Real Rest

What do you do when you're totally wiped out? I don't just mean that you've had a long day, but more like a long week or series of months. The kind of bone-weary that comes from too much work, too little sleep, too much stress, and too little margin. Bone-weary isn't quite right... more like brain-weary. The kind of weary where even sleep only helps so much - not only is it hard to wind your mind down enough to actually get sleep, but when you do, it feels like your brain revs up in its subconscious state and morning just brings everything back full force. 

What do you do when you're that kind of wiped out?

I've been there. In the last year or so, more often than I'd like to admit. Times when the weight I was feeling seemed to be bigger than the God I was serving, and there seemed to be no answers in sight. The reality is that most of life is like that, if we allow ourselves to go there. I think about the suffering and pain of those around me, I pray into the weight that is on the shoulders of those I love and care deeply about, I look at the obstacles that seem to be blocking the path in front of me in just about every direction, and I can very easily get weary. Bone-weary. Brain-weary.

I would love to say that my response is, like the hymn writer opines, to "take it to the Lord in prayer." And that truly does happen... but it doesn't always provide the magical elixir that lifts the burden. So then what? Like many, I suppose, I look for ways to rest my mind. Staring at a game on the television, or if I'm really desperate, playing one on the iPad. Eating food that I don't want or need. Surfing the internet. Mindlessly flipping through Facebook posts about how everyone else's life is better than mine. Or worse in that one specific moment--LOL, SMH--and then magically better. I excuse it all with the reasoning that my mind simply needs a break. 

But here's the hard question that I need to honestly answer: Does any of that actually help? When my heart and mind is weary, does sending them on a mini-vacation by trying to numb them with vacuous entertainment actually get me anywhere? If I'm honest, which is a difficult task at times, the answer is no. I turn off the TV, shut the laptop, toss the dishes in the sink, and I still don't feel refreshed.

The other day I came across John 4, the story of Jesus encountering the Samaritan woman at the well.  If you don't know the story, it's well worth taking a few minutes to read--grab your Bible, open a tab for Bible Gateway, or whatever. It's a chapter that I've probably read 100 times. But in my bone-weary, brain-weary state, I noticed something I hadn't really paid attention to before: When Jesus stopped at the well in Samaria, He was exhausted. (John 4:6) Probably bone-weary and brain-weary. Being able to see the true reality of the world around Him, I would think far more weary than I ever am. How did He respond? 

He engaged this desperate woman in conversation, which is the very thing I would avoid like the plague in that state. If I had seen her coming, I'm certain I would have found a reason to slip away to do some window shopping at a nearby stand, or at least would have carefully inspected the dirt on the far side of the well. Literally the last thing I would have done is start a conversation with an emotionally needy lady. Recognizing her neediness and His weariness, there are lots of ways to read their interaction--it could be that in the midst of His weariness, this was a point of temptation for Jesus in some way or another. How does He respond? By pointing to work of God in the world. By explaining the gospel to her in a way that she could understand. By loving her and valuing her in a way that likely no one else in her life ever had before.

By the time the disciples get back, the conversation is wrapping up. They know how exhausted Jesus is, so they offer Him some comfort food. "Hey Jesus--not sure why you're talking to that woman, but how about some mashed potatoes and gravy? That makes everyone feel better." His response is striking: "I have food you don't know about." (John 4:32) Through the narration, we've been privy to this entire scene, and He hasn't had any mashed potatoes. What gives? "My nourishment comes from doing the will of God who sent me." (John 4:34)

Could it be that when we're bone-weary and brain-weary, that numbing our hearts and minds isn't actually what we need, but rather, we need to activate them?

I'm certainly not suggesting we shouldn't rest, but rather, that we're resting wrongly. Or at least I am. Filling my moments with mindless entertainment doesn't actually help. However, pushing to truly engage the will and work of God actually does feed me. Whether it's talking to the needy person I encounter or simply filling my mind and heart with the Word and worship of God, there is a way that I can actually be refreshed.

We, too, can have secret food. Stealthy nourishment, unknown to outside observers. Food that can bring us joy, even in the midst of that bone-weary, brain-weary state.

Rest, friend. Rest.

A Perfectly Imperfect Family

OK, it's been a week or so since I've written. I could give you the excuses as to why, but they really aren't that exciting, and I'm convinced that I'll be back on the wagon again soon. Which is what I believe every time I stop writing, so I should probably quit fooling myself.

Anyway, it's much more exciting to give you the motivation as to why I've decided to write today...

Check out this family:

These are the Weidemanns. I don't know if they look like anything special to you, but I'm telling you, these guys are really amazing! As you might be able to pick up from this picture, they're a great bunch of folks who love to laugh and see the joy of life. While they're all wildly different, they stick together and love one another through all kinds of ups and downs. But that's not what really amazing about them.

Here's the thing: For most of us, family is a haven away from the rest of the world. We live in a culture that tends to either idolize family, "focusing" on family to the exclusion of the rest of the world, or to denigrate family, rejecting and ignoring some of our most important earthly relationships. Both extremes are wrong. Rarely, however, do we see families operating the way God intended--please don't hear me say "perfect," but the way that God intended--seeing their home and their relationships as a vehicle through which they can be a blessing in the world. I'm quite sure these guys aren't perfect, but they recognize what they've been given as a family, and they do everything they can do to give it away to those who desperately need it.

So here's the story, in Sharon Weidemann's own words:

As many of you know, our family has a passion for adoption and giving special children a home an love. Fred and I were contacted last week by a friend who was trying to help her friend who had just had a baby. This brave momma know she could not keep her baby and had met with an agency and chosen a family to adopt her baby. The baby was born. However, her baby was not "perfect" and the family backed out, leaving this mom in a really tough place. Fred and I talked and we reached out to this mom. She is bravely taking this baby home until adoption details can be worked out. She has a strong desire to have a choice in where her baby is going and that her baby is in a good home and loved well.

Amen. Just as we'd all want for our own kids.

There are already five kids living in Fred and Sharon's house, working to survive on a single income. The idea of tackling a tradition adoption is high on the impossibility scale for a family like this--the costs are just too high. However, Arella is the kind of child that Fred and Sharon have given a home to in the past, and they long to continue to do so. Why? Because they recognize that they have been blessed by God, and that the blessing they've been given isn't for them alone, but it's for other who may never get to experience that same blessing. So they are stepping out in faith and seeking to adopt this precious child.

My wife and I have given toward this adoption. We believe in this family and the love that they have for the world around them. Can I encourage you to consider doing the same thing? Whether a few bucks or a bunch of them, we can all work together to give this child a home to be raised in, godly parents who will point to Jesus, a bunch of loving siblings, and every opportunity that may never be possible otherwise.

