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.
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