The Eyeglass this Christmas

O come, O come, Emmanuel,
And ransom captive Israel
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appears. 

Cold hands, cramped feet, relentless noise, and nothing to see. He fingers the soft blanket beneath his weary body, listening sadly to the deep rumbling of his stomach. They told me the blanket was gray. I wish I knew what they meant. He hasn't had much heart to cry out this morning. That happens sometimes when you've been crying for days, for months, for years. He lifts his hands up to his face and covers his eyes, wishing, as he has done so many times before, that maybe, when he removes them, he will, by some miracle, be able to see.

He sits with his face covered for some time, allowing his mind to be distracted by the busy pattering of the many sandaled feet before him, the deep echoes of the voices of their owners, and the other usual sounds of the street. He has grown far too accustomed to these sounds. He has been sitting here for so long.

He lowers his hands to the dirt below him, placing his palms on its cold surface and stretching out his fingers, half-delighted by the curious roughness of the little granules of dust that sift through his fingers and rub against his skin. At least one part of his body could sense a bit of the world. He drags his hands back and forth in the dirt. Oh, this dust. Oh, will I ever, ever be able to see?

Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, Thou Day-Spring, come and cheer
Our spirits by Thine advent here.
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night
And death's dark shadow put to flight.

She wraps her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, hugging herself—but not from the cold. It's the people—the crowds—you see. They are too close and...and...it's just hard to be with so many people all at once, especially when you're hurting. She knows pain well—and shame, too. For twelve years, she has suffered; for twelve years, the bleeding hasn't stopped. Yes, she's tried the doctors—she's been to the best ones in the land. No treatment has helped, and now her stomach growls too. I've no money for food today. My body aches. My head is spinning. Is there hope anywhere? Relief from this pain? this shame? Oh, will I ever, ever be free?

Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, Desire of Nations, bind
In one the hearts of all mankind.
Bid Thou our sad divisions cease
And be Thyself our King of Peace.

He settles himself down on the chilly, wet grass, crossing his legs neatly and breathing in the crisp night air. It feels like the biggest breath he has taken in a month. It is a still night—no wind, and even the sheep seem quiet. He looks up to the dark sky, his heart heavy. Is there any way to even relate the pain? Family troubles sometimes hurt too much to even put them into words. He lies on his back, raising his arms to tuck his hands behind his neck. He draws more air into his lungs. As he lets it out, a single tear—hot and sticky—makes its way down his dusty cheek. He lets it fall. He knows the others aren't paying attention. He knows the sheep won't care.

One more breath, another glance at the sky. Man, that star sure is bright. A lamb wanders over to him, fumbling and shuffling through the grass in its exhaustion. His lips twist into the tiniest smile and he reaches out his hand to the little creature. It buries its nose in his palm, its warm breath tickling his wrist. He wants to smile, but his mouth can't seem to lift his heart this time. Another tear flickers down his face as he gently pets the lamb. He raises his gaze to the sky once more. Oh, is there hope? Will this ever, ever stop?

Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, O come, Emmanuel,
And ransom captive Israel
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appears.

Dropping his pencil onto his tattered note-page, he sits back in his old chair. He slips his fingers underneath his glasses and rubs his tired eyes. His shoulders ache. He's barely staying awake. He fixes his glasses and tries once more to look at his paper. So many scribbles, half-started thoughts that look better, he thinks, with a line straight through them. Circles, arrows, x's, eraser shavings—and, still, the sermon hasn't hardly a skeleton. What do I do? What do I tell them?

He thinks of the people who will be listening to him shortly after the sun stretches its rays across the sky the next morning, forcing the darkness away with its happy glow. He knows each face in his congregation. Will there be enough in that sun to help them hang on another day? He picks up the Bible that has been lying on his desk for hours and reads again the passage on which he is supposed to be preaching. Oh, this world. Will we ever, ever make it?

Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

*****

Four stories. Four people. Four broken, bleeding hearts. Four aching souls. Four parched tongues. They're waiting, longing desperately for the smallest hint of hope. The world doesn't seem to offer that much, does it?

But a man spit into the dirt which had been beneath the blind man's cold hands. In a touch that was, perhaps, more loving than any that that face had ever felt before, the Rabbi covered the poor fellow's eyes with mud and sent him to Siloam.

He saw.

The woman, bundled up against the crowd, thought that maybe one touch might do it. Maybe, just maybe, if she managed to get one finger on the hem of his cloak...

She was freed.

The shepherd was right about that star. It was a bright one, wasn't it?

And the pastor? You're right. That one's not in the Bible. That one's our story, and that one's not quite over yet.

But you know what? Our story's going to end just like the others did. Our King is coming. He'll drive out the night, ransom the captive nation, draw us into His heart, wipe our tears. We might ache with all the pains of the blind man, the bleeding woman, the lonely shepherd, and the burdened pastor—but, one day soon, there will be joy, sight, freedom, beauty.

We come to Christmas with a lot on our minds. We wonder; we worry; we wait. But, in it all, may we rest in the truth of what this day really means. Emmanuel—God with us—has come. And He's coming again. We have hope.

Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

Doin' Nothin'

I keep hearing this phrase, this complaint, from the lips of weary people at the end of a wearying day. Sometimes it even falls out of their mouths in the middle of the day. I even hear myself say it sometimes, and I squirm with the oddity of the comment. Over and over again, it's the same thing in a million different formats: I need to be more productive. I just wasn't that productive today. I don't feel like I'm being productive right now. I wish I was more productive.

What do we mean by this?

I think we mean it literally. We're stuck in a society driven endlessly by the whims of consumerism, where we get sucked in by advertisement after advertisement in a spiral that becomes the worst trap of all, for we find that we must advertise our very selves if we want to survive there. We're familiar with the ideas of capitalism and of factory production. We get that somebody has to "make" what everybody else wants to buy. It seems to be this world, this economic chaos, that we are referencing by the phrase. We feel, in this world, that we need to produce something.

We don't have to be business owners to be battered by this brutal idea. Yes, some people complain about their level of productivity because their livelihood is really on the line; if they don't meet their quota, their business will fail. But, even if it's a bit more indirectly, the rest of us seem to feel this pressure too. We live in the same world, after all. The average person who cries out with this complaint is just as burdened by the demand to "produce." Look at the college student, who must whip out three papers by the end of the week, not forget to meet with that professor, write a speech, study for two exams, be patient with his peers, and still try to sleep. Look at the secretary, who must answer hundreds of emails and phone calls, never complain about her boss's fifth request for coffee, and keep a cheery smile on her face as she greets everyone who walks in the door. Look at the jobless or homeless mother who knows more painfully than most of us that her hungry children long for her to find some way to provide. Look at the despondent artist selling his work on the side of the street, the sticky child asking for a quarter in exchange for some homemade lemonade.

All of us, up and down every street, are burdened with this need to produce something in order to secure life itself. Regardless of how literally we mean the phrase, we feel, when we say it, that our actions on any particular day or at any particular moment really must help us live up to the standard of whatever it is we feel we're supposed to be doing. And, if they don't, we nearly kill ourselves with guilt. I just wasn't productive today. I wish I was more productive.

But I have a question. What if all this is a giant lie?

I mean, sure, we can't actually buy groceries if we don't work. Yeah, we've got to finish that essay by Wednesday. The deadlines might be real, but it's the pressure, the guilt, that seems out of place.

Look at it this way. Even the hardest-working people find great joy in taking a day off from work. They'll take their family to the beach, play in the sand with their kids, dive into a few waves, and order pizza for dinner. And, at the end, what do they say? That was fun. I needed that. I can't wait to do that again.

You know what we don't hear? Aw, man. What a waste. I could have answered 30 emails in the time it took me to build that sandcastle. Forget the pizza; I would have rather had that soggy sandwich from my briefcase. And those waves? Man. Sure wish I had dove into my pile of paperwork instead. I should have been more productive.

Do we ever think this way? Hardly! We feel the cultural pressure to be productive, but, deep down, we're longing for something else. We're longing for the pressure to go away. Sometimes, even as that familiar phrase crosses our lips, we secretly note that we don't regret what we did instead of, you know, "being productive." Sometimes, we really don't feel guilty about not being productive even while we say we do.

I bring this up because these moments of release, these moments when we've done something to break the mold and defy the pressure, seem to be some of the most relaxing and freeing times we've ever known. When we refuse to buy into the idea that we must spend every minute being productive (if even for a day), we feel pretty great. Sure, I wasn't productive. But that was so worth it.

Why do we feel this way?

Allow me to let you in on a little "secret": We feel this way because this was actually the way the world was meant to be.

We weren't meant to live according to a list of obligations. We weren't meant to carry this exhausting burden of thinking we have to make life happen all on our own. We were never created to bear the guilt of striving endlessly to reach standards that never cease to surpass our grasp. It's absolutely exhausting to live this way, and none of us have any fun trying to do it.

The pressure to be productive, you see, is a myth created by our constant longing to find satisfaction by our own hands. It all stems from our longing to make it on our own, our belief that we've just got to work, got to provide for our families, got to do a whole bunch of stuff. But, no matter how awesome we are at doing stuff, the pressure doesn't end. The more you feed it, the stronger it gets.

So what's the truth, then? It's this: in salvation and in life, we needn't feel the pressure to be "productive." For both (and I'm really serious about this), we don't need to do anything.

Take salvation first. This is where it all begins anyway. We messed up, missed the mark of perfection. God's solution? Not burdening us with the pressure to try again, to somehow make it on our own. Not even close. Salvation is by grace alone. It has been accomplished by Christ. Completely. It's finished. We have only to believe in His Name. No work is required. We're in.

And life? Jobs? Eh. Live out life and do your job with the truth of salvation-by-grace at the forefront of your mind. Really. Grasp that. It's a picture which your neighbors might find crazy—but which will give you a whole lot of much-needed peace. It means that the pressure's off to be successful; the game's up. We've got no need to try to "make it" in the world. None at all. We're free.

