Three things have happened in the past few weeks, and they are linked.
1) I was invited to join the "Deep and Wide" cohort of 15 emerging pastors in the RCA. Don't read "emerging" in terms of theology, but in terms of age. Pastors in this cohort will be approximately 25-35, and I am safely on the younger end of that spectrum at 28.
2) We had four children (ages six and under) stay in our home.
3) I told a group of pastors (all of whom have my deepest respect and admiration/envy) about a time I failed to accomplish what I said I would accomplish.
There's something about eating with a range of children that is utterly fascinating. Some children are at an age where they need to be told to finish their food, some children need to be told how to properly eat their food, and some children are at an age where they just go at it and you wait patiently to clean up afterward. The progress is fun to watch. Children, as they age, begin to take on more responsibility at the table. Eventually adults will help clean up after themselves (in theory...). Children, however, create all sorts of messes with varying degrees of capacity to clean it up or even see it.
Confession: I don't like being referred to as young. I hear young, I hear child. I hear young, I hear child, I feel an intense desire to prove myself. I could let the chip on my shoulder slide a little bit. As I remind people, I will naturally phase out of being young. I am already approaching the big 3-0, after all.
Second confession: There's something attractive about sitting at the kiddy table.
At the kiddy table, I am there to make people laugh and attract attention before being released to play. But at the grown-up table, I have to clean up my messes and take responsibility for the functioning of the table.
I sit at many tables. I am in a church table, a denomination table (and being invited into this cohort is a big deal for me at this table), a family table, friendship tables, and even a table of community agencies working together for the betterment of my county. Those are a lot of tables. And yet, there is something attractive about going back to the kiddy table. It is comfortable there. I can sit and talk about what needs to be changed but never take ownership of that change. Changing systems is for grown ups, just like doing the dishes for Thanksgiving.
The kiddy table was cool for a time, but there are areas in my life in which I want out of the kiddy table and to take the place that Jesus has set for me at the grown-up table, wherever that place may be. Perhaps you, the reader, are sitting at the kiddy table of life, a victim of circumstances or scheduling. Let's take a walk together to the grown up table and learn together what it means to take responsibility there.
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Thursday, June 27, 2013
"I Saw The Old You Back There"
Few words can hold the power of, "I saw the 'old you' back there." "Old you." I remember old me. Old me isn't that old.
When I was in elementary school, my school had its fair share of bullies. Big kids in groups who tormented the other kids in the school. Safe to say, I was a common target coming home from school. I never received anything too traumatic, but I can remember the constant cruelty of a few kids. Let's be honest, I am never going to be confused for biggest kid in the class. The same was true in elementary school. With a heavy backpack on, I knew that I could not run. My size made it challenging to fight. But I was smarter than my bullies. A lot smarter. I had a way with words and a skill in crafting them together. And so when the bullies would make fun of something, I would turn it back on them. The first few times just embarrassed me as they had pre-thought out insults printed from the computer or from a book. I did not.
But eventually, I grew in my skills and turned it around. By middle school, people wouldn't make fun of me because they knew that once I got rolling, I could embarrass them to the point of having their own friends laughing at my jokes. It's how I protected myself from the bullies. And it had the hidden consequence of getting others to approve of me. They thought I was funny. They laughed when I laughed. They complimented my way with words. I was accepted.
By the end of high school, when I told people I wanted to become a pastor, I got two responses. One was "Oh, how wonderful!" and the other was "Wait... you?" People who had been on the receiving end of my jokes were often the first to question my choice of profession.
Over the course of college and seminary, I worked really hard to tame the tongue. And I saw some victory there.
Then, a few nights ago, I heard those words: "I saw the 'old you' back there." My wife recognized the Mr. Hyde to my Dr. Jekyll. For those who don't know the story, Dr. Jekyll was a scientist who tried to a way to isolate human evil, but instead created a way for his dark impulses to take center stage in the form of diminutive Mr. Hyde. But Dr. Jekyll finds himself changing into Mr. Hyde without his fancy chemicals. Soon, he finds himself changing into Mr. Hyde and not realizing it. The end of the story is dark and tragic. I had slipped into "old me" without realizing, embracing the fact that my words were gaining approval at the expense of a friend.