Even if you're not able to give, I hope that you'll be encourage to consider, as I have: What have you and I been given that God is intending for us to give away to the world around us? I love seeing a family that recognizes that they themselves are a gift that God can and will use to impact the world--one "perfectly imperfect" child at a time.

If you want to support Fred and Sharon's adoption costs, click HERE to donate!

The Final Movement: Celebration

It's been a tough few days. 

I'm not one to post lots of personal details on blogs or social media, but we've had some difficult health news in our family, and my thoughts have regularly been drawn back to that reality. I've preached about it for years, and realized it would eventually come, but I still wasn't quite ready for it: All of us are just one phone call, doctor's visit, or conversation away from experiencing suffering.

Not a very happy thought, but a reality nonetheless. What we as a family are experiencing is far less than many experience daily, but suffering is always painful when it's your suffering. Comparing pain with that of others, or trying to gradiate it on a scale, is wasted effort. All pain hurts worse when we feel it personally.

So why start a post on the final movement of the liturgy, The Celebration, talking about suffering? Because our relationship with God is not about a fantasy world. It's not about how things would be if everything was great. Our faith is not intended to be experienced separately from real life. Faith is not excluded from pain.

We approach God by first recognizing that we're part of a larger body, spanning both time and place: The Invitation.

We tether ourselves to the ancient faith and the reality that grounds us: The Proclamation.

We acknowledge that, somehow, the God of the Universe is interested in our lives, and that, in Christ, He's already turned His face toward us: The Invocation.

We agree with Him about our brokenness and the many ways in which we've fallen short, all in the recognition that we're already forgiven: The Confession.

We are intimately connected with Him through His sacrificial and sacramental death. He was not sheltered from pain, but rather experienced it fully and completely: The Eucharist.

We build our lives on the realities of His purposes and His passions, engaging the Truth that guides us into life: The Homily.

And then, based firmly in that reality, we Celebrate. Not blithely or foolishly, but deeply and realistically. The Celebration of the liturgy is not the happy, clappy worship that so often defines modern Christianity within the safe confines of our Western culture. It's not the pasted on smiles of the dreaded fine-itis that has infected so many church communities: "How are you?" "I'm fine. How are you?" "Oh, fine!" I mean, sure, I'm drowning in debt, my marriage is falling apart, my job stinks, and my kids are redefining the limits of rebellion... but I'm fine. 

Rather, the Celebration is a grounded, honest declaration that, despite the reality that we can see with our eyes, we know that God is truly good. We know it through the varied experience of community--we've walked with those who have emerged from suffering with joy, and we're walking with those who are experiencing joy even as they journey through the valley. We know it through the declaration of the nature and character of God--if the eternal God freely gave up His Son, as the Apostle Paul says, how will He also not give us all things? (Romans 8:32) We know it through the sacrifice of Jesus Himself, which assures us of both His favor and forgiveness, however we come and whatever we've done. We know it through the deeply intimate connection with Him at the table, as well as through the solid foundation of His Word.

He is good. We don't always experience it that way, but we affirm it by faith. And so, we celebrate. Sometimes with laughter, sometimes with tears. We don't live in denial or as the naively innocent. We live as those who daily experience suffering, but we know with confidence that our pain is never the end of the story. We will emerge joyfully, even if it's with a limp.

And so, we celebrate. Thank you, Jesus.

The Sixth Movement: The Homily

There is more than a bit of fear and trepidation that accompanies a Saturday nights for a pastor. It's a reality that only fellow pastors really understand. For most, Saturday night is the joyful wrap-up to long week, but for the preacher of the Word, the week has evaporated by mid-afternoon, and by Saturday night, though the sun is down, a new week has already dawned.

I can't speak for other preachers, but from those I've talked with, their process is similar. Here's how it works for me...

Thursday is my wrestling day. I spend the vast majority of the day immersed in books, articles, dictionaries, and commentaries. Because I don't have original language training, I'm also frequenting websites that help me understand Greek and Hebrew meanings, tenses, and peculiarities. My study is often done a series at a time, so I go into most Thursdays with a decent of where I'm headed, but most of the time having no clue how I might get there. Through a long process of praying, thinking, writing, erasing, starting over, and often some time staring off into space, I emerge from my office (most weeks) with some level of confidence. I've heard, I've organized, and I know how we're getting to where we're headed.

Friday is a rest day for me. A twenty-four hour Sabbath time, during which I avoid anything that looks like church work like the plague. By Saturday, I'm typically headed to meetings, counseling appointments, classes, and the like, and I try to have some down time in the afternoon to hang out with the kids, get some chores done around the house, or hang out with some friends.

And then it happens.

About 6:00pm on Saturday night, I can start to feel the weight building. Every few moments, I find my mind wandering back toward Thursday's preparation. There are some weeks where I can't remember any of it. There are other weeks I remember it all, but can't remember what in the world I was thinking. Every once in a while, I still feel as confident as I did emerging from my office on Thursday afternoon. I've learned that those are the scariest weeks.

By 7:30, I'm no longer worth being around because I'm so preoccupied with the weight of the message for the morning. By then, if not before, my loving wife sends me upstairs, as I'm clearly of no more use within the flow of the family. It's at that point I look back at my work from Thursday and begin to try to make sense of what often seem to me to be unorganized words that have absolutely no connection to one another.

I look at my outline, at the passage of Scripture, then back to the outline. On good weeks, I begin to sense the primary message for us as God's people and I start to focus there. On bad weeks, I consider starting the whole process over. I read over things, re-read resources, think through things as I walk through a mindless preparation routine. But more than anything, the weight settles onto my shoulders. More weeks than not, I feel like I enter the shower at night 4-6 inches shorter than my 6'3" frame, having been weighted down for the last few hours. Will I get in the way? Have I truly heard form God? Will others be able to hear from me? The sins from the past week rush into my head, and I confess them as quickly as I can think them. The unfinished work, the connections that have gone unmade, the calls and emails that have gone unreturned--each feels like an insurmountable barrier that the Spirit of God will need to leap if the message will ever be able to land. Faces and names swirl... Have they been in church recently? Will that joke offend them? How will she hear that point? Will he think I'm talking to him?

Sometime during this mayhem, I begin to weary. I set an early alarm, and drift to sleep, still thinking through the opening illustration. By 4:15, I'm up and thinking again, this time with new urgency. The countdown is on. Coffee, read, pray, read, eat, pray, coffee, preach to myself, take a few notes, preach to myself again. The routine is far from dynamic or exciting, but there's comfort in it, and so I do it. By this point, the weight is often like a dark shadow that feels like it's sitting on my forehead, pressing my head down and slumping my shoulders. However, within a few hours, it will be gone. The words will be out. Some weeks, they're out with joy. Other weeks, it's more relief. But they're out. And another week will be able to finally get started.

