I just got a new Bible. It's not pretty; in fact, I think it's the polar opposite - it's drab dark blue with five words: Holy Bible - New International Version. On the inside there are two inch, lined margins on every page which allow me the opportunity to reflect on the pages themselves. The last Bible I wore out from constant 4pt scribbling in the margins, but now I can read it.
I never do this, but I'm starting at Genesis: Many I meet give me advice on how to read the Bible; start at three different places, maybe one of Paul's letters in the New Testament, explore the Psalms or Proverbs, but I'm going against my normal biblical instinct to write about Genesis first. In the beginning...
I've read it lots of times, but my eyes stuck fast on the words in 1:28 right after God creates Adam and Eve and then blesses the humans: "Be fruitful and increase in number; fill the earth and subdue it. Rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky and over every living creature that moves on the ground."
Yes! I, as a human, like those words. Subdue, rule over, multiply! We're good at those things because the idea of power (borne in those words) is our favorite breakfast of champions. To feel power is to feel alive. To feel the opposite, to have it acted against us - being subdued, ruled over and divided (the opposite of multiplication) - those things cause us fear and we rear up against them. When God spoke to Adam and Eve (pre-fall) his blessing includes power for good over the earth.
But then I am struck by the immensity of the contradiction which occurs later (post-fall). Cain is distressed by God's seeming dismissal of his offering. He has worked diligently toiling for the sin of his father. (2:17,19 "Cursed is the ground because of you (Adam); through painful toil you will eat food from it all the days of your life...By the sweat of your brow you will eat your food until you return to the ground, since from it you were taken; for dust you are and to dust you will return.") We have this heightened sense of the futility of farmers who not only can't trust the elements, but the harvest is not always fruitful either.
Here's the sinful contradiction: 3:8 After Cain was upset and jealous because of God's preference for Abel's offering it reads, Now Cain said to his brother Abel, 'Let's go out to the field.' While they were in the field, Cain attacked his brother Abel and killed him.
The murder is great, but the premeditation, the invitation to destruction, is what gets me. Cain, it seems, knowingly planned to destroy his brother because of jealousy.
Unfortunately, it plays out far too often in this world. I don't know how many funerals that I have attended where the family is at odds because of the will. It's a double meaning - the literal will of the deceased, and the willful jealousy over objects of a lifetime of attrition. Brothers and sisters are destroyed and relationships are metaphorically murdered over an antique vase or stamp collection. It's the willful sin of covetousness, or a perceived slight, that bring us to a place of fratricide.
God's precognition to Cain's jealousy, after Cain's almost disconnected attitude to the reality of the upcoming murder, is poignant and soaked in pain. 4:6 Then the LORD said to Cain, 'Why are you angry? Why is your face downcast? If you do what is right, will you not be accepted? But if you do not do what is right, sin is crouching at your door; it desires to have you, but you must...
Rule Over It!"
We don't talk about sin much anymore; we're more inclined to intentionally speak of grace and more intentioned to act as if God has already flushed our dirty stool of sin before we've dumped it. We know that God will forgive us, so we willfully act against what we know to be right. Sin crouches at our door waiting to spring. It is not a devious little imp with pitchfork in hand, it is an attractive option to the goodness of God - it makes us believe that we are gods and it give us the power of God, to create and destroy. But God calls us to rule over that sin - the same sin of our father Adam. Subdue the lurking beast, rule over it and do not let it multiply.
Is there sin in your own life which is crouching outside your door? Or, have you already invited it across the threshold, welcoming it as if a special guest? Do you have rule over sin in your life?
Monday, April 27, 2015
Thursday, April 2, 2015
God of All Comfort
I was thinking of the Lord's Supper in the book of John today in chapter 13. There's not really much about the supper--just that they were in the middle of it when Jesus changes course and stands up. In the middle of the meal. John meticulously records each action in slow detail savoring each memory. It is burned into his mind. He begins to love them "to the end." (1) He takes off his outer garment and lays it aside. He wraps a towel around his waist. He pours water into a basin and then he stares at the feet that lay before him. These feet are calloused and cracked. They are dusty with skin falling off. Some are bloodied. Some have probably stepped in some animal feces along the way. They smell human. These feet are broken and beat up.
The disciples have walked hundreds of miles with Jesus over the years. Maybe as Jesus stares at their feet, he remembers the scar when Andrew stubbed his toe in Cana. Or the thorn that had to be removed from Philip's heel.
It is silent in the upper room. There is no mood music in the background. They watch this one who had made their bodies and souls now kneel before each of them because it is the most important teaching he will ever do.
Peter's response is quite natural. He's proclaimed Jesus as the Messiah, but now the Messiah hovers in front of him wanting to do a slave's work. It's humiliating. Perhaps we think on the eve of the Passover that Jesus would be doing something with great power. But instead we find him caressing the feet in abject servitude.
