Self-Denial in an age of Indulgence, Part 2

Yesterday I wrote about this diet that my wife and I are on and the benefit of self-denial. The first practical benefit is that we find out if we can actually live without something, particularly if that thing is either a luxury item, or potentially harmful. I'm mostly thinking about food here, but it applies across the board. I've known people who have given up Facebook because, let's face it, you don't HAVE to use Facebook. They just wanted to know if they COULD give it up if they wanted to.

So here's the second tip/benefit of self-denial.

Self-denial allows us to get to the bottom of a (bad) habit

The second practical benefit of self-denial though is that it can allow us to get to the bottom of a bad habit. It's not so much about the habit, it's about the why behind the habit. Why do you reach for the chips or the cookies? Why do you drink forty-seven cups of coffee a day? Why do you "need" that glass of wine at night?

It happened to me this past week two nights in a row. The first was on Sunday as I was coming home from a long day. I realized, even before the day was over, that I usually ended my Sunday night with a beer or glass of wine. I knew that I better have a replacement something available to me that I could look forward to, otherwise my night was about to suck. I picked up a couple of nice steaks instead and made a delish meal for my wife and I. Problem solved.

The next day, Monday, I had a late meeting. Typically I'd come home and have a beer to wind down, but that was a no go. I opted instead for my stand in, a seltzer with just a splash of orange juice. This is my go-to drink of choice when I'm off the beer/wine train. (There are a few stations where I normally hop on that train. After a long day. After a meeting. After the kids go to bed. Basically the train comes to the station around 8:00 at night, most nights.) Once again, problem solved.

The diet that we are on, however, suggests that you don't just "replace" a habit, because it tricks your mind into thinking that the habit was okay. For example, if you normally put sugar in your coffee, it's not a good idea just to switch to Splenda. The "elimination" portion of the diet we are on is intended to get you off of sugar–which it may have done, if you switched to an artificial sweetener–but since your coffee still tastes the same (or slightly worse), as soon as you get through the 30-day elimination period, you will almost certainly switch back to sugar. Same goes with something like pancakes. If you trick yourself into thinking that pancakes are okay just because you make them with mashed oats and bananas, as soon as you can have a real pancake again, you are going to do it, and forget that you ever made that crapcake to begin with.

I was concerned that I had just switched one "bad habit" for another on both nights. The first night, it was rewarding myself with food. That can be a dangerous game! The second night, it was rewarding myself, or calming down after a meeting, with a beverage. If I let myself think that those were proper rewards, was I just going to jump back on the beer/wine train as soon as the elimination period was over?

I don't know the answer to that. I don't necessarily think that the habit itself was bad. It did, however, lead me to reflect on the reason, or reasons, that I often used beer/wine/food (insert your thing here) as a reward after a meeting or a long day. Not all of the reasons are negative. For one, I enjoy it. I like a good glass of wine or a delicious treat or a tasty beer. I have a selection of frozen mugs in my freezer that are always on call, waiting for the perfect pour. That first sip of beer, when the mug is still freezing cold and the beer is freshly poured...there's nothing like it. But I digress. The point is that there is nothing wrong with doing something that you enjoy as a reward, assuming that thing is not inherently dangerous to you. Another reason is that it typically leads to relaxation. Nothing wrong with that. That was the point.

The bigger question was, why beer/wine, specifically? One reason was that it was a quick solution to the problem of anxiety (at least in the moment). My wife asked me a few years ago, somewhat rhetorically, if I realized how much I used the phrase "hurry up" when talking to her or the kids. I started taking note of it and realized that even while we were on vacation my basic premise was "hurry up and relax". If you had offered me a whip to get my family out of the house faster as we were trying to get to the beach, I probably would have taken it and used it. I'd push the family out of the house, stressing everyone out, just so we could get to the beach and...sit there and relax. Well, beer/wine can help you "hurry up and relax". And while I don't have a problem with that in theory, it's a pretty short ride from consistently using beer/wine as a means to "hurry up and relax" to depending on beer/wine for relaxation. Again, you can apply that to any habit, not just drinking.

The second reason, though, was that beer/wine helps dull the mind or change your focus. Any type of sugar does the same thing. It's a mood-altering thing. Which begs the question–why do you have to change your mood? What's bothering you?

It's one thing to say, "well, I had a long day and I'd like to have a drink to take my mind off of it." Hey, I get it. Not only do I get it, I'll pour you another one. Some days life just knocks you over, and worse, it's usually things you love that are the catalyst. Your kids annoy the living bejeezus out of you and you just need a drink (insert cookie, or Facebook, or video games, or whatever) to "gladden your heart", as the Psalmist says. (Psalm 104:15). Your job is intense. Your friends are going through a tough time. Whatever it is.

But what if "normal overwhelming" isn't actually normal at all? What if your life, for whatever reason, is just plain overwhelming? What if you are overwhelmed because you are in the wrong spot, or you have a "flat tire" somewhere in your life that needs to be fixed, or there is a relationship that needs addressing, or there is something in your life that is trying to get your attention, but instead of listening to it, you are just dulling it's voice? How would you know?

Self-denial gives you the chance to discover the "why" behind the "what". Maybe your habit, or your go-to relaxation thing, isn't bad at all. Or maybe you discover that it's just masking something that should be addressed. But how would you know, unless you denied yourself for a season just to reflect on it?

Just something to think about while you are pouring yourself another seltzer and OJ. 

VW Diesels and our Complicity

Yet the Volkswagen scandal is a reminder of how our human sinfulness, in ways both individually and corporately, holds us back from shalom. It’s a story of greed, pride, self-deception and outright lies, mostly by engineers and corporate officials. And even if I didn’t know about it, on some level, no matter how clean my fossil-fueled vehicle seemed to be, I remained complicit in a world economy that is damaging creation.

My bro-in-law has one of these VW Diesel's that were included in the scandal. He purchased it because, quite frankly, it's a sweet car and got great gas mileage with low emissions. Two out of three of those things remain true. Unfortunately, it's just polluting a lot more than anyone thought.

The first response to something like this is typically anger. Angry at the system, at Volkswagen, corporate greed, and just generally feeling lied to and cheated. The second response, though, is frustration. Frustration at all the things we were angry about, and how it feels like we can't change them, but then the general frustration of realizing that, no matter how much we wish we weren't, we're part of the problem.

