Life Boats and Fire Escapes

The world is a dangerous place, even though most days it doesn’t even occur to us – the terror and the beauty of this world coexists, all the same. There are dragons at the edges of our map, reminding us that certainty has its limits, and that what is unknown to us cannot be tamed by a carefully calculated life – for we all get caught in the jagged teeth of circumstance regardless of the plans we make. So we hedge our bets, we gird our loins, and we keep one eye over our shoulder . . . just in case. We want to believe that the glass is half full – but it is the empty half of the glass that most haunts us.

Modern man might mock the ancient world for hiding behind its mythology and ritual, but in truth, he has come no closer to subduing his own fears and anxieties, despite his talisman of technology and the soothsaying of his scientific conjecture. Because in the end, modern man has only created the illusion of certainty within the self-affirming vacuum of his own rationality. So trust me when I tell you, reality remains unimpressed with our vain explanations of how the world is supposed to work.

I suppose this is why survival pragmatism is the holy grail of the non-theist paradigm – because it’s the only force in the universe they can pretend has purpose . . . worshipping survival for survival’s sake. And because survival is paramount, we’ve been taught to entrust our vaunted experts to regularly inform us of when impending doom is on the horizon. Because no matter how contrived or speculative the news, we’re inclined to believe it – we’d much rather see the boogieman of calamity coming at us, than to have him blindside us, unaware . . . we’d much rather trust in the predictable certainty of our fears, than place faith in a hope that we can’t control.

If we imagine a world without God, the pragmatism of survival is the most logical conclusion, given the fragile predicament of our vulnerable existence – because the predicament is real. So for those of us who believe in God the impulse to identify the safest exits out, very often becomes the predominate feature of our theology. For some it becomes an obsession, because if the whole thing is going down in flames – you better know where the life boats and fire escapes are. For such people, the predicament of a dangerous world has become so preoccupying, they can hardly recognize the beauty also present in each moment . . . because all they can see is a world moving, like a car crash running in slow motion towards its inevitable destruction and demise.

But when I think of Jesus, I don’t see him as a meal ticket, free ride out of town before the whole thing blows – because I don’t view my own survival as the centerpiece of my theology. Survival has no meaning, in and of itself – so making it to the next level holds no enticement for me . . . without Jesus. Rather, I am seduced by the beauty of the narrative of a God who sees me in my predicament and chooses to love me, entreating me to come and be with him. Therefore the terror and the beauty of this world are essential to how I’ve come to understand the narrative of the life God has given me. So as for that glass half full – I think I’ll just drink it dry and trust that God will refill it.

. . . and when I go — it’ll be love carrying me home.

An Explainable Afterlife (3 of 3)

Unconsciously we all entertain the theory that our own perception of reality, is reality itself – convinced that the only reliable point of reference is our own experiential understanding of the world. But because circumstances are ever shifting beneath our feet, we stay in a perpetual state of reframing our perspective, so as to interpret each event within our already presupposed expectation of meaning and significance. And this is the self-affirming bubble within which both the scientific and the religious person exists — each confident in the conviction of their dogma, each offering their explanation of what is . . . as well as, what is to come.

But before you congratulate yourself for not having been taken in by the overstated conjecture of popularized scientific claims, or fundamentalist notions of religious dogma – you might want to take a moment and consider the hubris that hides beneath your own assumptions and explanations. Because the uncomfortable truth of the matter is, we all pretend to know far more than we actually know – so invariably, we rehearse aloud our theories and interpretations of the world with one another, as if we were speaking indisputable facts.

When discussing philosophy with an atheist, you’ll find that they’re very eager to establish early on how they’re the one being rational – ironically, without offering a single rational argument for what makes their opinion rational . . . completely unaware rationality requires a criteria for contextualizing their opinion. But it isn’t that they can offer incontrovertible evidence that God doesn’t exist, because such evidence doesn’t actually exist — no, what they really want you to know, that even within their ignorance as to whether God actually exists or not, they’re pretty sure they’re the ones best qualified to answer the question . . . a rather self-serving perspective.

You’d think there would be far more humility when addressing questions so profoundly beyond our ability to prove — but that would under estimate human hubris. So when I hear Christians debating over what the afterlife looks like, whether it will be the judgements of heaven or hell, or the expectation of universal salvation – I get the sneaking suspicion that each believes they’re the ones making the most rational argument . . . each convinced their method for understanding the question – is unquestionably sure. And I find such unbridled theological certainty, only a little less insufferable than listening to the wild eschatological machinations of someone with charts and graphs explaining the end of the world.

