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Posts Tagged ‘Bible’

Autumn Babies

Posted in Scripture, tagged , , , , , , on July 3, 2012 | Leave a Comment »

Yesterday, I turned 26. It was magical. Song and dance, pizza and sugar, thoughtful gifts and a Cardinals victory over Colorado. Beautiful.

Being a summer baby all but guarantees that your birthday will be sweltering and/or muggy. It’s law. We were born as sweaty chub balls to a life of perpetual birthday heat. But it’s possible that we weren’t all born as summer babies. It’s possible that we were, all of us, born as autumn babies. Humanity may have been born in the fall. To quote Don Knotts in The Ghost and Mr. Chicken, “Let me clarify”.

“5 When no bush of the field was yet in the land and no small plant of the field had yet sprung up—for the Lord God had not caused it to rain on the land, and there was no man to work the ground,6 and a mist was going up from the land and was watering the whole face of the ground— 7 then theLord God formed the man of dust from the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living creature.” – Genesis 2:5-6 (English Standard Version)

Bear with me.

Some people read this bit of Scripture and think God installed some sort of miraculous irrigation system to water the whole planet. The word translated “land” in verse 5 could also be translated “earth”. Sometimes it does mean the earth as a whole (Gen.1:1-2). Sometimes it’s just talking about dry land (1:10). Sometimes it’s even talking about a certain region (2:11-13). How is the word used in the above quoted passage? Are we really talking about the whole earth or are we talking about a certain land?

In Palestine, it doesn’t rain. We’re had +100 degree heat in St. Louis the last week or so. It hadn’t rained in weeks. Imagine our joy, then, when a small thunderstorm snuck in yesterday evening to wring itself out over our sizzling city. It was wonderful. But in Palestine, the climate is much less merciful. The rains don’t really come until the autumn. That’s when you get a burst of plant growth.

So, the above quoted passage (Genesis 2:5-7) would make a fair bit of sense if it is describing a certain time of the year, a dry Middle Eastern summer where the plants aren’t growing in the land yet. The plants are missing here, not because they hadn’t been created, but because it hadn’t rained yet and there was no one to cultivate and irrigate the land. It’s all part of the rain cycle that God set up.

And in verse six, we see the mist (or rain cloud) rising up. The fog rolls in, bearing dew and moisture for the parched land. The rainy season has begun. And it is during the rainy season of autumn that God creates man and woman.

There are certain perks to being a summer baby. I can’t think of any right now, but use your imagination. I had a real nice birthday (with an official family celebration coming this Thursday). But as I read the text of Genesis, bearing in mind the original context, I lean with a certain seasonal slant. Am I 100% sure? Nope. But I’m roughly 96% sure. Some of us are summer babies. But all of us are autumn babies. That’s when God shaped humanity, pinching us off from the same piece of clay.

Maybe that’s why I’ve always liked autumn the best. Our birthday is coming. Autumn will rise up from the ground before we know it. But until then, enjoy the sweat and eat lots of ice cream.

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Jealous for Love

Posted in Jesus, tagged , , , , , , , , on January 1, 2012 | 4 Comments »

Puppy Love

I was an awkward 13-year old. All 13-year olds are awkward, but I was a poster child for insecurity. I’ve always had bad posture. My neck naturally swoops forward like a vulture and I hunched a lot in middle school. Still do. On top of that, I had terrible acne. My face looked like the surface of Mars.

To combat the zits, my parents put me on acne medicine. But the medicine dried out every square inch of my head. My lips chapped, cracked, and bled. My nostrils were desert wind tunnels. My eyes dried and itched every day. There’s nothing like puberty to make a guy feel inadequate.

And then there was Megan. Megan was the incarnation of everything a 13-year old boy is looking for: good eyes, good hair, good smile, good legs, and a good figure. She looked good. But realize that 13-year old boys don’t give a great deal of thought to the depth of their standards. They mostly just care about looks. Megan had ‘em and I was 13.

The Setup

Now, most middle schools have some sort of rhythmic ceremonial ritual at least once a year. At my school, they called them mixers. A mixer was intended to be a dance, a first shot for guys and girls to mingle and flirt like the emerging young adults we weren’t. It was invented, I’m sure, to build up our confidence with the opposite sex.

In reality, however, these mixers were less about dancing and mingling and more about standing against the wall while your more courageous friends swayed awkwardly to the music out on the gymnasium floor, all the while trying to avoid direct eye contact with the girls. It was awkward.

But after many bad jokes and much peer pressure, my friends and I had decided to go. And I was actually pretty excited about it. Why? Megan was going.

It had been confirmed by several credible sources that she would be attending the mixer. And it was public knowledge that Megan was going alone. No one had asked her! All that my young mind knew of hope was wrapped up in this one thought: I could go to the dance with Megan.