The homily. The ancient, timeless, eternal Word of God brought to bear on modern ears for modern lives. This is the first step out of the presence of God into the waiting world. The homily gives feet to the substance of the Word; application to its Truth. The old, old story is made new again each week. It is manna that will help us each survive the week ahead. 

The message is secure, but the messenger is not often so fortunate.

The Fifth Movement: The Eucharist

This week I've been wrestling through the idea of how we, as fallen and finite humans, are supposed to approach the infinite and Almighty God. Coming from the Protestant Evangelical stream, I hear a preponderance of admonitions into that relationship, but I find a significant shortage of instruction on how to get there. Remarkably, where instruction does exist, it seems to bear a disconcerting resemblance to the way I engage my next door neighbor: I talk with him (most days), he helps me out when I need it, and I return the favor at times. The relationship is pleasant enough, but if it is to be deep and meaningful, it's going to require me to push and work at it--and even then, I can only wait to see if he responds. 

It seems that being in relationship with the Almighty should be different than being in relationship with a guy that spends 50 hours a week in shift work, runs out of time to cut his grass, and forgets to put the trash out on the right day about once a month.

It seems that if Jesus came to give His life for our relationship with Him, that relationship shouldn't be primarily dependant on my effort, and His response probably doesn't remain a crap shoot.

So this line of thinking has led to a week long journey through the liturgy. The idea of liturgy gets a bad rap as "dry" and "boring," and many are repulsed by the idea of it. However, upon closer investigation, I'm finding it to be a well-trodden pathway into regular connection with God. Ancient monks constructed prayer labyrinths that physically and graphically depicted a process by which we enter the presence of God, and then intentionally move back out of the presence of God into the world. The liturgy is just such a tool.

The last several blog entries describe the ancient path, but in summary:

The Invitation reminds us that we are invited by God, and that we're not alone in our journey. We recognize we are on this journey with those from every time and place, together being invited by God into relationship with Him.

The Proclamation declares the foundational beliefs that undergird our faith. We declare who God is, who we are, and like a rope that leads us back to our home, the creeds won't allow us to wander so far from home that we get lost in the storm.

The Invocation acknowledges the reality of grace given to us in Jesus. His face has already been turned toward us in Christ, and by inviting His gaze, we recognize that the eternal God is somehow interested in the mundane details of our lives.

The Confession is an agreement with God about who we are and who He is. We don't confess our sin in the hope that we might be forgiven. Rather, we declare our shortcomings with the joyful foundation of knowing that we are already forgiven in Christ.

Which leads to the centerpeice of Christian worship, the Eucharist. This ancient "feast" of bread and wine contains a depth that cannot be plummed, meanings that cannot be exhausted, and an intimacy that cannot by described in words. In the ancient labyrinth, it's the center. It's the place where we can sit in the presence of God Himself, through Jesus, and truly rest.

The bread is the body, broken for our sins. The cup is the blood, spilled over our lives to cover our sin and shame. The sacrifice is the reality that Jesus, being in very nature God, was separated from God. The Father turned His face; the relationship was broken. This unthinkable action means for all those who will follow, we will never be separated. The pain has been endured, the suffering absorbed, the penalty paid. In the Eucharist, Jesus has come toward us and established deep and abiding relationship. The work is finished. The Eucharist celebrates that finished work, beckoning us deeper into the story.

The love feast has always been the centerpeice of Christian worship. It's not dependent upon a gifted worship leader or talented preacher. It's not dependent upon proper contextualization. It's not dependent upon mood lighting, lasers, smoke, or soft music. It's simple and elemental: Jesus' body broken, Jesus' blood shed, His life sacrificed. Given for me. For us. For all who, throughout history in every time and place, have placed there hope in Christ. And for all who will.

It's here, at the Eucharist, we can rest.

The Fourth Movement: Confession

Confession gets a bad rap in church these days.

Anytime we approach our sin problem, people feel like we're being dour and unhappy, forsaking the joy that we have in Christ. Why dwell on our sin, they reason, if we're already forgiven?

That's precisely the reason. 

We confess our sin in order to recognize just how far we are from the ideal of Jesus Himself. We see our brokenness. We acknowledge that we've fallen short; missed the mark. We recognize our personal sin, and we also recognize the broader sin of the body of Christ at large. We state it boldly, out loud, guilty, yet not ashamed. 

Why? Because we've already been forgiven.

We come before God as we truly are, not in the hope that we will be forgiven, but in the confidence that we already have been forgiven. Every other religion calls us to acknowlege our sin in shame and supplication, with the hope of forgiveness. Prior to a relationship with Jesus, we frantically hide our sin, fading into the background, hoping to be missed. As Christians, however, we are able to confess our sin boldly with freedom--not because we're proud of our failures, but because we're assured of our cleansing before the Father.

Ourr approach to God has fully moved from the transcendant to the personal. The Invitation acknowledges that we are part of a larger story that is being written within many times and in many places. The Proclamation ties our story to the ancient and ultimate Story, tethering us back to the foundation of Truth. The Invocation is an acceptance the grace that we are offered in Jesus. And it is based on the reality of grace that the Confession is able to be a joyful exercise.

The Confession means that we are no longer pretending to be something we're not. We're completely real and honest before God, unwilling to pretend that we are someone who is more worthy of His acceptance. We speak out loud the depth of our un-worth, and we do it with confidence and joy. Why?

  

Because we know that He's already offered us grace in Christ.

The Third Movement: Invocation

Inviting the presence of God is a pretty odd thing. We confess God to be omnipresent, so the idea of inviting Him into our sacred gathering seems somewhat out of place. Wasn't He already there? Do we really need to invite Him?

If the Invitation is a recognition that we're part of a larger community and the Proclamation the tie back to the Truth that unites us, the Invocation is an acceptance of grace.

One of my favorite Scriptural truths is found in Romans 8:32: "He who did not spare His own Son but gave Him up for us all, how will He not also give us all things?" In Jesus, God has already given us Himself. He has turned His face toward us in Christ, so our Invocation of His presence is simply acknowledging that reality. The way I like to think of it is, "He's been in this place long before I've gotten here, and He'll be here long after I'm gone. But for now, I recognize that He's actually looking my way."

This is where we start to cross the paradox of the omnipotent, transcendent God and the personal, immanent God. In the Proclamation, we declare the truths of the Almighty, Triune God Who is over all and in all. In the Invocation, we declare that the very same God is somehow interested in us. 

How do we approach God? There are many words and many ways that we might suggest, but there is only once substance: through Jesus. How else could we approach God?

