoughts into some lucid expression of language and have twice failed.  Let us hope I do not now strike out.

I’m just not humble.  I do things and say things and write things that may appear humble, but I think mostly they’re just a mask to hide my own haughtiness.  I recently signed a correspondence “Humbly, James.”  Really?!?!  Are you serious?

If any of you want to know the truth, I like being recognized.  I like being patted on the back and hearing an “AttaBoy!”  So ridiculous is my arrogance that I recently rose up within my spirit when someone paid me an honest complement.  I essentially said in my foolish self, “Who are you to condescend to pay me this complement?  Don’t you know who I am?”  I hate how wicked this heart can be and how often it is at very unexpected times.  I cannot begin to call myself humble because I know what is within this man.  No matter how humble my actions or speech or type-written words may appear, I still, like Adam my first father, think I deserve something more.

This morning Christ addressed me in Luke 14:7-11.  I want to be noticed.  I cannot read that passage and say, like Christ, shame on those who seek honor.  If I am true, then I must read that passage and indict myself.

I think a great example of this is in the next chapter of Luke, the prodigal’s older brother.  He spent his whole life standing around waiting for his father to honor him, to give him a goat for a party.  And when the little brother is celebrated when found, the older brother steps up and essentially says, “Look out how humble I’ve been, never demanding a thing, where’s my goat?”

It’s crazy how I can be the older brother and the younger brother all at once and the same!

And what can cure an arrogant heart?  Nothing!  It must be broken.  I cannot produce humility within myself, because the moment I do, I have grounds to boast.

Who is the humble man?  Jesus, who is the Christ.  He humbled himself to the point of an ignoble death among criminals.  The Son of God, free of human limitations and confines, became human.  He suffered, infinitely, for the sake of doing the will of another.  And he did it not grudgingly, but set himself like flint towards the glory of accomplishing the Father’s will with great joy.

And here, at the foot of the cross, is where the breaking must begin.  I cannot count the grains of sand, yet they are still exceedingly less than all the goodness done unto the Father’s children by Christ on his cross.  Even the breaking of my hard heart is a great mercy and good done unto me by Christ Jesus!

Humility is impossible for me; I cannot do it.  “Wretched man that I am!  Who will deliver me from this body of death?  Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!”  Romans 7:24-25

Please, don’t call me humble.  If you do, I will likely shrug it off and “humbly” disagree.  Inwardly, I concur, thus puffing myself up yet again.

Or at least hold off on calling me humble until the Spirit has done a good deal more of breaking the hardness that persists.

Tax Collection.

Tax Collection.

I think I’ve mentioned before that I tend to bottle things up inside and rarely release that pressure that builds up.  Last night, the pressure released.

Some pretty routine stuff took place, including a traffic stop.  I produced my license, papers, etc. and then I continued along my way.  However, about 30 seconds after rolling my window up and proceeding home, the pressure relief valve kicked in and that which was within escaped quite readily.  Those of you that know me well understand why such a simple event could  be the catalyst to release.

I was simply overwhelmed with my own sinfulness.  I have nothing to plead before the throne.  There are no bargaining chips up my sleeves.  I am the prodigal, good as dead with the pigs, hoping desperately for mercy.

And this comes to mind: ““He (Christ) also told a parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous, and treated others with contempt: “Two men went up into the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector.  The Pharisee, standing by himself, prayed thus: ‘God, I thank you that I am not like other men, extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even like this tax collector.  I fast twice a week; I give tithes of all that I get.’  But the tax collector, standing far off, would not even lift up his eyes to heaven, but beat his breast, saying, ‘God, be merciful to me, a sinner!’  I tell you, this man went down to his house justified, rather than the other.  For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, but the one who humbles himself will be exalted.””  Luke 18:9-14 ESV

Tax collectors were hated, especially by those who were self-righteous.  I raised myself up as a Pharisee.  I raised myself up as the prodigal’s older brother.  Yet the Lord, in his mercy, justifies the tax collector and not the Pharisee.  The Lord has arrested me in my own self-righteousness.  I have worshipped vain idols and been convinced of my own deserving worth.  

Men might argue with me saying, “You’re too hard on yourself.  Give up your self-recrimination and embrace the goodness within you.  I say you’re valuable and deserve good!”  

I object.  

I know there is something within me that is terribly wrong.  

