Loss by Cross

The cross made Paul reconsider his Jewish identity—everything that used to define who he was became “garbage.”

Circumcised the eighth day, of the nation of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew of Hebrews; as to the Law, a Pharisee; as to zeal, a persecutor of the church; as to righteousness which is in the Law, found blameless. But whatever things were gain to me, those things I have counted as loss for the sake of Christ . . . , and count them but rubbish [skubala] in order that I may gain Christ (Phil. 3:5-8).

Actually, the word Paul used was more indelicate than “rubbish” or “garbage.” After Damascus, Paul considered his old identity, his old ways as “dung.” (By the way, college students revel in the idea that St. Paul used crass words like “crap.” Inspired by the apostle, the biblical term has worked its way into their vocabulary—talking about someone’s silly claim, they’ll say, “that’s skubala.” Ah, the benefits of education.) To be sure, these losses were painful. They were damaging. Paul was no polyanna. Nevertheless he was convinced it was worth throwing them away like trash. Why? Losing his identity in the old age was part and parcel of gaining Christ in the new. A Jewish kind of righteousness had been replaced by a righteousness that “comes from God,” i.e., a righteousness found in Christ. So, Paul traded his reputable life in Judaism in order to be “found in Him” (Phil. 3:9)—not only in his resurrection glory but especially in the loss wrought by his cross. For him, sharing in the sufferings of Christ’s cross revealed his true identity. Indeed, those opposed to this way of life were actually enemies of the cross (v. 18). They missed the point of what it means to imitate Christ: loss by cross is gain.

This is where we need to be very clear on what Paul was not saying. Paul didn’t see “losing to gain” as an investment strategy. “I’ll sacrifice this so I can get more of the same” (the mantra of the prosperity gospel). He did not give in order to get. He did not set aside Jewish privileges in order to win Christian privileges. Nor did Paul reckon the benefits of the crucified life as divine payback for giving up what mattered most to him. His experience of Christ didn’t work that way: “I’ll give this up for Christ so that I can gain more of what I desire.” No. As a matter of fact, for Paul just the opposite happened: from the Christophany to his imprisonment, Paul found that gaining Christ led to losing his life. The more he was conformed to the image of Christ, the more he recognized his loss as gain. Paul wasn’t losing to gain more. He saw his loss as gain. And, the only way he could see it that way was because of the cross of Christ. The cross turned losing into gain, shame into honor, death into life. The crucified life turned the world upside down, which made perfect sense to Paul. If death is the worst thing that can happen, and yet it’s the best thing that can happen for a Christ-believer, then no tragedy can overwhelm the good, no death can spoil life, no loss can erase what is gained—especially since loss is gain. The more he lost his life, the more Paul found it. Sacrifice does that to a man or woman. The more we sacrifice the more we realize what is important. Indeed, sacrifices reveal what matters most.

During our winter mini-term, I teach a course called, “The Bible and American Culture.” The class is designed to get students to see how the Bible functions as a protagonist and antagonist to American ideals revealed in cultural “texts,” e.g., films, plays, and music. It takes a while for my students to see how Bible stories have informed movie scripts, e.g., how “The Truman Show” is an American version of the Adam story in Genesis. The main character is the “true” man who discovers the truth of who he is when he rebels against the designs of his creator and leaves paradise (“Sea Haven,” Truman’s world, is a movie set, an anagram for “As Heaven”). What is even more difficult for them to see is their reflection in the Hollywood version of the biblical narrative, when the film functions like a mirror, revealing how American cultural texts have twisted gospel truth. The looks on their faces when they realized they’ve been duped by their culture—to prefer American convictions over biblical faith—is a pitiful site. Sometimes it’s hard to think like an American and still follow Jesus.