The importance of the Invocation is that we recognize that the God of the Universe is interested in our little, seemingly insignificant lives. He has turned His face toward us in Christ, and through the invocation, we recognize His turning. Without this recognition, we're left far away from a God Who is so completely "other" than us. However, through this recognition, we will ultimately be able to confess and engage the Almighty God at a level of intimacy that seems unfathomable.

Friends, His face is already turned toward you. You only need acknowledge Him.

The Second Movement: Proclamation

This is the hauntingly beautiful first stanza from one of my favorite poems: "The Second Coming" by W.B. Yeats:

Turning and turning in the widening gyre   

The falcon cannot hear the falconer; 

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; 

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, 

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere   

The ceremony of innocence is drowned; 

The best lack all conviction, while the worst   

Are full of passionate intensity.

What a description of the world we live in. Things fall apart; the center cannot hold. The best lack all conviction while the worst are full of passionate intensity. It seems we've lost the ability to hear the voice of the Falconer.

The world is not the way that it's supposed to be. It's true in the world around us, and, sadly, it's true in the church. Statistics tell us the the majority of those who consider themselves to be Christians don't believe large portions of the Bible nor the key tenets that hold it together. Other statistics back that up by showing that the behavior and attitudes of those inside the church bears no significant difference from those outside the church. Things are falling apart; the center cannot hold.

How do we approach God when everything seems so out of control? 

The first movement in the liturgy, the Invitation, reminds us that we are part of a larger community – one that spans peoples, places, and history. We are not alone. 

The second movement, the Proclamation, ties us back to those peoples, in those places, throughout history.

When everything is falling apart, we must look for a solid foundation. That foundation is found in the ancient creeds of the church. We declare that which we believe; that which always ties us back to the bedrock of Christ and His work of redemption.

Glenn Packiam likens the Proclamation to an old farming practice. Farmers would tie a rope between the door of their house and the door of the barn, and in the event of terrible weather - particularly a bad snowstorm – the rope would guide them from the barn back home. It's a beautiful and poignant illustration. When we find ourselves lost in the storm, it is the Proclamation that grounds us and points us back to where we belong.

The Invitation reminds us that we are part of a larger community. The Proclamation ties that community back to our home.

An Invitation

I sometimes have a hard time knowing how to relate to God.

I know I'm not supposed to say that as a pastor, but it's the truth. He is so... Almighty...and I'm so...not. Should I be happy and full of joy because of redemption? Yes. Should I be sorrowful and repentant due to sin? Yes. Should I engage Him as my Friend, who longs to hear the most intimate thoughts of my heart? Yes. Should I "hallow" His Name, as the prayer says, remembering that He is transcendent and eternal, and my life is like grass? Yes, that too.

As you can see, it can get quite confusing.

That's where the ancient flow of the liturgy can be so life-giving. I know there are many who hear the word "liturgy" and immediately imagine dry repetitions and stoic services, but the heart of the liturgy is far more. In its essence, it's a pathway we can use to approach God. Through the flow of the liturgy, we engage both the intimacy and the transcendency of God; we mourn for our sin and rejoice in our redemption. And we do it with one another.

Over the next week, I'd like to meditate on the flow of the liturgy. Each day will represent a part of this ancient tool, beginning today with Invitation, flowing through to Sunday and Celebration. These likely won't contain much in terms of the liturgy itself, but rather, thoughts about the form and how we are invited to approach God.

It's fitting to begin with invitation because the approach to God was never meant to be a solo activity. Rather, we are invited (and we're inviting others) onto a path that has been steadily trod for nearly 2,000 years. The invitation is a way of saying: "I'm going to meet with God--come with me!" For some of us, we're thankful for a guide because we have no idea where we're going. In the liturgy, there is security in the millions who have gone before us. For others, we are excited to have the opportunity to lead others into the presence of God. In the liturgy, we have a path with markers pointing the right direction, just in case we get lost. 

And so, you're invited. Come on, let's journey together.

The Exceptions... Or maybe not.

So I've heard a lot of negative things about this younger generation. That may be a sign I'm getting old--I'm suddenly allowed to be involved in conversations about how bad the younger generation is. According to what seems to be common knowledge, they're rude, unmotivated, have no attention span, and are so entitled that they never work for anything. 

The first issue I have with this is that I have four kids of my own in the younger generation. And I happen to like all four of them. I don't find them to be rude. In fact, I find them to be quite polite with others, and more than tolerable around the house. (OK, pretty rude to one another, but verbally attacking one's sibling didn't just suddenly emerge at the turn of the millennium.) Like just about every adult I know, they're motivated when they're engaged in things they care about, and not so much otherwise. They're attention span seems fine to me, and I don't think I'm the poster boy for ADD. And they do work. They happen to work pretty hard most of the time.

Maybe my kids are the exception. At least that's what I thought.

Then, a few years ago, I started coaching my daughter's basketball team. Oh no, everyone told me. Not only are they middle schoolers, but these are girls, I was told. Lots of them. In one place. The drama will be unbearable, I was told. And with this generation? They'll never work, they'll never be coached, it's just going to be a mess, I was told. I braced myself for the worst.

Guess what? I love coaching these girls. Seriously, it's probably the most enjoyable thing I do all year. I look forward to basketball season starting like most people look forward to vacation. They're not rude; they're giggly and joyful at a level that most adults I know could learn from. And guess what? They seem to be pretty motivated. They work hard and pay attention to what they need to do to compete at a high level... 

...In their rec league. That's right, this isn't an AAU team or even school ball. This is rec league. There's not a college scout anywhere in sight, the newspaper's has never written a word about them, and most of their friends don't even know they play. This ain't a glamorous gig.

But play they do. This year, they played to the tune of a 12-0 season, winning the regular season championship and the tournament championship, navigating the toughest schedule of any team in their league. They worked hard from October to March, practicing drills, learning plays, running sprints, and working on jump shots. They're never going to be the '86 Lakers, but they did a great job. Even today, as they won a hard fought championship game, they made lots of mistakes. But they never quit, and in the end, they pulled it out. Seriously, I couldn't be more proud of them.

Maybe everyone's right. Maybe this generation is a mess. Maybe I just know all of the exceptions. But the more I get to know, the more exceptions I find. And isn't that always the case? It's so much easier to categorize people when you never bother to get to know them. However, once you do, you realize that generalizations rarely fit, and that people, for the most part, are just people. 

It seems that "those kids" are not so bad after all.

Why Beauty Matters

I'm sitting at my desk, looking out the window into my backyard. Like much of the Northeastern US, everything is covered with snow. It's beautiful. Don't get me wrong--just about everyone is more than ready for spring to arrive--but it's beautiful nonetheless.