I want to love people and find not only that I do not and cannot, but that I often nurture a hatefulness and contempt for the very people I want so dearly to love.  I see the right thing to do, yet do that opposite wrong.  Do not tell me I am good; do not reason with me.  A man who comes to me with consolations such as these does not know a reason that will prevail upon me.  Do not attempt to convince the tax collector that he is not what he knows himself to be; it is the Pharisee who is deluded, not the tax collector.

I am a prodigal son who is employed as a tax collector.

So, I broke down.  I beat my breast.  I cried out, “Mercy!”

Suffering and the goodness of God?

How can a good God stand by and permit suffering?  If God is love, then how is it that children are abused, molested and raped?  If God is all powerful, why did he allow “x” to occur?  These are some of the toughest questions we can ask or be asked because the answers are equally tough.

Many questions may be answered quite easily.  Should I read the Bible?  Yes.  Can God forgive me for aborting my child?  Yes.  Should I honor my parents?  Yes.  And the list goes on.

Other questions aren’t so easy, but are still quite simple.  What is God’s will for my life?  His will is that you be saved by faith in Jesus Christ, be Spirit-filled, and be sanctified.  Now, these three things are stated quite simply, but lived out only with difficulty.

Let’s try an even tougher question or scenario.  A man asks an elder why his marriage is in turmoil.  The answer is quite clear to the elder: your marriage is in shambles because you have abdicated your role as spiritual leader in your family and are indulging in sinful practices.  This answer is indeed true, but if not spoken in an attitude and expression of love, then the man may embrace open rebellion, or resentment, or anger, hatred and bitterness.  And so we find that not only is the question’s answer tough, one must also be deeply discerning and Spirit-led in presenting a response.

Now let’s return to the top of the page with a more difficult counseling situation.  A young man has begun attending a small congregation of believers.  He has been developing friendships with some of the men.  One night, after finishing a meal in one of the men’s homes, he looks as though he bears some great weight.  The man of the house asks the younger man what’s on his mind.  The young man begins to speak of his childhood.  And as he tells the following story he becomes increasing agitated and tearful until he ends with shouted questions as he smashes a plate with his fist:

“My father used to beat me as a kid.  At first it wasn’t too bad, he’d just spank us some or whatever.  Then he started gettin stuff like his belt or a golf club, you know, whatever was closest to grab.  He would even make me and my little sister stand in the livin room and he’d throw his empty cans and bottles at us for fun.  I also remember him hittin my momma a bunch and yellin all the time.  When he’d take us to church he’d always lie about how we got our cuts and bruises.  And he always used to smile a whole lot and shake hands real big with other fellas and it never made any sense to me.  I used to pray to God that he’d make it all better, but he never did.  

It’s been thirteen years now since I saw him.  The last night I saw him, he had just finished beatin my mom.  He hurt her so bad that she can’t see no more in her left eye and can’t talk no more because he crushed her throat choking her.  He dropped her when she passed out and  that’s what saved her from being killed.  Then he went into his room with his bottle.  I heard a gun shot and that’s the last I saw him.  

And now I’ve been here with you guys for a few months; they said Jesus was the answer, so I came.  And here all of you are singing and living on like everything is great and wonderful!  You talk about God’s love and grace and all this stuff.  But what the hell do you know?  It ain’t fair!  What did me and my sister ever do?  What did my momma ever do to wind up like this?  How come God let all that happen?  How come he let my old man get away with it all?  Why did God let him pull the trigger without me ever being big enough to hit him and spit in his face?  How come I never got to make him bleed and fear and hurt like he did us?  If God is who you say, then HOW THE HELL DID HE LET THIS HAPPEN?  WHERE WAS GOD WHEN I NEEDED HIM?!?!”

How do you answer these questions?  How do you help this man?  Or the girl who was abducted from her freshman dorm parking lot and raped in the back of a van?  Or the woman who was molested as a child?  How do you even begin to answer these people’s questions?

Wrong way:

I can come out with doctrinal, theological guns blazing, firing off truth left, right, and center.  I could ask this man who he thinks he is to require of God an explanation.  I could tell this young man that his perspective is obviously wrong.  I could ask him who he thinks he is to accuse God of wrong.  I could say a thousand things that would be theologically correct and absolutely wrong, even sinful, of me to say in that moment of his anguish.