VW had some motive (largely financial) to lie about the emissions of these vehicles. They knew that with the right combination of performance and the perception of being green, these things would sell like crazy. And that's what happened. The problem was, it wasn't actually possible to put those two things together. It couldn't perform as well as it does and still be as green as they had hoped. So they cheated.

The pessimist in me says that VW knew that there was a whole crop of people who would love to drive a green vehicle, but had no intention of sacrificing performance to do it. That's not necessarily wrong, but it's also not necessarily green. Lots of people would be "green" if it didn't cost them much...

Happiness

What if you could actually do whatever it was that made you happy?

I don't mean the freedom to go out to dinner whenever you wanted, purchase whatever your heart wanted to purchase, or snub a person just because you don't feel like talking. I'm talking bigger, purpose level stuff. What if you could actually enjoy life, day in and day out, doing exactly what you always wanted to do, feeling fulfilled in your work or daily life, finding that your joy was overflowing with each passing moment?

That sounds like a fairytale, and in some ways, it is. The fact is that even if you actually got what you wanted, and you could do, day in and day out, whatever it was that you most loved to do, hard moments were going to come and there would be seasons of sorrow. I was reminded this past week that Solomon himself said this in his letter of Ecclesiastes, after having lived a storied and privileged life if there ever was one, that in spite of having the ability to do and attain whatever he desired, he found that at the end of the day it was all meaningless.

There is a Christian thought that says that the chief end of man is the enjoyment of God; that is, once we have come to taste the pleasure of our salvation that is found in Jesus, we will increasingly grow in our delight of him so that, in the end, our greatest pleasure is giving honor and praise and glory to God, through whom we have received this great joy. I would never argue this theologically; in fact, quite the contrary. It is one of the principled themes that guides my life. We must find great joy in God himself, through Jesus Christ, or our faith is worthless. Why would I want to put my confidence in something that robbed me of pleasure? This is contrary to my entire being; I know, without having to learn it, without having to be taught it, without anyone having to tell me, that in my innermost being I will pursue whatever is most pleasurable to me. When I choose to pursue something otherwise, it feels profoundly off, like choosing the wrong path at a fork in the woods.

We are so guided by pleasure, in fact, that there are times when we are not even aware that we are doing it. There are times where the initial decision doesn't appear to be for our own pleasure at all, but the outcome is far more desirable. In other words, we choose the difficult path now because the long term reward is far better. There is something about us that knows the decision will end in pleasure even if, in the moment, our senses tell us otherwise.

I have sat on the exit row on an airplane on more than one occasion and every time I have listened to the flight attendant tell me that, should I choose to sit there, I would be responsible for ensuring that the other passengers made it safely out the door and down the slide, in the event that an evacuation was even possible (something I always assume will probably not be the case). I believed that the appeal the attendant was making was to my reason, and indeed, that is true to a certain degree. We human beings have the ability to choose against our natural instinct to save ourselves, and instead hang back in a dangerous position in order to let other people go on ahead to safety. That is a uniquely human characteristic, that we can choose reason over instinct. Yet, there is another factor at play as well, and this is the appeal to our pleasure.

It is our natural instinct towards pleasure that I may say unites us with the creation itself. My dog might choose the safety of my own family over his own family, much the same as I might choose the safety of the other passengers over my own, but this has nothing to do with reason. My dog puts my family first because his instinct is to serve; to say it another way, it is his pleasure to do it.

You might wonder how it is possible that there is any pleasure at all from putting ourselves in danger, or how remaining in danger is more pleasurable than running on to safety, but consider the outcome in either case. If we decided to disregard our responsibility and jump out of the exit door before anyone else had a chance, we would probably survive, along with at least a few others. Indeed, it is entirely possible that everyone would survive, and our act of cowardice would be inconsequential to the outcome. But we would have to live with it; we would have to live with the knowledge that we bailed out in what may have been the greatest moment of responsibility to others we have ever faced. It would have been a great displeasure to us to have to live under that shadow; we would be safe, but we would also be ashamed.

On the other hand, had we taken our responsibility seriously we may end up dead. Perhaps we would survive, in which case we would be lauded a hero. But if we did die, at least we would have had the pleasure of knowing that we went out helping others; we would still be lauded a hero, we would just not have the knowledge of it. Nevertheless, most would say, better to die as a noble person than to live as a coward.

The point of the story is simply that, even if we didn't immediately recognize it at the moment of decision, the end result was that our pleasure would be increased. It brought us more pleasure to set aside our inherent self-interest in order that others would be led to safety. We may not have known it when we sat in the exit row (a decision largely made for our own pleasure and increased leg room) and we may not have immediately known it when our exit services were actually required, but when it was all over and as many as could be saved were off the plane, we would have remarked that it was "our pleasure" to assist however we could.

So our pleasure is our chief motivation; God is our chief end. This truth has led many people to learn contentment and joy despite their circumstances. Many Christians, despite tremendous difficulty and suffering, can nevertheless say that they have joy because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ. It was worth whatever they had lost! It was like a treasure in a field that they sold everything to get. Yet I would argue that despite the theological truth, and the experiential reality of having enjoyed Christ in spite of suffering (and having seen Him enjoyed by others), the dimension of our pleasure that we have too quickly set asunder in our modern era is the reality of our humanity.

I have come across many people, and I may include myself in this, who have found themselves in unpleasant circumstances, but rather than change the circumstances for their pleasure have instead attempted to will themselves towards joy in Christ. I wonder how often Jesus might have curiously suggested that they simply change whatever it was that they did not like.

Indeed, there are moments where we cannot change what brings us displeasure, humanly speaking. We cannot simply will away cancer or decide not to have it. In those moments, we will be glad to know that we find our great joy in Christ. But what of the person who is miserable because they do not live near their family, or the person who is miserable in their job, or the person who lives in a place where they have no friends, or attends the church that they do not enjoy? To what degree are we expected to find joy in Christ in circumstances where our joy might be renewed simply by changing something?