The God of all comfort makes Peter--makes me, feel uncomfortable. That's what he came to do.
Peter doesn't understand yet, but none of them really do.
They are to love people to the limit. Whatever it takes. However humiliating or embarrassing. Servants of all and masters to none.
The next day Jesus' outer garments would be removed again. He would be bloodied and beaten. His own feet would be washed in his own blood as they were pinned to the tree. He loves to the limit, to the grave, to the divine reach. No matter how humiliating or debasing, Jesus shows what this new command is all about. There is no length to which he won't go for those whom he loves.
And I suppose when we see his work with others at times it embarrasses us. Working with those who seem to most disgust us. The broken ones. Those whose lives are line with scars of stubbed experiences. And yet he sends us out to love them to the limit. To interpret the gospel in such a way that it is visible and credible. No matter how humiliating or debasing. Love to the limit. No matter how uncomfortable. He is the teacher and we are the learners. If we have learned anything, we certainly learn what love is in this.
The disciples have walked hundreds of miles with Jesus over the years. Maybe as Jesus stares at their feet, he remembers the scar when Andrew stubbed his toe in Cana. Or the thorn that had to be removed from Philip's heel.
It is silent in the upper room. There is no mood music in the background. They watch this one who had made their bodies and souls now kneel before each of them because it is the most important teaching he will ever do.
Peter's response is quite natural. He's proclaimed Jesus as the Messiah, but now the Messiah hovers in front of him wanting to do a slave's work. It's humiliating. Perhaps we think on the eve of the Passover that Jesus would be doing something with great power. But instead we find him caressing the feet in abject servitude.
The God of all comfort makes Peter--makes me, feel uncomfortable. That's what he came to do.
Peter doesn't understand yet, but none of them really do.
They are to love people to the limit. Whatever it takes. However humiliating or embarrassing. Servants of all and masters to none.
The next day Jesus' outer garments would be removed again. He would be bloodied and beaten. His own feet would be washed in his own blood as they were pinned to the tree. He loves to the limit, to the grave, to the divine reach. No matter how humiliating or debasing, Jesus shows what this new command is all about. There is no length to which he won't go for those whom he loves.
And I suppose when we see his work with others at times it embarrasses us. Working with those who seem to most disgust us. The broken ones. Those whose lives are line with scars of stubbed experiences. And yet he sends us out to love them to the limit. To interpret the gospel in such a way that it is visible and credible. No matter how humiliating or debasing. Love to the limit. No matter how uncomfortable. He is the teacher and we are the learners. If we have learned anything, we certainly learn what love is in this.
Tuesday, March 31, 2015
Anti-hero
People find all sorts of reasons to stay away from church, or faith, or worship or anything that smacks of 'religion.' Cloistered inside of a heartache of fear, many would say that 'religion' is bunk because, "I mean, look at all those religious leaders out there - Fred Phelps! He doesn't have a tolerant bone in his body. Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker - C'mon! How many millions of dollars did they bilk out of the faithful? It's just a bunch of hocus pocus. I'm not giving one red cent to anything that has the word 'ministry in it."
Unless you are like my daughter who would like to give her inheritance to attend Hogwarts to be included in the Ministry of Magic.
That being said, Christians in leadership all over the world have, at times, done a poor job of figuring out what it means to make disciples. We've concocted all sorts of ways to condone financing a new building extension, or paying for a new organ, or organizing a new program to 'bring new people in,' that we've neglected the purpose of the tithe in the first place.
The word 'tithe' is not used in the Bible, but the implied meaning is that one gives one tenth of the first fruits of their labor to the Lord. A sacrifice, if you will, designed not to 'appease the gods' but to put in perspective how the gift of life, and its blessings, fit into it. Contrary to popular religious opinion, God does not need our money; he is not going to the poorhouse if I don't place fifty dollars in the plate on Sunday morning and certainly, God is not going to store the bank notes in a heavenly vault to be distributed later on.
But giving has a much different purpose when done out of gratitude. Those that give of their money find that they no longer indebted to serve it. The high point of their week is not collecting their paycheck but distributing it where it is best used.
The problem is, when our money is often given to a church, or a non-profit organization, almost always there is a proviso, or some sort of string attached. We always like to have control, don't we? I've heard this before: "I'd like to donate some of my assets to the church, it's a large some of money, but I want it to go to ________." And the blank is filled in. Or, what can happen is that those that have the money find ways to use their weight to pressure those institutions into making the decisions that they believe are the most 'financially prudent.' There is a reason they made that money, isn't there? Shouldn't we be relying on their wisdom?