Through a process called FaithWalking, I am learning to see myself more clearly and to recognize when the various Mr. Hyde's show up. What most people don't recognize from the story, because they are used to the Incredible Hulk image, is that Mr. Hyde is actually smaller than Dr. Jekyll. In many ways, Hyde represents a child more than a monster. And the same thing was true then. I was in a crowd of people I didn't know, and felt scared. And when I am afraid, there is an 8-year old saying "Remember how you handled this? Remember when people laughed with you and didn't ignore you?" And the 8-year old won out.
1 Corinthians 13 may be one of the most famous passages in the Bible, but it is also one of the most challenging. It ends with these words: "When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me." That 8 year old voice of fear may have helped me get to this point in life. It gave me the feeling of confidence, a belief that I could stand up to people more powerful than me and helped me work on my use of words. All of those are skills I use today. But that voice also makes me see people like things to be used for my own ease and safety. So it is a voice that needs to be put behind me.
It's too bad, really. Dr. Jekyll could never rid himself of the Hyde voice. And maybe I won't either. But through the grace of God, perhaps that voice of fear can come face to face with the voice of God's perfect love.
When I was in elementary school, my school had its fair share of bullies. Big kids in groups who tormented the other kids in the school. Safe to say, I was a common target coming home from school. I never received anything too traumatic, but I can remember the constant cruelty of a few kids. Let's be honest, I am never going to be confused for biggest kid in the class. The same was true in elementary school. With a heavy backpack on, I knew that I could not run. My size made it challenging to fight. But I was smarter than my bullies. A lot smarter. I had a way with words and a skill in crafting them together. And so when the bullies would make fun of something, I would turn it back on them. The first few times just embarrassed me as they had pre-thought out insults printed from the computer or from a book. I did not.
But eventually, I grew in my skills and turned it around. By middle school, people wouldn't make fun of me because they knew that once I got rolling, I could embarrass them to the point of having their own friends laughing at my jokes. It's how I protected myself from the bullies. And it had the hidden consequence of getting others to approve of me. They thought I was funny. They laughed when I laughed. They complimented my way with words. I was accepted.
By the end of high school, when I told people I wanted to become a pastor, I got two responses. One was "Oh, how wonderful!" and the other was "Wait... you?" People who had been on the receiving end of my jokes were often the first to question my choice of profession.
Over the course of college and seminary, I worked really hard to tame the tongue. And I saw some victory there.
Then, a few nights ago, I heard those words: "I saw the 'old you' back there." My wife recognized the Mr. Hyde to my Dr. Jekyll. For those who don't know the story, Dr. Jekyll was a scientist who tried to a way to isolate human evil, but instead created a way for his dark impulses to take center stage in the form of diminutive Mr. Hyde. But Dr. Jekyll finds himself changing into Mr. Hyde without his fancy chemicals. Soon, he finds himself changing into Mr. Hyde and not realizing it. The end of the story is dark and tragic. I had slipped into "old me" without realizing, embracing the fact that my words were gaining approval at the expense of a friend.
Through a process called FaithWalking, I am learning to see myself more clearly and to recognize when the various Mr. Hyde's show up. What most people don't recognize from the story, because they are used to the Incredible Hulk image, is that Mr. Hyde is actually smaller than Dr. Jekyll. In many ways, Hyde represents a child more than a monster. And the same thing was true then. I was in a crowd of people I didn't know, and felt scared. And when I am afraid, there is an 8-year old saying "Remember how you handled this? Remember when people laughed with you and didn't ignore you?" And the 8-year old won out.
1 Corinthians 13 may be one of the most famous passages in the Bible, but it is also one of the most challenging. It ends with these words: "When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me." That 8 year old voice of fear may have helped me get to this point in life. It gave me the feeling of confidence, a belief that I could stand up to people more powerful than me and helped me work on my use of words. All of those are skills I use today. But that voice also makes me see people like things to be used for my own ease and safety. So it is a voice that needs to be put behind me.
It's too bad, really. Dr. Jekyll could never rid himself of the Hyde voice. And maybe I won't either. But through the grace of God, perhaps that voice of fear can come face to face with the voice of God's perfect love.