The idea made my hands sweat, but my chances seemed pretty good. A couple of weeks before the dance, one of her friends asked her if she was going. I remember it clearly. We were in the hallway outside our homeroom, getting books out of our lockers for the next class. Our lockers were close, foreshadowing our all-but-certain future together.

Megan looked up at her friend from her locker on the floor. “I don’t know. No one’s asked me yet.”

With that last sentence, she looked directly up at me. I mean, it was legitimate eye contact. And those eyes told me what her lips were obviously too shy to say: “Jason, hurry up and ask me to the dance, you idiot.”

And so I didn’t.

God made me an introvert. And in middle school, I was a capital I Introvert. I had a few close friends I opened up around, but usually, I never said a word. If the ground swallowed me whole in the middle of algebra, I wouldn’t have embarrassed myself by yelling for help.

And Megan? She was out of my league. Waves of cascading golden hair. Emerald eyes that saw right into your soul. Tall and beautiful. And then there was me. The pimple face kid with the vulture neck.

Last Chance Dance

So, no, I didn’t actually ask her to the dance. But there was still hope. In my mind, I could see it all playing out beautifully.

I would show up fashionably late, dressed in my best khaki pants and polo shirt/blazer combination. With my slickly parted hair and my mom’s vanishing cream to cover up the pimples, I’d be dressed to kill. Pushing through the crowd of swaying slow dancers, I would finally find her. And of course, Megan would be standing by the punch bowl, waiting for me to pour her a glass. Then, I’d follow up with a cool line (“come here often…?”) and ask her to dance.

Then, we’d get married.

It was fool proof. I kept this hope alive for a full week before the night of the mixer. Every day, Megan had been dropping what I’m sure were hints. A cough here, a blink there, a few smiles with her friends. Clearly, she wanted me to ask her out at the dance.

That night, my mom dropped me off outside the gym doors. Iridescent streamers waved at me from the doorway. Inside, the bass was turned up way too loud, thudding its rhythm into my ribcage. From multiple angles, strobe lights panicked through the fog from the smoke machines, making me feel for all the world like I could suave and dashing.

For about an hour, I couldn’t find her. Almost all of the girls were lined up against the far wall of the room, looking nauseous and disinterested. But where was my soon-to-be girlfriend? I stared intently from my position at the punch bowl, making sure to scan every face carefully. I got a few rude stares back, but Megan was nowhere to be found.

I was about to make up an excuse to spend the rest of the dance hiding out in a bathroom stall when I noticed it. There were a handful of couples in the middle of the floor. They were all uneasily holding their partners as if they were handling plutonium. But one of the couples seemed a bit more “natural” with the art of slow dancing.

The guy I recognized. He was some complete jerk named Eric. He was good at soccer but had virtually no redeeming qualities as a human being. He was self-centered, cocky, and didn’t know how to treat a girl right. And there, leaning into his shoulder and swaying like a golden willow, was Megan.

I can’t remember if I spit out my punch. I’m not sure if I went out and sulked in the bathroom until my mom picked me up. All I remember is how I felt.

Somewhere inside me, in a dark cave where I keep my precious hidden gods, I felt it. Anger. Entitlement. A morose sense of injustice. It all rose up quickly and soaked in my bones. It took its time and curled around me like smoke.

This girl had obviously been pining for me just as deeply as I had for her. She had all but thrown herself at me. And yet, another guy was holding her tight, moving in a slow, tight circle with her to the raw and honest lyrics of N’Sync.

Smoldering…

But she was supposed to be with me! And she was giving her affections to him? The cocky soccer kid? It would’ve been a good time to pray an imprecatory psalm against him. The good guy is supposed to win. I’m supposed to hit the home run, shoot the bad guy, save the day, and kiss the girl. But, at that moment, some one else had won.

Jealousy. It wrecked me that night. It probably wrecked the entire school year for me. It taught me not to pine after a girl, not to get my hopes up so recklessly. It taught me not to feel. Yes, in hindsight, every problem in middle school sounds like a cliché. But when you’re in those shoes, everything feels so specific. The pain is very real and the heart is very broken.

Everything about my reaction to Megan’s “abandonment” and “rejection” cut me so cleanly. But more than anything, looking back, my jealousy gave me an excuse to throw the biggest pity party adolescence had ever seen.

I spiraled into a very angry depression. I became anorexic. My dreams were haunted by thoughts of suicide. All because of a girl? No. It was all because I didn’t get the affection that I believed I was entitled to. And when some other guy became the center of her universe, I burned. I seethed. I stewed in doubt and pain and bitterness. It was emotional grumbling, amplified and given no escape valve.

