Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Redshirt
Since we're better homeschool parents now, we had our younger two daughters watch all seven seasons of Star Trek: The Next Generation. We failed the older two girls in this this regard. All they got was Awanas, legalism, and later some cool youth groups with alcohol and stuff. Thanks, institutional church! So now, my precious young ones get Star Trek, Stargate, Star Wars, Battlestar Galactica, and Battle of the Network Stars (whenever Netflix gets around to streaming it).
Anyway. Star Trek TNG is the perfect vehicle to introduce them to an important aspect of life: the A Plot and the B Plot.
The A Plot: Picard assembles an away team to do something violent and/or sexy down on Beta Omicron 5.
The B Plot: Back on the Enterprise, everybody else catches a mysterious space-virus.
Now that we're clear what on the concept of plot versus subplot, let's learn something further about The A Plot from Star Trek TOS (The Original Series, in geek parlance).
In any given episode, the crew of the Enterprise will make an amazing and useful discovery. And then at beginning of the very next episode, they promptly forget it. Like how to time travel. Or which chemical promotes the telekinesis. Or new alien allies with god-like powers.
On the other hand, one little mention that Spock has a human mom, and that little nugget gets used for the rest of the series.
The A Plot: Action Packed Adventure, quickly forgotten in the face of the upcoming episode.
The B Plot: Two sentences that can be used for inspiration throughout the rest of the series.
This subject of plots and subplots comes up because of a recent invitation to some blowout life-changing get-together to meet a foreign underground apostolic figure who-cannot-be-named for safety reasons (it could all be true, but come on). Bullet points ensued. And capital letters and underlining. Marketing is no surprise to those in Big-Church. But in the community of home gatherings, marketing has an odor. And by the way, marketing is deception.
Forget bashing the institution, I'm going after my own community here. There are brothers among us who continue to strive to build things which they have no business building, who have their fingers in every pie, who consider other local gatherings loose ends to be tied up. And though the banner is "unity", the track record has been estrangement.
The marketers write the A Plot, Spine Tingling Thrills and Adventure, featuring Jesus (they've written Him a great part in the script). But the episode comes to nothing. The A Plot always comes to nothing in the face of the Next Exciting Episode.
Except.
Something happens in the B Plot which the script-writer hasn't accounted for. The Lord has written a subplot for the "extras", a story arc which may develop over several seasons. Something happens which the script-writers have not intended and may never discover. Truly, the marketers have their reward, being seen of men. But a lasting payoff is necessarily a hidden payoff.
Surprisingly, mercifully, God doesn't give everybody flat tires on the way to the show.
If you're reading this, and you've scripted something for the Lord and His people, be aware that you've got latitude. Your gig will probably run like clockwork and you won't get struck by lightning for presuming that you're doing His business. But be aware that the shindig isn't for you, and isn't for your special guest, and won't accomplish what you think. You have your reward, having been noticed. And that reward is going the way of time-travel and telekinesis. But keep doing what you're doing, I guess, because our Lord's eye is on the extras and the "red-shirts" and Spock's mom. Your next thrilling episode, as far as the Lord is concerned, may ultimately be about developing the arc of Crewman Number 3.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Sweet and Sour
It's been a while since I've written. There is a reason for that.
In this blog, I share the things I say in the gathering. In the sense of the word as Paul uses it (speaking forth Christ), I prophesy, as do all the others in the open meeting. There happens to be two sides to a sword that comes out of the mouth.
(Rev. 10: 9-11) So I went to the angel and asked him to give me the little scroll. He said to me, “Take it and eat it. It will turn your stomach sour, but in your mouth it will be as sweet as honey.” I took the little scroll from the angel’s hand and ate it. It tasted as sweet as honey in my mouth, but when I had eaten it, my stomach turned sour. Then I was told, “You must prophesy again about many peoples, nations, languages and kings."
Generally, when believers turn a nice phrase, it's a happy time for everybody. We communicate something and the proverbial light-bulb goes on over our heads. To speak forth something true, something noteworthy, is stimulating.
But the spiritual speaking-forth will have a purpose extending beyond the moment it is expressed. It works its way backward in time, to illuminate things which we have experienced, but more to the point, it lays ground for things in the future. Consider the last thing I posted before my long writing drought.
...And we look into these things because God is there in parable.
God is in the turbulence, in the disturbance, at the boundary where a thing becomes no longer a thing.
At the edge of the glacier of reputation crumbling into the sea of humiliation, the conflagration of religious and social standing, the erosion of certainty by the tide of the unknown, God is there in the turbulence.
First, I shared it with the brothers and sisters, then I shared it with whoever reads this blog. It meant something to me, and I think it resonated with a few others. At the time, it felt like singing a clear high note, or fretting a great guitar chord.
When I wrote it, I was thinking of things that I experienced in the past and things that others have gone through. But hard on the heels of this sharing, I was to receive a few choice pieces of news. I was brought to the boundary-of-disturbance right away. First I spoke it, then I wrote it, then I had to eat it.
And frankly, everything I said was no consolation in that disturbance of settling into a new normal. I still believe it's true, what I said, that God is residing in the disturbance. But observing the fire, the glacier, the waves, is not the same as being in the heat or under the ice or in the breakers.
Prophecy is not glorious, whether in the sense of Paul's open-meeting edification or the old-school style of a John or Jonah. Do I really want to publicly utter something pithy if it soon must come home to roost with me/you/us? Or maybe to turn that phrase around, if the Disturbance is on the way, should you and I be publicly and mysteriously notified? I guess so.
Friday, June 3, 2011
In the Disturbance
In my profession, we deal with boundaries. Lately the brothers had a great discussion using boundaries as a kind of parable. You can imagine. But apart from the boundaries of the land we inhabit, there is another kind of boundary that we all consider worth visiting.
We are fond of visiting frontiers of nature, in which one thing becomes another thing, at which something becomes nothing.
The glacier stands for thousands of years, but eventually becomes sea water. Visitors to Alaska take a trip to that boundary in which something becomes nothing, for upon that boundary is Disturbance.
We visit the beach, that place where the visible ends and the unseen begins. At the brink is Turbulence, the frontier of the unseen eating away at the shore of the seen.
For the backyard BBQ, we will have our wood turn into smoke, but fire is the boundary at which something becomes nothing.
And we look into these things because God is there in parable.
God is in the turbulence, in the disturbance, at the boundary where a thing becomes no longer a thing.
At the edge of the glacier of reputation crumbling into the sea of humiliation, the conflagration of religious and social standing, the erosion of certainty by the tide of the unknown, God is there in the turbulence.
As I shared this with the brothers, Oliver added this from Psalm 42...
We are fond of visiting frontiers of nature, in which one thing becomes another thing, at which something becomes nothing.
The glacier stands for thousands of years, but eventually becomes sea water. Visitors to Alaska take a trip to that boundary in which something becomes nothing, for upon that boundary is Disturbance.
We visit the beach, that place where the visible ends and the unseen begins. At the brink is Turbulence, the frontier of the unseen eating away at the shore of the seen.
For the backyard BBQ, we will have our wood turn into smoke, but fire is the boundary at which something becomes nothing.
And we look into these things because God is there in parable.
God is in the turbulence, in the disturbance, at the boundary where a thing becomes no longer a thing.
At the edge of the glacier of reputation crumbling into the sea of humiliation, the conflagration of religious and social standing, the erosion of certainty by the tide of the unknown, God is there in the turbulence.
As I shared this with the brothers, Oliver added this from Psalm 42...
Why are you in despair, O my soul?
And why have you become disturbed within me?
Hope in God, for I shall again praise Him
For the help of His presence.
O my God, my soul is in despair within me;
Therefore I remember You from the land of the Jordan
And the peaks of Hermon, from Mount Mizar.
Deep calls to deep at the sound of Your waterfalls;
All Your breakers and Your waves have rolled over me.
The LORD will command His lovingkindness in the daytime;
And His song will be with me in the night,
A prayer to the God of my life.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
The Garden and the Walk
If you went to High School in the Houston area, and you were in band, you might recall there were a few kids who left, and you never saw them again. No, not the stoners. I mean the kids who went to HSPVA, the Houston School for the Performing and Visual Arts.
Think about the division in that title. Two kinds of arts, visual and performing.
When I was young, I liked reading the philosopher Mortimer Adler. I remember that he wrote about a Good Life. He said the good life was not like a painting or a sculpture, which you could finish and walk around it look at it and handle it, which exists apart from the artist. Rather, the good life was more like a song or dance, which has no existence apart from the performance, but is experienced live and once it is done it is remembered (and anticipated again, I might add).
I was reading some Jacques Ellul the other day, and he made an observation about the Sabbath. Not the usual kind of observation about man's rest, but an observation about God's rest. He mused that human history has been unfolding in the seventh day, after God called his creation Good and is resting. That, in itself, is an interesting topic for another time. But Ellul's comments turned my thoughts to the different aspects of God's creation.
He created for Adam and Eve a garden. But in addition to that He apparently created for them a walk in the cool of the evening. Creation was both a visual and performance piece, both a garden and a walk. The walk must have been at least as significant as all the stars and animals. God not only appointed for us a great place with all its furnishings, but also appointed a continuing conversation with us. We became estranged from both aspects of His providence, the visual and the performing, the static and the dynamic.
We stepped off of Eden's dance floor, but first we missed our steps in the Dance. We stepped out of Eden's concert hall, but first we lost the tempo and key of the Song.
Maybe this is a little bit of what it means when Jesus tells the woman at the well.
Think about the division in that title. Two kinds of arts, visual and performing.