My point isn’t to suggest that you shouldn’t have opinions about heaven and hell, or what happens at the end of time – my point is that we shouldn’t be so preoccupied with such unknowable things, that we don’t live presently in the admonitions of our faith. I so much more prefer the simplicity of Paul’s words “For I decided to know nothing among you except Jesus Christ and him crucified” ~ 1 Corinthians 2:2. We should never lose track of the centrality of The Cross – for whatever certainty we find in our Christian faith, it is not found in the vanity of our speculations, it solely relies on the finished work of Christ on the cross.

“. . . toward that hilltop where the road forever becomes one with the sky”

An Explainable World (2 of 3)

It has long been the underlying mission of modernity to seek to unpack an explainable world that the rest of us can understand – attempting to incrementally demystify the unknown into manageable bits of information that we can leverage against the future with an unwavering hope that somehow science would be able to offer us a sufficient enough purpose to pursue that future . . . before we all lose heart. But post-modernism has already chosen to opt out, having already packed its bags, choosing to end this epistemological charade – having gone off in search of some self-affirming pronounced reality it is willing to embrace . . . one made in its own image.

This is the bipolar malaise our culture finds itself in – torn between the hard facts of empiricism and the cognitive dissonance of existential desire . . . ever tugging at the fabric of reality, ever hoping to smooth out the impossible wrinkles of its own discontent and fear. For there are few things that are quite as unsettling as an existence that can’t be explained. But because our questions about the meaning of our own existence seldom escapes the vague abstraction of our conscious minds – we are left to ask them within the subtext of all the things we do that give our lives any sense of purpose.

It is a secular confession to believe that life has meaning – even if they can’t quite put their finger on exactly why . . . making it a faith confession, of sorts. And it is the confession of my Christian faith to believe that life finds all of its meaning in God . . . even though we can’t explain exactly how it works. For only by faith am I willing to be humble enough to realize that explanations are almost always self-serving – tempting me to trust my own understanding of the world to guide my path.

And here’s the crux of the problem – we want an explainable world so we can place our faith in our own understanding. No doubt, this is why Proverbs 3:5 reminds us to “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding” – knowing full well that placing faith in our own understanding, is in fact, in direct competition with our faith in God. Which is likely why verse 6 completes the thought “In all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight” – because humble submission is the way of Christ.

Here’s the thing — we crave the certainty that we imagine an explainable world would offer us . . . a world we can predict, if not control. But the certainty that God offers us is found in his immutable character, requiring us to pursue him above all else, that we might know him in his fullness (Ephesians 3:19) – a fullness that “surpasses knowledge”, a fullness that can only be experienced in the love of Christ. In the light of such love all other knowledge seems foolish, because all other explanations of the world become empty and lifeless, when compared to the love of God found in Christ.

. . . and remember — it’s a great big world.

An Explainable You (1 of 3)

Traveling at the speed of life, we don’t actually know what we think we know, it would be more accurate to say that we are in a constant state of interpretation – constantly reframing our point of reference, in subconscious ways, making micro adjustments. And because we exist within so many layers of context, each insisting upon preeminence – we invariably create a short-hand for triaging our response to each unfolding circumstance. This is all done intuitively, instinctively, pre-cognitively – we are far more complex beings than we could ever hope to completely comprehend . . . but that doesn’t keep us from wanting to imagine a far more explainable version of ourselves.

This is why we are tempted to over-simplify our understanding of reality, vainly anticipating it should conform to our expectations – desperate to reconcile the world we presuppose with the one that actually exists. And all this would merely be an academic distraction if it weren’t so profoundly primal to our self-perception. Yet we leave it in abstraction — allowing the transience of circumstance and the unfiltered narratives of others to contextualize us. For when we allow the explanation of who we are to become ambiguous – invariably, alternative explanations rush into that vacuum.

Now, all of this might seem a bit like a trip down a rabbit hole, until it occurs to you that our culture has already assigned to you a social demographic profile that it expects you to live up to – it’s a readymade explanation of who you’re supposed to be. Such a bloodless explanation is built entirely upon the cultural sub-groups of which you are a member. It’s a calculation meant to subvert any notion of who you are as an individual. Therefore, your only significance is as a constituent member of a group, and who you are as a person has been made largely inconsequential. And that’s just the ditch on one side of the road.

The ditch on the other side of the road is the specious belief that you can be whatever you want to be – that you can somehow simply pronounce your significance into existence. Such a self-affirming solipsism assumes an empty canvas without any preexisting context, and that all relational interactions you experience only have value as you are being served by them. Within this self-involved narrative of your own importance, you’re subconsciously tempted to imagine yourself as self–existing . . . even though only God can be self-existing.

These are the distorted explanations of you that a fallen world offers – either you are to be subjugated by the anonymity of tribal group-think, or you are to be beguiled by the self-delusion of believing that your significance in this world can be conjured up as an act of will. But there is a simpler explanation of you that normally takes a lifetime to unpack – you are the beloved of God! And if you can begin to wrap your head around this foundational reality – then not only will you begin to develop a truer perspective of yourself, you will also begin to recognize the role you play in the life of other’s . . . a role to which God is calling you. So not only is it a practical and workable explanation of you – it’s a fundamental explanation of everything else.