My jealousy was unjustifiably centered around myself. It was petty. It was prideful. And eventually, through counseling and the love of my parents, I got through the mess it caused.

What God Is NOT

I shared that little episode of adolescent angst to illustrate a point of opposites. God is not like that. God is so ultimately and profoundly not like me. God’s jealousy is not petty. It is not prideful.

Jealousy is one of God’s attributes. It shows up enough in the Bible to be a defining characteristic of his nature. We just don’t like to talk about it because it sounds bad. But jealousy is a part of who he is. God is compassionate, holy, happy, and good. He is always those things. In the same way, God is always wrathful, avenging, and jealous.

God does not change. He doesn’t go through phases. He’s not a teenage girl. He doesn’t get moody. He doesn’t have good days and bad days. He is immutable. He is unchangeable. So, with respect to this thing called jealousy, God is always jealous.

Love Him First

If jealousy is a desire for misdirected affection, then no one has more misdirected affection than the Creator. He is the author of all creatures. Every man, woman, and child was created to love God above all other things. God is the intended aim of our affection. When this doesn’t happen, it’s called misdirected affection. Where this is misdirected affection, there is jealousy.

God is justly jealous for your love. He is justly jealous for my love. And to paraphrase Tara Leigh Cobble, God can be pretty tenacious about ripping idols out of our hands. Don’t let it come to that. Keep yourself in the love of God.

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The Good Giver of Gladness

Posted in Jesus, tagged , , , , , , , , , , on November 27, 2011 | 3 Comments »

Distracted by Shock

I’m working on a paper on Leviticus right now. Well, not right now. I’m blogging right now. Such a funny word. Blogging. I’m distracted by the word “blogging” from blogging right now, which is in turn distracting me from my paper. And we’re back.

I thought I’d take a break from thinking and writing about God so that I could think and write about God. I could count on two and a half hands the number of times I have looked in the Bible and been so utterly shocked by God that for weeks I couldn’t shake it. The astonishment lingers like when you see the flash of a camera on the other side of your eyelids. The image burns itself into the darkness.

A Bible-less Culture

Last week, I was reading through Acts (because I have a severe interest in church planting) and came to a story I remember seeing on flannel graph when I was little. In Acts 14, Paul and Barnabas are at Lystra (in present day Turkey (in present day Asia Minor)). They are preaching the Gospel. They are two Jews (one of them a very learned biblical theologian) and they are preaching the Gospel to crowds of non-Jews. These people have no synagogue. They have no Bible. They have no knowledge of Yahweh. They have no hope for salvation.

They are polytheists. They worship a pantheon, a plurality of deities. But when they see Paul heal a life-long cripple, they worship him. They call him Hermes and they call Barnabas Zeus and the priests of Zeus bring oxen and garlands and they offer sacrifices to them. So, all of a sudden, because God acted through Paul to heal a broken body, the Gospel is capsized and the messengers become the end all be all of the message.

But once the apostles understand what’s going on, they tear their clothes. They show their grief and their heart-sickness at the misunderstanding. The misunderstanding is this: creation should be elevated above Creator. It’s an old heresy and it has been dehydrating souls for millennia, shriveling humans up to the size of their idols.

Then the apostles open their mouths. They explain that they too are broken, sinful creatures, “of like nature” with them. They are no Olympians. There are no Olympians. They are simply worshiping creatures, trying to point the people of Lystra back towards the Creator.

But remember, the crowds at Lystra had no Bibles. They had no concept of the Great Story. They did not know what Yahweh had been doing since the beginning. They could not unscroll the first book of Moses and read the creation story to gain that infinite reference point, to better understand their relation to the Creator.

So, how do you share the Gospel with no “church background”? Here’s how Paul and Barnabas did it. This is what shocked the boredom right out of my heart.

The Gospel of Pleasure

Verse 15: “We bring you good news [we preached the Gospel], that you should turn from these vain things to a living God, who made the heaven and the earth and the sea and all that is in them.”

The apostles redirect the crowds’ right and powerful urge to worship. They simply give them a new aim: Yahweh. The implication of the Gospel is simple: turn from the worthless, turn to the Infinite Worth of God himself.

Verse 16: “In past generations he allowed all the nations to walk in their own ways. Yet he did not leave himself without witness, for he did good by giving you rains from heaven and fruitful seasons, satisfying your hearts with food and gladness.”

Did you catch that? Paul and Barnabas know that these people have no reference point for understanding what God has done through Israel and the Messiah. So, they go directly to the things that the people Lystra had always thanked their gods for: rain, prosperity, food, gladness. And the apostles put these good gifts into their proper place:

They are witnesses.

Gladness Points to God

They are all good gifts that point deeply and fervently back to the Giver of all good gifts: Yahweh. The living God who made everything gives humanity good things, not so that we should be thankless, but so that we may follow the trail back to the living God who takes good care of all people.

