Plank Eyed

The New York Times ran a fascinating article last week on former Senator Gary Hart (http://www.nytimes.com/2014/09/21/magazine/how-gary-harts-downfall-forever-changed-american-politics.html?_r=0). Hart was considered the frontrunner of the Democratic Party in the 1988 presidential election until the Miami Herald exposed that Hart was having an affair. Matt Bai writes about the events that led up to the discovery of the affair, its reporting, and how political journalism changed as a result.

If Nixon’s resignation created the character culture in American politics, then Hart’s undoing marked the moment when political reporters ceased to care about almost anything else. By the 1990s, the cardinal objective of all political journalism had shifted from a focus on agendas to a focus on narrow notions of character, from illuminating worldviews to exposing falsehoods. If post-Hart political journalism had a motto, it would be: “We know you’re a fraud somehow. Our job is to prove it.” Matt Bai.

When I read that last sentence, I thought about by my circle — church world, the evangelical culture. I’m afraid we’re no different. Witch hunts abound. We too have a tendency to look at church leaders and say, “We know you’re a fraud somehow. Our hope is that someone will prove it.” A lot of the times, this comes from legitimate theological or ethical concerns. I am grateful for those committed to integrity and who long for accountability; those who are led by conviction not an agenda and have no political axe to grind. There are a good number of noble and honest people of principle who are not afraid to call someone to the carpet on occasion for the sake of the Kingdom. I’m not talking about these guys. My concern is for those who seek power, notoriety, or pleasure in bringing someone down. Mark Driscoll is the latest in a long line of leaders others enjoy seeing fall from favor and loose their influence. I still think character matters and it seems as though Driscoll has shortcomings, but what if instead piling on, this incident caused us to do our own moral inventory? Isn’t that really what we’re responsible for? Why do we feel better about our own sinfulness when the flaws of someone held in high regard are made known? What does that little sense of joy or gladness we feel at someone’s comeuppance reveal about our own character? What does the fact that we cannot engage in civil discourse with someone with whom we disagree without reacting, pigeon holding, getting off topic, or developing an ulcer say about our own faith?

Quotable — Matt Chandler

Grace-driven effort is violent. It is aggressive. The person who understands the gospel understands that, as a new creation, his spiritual nature is in opposition to sin now, and he seeks not just to weaken sin in his life but to outright destroy it. Out of love for Jesus, he wants sin starved to death, and he will hunt and pursue the death of every sin in his heart until he has achieved success. This is a very different pursuit than simply wanting to be good. It is the result of having transferred one’s affections to Jesus. When God’s love takes hold of us, it powerfully pushes out our own love for other gods and frees our love to flow back to him in true worship. And when we love God, we obey him. The moralist doesn’t operate that way. While true obedience is a result of love, moralistic legalism assumes it works the other way around, that love results from obedience.  (from, Explicit Gospel, p. 217 – 218)

Take the Plunge

Wedding ceremonies and Christmas sermons have one thing in common – most of those in attendance have heard it all before.  I think it’s important for us to be reminded of things we’ve known a while, but I also love it when the minister reads something very familiar and makes observations or applications I hadn’t thought of or heard.  That happened twice this weekend, once at a wedding and then again in a sermon this morning.  Great job Jon & Steve.

One of the things you hear at a wedding is how often the writers of Scripture use marriage illustrations to describe our relationship with God.  If you want a deep discussion on those, read elsewhere.  I was thinking about one of those the other day, specifically about how our propensity for self-protection can negatively affect our relationship with God and with our spouse.  If the driving force in either of those relationships is our comfort, we’re setting ourselves up for frustration.

For whatever reason, there is a reluctance to give ourselves fully to our spouse.  Even though we’ve been told, read books, sought counsel, something within us resists this vulnerability.  We fear that if we give we will somehow loose, be taken advantage of, not get our needs met.  This causes us to operate from a place of self-protection.  Our interpretation of the extent to which our spouse invests in us becomes our barometer for giving to them.  We become hesitant making the first move towards difficult conversations or selfless acts even though we know we should.  Not only is this incredibly frustrating and exhausting, it keeps us from experiencing the depth of intimacy and connection we long for.  Sometimes this approach is justified.  It is understandable for a wounded or neglected spouse to disengage.  But why do we do this with God?

Why do we assume a similar posture with Him?  Why are we afraid to engage, trust, commit, and obey?

Take the plunge.