. . . so we place our faith in the one who is able to redeem all things.

A Quixotic Moment

It could be argued that the whole of human history has been a story of man doing what he thinks is right in his own eyes. Therefore there have always been competing visions for what justice should look like, giving rise to competing narratives of how justice is achieved. Each narrative voiced in the political rhetoric of its day, each offering its rationale for why it should be given power to impose its version of justice on the rest of us. So historically our experience of human justice has been characterized by subtle shades of violence and oppression – because invariably each narrative becomes fully realized as just another iteration of an imposed will, indicative of Babylon.

God’s justice is understood, first and foremost, ontologically before it can ever be understood sociologically. So one cannot have a meaningful conversation about what justice should look like until they have answered the question – what is it that gives human life value? Either it is a value assigned immutably sourced in the transcendence of God, or it is a value oscillating in the transience of cultural ethos. Therefore we do well as Christians to remember that it is our confession of imago dei that animates our Christian understanding of justice.

There are those who entertain narratives of justice that appear similarly motivated, but are in all actuality nothing more than repackaged political rhetoric, fueled by existentially pronounced morality. Such purveyors of manufactured justice imagine themselves as heroically rising to the challenge of some quixotic moment in history, where they can finally prove their worth . . . and justify their own existence. Some take to the streets, using violence if necessary, to prove their commitment – while others simply virtue signal their lockstep conformity to whatever the latest version of culturally coerced dogma might be.

So the contrast between the two couldn’t be any more evident. One view, believing that justice is a malleable human construct, one that must be regularly reinvented as a sociological mandate imposing conformity. Which is why it must intimidate all dissenting views into silent compliance – because the subtext of such a belief sees fear as the prime motivator of justice. But for those of us who hold imago dei as an ontological starting point for understanding the value of human life, the role of justice is intended to remind us of who we are — like gravity constantly reminding us of what planet we live on. Everything about God’s creation is purposeful, ever drawing us back to him, ever calling us to live our lives as bearers of his image.

So yes, as a Christian I have an unflinching commitment to what is just, but not as some grandiose proclamation about how others should live their lives – but rather as a meditation on what pleases God most (Micah 6:8). I seek to walk humbly with my God, by doing what is just, and by loving mercy. And I invite others to do likewise, so that they may live at peace with God . . . and one another. To imagine that justice could be sought any other way, is to misunderstand why you even exist . . . because justice can’t really be understood apart from the perspective of being made in God’s image.

Let us pray that God would illuminate the shadows . . .

A Thousand Stars Laughing

For those who have read C.S. Lewis’ classic: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe — the temptation to touch the back wall of an old unfamiliar closet, like a flickering frame of subconscious hesitation, creates a moment’s pause of suspended disbelief. Meanwhile, quantum mechanics ardently entertains various theories of alternate and concomitant dimensions of existence, believing the fabric of reality vibrates like harmonic strings symphonically resonating the universe into being. So it would seem, whether fiction or physics, the notion that layers of reality somehow linger in unseen realms just beyond sight – seems to us, both unreal and hyper-real at the same time.

We have an intuition, likely buried somewhere in the back of that old closet, that knows that life is supposed to have a far greater bandwidth than how we’re currently experiencing it – as if we were merely floating above the deepest part of the ocean on a cloudy day . . . held motionless by the otherness of water, above and below. So in an over simplified frame of reference we tend to imagine that a dichotomy must exist between our normal experiences of life, and the fully formed, God spoken reality of creation . . . so invariably we end up pushing what goes unseen by us, into a vague abstraction.

Between the distortions of the gnostic and the nominalist, we’re given to a mercurial view of how flesh and bone is to be reconciled with ethereal spirit – feeling a resident dissonance, like the polarity of magnets repelling, keeping the two realms held apart. Undoubtedly, this is why we end up treating them as two separate worlds – an embodied world, practical and predictable; and a disembodied world where the mystery of all the grand themes are being played out undetected. But what would it be like to have a more integrated perspective?

In this way, faith becomes the garment we must don when stepping from the mundane into mystery, because it allows us to see the fully dimensional world of God’s creation . . . where all things are working together. For all things exist in God, so all things were intended to declare his glory — which is why all things are ultimately reconciled in him . . . removing the veil hiding his glory (2 Corinthians 3:16-18). So for those who have turned to God in faith, they have been set free to see his glory in all things. Therefore it is the splendor of God’s glory that animates our holy imagination, enabling us to see his hand at work in everything . . . even in the smallest of details.