I've been thinking for the last few days about beauty. I listened to an album that was beautiful, which led me to another song that was especially beautiful. Unbelievably, I had a beautiful meeting the other day. (Those are so few and far between that they should be highlighted and commemorated!) I'm constantly thinking about how beautiful my wife is. Our kids are beautiful, although more so when they're sleeping. This picture out my window is beautiful. 

All of this beauty brings two questions to mind: Why? and Who cares?

Why did God make everything beautiful? He didn't need to. I make things all the time that function, but that aren't pretty. I can't remember the last time I made a beautiful spreadsheet. And as incredibly beautiful as some chefs are able to make food, my food simply tastes good and gives nutrition. But it ain't pretty. Yet, when we look around at the world, there is beauty in every corner. Micro-organisms under a microscope are beautiful. The Grand Canyon is beautiful. Leaves budding are beautiful. The way the human eye moves is beautiful. What's the purpose? Why not just make things function?

The short answer, of course, is that everything is beautiful because God Himself is beautiful. Romans 1:20 says that all creation declares the glory of God, and that the world reveals, to those who are willing to see, God's invisible attributes and divine nature. The beauty of the world points us directly and purposely to the beauty of God.

The corallary question, then, is "Who cares?" Not in a crass way, but what practical impact does the beauty of God have on my life? Why does it matter?

That's where I've really been captured over the last few days. I've been thinking about how some people "encounter God" and really aren't changed much at all, while others encounter God and are truly transformed. What's the difference? Why is it that some people seem to be Christians for years, but never seem to be changed by Him? The answer, I think, can be found in the idea of beauty. 

Only beauty can transform us.

Moral instruction can't change us. Oh, when we learn the rules, our behavior might change, but we're not truly transformed. Our hearts are simply masked, at least for a time, with proper behavior. However, moral instruction and boundaries, apart from a vision of transcendent beauty, will only produce empty and hypocritical actions. We start to behave differently, but all that behavior does is cover up our sick and broken hearts, driving our sinful actions deeper into hiding.

When does transformation truly occur? It doesn't occur when we've learned, internalized, or even memorized a series of mental propositions that follow a logical progression. It doesn't occur when we've put up boundaries and fences throughout our life so that we can't possibly do something wrong. It doesn't occur when we sanitize our lives, schedules, language, entertainment choices, and our circle of friends so that we no longer come into contact with anything that smacks of the world. No, transformation will only ever occur when we are truly captured--overwhelmed--with the beauty of Jesus. Until that happens, we will constantly press back into the law and find that we always need more of it: higher fences, tighter filters, and the like. 

However, once the beauty of Jesus goes from being a theoretical idea to an experienced, passionate reality, our hearts begin to be transformed. We look more like Him. We act more like Him. We love those things that He loves. The fences and boundaries and filters may all still be there, but we'd never know, because we don't get anywhere close to them.

Religion isn't beautiful. God is beautiful. When the church clearly reflects Jesus, she is beautiful. When she conforms to religion, the church loses both its beauty and its place in the process of transformation. 

May we all be captured by the beauty of Jesus--and truly transformed.

Unproductive on Purpose

On the first Tuesday of every month, I lead our staff to be as unproductive as possible.

That might seem, on the surface to be a bad idea. Maybe a really bad idea. Maybe the kind of idea that will get one fired, or at the very least, get a firm reprimand.

However, I can honestly say that hasn't been one other single decision that I've made as a leader within our little church organization that has brought even close to as much benefit as this one has. 

Each month, we close down the office for one day: we let the phones go to voicemail, we leave our to-do lists on our desk, we cancel all of our appointments, and we practice the Sabbath. We rest together. We worship together. We pray together. We laugh with each other, and now and then, at each other. But most of all, we remember why we're doing what we're doing.

I'm a firm believer that one of the easiest ways to end up walking away from faith is by entering into a vocational role based on that faith--the church itself maybe being the most dangerous of those roles. So when, five years ago, I stepped into this role of Lead Pastor, I determined that we were going to watch out for each other. We were going to make sure that ministry didn't drive us away from Jesus. We were going to ensure that serving Him didn't get in the way of loving Him. At that's what our staff Sabbath is all about.

It's nothing fancy or impressive--our pastoral team passes responsibility around, month to month, for leading the rest of us in worship and prayer. Sometimes those times are well-thought out and well structured, as was today's. Other times, such as when it's my month to lead, they are a bit more scattered and emphasize resting in our own personal ways. Some months we take some time to play games or watch movies. Some months they are a bit heavier and more focused. However, they always lead us clearly back to Jesus. We remember, at least once each month, that He truly is worthy of all of our lives. We remember, despite the current crises, the difficult relationships, or this week's pain-in-the-rear-end issue, that Jesus is worth it. 

What has been the result? After almost five years of making this a monthly discipline, I've never worked with a team that I enjoy working with more than this one. One of our staff members remarked to me today that our staff is a place where she can share anything that's on her heart at any time: not just ministry struggles, but family challenges, heart issues, doubts, fears, and any other kind of life issue that might come up. We've become like a family to her. And I totally agree.

And so next month we'll stop again. We'll turn off the phones, and we'll turn our hearts toward Jesus and His love for us. One of my mantras, stolen from C.J. Mahaney, is that "the main thing is to keep the main thing the main thing." I don't know if there's anywhere that's a more difficult challenge than in full-time ministry. 

So I'm glad for a day to do nothing. I'm pretty sure it was the most productive thing I could have done today.

Living or Dying?

The writer to the Hebrews makes an incredible statement about Jesus: "For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are--yet he did not sin." (Hebrews 4:15, italics added) 

The question I've been pondering is this one... What did that temptation look like? The specifics of the temptations were, of course, quite different. Jesus didn't have the internet, the stock market, the luxury restaurants, and such, nor did He have the political or economic freedom to indulge in the same way that we do today in 21st century North America. And yet, He was tempted as we are. How is that possible?

So I started to think through my greatest temptations. The list is long and difficult to order, but I did my best. There are certainly times that I'm tempted towards blatant sin: greed, lust, dishonesty, envy, and the like. These are surely daily occurences, and I'm called to reject them again and again, being watchful of my life, lest sin take a foothold. However, these blatant sins, at least in their most overt forms, have been largely "patterned out" of my life. The temptation to my heart is still most certainly there, but the opportunities, due to the pattern of life that I've chosen to live, are less present.

The standard confessional prayer within most English liturgies contains in it a phrase that is, to me, a haunting one: "We confess we have sinned against you... by what we have done and by what we have left undone." That second category seems unfairly open-ended. The things I've left undone?? That's so much! Every time I choose something, I'm "unchoosing" everything else! What am I confessing here? 