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
It's Just a Bus Ride
There are things I have hated to admit over time. One: I battle envy on a fairly regular basis. Two: I really like control. The first one has seen enough ink. The second one has some energy to it today.
Over the course of the past several months (a year already... how time flies), our church has been taking a good hard look at ourselves and at our community to see where we need to invest in our growth and in the shalom of the Glen Lake area. And so we saw in ourselves a need to grow in the areas of spiritual formation/disciplines (who doesn't?) and that our community was one where isolation was becoming more of a "thing." Isolation is a regular experience for people living in the most beautiful place in America. What a good way to encourage spiritual discipline than to commit ourselves to ending isolation? Spiritual disciplines, after all, open ourselves to God and neighbor, effectively ending isolation from both.
Then it got personal. I committed myself to understanding public transit in a rural community. Whereas I would think that I would embrace public transportation in an urban area, I tend to think of my car as a survival skill in Glen Arbor. My inner dread increased as I began to think about the things I would need to cope with in order to make the bus part of my life.
I am a couple miles from the nearest bus stop.
The bus only comes a couple times a day.
The places I need to go can be a mile or two from the bus stop.
I have to be prompt and carry cash (even exact change!).
Confession: I feel entitled. I feel entitled to my car. I feel entitled to my schedule. I feel entitled to do what I want when I want. The rural public transportation system defies my entitlement.
Entitlement is a dirty word nowadays, particularly in a time of sequestration. Entitlement has gone from a feeling to a code word for government subsidy. Nobody wants to admit to feeling "entitled." So allow me to say it again, allow me to bring that demon out of the shadow and into the light, where it belongs.
I feel entitled to controlling my own life.
I wish the bus system was the only place this entitlement shows up. But it isn't. My entitlement shows up in how I respond to interruptions. My entitlement shows up when I work really hard and it doesn't go according to plan. My entitlement shows up in how I expect the social systems of the world to work for me all the time, even when I hear my neighbors and friends lament how the systems seem to be arrayed against them. And so I show up with a degree of entitlement. And I don't like it. I like to think of myself as a justice-minded, shalomy type of pastor. And still, I sit in my office grumbling over the fact that my bus stop is a one mile walk from the my target.
Richard Foster would not list "bus riding" as part of the new edition of "Celebration of Discipline," but that's just what it will be for me as I seek to make the bus part of my life. It's a chance to challenge my own model of how the world "should be" and embrace the way God would have it be. It may be just a bus ride, but for me, it's a prayer.
Over the course of the past several months (a year already... how time flies), our church has been taking a good hard look at ourselves and at our community to see where we need to invest in our growth and in the shalom of the Glen Lake area. And so we saw in ourselves a need to grow in the areas of spiritual formation/disciplines (who doesn't?) and that our community was one where isolation was becoming more of a "thing." Isolation is a regular experience for people living in the most beautiful place in America. What a good way to encourage spiritual discipline than to commit ourselves to ending isolation? Spiritual disciplines, after all, open ourselves to God and neighbor, effectively ending isolation from both.
Then it got personal. I committed myself to understanding public transit in a rural community. Whereas I would think that I would embrace public transportation in an urban area, I tend to think of my car as a survival skill in Glen Arbor. My inner dread increased as I began to think about the things I would need to cope with in order to make the bus part of my life.
I am a couple miles from the nearest bus stop.
The bus only comes a couple times a day.
The places I need to go can be a mile or two from the bus stop.
I have to be prompt and carry cash (even exact change!).
Confession: I feel entitled. I feel entitled to my car. I feel entitled to my schedule. I feel entitled to do what I want when I want. The rural public transportation system defies my entitlement.
Entitlement is a dirty word nowadays, particularly in a time of sequestration. Entitlement has gone from a feeling to a code word for government subsidy. Nobody wants to admit to feeling "entitled." So allow me to say it again, allow me to bring that demon out of the shadow and into the light, where it belongs.
I feel entitled to controlling my own life.