A student presented in class an analysis of his favorite film, “Braveheart.” He even came dressed for the part, looking just like William Wallace—painted face, wild hair, Scottish kilt, sword in hand. Wallace was his hero, a messianic figure bringing hope to the poor and oppressed of his homeland, just like Jesus. Illustrating his point, he played a clip from the film showing how Wallace sacrificed himself for the good of the people, inspiring followers to carry on with the mission of bringing freedom to the Scottish people. Then, the student ended with a passionate plea, raising his sword for dramatic effect: “So, like William Wallace, we Christians must raise the sword of the Spirit and carry on the battle of bringing freedom in Christ to all.” The air reeked of testosterone. The male students roared with delight; the ladies rolled their eyes.

Once the clamor died down, I asked the presenter, “What made you think Wallace’s death was a sacrifice?” The answer seemed obvious to him; the sequence of events leading to Wallace’s execution proved the point: he was betrayed by a close friend, beaten by the arresting officers, imprisoned by a wicked ruler; a woman offered Wallace a drink to ease the pain of his approaching death; strapped to a cross, the crowd mocked him as he was brought before his executioners; he was lifted up, suspended between heaven and earth with arms stretched out, screaming in great pain; his followers hid in the crowd, watching the spectacle in anonymity; a sword was thrust in his side; his last breath was a victorious cry. “Yes, his death portrayed in this film looks like a sacrifice,” I said. “But we all know it wasn’t. All who live by the sword, die by the sword, right? Wallace got what was coming to him. He was a murderer, and the law finally caught up with him. History does not give us the details of Wallace’s execution. So, why do you suppose Mel Gibson wanted Wallace’s death to look like the death of Christ?”

At this point, some of the presenter’s male compatriots rushed to his defense. Talk of “making the ultimate sacrifice,” and “dying for freedom while fighting your enemies,” and a “soldier’s noble sacrifice” filled the room. Then I said bluntly, “Wallace didn’t follow Jesus, did he? He didn’t respond to injustice like Jesus did.” Silence. “What if he did? How would the film be different if Wallace had followed the ways of Christ?” What happened next took everyone by surprise. A student said sarcastically, “Well, I suppose he would have visited all the villages, preaching peace and telling them to love their enemies. But we all know that doesn’t work.” An audible gasp could be heard from several students, followed by a pensive silence. The presenter’s face fell, his eyes looking down, as if he were inspecting the floor. He sheathed his sword, looked up at the class and said, “Why didn’t I see that before? I claim to be a disciple of Christ, and yet I would rather have a Messiah who kills his enemies than one who loves them.” The irony was delicious: there stood a young man dressed like William Wallace talking about loving his enemies.

Thinking like an American comes naturally to those of us who live in these United States. Thinking like a follower of Christ is far more challenging. In fact, American ideals often trump our Christian convictions, especially when it comes to living the crucified life. How are we supposed to love our enemies when we’ve been taught to kill them? How can I follow Christ, giving up my rights like he did, when I’ve been trained to protect my rights no matter what? Why does loyalty to America take precedent over loyalty to Christ, that pledging allegiance to a flag is nobler than swearing allegiance to a cross? To what extent is our American citizenship more important than our Christian identity? How many Christians act as if patriotism is just as important as the gospel—or even worse, an expression of the gospel? In several ways, the American way of life is at cross purposes with the crucified life; American politics cannot contain Christian faith. For example, politics makes enemies; Christians love enemies. Americans are taught to preserve national and personal interests at all costs. Paul taught his converts to prefer the interests of others. American consumerism is built on the idea that we should always want more. Paul was content with more or less. In light of these stark contrasts, one cannot help but wonder: if we were to live the crucified life like Paul—losing our identity in Christ—would our neighbors be compelled to accuse us of foolishness for forsaking the American way of life?

The Glory-maker (overcoming the flesh, part deux)

Paul was convinced that God put His glory in everything He made, which was a very Jewish way of looking at creation. A good God created everything and declared it was good—everything in heaven, on earth, and under the earth. Evil does not exist by its own will. Evil cannot create anything. The only way evil can exist is to pervert what God has made. Paul’s pagan neighbors, on the other hand, didn’t see it that way. Some things exist because evil powers have created them. Good gods and evil gods were locked in eternal battle over dominion of the whole world. Evil gods created sinister beings for their purposes; good gods created flawed humans for their purposes. Therefore, Greeks and Romans believed this cosmic battle between the forces of evil and good would never end. So, what are we to do? What is our human fate? Some sought the virtuous life to overcome the destructive vices of the flesh. Others gave into the human condition: eat, drink, and be merry for tomorrow we die.