Yes, perhaps, but it would be great to see big tithers putting strings on their money that says, "Whatever you do with the gifts that God has given me, I accept, but I would like at least ten percent to go into outreach, or even given away to those who are in need."
I'm sounding cynical, I'm far too aware of it, because I fail at this 'freely giving' all the time. I see what I have earned and believe that it is somehow mine but then I give it to the church and my fear - yes my fear - is that the head of the church will be like Jim and Tammy Faye and soon enough, the pastor of the church will be driving a brand new Mercedes and living in a ten million dollar house. Just the last week, Joel Osteen was seen trying to give a reason for the fact that he is being paid multimillions to be a 'shepherd.' Yes, he is good at what he does, but is this the very essence of why people stay away from religion in the first place? Is it not just another business?
Wow, I'm cynical. I'm sorry about this, but the world needs a heroic figure, not an anti-hero (and I'm not saying that Jim, Tammy Faye and Joel are anti-heroes), but we need a servant figure, one who strives, Christ-like, to be the leading edge in transformational, sacrificial life. I keep hoping that one will arrive, one that I can follow, one that I can emulate - but then I am convicted again and again that each one of us is called to be that sacrificial person. Instead of being enslaved to pointing fingers at religious leaders that perhaps have not been entirely honorable, I should be freed to be who God has made me to be - a Theophilus. A God-lover. One who loves God and loves others with all the gifts that God has given us. No strings attached.
Looking forward to any feedback. I might be completely off and I will eat crow and swallow it too.
Unless you are like my daughter who would like to give her inheritance to attend Hogwarts to be included in the Ministry of Magic.
That being said, Christians in leadership all over the world have, at times, done a poor job of figuring out what it means to make disciples. We've concocted all sorts of ways to condone financing a new building extension, or paying for a new organ, or organizing a new program to 'bring new people in,' that we've neglected the purpose of the tithe in the first place.
The word 'tithe' is not used in the Bible, but the implied meaning is that one gives one tenth of the first fruits of their labor to the Lord. A sacrifice, if you will, designed not to 'appease the gods' but to put in perspective how the gift of life, and its blessings, fit into it. Contrary to popular religious opinion, God does not need our money; he is not going to the poorhouse if I don't place fifty dollars in the plate on Sunday morning and certainly, God is not going to store the bank notes in a heavenly vault to be distributed later on.
But giving has a much different purpose when done out of gratitude. Those that give of their money find that they no longer indebted to serve it. The high point of their week is not collecting their paycheck but distributing it where it is best used.
The problem is, when our money is often given to a church, or a non-profit organization, almost always there is a proviso, or some sort of string attached. We always like to have control, don't we? I've heard this before: "I'd like to donate some of my assets to the church, it's a large some of money, but I want it to go to ________." And the blank is filled in. Or, what can happen is that those that have the money find ways to use their weight to pressure those institutions into making the decisions that they believe are the most 'financially prudent.' There is a reason they made that money, isn't there? Shouldn't we be relying on their wisdom?
Yes, perhaps, but it would be great to see big tithers putting strings on their money that says, "Whatever you do with the gifts that God has given me, I accept, but I would like at least ten percent to go into outreach, or even given away to those who are in need."
I'm sounding cynical, I'm far too aware of it, because I fail at this 'freely giving' all the time. I see what I have earned and believe that it is somehow mine but then I give it to the church and my fear - yes my fear - is that the head of the church will be like Jim and Tammy Faye and soon enough, the pastor of the church will be driving a brand new Mercedes and living in a ten million dollar house. Just the last week, Joel Osteen was seen trying to give a reason for the fact that he is being paid multimillions to be a 'shepherd.' Yes, he is good at what he does, but is this the very essence of why people stay away from religion in the first place? Is it not just another business?
Wow, I'm cynical. I'm sorry about this, but the world needs a heroic figure, not an anti-hero (and I'm not saying that Jim, Tammy Faye and Joel are anti-heroes), but we need a servant figure, one who strives, Christ-like, to be the leading edge in transformational, sacrificial life. I keep hoping that one will arrive, one that I can follow, one that I can emulate - but then I am convicted again and again that each one of us is called to be that sacrificial person. Instead of being enslaved to pointing fingers at religious leaders that perhaps have not been entirely honorable, I should be freed to be who God has made me to be - a Theophilus. A God-lover. One who loves God and loves others with all the gifts that God has given us. No strings attached.
Looking forward to any feedback. I might be completely off and I will eat crow and swallow it too.