So with his praise on our lips, we join in on the song that the entire universe is already vibrating with — on every dimension. It’s in the pirouette of leaves falling on an autumn wind. It traces along the lines of his signature woven into the detail of a blade of grass. It’s found in the squinting sunlight, dancing in the tops of trees swaying gracefully on a spring morning. And on a clear cold night, you can feel the star-flung sky pulling you up into heaven where a thousand stars are laughing with the joy of the Lord, delighting in his presences . . . inviting you to join them.

. . . and it’s all there — just past sight

Between “It Is” and “I Am” (6 of 6)

“Yes, very nice – but what does it mean?” This is the question the artist hears most often, in regards to their work — asked in a matter-of-fact way, as if getting to the bottom line were the whole point of creating art. Needless to say, it’s an awkward question for the artist to answer. Because if it were a question that could easily be answered – then what would be the point of creating the art? Is art supposed to be nothing more than a clever way of making obvious statements? If that’s it – then why bother? This is the problem with trying to explain the transcendent – every explanation of it reduces it . . . robbing it of the very quality that makes it transcendent.

It has long been the ambition of the modern era to search out an explainable answer for everything that exists, predicated on the assumption that whatever “it is” – it can be explained. It’s the belief that comprehension is merely a matter of a thorough examination of all of the working parts; all of the cause and effect dynamics; and all of the variant outcomes – because within the materialist framing of the universe nothing happens without a discernable explanation. All of this creates the illusion that our own understanding of things will lead us to a better outcome – as if all our choices were a simple matter of sifting through all the data for the best possible answer.

So now, imagine yourself as Moses standing barefoot talking to a flaming bush that never burns up, and out of that bush came the voice of God telling you to go back to Egypt, where you’re a fugitive, wanted for murder — so that you can tell the Pharaoh he’s got to set all of his Hebrew slaves free. Now, what part of this sounds to you even remotely explainable – other than as hallucination? Is it any wonder Moses had to take off his shoes? Clearly, he was no longer where he thought he was – he was in the presence of the transcendent . . . and now, his entire frame of reference has been shifted . . . never to be explained in the same way again.

I’m inclined to take this story of Moses (Exodus 3) as a template for how we encounter the transcendence of God. Because in a universe where we imagine ourselves the ultimate arbiters of “what is”, assuming that we have a sufficient understanding of existence – God declares himself “I AM”. . . and exposes just how inadequate our perception can be. For God is the only reality, because all things exist in him – therefore there isn’t an alternate reality of which we get to be the self-appointed curators . . . so there can be no claims of “it is” until we’ve reckoned with “I AM”.

In John 8:58 “Jesus said to them, “Truly, truly, I say to you, before Abraham was, I am.” In response the crowd begins to pick up stones, reacting to such blatant blasphemy – because by claiming such a thing, Jesus was clearly revealing himself as God . . . a transcendent epiphany, setting the captive free. For the true nature of who I am, as the beloved of Christ, is no longer confined by the shallow dimension of “it is”, rather I am released into the vast expanse of God’s endless love that constitutes the “I AM” of Jesus.

So perhaps, we need to learn to walk barefoot through this life we’re given . . .

Between Guilt and Shame (5 of 6)

Whether it’s that queasy unsettled sense of fear that resides in your subconscious mind that you might somehow be discovered as incapable of being the person, that everyone you know expects you to be, or it’s just in the general way that our culture is able to insinuate judgement of us whenever we lack acceptable levels of compliance to social norms – guilt and shame are busily at work, like emotional gremlins whispering the half-truths of our conflicted minds. This of course makes true vulnerability nearly impossible – because apparently we never know when guilt might show up like a crowbar and start prying open that box of shame we keep hidden away.

To the mind’s eye, there’s not even a flicker of daylight between guilt and shame – conceptually, we can’t help but imagine them as inseparably intertwined. But we do well, to consider them separately if we want to understand them better. Guilt is largely a moral/legal framing of behavior – all the things we do, consider doing, or leave undone, each action screened for malady and defect, each one scrutinized and held to account. But shame is far more complex – more than reductive forensics could ever hope to identify or sort out.

Our default impulse is to believe that it is our guilt that makes us feel shame, when in truth it is invariably our shame causing guilty behavior. Shame is native to the human psyche – it is the lingering taste in our mouth from eating of the bitter fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. And now we can’t simply un-know our own shame – it resides in us, ever reminding us of the nakedness of our vulnerability . . . a knowing of ourselves set apart from God. In this way, every guilty thought points us back to our shame — the shame that’s innate to the distance we feel between us and God.