When I was young, I liked reading the philosopher Mortimer Adler. I remember that he wrote about a Good Life. He said the good life was not like a painting or a sculpture, which you could finish and walk around it look at it and handle it, which exists apart from the artist. Rather, the good life was more like a song or dance, which has no existence apart from the performance, but is experienced live and once it is done it is remembered (and anticipated again, I might add).
I was reading some Jacques Ellul the other day, and he made an observation about the Sabbath. Not the usual kind of observation about man's rest, but an observation about God's rest. He mused that human history has been unfolding in the seventh day, after God called his creation Good and is resting. That, in itself, is an interesting topic for another time. But Ellul's comments turned my thoughts to the different aspects of God's creation.
He created for Adam and Eve a garden. But in addition to that He apparently created for them a walk in the cool of the evening. Creation was both a visual and performance piece, both a garden and a walk. The walk must have been at least as significant as all the stars and animals. God not only appointed for us a great place with all its furnishings, but also appointed a continuing conversation with us. We became estranged from both aspects of His providence, the visual and the performing, the static and the dynamic.
We stepped off of Eden's dance floor, but first we missed our steps in the Dance. We stepped out of Eden's concert hall, but first we lost the tempo and key of the Song.
Maybe this is a little bit of what it means when Jesus tells the woman at the well.
"Believe me, a time is coming when you will worship the Father neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem (the visual, the static, the stage). You Samaritans worship what you do not know; we worship what we do know, for salvation is from the Jews. Yet a time is coming and has now come when the true worshipers will worship the Father in the Spirit and in truth (the performing, the dynamic, the dance), for they are the kind of worshipers the Father seeks. God is spirit, and his worshipers must worship in the Spirit and in truth."
Thursday, May 5, 2011
The King of Fruits
If you know me, you know that I love the durian smoothie, especially with chocolate or coffe blended in. Here is a description of durian as found on Wikipedia:
In a previous blog post, I called you pointless. Now I am calling you the King of Fruits, right? Do I also mean to say that you are hard, prickly and smelly? That's not what I'm getting at. Not necessarily, anyway.
I mean to say that you are an acquired taste.
I remember hearing and reading about durian, and noticed that the local asian tea houses carried durian smoothies. How could a fruit be so loved and so hated? How could something disgusting be called the king of fruits?
I was determined to see what the durian lovers saw.
The first durian smoothie was an adjustment. Immediately the smell slaps you through the straw. If you encountered this smell in your house, you'd head straight to the kitchen trash can to see if someone was derelict in their chores. And then there was the taste. It was like onion vanilla pudding.
It is said you have to try any new food several times. This is true. After four tries I acquired an addiction. Now I can tell when a durian smoothie is proper by the strength of the stench. The interesting thing is that once you start drinking, the smell goes away. I mean, it goes away for the drinker, but bystanders are still scandalized. My wife knows that if I order a durian smoothie, she can take a swig to inoculate herself. But my youngest girl refuses to partake, so she must endure my company with her shirt over her face.
The brothers and sisters are also an acquired taste, especially in an open house church.
Maybe you visited a particular organic gathering for the first time, but you left baffled or turned off. Maybe the people seemed weird, maybe the vocabulary was opaque, maybe the potluck was odd, maybe the format seemed too random or else too rigid. Maybe you never went back.
It's a shame that you didn't give it four tries. It's a shame that you didn't jump right in and take a sip to inoculate yourself from the first whiff. The odd brother might not seem so odd once you know him. That vocabulary might not seem so foreign after some conversation. After some repetition, the format might not seem as random or as rigid. Furthermore, you will never know how your ongoing participation might have changed the experience for everyone.
The potluck is the parable of the open meeting. You guys make some strange stuff at home. But I want to see what you see in your family recipes. I need my palette expanded. I need to get the nutrients that aren't found in my ordinary diet. I need to know that there is a wide world outside my door, where different does not equal bad.
I need to get past first impressions and see what your spouse sees in you. I want to discover the depth and nuance of Christ's work in you so far. I need more than a taste, I need something to chew on, something to stick to my ribs and help me grow.
I need to acquire a taste for your fellowship.
Widely known and revered in southeast Asia as the "king of fruits", the durian is distinctive for its large size, unique odour, and formidable thorn-covered husk. The fruit can grow as large as 30 centimetres (12 in) long and 15 centimetres (6 in) in diameter, and it typically weighs one to three kilograms (2 to 7 lb). Its shape ranges from oblong to round, the colour of its husk green to brown, and its flesh pale yellow to red, depending on the species.
The edible flesh emits a distinctive odor, strong and penetrating even when the husk is intact. Some people regard the durian as fragrant; others find the aroma overpowering and offensive. The smell evokes reactions from deep appreciation to intense disgust, and has been described variously as almonds, rotten onions, turpentine and gym socks. The odour has led to the fruit's banishment from certain hotels and public transportation in southeast Asia.
The five cells are silky-white within, and are filled with a mass of firm, cream-coloured pulp, containing about three seeds each. This pulp is the edible part, and its consistence and flavour are indescribable. A rich custard highly flavoured with almonds gives the best general idea of it, but there are occasional wafts of flavour that call to mind cream-cheese, onion-sauce, sherry-wine, and other incongruous dishes. Then there is a rich glutinous smoothness in the pulp which nothing else possesses, but which adds to its delicacy. It is neither acid nor sweet nor juicy; yet it wants neither of these qualities, for it is in itself perfect. It produces no nausea or other bad effect, and the more you eat of it the less you feel inclined to stop.
In a previous blog post, I called you pointless. Now I am calling you the King of Fruits, right? Do I also mean to say that you are hard, prickly and smelly? That's not what I'm getting at. Not necessarily, anyway.
I mean to say that you are an acquired taste.
I remember hearing and reading about durian, and noticed that the local asian tea houses carried durian smoothies. How could a fruit be so loved and so hated? How could something disgusting be called the king of fruits?
I was determined to see what the durian lovers saw.
The first durian smoothie was an adjustment. Immediately the smell slaps you through the straw. If you encountered this smell in your house, you'd head straight to the kitchen trash can to see if someone was derelict in their chores. And then there was the taste. It was like onion vanilla pudding.
It is said you have to try any new food several times. This is true. After four tries I acquired an addiction. Now I can tell when a durian smoothie is proper by the strength of the stench. The interesting thing is that once you start drinking, the smell goes away. I mean, it goes away for the drinker, but bystanders are still scandalized. My wife knows that if I order a durian smoothie, she can take a swig to inoculate herself. But my youngest girl refuses to partake, so she must endure my company with her shirt over her face.
The brothers and sisters are also an acquired taste, especially in an open house church.
Maybe you visited a particular organic gathering for the first time, but you left baffled or turned off. Maybe the people seemed weird, maybe the vocabulary was opaque, maybe the potluck was odd, maybe the format seemed too random or else too rigid. Maybe you never went back.
It's a shame that you didn't give it four tries. It's a shame that you didn't jump right in and take a sip to inoculate yourself from the first whiff. The odd brother might not seem so odd once you know him. That vocabulary might not seem so foreign after some conversation. After some repetition, the format might not seem as random or as rigid. Furthermore, you will never know how your ongoing participation might have changed the experience for everyone.
The potluck is the parable of the open meeting. You guys make some strange stuff at home. But I want to see what you see in your family recipes. I need my palette expanded. I need to get the nutrients that aren't found in my ordinary diet. I need to know that there is a wide world outside my door, where different does not equal bad.
I need to get past first impressions and see what your spouse sees in you. I want to discover the depth and nuance of Christ's work in you so far. I need more than a taste, I need something to chew on, something to stick to my ribs and help me grow.
I need to acquire a taste for your fellowship.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Who taught you how to judge?
Who taught you how to judge?
Our day is filled to the brim with judgements. Bacon is good, bacon is bad. This money is enough, that money is too much. This look was lust, and that look was appraisal. This thought was flesh, and the other was Spirit. This guy is half-baked, and that guy is toast.
Who taught us how to judge? We'd like to say that most of our judgements come from scripture, from illumination, from reason, from wisdom, from knowledge, from experience.
I recently was reminded how much of my judgement comes from other sources.
I was in the midst of renewing a relationship with a figure from my youth, a spiritual authority, the closest thing I had to a father figure. After what looked like a good start, I was given the brush-off. Intellectually, I understand the reasons for it. But the pain of rejection was real, and came with insight.
For days after the brush-off, I would experience pangs where I was reminded of the closed-door. I would be going about my ordinary day, working, driving, pondering, and then wham, the painful reminder of rejection. I began to see a pattern emerge regarding the timing of the pain.
It was like hurting a toe. While I remained still, everything felt fine. But when I walked on that foot, ouch. That sprained toe happened to be my sense of judgement.
I had inherited many daily judgements from this figure. Unconsciously, I would would judge a person, or thing, or situation in light of something he had said to me years ago. And if that wasn't bad enough, I would judge things in light of his imaginary approval. For days after the rejection, I felt a twinge of pain every time I employed a judgement which I inherited from him.
God is good, I needed this pointed out to me.
All my judgements are questionable. In addition to judgements inherited from the paternal, add the worries from the maternal. Add the fear of bullies. Add the approval of peers. Add the prejudices of culture. Add all the assurances and guilts of fundamentalism.
Given all of this, how many of my daily judgements are the result of illumination of scripture, from reason, from wisdom, from knowledge, from the Spirit? Twenty percent? Ten percent? Five?
The first glance at the verse tells us not to exasperate them. But there is a second observation. Children inherit their wrath from us. If I hate a political figure, they'll probably hate him too. If I am angry at the neighbor, the kids are angry the neighbor. The immigrant. The fellow driver. The person at the front of the line. The waitress. The customer. The government. The opposite sex. The church on the other corner. "Yeah Daddy, they're all jerks."