But notice something incredible here. Not only does God give good things, he gives satisfaction itself. It is God who satisfies the heart. It is God who imbues us with gladness when things go well, when we sip our pumpkin spice lattes, when we stroll in the rain for the sake of strolling in the rain. Any joy or happiness or delight you’ve ever felt was a gift from God. More than that, it is a witness to God. It was given so that you might be redirected from the gift back to the Giver.

God does good by giving us gladness. I have friends (some who love Jesus, some who don’t) who are much happier creatures than myself. I’m something of an Eeyore (and that’s okay, Tiggers). But they are almost skillful when it comes to sucking the marrow out of life. I love being around them. They’re wonderful. Their gladness and their happiness is proof that God is good. It is God who gives gladness. It is God who gives satisfaction, on any and all levels.

Happiness (and I make no distinction, as some Christians do, between joy and happiness) is engineered to give pleasure. That pleasure is designed to point us back to God. Adam and Eve wandered from God, seeking their joy apart from Yahweh. Yahweh has provided the way back to his own goodness through his Messiah, Jesus Christ. Yahweh himself is the source of all pleasure (in your presence there is fullness of joy; at your right hand are pleasures forevermore- Psalm 16:11). And all throughout this world, Yahweh shines in all that’s fair. He has dotted our paths with sign posts, all pointing us back to his goodness and beauty.

The Gospel is for anyone who wants happiness. The Gospel is for the lovers, the dreamers, and me. The message of the Christ’s Gospel of pleasure is this: all satisfaction is ultimately given to make us turn and worship Yahweh, the living God who created us all. Try and remember that the next time you enjoy one of his good gifts, whatever it might be.

 

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Remember

Posted in Jesus, tagged , , , , , on November 19, 2011 | Leave a Comment »

Every letter St. Paul wrote is basically divided into two halves: the doctrinal and the “practical”. We talk like that, but we probably shouldn’t. Scholars talk like that. Study Bibles talk like that. Seminaries talk like that. And so everyone talks like that.

But the implied tragedy in that distinction is that doctrine is somehow impractical. If you read through the first few chapters of Ephesians or Galatians, the impression is that you don’t see a single command. And Christians love to have something to do.

But nothing is more practical than what you believe. Theology (honestly followed) pushes us deeper into good deeds. And in Ephesians 2:11-13, in one of the most doctrinally thick chapters in the New Testament, there is a command. It requires no action, no speaking. It is a command to remember.

“Remember that at one time you Gentiles in the flesh, called the uncircumcision by what is called the circumcision, which is made in the flesh by hands- remember that you were at that time separated from Christ, alienated from the commonwealth of Israel and strangers to the covenants of promise, having no hope and without God in the world. But now in Christ Jesus you who were once far off have been brought near by the blood of Christ.”

That is the Gospel story. Where we were (separated, alienated, strangers, hopeless, without God), where we are now (brought near), and how it happened (by the blood of Christ).

Remembrance is the Gospel imperative. Because of what God has done for you, remember what God has done for you. Paul, in this middle of this rich theological discourse, sits down to take a breath. He leans across the table, smiles and says to us, “remember”.

Jonathan Edwards said it best. “Remember what was once your case, and what it is now, and prize Jesus Christ.”

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Sight and Sound

Posted in Scripture, The Arts, tagged , , , , , , , , on September 30, 2011 | Leave a Comment »

Wisdom From the Spleen

The hearing ear and the seeing eye, the Lord has made them both.

Every now and then, you come across a verse in the Bible that’s a spleen verses. It probably serves some purpose, but you’re not really sure what. And, in all honesty, if we didn’t have them, we wouldn’t lose anything. Or so it seems. People throughout history have actually cut spleen verses out of the Bible. Some people have seen entire books of the Bible as spleen books (I’m looking at you, Esther). No doubt, there are some lovely people who think the Scriptures as a whole are nothing more than a religious spleen.

But what’s the point of the verse above? It’s Proverbs 20:12. “Ah,” you say. “It’s a Proverb. So it’s supposed to be vague and pointless.” Well, let’s dive in first. Judge later.

Authorial Intent

I know what this proverb is not doing. It’s not paraphrasing the creation of Adam. If it is, it’s grossly reductionistic or severely misinformed. I have that nagging suspicion (the type I get when I KNOW there’s more coffee somewhere in the pantry) that this verse is saying something far more fundamental.

This verse has the potential to create a massive shift in perspective. If God made my ears and eyes, then he owns them by right of authorship. I am a copyrighted work. Therefore, they are not my ears and eyes. They belong to God. By ownership and authorship, they are his property.