You know full well the naked truth of who you actually are, beneath the camouflage of your pretense and postured self-presentation . . . and you know God does too. And it is from this locked away truth deep within you where your shame allows guilt to constantly hold court with every expectation of finding a guilty verdict. And this is precisely how your shame becomes weaponized against you. We find it at the epicenter of every co-dependent relationship, and it is also infused into the manipulative language of religious, political, and consumerist communication . . . for this is how they prey on our ultimate weakness.

But guilt no longer has power over us when our shame has been freely and humbly confessed – because this is the nakedness of innocence (Genesis 2:25). We stand before God, not with the feeble garments of our own vain explanations, stitched together with the lies we tell ourselves – rather, we stand naked an unashamed in the mercies of God . . . where a robe and a ring await our arrival (Luke 15:22), and we celebrate being clothed in salvation within the robes of righteousness (Isaiah 61:10).

A long journey of faith is a testimony to the faithfulness of God.
This is a song I wrote many years ago, and recently recorded at my daughter’s house.

Between Fact and Fiction (4 of 6)

When two people disagree it is unlikely ever over what the facts might be, but rather, over what the facts might mean . . . as facts are not actually self-explaining. The whole of existence is a smorgasbord of factual data awaiting our assessment. If I were to tell you that 99.9% of the people in car accidents had eaten carrots at some point in their life, you likely wouldn’t debate whether my statement was factual, as much as you’d question the relevance of such a curious statistic – correctly observing that correlation doesn’t demonstrate causation . . . making this statistic an irrelevant fact. 

Because facts are inescapably given weight and context by human evaluation, David Hume, a mid-eighteenth century philosopher, concluded – “Reason is, and ought only to be the slave of the passions.” He reasoned that if facts can only have the significance assigned by the way we contextualize them, then they are inextricably subject to our emotional bias. With the spark of this premise, Hume ignites a philosophical blaze, influencing generations of philosophical thought.

Among those influenced by Hume, is Hegel, who declared that “The rational alone is real.” – his nominalist dictum. Within this paradigm, reality is logically sorted out in a notional dialectic – thesis in conflict with antithesis renders synthesis. So for Hegel the relevant facts are discovered in synthesis. At first the logical sophistry of this premise seems like an effective rebuttal of Hume’s argument — until you remember that Hegel’s entire thesis relies on the human mind to evaluate the significance of facts . . . which is Hume’s point.

My point isn’t to mire you in philosophical academic trivia, but rather to lay the ground work for recognizing how what we identify as facts don’t actually exist in a vacuum, but are contextualized by the narrative we give to them. In this regard, the difference between fact and fiction becomes almost indistinguishable . . . our experience of each shaped by the narrative we’re already inclined to validate. Which likely explains why debates on social media often devolve into ridiculously overstated displays of pseudo-intellectual posturing, each insisting that their facts are indisputable.

Facts are inconsequential, if ultimately there is no point to existence — which is to say, without a transcendent ontology, facts are pointless. On the other hand, if we exist for a reason, then every fact resonates, on some level, with this purposefulness. So if I am left to choose a narrative I trust to interpret the facts, it will always be one in harmony with a transcendent ontology – otherwise, what’s the point? This is what it means to allow your Christian faith to contextualize your understanding of the world. It is the humble confession of my faith that the most important things in life aren’t best explained in terms of incontrovertible facts — but instead, is a narrative that best reconciles us to our own existence. Which is why I tend to think Paul may have said it best – “For I decided to know nothing among you except Jesus Christ and him crucified.” (1 Corinthians 2: 2).

. . . but the beauty of the Christian narrative isn’t without
some factual considerations

Between Sorrow and Joy (3 of 6)

Life is what you make it.” Seems like a simple enough formula – loosely defined enough so as to allow an abstract interpretation. It’s assumption is that life is but an empty container, awaiting whatever it is you want to pour into it – so that it’s contents are up to you to decide. But the trouble is, that’s not actually how life happens. Because even though intentionality plays an important role in how we approach our lives – we are still incapable of escaping the contingent disposition of our existence. So in many ways, like it or not, it is the erratic nature of every event and relationship in our lives that invariably shape and reshape us . . . regardless of our intentions.

Even when we experience life unfolding in the carefully predictable ways we’ve proportioned it — there still remains the hovering uncertainty of circumstances beyond our control, lingering in the shadows of alternative outcomes. Inevitably these circumstances overtake us, challenging the flexibility of what we consider normative, until we’ve become stretched — pulled out of our complacency. And in that moment of being stretched we catch a glimpse of a fully dimensional life, where the lows plummet subterranean, and the highs scrap the atmospheric canopy . . . because this is the space between sorrow and joy.

All too often we live our lives in a state of emotional compression. We think that by limiting our exposure to the sorrow, we’ll somehow experience more joy. But little do we realize, the more energy we put into building an emotional floor beneath our feet, an emotional ceiling is simultaneously being installed above our heads. This is how our relationship with sorrow and joy works – either we end up emotionally guarding our experience of each, or we release ourselves fully to the experience both . . . that we might know the emotional depth of each.