This put Paul in a difficult spot with his pagan converts. Who could be opposed to the virtuous life? Wisdom, honor, self-control, and fortitude were desirable qualities, especially when overcoming human depravity. But Paul believed there was a higher power. Who could deny the simplest of human pleasures? Eating and drinking were as much a part of the good life as any other noble pursuit. But Paul believed in a higher purpose. In fact, whenever Paul tried to expose the impotence of virtue (man can’t save himself!), he appeared to support the revelers. And, every time he tried to rein in the epicureans (all things are not profitable!), the moralists were vindicated. The problem, of course, was that Paul didn’t share the dualistic “worldview” of his converts. He believed that God made everything good, and that baser appetites can fulfill evil purposes. Of course, he got both ideas from the foundational story of Israel’s faith—creation and the fall of man (Gen. 1:1-3:24).

Creation reflects God’s glory. The art reveals the artist. Since humans are made in His image, they are able to reflect His glory in what is seen and heard. In other words, the way Paul and his Jewish kinsmen saw it, human capacity to see the glory of creation is a divine attribute—we are able to see God in what He has made because we are made in His image. God creates because He is creator. Creation is beautiful because God is beauty. Therefore, whatever He creates is embedded with His glory. Why did He do it? Because He is good, He couldn’t help but create what is good. Even God reflected on the glory of creation with the affirmation, “this is good.” After six days, God marked the seventh day for reflection—a time when all creation would reflect the glory of God by glorifying God. That is to say, God put His glory in everything so that we would seek to know the Glory-maker, worship the Creator of all things, glorify the God in whose image we are made.

This is why we are inspired by magnificent sunsets. This is why we are enchanted by the animal kingdom. This is why an overwhelming joy comes to first-time parents when they hold their newborn baby in their arms. This is why weddings are happy occasions. This is why the simple act of sharing table with friends makes time stand still. This is why food tastes good. God put His glory in everything He created, invented, planned, and shared. He thought that we, after taking in such glorious sites and sounds—waterfalls crashing, mountains imposing, birds migrating, puppy dogs playing, children laughing, lovers cuddling, friendships lasting—that we would want to know the One who made life so glorious. We were supposed to “taste and see that the LORD is good.” He did this. He made this. He shared this. This breath-taking, inspiration-making, mouth gaping open-celebrating of life we’ve been freely given by a very generous God—because of this grace—it was all supposed to compel us to give Him glory, recognizing the source of every good gift. He knew we would need to give Him glory because He is a glorious God.

This may sound crass, but that’s why God made sex feel so good. The joy of sex between a husband and wife should compel them to say, “thank God.” Indeed, God created us to reflect Him when we create so that we would find our purpose in glorifying God. Even though we know “where babies come from,” all of us know God is the One who gives life. I didn’t become a father because of sex. God, my heavenly father, made me a father. I knew that better than anyone the day Andrew, Emma, and Grace were born. Giddy with the pure joy of God-given life (in all three cases, I did some pretty strange things, like ordering a whopper late at night in the drive through at McDonalds. My stupid grin convinced the attendant I was playing a joke. All I said was, “I’m sorry. My daughter was born a few hours ago.” Then I giggled and drove off. I kept laughing even as I scarfed down the burger at midnight). Indeed, God made food taste good so that we would use the same tongues to give glory to a God who shared his power with us—to get dominion over the whole earth, planting gardens, drinking wine, sharing the bounty of what God has made. In celebrating life we are giving glory to God.