Saturday, March 28, 2015
A Hero
I don't think a reenactment of this Bible passage would go over so well today:
Luke 19:28-34 After Jesus had said this, he went on ahead, going to Jerusalem. As he approached Bathphage and Bethany at the hill called the Mount of Olives, he sent two of his disciples, saying to them, "Go to the village ahead of you, and as you enter it, you will find a colt tied there, which no one has ever ridden. Untie it and bring it here. If anyone asks you, 'Why are you untying it?' tell him, 'The Lord needs it.'"
Those who were sent ahead went and found it just as he had told them. As they were untying the colt, its owners asked them, "Why are you untying the colt?"
They replied, "The Lord needs it."
If you are anything like me, when this bible verse comes through the yearly lectionary, you skip over the absurdity of it. Yeah, yeah, I've heard this before - the people start pulling down their palm trees, soil their coats and start screaming at Jesus on a donkey, begging him to save them. My familiarity with the story breeds not contempt, but contentedness in the 'niceness' of the story. Jesus gets the disciples to head on ahead and prepare the way by securing some transportation which will allow him to head down the mountain to Jerusalem in style.
But that's nothing like the story - nothing at all.
Somehow, somewhere, Jesus knows about a colt (or donkey, depending on the gospel) and tells two of his disciples to go untie it and bring it to him and if anyone protests, tell him 'The Lord needs it.' Riiiiiight....
I tried to picture in my head if I asked my daughters to head into the next town, say, Laidley and find a nice, new Ford sitting in someone's driveway - probably someone that I knew - and I told the girls to say, "My father needs this. He needs to get to Brisbane posthaste (that sounds more biblical)." I'm sure the owners of said vehicle would simply enter the house, grab the keys to the brand new Mustang and plop them in Elsa's hand with just a short question of purpose.
Talk about a simple act of heroism - or even an incredible act of faith.
In the book of Luke, the owner of the colt (unnamed) is not even given words of justification - it is simply left as an assumption, or an implication, that the one who comes in the name of the Lord, or even uses the Lord's name, is given rights over that object. In this incredible act of faith by the colt's owner, we are left to ponder how God's name could have that kind of power over the materialism in the world. The owner isn't even promised that the colt will be brought back - only that the Lord needs it.
What would you think if someone showed up at your doorstep today and said, "We need to take your (Fill in the blank with a prized possession) the Lord needs it." How many of us would be willing to part with it, or even harder for many people - part with a portion of their income? How many would willingly, without a word, drop the keys, the guitar case, the checkbook (do we remember what those look like) or the calendar of our time into the hands of those who come in the name of the Lord?
Anyone? Beuller? Anyone?
The colt owner, in my opinion has proven his faith and his heroism by sacrificial, non-reserved-no-strings-attached giving.
That's truly sacrificial heroism.
Maybe tomorrow we'll write a little about the abuses of the Lord's name and the damage that it has caused; how it has not only stifled sacrificial heroism, but has caused people not to call out to the Lord. The abuse of God's name has caused them to curse him.
Luke 19:28-34 After Jesus had said this, he went on ahead, going to Jerusalem. As he approached Bathphage and Bethany at the hill called the Mount of Olives, he sent two of his disciples, saying to them, "Go to the village ahead of you, and as you enter it, you will find a colt tied there, which no one has ever ridden. Untie it and bring it here. If anyone asks you, 'Why are you untying it?' tell him, 'The Lord needs it.'"
Those who were sent ahead went and found it just as he had told them. As they were untying the colt, its owners asked them, "Why are you untying the colt?"
They replied, "The Lord needs it."
If you are anything like me, when this bible verse comes through the yearly lectionary, you skip over the absurdity of it. Yeah, yeah, I've heard this before - the people start pulling down their palm trees, soil their coats and start screaming at Jesus on a donkey, begging him to save them. My familiarity with the story breeds not contempt, but contentedness in the 'niceness' of the story. Jesus gets the disciples to head on ahead and prepare the way by securing some transportation which will allow him to head down the mountain to Jerusalem in style.
But that's nothing like the story - nothing at all.
Somehow, somewhere, Jesus knows about a colt (or donkey, depending on the gospel) and tells two of his disciples to go untie it and bring it to him and if anyone protests, tell him 'The Lord needs it.' Riiiiiight....
I tried to picture in my head if I asked my daughters to head into the next town, say, Laidley and find a nice, new Ford sitting in someone's driveway - probably someone that I knew - and I told the girls to say, "My father needs this. He needs to get to Brisbane posthaste (that sounds more biblical)." I'm sure the owners of said vehicle would simply enter the house, grab the keys to the brand new Mustang and plop them in Elsa's hand with just a short question of purpose.
Talk about a simple act of heroism - or even an incredible act of faith.
In the book of Luke, the owner of the colt (unnamed) is not even given words of justification - it is simply left as an assumption, or an implication, that the one who comes in the name of the Lord, or even uses the Lord's name, is given rights over that object. In this incredible act of faith by the colt's owner, we are left to ponder how God's name could have that kind of power over the materialism in the world. The owner isn't even promised that the colt will be brought back - only that the Lord needs it.