Who taught you how to judge?
Our day is filled to the brim with judgements. Bacon is good, bacon is bad. This money is enough, that money is too much. This look was lust, and that look was appraisal. This thought was flesh, and the other was Spirit. This guy is half-baked, and that guy is toast.
Who taught us how to judge? We'd like to say that most of our judgements come from scripture, from illumination, from reason, from wisdom, from knowledge, from experience.
I recently was reminded how much of my judgement comes from other sources.
I was in the midst of renewing a relationship with a figure from my youth, a spiritual authority, the closest thing I had to a father figure. After what looked like a good start, I was given the brush-off. Intellectually, I understand the reasons for it. But the pain of rejection was real, and came with insight.
For days after the brush-off, I would experience pangs where I was reminded of the closed-door. I would be going about my ordinary day, working, driving, pondering, and then wham, the painful reminder of rejection. I began to see a pattern emerge regarding the timing of the pain.
It was like hurting a toe. While I remained still, everything felt fine. But when I walked on that foot, ouch. That sprained toe happened to be my sense of judgement.
I had inherited many daily judgements from this figure. Unconsciously, I would would judge a person, or thing, or situation in light of something he had said to me years ago. And if that wasn't bad enough, I would judge things in light of his imaginary approval. For days after the rejection, I felt a twinge of pain every time I employed a judgement which I inherited from him.
God is good, I needed this pointed out to me.
All my judgements are questionable. In addition to judgements inherited from the paternal, add the worries from the maternal. Add the fear of bullies. Add the approval of peers. Add the prejudices of culture. Add all the assurances and guilts of fundamentalism.
Given all of this, how many of my daily judgements are the result of illumination of scripture, from reason, from wisdom, from knowledge, from the Spirit? Twenty percent? Ten percent? Five?
Eph 6:4 And, ye fathers, provoke not your children to wrath: but nurture them in the chastening and admonition of the Lord.
The first glance at the verse tells us not to exasperate them. But there is a second observation. Children inherit their wrath from us. If I hate a political figure, they'll probably hate him too. If I am angry at the neighbor, the kids are angry the neighbor. The immigrant. The fellow driver. The person at the front of the line. The waitress. The customer. The government. The opposite sex. The church on the other corner. "Yeah Daddy, they're all jerks."
Who taught you how to judge?
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Remembering and Forgetting
Forgive me, I am probably about to do violence to the text. You with weak constitutions, look away.
What we have here are Christians presenting their resumes. It can be no one else. Prophecy in His name, exorcisms in His name, many wonders in His name. I don't think the "many" would be capable of lying at this point. I think they really did these things, and did them while employing His name.
But it's interesting that "Lord, Lord" can be apart from the will of the Father. It is interesting that works and wonders in the name of Jesus are set in contrast to the will of the Father. It's interesting that the allegation of lawlessness would be made against a record of ministerial achievements. It's interesting that the works and wonders could be so effective and visible if Jesus can claim He never knew the practitioner.
It is interesting, the word "we". It does not appear that they are in single file. As a group, they present their case. Contrast them to another group which was asked for an account.
Group number one knew exactly what they were presenting. They put a value on their work from the very beginning, and committed it to memory. Group number two seems ignorant or else downright forgetful.
Consider the separation of one kind of work from another, things forgotten and things remembered. It often happens that someone will thank us for something we said or did, and we have no memory of it. It was just an offhand remark, or a practical act of kindness, just a gesture. But it might have meant everything. Nevertheless, the thing we remember best are our own conspicuously religious words and deeds. These are also the things that we use for our defense and justification.
The Lord is forgetting the conspicuous things which we remember, and gathering up the hidden things which we have forgotten.
Maybe I listened to a brother in the Sunday gathering for 52 weeks in a row for ten years, but can only give a hazy account of his eloquence. But then there was this one time in the car where he made a thoroughly secular remark that will edify the rest of my days. Which will stand in the coming age?
What if the Lord forgets our prophecies, exorcisms, and wonders (Matt:7)? What if He instead remembers the food, drink, bed, clothes, remedies, and visits (Matt:25)?
What if the Lords forgets the sermons and remembers the potlucks? What if He forgets the pageants and remembers the campfire sing-alongs? What if He forgets Sinners in the Hand of an Angry God and remembers Rack, Shack, and Benny?
What if he plucks out the right eye of theological discernment, and cuts off the right hand of ministerial achievement so that the rest can enter in?
Matt 7:21-23 Not everyone who says to Me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ shall enter the kingdom of heaven, but he who does the will of My Father in heaven. Many will say to Me in that day, ‘Lord, Lord, have we not prophesied in Your name, cast out demons in Your name, and done many wonders in Your name?’ And then I will declare to them, ‘I never knew you; depart from Me, you who practice lawlessness!’
What we have here are Christians presenting their resumes. It can be no one else. Prophecy in His name, exorcisms in His name, many wonders in His name. I don't think the "many" would be capable of lying at this point. I think they really did these things, and did them while employing His name.
But it's interesting that "Lord, Lord" can be apart from the will of the Father. It is interesting that works and wonders in the name of Jesus are set in contrast to the will of the Father. It's interesting that the allegation of lawlessness would be made against a record of ministerial achievements. It's interesting that the works and wonders could be so effective and visible if Jesus can claim He never knew the practitioner.
It is interesting, the word "we". It does not appear that they are in single file. As a group, they present their case. Contrast them to another group which was asked for an account.
Matt 25:37-39 Then the righteous will answer Him, saying, ‘Lord, when did we see You hungry and feed You, or thirsty and give You drink? When did we see You a stranger and take You in, or naked and clothe You? Or when did we see You sick, or in prison, and come to You?’
Group number one knew exactly what they were presenting. They put a value on their work from the very beginning, and committed it to memory. Group number two seems ignorant or else downright forgetful.
Consider the separation of one kind of work from another, things forgotten and things remembered. It often happens that someone will thank us for something we said or did, and we have no memory of it. It was just an offhand remark, or a practical act of kindness, just a gesture. But it might have meant everything. Nevertheless, the thing we remember best are our own conspicuously religious words and deeds. These are also the things that we use for our defense and justification.
The Lord is forgetting the conspicuous things which we remember, and gathering up the hidden things which we have forgotten.
Maybe I listened to a brother in the Sunday gathering for 52 weeks in a row for ten years, but can only give a hazy account of his eloquence. But then there was this one time in the car where he made a thoroughly secular remark that will edify the rest of my days. Which will stand in the coming age?
What if the Lord forgets our prophecies, exorcisms, and wonders (Matt:7)? What if He instead remembers the food, drink, bed, clothes, remedies, and visits (Matt:25)?
What if the Lords forgets the sermons and remembers the potlucks? What if He forgets the pageants and remembers the campfire sing-alongs? What if He forgets Sinners in the Hand of an Angry God and remembers Rack, Shack, and Benny?
What if he plucks out the right eye of theological discernment, and cuts off the right hand of ministerial achievement so that the rest can enter in?
Thursday, April 14, 2011
I Consider You Pointless
In Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Charlie Bucket says to Mike Teavee, "Candy doesn't have to have a point. That's why it's candy."
I gather with you brothers and sisters because it is pointless. You are all useless. I know how that sounds, but I mean it in the best way.
Folks will more readily make time for you if there is a payoff. Of course, if someone is paying for goods or services, the schedule is wide open, isn't it? But there are non-monetary payoffs, like imagined treasures in heaven or the legacy of reputation on this earth. Some people will meet with you if it furthers their entry into a social circle or business network. Some people can find the time for you if you'll become part of their hierarchy of discipleship or mentoring. Some people might consider you worth their time if you have information they want.
But I guarantee you, if I look forward to getting together with you, it's because it is pointless. If I'm genuinely happy to be with you, it is because I have no use for you.
By you should be thinking about the "one-anothering" verses, and the stuff about edification. Surely that's a "point", right? Folks who know me will understand I'm all for that. What I'm saying is that getting together without an agenda creates a vacuum, which sounds useless, but is actually an opportunity for the Lord.
You see, you exist for the Lord, and the question of your usefulness is a question for Him. The question of our usefulness to each other is also a matter for Him. If I'm getting together with you, I'm looking for His point. We might have our reasons to be in the same place at the same time, but He has His own. We might pick up on His agenda right away, or much later, or never (and that's okay). We have agendas for our encounters which might succeed or fail according to our measure, but it is His agenda which stands, His motive which matters.
I'd love to have lunch with you, or gather unto the Lord in a group, or whatever. Especially if there is no point. Because if it has a point, because if you or I are useful to one another, it will take that much longer to discern the result the Lord is working on.
You are useless to me, and our fellowship is pointless. That's a high compliment.
I gather with you brothers and sisters because it is pointless. You are all useless. I know how that sounds, but I mean it in the best way.
Folks will more readily make time for you if there is a payoff. Of course, if someone is paying for goods or services, the schedule is wide open, isn't it? But there are non-monetary payoffs, like imagined treasures in heaven or the legacy of reputation on this earth. Some people will meet with you if it furthers their entry into a social circle or business network. Some people can find the time for you if you'll become part of their hierarchy of discipleship or mentoring. Some people might consider you worth their time if you have information they want.
But I guarantee you, if I look forward to getting together with you, it's because it is pointless. If I'm genuinely happy to be with you, it is because I have no use for you.
By you should be thinking about the "one-anothering" verses, and the stuff about edification. Surely that's a "point", right? Folks who know me will understand I'm all for that. What I'm saying is that getting together without an agenda creates a vacuum, which sounds useless, but is actually an opportunity for the Lord.