But, here’s where we’ve missed the whole point. Made just enough in His image—we are powerful creatures—we tend to believe all of this comes from us. We create children. We make our own food. We dominate the world. We seek our own glory. We think we’re god. The Bible calls this “idolatry,” and we’re eaten up with it.

Here's another tidbit from my work on Paul--denying the flesh

Why did God make food taste good?

The theological significance of that question didn’t hit me until I was forty years old. Skinny all my life, I never thought I’d have to worry about what I ate. Thin mint chocolate shakes. Boston cream pie. Root beer floats. Double fudge chocolate cake. No food was verboten. Then, everything changed after four decades of decadence. It’s like someone flipped a switch in my metabolic rate and ruined everything. I used to think diet cokes were for losers—a waste of money (why pay for nothing? No sugar, no protein, nothing to savor). Now, it’s the only thing that comes close to satisfying my sweet tooth. But, I know better: sugar substitute brings only a vague recollection of what used to taste good. “Tastes like sugar,” blah, who are they kidding? The truth of the matter is, I can’t tell anymore. Sometimes I think the waitress has slipped me the “real thing.” “Would you taste this?” My son or daughter takes a sip, recoils in disgust, and says, “No, dad. It’s not regular coke. That’s diet for sure.” Then, they give me that “poor-old-man” look of sympathy and whisper to each other, “his tastes buds are shot.” “I can still hear, you know?” Then I grumble to myself about how good taste (among other things) is wasted on youthful indulgences.

The tongue is one of the few organs built for more than one purpose. Eyes see, ears hear. But a tongue does more than taste. It is used for communication, both verbal and nonverbal (what the Scriptures call “separating the lip,” Ps. 22:7). So, why would God design the tongue to serve more than one purpose? It almost looks like an afterthought. “Let’s see. Man will need to be able to communicate. A tongue! That should do it. Now, we know he’ll get hungry—his stomach should growl loud enough to take care of that. But, let’s make it more interesting. Why don’t we put some taste buds on his tongue? Then, he’ll get the message. His hunger can never be satisfied by food alone. He’ll want things to taste good, too.” Of course, I don’t pretend to know the mind of God when it comes to divine purposes (although, Gary Larson’s “The Far Side” has given me many possibilities to ponder). But, here’s the part I really don’t understand: it’s the bad stuff that especially tastes good. If God were going to make us desire food for more than survival, then why did He make fat and sugar and starches and chocolate taste so good? Or, turn the question the other way around. Since God wants what’s best for us, shouldn’t broccoli taste like ice cream and chicken taste like prime rib? I’ve never heard anyone munching on brussel sprouts try to talk and eat at the same time, “hmmmmmmm. ‘Dis goooood.” It sounds a little cruel, doesn’t it? “Okay. We’ve turned his tongue into a taste mongering machine. Now, for the icing on the cake: let’s make all the stuff that’s bad for him taste really good—undeniably, irresistibly good.”

A man I admired very much lived to be an octogenarian before he died. He loved to give his advice when someone asked him the secret to a long life. “A simple diet,” he would say. “If it tastes good, I spit it out.” And, he always said it with a smile. But, thinking about his advice doesn’t make me smile at all; such deprivation certainly doesn’t sound very appealing, does it? Besides, aren’t we supposed to “taste and see that the Lord is good” (Ps. 34:8)? For most believers, the problem of evil and suffering is a perplexing issue. To me, the problem of goodness is just as vexing. Why would God make the world so good, so desirable, and then expect us to deny ourselves of these things that bring such basic pleasure? Why would God engineer sex to feel so good and then tell us, “Ah, ah, ah. Don’t do it.” Why would He make us to feel so satisfied after we’ve stuffed ourselves with food? Why set us up as fleshly creatures, with all the urges and constant cravings, only to make us fall (come on, who obeys all the rules)? Denying fleshly appetites is hard. Constantly telling ourselves “no!” feels like abdication. Self-denial wears a downcast countenance. Giving in, on the other hand, feels so good. Enjoying baser appetites comes naturally. Looking forward to dessert seems eschatological. Smacking our lips always breeds a smile.