Perhaps we assume that making a decision based purely on whatever will make us happy is unspiritual. I would argue that this is precisely the case, and precisely the reason we should do it. In one sense, we know that all of life is spiritual; that is, there is nothing that is not in some way affected by our relational status with God the creator of the universe. But in another sense, we are flesh and blood; we are irrevocably "earthy" in our existence and unmistakably unspiritual, which is exactly how God intended it to be. If it is impossible for us to separate the spiritual from our decision making process, it is equally as impossible–and equally unwise–for us to separate our humanity from the decision making process. We may even find that it is our earthly situation that is robbing us of our spiritual joy in Christ!

I was asked the question once whether I felt like I would be disobeying Jesus if I did not plant a church. "What a spiritual question!", I thought. Of course, I had no answer to it, as I hadn't really considered whether or not Jesus' call to me was one that I could obey or disobey, or whether he would be pleased or displeased with my decision. To that point, I had simply considered that this is what I should do. I had weighed the alternatives. This seemed right. It seemed like something worth exploring. By the time this person had asked me whether or not I would be disobeying Jesus, I really didn't know. I supposed that I could be perfectly obedient to Jesus doing any number of things, but this was the one that, for now, seemed to be the right one. I don't even know what I answered when the person asked.

Standing where I am now and considering the question through the lens of hindsight I see the deep flaw in it. To me, it spiritualizes what is in many ways a very human question: what do you want to do, and why are you doing it? For as much as Jesus calls us to come and die to ourselves so that we can live for him, it is also a deep truth of the good news that Jesus meets us precisely where we are. I would suggest that the way we can know a call is from Jesus is if the outcome fills us with great pleasure.

In fact, I may go so far as to say that I am convinced that Jesus greatest call on us is to whatever it is that will bring us the most pleasure.

It is important to understand that that Jesus knows better than we do what will bring us pleasure. There are dark desires of my heart that may fool me into believing that they will bring me pleasure, and in the moment, they might, but in the long run, will lead to my destruction and actually rob me of joy. Whereas, a temporary denial of that quick pleasure will lead to lasting joy. Jesus desires my greater pleasure, the one that fills me with lasting joy, and not a temporary high.

Yet there are many things in life that bring great joy and are not sinful, or guilty pleasure, or pleasures that are fleeting, but are good, God-given pleasures that are flawed because we are flawed but are good because God in his mercy has made sure they remained good. If your family is anything like mine is is deeply flawed and yet it is good. I live in and with a community of people who are deeply flawed and yet profoundly good. I live in a town with deeply flawed leadership and yet, somehow, by God's grace, is still good. There are good things that abound around us and that bring me great happiness.

There was a moment in my life when I would have moved anywhere for God, and many times did. (I am thankful that God has not called me to international missions, and I am not sure how I would have responded if he had.) We moved to many different states and cities, and would have moved to many more, in order to pursue the calling that we felt he had placed on our lives. Why did we do that? It was our great pleasure! There was something about the continual call, the next step, the bigger ministry. We weren't bound by time, place, or relationships. We would go wherever God called!

But was that more or less spiritual than our current desire not to ever move again, desiring that we stay here for a very long time, even if it means ministering in relative obscurity for the rest of our lives? This, too, is our great pleasure. To remain in a place where our children are loved, where we are cared for, with people that we love, with people that we care for. You might ask, what if Jesus has called us to great influence? I would suggest that Jesus has not called us to influence; he has called us to joy.

And so I return to my humanity and my joy and pleasure and family and all the things that make me me and you you. What are we doing or not doing under the misguided belief that Jesus has called us to contentment despite our displeasure? Perhaps Jesus has called us away from our displeasure so that we will find our contentment. I have run into those who lived in displeasure because they felt they were called by God to do so; I can't help but wonder if they are missing his purest call. Maybe contentment means deciding to take a lower paying, less influential job simply because it is near family, and family makes us happy. Maybe it is to not take the next promotion because it would mean more time away from home, and home makes us happy. Maybe it would be to move to the shore, because the shore makes us happy. Maybe it would be to move to a small town by a lake in the woods, because nature makes us happy.

Jesus has called us to pleasure in Him. What I am suggesting here, for myself and for you, is that if we really found our deepest satisfaction in Jesus, we would find ourselves far more free to choose whatever makes us happy in this life. Do you want to find another job? Find another job. Jesus is okay with it. Do you want to move closer to family? Then move. Jesus is just as much there as he his here; you may find him to be more pleasurable when you are near those you love. Actually leaving behind all those things that Jesus calls us to leave behind so that we can pursue him means that we don't have to feel like we are bound by those things anymore; instead of feeling enslaved to a job or to a location or a place or whatever, we are actually freed from the bondage so that we can enjoy them. Jesus doesn't just bring us spiritual joy; he frees us to experience human joy as well; the type of joy that comes from sitting next to a brook or fishing on a quiet pond or hiking a mountain or turning off our cell phone and just sitting there, unreachable for the rest of the world, playing a game with our kids, reading a book, doing a puzzle.

Finding our joy in Jesus reveals a freeing truth: Jesus doesn't need us to save the world. He's already done it. Which means that you can go and enjoy Him, forever.

Recapturing our Joy

The train of thought went like this:

I was somewhat sullen after a long summer, filled with more challenges and tragedy than I could have possibly expected.

I thought back to when I was feeling really fulfilled in my work and ministry, and remembered that it was earlier this year.

What was I doing then? I was writing more frequently–nearly every day, in fact. I was working up to something; writing was an outlet not just for my own joy but also for the burden I felt to share what God was doing in the world and how we should think about it.

I didn't feel like I could have that joy again.

And then I remembered the first post that I had written when I got back into writing. It was titled, "restarting and the Christian life." I read it again, and remembered. Sometimes you just need to get back on the horse.

The most shocking thing to me, perhaps, is that I got away from it to begin with. Why did that happen? What squeezed out the most joy-filled part of my day, the part I really looked forward to, the part that made me feel like every other part of the day was worth it? Of course I'm speaking about a work day here, not the day generally. There are plenty of things to make the day, each day, worth living, even if I were to place the general calling of the Christian that gave my life purpose to the side. A wife, children, the blessing of provision, and on it goes. Yet most of us go to work day in and day out and we can say that we love our work but what we mean is that we love spects of our work and we endure the other aspects of it because they allow us to do the things that we really love.