What would you think if someone showed up at your doorstep today and said, "We need to take your (Fill in the blank with a prized possession) the Lord needs it." How many of us would be willing to part with it, or even harder for many people - part with a portion of their income? How many would willingly, without a word, drop the keys, the guitar case, the checkbook (do we remember what those look like) or the calendar of our time into the hands of those who come in the name of the Lord?
Anyone? Beuller? Anyone?
The colt owner, in my opinion has proven his faith and his heroism by sacrificial, non-reserved-no-strings-attached giving.
That's truly sacrificial heroism.
Maybe tomorrow we'll write a little about the abuses of the Lord's name and the damage that it has caused; how it has not only stifled sacrificial heroism, but has caused people not to call out to the Lord. The abuse of God's name has caused them to curse him.
Wednesday, March 25, 2015
Seeking the Dead Among the Living
I haven't written for a while, but neither has Reid, so I thought I'd jot a few notes that are on my heart today. Reid, add your own thoughts too. I'm not analyzing this story in all its minutiae.
I'm reading through the Lazarus story in John 11 this morning. As Good Friday's cross begins to cast a shadow on this spring day, it's good for me to be brought to this pinnacle of the book of John. This "sign" is in the exact middle of the book of John. Everything--all of the miracles, all of the teaching, all of the mentoring--it's all pointing toward this moment. It is a long chapter. It seems as if John savors every moment of it in the post-resurrection remembering. It is the story of God who loves fiercely and visibly. God shows this sign so that people might believe that every natural and supernatural power are under his control. Jesus "He Who Saves" comes to the rescue of Lazarus "He Whom God Helps". As a reader and hearer, I am brought to utter the words of Thomas in v. 16, "Let us also go, that we may die with him." This is the last sign of Jesus (other than the resurrection, but that's THE event). From this day until the empty tomb, significantly, Jesus signs and wonders cease.
Jesus really did love this family, but oddly he chooses to stay a couple of extra days away when he hears his friend is sick. He deliberately, yes deliberately allows Lazarus to die and his sisters to grieve. There can be no confusion as to his power. In the past, whether it was the Widow of Nain or Jairus, Jesus went immediately. In those two resurrection stories, we don't get the intense emotional reaction of Jesus toward their deaths. They seem utterly simplistic. But here, as Jesus prepares to enter Jerusalem for the last time, it seems that he is seeing beyond the situation of Lazarus toward his own.
The disciples are confused with Jesus words. If Lazarus is asleep, why would Jesus needlessly risk his life in order to rouse someone from an extended nap? They are manifestly unprepared for the spiritual shock of faith that is to come. They are upset with Jesus. If we could reverse a statement for a moment and understand this through their eyes. Why are you looking for the dead among the living? And of course, though Luke records it, the angels ask "Why do you seek the living among the dead?"
Jesus says, "Our friend is asleep. I go to wake him up."
We could probably just dwell on those words all day and for the next ten. This is the hope of the world. It is the extent and the strength of God. It is the event that turns the religious establishment fatally against Jesus. We may wonder why people would rather people stay dead, but that's for another discussion. Here it is enough that Jesus goes to rouse Lazarus from his stony mattress.
And Lazarus is raised. Jesus has poured out his tears of love, frustration, anger and hatred of the enemy over the entrance of the tomb. He has been moved to his very core to understand that the resurrection of this man would not solve the dilemma of the world. It would be his own resurrection that would be the cure. But in order for there to be a resurrection there must be the cessation of his own breath.
We are all Lazari in our own right--those whom God helps. We are all loved by God to death and through death. And every morning, when you groan your first yawn, maybe smile a bit too. Jesus has promised to go and wake you up too.
I'm reading through the Lazarus story in John 11 this morning. As Good Friday's cross begins to cast a shadow on this spring day, it's good for me to be brought to this pinnacle of the book of John. This "sign" is in the exact middle of the book of John. Everything--all of the miracles, all of the teaching, all of the mentoring--it's all pointing toward this moment. It is a long chapter. It seems as if John savors every moment of it in the post-resurrection remembering. It is the story of God who loves fiercely and visibly. God shows this sign so that people might believe that every natural and supernatural power are under his control. Jesus "He Who Saves" comes to the rescue of Lazarus "He Whom God Helps". As a reader and hearer, I am brought to utter the words of Thomas in v. 16, "Let us also go, that we may die with him." This is the last sign of Jesus (other than the resurrection, but that's THE event). From this day until the empty tomb, significantly, Jesus signs and wonders cease.