This leads my thoughts back to Jesus, who was tempted in every way as we are, yet was without sin. He didn't do everything. There were clearly those He didn't heal, poor He didn't feed, injustices He didn't right, and so on. And yet, that last phrase from Hebrews 4:15, which is affirmed multiple times throughout the Old and New Testaments, states that He didn't sin. If Jesus was faced with the standard liturgical confession, He would not need to confess a sin that He committed--but He would also never need to confess a sin through omission. While He didn't do everything, His life was filled with many things He did: teaching, modeling love and grace for the broken, healing, feeding, sacrificing His comfort for the joy of others, speaking up against injustice... and that little act of becoming the all-sufficient sacrifice for all mankind. He didn't just avoid sin. He also spent His life engaging righteousness. He modeled and lived within the Kingdom that He proclaimed. (Mark 1:15)

Could it be that the greatest temptation in 21st century North America is to keep oneself from blatantly sinful actions, and then passively doing nothing?

We live in an isolated country, both geographically and socioeconomically. We are further isolated through moderately spread out single family homes in the suburbs, which remove us from daily contact with "the rest of the world." We are given personal access to all we need: food, healthcare, entertainment, etc. through the beauty of the free market economy. Because we have, we have more. Because we have, we have access to even more. (Why? Because that's how the economy works, dummy. Why market products and services, even if they are necessities, to those who can't afford to purchase them? It might be a good social decision, but it's a terrible business decision.) Has our isolation and self-sufficiency led us, like a sneaky-smart tempter might, into the temptation of passivity?

I read a study recently that said Americans live in a state of roughly 40% awareness. That means 60% of the world passes us by without our so much as being aware of it. It's as though our spirits recoil against global injustice, local oppression and poverty, war, genocide, corporate greed, and governmental corruption. We feel like we can't take it any more--so we just shut it off, becoming blissfully unaware as we live our lives. Instead of engaging those painful realities, we fill large chunks of our lives with those things that we would put under the category of  "leisure": games, movies, consumption of food and drink, social media outlets, shopping for what we don't need, and of course, the ubiquitous internet surfing. Our phones, laptops, and tablets fill hours of our time, giving us the illusion that we are "busy" and that our lives are "full." It's not true, but it sure makes us feel better.

Jesus was most certainly tempted by the blatant, conventional sins that you and I are faced with every day. But I have to think the greater temptation was, in His human weariness, to not engage. That's certainly mine. Everyday I'm tempted to not engage with the needs of my family, the broken people I come in contact with, the broken systems that I can so easily avoid... to be "busy," but to not really live in the way I've been created to live. And when I'm just filling time but not doing that for which I've been created, I'm not sure that the term "living" is correct. More accurately, I'm in the process of "dying." I just haven't made it there yet.

And so, as yesterday's post, I fix my eyes on Jesus, the Author and the Finisher of my faith. He resisted the temptation to be passive in His weariness, and I must as well. I won't always get it right, but I'd sure rather be living than dying.

Sabbath Prayer

A song from our worship gatherings this morning, based on Hebrews 12:1-2. This is my prayer tonight.

When my heart is weary, 

when my soul is weak

When it seems I can’t traverse the trail before me 

I survey the glory of your agony

And I find the will to fight for what’s before me

Cause you ran the race enduring for your glory

I fix my eyes on you, the founder and the finisher of our faith
I fix my eyes on you, the solace in your suffering is my strength

As I fight to follow, 

you’re my righteous guide

And you train me to delight in all that’s holy

Heal my broken body, 

cure my crooked stride

Throw off every weight and sin that clings so closely

I will run the race enduring for your glory

Living in this Season

So, I grilled food today. Yep, in the snow. While it was about 20 degrees.

Note the snow all around the grills. Note the footprints which indicate that I needed to clear the snow off the grills before I could light them.

And note the smile on my face (and the burgers in the background) while I grilled in my puffy ski jacket and my hat. Makes perfect sense.

What in the world was I thinking?

Well, I wanted to eat, first of all. But secondly, the sun was out today. Sure, the temperature didn't get any higher than about 31, but the sun was out. And that got me ready to grill. 

Don't get me wrong- I love winter. I'm not one of those who complain about the cold from October to March. I love the cold, and would be glad for several more months of the white stuff. So what's my issue?

Grill season starts in the spring. It's winter right now. Spring is what's next. I like winter well enough, but I'm already in the midst of winter- now I'm looking ahead to spring, because it's next. And here's my true confession: I'm terrible at waiting for what's next. I'm always looking ahead; daydreaming about what's still to come; looking into the next day, the next week, or the next season. I have several key aspects of my life planned for next year already. Seriously, that's sick.

Why is it such a big deal? The problem is that I so rarely stop to enjoy what's now because I'm so focused on what's next. That's not just because I'm pushing the clock on spring...

...This season with our kids is precious and we're never going to live it again, so we should engage it. I shouldn't just wish it away thinking about the next phase of life.

...The person that I'm listening to right now isn't just a stepping stone to the next conversation- they are valuable in and of themselves.

...The next position, the next promotion, the next team, the next series... None of which are guaranteed to be better than the current. However, even if they were, I can't get to them yet. I might as well enjoy life right where I am.

And that doesn't even consider the next gadget, the next car, the next phone, the next house, the next relationship, the next meal, etc. etc. The list could go on forever.

So how do I enjoy the moment? 

Be thankful. I'm learning to intentionally thank God for the opportunities of each moment instead of just pushing toward the next. 

Be otherward. If I'm more concerned about the people around me than I am about myself, I'm more likely to remain in the moment. I don't know what's next for them.

Be satisfied. This is maybe the single biggest lesson that I constantly need to relearn... Once I finish this meal, I'll be hungry again. As soon as I get the latest gadget, the next one will come out. The next position is great until the one above comes into view- after that, there's a new goal.

And, yes, once I finally make it to spring, I'll be looking toward summer. 

Nothing on this earth will fully satisfy me, so I need to stop thinking that I'll someday gain the ultimate joy and simply enjoy the moment that I'm in. 

I want to learn to live satisfied with each and every moment, not just looking forward to what's next. 

For today, I got to grill in the snow. I'm glad it wasn't sunny and 60 degrees- there will be time for that in a month or two. For today, I'm going to embrace the cold of winter. It can only help me truly appreciate the coming of spring.

Dancing in the Hurricane

I was at a Pastor's and Spouses Retreat this past weekend, and was reminded of a new song by Brandi Carlile. That sentence has never before been written in modern civilization.

We were being encouraged to explore the metaphors that we have in our heads for ministry, and to come up with some new ones. For instance, feeling like you're drowning and having a hard time keeping your head above water might feel extremely accurate, but it isn't helpful. Because we can choose our own metaphors, we were talking about how having unhealthy or negative metaphors in our lives can be unproductive.