A friend of mine who is an exceptional communicator and pastors his church well through that gift said to me that he loved preaching so much on Sunday that he endured the meetings throughout the week just so that he would have a chance to do that. That sentiment resonates.

Somehow that thing that I really enjoyed, and felt like I was fulfilled in, got squeezed out. Life does that. We need to protect the things that give us joy, or they get bumped to the side. I think it's for the same reason that our most important relationships tend to get neglected; we assume they will always be there, so we don't invest much in them. Then we find that they have deteriorated. Or we find that we aren't doing the things that bring us joy anymore, because life took over.

That joy need to be recaptured.

There are things in your life that used to bring you joy. Maybe it was a particular activity, maybe it was a relationship. Maybe you used to find joy in reading, but you haven't read in a while. Maybe you used to find joy in your marriage, and you wonder where it went. Many times we are concerned we may never get that joy back. The answer, I think, is just to press in. Start reading. Begin the activity. Invest in the relationship. Just do it.

You may find that the joy can be recaptured after all.

Speculating on Jesus: Reliable Sources?

The final challenge that might be presented in light of the recent survey previously referenced is the challenge of whether or not the source material of Jesus life is to be trusted. By way of reminder, the survey indicated that most Americans believe that Jesus was a historical person who existed, but the opinions about what he was actually like or who he actually was varied greatly. This means that for the modern American Christian, the chief concern is not proving that he was, but who he was. This means, first, that Jesus is someone that we should care about beyond the typical historical figure. Second, it means that we need to know where to look to find out more information about him. And then finally, we need to determine whether that source material can be trusted.

As I mentioned in the last post, this third question is only posed when we realize that the source material about Jesus (his biographies) unashamedly present a man who believed that he was God. His claims were not just universal in nature, but they were actually universal truth claims about himself. If he really was God, if he really did do the things that he said, then it has tremendous implications for our life today. So much so, that if we can't rightly ignore what he said according to his biographers, then the next best thing to do is question the source altogether. Perhaps the accounts have been embellished. Perhaps, over time, the accounts have been changed to present a figure that said more than Jesus ever actually did.

This argument is quite easy to dispel, of course. Simply, if you were trying to soften the blow of Jesus' claims, or you were trying to make him more acceptable to the skeptic, you would have dialed down his claims, not ratcheted them up. In this case, Jesus' biographers would have made his words more offensive, more outlandish, and ultimately more crazy–unless they were true and he actually said them. We must keep in mind that it is recorded, extra-biblical, and fully accepted history that this group of people called Christians were being mercilessly persecuted by Rome, and particularly by the emperor Nero. Even if we wanted to make the highly unlikely and somewhat illogical argument that all of these early Christians were delusional, persecution that led to death certainly would have cleared out the insane from the sane. Instead of shrinking this group of people, however, it actually grew.

It's helpful to remember that these were first and second generation Christians who were being killed. Some of them may have been alive during Jesus ministry; most almost certainly had parents who were alive during that time. They faced this persecution precisely because they believed that the message of Jesus was true. He really did say what he said he did. He really was who he said he was. 

The Gospel writers fall into this group of people who, again, were first or second generation Christians. Three out of four definitely saw the ministry of Jesus. One of them, Luke, may not have, and perhaps that is what prompted his thoroughly researched biography that he claims to present to a person named Theophilus. Nevertheless, it behooved all of them to account for Jesus life as it actually happened. There was no benefit to making the story more than it was. They were already going to lose their lives on account of Jesus and who he was. Better to die for the real Jesus than someone they made up. Furthermore, the early church consistently verified these accounts of Jesus life as being accurate and truthful accounts of Jesus life.

All things being equal, a group that believed a known lie–and make no mistake but that the central moment of Jesus life, the resurrection, would have been a known lie were it not actually true–may have continued to propagate that truth so long as it led to pleasurable results. That is, assuming that the first disciples made up the outlandish story of Jesus rising from the dead, so long as it had pleasurable results the group might have just gone on propagating that story. What did it matter, so long as the results were good? Yet this is not what happened. While it did, for a time, produce pleasurable results, the fact is that the more one believed the message, and the more that one shared the message and lived out the implications to this truth, the less desirable the results became. If you really believed it, and you shared it, and you were obvious about the message of Jesus resurrection, you were threatened, arrested, and beaten, almost from the jump. If the resurrection–again, the single act that motivated the early church to advance–were not true, the disciples would have known that it wasn't true. At some point, someone would have cracked. At some point, a second or third generation follower would hear the story, not having seen the resurrection for themselves, and said, "this is crazy", and eventually the movement would have died. Of course, the other possibility is that the resurrection is not a lie at all, but an actual historical event that took place. Quite frankly, this is the direction that all of the notable information points. The movement really did happen. Cowards became courageous. The government and the religious leaders–two major powers who wanted nothing more than for this Jesus character to go away–never presented the body, despite knowing exactly where they put it because they guarded it with soldiers.

In the end, we might find that the message of Jesus' biographies, and the claims that he made about himself, are either outlandish or they are old fashioned. We may find that they are offensive. But none of these are the central question that we ought to ask. The question is, are they true? Did Jesus actually say and do these things? Are the Gospel accounts trustworthy? Given the historical context (not to mention the harmony of the four accounts), it seems that it would be more reasonable to ask why we wouldn't trust them. No one had anything to gain by fabricating these stories. The government didn't want to advance the message. The religious leaders never wanted to think about Jesus again. The Christians knew they would be killed for writing the things that they wrote. The only reason you'd write them is if they were, at the end of the day, actually the things that Jesus said and did, and if, at the end of the day, you were willing to stake your life on their truth. And that's exactly what the writers did.

Speculating on Jesus: Where to look?

Given that the vast majority of American's already believe that Jesus was a historical figure, the challenge for the Christian person is to define who Jesus was, rather than that he was. The fact that he existed is assumed to be true, but this raises several difficult questions. The first question, "Why should I care?" is covered in this post. We must clarify for ourselves and for those around us why we should have any interest in researching who Jesus actually was; what is it that makes him stand out from all the other historical figures that we could study? This, of course, leads to the second question. If our interest in Jesus is piqued, where should we actually turn to find out more about him? That is the topic of this post.