Jesus really did love this family, but oddly he chooses to stay a couple of extra days away when he hears his friend is sick. He deliberately, yes deliberately allows Lazarus to die and his sisters to grieve. There can be no confusion as to his power. In the past, whether it was the Widow of Nain or Jairus, Jesus went immediately. In those two resurrection stories, we don't get the intense emotional reaction of Jesus toward their deaths. They seem utterly simplistic. But here, as Jesus prepares to enter Jerusalem for the last time, it seems that he is seeing beyond the situation of Lazarus toward his own.
The disciples are confused with Jesus words. If Lazarus is asleep, why would Jesus needlessly risk his life in order to rouse someone from an extended nap? They are manifestly unprepared for the spiritual shock of faith that is to come. They are upset with Jesus. If we could reverse a statement for a moment and understand this through their eyes. Why are you looking for the dead among the living? And of course, though Luke records it, the angels ask "Why do you seek the living among the dead?"
Jesus says, "Our friend is asleep. I go to wake him up."
We could probably just dwell on those words all day and for the next ten. This is the hope of the world. It is the extent and the strength of God. It is the event that turns the religious establishment fatally against Jesus. We may wonder why people would rather people stay dead, but that's for another discussion. Here it is enough that Jesus goes to rouse Lazarus from his stony mattress.
And Lazarus is raised. Jesus has poured out his tears of love, frustration, anger and hatred of the enemy over the entrance of the tomb. He has been moved to his very core to understand that the resurrection of this man would not solve the dilemma of the world. It would be his own resurrection that would be the cure. But in order for there to be a resurrection there must be the cessation of his own breath.
We are all Lazari in our own right--those whom God helps. We are all loved by God to death and through death. And every morning, when you groan your first yawn, maybe smile a bit too. Jesus has promised to go and wake you up too.
Monday, March 16, 2015
Impatient patients
I can only imagine Moses believing that he was traveling around in the wilderness with a million 7-year-olds. It may truly be the age of impatience--children who are sick and tired of travelling, or are so incredibly emotive that most of the ride or walk they are "dying" of hunger, "dying" of thirst, or the worst, "dying" of boredom. Rarely do they speak about the beautiful things of the journey. They persist in bashing that which is uncomfortable for them. They deserve better. They deserve more.
By the time we encounter Numbers 21, some unfortunate things have occurred in the lives of the Israelites. Miriam and Aaron have died. The Edomites have refused to let them travel through their country. Moses and Aaron struck a rock for water rather than spoke to it. It is a jumble of mini-catastrophies that find their apex in chapter 21. Rebellious hearts combined with short memories have embroiled a group riot against Moses and his leadership for God. They believe that Moses has no idea what he is doing. They've seen the Red Sea before. Why are they going there again? If they can beat Arad, why can't they beat Edom? And now the kicker. We still have the same food, which in their minds is no food at all. They rebel. They scream. They throw a tantrum. "We loathe this worthless food!" (5) The miracle of God, the bread of contentment, has now become something they despise.
And before we go off on some self-righteous rant, we better see our own breaths fog up the mirror first. What miracles of God do I find little contentment in? I wake up with aching muscles and joints and wonder why do I always have to hurt? (You can walk, child.) Why does it have to be so cold? (I am a God of creative wonder.) Why? Why? Why?
For the Israelites, God gives a consequence of wonder. He draws them back to Eden when their first parents would despise the serpent. The snake was always a reminder of their sin and now it has come to bite them in the, ahem...The serpents are sin personified--well--reptilified. They are the visible evidence of what sin has done since the fall. And now they plead for God to take them away.
God does what he does. There are consequences, but there also may be healing. "Fashion a fiery serpent and set it on a wooden pole, and everyone who is bitten, when he sees it, shall live." Notice God doesn't take the serpents away. He makes the people stare at the picture of their sin on a pole. It is hideous and horrible. God wants them to fix their eyes on the offense.
God wants us to fix our eyes on the offense. To cement our eyes on the pole to which is pinned the consequences of our sins. He who knew no sin became sins that we might become the righteousness of God. (2 Cor. 5) Fortunately, we are also to fix our ears to the echo of the empty tomb. And fix our lives to the resurrected Christ who left our offense in the grave where it rightfully belongs.
And so this day, we have nothing to complain about on our journey. We are not dying of hunger, thirst or boredom. We are dying to see Jesus who is the author and perfecter of faith.