You see, you exist for the Lord, and the question of your usefulness is a question for Him. The question of our usefulness to each other is also a matter for Him. If I'm getting together with you, I'm looking for His point. We might have our reasons to be in the same place at the same time, but He has His own. We might pick up on His agenda right away, or much later, or never (and that's okay). We have agendas for our encounters which might succeed or fail according to our measure, but it is His agenda which stands, His motive which matters.
I'd love to have lunch with you, or gather unto the Lord in a group, or whatever. Especially if there is no point. Because if it has a point, because if you or I are useful to one another, it will take that much longer to discern the result the Lord is working on.
You are useless to me, and our fellowship is pointless. That's a high compliment.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Unity in Futility
Among the simple gatherings, a lot has been said and a lot has been written about unity regarding what it is, how it is achieved, and its priority.
I'm going to overturn a table now.
We have two components to our unity, a visible component and an invisible component. And these components are the polar opposite of how we think and how we operate and what we say to one another.
We tend to unify around visible righteousness and invisible unrighteousness. But our real unity is in visible unrighteousness and invisible righteousness.
That is, we tend to gather around good things that are publicly regarded as reasonable and correct, whether doctrines or practices. And we shove all the crap into the closet. When we're outside of the house, we say the same things and do the same things, and hide the same things. We're all together in this, all in lockstep. That's how unity has been working.
But the truth is that we're really and truly united in our weakness and our need. Though we strive to hide it, we're not fooling anybody. This is what unites us with the rest of the human race, that we collectively all fall short. But when we try to cover this fact up by wearing our religious heritage in order to distinguish ourselves from the world, we become an inverse parable. The world knows the truth. We mean for our religion to show forth our God by what we are, but it causes the world to understand God by what we are not. They can point to us and say, "Whatever God is, He is not like that". In truth, we are united in our visible crapulence (which is a good starting point for a parable), not our visible righteousness (which becomes an inverse parable, a cautionary tale). Thus the visible component of our unity is not what we think it is.
The true and invisible component of our unity is the spiritual component. We might attempt to somehow fashion this invisible component into the visible banner of our unity. But in our attempt to promote the true and invisible things as rallying points, we instead produce philosphies and practices that can be set alongside all the other doctrines and laws of this world. Unification contains the seeds of its own destruction. Once we crystallize our invisible unity into visible forms, they become tangible opporunities to show ourselves approved, to divide from one another.
Unity begins in the mind of God. Confronted by God, we're all subjected to futility, so that He can have mercy on all. My futility is my connection to you. Whether you are a believer or not, I don't have to know you very well to know that we have something in common at the very pit of our existence. You and I, we're bumping our heads against the same barriers of ignorance and death. No man has seen God at any time. We are in the same boat, this is visible and evident.
If you're a believer, I'll gather with you in our shared need, in our shared impotence, in our search for the things which are not visible or knowable apart from revelation from the Unknown God who (we believe) becomes known to us through the Son, who speaks in parables through a glass darkly.
I'm going to overturn a table now.
We have two components to our unity, a visible component and an invisible component. And these components are the polar opposite of how we think and how we operate and what we say to one another.
We tend to unify around visible righteousness and invisible unrighteousness. But our real unity is in visible unrighteousness and invisible righteousness.
That is, we tend to gather around good things that are publicly regarded as reasonable and correct, whether doctrines or practices. And we shove all the crap into the closet. When we're outside of the house, we say the same things and do the same things, and hide the same things. We're all together in this, all in lockstep. That's how unity has been working.
But the truth is that we're really and truly united in our weakness and our need. Though we strive to hide it, we're not fooling anybody. This is what unites us with the rest of the human race, that we collectively all fall short. But when we try to cover this fact up by wearing our religious heritage in order to distinguish ourselves from the world, we become an inverse parable. The world knows the truth. We mean for our religion to show forth our God by what we are, but it causes the world to understand God by what we are not. They can point to us and say, "Whatever God is, He is not like that". In truth, we are united in our visible crapulence (which is a good starting point for a parable), not our visible righteousness (which becomes an inverse parable, a cautionary tale). Thus the visible component of our unity is not what we think it is.
The true and invisible component of our unity is the spiritual component. We might attempt to somehow fashion this invisible component into the visible banner of our unity. But in our attempt to promote the true and invisible things as rallying points, we instead produce philosphies and practices that can be set alongside all the other doctrines and laws of this world. Unification contains the seeds of its own destruction. Once we crystallize our invisible unity into visible forms, they become tangible opporunities to show ourselves approved, to divide from one another.
Unity begins in the mind of God. Confronted by God, we're all subjected to futility, so that He can have mercy on all. My futility is my connection to you. Whether you are a believer or not, I don't have to know you very well to know that we have something in common at the very pit of our existence. You and I, we're bumping our heads against the same barriers of ignorance and death. No man has seen God at any time. We are in the same boat, this is visible and evident.
If you're a believer, I'll gather with you in our shared need, in our shared impotence, in our search for the things which are not visible or knowable apart from revelation from the Unknown God who (we believe) becomes known to us through the Son, who speaks in parables through a glass darkly.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
The Technical Solution
I had an acquaintance contact me about something related to my vocation. He was building a fence on his lot and needed to know where to put it.
Upon reading his note, my mind went to what I do at work. Coordinates, bearings, distances, legal descriptions. But I then realized it was all overkill. I told him to find a metal detector and a shovel, walk out to where he guessed his corners might be and when the detector made a noise, dig a little circle and pull out the grass plug to see if he saw an iron rod in the ground. Build there.
At the job, most of us are experts at what we do, at least to a degree. When family, friends, or neighbors ask for advice touching upon our expertise, we might look at it as an opportunity to shine.
But the fence builder did not need a full-blown survey. He just needed to know where his corners were. He didn't need me to shine. He didn't need my expertise. He needed a metal detector and a shovel. All I provided was a sense of confidence that he was perfectly capable to work his own land, and that everything would be okay. All I did was give a token of encouragement.
We have young folks in the gathering who are learning guitar. Sometimes when giving advice, the impulse is to overload them with music theory. But I have to remember to point out that what I'm doing in the meeting boils down to something simple. Three chords, most of the time. Kids, learn G, C, and D. Start there. You can do anything with those. Once you get that under your skin, we can talk about three more. With a guitar and three chords, the world is your oyster.
The first impulse is the technical impulse. If the layman asks for his corner, the technician needs to prove his worth by surveying the world. If the layman wants to sing and play Jesus Loves Me on guitar, the technician shows off his expertise by giving him music theory at the piano.
You've guessed I'm talking about the church. A possible objection to my trajectory: we need experts among us to provide technical content to protect us from error which leads to disaster.
To that objection, I must recall what Paul said to a disastrous Corinthian church, thirteen chapters into his corrective letter:
"Are all apostles? Are all prophets? Are all teachers? Are all workers of miracles? Do all have gifts of healings? Do all speak with tongues? Do all interpret? But earnestly desire the best gifts. And yet I show you a more excellent way." Then Paul launches into his famous illustration about love.
"And yet I show you a more excellent way." Who speaks like that? Who says that today?
Not just tell you, rather Show You. Not merely correct, but More Excellent. Not a theory, but a Way.
People don't knock on your door with literature in their hand and offer to "show you a more excellent way". They knock on your door to sign you up, to conform you to their theories, and thereby justify themselves. But we've all knocked on each others "doors" this way. We've all received the door-knocking treatment while sitting in a pew or on a sofa. We've given the door-knocking treatment with an open Bible in our laps.
What is Paul's more excellent way? Yeah, you know it. It is love. And he goes on to give a famous (and surprisingly secular) description.
We ought to feel a little uncomfortable with this. Paul has just negated our expertise. He has called into question every technically correct solution. He causes us to question our image of God, which may only faintly smack of love.
When Paul opens with, "And yet I show you a more excellent way," it is an invitation to prove him wrong. It is an invitation to observe him whose authority is inseparable from his example. It is an invitation to imitate him and see whether or not there is an objective pay-off, individually and corporately. We should feel uncomfortable that apart from the action of the More Excellent Way (which measures us), our words are weasel-words, our advice is theory, our assertions are beyond proof.
Upon reading his note, my mind went to what I do at work. Coordinates, bearings, distances, legal descriptions. But I then realized it was all overkill. I told him to find a metal detector and a shovel, walk out to where he guessed his corners might be and when the detector made a noise, dig a little circle and pull out the grass plug to see if he saw an iron rod in the ground. Build there.
At the job, most of us are experts at what we do, at least to a degree. When family, friends, or neighbors ask for advice touching upon our expertise, we might look at it as an opportunity to shine.
But the fence builder did not need a full-blown survey. He just needed to know where his corners were. He didn't need me to shine. He didn't need my expertise. He needed a metal detector and a shovel. All I provided was a sense of confidence that he was perfectly capable to work his own land, and that everything would be okay. All I did was give a token of encouragement.
We have young folks in the gathering who are learning guitar. Sometimes when giving advice, the impulse is to overload them with music theory. But I have to remember to point out that what I'm doing in the meeting boils down to something simple. Three chords, most of the time. Kids, learn G, C, and D. Start there. You can do anything with those. Once you get that under your skin, we can talk about three more. With a guitar and three chords, the world is your oyster.
The first impulse is the technical impulse. If the layman asks for his corner, the technician needs to prove his worth by surveying the world. If the layman wants to sing and play Jesus Loves Me on guitar, the technician shows off his expertise by giving him music theory at the piano.
You've guessed I'm talking about the church. A possible objection to my trajectory: we need experts among us to provide technical content to protect us from error which leads to disaster.