A better way:

He has just smashed a plate and his fist is bleeding.  My wife is a lovely daughter of God who happened to have been abused as a child.  I look over to my wife and she is teary-eyed and smiling.  I ask her please, to go grab a bandage and a glass of iced water.  And as she is out of the room I look at my friend and wait for him to finish weeping as I pray that the Spirit would guide my tongue now as much as he ever has done.  He finally looks up at me, his eyes still screaming, “Why!”  My wife returns and he reluctantly allows her to bandage his hand.  He sips the water and is now calming down.  I say very honestly to him that I don’t fully know what it’s like to have been through anything like that.  I tell him that my wife was abused by her father when she was young and the man lifts his eyes to meet her gaze.  It is a piercing, a fierce and loving look in her eyes.  And his face softens ever so slightly.  He looks back to me.  I say quite naturally that there are things in this world that are terrible, that should never happen.  And I admit that I really don’t understand a lot when it comes to answering questions like this.  I tell him that I truly hate that he has suffered in this way.  

And as I am speaking I remember the night my wife, then girlfriend, told me of what her father had done.  I remember the violent hatred that coursed through my veins.  I remember how it took years for my hatred of her father to turn to compassion and forgiveness and even love.  I remember how the thing that was pivotal for me was coming to see Christ clearly.  I remember learning how I had lived so many years of my life thinking that I was the penultimate.  I remember learning that God’s glory was a big deal and that it was central to who he is.  I remember the first time I perceived sin in a way that was even infinitesimally similar to how Christ and God regard sin.  

I recall all these things in a fraction of a second.  And as I look at this man before me I think of all the things I could say to him.  I think to myself that this young man doesn’t understand sin.  He doesn’t really understand the Gospel.  I think that he believes God owes him something; he believes he deserves good things and nothing bad should come to him.  And I dismiss all these thoughts as quickly as they emerge because I know that in this moment he needs merciful truth, he needs kind truth, he needs compassionate truth.  He does not need righteous indignation.  He does not need me to correct his egocentric views with my pharisaical doctrine.

I clear my throat.  I’ve had enough experience in my life with saying the wrong thing or saying the right thing in the wrong way, thus making it entirely wrong.  I open my mouth and say that I love him.  I’m honest with him and admit that it’s tough to swallow the things our congregational family holds to be true about God and Christ and Scripture and suffering.  I tell him that even though it may mean little or nothing for me to tell him that I love him, it is true nonetheless.  I tell him that I’m glad he’s angry.  I tell him that I’m glad he is screaming and demanding answers instead of numbing and drowning himself in alcohol as I once did.  I tell him that if he would like to, that I would love to spend even more time with him and have him in my home even more.  I commit to him that I will walk by his side as long as he is under this cloud of darkness and doubt.  I tell him that I will introduce him to some of the other people in our church who have been victims and have unjustly suffered at the hands of evil men.  I tell him that I will share with him what little I have learned from Scripture and that I will study to learn even more for the sake of helping him.  I tell him that I count every plate he smashes in my home as a blessing, a gift of his raw, honest and sincere heart to me, when so many others have hidden themselves and slowly killed their own hearts.

I ask if he would mind if I prayed just now.  He nods his head and so I pray as honest and un-preaching a prayer as I know how; it’s a short prayer, but it’s real.  And then I ask if he would like some ice cream and brownies.  My wife has been smiling this whole time and rises to go prepare the dessert.  The young man begins to fumble out an apology and expresses that he’ll replace the plate.  I kindly cut him short and ask him to follow me; I have something I’d like to show him. 

We go upstairs into the master bathroom and I pull back a painting to reveal a large hole in the wall.  I step to the other wall and do the same thing, revealing another hole.  He looks a little puzzled.  I tell him that real life comes out one way or another and that the holes in the wall will remain to the end as a reminder of just how tough questions can get.  He looks at my fist to see if there are any scars.  I shake my head and smile.  His look is puzzled once more.  I tell him that it was my wife’s fists who made these holes and not my own.  I tell him that the only way I survived alcoholism was because of God’s mercy through her.  Her horrific childhood made her tough, but it also made her fiercely tender.  She understood my sin long before I did.  It was her anger at sin and it’s offense to God, and not anger at me or even at her father, that put those two holes in our walls.  I’m not saying we should go around putting holes in walls or breaking plates, but sometimes, in this Christian life, things aren’t always what we think or would like to think.  