By the time we encounter Numbers 21, some unfortunate things have occurred in the lives of the Israelites. Miriam and Aaron have died. The Edomites have refused to let them travel through their country. Moses and Aaron struck a rock for water rather than spoke to it. It is a jumble of mini-catastrophies that find their apex in chapter 21. Rebellious hearts combined with short memories have embroiled a group riot against Moses and his leadership for God. They believe that Moses has no idea what he is doing. They've seen the Red Sea before. Why are they going there again? If they can beat Arad, why can't they beat Edom? And now the kicker. We still have the same food, which in their minds is no food at all. They rebel. They scream. They throw a tantrum. "We loathe this worthless food!" (5) The miracle of God, the bread of contentment, has now become something they despise.
And before we go off on some self-righteous rant, we better see our own breaths fog up the mirror first. What miracles of God do I find little contentment in? I wake up with aching muscles and joints and wonder why do I always have to hurt? (You can walk, child.) Why does it have to be so cold? (I am a God of creative wonder.) Why? Why? Why?
For the Israelites, God gives a consequence of wonder. He draws them back to Eden when their first parents would despise the serpent. The snake was always a reminder of their sin and now it has come to bite them in the, ahem...The serpents are sin personified--well--reptilified. They are the visible evidence of what sin has done since the fall. And now they plead for God to take them away.
God does what he does. There are consequences, but there also may be healing. "Fashion a fiery serpent and set it on a wooden pole, and everyone who is bitten, when he sees it, shall live." Notice God doesn't take the serpents away. He makes the people stare at the picture of their sin on a pole. It is hideous and horrible. God wants them to fix their eyes on the offense.
God wants us to fix our eyes on the offense. To cement our eyes on the pole to which is pinned the consequences of our sins. He who knew no sin became sins that we might become the righteousness of God. (2 Cor. 5) Fortunately, we are also to fix our ears to the echo of the empty tomb. And fix our lives to the resurrected Christ who left our offense in the grave where it rightfully belongs.
And so this day, we have nothing to complain about on our journey. We are not dying of hunger, thirst or boredom. We are dying to see Jesus who is the author and perfecter of faith.
Saturday, March 7, 2015
Being Blind
Ryan and I weren't born blind, but it was close enough.
I can remember those days in junior high when we got contact lenses so we wouldn't have to wear glasses thick enough to set our upper cheekbones on fire when we walked out into the sun. Contact lenses were okay at first, but eventually, no matter how well you took care of them (which we normally didn't) they still felt grainy after a while. I longed to be like some other kids who never had to wear glasses or contacts. I desperately wanted to be able to see my alarm clock at night without actually picking it up and putting it four inches from my face.
I didn't like being kind of blind.
It all changed about ten years ago when Christine said that she wanted to gift me the present of non-glasses sight. She booked me an appointment with the doctor who could perform Lasik surgery on my eyes. As I sat and talked with him, he went through the risks of Lasik, permanent blindness being one of them, but also intense discomfort from the slicing back of the lens and then the actual reshaping of the corneas using a laser.
I couldn't get Austin Powers' voice out of my head when he said 'laser beam.'
Anyway, he delicately took me through the process and I had a decision to make: either put up with semi-sight for the rest of my life, or go through the describedly painful process so that I could finally see.
I went for the second option. As the operation day dawned, I was given valium which slowed me down a little bit, but when the doctor put me into the chair, I was pretty aware of what was happening. Then, as he pulled my eyes open a la A Clockwork Orange, I still got nervous. Anxious enough that when my lenses were pulled back I started to pass out. It wasn't that painful, really, but my brain was on overload and I don't actually think that I was breathing enough. The doctor started yelling into my face, "Wake up! Wake up!" Yeesh.
Then, the burning smell. I'm not going to describe it much other than the odor of duck pinfeathers being singed.
It only took five minutes per eye - who would have thunk it? - but it seemed like an eternity before he put the pads over my eyes. These had to stay in place for a whole day so that my lenses could heal; therefore, I was literally without sight for the day and night wondering if in fact the surgery worked or I would be perpetually without sight.
The next day dawned (without light in my case) and on pins and needles I waited for the appointment so the doc could remove the patches. As I groped my way to the car, my brain went to worst case scenario. I was already buying one of those red and white canes and a harness connected to a golden retriever.
Sitting in the chair in front of him, he spoke calmly to me and then he ripped the tape from my eyebrows. (This was probably more painful than the surgery itself.) Slowly but surely I opened my eyes and for the first time in my recordable life, I could see across the room without visual aids. I looked at Christine who had her hands teepeed in front of her face, expectantly hopeful that her gift was not a curse.
And then I smiled. Life was new. Life was different. I could finally see. The song made sense: Was blind but now I see!
Things that had been previously hidden to me were revealed. I could see the horizon; I could view leaves on trees across the street; I didn't have to squint at the chalkboard. I was reborn.