I wish the bus system was the only place this entitlement shows up. But it isn't. My entitlement shows up in how I respond to interruptions. My entitlement shows up when I work really hard and it doesn't go according to plan. My entitlement shows up in how I expect the social systems of the world to work for me all the time, even when I hear my neighbors and friends lament how the systems seem to be arrayed against them. And so I show up with a degree of entitlement. And I don't like it. I like to think of myself as a justice-minded, shalomy type of pastor. And still, I sit in my office grumbling over the fact that my bus stop is a one mile walk from the my target.
Richard Foster would not list "bus riding" as part of the new edition of "Celebration of Discipline," but that's just what it will be for me as I seek to make the bus part of my life. It's a chance to challenge my own model of how the world "should be" and embrace the way God would have it be. It may be just a bus ride, but for me, it's a prayer.
Monday, March 11, 2013
Does Jesus Live in a Church?
Very few theologians would state that the answer to the above question is "yes." Despite my hyper-awareness of every sound in the church building after the sun goes down, I don't expect to find Jesus taking cookies out of the freezer or anything. I do that. Jesus doesn't.
So why do I ask the question about where Jesus lives? I think we functionally understand that Jesus lives inside the church walls, looking out at a broken world and hoping people will come to Him for solutions. It sort of reminds me of the psychiatric stand in the Peanuts cartoon strip. We hold this view when our outreach strategies and programmatic endgame is to get people within the walls of a church building so that they can meet Jesus. This plan, however effective it may have proved in the past (even this is disputable, this plan has created the current reality of the US Church), has significant drawbacks. Those drawbacks are as old as the book of Genesis.
When God created, God formed a Temple worthy of God's beauty and majesty. This Temple was called the universe, or Creation if you want to use more Church-language. Within that Temple, God created a smaller temple called Eden. God moved about the temple as a smaller version of the big thing, but with one notable exception- the presence of human beings. But human beings thought that God was confined, and so they opted for "wisdom" and instead received shame. They hid in the mini-temple from God. A place which had told the story of God's beauty suddenly didn't. It now told the story of hiding. And so that mini-temple was abandoned.
The second mini-temple was the tabernacle, culminating in the construction of a physical temple in Jerusalem. This temple also reflected the cosmic Temple with the exception that there were now steps of entrance so that human beings could be in the temple space with God as well. But the problem came when the people of Israel thought that God was confined to the mini-temple, and not the Temple. So with a version of God neatly confined to the Jerusalem temple, the Israelites trashed the cosmic Temple with waste, denial of sabbath, injustice and idolatry.
The New Testament introduces a new mini-temple- the Church. Not the building, the physical bodies of the people. Now the cosmic Temple unites with the mini-temple. And the Holy Spirit resides in both.
And so now we come to the dangerous theology of Jesus living inside the Church structures. Church buildings, in my estimation, are good. They can house worship services, community functions, and provide resources for ongoing ministry to the most vulnerable and marginalized in the community. However, they also run a particular risk of believing that Jesus is waiting on us to minister before He will get involved.
The New Testament seems to say that Jesus wants to partner with us in ministry, but not to wait for us. Indeed, it seems that we inherit Jesus' ministry, which means that Jesus is already outside the walls and working. Jesus is on the streets and sitting in the homes of the lonely. Jesus is in the eyes of the starving and providing encouragement to those in despair. In fact, when we meet Jesus in Revelation 3, Jesus is trying to go to church but has been locked out. The people inside are too busy caring about other things than getting involved in Jesus' work of love, justice and reconciliation. For those who are wondering, it is the Church of Laodicea, who famously get called "lukewarm" and have been the subject of intense sermons for centuries.
Friends, we have been hiding since Genesis 3. We have been trying to rest on our own "in-ness" since the Old Testament. Jesus is already at work in the great Temple of the universe, and the Holy Spirit has been flitting about creating since Genesis 2. Our choice is to let Sunday morning be our encouragement to move out into the world and join Jesus out there, or to stay in the walls and wait for Jesus to find the spare key in order to get back in. Let's go.
So why do I ask the question about where Jesus lives? I think we functionally understand that Jesus lives inside the church walls, looking out at a broken world and hoping people will come to Him for solutions. It sort of reminds me of the psychiatric stand in the Peanuts cartoon strip. We hold this view when our outreach strategies and programmatic endgame is to get people within the walls of a church building so that they can meet Jesus. This plan, however effective it may have proved in the past (even this is disputable, this plan has created the current reality of the US Church), has significant drawbacks. Those drawbacks are as old as the book of Genesis.