For now, let's set aside the third question that I presented in the first post on the subject. That question, "how can I trust what I'm reading?", is so important to this second question that I debated whether or not it should come first. Upon reflection, however, I decided that it was better to set it aside for now and simply address what the material related to Jesus life actually says. As we approach Jesus to find out more about him, I think that we will find that our assumptions about him are that he is fairly innocuous; the image that we have is of a kind, caucasian gentleman with a lamb cast around his shoulders. Surely this Jesus cannot be much of a bother; this Jesus won't demand much from us. He is safe. As such, questions of whether or not we should put our confidence in what is actually recorded about Jesus won't really arise until after we've examined the material and found that, far from being innocuous, he is actually quite dangerous; far from demanding little, his claims are actually quite demanding. If not for us, at very least for the way in which we view the world. After coming into contact with who Jesus actually is and what Jesus actually teaches, we find that–if we are to trust him–we cannot go on the same way we have been prior to this moment. Everything changes if what is said about Jesus is true. And that is the point where most of us will be awoken to our senses and we will actually ask the question, "should I trust this material?" And when we ask it, then we will answer it. Until then, we'll just consider where we should look.

The place to begin, of course, is in the four account of Jesus life that are often referred to as "The Gospels". These four accounts, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, each take a particular perspective in writing about Jesus, and each of them has a particular audience in mind. They were written by four different authors at four different time periods. Yet despite those differences, we find an amazing cohesiveness between the four books. If we begin with these accounts, there are at least two things that we will begin to see; to data points, if we can call them that, as we discover who Jesus actually is.

First, we'll discover what the very early followers of Jesus though about him. Two of the writers are Jesus disciples (Matthew & John), one of them is a close follower of Jesus who would later spend time with Peter (Mark), and the other is a historian who spent extensive time researching Jesus life and traveling with the Apostle Paul. Certainly, their perspective on who Jesus actually was ought to be important to us. They were the ones who saw him, walked with him, heard him, and ultimately believed in him. These four biographies of Jesus life give us all that we need to make a clear determination of what the early church thought about Jesus: namely, that he was Savior and Lord.

Second, we'll discover what Jesus thought about himself. Jesus was not shy about making radical claims about his identity, and his biographers do not soften these claims. This in itself is worth noting. If the early followers of Jesus knew that he made claims about himself that they did not believe were true, they would have taken great claims to scrub them from the record, as it were. Yet they didn't do that. This indicates that, not only did they believe Jesus, but it also gives us confidence that Jesus believed these claims about himself as well. The most outrageous claim, and the one that finally got him sent to his death (at least from the religious leaders perspective), was that he was God, the creator of the universe. Again, this is an outrageous claim that, were you or I to make it, would make us look like absolute fools. Indeed, Jesus would have looked like a fool too, had he not proved it with his death and resurrection–or at least, that's clearly what his early followers believed about him.

Once we have come into contact with what the early church thought about Jesus, and what Jesus believed about himself, we turn our attention to the next question: what did Jesus believe about the rest of the universe? Or, what did he believe about God? What was his belief about how the world operates, and why it was that he needed to come and offer some sort of salvation? We'll find in short order that what Jesus believed, and the "scripture" that he used, was the Hebrew Bible, or what Christians would refer to as the Old Testament. At the beginning of his ministry, Jesus opens to the center of that Scripture and claims that he is ushering in the fulfillment of all that it promises; at the end of his ministry, Jesus takes time to show that everything that was written in the Hebrew Bible pointed towards him. At very least, what we learn from this is that Jesus viewed the Old Testament as trustworthy. They were so trustworthy, in fact, that not only did God deliver them to his people so that they would know what it was that he expected of them, but then, in a great cosmic act of mercy, fulfilled the demands himself. This is the reason why Jesus can say to his followers that the only way to get back into God's good grace, as it were, was through Him. He was the gate into the life you've always wanted, that you've always tried to create. 

Finally, we come to the implications. What does this all mean? For that, we turn to what Christians refer to as the New Testament. A collection of letters and teaching that were written by the very early church leaders and distributed amongst the churches. They, too, were considered authoritative and trustworthy. In the letters we find the early church leaders instructing the people on how the fulfillment of God's law ought to impact our lives, today. One thing that stands out: the expectations of God still matter, it's just that our failure to live up to them isn't held against us. The good news of Jesus is that since he has fulfilled them, our failure to fulfill them will never be held against us again, so long as we put our confidence in his efforts rather than our own. It was unacceptable to the early leaders that you would want to have Jesus, but disagree with him about what he viewed as sin. You couldn't have it both ways. If you acknowledged that Jesus was God, Lord, and Savior, then you also had to agree that what Jesus believed about how God intended the world to be (evidenced through Jesus' scriptures and his own teachings) was actually true. You couldn't claim to follow Jesus, but reject what he taught, even if those teachings led to some discomfort in our lives.

This discovery is what causes most people to stop and question whether or not this source material can be trusted. After all, there are only two ways to make Jesus safer than he actually is. The first is to reinterpret what Jesus said so that it fits our pre-conceived agenda. This is the theological equivalent of having our cake and eating it too; we like the idea of Jesus, but we simply cannot accept what he taught about sin, sexuality, divorce, money, or anything else for that matter. I'll take the free gift of salvation, but functionally I'll reject the reason salvation was necessary in the first place. Surely, things cannot be that bad. The great danger of this softening, or "safening", of Jesus is that it's almost always an inside job. It comes from Christians who know that they cannot totally disparate the text, or the Bible as a whole quickly becomes untrustworthy. Better instead to reinterpret what Jesus said so that it is more palatable for the modern person. The trouble with this approach, however is that it requires us to assume that what was written about Jesus is supposed to be cryptic in nature and it's only we who have discovered the hidden code. Jesus wasn't quite as serious about sin as we make him out to be, see, we have finally discovered it. Of course, if we believe anything about the Bible, we know this is highly unlikely to be true, since it is God's word evealed to us, and a hidden or cryptic meaning would not be much of a revelation at all.