A fully dimensional life requires a far wider emotional bandwidth than most of us are willing to maintain. Having experienced enough hardship in our lives our default setting is to brace for impact, dreading the eminent expiration of ephemeral happiness. Therefore the simple joys of life go unrecognized, no longer capable of moving our emotional needle – leading us to seek out vacuous amusements and distractions . . . just so we might feel something. But for those who’ve had a near death experience, peering into the abyss of their own mortality – they become recalibrated, if only briefly, to the preciousness of every moment given to them as a gift.

It is the confession of my faith that I will fear nothing but God. But it is not done as a risk assessment intent on limiting my exposure to all the things that I might fear – rather it is the confession that I am held in God’s hand amidst lament, as well as laughter. So I will live present in every moment, walking through darkness into light. And it will be a sojourn together – “Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.” (Romans 12:15). For this is the way of Christ – to live fearlessly between the sorrow and the joy.

“Well, it’s one for sorrow, two for joy — so they say”

Between Fear and Faith (2 of 6)

Precaution is our natural instinct to danger. It’s a rational assessment of risk, realistically calculating our likely exposure to harm contrasted with being able to live our lives unencumbered by fear. Reasonable people may disagree with what percentage of exposure to harm they’re willing to live with before engaging in various measures of precaution. But what constitutes reasonable and rational, very often is interpreted on a sliding scale – allowing the phobic, possessed of irrational fear to assume that they too are simply being reasonably precautious . . . and there is no arguing with their calculations, because by definition, there is no argument irrational fear will ever be willing to hear.

Fear is arguably the most conspicuous impediment to faith — for it can quickly imagine every obstacle and scenario of calamity associated with every choice we make . . . preemptively compromising any confession of faith we may be inclined to speak. This likely occurs because we’ve allowed fear to masquerade as the rational voice of reason for too long, convincing us that being in control is how we keep calamity at bay. But believing we can control our exposure to every possible circumstance is the grand illusion of an irrational mind . . . which is why fear is best understood as a liar.

A lie can only thrive where the truth has been obscured – which is to say, a reasonable rationale has to be concocted in order for a lie to obfuscate the true nature of our circumstance. In other words, a lie requires an entire contextualized fictional narrative before it can appear reasonable – until our perspective has become so skewed that all of our fears begin to call the shots . . . pretending it will always protect us from the ugly truth about the world around us. Conversely, faith is not afraid of the truth.

The common misconception about faith is that it’s somehow at odds with rational thinking, suggesting that a person of faith is being irrational. It’s a misconception usually held by someone incapable of explaining the rationality of their own views without a self-affirming definition of rationality. But I would say faith is better explained as being beyond rational. Because rationality can only ever be an existential assessment of value, it will always be limited to the scope of the person making the assessment. In this regard, faith is more than willing to go as far as rationality . . . and then go beyond it – a distance that fear dare not go.

“So Jesus said to the Jews who had believed him, ‘If you abide in my word, you are truly my disciples, and you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” ~ John 8:31, 32. It is our relationship with the truth that eventually distinguishes our path between fear and faith. Faith is willing to humbly confess that truth is immutably transcendent, and then fearlessly accepts its conclusion – while fear can only linger in the shifting shadows of half-truths and out-right lies. To have faith is to look beyond your own understanding (Proverbs 3:5) . . . whereas, to have fear inevitably leads to being trapped in the rationale of your own understanding.

I’m not sure why, but this old Jackson Browne song
seems to always make me ponder the space between fear and faith

Between Knowing and Doing (1 of 6)

Have you ever found yourself asking “How could they choose to do such a thing, don’t they know better?” The innate assumption here, is that knowledge informs our volition and that volition ignites our actions – thereby suggesting that modifying our behavior begins with choosing to know the right things. Which seems like a simple enough linear explanation, until you realize – how could you ever hope to recognize what was right, in order to make that choice? In other words – what knowing would inform that choice? Which is why I think this is precisely where we misunderstand how volition works – it isn’t catalyzed by what we know . . . but rather, by what we desire.

It likely doesn’t surprise you to find out that what you desire most would turn out to be the engine of your will – because it makes absolute sense. But it does beg the question – are our desires merely capricious, promiscuously susceptible to the passions of any given moment? Or do our desires reflect who we imagine ourselves to be, in a world we imagine we understand? I would argue that the way we define ourselves is the cultivated soil best suited for germinating our desires. So conversely, it could be said, that what you desire most, becomes a window in on how you’ve come to define yourself.