This does not mean that I should cower in fear, blindfolded with my hands over my ears so as not to soil his gifts. “Oh, be careful little ears what you hear” is not the point. That will not do and it will make you paranoid and guilty all your life, Rather, I should respect God’s authorial intent. Why did he dream up my ears and my eyes? To glorify himself. That’s the intention. And that’s what I ought to be doing with them.

Gratitude as a Sixth Sense

How? Through gratitude. Seeing and hearing are marvelous miracles. I’ve been reminded of this the past couple months. Whether I’m at the art museum or looking up at the stars, I’m using the eyes God gave me. I could be listening to Bach’s “Mass in B Minor” or the laughter of my nephew. I’m using the ears God gave me.

Sight and sound are gifts from God. Once you become mindful that you are looking through God’s custom lenses, hearing through such exquisite stethoscopes, you cannot help but be brought to a posture of gratitude. A proper perspective of stewardship makes us thankful not only for what we see and hear, but that we see and hear. Be grateful now. They only wear down with age. And when you’re blind or you’re deaf, remember. Remember those years of wonder and music, conversation and beauty. Remember and be thankful. And if you believe in Christ, dream of hearing and seeing once again, in the new earth sublime.

Awareness as a Way to Obedience

It’s hard to put any proverb in a context. Sometimes, they just seem so desultory and disjointed. But if we appreciate the big picture, Proverbs 20:12 says something else about hearing and seeing. Throughout the book of Proverbs (and really, throughout ancient Scripture) “hearing” is associated with obedience. There’s a word from God, spoken or written, and we are to obey. Seeing, in this spiritual undertone, is a call to perceive and be aware of how God would have us glorify him.

Awareness is a crucial element lacking in the Way (Acts 9:2) these days. Perhaps if we looked and listened with a bit more thought and imagination, we would be happier on a deep, satisfying level.

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Disposable Extravagance

Posted in The Arts, tagged , , , , , , , on September 9, 2011 | Leave a Comment »

I wonder how many masterpieces Van Gogh threw in the trash. Among the still life paintings of cabbages and rats, between lilies and blossoming trees, what else was there? What if Vincent painted an absolute gem on some scrap paper, deemed it rubbish, and then chucked it. He was a creative genius. Yes, he labored like any other artist. But he created so much art over his short life. It’s more than likely that there was beauty that never saw the light of day. He had talent to burn, and we don’t have all the fruits of his labor.

Yesterday evening, I saw one of the most ravishing St. Louis sunsets I’ve ever been blessed with. I’m surprised I didn’t wreck my car on the drive home. The sky was absolutely flirting with me and I couldn’t keep my eyes off it. Feathery clouds off tangerine cream, glowing like summer’s ghost. Splendid.

Extravagance.

The radiance of that twilight was fleeting. In less than twenty minutes, the sky had smoldered down to a dull blue-grey and I was left feeling lonely. Vincent Van Gogh has nothing on God. What makes God a superior artist? He throws away masterpieces daily. But that doesn’t devalue his art. Sunsets and sunrises are disposable masterpieces, framed by heaven and earth. Last night, he lit the sky and let it burn. And tonight, he’ll do it again. All over the world.

That is extravagance. We see it in the clouds, in light refracted, in the passing sublimity of autumn. God makes throwaway beauty again and again. And he does it with pleasure. Enjoy your sunsets.

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Hevellyn

Posted in The Arts, tagged , , , , , , , , on September 7, 2011 | 1 Comment »

There is a painting by an English painter named Sir Edwin Landseer. The title is “Attachment”. 1829. Oil on canvas.

Every time I look at that painting, I’m flooded with dysphoria. Look it up online. Gaze at it and weep for a while. It was inspired by Sir Walter Scott’s “Hevellyn”. Hevellyn is the third highest peak in England. The story goes that a man went to climb Hevellyn and took his dog with him. On a treacherous slope, the man loses his footing and falls to his death. But the dog, thinking her master is just sleeping, runs down to where he landed and she waits for him to wake up.

The dog waits for days, for weeks. The man’s corpse starts to rot. The dog chases away “hill-fox and raven”, “the much-loved remains of her master defended”. But of course, the man never wakes up. The  faithful little dog eventually dies defending him, waiting for him to wake up.

Are you sad yet?

When I first saw that oil painting, I choked up a little. I’m not the type to get all blubbery in front of a work of art (though I did cry when I saw “Marley & Me” in theaters). But when I saw this painting at the St. Louis Art Museum, I just about lost it. I sniffled and stared and stood before Landseer’s portrayal of that little dog.

But so what?

Sir Edwin Landseer got me thinking about loyalty. Who would I defend long after they were dead? I mean, physically, whose corpse would I guard? These are the things I think about when I get back from the art museum.