Finding that we cannot simply reinterpret Jesus claims so that they fit with what we wish he would have said, we move on to the second approach to making Jesus safe, and it is simply to question whether or not the text can be trusted at all. And this is the question I alluded to at the beginning of this post. This is when our sensibilities kick in: when we realize that what Jesus is actually calling us to is much more than simply believing he was a moral teacher or an all around good guy. Jesus claimed that he was God, that God required perfection, and that anything less than that resulted in death and eternal separation from God. "Death" is the equivalent of separation from ourselves; our souls are separated from our body. "Hell" is the equivalent of separation from God; our souls are separated from the life-giver. Yet Jesus also claimed that he was the solution to that separation. We could either try to fix the problem ourselves, or we could trust him to fix it on our behalf. Those are the two options that he presents. And if they are true, then it means that he is infinitely more important than perhaps we have previously assumed. But it can't be true, can it? Surely, his biographers must have gotten it wrong. Surely, these texts can't be trusted.

And that will be the next challenge that we will have to answer.

Why the Resurrection Matters

Another Easter Sunday has come and gone and with it, the temptation to let the "Resurrection" fade into the background much the same as Christmas fades into the past and we are left paying off our credit cards from over-celebration. We don't celebrate in the same fashion for Easter. Despite the attempts to commercialize it with the Easter Bunny, new outfits, and candy, it still remains primarily a religious holiday that isn't recognized by people other than those who identify with Christianity. Yet the temptation to move on with our lives and compartmentalize the truths of the resurrection is just as much of a temptation as it is to throw out the wrapping paper and mentally move on to the next big event.

Easter is fundamentally different than Christmas, however. While the events of Christmas are incredibly important and contain a great deal of doctrinal truth, they don't stand on the same level as the events of Easter. In fact, the events of Christmas have no value whatsoever apart from Easter, since the death and resurrection of Jesus are the culmination of everything that he came to accomplish. If they never occurred, then his birth, life, and whatever else occurred would still have been interesting, miraculous, potentially life-altering even if we chose to use Christ's life as an example, but not near as important as they are because of the events of Easter weekend. I'm not sure if the importance of the resurrection can be overstated: if it doesn't happen, there is no hope, there is no ultimate salvation, and practically there is no foundation for the church. The first two points are theological in nature and I won't address them here. It is that last point–the practical necessity of the resurrection for the church–that I want to address.

As we examine the broader culture (at least of America) it's easy to notice that there are some very sharp disagreements regarding how we view various cultural issues. Pick any issue you'd like, and chances are you can find not just diverse views on the subject, but polarizing views. Our tendency is to believe that these disagreements are themselves the problem, but they aren't. They are a symptom of the problem. The real problem, as it turns out, is that we are standing on fundamentally different foundations.

Imagine that the two of us were standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon, and we began to describe to one another what we see. To a certain extent, our descriptions may seem similar. We might describe a deep gorge, the relative color of the dirt and clay, the vastness of what we are viewing. As we go further in our descriptions, however, they inevitably begin to diverge. One of us argues that the canyon is a thousand feet deep, the other says it is only a couple of hundred feet. Perhaps we argue about the vegetation, or what it is that makes it so beautiful, or how the sun sets–or rises–on the opposite end of the canyon. Soon we would find that our disagreement is so sharp, that it is impossible for us to figure one another out. We end up completely polarized, convinced that the other person is a lunatic.

Of course you may have already figured out the problem. We are viewing the same canyon, but from two different vantage points. Where we are standing makes all the difference in recognizing why it is that we disagree on our perspective. Once we understand that we are not even fundamentally seeing the same things, we can come to terms with the fact that we disagree.

This is why the real issues of culture have nothing to do with our perspectives on the issues, and have everything to do with the foundation on which we are standing. Christians in particular have taken for granted that for the vast majority of the history of the United States, most of the population stood on a similar foundation. Call it "Judeo-Christian values" or whatever you wish, but really it was just the foundation that there was a God and that we could find out more about him in the Bible. I don't assume that the entirety of the country was Christian, let alone religious, but at very least the foundation was roughly similar. Thus, if there were disagreements on certain subjects, they weren't extreme. We might be arguing about the color of the clay in the canyon, but at least we are looking at the same clay.

Unfortunately that foundation has shifted and the vast majority of culture is no longer standing on the same foundation. This is the effect of post-modernity that claims that there are no universal truths. One of the impacts of this was the supposed destruction of the meta-narrative, which is by it's nature a comprehensive truth claim. Of course the theory falls on it's head. Even saying that there is no universal truth is a comprehensive truth claim about how the world works, it simply shifts the responsibility for decision making to the individual, rather than the universal. Again, claiming that every decision is up to the individual is a universal claim. Thus the meta-narrative was not done away with, but simply changed, and as a result, we find that when we are describing what appear to be similar issues, they are not the same at all. Those of us who are Christians are standing on an entirely different foundation than those who are not-Christians, and vice versa.

This in itself is not a bad thing, it is just something that simply "is". If anything, it provides an opportunity for Christians to have more clarity about what it is that they actually believe. I also think that it should provide Christians more opportunity to have grace with skeptics, since we ought to understand that the issues is not a disagreement, per se, it is a foundational issue. We are not standing on the same footing. We aren't looking at the canyon from the same angle. I can't expect my skeptic friend to see the world from the same perspective that I do, unless we first understand where it is that we are standing.

All of this brings me back to the church, and my original point about the practical need to remember the resurrection. Over the past decade, at least, and perhaps longer than that, post-modernity has come into the church in a variety of ways. The easiest entry way has been to offer differing perspectives on traditional Christian perspectives. Some of those perspectives have been healthy and offered appropriate correctives in the church. Like all institutions (and individuals, I might add), when you have held onto a particular belief long enough, you typically end up abusing it in it's application. For example, the longer you believe you are a safe driver, the less likely you are to use your seat belt. The better you are at a particular activity–skiing, for example–the more likely you are to push the limits verging into the unsafe, even for an expert. The same goes for churches. What might begin as a helpful doctrine or tradition can end up being abused in the long run, in desperate need of correction and a reminder of where the application should begin and end. Other perspectives, however, have not been corrective in nature, but downright incorrect. As a seminary professor said, "the only corrective to bad theology is better theology." Unfortunately many of the critiques in the last decade have not been better theology, but just more bad theology from a different perspective. The pendulum might swing to embrace it, but it doesn't mean that we are any better off. Change for changes sake is not necessarily a good thing. So how do we combat these perspectives? The answer is the resurrection.