To that objection, I must recall what Paul said to a disastrous Corinthian church, thirteen chapters into his corrective letter:
"Are all apostles? Are all prophets? Are all teachers? Are all workers of miracles? Do all have gifts of healings? Do all speak with tongues? Do all interpret? But earnestly desire the best gifts. And yet I show you a more excellent way." Then Paul launches into his famous illustration about love.
"And yet I show you a more excellent way." Who speaks like that? Who says that today?
Not just tell you, rather Show You. Not merely correct, but More Excellent. Not a theory, but a Way.
People don't knock on your door with literature in their hand and offer to "show you a more excellent way". They knock on your door to sign you up, to conform you to their theories, and thereby justify themselves. But we've all knocked on each others "doors" this way. We've all received the door-knocking treatment while sitting in a pew or on a sofa. We've given the door-knocking treatment with an open Bible in our laps.
What is Paul's more excellent way? Yeah, you know it. It is love. And he goes on to give a famous (and surprisingly secular) description.
"Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I have become sounding brass or a clanging cymbal. And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned,but have not love, it profits me nothing. Love suffers long and is kind; love does not envy; love does not parade itself, is not puffed up; does not behave rudely, does not seek its own, is not provoked, thinks no evil; does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth; bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails."
We ought to feel a little uncomfortable with this. Paul has just negated our expertise. He has called into question every technically correct solution. He causes us to question our image of God, which may only faintly smack of love.
When Paul opens with, "And yet I show you a more excellent way," it is an invitation to prove him wrong. It is an invitation to observe him whose authority is inseparable from his example. It is an invitation to imitate him and see whether or not there is an objective pay-off, individually and corporately. We should feel uncomfortable that apart from the action of the More Excellent Way (which measures us), our words are weasel-words, our advice is theory, our assertions are beyond proof.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Aux Perc
You're flipping through the channels and land on PBS. A symphony is playing, leave it there for a minute. The camera is picking up various musicians at work. It's not only the sound, but also the sight that is inspiring. Look at the way the string players lean into it, even the animation in the eyebrows of the wind players.
Hey, what's that? Some guy on the back row has picked up some kind of stage prop and made a loud noise. Where did he come from? Is he even a musician? Anybody can bang two gizmos together. Sheesh. What has he been doing during the song while the real experts have been giving it their all?
He was doing precisely what the composer and conducter wanted him to do. He was resting and counting the measures, staying in readiness to unleash his peculiar joyful noise at the right moment.
Cameras are deceiving. The art of the camera is in what it leaves outside of the frame. Great pictures are made by cropping. During our symphony, the camera is showing the guys who are playing the conspicuous parts. That's just good TV. But have you ever wondered what everyone else is doing?
They are counting. They are emptying spit valves and keeping warm air in the horn. They are looking and listening to their peers. They are obeying the composer and conductor by resting. They are silent by design.
I have a friend whose electronic signature contains the quote, "There is no music in a rest, but there is making of music in it."
If you think about it a certain way, a rest seems absurd for such gifted people. Here are these world-class musicians, the cream of the crop. They have spent the majority of their lives studying and practicing and performing their craft. Here they are on stage in front of a huge live audience, and also being recorded for posterity. And then they have to sit there and be silent. Here they are getting paid good money and they might be doing nothing at all for long stretches.
Imagine the thoughts of the first chair violin observing a rest. "Here I am, stuck with a 64 bar rest. I'm so bored. I've played everything Mozart has ever written. I know exactly what Mozart would have put here. I think it's time for a solo, so I can earn my bread. They aren't paying me to sit on my hands. Here we go."
That's absurd, right? But that's how we have tended to operate in the Body of Christ.
First of all, most of us are auxiliary percussion. We just are. And there is nothing wrong with that. In fact, it is by design. But whether we're on triangle or first fiddle, we must follow the Composer and Conductor and enter into silence when it is time. In silence, there is listening and watching and readiness. Silence is used by the Composer as an intentional musical technique. A rest is every bit as musical as a note. It is crucial.
But nature abhors a vaccuum, and that goes for human nature as well. If you ever visit our gathering, one of the things that you will notice is that there are periods of silence. And this can be awkward for a guest (or even a regular). In the usual church gathering, things are scripted in such a way that there is no silence. One thing follows another, sight and sound always fill the senses. The meeting is just an example. But I'm talking about life in general.
The impulse is to fill spiritual silences with something, anything. And often, it is the gifted-ones who take it upon themselves to fill it, like the first violin in my absurd little illustration. "Here I am, stuck with a period of inactivity. I'm good at my thing. I have a good idea what the Lord would be saying and doing in this situation. I didn't go through so much preparation just to sit on my hands. Let's roll." And frankly, since inactivity does not make good TV (and all other media) we've only been shown the gifted folks in action. Quiet life is cropped out of the frame.
If a silence is scripted and we honk into it, we've played it wrong. In Spirit it might be hard to discern what kind of silence we are experiencing in a particular season. But at least the thought should enter our minds that a period of inactivity might be scripted. It might be a "Selah" like in a Psalm. We should at least consider the possibility. Because if it is a silence by design, we can with good conscience enter into listening, looking, counting, and readiness. We can greet the stillness with a sense of expectancy. At any moment we may be called upon by the Conductor to make that peculiar joyful noise that was penned by the Composer before the foundation of the world.
Hey, what's that? Some guy on the back row has picked up some kind of stage prop and made a loud noise. Where did he come from? Is he even a musician? Anybody can bang two gizmos together. Sheesh. What has he been doing during the song while the real experts have been giving it their all?
He was doing precisely what the composer and conducter wanted him to do. He was resting and counting the measures, staying in readiness to unleash his peculiar joyful noise at the right moment.
Cameras are deceiving. The art of the camera is in what it leaves outside of the frame. Great pictures are made by cropping. During our symphony, the camera is showing the guys who are playing the conspicuous parts. That's just good TV. But have you ever wondered what everyone else is doing?
They are counting. They are emptying spit valves and keeping warm air in the horn. They are looking and listening to their peers. They are obeying the composer and conductor by resting. They are silent by design.
I have a friend whose electronic signature contains the quote, "There is no music in a rest, but there is making of music in it."
If you think about it a certain way, a rest seems absurd for such gifted people. Here are these world-class musicians, the cream of the crop. They have spent the majority of their lives studying and practicing and performing their craft. Here they are on stage in front of a huge live audience, and also being recorded for posterity. And then they have to sit there and be silent. Here they are getting paid good money and they might be doing nothing at all for long stretches.
Imagine the thoughts of the first chair violin observing a rest. "Here I am, stuck with a 64 bar rest. I'm so bored. I've played everything Mozart has ever written. I know exactly what Mozart would have put here. I think it's time for a solo, so I can earn my bread. They aren't paying me to sit on my hands. Here we go."
That's absurd, right? But that's how we have tended to operate in the Body of Christ.
1 Cor: 26-29
"For you see your calling, brethren, that not many wise according to the flesh, not many mighty, not many noble, are called. But God has chosen the foolish things of the world to put to shame the wise, and God has chosen the weak things of the world to put to shame the things which are mighty; and the base things of the world and the things which are despised God has chosen, and the things which are not, to bring to nothing the things that are, that no flesh should glory in His presence."
First of all, most of us are auxiliary percussion. We just are. And there is nothing wrong with that. In fact, it is by design. But whether we're on triangle or first fiddle, we must follow the Composer and Conductor and enter into silence when it is time. In silence, there is listening and watching and readiness. Silence is used by the Composer as an intentional musical technique. A rest is every bit as musical as a note. It is crucial.
But nature abhors a vaccuum, and that goes for human nature as well. If you ever visit our gathering, one of the things that you will notice is that there are periods of silence. And this can be awkward for a guest (or even a regular). In the usual church gathering, things are scripted in such a way that there is no silence. One thing follows another, sight and sound always fill the senses. The meeting is just an example. But I'm talking about life in general.
The impulse is to fill spiritual silences with something, anything. And often, it is the gifted-ones who take it upon themselves to fill it, like the first violin in my absurd little illustration. "Here I am, stuck with a period of inactivity. I'm good at my thing. I have a good idea what the Lord would be saying and doing in this situation. I didn't go through so much preparation just to sit on my hands. Let's roll." And frankly, since inactivity does not make good TV (and all other media) we've only been shown the gifted folks in action. Quiet life is cropped out of the frame.
If a silence is scripted and we honk into it, we've played it wrong. In Spirit it might be hard to discern what kind of silence we are experiencing in a particular season. But at least the thought should enter our minds that a period of inactivity might be scripted. It might be a "Selah" like in a Psalm. We should at least consider the possibility. Because if it is a silence by design, we can with good conscience enter into listening, looking, counting, and readiness. We can greet the stillness with a sense of expectancy. At any moment we may be called upon by the Conductor to make that peculiar joyful noise that was penned by the Composer before the foundation of the world.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Come into the Circle
Recall in Princess Bride, Prince Humperdink ordering the priest at his wedding, "Skip to the end." That is what we tend to do when we get to the most important chapter in Paul's letter to the church at Rome.
What? Most important chapter? Yes, because everything Paul writes comes forth out of it.
It happens to be the guide for this blog. I could write about anything under the sun. I could write about things that stimulate me. I could paraphrase ideas of whatever author I am reading at the moment. I could react to the news. I could attempt to defend and persuade you concerning my favorite subjects.
But consider what Paul was doing. Everything he wrote came out of his relationship with actual flesh-and-blood individuals. As he dictated his letter, he had their faces in his mind's eye. In his letter are things he wanted to tell them face-to-face in the gathering, and therefore it would have passed the test of "let everything be done for edification".