Family members? To be sure. Friends? Probably one or two. But why isn’t that number higher? Why isn’t my sense of duty to others higher? Certainly, I’m not suggesting we ingratiate ourselves to dogged, selfless devotion for others. Or am I?

I don’t think any less of the dog for guarding her dead master. I think more of her. I don’t belittle such a stupid creature for not knowing the difference between death and sleep. I marvel at the affection that a dog can have for a human. And if a dog, created by God to do so, can be loyal to that extreme, why can’t I? And I don’t have to wait for a friend to fall to his death while mountain climbing in England. I could just be loyal and loving and devoted right now. I don’t have to stage their premature death. I should cherish them now.

We could learn a lot from that little dog in the picture, if we’re not too proud to seek it there.

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The Woodchuck Parable

Posted in Scripture, tagged , , , , , , , , on September 2, 2011 | 2 Comments »

A Woodchucker’s Guide to Rewards (or The Joy of Woodchuck Watching)

One of the nice things about my city is the woods. There are so many parks, reservations, and trails to lose yourself in. There’s a quiet corner of myself that comes alive in moments of absolute stillness. Sometimes those moments find me under a blanket, reading a book by flashlight. But if I’m feeling particularly Tolkienesque, I’ll go for a walk in the woods.

Just last week, I found a new park, one that seems to have folded itself out from under the rug. I had never seen it before. And in ten minutes of being the only trail-wanderer, I saw five deer. And I instantly fell in love with it. Glorious. But my favorite spot of solitude is a parking lot in a state conservation area. I go there on Wednesday around dusk. With the sun scattering gold across the treetops, I park my car, turn off the engine and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And then, after ten minutes of silent staring, I see it. One twitching, frightful, fidgeting nose pokes up out of the hole. It sniffs the air. Then, slowly, with fear and trembling, the woodchuck crawls out from underneath the butterfly bush and out into the field. And I have a ringside seat.

Within twenty minutes, there’re ten woodchucks lolloping around the field, tripping in and out of their holes, flopping down next to a tasty patch of whatever white flowers they munch. I don’t know if you’ve observed a lot of woodchucks in your time, but when they run, they are absolutely hysterical. Imagine your pillow covered in fur. Now imagine that pillow trying to gallop across a field. It’s like that. Graceful as a sack of peanuts.

I love these moments. I get warm by them. Do you know what I mean? Maybe this is me speaking as introvert, but I think it can be appreciated by everyone. Humans are terrified to be in a quiet room with themselves (Pascal taught me that), but the reward of all that waiting is simply marvelous. And they’re just adorable as snot, honestly. Cute, awkward little critters. Nature’s toddlers, really.

The Joy of Waiting for the Lord

But in order to see it, you have to get quiet, become still, and wait. And it’s the waiting around that kills me. I’ve recently noticed just how much the Bible talks about waiting. More specifically, waiting for the Lord. Let me tell you what this does not mean. I’m no scholar, but I’m 99.7% sure waiting for the Lord does not entail this:

“Tropical Twist Trident? Or Regular Trident? What to choose…I shall wait for the Lord before I make this decision. Let me just hunker down on my prayer rug here and be still. I shouldn’t be so hasty in passing judgment without first waiting to hear from the Lord.”

Now, to be fair, that is a big decision. But any sane person knows that Tropical Twist Trident is the only gum worth chewing. I mean, come on folks.

But that’s not what the Bible means when it talks about “waiting for the Lord”. I was looking at all the instances where this concept comes up just in the Psalms (and you can too!): Psalms 25:3, 5, 21; 27:14; 31:24; 33:20; 37:7, 9, 34; 39:7; 40:1; 52:9; 62:1,5; 69:3; 130:5, 6.

There it is. Wait for the Lord. Why? So that he can tell you what decision to make? So that you can feel more spiritual? So that you can said you did something “mystical” and freak out your fundamentalist friends? Look at it again. Wait for the Lord.

He is the Reward for Waiting

I waited to see that woodchuck clan (or whatever the appropriate family term is), and what was the reward for my waiting? I got to see woodchucks. Why does the Bible speak prescriptively and descriptively about waiting for the Lord? So that you will get the reward of the Lord. God is his own reward. He’s worth waiting for. He’s worth being still and talking with. He’s worth opening the pages of ancient Scripture and seeing the glory of his own radiance. He’s worth communing with on that deep, sweet level.

“One thing have I asked of the Lord, that will I seek after: that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to gaze upon the beauty of the Lord and to meditate in his temple.” (Ps.27:4)

Dwell. Rest. Be calmed. Wait. And from the depths of those ancient words, you will gaze upon the beauty of the Lord. So says David. And that’s what God taught me through the woodchuck parable.