Perhaps this is what Paul felt when the scales fell from his eyes on his trip to Damascus recorded in Acts 9. Paul was blinded by all sorts of things - spiritually blinded more so. His inability to see God's plan in Christ, perhaps his own pride and position in his own Pharisaism, had blinded him to the path set apart for him and it wasn't until the Great Physician showed up on the Road that Paul heard the difficult part of the journey coming. There would be some pain, certainly some confusion and temporary blindness; there would be a moment of anxiety of planning for an unimaginable future.
But the choice was his. He didn't have to allow Christ to change him, but he did. And after the scales fell from his eyes, he finally understood with startling clarity that which was being asked of him. To preach the good news to the Gentiles - those people who just a few days before were considered unclean.
Talk about confusion and pain.
But the sight of Christ calms confusion and angst and when those scales which caused our spiritual blindness fall from our eyes, we recognize two things: God's grace saves us through Christ and that God's continual plan for the body of Christ can use our giftedness to share the news of grace to a world that seems graceless.
What are the things that are blinding you at this point in your life? What are you afraid of? What would change for you if you found your own Damascus road experience?
I can remember those days in junior high when we got contact lenses so we wouldn't have to wear glasses thick enough to set our upper cheekbones on fire when we walked out into the sun. Contact lenses were okay at first, but eventually, no matter how well you took care of them (which we normally didn't) they still felt grainy after a while. I longed to be like some other kids who never had to wear glasses or contacts. I desperately wanted to be able to see my alarm clock at night without actually picking it up and putting it four inches from my face.
I didn't like being kind of blind.
It all changed about ten years ago when Christine said that she wanted to gift me the present of non-glasses sight. She booked me an appointment with the doctor who could perform Lasik surgery on my eyes. As I sat and talked with him, he went through the risks of Lasik, permanent blindness being one of them, but also intense discomfort from the slicing back of the lens and then the actual reshaping of the corneas using a laser.
I couldn't get Austin Powers' voice out of my head when he said 'laser beam.'
Anyway, he delicately took me through the process and I had a decision to make: either put up with semi-sight for the rest of my life, or go through the describedly painful process so that I could finally see.
I went for the second option. As the operation day dawned, I was given valium which slowed me down a little bit, but when the doctor put me into the chair, I was pretty aware of what was happening. Then, as he pulled my eyes open a la A Clockwork Orange, I still got nervous. Anxious enough that when my lenses were pulled back I started to pass out. It wasn't that painful, really, but my brain was on overload and I don't actually think that I was breathing enough. The doctor started yelling into my face, "Wake up! Wake up!" Yeesh.
Then, the burning smell. I'm not going to describe it much other than the odor of duck pinfeathers being singed.
It only took five minutes per eye - who would have thunk it? - but it seemed like an eternity before he put the pads over my eyes. These had to stay in place for a whole day so that my lenses could heal; therefore, I was literally without sight for the day and night wondering if in fact the surgery worked or I would be perpetually without sight.
The next day dawned (without light in my case) and on pins and needles I waited for the appointment so the doc could remove the patches. As I groped my way to the car, my brain went to worst case scenario. I was already buying one of those red and white canes and a harness connected to a golden retriever.
Sitting in the chair in front of him, he spoke calmly to me and then he ripped the tape from my eyebrows. (This was probably more painful than the surgery itself.) Slowly but surely I opened my eyes and for the first time in my recordable life, I could see across the room without visual aids. I looked at Christine who had her hands teepeed in front of her face, expectantly hopeful that her gift was not a curse.
And then I smiled. Life was new. Life was different. I could finally see. The song made sense: Was blind but now I see!
Things that had been previously hidden to me were revealed. I could see the horizon; I could view leaves on trees across the street; I didn't have to squint at the chalkboard. I was reborn.
Perhaps this is what Paul felt when the scales fell from his eyes on his trip to Damascus recorded in Acts 9. Paul was blinded by all sorts of things - spiritually blinded more so. His inability to see God's plan in Christ, perhaps his own pride and position in his own Pharisaism, had blinded him to the path set apart for him and it wasn't until the Great Physician showed up on the Road that Paul heard the difficult part of the journey coming. There would be some pain, certainly some confusion and temporary blindness; there would be a moment of anxiety of planning for an unimaginable future.
But the choice was his. He didn't have to allow Christ to change him, but he did. And after the scales fell from his eyes, he finally understood with startling clarity that which was being asked of him. To preach the good news to the Gentiles - those people who just a few days before were considered unclean.
Talk about confusion and pain.
But the sight of Christ calms confusion and angst and when those scales which caused our spiritual blindness fall from our eyes, we recognize two things: God's grace saves us through Christ and that God's continual plan for the body of Christ can use our giftedness to share the news of grace to a world that seems graceless.
What are the things that are blinding you at this point in your life? What are you afraid of? What would change for you if you found your own Damascus road experience?
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