One of the pastors shared a metaphor that he was feeling in his own life: that he was in the midst of the storm, but if he stayed within the eye of the storm, which he equated to the presence of God, he was able to continue to move forward with no problem. However, when he got in front or lagged behind, the storm was too much. (Moses prayed much the same thing in Exodus 33:12-17. It's a cool passage, a helpful image, and a great prayer.)

That's where the new Brandi Carlile song comes in. She's recently released a single called "The Eye" that I've been listening to heavily in the past month or so. The chorus goes like this: 

"I wrapped your love around me like a chain

but I never was afraid that it would die.

You can dance in a hurricane

but only if you're standing in the eye."

The idea's the same, but there's a nuance. In the first metaphor, the goal is to exist. To move forward. To not be beaten up by the storm. But in the song, the goal is different: to dance.

I want to dance. 

I don't just want to survive this storm called life. I want to dance through it. I want to find joy in the midst of pain; I want to be a part of showing that grace to others. I want to be someone that's known for living life just like that--dancing in the eye of the hurricane.

Lent is a season for penitance. To remember our sin. There are many sins that I have committed and am committing. They are specific, they have names, and I must learn to speak of them as such. However, I wonder if the greatest sin, in the light of the story of the gospel, is the sin of joylessness. There are times that I'm walking--sometimes even running--forward in the eye of the storm. But there are times I've forgotten to dance.

Lord, forgive me for the many times that I've lived a joyless life in spite of the blessings of the gospel. Forgive me for taking my joy from the temporal, which is always changing and will someday pass away, and not feeding on the eternal. Teach me to dance. Amen.

Why I Need to Focus More on Myself in Prayer

Prayer has many different facets, and I don't mean to oversimplify this complex spiritual discipline. However, I notice that most of my prayer life is focused on God. Now, the fact that He's the One that I'm addressing is certainly part of the issue, and not something that I'm looking to change. But it's more than that--my prayer life heavily focuses on Him. A good thing, you might think? Here are some snippets:

• God, finances are a little tight. Could YOU give me some more money?
• God, I'm starting to feel a bit sick. Could YOU heal me?
• God, my friend/wife/kids/neighbors/random person that I encounter in my life is starting to annoy the heck out of me. Could YOU make them less annoying? Or, I guess if YOU need to, give me more patience? Or, could YOU help them to see how wonderful I am so that they serve me instead of annoying me?
• God, I'm not sure where I'm supposed to go next. Could YOU show me what YOUR will is for me?
• God, I'm feeling a bit down and frustrated. Could YOU make everything better?

As you can see from those brief snippets, my prayer life is very God-focused. I am quite concerned that God fix, heal, provide, change, lead, etc., and I understand the power of God enough to know that He's able to do these things. So I focus on Him... on Him making things better for me.

Now, I want to be clear that I firmly believe God invites us to bring our problems, our fears, and concerns to Him. But He is also sovereign. The fact that He's sovereign means, at the very least, that He's allowed the financial difficulty, the sickness, the annoyance, the confusion, and the emotion into my life. Is He able to take it away? Sure. Is He able to change the situation? Of course. Is He able to make my life more comfortable? Absolutely. But is that His primary goal in this thing that I'm going through? I'm not so sure...

I realize more and more all the time that God's primary focus is not my personal comfort and happiness. There are larger things afoot, and while I might get to be a part of them, I'm not always the focus of them. While I'm concerned that my sickness be healed, God's concerned about having yet another witness of grace and peace to my doctor. While I'm concerned about financial struggles, God's concerned about creating in me compassion for the situation in my neighbor's life that I'm going to encounter 20 years down the road. Of course, my view isn't big enough to see these things, and so it requires a stretching of my faith to trust God in the midst of them. 

So that's why I need to focus more on myself in prayer. Instead of asking God to fix it, I'm starting to ask God to help me not to miss it. 

All too often, when faced with suffering or pain, my primary goal is to get out of it as quickly as possible. On the other hand, when faced with joy or blessing, my primary goal is to enjoy it as long as possible. What if, in both suffering and in blessing, God is at work doing something greater? And what if, by focusing on my own situation, I'm missing it? So I'm shifting my prayer, in the midst of both joy and pain, and asking God for the grace not to miss the larger purposes that He is at work doing in my life.

"It was for the joy set before Him [that Jesus] endured the cross, despising the shame, and is [now] seated at the right hand of the throne of God." (Hebrews 12:2)

The short view of my life leads me to focus on God--how He can fix my problem and make me more comfortable. The long view of my life leads me to focus on my own heart--what God is doing through the situation at hand that is meant to form me, and to make me a blessing to the world around me. That's a kind of self-focus of which I don't think I need to repent.

Why I Give Something Up for Lent

The prototypical Lenten discipline is giving something up. Chocolate, sugar, red meat, coffee, Facebook, and television seem to be the standards, although the creative variations are endless. It usually goes something like this: somewhere around 10:00pm on "Fat Tuesday" (the day before Lent begins), we start trying to decide on something that we want to give up. We make the decision, usually based around what would be the least painful and most beneficial for us to give up. (Dropping dessert is not only a bit of a sacrifice, it can't hurt the waistline either!) We then ceremoniously declare our intent, and proceed to make known our great sacrifice over the course of the next six weeks to all who will listen. This leads up to the great feast day, Easter, in which we gorge on chocolate, sugar, steak, or what have you.

Maybe your discipline doesn't look exactly like that, but if you enter into this yearly ritual, it likely has some similarities. The question that comes to mind, which I've been bouncing around in my head for the past few days, is "Why?" What's the purpose? Ostensibly, we are identifying in some small way with the sacrifice of Jesus. However, me removing chocolate from my diet for six weeks while I eat what I like otherwise seems to bear approximately zero similarity to the God of the Universe taking on flesh and submitting Himself to condemnation, torture, and a brutal death. If that's the reason we engage this ritual, it seems that we've failed on many levels.

Disciplines are training. Like running intervals, lifting weights, or doing sit-ups, they train our bodies for one thing by doing something else. We don't train for the sake of training--no medals are ever awarded on a Tuesday afternoon on the practice field. We train for the sake of the game. Spiritually, we gain no eternal points for our fasting, our prayer, our Bible study discipline, or dragging ourselves once again to that small group meeting. But each of these things, like a well constructed practice regimen, lead us into the fullness of life. We don't "win" in the prayer closet, but because of our time there, we are able to see the Spirit of God shine through our lives in the most difficult of circumstances--normal life.

So why fast during Lent? Might it be that our call is not to equate a reduced intake of caffeine with the sacrifice of Jesus, but rather, we're practicing what is a much larger life principle? By taking something that is good--a gift from God--and willingly removing it for a period of time, we enter into the difficult but deeply profound reality: the good is nearly always the biggest enemy of the best.