We see this most clearly played out in the life of someone who struggles with a conspicuous addiction – as they have obviously allowed what they desire most to define everything else about their lives. We can see who they’ve chosen to be because their actions have exposed their desire. But does that mean we should understand our actions as a binary indicator of our desires? Or is it more likely that we all live lives of conflicted desires – exposing the fact that we are unclear as to exactly who we think we are? Does not the Apostle Paul seem to be rehearsing out loud this very conflict in Romans 7:18-25? . . . a palpable conflict struggled with daily.

I am both omnivores in my diet, and heterosexual in my sexuality, but I hardly ever think of myself as such, as a way of self-identifying – because those desires are largely inconsequential to how I define myself. As a matter of proportion — if I allow these desires to become disproportionate, then they begin to skew my understanding of myself, distorting my will, and contaminating every choice I make. We do best to remember that we were created to desire God above all else — but as St Augustine correctly observes, our fallen state has disordered our relationship to desire to the point where every other desire we have actively seeks to displace what only God can satisfy. Which is why we can so often experience our will as promiscuously set a drift.

Some might suggest that this is a simple matter of mortifying the flesh, as if having conflicted desires were nothing more than a lack of willpower – but this seems to ignore that our volition can only act upon desire. But thankfully, Paul reminds us of who we are in Christ — “for it is God who works in you, both to will and to work for his good pleasure.” ~ Philippians 2:13. So we are not only empowered by God to do what pleases him most, but our will is being empowered, as well. For he is ever at work in us, drawing us to himself – ontologically, he is recalibrating us to the default settings of Eden . . . to be at peace with him. To be sure, this doesn’t make our experience of conflicted desire go away – but like the North Star, it clearly points us to the desire that best defines us as the beloved of God. . . where all other desires are being brought into submission to authentically want most what God is changing within us.

. . . then let your confession be — take my life.

Embracing the Burden

It’s in our adolescence when we’re supposed to learn to appreciate the innate symbiosis that exists between privilege and responsibility – learning that the more latitude we’re given to explore our own adulthood, the more we’re supposed to take on the burden of our own actions. At least, this is how it’s meant to work – clearly, some folks never got that memo. While still others, strain and chafe under the coupling of privilege and responsibility, as if adulthood were an ill-fitting suit, binding them in all the wrong places, while being far too loose in others. No doubt, adulting is a process that takes a life time to master . . . and some never do.

Some people take on burdens of their own creation, burdens born of incubated fear and perpetuated self-loathing — burdens they’ve convinced themselves they must carry because the indiscriminate cruelty of living life somehow demands they live in a prison of their own making. While still others, choose to play hide and seek with anything that even remotely resembles the burden of obligation — happy to allow others to care-take them as if they were children. But God forbid you should actually treat them like children . . . for childishly wanting to escape what the rest of us have the maturity to endure.

These are but two manifestations of shame – feeling inept and overwhelmed, each one turns inward focusing on its own needs, convinced that life is a mine field of bad choices they’d rather avoid walking through . . . in this way, they have allowed shame to measure every step they take. This is what it looks like to imagine that you should be at the center of your own universe. It’s like being in a circus sideshow room full of distorted mirrors bending everything, until the way you perceive the world, and your place in it, has completely lost any sense of proportion.

In contrast, it is the life that is turned outward, to the needs of others, that often becomes the life with a more fully-formed perspective — willing to live a life shared with others . . . a life, by design, we were always meant to live. Learning daily to embrace obligation and responsibility as an essential part of living — because our journey from the narrowing preoccupied self, to the wider world that others occupy, is what best exemplifies imago dei in our world. For this is how the love of God is made known . . . each of us becoming willing servants of love’s summum bonum.

At first, these two quotes of Jesus, appear to be at odds with one another – “And he said to all, “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me.” (Luke 9:23), And — “For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light” (Matthew 11:30). One describing the way of Christ as being a cross we must bear, and the other one seems to suggest that such a burden is easy and light. But how can this be? It can’t be — unless we’re willing to recognize that redemptive sacrifice is not only the calling of Christ . . . it is the way of Christ.

Jesus, God incarnate, lives a missional life of self-sacrifice culminating in the self-emptying choice to endure the cross, reconciling the world unto himself — showing us all what it means to be truly human. And how being truly human will always involve a willingness to enter into one another’s lives, embracing one another’s burdens. And I think this is precisely what Paul has in mind in Galatians 6:2 “Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.” Because to choose Christ is to choose the way of Christ – to live fully-embodied lives where God has placed us, so that we might be a unique expression of his love. And even though it is a burden we must be willing to take up – it is actually Christ within us who carries it . . . as he carries us.

. . . and remember — you need to hold on to that heart.