When God created, God formed a Temple worthy of God's beauty and majesty. This Temple was called the universe, or Creation if you want to use more Church-language. Within that Temple, God created a smaller temple called Eden. God moved about the temple as a smaller version of the big thing, but with one notable exception- the presence of human beings. But human beings thought that God was confined, and so they opted for "wisdom" and instead received shame. They hid in the mini-temple from God. A place which had told the story of God's beauty suddenly didn't. It now told the story of hiding. And so that mini-temple was abandoned.
The second mini-temple was the tabernacle, culminating in the construction of a physical temple in Jerusalem. This temple also reflected the cosmic Temple with the exception that there were now steps of entrance so that human beings could be in the temple space with God as well. But the problem came when the people of Israel thought that God was confined to the mini-temple, and not the Temple. So with a version of God neatly confined to the Jerusalem temple, the Israelites trashed the cosmic Temple with waste, denial of sabbath, injustice and idolatry.
The New Testament introduces a new mini-temple- the Church. Not the building, the physical bodies of the people. Now the cosmic Temple unites with the mini-temple. And the Holy Spirit resides in both.
And so now we come to the dangerous theology of Jesus living inside the Church structures. Church buildings, in my estimation, are good. They can house worship services, community functions, and provide resources for ongoing ministry to the most vulnerable and marginalized in the community. However, they also run a particular risk of believing that Jesus is waiting on us to minister before He will get involved.
The New Testament seems to say that Jesus wants to partner with us in ministry, but not to wait for us. Indeed, it seems that we inherit Jesus' ministry, which means that Jesus is already outside the walls and working. Jesus is on the streets and sitting in the homes of the lonely. Jesus is in the eyes of the starving and providing encouragement to those in despair. In fact, when we meet Jesus in Revelation 3, Jesus is trying to go to church but has been locked out. The people inside are too busy caring about other things than getting involved in Jesus' work of love, justice and reconciliation. For those who are wondering, it is the Church of Laodicea, who famously get called "lukewarm" and have been the subject of intense sermons for centuries.
Friends, we have been hiding since Genesis 3. We have been trying to rest on our own "in-ness" since the Old Testament. Jesus is already at work in the great Temple of the universe, and the Holy Spirit has been flitting about creating since Genesis 2. Our choice is to let Sunday morning be our encouragement to move out into the world and join Jesus out there, or to stay in the walls and wait for Jesus to find the spare key in order to get back in. Let's go.
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
Abundant Life and the Walking Dead
No secrets. I love the Walking Dead. It is by FAR my favorite show on television. What started as a story about surviving the zombie-apocalypse has evolved into a story about what it means to be human. The Walking Dead title does not refer to the numerous zombies which populate the show, but the fact that the wear and tear of survival gradually strips the humanity of the characters in the show. Some characters are set up as villains (such as the mildly psychotic "Governor" in the current season), while others are rivals who "lose it" (such as fan favorite Shane in season 2). Even the stalwart leader of the group, ex-sheriff Rick Grimes, has spent several episodes experiencing increasingly vivid hallucinations. It seems like, to Rick, that non-reality is more compelling than reality. An attack from the Governor's private army keeps him from losing touch completely.
One of the compelling ironies of the third season of The Walking Dead is the juxtaposition of two situations: Woodbury and the prison. The Governor runs a modern town named Woodbury, where citizens live walled in from the zombie threat and isolated from the post-apocalypse. They wear clean clothes, have limited electricity and have picnics. They also live in a thinly veiled savagery. The town's entertainment is a Colosseum-like experience where contestants have to face each other and chained zombies. Newcomers to Woodbury are appalled at how callously the citizens treat the constant threat.
On the other hand, the main core of survivors have fortified a prison for their home. Beyond the irony of a prison being an ideal place to live, the prison has none of the comforts of Woodbury. The prison is full of zombies which are (mostly) sequestered from the main cells, although a few always sneak through. The prison fence is broken in areas and allow zombies to get into the main field, providing for regular encounters with the population. There is no electricity in the prison, and people sleep in bunks at the cells. But the people there have a picture of reality. They know what zombies are like and are committed to the common purpose of one another's survival. But they have no creature comforts. How do they possibly survive or even thrive without the Woodbury-like isolation and protection? They enjoy precious conversations, the joy of a shared joke and the common tie of family which holds them in all situations.