The resurrection provides Christians with the foundation on which unity can be built as a church, for at least two reasons. The first reason encompasses both Jesus death, and resurrection, which puts all Christians on the same plane. If Jesus death and resurrection are real, historical events that happened and on which Christianity is based, so that faith and confidence in those events is essential to being a Christian, then the very nature of them mean that all of us arrive into this new kingdom of God on the same train. No one gets in on their own power. No one is more righteous than another. In fact, we all have the same righteousness from the same savior and get in on the same ticket.

The second reason that the resurrection is necessary is that it proves that Jesus is the king of this new kingdom, and thus, he gets to set the expectations. I believe that one of the chief reasons that some of the sharp disagreements that the church has experienced with the culture have become sharp disagreements within the church itself is that many within the church have unwittingly shifted their foundation. This was more evident than ever in the week leading up to Easter when a variety of articles were published claiming to come from Christian sources, but as I examined them, I noticed that they weren't Christian at all. They claimed to have a similar value structure, but they so minimized the death and resurrection of Jesus that those two events were no longer the foundation on which they based the rest of their so-called "truth". Realizing that meant that I could accept their conclusions at face value–as the author's opinion–but also realize that they weren't Christian perspectives, even though they claimed to be. It has become increasingly easy for people in the 21st century church to disagree with Jesus, or try to change his words to fit our meaning, and the reason that we can do it is because we, essentially, deny the power of the resurrection or take it to mean something it doesn't mean. The resurrection is not hope just for hope's sake; it is hope because it revealed that Jesus really was who he said he was. Jesus really was God incarnate who had the ability to defeat death on our behalf. The power of the resurrection wasn't limited just to him; it's a power that all who put their faith in Christ have access to. Far from being just some nebulous, ill-defined hope, it is a hope that very clearly identifies Jesus as God of very God, and King of every King. In other words, if we believe the resurrection is true, we don't get to disagree with Jesus.

As believers, then, the starting point for our unity must be the resurrection of Jesus. This is what gives him His claim to authority, as well as clarifying for us why we don't get to be authoritative in our own right. The Resurrection is the foundation on which the Christian views the rest of the world. When we stand on the power of the Resurrection, then we may still discuss and dialogue about what, exactly, Christ believed, but we don't get to disagree with Jesus or the rest of the Bible, or interpret it to fit our cultural milieu or cultural understanding at the time. Rather we stand on the authority of Christ himself.

If there are sharp disagreements in the church, I am much less interested in knowing what you think about the disagreement, and much more interested in knowing what you think about Jesus. Is he the risen Lord, or not? If he is, then you and I can both submit our opinions to his. If he isn't, then we're not on the same foundation to begin with, and I don't care much that you disagree with me. We'll never agree on what the canyon looks like so long as we are standing on different lookouts.

This is why we can't put Easter in the past. Easter Sunday, and what it represents, are not just a day in the life of the church calendar, but the foundation on which every day must be built. To the extent that we remember that, we'll have a united church. To the extend that we forget it, we'll be divided. It might really be as simple as that.

The God Who Destroys False Impressions

My idea of God is not a divine idea. It has to be shattered time after time. He shatters it Himself. He is the great iconoclast.

Lewis, C. S. (2009-06-02). A Grief Observed (Collected Letters of C.S. Lewis) (p. 51). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition. 

After C.S. Lewis' wife died, he filled nearly four journals with his thoughts and impressions, chronicling and hopefully channeling his grief. The four volumes were published under a pseudonym, for fear that if anyone knew what he was really thinking, it would turn them down a path he didn't wish them to go. It's one thing for an anonymous griever, as it were, to think such things about God. It's another thing for a cherished Christian author to feel that way. Or at least such was the theory.

Eventually the volumes were correctly attributed to him and they are fascinating because of their honesty and for the depth of thought that Lewis is known for bringing to the table. As he processes his grief, he moves from a state of anger with God, where he cannot possibly fathom why it feels like God would be so distant now as opposed to when things were going well to a state of...is it acceptance? It's a deeper understanding, that is for sure. 

One such understanding stood out to me, above. It's true that we have an idea about God. We think certain things about God. Each of us has an impression of who God really is, much of which is wrong, but all of which falls ultimately short of a true understanding. I've often quoted A.W. Tozer who said that what we believe about God is the most important thing about us. It's a true statement in it's own right. Our view of God will shape how we view the rest of the world; it is certainly to be the central thought in the life of the Christian person, but the thought is equally true of the skeptic. Not believing in God, or simply not thinking of him at all, is just as important in determining how we view the rest of the world and the cosmos and everything in it.

Lewis would agree, but he would add a caveat. Not only is whatever we believe about God the most important thing about us, but it's so important, in fact, that God himself will seek to root out and destroy any false thoughts or false impressions that we have about him. It does us no good to pray to a God who doesn't really exist; whatever we think God is, Lewis points out, is not a divine idea at all. It's typically our own idea or our own interpretation. As such, it falls short in such immeasurable ways that it is the only loving thing that God can do to weed out such falsities. We need to know the real God, not the one that we made up.

This is another of the "temptations" that C.S. Lewis points out in his book The Screwtape Letters. Wormwood the demon is instructed not so much to stop his subject from praying–although that would be the ideal–but rather to have him pray in such a way where the God he is praying to or the outcome that he is praying for is not based on truth of who God actually is, but rather is based on his own impression of who God is. Thus he will walk away feeling as if he did his righteous duty, but will have had zero impact at all, since whatever he prayed was almost certainly his own will, based on his own idea of God, rather than based on the truth of God and his actual will. 

So God takes great pains to destroy the image that we have of him that is inaccurate, and one of the ways that he does that is through suffering. We humans are somewhat of a self-centered bunch, and no matter how righteous or others-focused we appear to be the reality is that most of our efforts and energies are poured into a world that revolves around us. God's blessings toward us, his enthusiasm towards us, his love of us, all seem to wrap around our own self-interest. The second that something appears to not be in our self-interest, we immediately turn on God; we act as if he's this spiteful, vengeful being who, after all this, would make our lives terrible. But here is the trouble: it was never about us to begin with. It wasn't about our self-interest, at least not the way we define it (another mythical area of our belief, the one in which we think we have the means to articulate what really, ultimately, is in our best interest.) If it is about our self-interest, then our self-interest stems from our knowledge of the real God, the real source of life, and not the fanciful version that we learned about in Sunday School. Anything else is a fraud.