Trying to solve the problem of good has led many Christians to one extreme or the other. Some equate the flesh with evil. Fleshly desires seem good, but they’re not good for us. Therefore, denying the flesh is the way we overcome evil. Others draw lessons from the creation account in Genesis: all things were created by God, and He declared them “good.” Sex, food, and drink are natural desires created by God for our pleasure. Therefore, if it feels good, it must be divine. Interestingly enough, both camps call upon Paul in defense of their positions. Yielding to the desires of the flesh is in antithesis to walking in the Spirit (Gal. 5:16-17). And yet, did not Paul say as long as we partake with thankfulness, all things are lawful (1 Cor. 10:30-31)? The truth of the matter is, for Paul, the truth is somewhere in the middle.

Paul, the cracked pot

Since I don't seem to have the time to post random thoughts on a regular basis, I thought I'd share excerpts of what I'm writing. Currently, I'm working on Paul's spirituality. Here's a tidbit.

The cracks in Paul’s body made the glory of Christ’s light more apparent. Like a clay pot, the lantern’s imperfections were revealed most clearly by the light of the flame.

"But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the surpassing greatness of the power may be of God and not from ourselves; we are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not despairing; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed; always carrying about in the body the dying of Jesus, that the life of Jesus also may be manifested in our body" (2 Cor. 4:7-10).

Rather than hide his flaws or deny his weaknesses, Paul reveled in the power of Christ revealed in his “thorn in the flesh.” Of course, to the Corinthians it was sheer folly to boast about such things. Paul didn’t care. He saw the essence of the gospel in his wounds, the wisdom of God in such foolishness, the power of God in human weakness. And, where would he get an idiotic idea like that? Only one place: “Jesus Christ, and him crucified.” In what sounds like a confirmation of the cross, Paul heard God say, “My grace is sufficient for you” (2 Cor. 12:9). That’s why boasting in his weakness was the same as boasting in the cross. For Paul was convinced that weak believers reveal the strength of Christ’s cross better than anyone.

The problem today is we don’t think Paul was right about that. In fact, in most of our churches we believe just the opposite: only the best and brightest are put on stage to teach the rest of us how to overcome our weaknesses. The strong, the powerful, the successful, the articulate, the chosen are the credible witnesses of what is true, what is believable, what is persuasive, what is commendable. Need to know how to have a successful marriage? Here’s a couple who’s been married for fifty years. Want your church to grow? Come hear this dynamic pastor whose church is now meeting in a basketball arena. Having a hard time overcoming your addiction? Buy the book from the Christian counselor who’s written the latest best-seller. The message is undeniable: only the healthy, wealthy, and wise have anything to say. The sick, poor, and foolish should keep their mouths shut.

“Excuse me. I’ve recently been divorced. I’d like to share my experiences at your church.”

“Oh, you must be looking for the recovery group for divorcees . . . They meet on Tuesday evenings, upstairs in the recreation room.”

“I’ve battled alcohol addiction for nearly thirty years. Recently moved to the area. Been sober going on six months now and I’d like to share . . .”

“Good for you. I’m sure someone’s already told you that A.A. meets at the community center on Thursdays.”

“I’m a pastor. Just released from prison. I’d like to offer my services to churches looking for someone to preach . . .”

“Oh, that is good news. The county jail is looking for a chaplain.”

Recently, a Sunday School class was planning their annual marriage retreat, wondering which members should give their “testimony.” A couple’s name came up and someone said, “Wait. Should they be one of our speakers? They’ve both been divorced, you know. I don’t think we need to hear from someone who’s been divorced.” Of course, their names were passed over due to the veto power of the righteous. If the apostle Paul were there, I’m convinced he would have said: “On the contrary. Divorced people are the very ones you need to listen to.” In fact, I think they could give us great advice about marriage, but that’s not why I think we need to hear from them. I want to know how God’s grace sustained them through their painful ordeal. How he helped them, surprised them, overwhelmed them by His grace. But, we’re so focused on our own definitions of success, overemphasizing results, we miss the grace of God. Instead, those who fail at marriage are marginalized in our churches, sequestered from the body of Christ in their own “divorce recovery groups.” Rather than ignore them, we should embrace their brokenness as a way of celebrating the grace of God, learning how God’s power is perfected through weakness. Because, that’s where God’s presence is most clearly seen—when everyone else thinks we’ve failed.