It is not hard to draw the parallels to non-zombie-invaded society. With the world being ravaged the way it is by crises of disease, war and hunger, those reading this post likely are doing so in Woodbury. You have enough. You are not scraping by to survive. And there are people across the world who are scraping by to survive who are enjoying moments of shared smiles, common joy and helping one another. Middle-class America, on the other hand, struggles with some of the worst depression, highest addiction rates and vicious domestic violence. And if you haven't experienced the despair of addiction, you may know the exasperation of living vacation to vacation, or surviving until "this season is over." And I could easily write a series of posts about the thinly-veiled savagery of a society which lets execution videos go viral.
I have told my coach "My goal is to get to (Day X), then my schedule will clear up." And sometimes that is true. What is far more likely is that I am living in a different kind of Woodbury ignorance. My world is directly affected by my choices, but I sometimes live in ignorance of that fact. Would I need to live vacation to vacation if I chose the abundant life offered to me in Jesus Christ (John 10:10) today? Would our society be the most self-medicated society in human history if we acknowledged that our lives are producing the exact result they are designed to produce? And would it be possible that we would experience resurrection in this life if we believed the promise of true rest in Jesus Christ?
As for me and my house, I see no better time than Lent to decide the Abundant Life over the Walking Dead.
One of the compelling ironies of the third season of The Walking Dead is the juxtaposition of two situations: Woodbury and the prison. The Governor runs a modern town named Woodbury, where citizens live walled in from the zombie threat and isolated from the post-apocalypse. They wear clean clothes, have limited electricity and have picnics. They also live in a thinly veiled savagery. The town's entertainment is a Colosseum-like experience where contestants have to face each other and chained zombies. Newcomers to Woodbury are appalled at how callously the citizens treat the constant threat.
On the other hand, the main core of survivors have fortified a prison for their home. Beyond the irony of a prison being an ideal place to live, the prison has none of the comforts of Woodbury. The prison is full of zombies which are (mostly) sequestered from the main cells, although a few always sneak through. The prison fence is broken in areas and allow zombies to get into the main field, providing for regular encounters with the population. There is no electricity in the prison, and people sleep in bunks at the cells. But the people there have a picture of reality. They know what zombies are like and are committed to the common purpose of one another's survival. But they have no creature comforts. How do they possibly survive or even thrive without the Woodbury-like isolation and protection? They enjoy precious conversations, the joy of a shared joke and the common tie of family which holds them in all situations.
It is not hard to draw the parallels to non-zombie-invaded society. With the world being ravaged the way it is by crises of disease, war and hunger, those reading this post likely are doing so in Woodbury. You have enough. You are not scraping by to survive. And there are people across the world who are scraping by to survive who are enjoying moments of shared smiles, common joy and helping one another. Middle-class America, on the other hand, struggles with some of the worst depression, highest addiction rates and vicious domestic violence. And if you haven't experienced the despair of addiction, you may know the exasperation of living vacation to vacation, or surviving until "this season is over." And I could easily write a series of posts about the thinly-veiled savagery of a society which lets execution videos go viral.
I have told my coach "My goal is to get to (Day X), then my schedule will clear up." And sometimes that is true. What is far more likely is that I am living in a different kind of Woodbury ignorance. My world is directly affected by my choices, but I sometimes live in ignorance of that fact. Would I need to live vacation to vacation if I chose the abundant life offered to me in Jesus Christ (John 10:10) today? Would our society be the most self-medicated society in human history if we acknowledged that our lives are producing the exact result they are designed to produce? And would it be possible that we would experience resurrection in this life if we believed the promise of true rest in Jesus Christ?