If she hadn’t endured what she had as a young girl, I would likely be dead and would likely have killed others in the process.  I can’t erase what your father did.  I can’t give you some catchy mantra to chant in front of a mirror to make it all better.  I can say that my wife endured something horrid so that later she could save my life.  And I can tell you that right now she is downstairs thanking God that she knows what you went through and that she can tell you you’re not alone and God can heal you.  And tonight as she and I fall asleep, she will thank the Father that he brought her through all that so that years later she would know exactly how to pray for you.  I tell him that I don’t know “Why God,” but that someday, he may find himself in my wife’s shoes, able to help someone else who has been hurt and suffered just as he.

We go back downstairs.  My wife has just set the dessert out.  He takes a bite of brownie and ice cream, smiles, and comments that it’s probably the sweetest a brownie has ever tasted.  After we finish, I send him home to rest.  The next day I call him to see how he’s is doing.

The way you answer these questions is to go from acquaintance to friendship and then from friendship to brotherhood and sisterhood.  You spend hours in prayer, on your knees, before the throne.  You search the Scriptures and beg the Spirit to give you wisdom.  You pray fervently for the salvation and healing of your brother or sister.  You commit to working just as hard as they do in seeking the face of the Lord.

Why does God permit suffering?  God permits suffering because he IS GOOD and he IS LOVING.  God allows and ordains great tragedy so that we may begin to understand how terrible sin is and how great an affront it is to his holiness and glory.

God is sovereign and God is love.  This is how we begin to seek the answers to the tough questions.  We humble ourselves under the hand of the Lord, that in his good timing we may be lifted up to understand more of his ways.

nothing to write.

i haven’t written in a few days.  i’ve been under the weather with some sinus junk. but it’s kept me in a pattern of thinking about what things i find contentment and satisfaction in and through. i haven’t run in a few days and it’s been such beautiful weather. 

last week i grabbed a book off of the shelf that had been gathering dust for a few years; it’s entitled The Rare Jewel of Christian Contentment. the idea is simple enough: Christians ought to find complete satisfaction in God alone. yet as simple as the idea is, it’s practice is no easy thing.

in the last week i have had to deal with not finding satisfaction in friends and family. i’ve also taken a more level approach at dealing with being sick and actually being sick instead of going full-bore as is my normal approach to things.

i feel as if i’ve nothing profound to say at the moment; i just want to write. this morning i awoke at 5:00 without the aid of an alarm. i got up and put the coffee on and nestled in with the Good Book. i read through a number of passages, some more familiar than others, and wasn’t struck by any great or new revelation, but there was a certain profundity to the enjoyment of the experience. i had my coffee and some lamplight and some mozart and after about an hour or so i also had the first notes of the morning’s birdsongs. and it seemed to fit with one of the comments made in The Rare Jewel, that one should seek to have his desires align with his circumstances.

the idea is that a poor man ought not stake his contentment on the prospect of eventual riches, but rather should stake his contentment in his current estate. it’s a simple idea: be happy where you’re at and do not be unhappy because of where you are not.

this morning i was by the window. and i was happy to be there with nothing but contentment to enjoy. there is a trap though; do not be merely content with the circumstances through the means of positive thinking or any other self-help mantra. rather, be content in the fact that a sovereign and loving Father has ordained that you be in such a circumstance as you are and be pleased with the truth that he knows how to order things perfectly. as Mueller founded his life, so should we, trusting that the Father withholds no good thing from his children as they walk uprightly in Christ.

perhaps i did have something to write about.

maybe i’ll wake at 5:00 again tomorrow and see what happens...

fishbowl fellowship.

another boring day at the salt mines. that’s what my Papa always calls the place i work. i’ll stop by my Nana and Papa’s house after work in the evenings occasionally and he’ll ask how the salt mine was that day. it’s one of the myriad sayings he has stored up. i hope i’ll remember them all when he has gone home.