Throughout the life of a believer in Jesus, our sinful behavior is identified, confessed, and placed on the altar. This is right, good, and necessary. However, it's not complete. Paul's words in Romans 12 are far more inclusive: "Therefore, brothers, by the mercies of God, present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God." (Romans 12:1) Our sin sacrificed--certainly. But the call is far greater. Not just the sinful portion of our lives, but all of our lives. Everything. Oswald Chambers says it this way: "Beware of refusing to go to the funeral of your own independence."

We intuitively understand that sinful behavior is wrong and needs to be replaced in Christ. However, for most of us, blatant sin is not the primary enemy of the Christ-life. Rather, it's the good behavior that gets in the way. The blessings. Those things that have been given by the grace of God and yet constantly threaten to become gods themselves. My sinful actions rarely stop me from the display of the Christ life in the world around me, at least not at this stage of my journey. My sin is far too hidden for that. Rather, the fact that I'm too busy staring at the television or seeking to gain my own comfort to even notice the suffering and pain of those around me is a much greater liability.

The great enemy of the Christ-life is my own independence. Paul's words again: "I have been crucified with Christ. It is  no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me." (Galatians 2:20) It is my desire to choose my own path, make my own decisions, and assert my own will that blocks the life that Christ desires to live within me. The good things that I would choose get in the way of the best things that God desires for me.

And so, I give up bread and pasta and sugar this Lenten season. Yes, it will help the waistline, shaping my stubborn body a bit. But more importantly, passing up that bowl of ice cream at night will shape my soul. I'll pass on the good gifts of God by my choice over these next six weeks so that I might, by grace, learn to be more fully crucified with Christ the other 46 weeks this year, and every day forward.

Joseph and the Hand of Providence

Yesterday I began a series on Joseph. I've known the story--the coat and all--for most of my life. By the time I outgrew the flannel board, Andrew Lloyd Webber was there for me and I sang along to the catchy tunes. 

But I'm not sure I ever really paid attention to his life.

It's fascinating that the biblical record of Joseph contains no recording of sinful behavior. That doesn't mean that he was sinless, of course, but the fact that his character doesn't contain some fatal flaw or notoriously poor decision is fascinating in light of his life. Sold into slavery by his brothers, hauled off to a foreign country, serving as a slave, tempted and then accused of sexual sin, tossed into jail for over a decade... Why? God's hand and God's plan. Providence.

In my heart of hearts, I know that God doesn't repay our evil with evil and our good with good. However, this karmic idea is so deeply infused in our culture (even, and maybe especially, our Christian culture) that when bad things happen, I immediately look inside my own life for the cause. What an arrogant, ridiculous way to see the world. 

Could it be that the plan of God is bigger than my individual comfort and happiness?

What a shocking idea. Joseph was faithful, and for large chunks of his life, everything stunk. That wasn't the punishment of God or the justice of God--it was the grace of God in the time of God.

I take comfort from Joseph's life. When I'm confused or feeling beaten up, the question that I need to ask is not "What have I done to deserve this?" Rather, the question is simply "What is God doing?" The  Almighty and sovereign God is at work, and His plan is larger than my small view of the world. 

A Downward Ascent

Lent can be a drag.

All the fasting, all the penitence, all the introspection. Denying self is never as much fun as gratifying self, nor is challenging as coddling. The Lenten season is one that pushes back against my flesh and asks me to consider the hard questions that I would far rather ignore.

So why even engage this lousy season? After all, aren't we to live in the victory of Christ and rejoice in His grace? Am I not already fully forgiven?

"Yes," I answer my pathetic, coddled self. "Already forgiven."

"But forgiven of what, again, exactly?"

We live in an age where "sin," if spoken of at all, is a vague, impersonal idea. It's something to be conquered, for sure, but something that has already been conquered like the Babylonian empire or maybe the Nazi regime. It was wrong and it was evil... and it was also long ago and far away. Rarely do we take the time--or the pain--to recognize that sin is not just a vague, impersonal concept, but it's an ever-present and quite personal aspect of me. Oh, of each one of us for sure, but that doesn't quite strike to the core like when I realize it's me.

The try-harder gospel message of the self-help era says that we need to work harder to be better. We need to change our perspective and embrace the happy-slappy joyful life that we've been given in Christ. This is despite the nagging sense that we're not really what we should be and the world hasn't made it their yet either. A toothy grin just doesn't seem to do in response to a cancer diagnosis, or another beheading, or the economic inequity that leads to starvation, disease, and various forms of injustice. When my friend's marriage is falling apart... or my own feels strained... more grinning just doesn't cut it.

Jesus didn't come that we would reform our old selves into better, happier versions. He didn't suffer and die so that I might implement an eight step process toward becoming a kinder person. His very real death must not simply point me toward a battle that is long ago and far away. Rather, it must point me to a daily battle; one that is ever present, and one that will stubbornly not go away. And if I'm honest, one that I would far rather ignore.

Yes, I joyfully announce that I have been given new life in Christ. There is a new life that has sprung up in me, through absolutely no choice or work of my own. This pure work of grace came before I ever had the chance to be sick of my old nature and long before I would ever be willing or able to ask. I can see (and I pray others do as well), the signs of the new nature. Like blooms which will ultimately push out of the snow covered beds I can see out my window, the signs of new life are within me.

But so is my old self. Although I would rather pretend it doesn't exist, it's there. And here's the thing: My sinful nature can not and will not be reformed. It's not getting any better. The new life in Christ is wonderful, but if I'm honest, it only acts as a contrast to the evil that's within me. The solution is not that I should reform my old nature--it cannot and will not reform. The only solution? My old self must die. Not just once, at a point in time, but again and again. I must kill it--no, not I, but Christ, for it is only His nature within me that has even the slightest desire for the old self to die.

Lent is about understanding of what I've been forgiven. It's about continuing the siege on my old, sinful heart that I pray will someday starve it out completely. While I recognize that the battle will continue in various forms until I'm face to face with Jesus Himself, I long to see real victory in the battle. Or, to state it more accurately, I long to long to see it.

That's the reality of Lent, this season that Edna Hong accurately termed the "downward ascent." By denying self, by admitting brokenness, Lent arouses in me the sense of sin that I all to often and all too easily cover up in my coddled and comfortable life.

As I was reminded this weekend, the Good News of the gospel is that in the midst of suffering and pain, we have a King. That King is not simply the King of the day--He is the King of the night as well. It is through the downward ascent of Lent, just as it is through the suffering and pain of our real and ever-present lives, that we engage the depth of the presence of our great King.