I’ve been to churches where miracles are celebrated with great bravado. A man stands before the congregation and testifies of God’s healing. The test results confirm the miracle: where there was once a suspicious mass clearly seen on the MRI, now it is gone. The congregation breaks out in jubilation. They prayed for this man for weeks. The doctors can’t explain it. The faithful understand it. The man boasts of God’s miraculous healing hand. All declare with one voice, “God is good.” The musicians play faster, the people sing louder, the pastor preaches harder, the Church is triumphant. Later, at the end of the worship service, an announcement is made about funeral arrangements for the woman who died of cancer. A hush falls over the congregation. There is no boast, no celebration, no declaration of God’s miraculous work. A prayer is offered for those who grieve. The piano plays a somber postlude. The congregation files out of the auditorium in silence. Passing by, one of the parishioners says, “I wish we didn’t have to end on such a downer.”

Just once I’d like to hear someone boast of the miracle of God’s grace for the one who died. Just once. Her courage as she celebrated life in the middle of dying. Her strength as she continued to serve food at the shelter for the homeless. Her grace as she puzzled over why God didn’t answer our prayers for her healing. Her grief over the “bad” days outnumbering the good days. Her pain, her sorrow, her illness, her questions, her fears, her faith, her death. I wish we could learn to celebrate all of it—every bit of life—because the grace of God runs through it all. Don't we speak of Christ's death on the cross as the place of grace? Then, why don't we boast about the believer's death as a graceful place? Paul did. For he knew that we carry around in our body the dying of Jesus that the life of Christ may be revealed.

Visions of Heaven

Recently, I've had several people ask me what I thought about life after death experiences. (I could attribute the interest to the recent visit to SBU of Mr. Don Piper, who wrote a best-selling book about his visiting the gates of heaven when he was dead--and obviously returned to life to tell us about it. But, others have asked me the same question who don't attend SBU. So, this must be a hot topic.) Some of my students have asked, "Mr. Piper said he died and went to heaven. What do you think?"

It depends on our definition of death. Of course, we seem to rely upon biology to define death. But, even physicians cannot tell us the precise moment someone dies. Is it a flat EKG? No, hearts can stop and start again. Is it a flat EEG? No, bodies can be kept alive by machines for quite some time. When does a man die?

If we define death theologically, a person hasn't died unless he returns with a resurrected body. To be sure, there are several stories of resuscitation in the Bible. But, when Jairus' daughter, or the widow's Son, or even Lazarus was "raised from the dead," they simply returned to life in their mortal bodies. In other words, they weren't dead. When a man sees God, he's dead. No one sees God and lives to tell about it. Only one man died and came back to life. His was no resuscitation. Jesus came from the dead with a resurrected body. That's the proof that someone died according to the New Testament.

So, what do we make of experiences told by Mr. Piper? Some, I think, make the wrong assumption and discount his experience, "Well, since he didn't die according to what the Bible says, his experience wasn't legitimate. It can probably be explained biologically: something somatic that made him think he died." So, once again, we leave it to biology to define our theology.

I think he had a real experience. But, he didn't go to heaven. He didn't see heaven as it is. He had a vision of heaven, similar perhaps to what Paul described in 2 Cor. 12 or what John saw in his Revelation of Christ. Paul couldn't tell whether he had an "out of body" experience or not. John saw things and kept using the expression, "it was like this or that." Similes are comparative language. John did not see heaven as it really is. He saw what heaven was like. The same, I believe, could be said of Mr. Piper. He had a vision of heaven. He did not see it as it is. That doesn't make his experience illegitimate. Something happened to him. The question is: how do we interpret his experience? I think the Bible already has.