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Teachable, Unteachable

Posted in Scripture, tagged , , , , , , , on August 31, 2011 | Leave a Comment »

Young, Dumb, and Unteachable

I’m a teacher by nature. I’m gifted that way. I think that way. I even majored in music education. I have this need to write and I have to pour out what I’m learning in some capacity. Otherwise, my head explodes. And it’s gross. That’s why I have a blog. That’s why I meet with younger guys. That’s why I give permission to older guys to pour wisdom into me. I love to learn.

So it’s no shock that one of the most frustrating traits I find in other people is unteachability. If a person is not teachable, I’m immediately put off by them. In fact, sometimes I’ll just write them off as idiots. Allow me to disclose the workings of my wicked mind. Grab some popcorn.

I’ll have coffee with another guy and we’ll be chatting. Let’s say I’m a few years older than him. Life’s kicked me around a bit more than it has him. Life’s been pretty easy on him so far. But I’ve got more scars and so consequently, I’ve learned more. More mistakes usually equals more lessons learned. Let’s also say that I’ve sat through a theology class or two, took some good notes, and came out the other end wiser for it. And this younger guy just isn’t there yet. And that’s fine.

And so, he asks me for some advice on a particular issue in his life. He’s been gracious enough to give me permission to speak into his life. I care about the guy and I want to see him grow. So, I open my Bible and I show him a principle that speaks clearly to his issue and I give him my advice. And he throws it all back in my face. What’s my first reaction? Anger.

Just Wanna Fight

This little situation is not hypothetical. It’s happened to me more than a few times. It happens to other guys I know. I did it a lot when I was younger, stupider and hotter under the collar. God’s still calming those fires, but for a while all I wanted was an angry gorilla to argue with…all the time. I was absolutely pugnacious and nobody was ever right except me. I’ve always had a problem with authority and even today, if I don’t think your reasons are good enough, I won’t listen to you. I have to fight that. It’s my natural bent.

I’m just naturally unteachable. I struggle with that arrogance and I fight to seek wisdom. It’s a daily thing for me. And that’s why I immediately detect it in other people. It’s probably why I’m drawn to other naturally unteachable people. I recognize myself in it and I want to help them get out of that mindset. That’s what the frustration is born out of.

Friendship With the Teacher

And so I’ve been amazed lately to see in Scripture just what kind of a teacher God is. He is the master teacher and he seeks teachable people. Psalm Twenty-Five talks about God as a teacher. It’s remarkable stuff.

Verse 4- “Make me to know your ways, O Lord; teach me your paths”. Verse 5- “Lead me in your truth and teach me”. Verse 8- “He instructs sinners in the way”. Verse 9- “He leads the humble in what is right”.

Verse 12 is the kicker for me. This is the verse that grabbed me by the throat and throttled me into submission the other night. “Who is the man who fears the Lord? Him will He instruct in the way that he should choose.“

How does God gauge teachability? By whether or not a person fears Him. The fear of the Lord creates a humble person. And “the friendship of the Lord is for those who fear him” (verse 14). David understood that if you want to be taught by God (a concept that beggars the imagination), you must learn to see Him as the massive, omnipotent, omniscient, all-satisfying, Lord of the Universe. The bigger your view of God (that is, the more your view of God matches up with the reality of the Bible), the more you will experience a reverential awe at owning a friendship with the glorious, majestic, all-wise Triune God.

That breeds teachability. That sets a person on the paths of the Lord. And “all the paths of the Lord are steadfast love and faithfulness, for those who keep his covenant and his testimonies” (verse 10).

A word of encouragement to my older, wiser friends: don’t give up on those frustrating young, dumb, unteachables. Remember, you were once just like that. And God doesn’t give up on His students. You’re still being taught by Him.

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Reasons to Read Tolkien (Part 2)

Posted in The Arts, tagged , , , , , , on August 25, 2011 | 3 Comments »

I want you to know, as I continue this series on the merits of Tolkienating (the reading and enjoyment of Tolkien’s work), I will be in character. That is, I will be in a tweed jacket, trousers and hush puppies, sweater vest, dress shirt and tie. I’ve also got a handkerchief in the left breast pocket of my tweed jacket. I’ve used it twice already this morning and it’s gross. Handkerchiefs are a terrible idea. But I just want you to appreciate 1.) my level of commitment and 2.) the fact that I own a tweed jacket.

Without any further ballyhoo, let’s get to some more reasons you and everyone you love should be reading the writings of J.R.R. Tolkien.

1.) Quotable Quality. This may seem like such a broad and subjective category but hear me out. I believe that you can discern a work’s quality by it’s quotability. And you may quote me on that…please? Because Tolkien had such a love of words (see Part 1), virtually every sentence in his fiction is a work of art in and of itself.