If you try to hang on to your life, you will lose it.  But if you give up your life for my sake, you will find it. Luke 9:24 (NLT)

Monday Mentor — John Eldredge

I have spent most of my adult years trying to find those keys that would enable people to become whole. Like an archaeologist raking for buried treasure, I’ve combed through the provinces of counseling, spiritual discipline, inner healing, deliverance, addiction recovery – anything that would help me help others get better. Like Schliemann when his shovel struck the buried ruins of Troy, the epiphany I have come to is this:

Jesus has no intention of letting you become whole apart from his moment-to-moment presence and life within you.  from, Beautiful Outlaw

Great Clip

The Fear of the Lord

Transgression speaks to the wicked deep in his heart; there is no fear of God before his eyes. For he flatters himself in his own eyes that his iniquity cannot be found out and hated. The words of his mouth are trouble and deceit; he has ceased to act wisely and do good. He plots trouble while on his bed; he sets himself in a way that is not good; he does not reject evil. (Psalm 36:1-4 ESV)

I’ve never really looked at this portion of Psalm 36 before. Jeremiah writes that the heart is desperately wicked and impossible to be known. Here I think David is echoing some of that sentiment. “Transgression speaks to the wicked deep in his heart.” I think this is talking about not only how sin hardens hearts, but also how it blinds us, makes us unable to discern its presence in our lives.  And he says that “there is no fear of God before his eyes.”

By contrast, Luke writes (Acts 9:31) that the early church walked in the fear of the Lord.   What does it mean to walk in the fear of the Lord?  Those of us raised in church have heard that phrase our entire lives, but do we understand what it means? Much like children whose parents are prominent in the community or distinguished in their profession, our familiarity with the phrase causes us to take its depth and value for granted. In the process, we fail to grasp it’s deep significance.

We tend to assume people know what it means to walk in the fear of the Lord, but I don’t think we really give it much thought, or understand its importance.   Seeing a picture of what the fear of God doesn’t look like might help.  David describes that in this Psalm.

When there is no fear of God in our eyes, transgression speaks deep to our heart. It has our ear, captures our attention, scratches an itch. When there is no fear of God in our eyes, we flatter ourselves, downplay our faults, and ignore character flaws. We can’t see straight, blinded to that which is blatantly obvious to those around us. We’re unable to hear or accept it when someone lovingly tries to correct us. We have ceased to live well. We are oblivious to our folly, iniquity, and recklessness. So much so that we are so far from rejecting evil that our evenings are spent contemplating it (as opposed to Psalm 63). We become set in our way and our way is not good.  Evil is not rejected.  It is embraced.

Monday Mentor — John Ortberg

Public Beliefs are those that I want others to think I believe, whether I do or not… Private beliefs are more subtle.  These are the beliefs I think that I hold, but when circumstances change, they turn out to be fickle… Core beliefs are my fundamental ideas about the way things are.  They demonstrate themselves in what I do… Public beliefs are what people say they believe, private beliefs are what they think they believe; core beliefs are what they actually believe as demonstrated by what they do.

All too often, churches aim merely at public beliefs.  For example, a church attender will claim to believe in the authority of the Bible.  He may be able to give many reasons for believing this. He is convinced of his own sincerity.

However, when you look at his checkbook, he clearly does not believe it is “more blessed to give than to receive.”  When you look at his relationships, he clearly does not believe that “the greatest of these is love.”

The modern western model of education has involved pouring information from the teacher into the student.  It aims at public and private beliefs, without taking seriously how the core beliefs of a human being get changed.  When the church is at its best, it always aims at the level of core beliefs.   (from  A Vision of the Redeemed Life, in Conversations, volume 10.1) 

On Demand God

I was reading of Jesus’ conversation with the Samaritan woman at the well from John 4, and became intrigued with her comment in verse 15: “Sir, give me this water so that I won’t get thirsty and have to keep coming here to draw water.”

This is her version of a prayer I pray all too often, “Lord, make my life easier.”  While I don’t think I’ve ever voiced it that way, I’m pretty sure God has observed that motive in my heart.  Maybe you have a variation, as well.  Most commentators note that the woman comes to draw water during a time of day when she is least likely to encounter someone else.  They believe that drawing and carrying water in the heat of the day is more desirable to her than gathering with the other women of the Sychar whose whispers, cold shoulders, and general disdain remind her of her past.  The woman is asking Jesus to fix what she sees as the most pressing need in her life by lifting the burden of daily responsibility and the consequences of her sin.

It is easy to feel sympathy for her.  We’ve all been there at some level.  I grew up thinking of God as some sort of genie who would grant my requests — if I was good enough or voiced them the right way.  Dropping the “if it be Your will” and “in Jesus name” phrases seemed like seemed to “work” for other people.  He was a cosmic blessing dispenser, an on demand God.  Larry Crabb writes:

We have our own ideas about what a good God should do in the middle of our circumstances, ideas that stretch all the way from opening a space in a crowded parking lot near the mall’s entrance to funding out ministry dreams to straightening out our kids to giving us a negative biopsy report.

…Not only do we want what immediately feels good and often dislike what in fact is good for us, we’re also out of touch with what would bring us the most pleasure if it were given to us.

…The highest dream we could ever dream, the wish that if granted would make us happier than any other blessing is to know God, to actually experience Him.  The problem is that we don’t believe this idea is true.  We assent to it in our heads.  But we don’t feel it in our hearts.  