In this blog I have determined to write down the things which I have shared in the gathering, because I spoke these things under the awareness of the rule of love. So it will pass the test for you, even though we have never met. By reading these articles, you have crossed into my circle of fellowship. Come in.
Allow me to join this passage up with a couple of things from Jesus.
If Christ, the very image of God, can say this to the very ordinary people in that room, how much more can we say this to one another?
This is the power out of which Paul writes his great epistle. When we read the letter, we enter into family relationship with Paul, who is giving his love to us. This is the center out of which we must speak to one another in the assembly. Come into the circle, brothers and sisters.
What? Most important chapter? Yes, because everything Paul writes comes forth out of it.
It happens to be the guide for this blog. I could write about anything under the sun. I could write about things that stimulate me. I could paraphrase ideas of whatever author I am reading at the moment. I could react to the news. I could attempt to defend and persuade you concerning my favorite subjects.
But consider what Paul was doing. Everything he wrote came out of his relationship with actual flesh-and-blood individuals. As he dictated his letter, he had their faces in his mind's eye. In his letter are things he wanted to tell them face-to-face in the gathering, and therefore it would have passed the test of "let everything be done for edification".
In this blog I have determined to write down the things which I have shared in the gathering, because I spoke these things under the awareness of the rule of love. So it will pass the test for you, even though we have never met. By reading these articles, you have crossed into my circle of fellowship. Come in.
"Be sure to welcome our friend Phoebe in the way of the Master, with all the generous hospitality we Christians are famous for. I heartily endorse both her and her work. She's a key representative of the church at Cenchrea. Help her out in whatever she asks. She deserves anything you can do for her. She's helped many a person, including me. Say hello to Priscilla and Aquila, who have worked hand in hand with me in serving Jesus. They once put their lives on the line for me. And I'm not the only one grateful to them. All the non-Jewish gatherings of believers also owe them plenty, to say nothing of the church that meets in their house. Hello to my dear friend Epenetus. He was the very first follower of Jesus in the province of Asia.Hello to Mary. What a worker she has turned out to be!Hello to my cousins Andronicus and Junias. We once shared a jail cell. They were believers in Christ before I was. Both of them are outstanding leaders. Hello to Ampliatus, my good friend in the family of God. Hello to Urbanus, our companion in Christ's work, and my good friend Stachys. Hello to Apelles, a tried-and-true veteran in following Christ. Hello to the family of Aristobulus. Hello to my cousin Herodion. Hello to those who belong to the Lord from the family of Narcissus. Hello to Tryphena and Tryphosa, such diligent women in serving the Master. Hello to Persis, a dear friend and hard worker in Christ. Hello to Rufus (a good choice by the Master!) and his mother. She has also been a dear mother to me. Hello to Asyncritus, Phlegon, Hermes, Patrobas, Hermas, and also to all of their families. Hello to Philologus, Julia, Nereus and his sister, and Olympas, and all the followers of Jesus who live with them. Holy embraces all around! All the churches of Christ send their warmest greetings!"
Allow me to join this passage up with a couple of things from Jesus.
"Who are my mother and my brothers? Here are my mother and my brothers! Whoever does God’s will is my brother and sister and mother.”
If Christ, the very image of God, can say this to the very ordinary people in that room, how much more can we say this to one another?
"No one who has left home or brothers or sisters or mother or father or children or fields for me and the gospel will fail to receive a hundred times as much in this present age: homes, brothers, sisters, mothers, children and fields."
This is the power out of which Paul writes his great epistle. When we read the letter, we enter into family relationship with Paul, who is giving his love to us. This is the center out of which we must speak to one another in the assembly. Come into the circle, brothers and sisters.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Teaching as Token
One of the joys of being a husband and dad is to see my wife and kids be creative. Their week is filled with cooking, knitting, yarn spinning, lotion-making, photography, art, and music. Each family in the gathering has a bounty of giftings and interests that are peculiar and special.
Often, the brothers and sisters will share things with each other. We demonstrate our love to one another by offering the works of our hands and minds. We give forth from whatever "makes us tick". We are also mindful of others needs and interests.
Much of it is very practical, and we are not overly mindful of it. It is just the way we are. I like to play guitar. I'm more than happy to do it while we're singing together. Kimberly and Abby like to knit, and they are happy when someone can wear their stuff. If young Malachai Talbott grows something in his garden, he is excited that folks will eat it. When Emily V.H. or Emily Talbott captures the family photographically in a special moment, they are glad that we would display it proudly.
We all have pursuits. We gain expertise in something we love. We find satisfaction in detail, in good work. We discover something which resonates with us. Teaching is among the crafts.
In the "housechurch" or "organic" (or whatever) community, there is a tendency to keep at arms length (at least rhetorically) anything that smacks of clergy. Trust me, I'm no friend of the concept of office and hierarchy. But until recent events, I had not given "educated" guys enough credit.
First of all, let me say that teaching had been a big fetish of the institutional subculture I came out of. Every young man who became a believer asked himself, "Does God want me to be a teacher? That would be so cool." It didn't matter that he didn't know anything at all. But the one thing he did know, instinctively through the subculture, was that teaching was the highest calling. And if you proved yourself more "serious" than your peers, maybe the organization might send you to school to be the real deal, the only thing in church that really mattered. If not, well, you could get a wall full of books and position yourself to teach some Sunday School or weekly Bible studies. And then there were the folks who sat under the teaching. It was called "being fed". Is brother so-and-so feeding you right? Would you get fed better on the other street corner? Oh, the horror, if you're not getting fed properly. Everything, I mean everything, depended on the teacher.
I'm preaching to the choir here, if you're in my circle. We came out of that. But there can be a tendency to backlash against the imbalance of the old mindset.
So what does it look like when teaching comes back into balance in the setting of the simple gathering?
Not everybody demonstrates love in the same way. Some people like to hug and some don't. For some guys it's easy to say, "I love you brother," and for some it's awkward. Some guys aren't great at working with their hands, or don't have an ear for music, or a green thumb. But they still have tokens of love to give us. I think that this is how teaching (and other intellectual pursuits) should fit into the life of the body. Not elevated over every other expression, but not despised either.
Rather, teaching can re-orient itself as one of the various pursuits and crafts. Not everybody can knit or make goat's-milk soap. Nevertheless, in our gathering, everyone has soap and knitted items. In the same way, I recognize lately that not everybody can afford the time and effort to do seminary-level study. But fortunately there are brothers and sisters with experience that can whip up something intellectual for us once in a while as a token of their esteem.
It takes two to tango. Teach as a token of your love for your brother, not the emblem of your special status, but as an item from your craft. Receive a teaching as a token of love from your brother, and use it along with your hat and soap and other goodies from the body. There shall be no poor among you.
Often, the brothers and sisters will share things with each other. We demonstrate our love to one another by offering the works of our hands and minds. We give forth from whatever "makes us tick". We are also mindful of others needs and interests.
Much of it is very practical, and we are not overly mindful of it. It is just the way we are. I like to play guitar. I'm more than happy to do it while we're singing together. Kimberly and Abby like to knit, and they are happy when someone can wear their stuff. If young Malachai Talbott grows something in his garden, he is excited that folks will eat it. When Emily V.H. or Emily Talbott captures the family photographically in a special moment, they are glad that we would display it proudly.
We all have pursuits. We gain expertise in something we love. We find satisfaction in detail, in good work. We discover something which resonates with us. Teaching is among the crafts.
In the "housechurch" or "organic" (or whatever) community, there is a tendency to keep at arms length (at least rhetorically) anything that smacks of clergy. Trust me, I'm no friend of the concept of office and hierarchy. But until recent events, I had not given "educated" guys enough credit.
First of all, let me say that teaching had been a big fetish of the institutional subculture I came out of. Every young man who became a believer asked himself, "Does God want me to be a teacher? That would be so cool." It didn't matter that he didn't know anything at all. But the one thing he did know, instinctively through the subculture, was that teaching was the highest calling. And if you proved yourself more "serious" than your peers, maybe the organization might send you to school to be the real deal, the only thing in church that really mattered. If not, well, you could get a wall full of books and position yourself to teach some Sunday School or weekly Bible studies. And then there were the folks who sat under the teaching. It was called "being fed". Is brother so-and-so feeding you right? Would you get fed better on the other street corner? Oh, the horror, if you're not getting fed properly. Everything, I mean everything, depended on the teacher.
I'm preaching to the choir here, if you're in my circle. We came out of that. But there can be a tendency to backlash against the imbalance of the old mindset.
So what does it look like when teaching comes back into balance in the setting of the simple gathering?
Not everybody demonstrates love in the same way. Some people like to hug and some don't. For some guys it's easy to say, "I love you brother," and for some it's awkward. Some guys aren't great at working with their hands, or don't have an ear for music, or a green thumb. But they still have tokens of love to give us. I think that this is how teaching (and other intellectual pursuits) should fit into the life of the body. Not elevated over every other expression, but not despised either.
Rather, teaching can re-orient itself as one of the various pursuits and crafts. Not everybody can knit or make goat's-milk soap. Nevertheless, in our gathering, everyone has soap and knitted items. In the same way, I recognize lately that not everybody can afford the time and effort to do seminary-level study. But fortunately there are brothers and sisters with experience that can whip up something intellectual for us once in a while as a token of their esteem.
It takes two to tango. Teach as a token of your love for your brother, not the emblem of your special status, but as an item from your craft. Receive a teaching as a token of love from your brother, and use it along with your hat and soap and other goodies from the body. There shall be no poor among you.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Kitty
Look at that cat, basking in her little pool of sunlight, eyes slitted, paws tucked under. She seems more satisfied that any human I know. I wonder, does she experience her Creator? If so, in what way?
Do I experience God? If so, in what way?