“There was no answer, unless it were an utter silence more dreadful than the whispers before; and then a chill blast came in which the torches flickered and went out, and could not be rekindled.”

“The wizard seemed asleep, but with lids not fully closed: there was a glitter of eyes under his long lashes.”

“But Isengard is a circle of sheer rocks that enclose a valley as with a wall, and in the midst of that valley is a tower of stone called Orthanc.”

Alright. I just randomly flipped to three pages in the Lord of the Rings and typed out the first sentence on each page my eyes landed on. Go ahead and reread them. Beautiful, aren’t they? There’s just so much charm and poetry to his word choice. I’ll just leave a couple of my personal favorites here before moving onto my second point.

“All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.”

“We all long for [Eden], and we are constantly glimpsing it: our whole nature…is still soaked with the sense of exile.”

“‘Gandalf! I thought you were dead! But then I thought I was dead myself. Is everything sad going to come untrue? What’s happened to the world?’” “‘A great Shadow has departed,’ said Gandalf, and then he laughed, and the sound was like music, or like water in a parched land.”

And I hadn’t even mentioned the songs…

Tolkien wrote with such high quality. Someone recently asked me to compare the works of C.S. Lewis with Tolkien and decide which I liked better. I responded by collapsing into a nervous ball of tears. I think I made my point. It’s not an easy contest to decide. Lewis was prolific. His words were like rabbits, honestly. Tolkien thought Lewis wrote way too much far too quickly. Let’s try and put their output in perspective.

While Tolkien was laboring through draft after draft of The Lord of the Rings, Lewis wrote:

Out of the Silent Planet, Perelandra, That Hideous Strength, The Problem of Pain, The Screwtape Letters, A Preface to “Paradise Lost”, The Abolition of Man, and The Great Divorce.

So, it’s not exactly fair. They just don’t compare in terms of quantity. However, in terms of quality…I think Tolkien blows Lewis out of the water every time. As much as I love me some Clive Staples, Tollers wins in terms of literary excellence. In fact, Lewis ripped off more than a few fictional inventions of Tolkien’s. But we won’t get into that here.

2.) The Silmarillion. It depends on who you talk to. With some people, you mention the Silmarillion and their eyes glaze over, they develop a twitch, and then promptly fall into a boredom-induced coma. With other people, I don’t even get the full title out and they start speaking to me (in Elvish, of course) about their favorite chapter in the book. But let back up.

The Silmarillion is what Tolkien called his “beloved nonsense”. If that’s not an awesome term of endearment for your own book, I don’t know what awesome is. Basically, it’s the story of creation and the history of the elves Middle-Earth. Or as Tolkien said, it’s “The tales of the First Age when Morgoth dwelt in Middle-earth and the Elves made war upon him for the recovery of the Silmarils to which are appended the downfall of Númenor and the history of the Rings of Power and the Third Age in which these tales come to their end.” Same thing. Let break out the highlights for you and then you can do yourself a favor and read the book.

  • the world is created by music. As a classically trained musician, this resonated (puns always intended) with me on a fundamental level. Eru (or Ilúvatar, a.k.a. God) creates the Ainur (gods). Eru then teaches them to sing his music and together they sing creation into being. But then Melkor (the Lucifer character) jacks up the harmony and begins to “interweave matters of his own imagining that were not in accord with the theme of Ilúvatar”. And that’s where discord and sin and brokenness come from. Honestly, that’s just a wonderful way to start out your mythology: with music.
  • He really fleshes out the mythology in this book. Yes, it’s neat to read about the Elves. Yes, it’s thrilling to read about Fëanor and his Simarils (three jewels that later end up in Melkor’s crown). But if you really want to know the history of that Secondary World, if you really want to see a beautiful pantheon of fascinating gods, this book is for you. There’s Aulë, the powerful creator of the Dwarves. Gentle Estë, the grey healer of the gardens of  Lórien. Ulmo, one of the most powerful gods and ruler of the seas. And you also have the Maiar (lesser spirits than the Ainur). They’re sort of like the angels of Middle-Earth. Famous Maiar include Gandalf, Saruman, and the Balrogs. Impress your friends.
  • Beren and Lúthien. This is probably the most bitter-sweet stories on earth. And even to call it bitter-sweet is a little insulting. This tale is depth itself. It is a happy tragedy. It is classic Tolkien at his best. This story of love and loss and mortality is a tale of joy. As Tolkien would say, it is “Joy beyond the walls of the world, poignant as grief”. And plus, my copy has that musty old-book smell. And you can’t beat that.

So there you have it. Two more reasons to be go and read some Tolkien today: his immense, unmatched quality and his beloved nonsense, the Silmarillion.

Time to hang up my tweed. Until next time, travelers.

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