We can’t stop wanting to be happy.  And that urge should prompt no apology.  We were created for happiness.  Our souls therefore long for whatever we think will provide the greatest possible pleasure.  We just aren’t aware that an intimate relationship with God is that greatest pleasure.  (From Shattered Dreams, p. 2)

Lord, would you increase our awareness?

Cold-Blooded Christians

Cold blooded animals are ectothermic.  Because they have no means of internal temperature regulation, they will assume the temperature of the environment in which they are placed.

Cold-blooded Christians are similar.  Even though they have the Spirit of God living in them, they allow their external environment to dictate their internal “temperature.”   All of us can be affected by the temperature of the room.  We notice hostility, indifference, inappropriate humor, bitterness, or whatever — and those “climates” can affect us.  But I think we cross the line when those environments control us.  Do you need “happy places” to be happy?  Are you moral and just only when you are with those who are moral and just?  Is your internal compass altered when its direction seems to be at odds with those you work with?  None of us are immune to uncomfortable situations or impossible people, but how much do you allow these to shape your identity and character?

It is quite literally nonsense to call Jesus “Lord,” and not do what he said. “Lord” means nothing in such a case. (Luke 6:46-49) But because I do accept him as Lord, his instructions on behavior are my treasures for living life. Of course I cannot do what he said by just trying. I must train! I must, through appropriate courses of action, become inwardly transformed by grace to become the kind of person—in my inmost thoughts, feelings, attitudes and directions of will—who will routinely do the kinds of things he said to do. I will then not be governed by anger, contempt or lust. And I will be able to bless those who curse me, love my enemies, and so forth, because I am one in whom the character and power of Christ has come to dwell through the processes of discipleship to Christ. Dallas Willard

Tourists

Eugene Peterson opens his book, A Long Obedience in the Same Direction,  using the images of a pilgrim and a tourist to describe two approaches to the Christian life. The tourist is a passive observer interested more in being entertained or amused than engaged. He desires short cuts and high points and is looking for instant credit in the eyes of God. Whereas a pilgrim spends her life journeying towards and with God.  He writes:   There is a great market for religious experience in our world; there is little enthusiasm for the patient acquisition of virtue, little inclination to sign up for a long apprenticeship in what earlier generations of Christians called holiness. Religion in our time has been captured by the tourist mindset.  Religion is understood as a visit to an attractive sight when we have adequate leisure. (p.16)

Mark Buchanan makes this point, as well, in his new book, Your Church is Too Safe: Why Following Christ Turns the World Upside-Down (scheduled to be released later this month). Chapter Five begins with this convicting comparison:

Historian Daniel Boorstin documents a momentous shift that occurred in North America in the 19th Century: we stopped calling people who went on trips travelers and started calling them tourists.

Traveler literally means one who travails. He labors, suffers, endures. A traveler – a travailer – gets impregnated with a new and strange reality, grows huge and awkward trying to carry it, and finally, in agony, births something new and beautiful. To get there, he immerses himself in a culture, learns the language and customs, lives with the locals, imitates the dress, eats what’s set before him. He takes risks, some enormous, and makes sacrifices, some extravagant. He has tight scrapes and narrow escapes. He is gone a long time. If ever he returns, he returns forever altered.

In a sense, he never goes back.

A tourist, not so. A tourist means, literally, one who goes in circles. He’s just taking an exotic detour home. He’s only passing through, sampling wares, acquiring souvenirs. He tastes more than eats what’s put before him. He retreats each night to what’s safe and familiar. He picks up a word here, a phrase there, but the language, and the world it’s embedded in, remains opaque and cryptic, and vaguely menacing. He spectates and consumes. He returns to where he’s come from with an album of photos, a few mementoes, a cheap hat. He’s happy to be back. He declares there’s no place like home.

We’ve made a similar shift in the church. At some point we stopped calling Christians disciples and started calling them believers. A disciple is one who follows and imitates Jesus. She loses her life in order to find it. She steeps in the language and culture of Christ until his word and his world reshapes hers, redefines her, changes inside-out how she sees and thinks and dreams and, finally, lives. Whatever values she brought into his realm are reordered, oft-times laid waste, and Kingdom values take their place. Friends who knew her before scarcely recognize her now.

A believer, not so. She holds certain beliefs, but how deep down these go depends on the weather or her mood. She can get defensive, sometimes bristlingly so, about her beliefs, but in her honest moments she wonders why they’ve made such scant difference. She still feels alone, afraid, sad, self-protective, dissatisfied. She still wants what she always wanted, and fears what she’s always feared, sometimes more so. Friends who knew her before find her pretty much the same, just angrier.

You can’t be a disciple without being a believer. But – here’s the rub – you can be a believer and not a disciple. You can say all the right things, think all the right things, believe all the right things, do all the right things, and still not follow and imitate Jesus.

The Kingdom of God is made up of travailers, but our churches are largely populated with tourists. The Kingdom is full of disciples, but our churches are filled with believers. It’s no wonder we often feel like we’re just going in circles.

I’m looking forward to reading the entire book.