As for me and my house, I see no better time than Lent to decide the Abundant Life over the Walking Dead.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Mardis Gras, Lent, SOTU and Sermon on the Mount
Millions of people did at least one of two things yesterday: eat Paczki's (or another indulgent dessert) and watch the State of the Union Address. It was simultaneously the greatest day of caloric excess allowed in organized religion as well as an update on the health of the nation. If you are beginning to see the irony... good. The State of the Union, or SOTU in the ever-increasing desire to abbreviate for social media, has long become less of an update and more of a preview of the political arenas of the next several months. The SOTU is a time for lines in the sand to be drawn. This is made more obvious when the SOTU is followed up by two additional speeches by opponents. It's a day to score points and use them as political capital to move agendas. Meanwhile, Mardis Gras (or Fat Tuesday) is a day for unlimited consumption, a certain party down in New Orleans and a day to "get it out of your system" before the fasting season of Lent. It is indulgent as well as delicious.
There is a common thread to both of these events. The common thread isn't about who is president, nor is it about politics. The common thread is that both days are days to relax one's personal responsibility. On Fat Tuesday, you can consume guilt-free. In the SOTU, you get to hear about how other people are supposed to make this land a better one in which to live. Your only responsibility is not to look. Don't look at the scale, don't look at your own life, don't look at your neighborhood.
Lent, on the other hand, is all about looking inward. Lent asks tough questions about excess and invites us into the liberating journey of self-control. Leave guilt and obsessive binge behind, embrace simplicity and grace. Lent holds up the funny paradox that getting everything we could ever want leaves us empty, but giving of ourselves to serve others leaves us full. In Lent, I find hope and energy in the Sermon on the Mount. What the SOTM lacked in pomp and circumstance it made up in grace and power. Imagine being on the brink of despair and hearing the words "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted." Imagine, in an empire which spread peace at the tip of a sword, hearing "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God." Christ offers us a different way- a humble way, a merciful way.
Indulgence is easy, humility is hard. Drawing lines in the sand is easy, reaching across the lines to love one's neighbor is hard. Struggling for power and one's one agenda is not necessarily easy, but it certainly is easier than setting one's own agenda aside and listening. I guess that's why Fat Tuesday is only one day, and Lent is a 40-day journey. Perhaps this Lenten season is one where we can all pull together and embrace the Sermon on the Mount just a little bit in our lives.
There is a common thread to both of these events. The common thread isn't about who is president, nor is it about politics. The common thread is that both days are days to relax one's personal responsibility. On Fat Tuesday, you can consume guilt-free. In the SOTU, you get to hear about how other people are supposed to make this land a better one in which to live. Your only responsibility is not to look. Don't look at the scale, don't look at your own life, don't look at your neighborhood.
Lent, on the other hand, is all about looking inward. Lent asks tough questions about excess and invites us into the liberating journey of self-control. Leave guilt and obsessive binge behind, embrace simplicity and grace. Lent holds up the funny paradox that getting everything we could ever want leaves us empty, but giving of ourselves to serve others leaves us full. In Lent, I find hope and energy in the Sermon on the Mount. What the SOTM lacked in pomp and circumstance it made up in grace and power. Imagine being on the brink of despair and hearing the words "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted." Imagine, in an empire which spread peace at the tip of a sword, hearing "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God." Christ offers us a different way- a humble way, a merciful way.
Indulgence is easy, humility is hard. Drawing lines in the sand is easy, reaching across the lines to love one's neighbor is hard. Struggling for power and one's one agenda is not necessarily easy, but it certainly is easier than setting one's own agenda aside and listening. I guess that's why Fat Tuesday is only one day, and Lent is a 40-day journey. Perhaps this Lenten season is one where we can all pull together and embrace the Sermon on the Mount just a little bit in our lives.
Friday, February 1, 2013
I Don't Know What You Said
How important is listening? Consider this story.
When I was in seminary, I had the coolest invention in the world. It was a portable french press coffee maker. It was the size of a travel mug, and I would put my coffee at the bottom and put hot water into the mug. After a few minutes, I would push down a metal filter and it would push the coffee grounds to the bottom of my mug. I could then drink french pressed coffee on the go. It was so cool.
Until I got to the bottom of the mug. The filter was not perfectly designed to the mug, which did not have a consistent shape and size the whole way down (look at your travel mug and you will see). So when I drank the last bit of coffee, a landslide of coffee grounds would accompany the last gulp. The first time I had a mouthful of grounds, I was very unhappy. The mug has found its way to the garbage can.