Stuck Up A Tree

I must have been about six years old, when my younger brother Jon and I were playing in the backyard on a Saturday morning — when Jon had climbed too far up into a tree and became too afraid to come down. I didn’t know what to do – so I went in and got mom. So mom came out and climbed up to where Jon was, but quickly discovered that she couldn’t hold my brother and climb down safely – so I had to go get my dad . . . to get my mom . . . to get my brother. So I know a little something about what it means to be stuck up a tree.

But I suppose we all know, to varying degrees, what it means to be out on a limb, as the metaphor goes – to discover we’ve placed ourselves in a vulnerable and intractable position . . .  wondering how we’re going to back ourselves out of the mess we’ve made. And very often it has been the short-sightedness of our choices that have placed us in our predicament. Because sometimes we see what we want to see, and everything else fades into the background . . . until what we’ve blinded ourselves to, makes itself so conspicuous, that we can’t ignore it any longer.

This is how imagine Zacchaeus ended up becoming a tax-collector for the Romans. There’s a lot of money to be made working for the most powerful empire to have ever existed – besides, it’s better to walk in step with the powers that be, than to be crushed under their heel . . . and a man of small physical stature, living in such cruel times, needs to look after his own. So if he doesn’t seize this opportunity, the Romans will just find someone else to do the job . . . someone else to enjoy those benefits. Surely, everyone could see he had little choice . . .

But then the reality of his choice began to settle in – he had become a pariah to his own people, a traitor profiting from their oppression, bloodlessly shaking them down, regularly stealing from them their dignity . . . and no amount of money could ever hope to rid him of the shame, and loneliness that now haunted his every waking hour. So what had once seemed like a simple matter of common sense to him had become a life of dread and regret. In this way, Zacchaeus found himself out on a limb long before he ever climbed that tree.

I like to think Zacchaeus had heard about Matthew (Matthew 9:9), and wondered what it would be like to just walk away from the comfortable prison he had created for himself. I also like to think Jesus was thinking of Zacchaeus when he told the parable of the Pharisee and the Tax-collector (Luke 18:9-14) – that somehow he could hear Zacchaeus’ quiet cry for God’s mercy to save him from himself. So that by the time Jesus was standing underneath that sycamore tree inviting Zacchaeus to climb down, the mercy of Jesus was on full display . . . to the grumblings of the crowd gathered there (Luke 19:1-10). And I also like to think — that this is the same mercy, inviting you and I to let go of that limb . . . and let Jesus make his home within us.

I can’t help but imagine Zacchaeus’ reaction was similar to Matthew’s in this clip from The Chosen

Speaking With Your Own Voice

If you would have told me, when I was a kid that one day, not only would I have a computer in my home, but I would have one in my pocket — I would have likely asked “why?” I would have been wondering what kind of future would require so much computation. Because how could I have ever possibly imagined the role that the internet would end up playing in everyday life? And it is both, a blessing and a curse, to be sure – it affords us many privileges, and demands of us much responsibility . . . at least that’s the way I think we should appreciate it.

Social media has reconnected me with various groups of people from many different eras of my life, in some cases rekindling old friendships. It also allows me to enjoy pictures of my children and grandchildren, in real-time – a wonderful treasure regularly popping up unexpectedly, making my day brighter. But social media most certainly has a far darker side. There are those who clearly lack discretion in what they post, expressing wince-worthy political or religious opinions – opinions so gracelessly conveyed, with such vitriolic fervor . . . that you can’t even imagine someone being so recklessly unfiltered – knowing their words will now exist in internet perpetuity.

I suppose for some people these days, this is what passes for speaking your mind. But if you’re able to hang in there long enough to observe these mud-slinging food fight extravaganzas, you pick up on the fact that most people aren’t so much speaking their own mind, as they’re just parroting the talking points of their tribe. And while listening to the cognitive dissonance of their remarks, it will likely occur to you that they haven’t actually been internalizing, in a thoughtful way, the opinions they’re spouting, as much as it is an outburst of emotional reaction.

But their remarks end up being haunted with the hollow disembodied echo of someone else’s anger, because they have lost their own voice in the torrent of their emotional meltdown. When our convictions aren’t any more substantive than bumper sticker platitudes and memes – they’re just a poor substitute for real convictions. Because true convictions arise out of a far more deliberative meditative process, where our beliefs emerge from the crucible of our struggle to reconcile the tension between what is, with what ought to be. And it is this very internalizing that produces true conviction.

So is it any wonder that scripture invites us, so many times, to meditate on the Lord, on his word, on his law? For it is his voice that we are learning to hear, until his voice enters into us like the bread and the cup, altering us from the inside out – until our own voice speaks with the simple clarity of God’s love and grace. And even though it is God unmistakably at work within us, we have learned to speak with our own voice – because every word has taken root within our soul, becoming a garden of God’s redemptive love making all things new.

. . . and as we hear ourselves speak —
even we’re surprised at finding God’s words in our mouth.