The immediate thought is "Word". I've been well inculcated, and think of the Bible first. But I'm also reminded that words are at the heart of what it is to be human. We're the animal of language, of concept, of symbol. God comes to us with the very thing that interests us most, the very thing that makes us unique.
But waking from her nap and from her long silence, the cat says, "It's always words with you people. In the beginning was the Rest, and the Rest was with God, and the Rest was God. The Rest was with God in the beginning."
And the sparrow at the feeder says, "Typical cat. In the beginning was the Seed. The Seed was with God and the Seed was God. The Seed was with God in the beginning."
And the hawk on the branch says, "In the beginning was the Wind. The Wind was with God and the Wind was God."
And the earthworm says, "The Soil was with God in the beginning."
And the oak says, "Through the Sunlight all things were made; without the Sunlight nothing was made that has been made. In the Sunlight was life."
And I say to them, "That life was the light of all mankind. The light shines in the darkeness, and the darkness has not overcome it."
And they say to me, "Son of man, experience him as the Word because that is how you are fearfully and wonderfully made, but don't forget to enter into our fellowship as well."
So I'll sit next to Kitty in her pool of sunlight. She will close her eyes and I will speak to her, and we will experience God together.
Do I experience God? If so, in what way?
The immediate thought is "Word". I've been well inculcated, and think of the Bible first. But I'm also reminded that words are at the heart of what it is to be human. We're the animal of language, of concept, of symbol. God comes to us with the very thing that interests us most, the very thing that makes us unique.
But waking from her nap and from her long silence, the cat says, "It's always words with you people. In the beginning was the Rest, and the Rest was with God, and the Rest was God. The Rest was with God in the beginning."
And the sparrow at the feeder says, "Typical cat. In the beginning was the Seed. The Seed was with God and the Seed was God. The Seed was with God in the beginning."
And the hawk on the branch says, "In the beginning was the Wind. The Wind was with God and the Wind was God."
And the earthworm says, "The Soil was with God in the beginning."
And the oak says, "Through the Sunlight all things were made; without the Sunlight nothing was made that has been made. In the Sunlight was life."
And I say to them, "That life was the light of all mankind. The light shines in the darkeness, and the darkness has not overcome it."
And they say to me, "Son of man, experience him as the Word because that is how you are fearfully and wonderfully made, but don't forget to enter into our fellowship as well."
So I'll sit next to Kitty in her pool of sunlight. She will close her eyes and I will speak to her, and we will experience God together.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Slots
Several years after leaving the institutional church system, my wife asked me a question as we were driving.
"Mark, do you think I'm properly submissive?"
I was silent for a few moments. Often, when someone is silent after a loaded question, it means they are reluctant to answer. I'm sorry to have made Kimberly worry for a few beats.
"I honestly don't know. I don't think about you that way any more."
I surprised myself with my answer to her question. And then I was delighted. It meant that at some point I had stopped measuring her performance toward me. She is who she is, and I love her.
You see, I was the product of a system in which every relationship was measured by dominance and submissiveness. We had certain expectations for everybody to live up to. Is your wife submissive to your satisfaction in every way? Is your husband the spiritual head of the household to the proper degree? Are your children properly conformed to the collective expectations? Are you in mental and verbal assent with the opinions of the appointed inner circle? Have you volunteered enough of your free time to the operation of the franchise? Are you writing a check (which can be evaluated), or are you giving cash (which can't be traced to you)?
We lived in a pre-fabricated set of relationships. You could walk through the door and instantly enter into them, if you had determination and the right vocabulary. But you know, love was not required, not really. Blood, sweat, tears, resolve, stomach acid, but not necessarily love. All that was required was to be sorted into the right slots (whether it be unto men or unto theories of men), and things would turn out okay. When you come right down to it, we were people all desparately wanting things to turn out okay. And we found systems that made promises.
It's been a dozen years away from that now, and tales come to my ears. For many, there was no payoff. It would have been better for many of us to stay home and discover love for one another before signing up for anything else.
Don't evaluate her. Love her.
"Mark, do you think I'm properly submissive?"
I was silent for a few moments. Often, when someone is silent after a loaded question, it means they are reluctant to answer. I'm sorry to have made Kimberly worry for a few beats.
"I honestly don't know. I don't think about you that way any more."
I surprised myself with my answer to her question. And then I was delighted. It meant that at some point I had stopped measuring her performance toward me. She is who she is, and I love her.
You see, I was the product of a system in which every relationship was measured by dominance and submissiveness. We had certain expectations for everybody to live up to. Is your wife submissive to your satisfaction in every way? Is your husband the spiritual head of the household to the proper degree? Are your children properly conformed to the collective expectations? Are you in mental and verbal assent with the opinions of the appointed inner circle? Have you volunteered enough of your free time to the operation of the franchise? Are you writing a check (which can be evaluated), or are you giving cash (which can't be traced to you)?
We lived in a pre-fabricated set of relationships. You could walk through the door and instantly enter into them, if you had determination and the right vocabulary. But you know, love was not required, not really. Blood, sweat, tears, resolve, stomach acid, but not necessarily love. All that was required was to be sorted into the right slots (whether it be unto men or unto theories of men), and things would turn out okay. When you come right down to it, we were people all desparately wanting things to turn out okay. And we found systems that made promises.
It's been a dozen years away from that now, and tales come to my ears. For many, there was no payoff. It would have been better for many of us to stay home and discover love for one another before signing up for anything else.
Don't evaluate her. Love her.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Northing, Easting, Elevation
I am a land survey technician. Maybe you are familiar with surveying. Picture in your mind's eye those two guys on the side of the road, one holding a rod, the other peering through an instrument perched atop a tripod. When those guys are done for the day, they bring their data to me, and I turn it into a map. Together, our business is to measure things and then report those measurements.
Imagine that you hire us to survey your inheritance, a vast parcel of land. After some weeks I come back to you with a map in my hand with a vague outline of your property. You ask me, "What is this? Is this supposed to be a survey?"
"Your land is vast! It is huge! What a wonderful, glorious piece of property you have! Words fail to describe it! Mere numbers cannot measure it! I am humbled by your tract's majesty. The sheer magnitude of your parcel renders me speechless. Amen."
"Mark, I'll see you in court."
Have you ever heard anybody gush about the love of Christ? Does it sound like that survey I describe above? "Vast! Huge! Indescribable! Beyond measure!" It all sounds very right, a very correct attitude. It conveys that you are really impressed by something that's really impressive. Thanks, I guess.
If you are a believer, you are a surveyor. Paul is sending us out to the field, giving us instructions to conduct our survey. Our subject parcel is the Love of Christ. He gives us the scope of services.
Yes, it sounds contradictory. To know something which "surpasses knowledge". To contain the uncontainable. "Filled up to all the fullness of God". I didn't say it, the Survey Manager did.
Notice the part where Paul says, "Comprehend with all the saints." We're not to go out alone. We go out as a field crew. We need several sets of eyes. We need some backup, some help carrying stuff, help chopping brush, help finding monuments, someone to drive if we get snakebit. And when the data is collected, we need someone to organize the data, someone to put together the plat, someone to count the cost. In a mom-and-pop shop, a few people wear different hats, and in a larger shop, the are folks who specialize. But however it happens, it is to happen with all. There is no room for someone who is eating overhead, someone who is not billable to the client. Everybody pitches in.
Is a picture starting to form here? The love of Christ is not some amporphous blob. It appears among His people as a very definite thing. Just because a thing is vast does not mean that it can't be described. The love of Christ has a shape. It has contours. It can be looked at from different angles.
Paul desires that being "rooted and grounded in love" that we would "be able to comprehend with all the saints" the Northing, Easting and Elevation of the love of Christ. And though he says it "surpasses knowlege", we are to know it anyway. And though it seems even a fraction of the "fullness of God" would cause any vessel to burst at the seams, he desires us to be filled up with all of it.
Who are we to question the Survey Manager? Let's load up the truck. Let's make some detailed maps together.
Imagine that you hire us to survey your inheritance, a vast parcel of land. After some weeks I come back to you with a map in my hand with a vague outline of your property. You ask me, "What is this? Is this supposed to be a survey?"
"Your land is vast! It is huge! What a wonderful, glorious piece of property you have! Words fail to describe it! Mere numbers cannot measure it! I am humbled by your tract's majesty. The sheer magnitude of your parcel renders me speechless. Amen."
"Mark, I'll see you in court."
Have you ever heard anybody gush about the love of Christ? Does it sound like that survey I describe above? "Vast! Huge! Indescribable! Beyond measure!" It all sounds very right, a very correct attitude. It conveys that you are really impressed by something that's really impressive. Thanks, I guess.
Ephesians 3:14-19
I bow my knees before the Father,
from whom every family in heaven and on earth derives its name,
that He would grant you, according to the riches of His glory,
to be strengthened with power through His Spirit in the inner man,
so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith;
and that you, being rooted and grounded in love,
may be able to comprehend with all the saints
what is the breadth
and length
and height
and depth,
and to know the love of Christ which surpasses knowledge,
that you may be filled up to all the fullness of God.
If you are a believer, you are a surveyor. Paul is sending us out to the field, giving us instructions to conduct our survey. Our subject parcel is the Love of Christ. He gives us the scope of services.
- Establish benchmarks and control points. All collected data will be adjusted to these monuments. "Be rooted and grounded in love."
- Take measurements and record the data. "What is the breadth and length and height and depth?"
- Process the data and analyze it. "Know the love of Christ which surpasses knowledge, that you may be filled up to all the fulness of God."
Yes, it sounds contradictory. To know something which "surpasses knowledge". To contain the uncontainable. "Filled up to all the fullness of God". I didn't say it, the Survey Manager did.
