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.