some of you may be aware that i am in a chinese philosophy class this semester. this week we had a long discussion about the golden vs. the silver rule. it was disappointing in the sense that my buddy and i backed the professor into a corner on a position he could not logically defend and though his expression acknowledged his position, he would not relent. anyway, the silver rule is thus: “do not impose on others what you yourself do not want” (Kongzi, Analects 15.24). and if you do not directly recall the golden rule, here it is: “whatever you wish others would do to you, do also to them” (Jesus, Matthew 7.12). and without giving you the entirety of the discussion, the conclusion we proposed to the professor was that each rule does not eliminate the possibility of selfish action or even the necessity of the self. we also stated that the rules are each the reverse side of the same coin. my point was that to refrain from doing bad is to do good (silver rule) and to only do good unto others is to refrain from wrong (golden rule). the professor, along with his assertion that the silver rule excluded selfish behavior, tried also to state some neutral, middle ground that was free of good, bad, or self; my friend and i disagreed.

i state that to abstain from all malevolence necessarily means promoting goodness. and promoting goodness means that malevolence must be removed. it seems redundant because it is. fullness of good means absence of malice, regardless of which side of the coin you consider, it is still a coin that represents harmony.

well, thinking on these things reminded me of Philippians 2.3-4: “Do nothing from rivalry or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves.  Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others.”  and on considering these two sentences i couldn’t help but consider the contrast between true New Testament fellowship (holding all thing as common and breaking bread together and sharing life) with what so many “churches” peddle today as the Christian life. show up Sunday and Wednesday, etc. 

lately, in our little family of believers, we have discussed much the importance of true covenant life and fellowship. and that always makes me think of these words of Paul. one pivotal point in this command is that you cannot consider interests you do not know. how can you put others first who are only pew #5 attendees?

and my next thought was how shallow fellowship can become. oddly, or perhaps quite sensibly, enough, my next thought was of a little glass fishbowl. there is no depth to a fishbowl. it’s shallow. transparent, yet not in the good way. it’s fragile, easily broken. what’s worse is that the only thing that can inhabit one of those little fishbowls is either a little goldfish that soon will die or one of those beta fish that are unintelligent enough to beat themselves senseless or dead if placed beside a mirror. contrast that to the depths of the oceans. the unknown regions deep beyond the reach of the sun’s rays. and consider the creatures that live in the ocean’s vastness. tuna. squid. sharks. whales. incredible.

so what happens to Christ’s bride when kept in a fishbowl. death. infighting and turmoil. sure, it makes a pretty presentation and display, but it prevents anything great or deep or majestic.

pick the analogy apart if you will. i do not mind.

but let me not trap myself in a fishbowl, though it be a comfortable and “safe’ place.

no fishbowl fellowship.

give me the deep and the dangerous even if the current is too strong for me.

i’ve known and am learning just how great my weakness is.

saw parts.

i’m terribly bored at work today. but fortunately i have been saved from improper thinking. at least i think i have. today i received a package. it was a cylinder assembly and piston for rebuilding the engine of my chainsaw.

it’s a saw with a story. i was a dork in high school. i liked girls. girls didn’t like me. i went to college and found a girl i really liked and to my great surprise, she liked me, too! we dated for two semesters. then she broke up with me. i was devastated. so i consoled myself with the purchase of the largest chainsaw available in the area. 75cc engine. it could do some work. it served me well for years. but as with most engines, it gave out last summer.

well, today the transplant arrived and i hope that tonight the surgery is successful and Frankenstein rises. oh, did i mention that the replacement cylinder is a bit larger; that means more horsepower.

dad and i are going to work on it. my dad and i are a lot alike and also quite different. we’ve never been super close because it’s not in either of our personalities to be great at being open and communicating what goes on behind our eyes. we can both articulate ideas well and have rather a natural gift for teaching, but we’re both great at bottling our emotions. i never “blow up” i just bear it. very unhealthy.

it’s funny, but one of the parts i ordered for the saw is a compression release valve that makes the engine easier to crank. i’ve come close to having compression releases: running, alcohol, reading, etc. none of them have ever been perfect. never has the pressure been fully released.

“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.  Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.  For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”  Matthew 11.28-30

and there it is. the release. it’s hard to learn to release. it’s hard to give up the load, the burden, that seems to be such an integral part of me. i’m so good at making burdens out of promises like this one that are meant to free us. 

i want to feel the release. i want to be free of the pressure i create within.

you release the pressure so the engine cranks more easily. once started, the engine is continually containing tiny explosions that create pressure that cause the saw to do work. hmmm..... explosions and pressure harnessed in order to accomplish good, productive work and labor.

perhaps, at times, the inner pressure could be a good thing.

who knows?

He knows.