Filters are very important. They keep the stuff you don't want away from the stuff you do want. We filter coffee, water and all sorts of other things in order to deliver the freshest stuff possible. We are encouraged to have filters in our minds as well. Christ gives us a two-part filter- love God and love neighbor. Anything that crosses into our minds which doesn't facilitate one of those actions ought to be filtered out.
But that isn't the only filter we have in our minds, is it? The work of maturity in the Christian life is one of constantly identifying and examining our filters.
In other words, I don't know what you say. I only know what I hear. You may say something to encourage me. I will hear something else because my mind filters and sifts what I hear based on what I believe about myself, God, you and the world.
Here is an example. I have a filter based on approval. If something that sounds like criticism hits my filter, it triggers a reaction. "You just don't like me," "You are wrong, I am right," "I am wrong, you are right." When I hear phrases like those, I am very likely to get an emotional reaction- an angry inner monologue, a desire to "check out," or a certain defensiveness which is unnecessary.
True listening, then, is some of the hardest work a person can do. Do you ever find yourself reacting to a person before the person is done speaking? Do you ever find yourself thinking about what "I wish I could say to _________?" Do you believe that "all ___________" believe and act the same way? Then you may have a mental filter which deserves to be investigated.
Unexamined filters have a name in our society- Prejudice. Unchecked prejudice in a society is a viral attack on God's intended shalom. And the only obvious cure for prejudice seems counter-intuitive- Listening. One of my goals is to hear as much of what you said and as little of what I filter as possible. I can't form a relationship with a filtered version of you, nor would I want to. I don't want a stereotyped/filtered version of me, I want the true me. And since I am called to love my neighbor as myself, I want to seek to know the authentic you.
So what is your filter? What keeps you from truly listening?
When I was in seminary, I had the coolest invention in the world. It was a portable french press coffee maker. It was the size of a travel mug, and I would put my coffee at the bottom and put hot water into the mug. After a few minutes, I would push down a metal filter and it would push the coffee grounds to the bottom of my mug. I could then drink french pressed coffee on the go. It was so cool.
Until I got to the bottom of the mug. The filter was not perfectly designed to the mug, which did not have a consistent shape and size the whole way down (look at your travel mug and you will see). So when I drank the last bit of coffee, a landslide of coffee grounds would accompany the last gulp. The first time I had a mouthful of grounds, I was very unhappy. The mug has found its way to the garbage can.
Filters are very important. They keep the stuff you don't want away from the stuff you do want. We filter coffee, water and all sorts of other things in order to deliver the freshest stuff possible. We are encouraged to have filters in our minds as well. Christ gives us a two-part filter- love God and love neighbor. Anything that crosses into our minds which doesn't facilitate one of those actions ought to be filtered out.
But that isn't the only filter we have in our minds, is it? The work of maturity in the Christian life is one of constantly identifying and examining our filters.
In other words, I don't know what you say. I only know what I hear. You may say something to encourage me. I will hear something else because my mind filters and sifts what I hear based on what I believe about myself, God, you and the world.
Here is an example. I have a filter based on approval. If something that sounds like criticism hits my filter, it triggers a reaction. "You just don't like me," "You are wrong, I am right," "I am wrong, you are right." When I hear phrases like those, I am very likely to get an emotional reaction- an angry inner monologue, a desire to "check out," or a certain defensiveness which is unnecessary.
True listening, then, is some of the hardest work a person can do. Do you ever find yourself reacting to a person before the person is done speaking? Do you ever find yourself thinking about what "I wish I could say to _________?" Do you believe that "all ___________" believe and act the same way? Then you may have a mental filter which deserves to be investigated.
Unexamined filters have a name in our society- Prejudice. Unchecked prejudice in a society is a viral attack on God's intended shalom. And the only obvious cure for prejudice seems counter-intuitive- Listening. One of my goals is to hear as much of what you said and as little of what I filter as possible. I can't form a relationship with a filtered version of you, nor would I want to. I don't want a stereotyped/filtered version of me, I want the true me. And since I am called to love my neighbor as myself, I want to seek to know the authentic you.
So what is your filter? What keeps you from truly listening?
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