So C.S. Lewis would say in his masterful lecture, The Weight of Glory, that we go on settling for mud pies in a slum because we cannot possibly understand what is meant by a holiday at sea. We settle for the mundane and the false, rather than pursuing the truth and the life. And God would have none of that for his most favorite creation.

Unique & Useful

Several weeks (months?) ago I was asked to speak to a group of churches about what makes them unique. I had been assigned to study the question with a group of colleagues and after various conversations we had what I thought was a decent set of things that made this particular church group unique. As I prepared the presentation, this was the opening slide that I used.

The thing is, these churches were unique in certain ways that I considered to be very important. It was what they believed that made them stand out amongst the larger community of protestant Christian churches. Without going into much depth, one of their fundamental beliefs is similar to what this blog is about: the sovereignty of a good and creative God over all aspects of life. This particular group of churches had a rich history of encouraging families, building schools, health care facilities, and elderly residences, taking care of people from birth through death. The view was that the Christian life didn't just encompass a particular "doctrine", but that whatever that doctrine was had to actually work when it came into contact with real life. The challenge, however, wasn't their uniqueness, it was their usefulness.

One of the reasons that many of these churches were no longer particularly useful is because they had strayed away from their fundamental beliefs. There's an old turn of phrase, "methods are many, principles are few; the methods always change, the principles never do." The fact is that many of these churches had attempted to change the principles and keep the method. In cases where they did hang on to their principles, the method was outdated and irrelevant. In both cases, they were no longer useful.

It's possible to o good things but have a poor method that leads to a lack of usefulness. One of the big problems with a lot of well-meaning non-profit organizations is that while their work appears to solve a particular problem (let's say hunger), it actually fosters a greater dependency so that the person receiving the food never learns where to get it for themselves.

The reverse is also true: we can say and do the right things but if our hearts aren't in it, the whole thing crumbles. The sports news cycle has been filled for a couple days with the story of an excellent linebacker who decided that the reasons he was playing weren't worth the risk, so he retired after one year in the NFL. He was still excellent at the sport. His methods were good. But his principles (or reasons for being in) no longer made the sport useful for him. So he walked away.

There is a sweet spot in everything that we do where the reason or purpose behind what we do is in harmony with what we are actually doing. That's the position of being useful. Not only is our method or our work relevant and impactful, but it's actually making a meaningful difference at the same time.

Unique is not all it's cracked up to be. Usefulness is where it's at.

Saturday Night

I signed in to the blog to write a new post about something that's been on my mind since this morning, but decided against it for the time being. (It was going to be about an article I read on a proposed legislative change in Maine that would require non-profit organizations to pay property taxes, but I'll save that for another day. It's probably not as disinteresting as you might imagine, and it has potentially much more profound effects than you may realize...) In any event, I decided to write a brief note on what I do on Saturday nights. 

Saturday nights are about brain rested and engaged, all at the same time. If it's been a good week, and I'm well-prepared, then I've just gotten done with my two-day weekend, starting on Friday morning and going through the day on Saturday. Sunday, my week starts up again, and it starts up with a bang. It's my busiest day, and it requires by far the most mental energy, for at least two reasons. I'll preface this by saying that this isn't intended to be a "woe is me" story. It is just how things are.

The first reason that Sunday requires a lot of mental energy (if you care about the people in your church) is that most people are coming in on Sunday and they are burned out from the week. They are tired, they are in need of encouragement, they want to hear what God has to say, they want to be built up, challenged, equipped, and then sent on their way, and the expectation is that it's my job to do that for them, or at least, to do my best. Because I care about the people in my church, I want that for them. I want to take the Bible and explain it to them in a way that matters for the real, everyday life. I honestly believe that if "Christianity" is just something you do on Sundays, then it's worthless. It has to have traction in the rest of your life; it has to have as much meaning when you show up at work on Monday as it did to you on Sunday. In other words, I don't think that Christianity is something that you do to make you feel good. I don't think it's something that "works for some people" but doesn't work for others, as if religion really is just a pick-one-that-makes-you-feel-good affair. I think that Christianity either has to offer a meaningful and rationale explanation for why things are the way that they are, so that it actually offers real answers that matter or it's really nothing. To say it another way, what we believe has to ultimately touch every square inch of our lives in some fashion; hence, there is no square inch of life that cannot be explored, examined, and considered.

The second reason that it requires so much mental energy is that to actually offer that meaningful insight into life in a way that matters means that physically speaking, you are going to engage a significant percentage of your brain. There was a Mythbusters episode that sought to prove (or disprove) the myth that humans only use about 10% of your brainpower. As they tested, they noticed that there were ways that would engage a significantly greater percentage of brainpower, as in when you were doing multiple things at the same time. For example, if you were walking around, reading, speaking, and recalling a story all at the same time. Anyone who has every done any public speaking already knew that experientially, but it's actually backed up by science. If you've ever wondered why you are so exhausted after speaking to a group of people (even if you enjoy it!), this is the reason. It requires far more coordination of various brain functions than most people realize.

This is the reason that a Saturday night is both simultaneously about resting and engaging all at the same time. It's like stretching. Or mental yoga. Yoga, because I try to focus on what it is that I'm going to say on Sunday. Stretching, because I'm trying to warm up my brain just enough so that it's ready to go, but not so much that it's already tired.

At the end of the day, though, the reason I try to engage/rest on Saturday goes back to that idea that tomorrow, I feel a burden for the truth of God and for the people of our church. I want to make the connection between those two things: here is what is true, here is what that means for us when we get out of here. I have enough confidence in God's power, and enough trust in our church, that even if I totally blow it and whiff (or, as I've thought in the past, if I Charlie Brown it) I know that they are going to be okay and they are going to come back next weekend. There's more than enough grace to go around!

On the other hand, I know that I've got 30 minutes. And then for most of us it's back to the grind. Back to real life. Back to figuring out what God and Jesus and the Bible actually have to do with my bills, my family, my work, my co-workers, my neighbors, and everything else that sucks the life out of me during the week. Here's to hoping that 30 minutes is time well spent.