Notice the part where Paul says, "Comprehend with all the saints." We're not to go out alone. We go out as a field crew. We need several sets of eyes. We need some backup, some help carrying stuff, help chopping brush, help finding monuments, someone to drive if we get snakebit. And when the data is collected, we need someone to organize the data, someone to put together the plat, someone to count the cost. In a mom-and-pop shop, a few people wear different hats, and in a larger shop, the are folks who specialize. But however it happens, it is to happen with all. There is no room for someone who is eating overhead, someone who is not billable to the client. Everybody pitches in.
Is a picture starting to form here? The love of Christ is not some amporphous blob. It appears among His people as a very definite thing. Just because a thing is vast does not mean that it can't be described. The love of Christ has a shape. It has contours. It can be looked at from different angles.
Paul desires that being "rooted and grounded in love" that we would "be able to comprehend with all the saints" the Northing, Easting and Elevation of the love of Christ. And though he says it "surpasses knowlege", we are to know it anyway. And though it seems even a fraction of the "fullness of God" would cause any vessel to burst at the seams, he desires us to be filled up with all of it.
Who are we to question the Survey Manager? Let's load up the truck. Let's make some detailed maps together.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Our Silver Chairs
The following passage is from C.S. Lewis' The Silver Chair. This quote is from Prince Rilian, who has been captive and under a spell of a sorceress, unaware of his identity and his plight except for an hour each day in which he is bound in the Silver Chair. Aslan, the Christ figure of Lewis' tales, has sent three travellers to find Rilian, whom they have met unknowingly in the underworld. Rilian, known to them only as the Knight, asks them to stand watch during his hour of trouble, which he considers a curse.
If you've been a Christian for any time at all, you've heard a quip from the pulpit like, "The real you is how you are when the church isn't looking. It's how you are with your family and friends and coworkers, etc." We hear that, and we all reflect upon our short tempers, our off-color jokes, our office politics, our complaining, our anxiety, our speaking ill of others behind their backs. Not very sporting to point that out, is it? It's shooting fish in a barrel, taking candy from a baby. It sounds so very wise, what observation could be more evident than that? Hypocrites, all of us.
Following the logic of the quipper, imagine the following. "Oh, Sir Knight, we know that while you are in this Silver Chair, it is not the real you. You are only like this for a few minutes each day. It's very convenient for you to talk about Aslan while we Narnians are here. You're trying to impress us. Also, you want to manipulate us. No, the real you is the man who appears the other 23 hours of the day. We've been with you during those hours, and all your talk about Aslan is whitewash."
It sounds very wise to point up hypocrisy in others. It sounds very pious and humble to call ourselves worms and beat our breasts over our weaknesses. Yes, we might talk a good game in the gathering, but we go home and to the office and become our real and crappy selves. Or do we?
Really, who are we?
We get together on Friday night for what we call "prayer fellowship". I have to admit, I'm often weary on Friday, and many times would like to vegetate in a recliner and watch a movie. But when I arrive and begin to share with the brothers and sisters, and enter into prayer with them, something happens. It is like sitting in my own Silver Chair. For this brief time together before the Lord and before the travellers, I am sane. This is the real me.
As our three travellers witness the transformation of the Knight, so too our brothers and sisters witness our own transformations when we come before one another, and adjure one another in the name of our Lord. And maybe our plea is similar. "Set me free."
The travellers released the Knight from the chair, released him from being bound to that one hour, that he could be in his right mind all the time, that he would from then on be reckoned as Prince Rilian. Isn't that an outstanding aspiration, to know ourselves (and be known) as we really are, a Son or Daughter of the King? Not just for an hour here and there, but for all our hours?
And this is the truth of the matter, that deep down we do not equal our failure. Our failure no longer defines us. In us, in the pit of our being, is something else. Christ. In us. We are altogether a new creation.
That person who offers that earnest prayer, that's really me. That person who opens his mouth to build up the brothers, that's really me. Wherever Christ issues forth, that's the real me.
We experience tempations, doubts, anxiety, lusts, anger. It can feel like darkness is radiating from the inside out. But we are told we are like a lamp inside, and that light can be covered as if with a basket. In other words, the darkness is pressed in from outside. It is Christ being veiled, Christ in us being supressed. The darkness is not our identity, it is something that is happening to us. We are being afflicted from the outside, our light being veiled.
The solution to our hypocrisy is not to suppress the darkeness, but rather to release the light. Let's not suppress Christ in us, but rather unveil to one another, even if it seems awkward or hypocritical.
Furthermore, if we can view ourselves this way, how much more glorious for the Body if we can view one another this way. When a saint gets caught up in depression, anger, doubt, and the many other things which grieve the Body, we can earnestly say, "This is not the real him. He is afflicted. Circumstances are veiling his light, but we know that within him is Christ. Let us contend for his release."
"Come in, friends, the fit is not yet upon me. Make no noise, for I told that prying chamberlain that you were in bed. Now . . . I can feel it coming. Quick! Listen while I am master of myself. When the fit is upon me, it well may be that I shall beg and implore you, with entreaties and threatenings, to loosen my bonds. They say I do. I shall call upon you by all that is most dear and most dreadful. But do not listen to me. Harden your hearts and stop your ears. For while I am bound you are safe. But if once I were up and out of this chair, then first would come my fury, and after that, the change into a loathsome serpent...
Quick! I am sane now. Every night I am sane. If only I could get out of this enchanted chair, it would last. I should be a man again. But every night they bind me, and so every night my chance is gone. But you are not enemies. I am not your prisoner. Quick! Cut these cords...I beseech you to hear me. Have they told you that if I am released from this chair I shall kill you and become a serpent? I see by your faces that they have. It is a lie. It is at this hour that I am in my right mind: it is all the rest of the day that I am enchanted. You are not Earthmen nor witches. Why should you be on their side? Of your courtesy, cut my bonds. Believe me, you look upon a wretch who has suffered almost more than any mortal can bear. What wrong have I ever done you, that you should side with my enemies to keep me in such miseries? And the minutes are slipping past. Now you can save me; when this hour has passed, I shall be witless again - the toy and lap-dog, nay, more likely the pawn and tool, of the most devilish sorceress that ever planned the woe of men. And this night, of all nights, when she is away! You take from me a chance that may never come again. Beware. One night I did break them. But the witch was there that time. You will not have her to help you tonight. Free me now, and I am your friend. I'm your mortal enemy else...Once and for all, I adjure you to set me free. By all fears and all loves, by the bright skies of Overland, by the great Lion, by Aslan himself, I charge you."
If you've been a Christian for any time at all, you've heard a quip from the pulpit like, "The real you is how you are when the church isn't looking. It's how you are with your family and friends and coworkers, etc." We hear that, and we all reflect upon our short tempers, our off-color jokes, our office politics, our complaining, our anxiety, our speaking ill of others behind their backs. Not very sporting to point that out, is it? It's shooting fish in a barrel, taking candy from a baby. It sounds so very wise, what observation could be more evident than that? Hypocrites, all of us.
Following the logic of the quipper, imagine the following. "Oh, Sir Knight, we know that while you are in this Silver Chair, it is not the real you. You are only like this for a few minutes each day. It's very convenient for you to talk about Aslan while we Narnians are here. You're trying to impress us. Also, you want to manipulate us. No, the real you is the man who appears the other 23 hours of the day. We've been with you during those hours, and all your talk about Aslan is whitewash."
It sounds very wise to point up hypocrisy in others. It sounds very pious and humble to call ourselves worms and beat our breasts over our weaknesses. Yes, we might talk a good game in the gathering, but we go home and to the office and become our real and crappy selves. Or do we?
Really, who are we?
We get together on Friday night for what we call "prayer fellowship". I have to admit, I'm often weary on Friday, and many times would like to vegetate in a recliner and watch a movie. But when I arrive and begin to share with the brothers and sisters, and enter into prayer with them, something happens. It is like sitting in my own Silver Chair. For this brief time together before the Lord and before the travellers, I am sane. This is the real me.
As our three travellers witness the transformation of the Knight, so too our brothers and sisters witness our own transformations when we come before one another, and adjure one another in the name of our Lord. And maybe our plea is similar. "Set me free."
The travellers released the Knight from the chair, released him from being bound to that one hour, that he could be in his right mind all the time, that he would from then on be reckoned as Prince Rilian. Isn't that an outstanding aspiration, to know ourselves (and be known) as we really are, a Son or Daughter of the King? Not just for an hour here and there, but for all our hours?
And this is the truth of the matter, that deep down we do not equal our failure. Our failure no longer defines us. In us, in the pit of our being, is something else. Christ. In us. We are altogether a new creation.
That person who offers that earnest prayer, that's really me. That person who opens his mouth to build up the brothers, that's really me. Wherever Christ issues forth, that's the real me.
We experience tempations, doubts, anxiety, lusts, anger. It can feel like darkness is radiating from the inside out. But we are told we are like a lamp inside, and that light can be covered as if with a basket. In other words, the darkness is pressed in from outside. It is Christ being veiled, Christ in us being supressed. The darkness is not our identity, it is something that is happening to us. We are being afflicted from the outside, our light being veiled.
The solution to our hypocrisy is not to suppress the darkeness, but rather to release the light. Let's not suppress Christ in us, but rather unveil to one another, even if it seems awkward or hypocritical.
Furthermore, if we can view ourselves this way, how much more glorious for the Body if we can view one another this way. When a saint gets caught up in depression, anger, doubt, and the many other things which grieve the Body, we can earnestly say, "This is not the real him. He is afflicted. Circumstances are veiling his light, but we know that within him is Christ. Let us contend for his release."
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