Time for Meditation

I've been thinking about the story of the Transfiguration lately--due primarily to Sufjan Steven's song "Transfiguration" from his "Seven Swans" record. There's one part of the story that has always intrigued me (come to think of it, the whole story is intriguing--very mysterious). Anyway, it's the part where Jesus tells the three who saw the whole thing that they should keep it to themselves for a while (Matthew and Mark's version). Of course, scholars have rightly concluded that the Transfiguration was a preview of Easter. So, the instruction to keep things under wraps until later makes perfect sense: the three wouldn't have the framework to explain what happened on the Mount until the resurrection. As a matter of fact, Luke has Jesus saying to them after the event, "Let these words sink deep into your ears . . . ," and then he goes on to forecast his passion and resurrection. The combination of "don't tell anyone" and "let these words sink deep into your ears" has profound implications, I think, for those who follow him today in a world of full disclosure ("talk shows" use to be pretty rare; now they're everywhere).

Sometimes I think we're quick to relate an "experience with the Lord." We talk of "the Lord said to me" or "God told me," trying to give words to a mystery too deep for conversation. And, before we know it, our words clutter the event of our interior life to the point where we can't make sense of the mystery anymore. We spoke presumptuously, too soon, as it were, and the voice in the cloud is lost in the sound of our own words.

A few times in my life, I've kept the secret to myself, reticent to speak of what I thought I saw and heard. Then, with time, the mystery comes into focus, the words make sense in light of later events. It's as if I've come down from the mountain of the presence of God, finding meaning in everyday life, common events which turn out to be extraordinary moments of clarity for me. This is a conversation that takes time, this correlation of things heard and things seen. Sometimes I think it's better not to share what we've received--especially when it comes to the mystery of God.

"Let these words sink deep into your ears."

I Need To Praise God

God came through for my friends, and I'm so grateful. Even though I was angry with Him over their plight--even vented a little bit, questioning His care for them--I now must give Him credit for taking a seemingly hopeless situation and turning it into life. He does that all the time, doesn't He? If there's anything we Christ-believers must cling to with the very passion of our lives it is this: the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ turns loss into gain, sorrow into joy, despair into hope, death into life. Thanks be to God for the life we have in the Crucified One.

There are scars, to be sure. My friends still have a long way to go. But, to see them smiling in light of some recent good news sure did my heart good.

I'm looking forward to Sunday so I can tell God what I really think about Him. Come to think of it, that's why I go. I have this compulsion, this need to worship God. And, I need to hear others do the same.

Complaining is an act of worship

Lately, I've been thinking about how much we try to impress God with our worship. We want to say the right things. We want to do the right things. And, rightfully so. When we read Leviticus, it becomes pretty obvious that God takes our service of worship very seriously. At the risk of sounding sacrilegious, God seems rather obsessive about it: bring coals from the wrong fire and He'll kill you.

This is why the Psalms are so refreshing to me. I love the way the penitent will often rake God over the coals for not coming through, not making good on promises, not helping in times of need. These laments sound brash and daringly provocative to my ears that are used to hearing American versions of worship songs, inspiring us to whisper "sweet nothings" into God's ears. I sing about sacrifice. I sing that God is "my everything." But, I'm not sure I mean it.

But, I must tell you. I could really get into songs that would inspire me to be honest to God, especially when I'm considering the suffering of others who are far more faithful than I. Lyrics like, "God, why have you forsaken us?" Or, "How long, O Lord? When will you remember the promises You made to my friends who have been faithful to You?" Or, "Why do you keep a safe distance in our times of trouble?" Those who know the Psalms will recognize these verses. They inspire me. I love the fact that our God is so big He inspired His people to complain to Him when times were hard--even in songs meant for worship. Why would he allow such a thing? Because He knows He's our only hope.

Oh God, please help my friends today. You know who they are. I'm angry that they're going through another impossibly difficult time. Why would you let this happen? Please, be their God. Please take care of them. We have no where left to turn.