Let me make this clear: I'm not saying we should be lazy, sitting on our butts all day while others work. I'm saying that we need to throw off the idea that our life goal is to be productive. It's not.

Our life goal is a lot different than that. It is to simply enjoy relationship with our Creator and to tell everyone we can about what He did to draw us into that relationship. Phrased a bit differently, our goal is to know our Father's love and to love like He loves.

A full understanding of this will not prompt laziness. Rather, it will motivate us to creatively use all that we've been given to deepen our relationship with God and to share His love with His people. The pressure to produce evaporates. Jobs and life in general, finances, talents—everything we have becomes a tool in the kingdom, an instrument for sharing the Father's love.

Really and truly, life is our chance to know Him and His great love and to share that love with others. We don't have to do anything. Let that lie rot in the trash pile. There's no need to be productive here. Rather, because of Christ, we've been set free to live and to work and to use everything we've been given to uplift others and to glorify Him.

Imagine what that would look like lived out. Imagine if—thanks to the beauty of the gospel of grace—we dropped the burden of thinking we need to be productive and made it our sole concern to know our God, to faithfully follow Him.

In his book Unoffendable, Brant Hansen relates that it would probably look like we were doing a whole lot of nothing. He writes, "Nothing means not everything, not running around infernally, not getting our kids this lesson and that, not trying to sustain a lifestyle we 'want'—but not deep down” (p. 55). It's living out the rest that Jesus offers right here, right now. And people think that's weird. Brant puts it this way: "In this culture, 'nothing' sticks out like crazy, like, say, a city...on a hill...or something...Our whole neighborhood knew we were odd. The dad's home a lot; he's walking around with his daughter, catching lizards? The mom is home a lot, too, talking outdoors with us about the ducks? They waste time together. They waste time with us. Something's odd here..." (p. 55, emphasis in original).

That's how it's supposed to be, guys.

So, let me ask you: What would life look like for you, today, if you drop-kicked the burden of being productive and just started, you know, doin' nothin'?

The Wee Little Man: A Pharisee's Thoughts

Ugh. I have the most annoying story to report. I was just minding my own business in Jericho today when--Oh, um. Sorry. Let me start over, properly this time. I am an educated man after all. Excuse me. It's just that today's events have ruffled me a bit. Back to normal, now...

Alas, as I was calmly making my way down the road in Jericho, attending to the day's business with a vigor that always becomes a man serving G-d (can't be fully writing His Name, now, can we?), my diligent work--not to mention my delicate and tender nature--was quite disturbed by an unnecessary rabble flooding through the street as if they had lost every ounce of their already quite fragile sanity. Fortunately, I was able to move to the edge of the street just before the crowd reached me. My disgust was heightened when that hideous dwarf, that despicable tax collector Zacchaeus nearly trampled upon my recently cleaned feet in his rush. He looked madder than all the others combined, his eyes flickering right and left and his little legs stumbling all over the place as he dashed in front of the crowd and headed straight for a sycamore-fig tree down the road.

The crowd grew more and more ecstatic as they filed past me, all exclaiming silly things like, "Jesus of Nazareth! Yes, he's here!" Hmmph. All this bustle for a "teacher." Surely he doesn't deserve that title--or any other title but those too lowly for a distinguished man like myself to bother typing. Keeping my chin up and my lips set--for I mustn't show any emotional response to such a disgraceful scene--I waited patiently for the pathetic parade to pass.

What happened next, however, shook me to my very core--but I must tell you, to ease your own soul, that I made it through the furnace of this temptation with only a slight singe, and the few hours of passionate public prayer in which I engaged afterwards will have cured me of this, I am sure.

Anyway--oh! How I loathe to record such a scandalous scene! Stay, soul. Retain your dignity. My dear friends, here is what happened.

I caught a glimpse of the "teacher" as he made his way down the road. Ah, if he only knew who was touching him! His smile gave me chills. How could any respectable fellow smile when the grubby hands of those foul sinners were all over his robes?

He continued his ridiculous rambling down the street. I watched him, for I had nothing else to do while I waited for this dreadful crowd to pass. And, lo! As I watched, he stopped, right under the sycamore-fig tree. My heart sank. What was he going to do? Then he looked up at the tree and exclaimed, "Zacchaeus, come down immediately. I must stay at your house today."

Oh, how vile! The dirty tax collector had climbed the tree like a darned fool--and now this offensive teacher wanted to eat with him? Surely he knows the significance of sharing a meal in our culture! Bah! He wanted to be friends with this tax collector!

Forgive me. I do not mean to be angry, but my zeal for the law is burning in my chest as I recall this awful event. G-d knows I disdain all sinners, and it's just infuriating that this Jesus would misrepresent all teachers of the law by lowering himself to eat with them.

Anyway, the scene grew all the more ridiculous as Zacchaeus scrambled down the tree and waddled along the road to his house with Jesus. One encouraging fact was that the crowd seemed just as disconcerted as I was. I heard many mumble, "He has gone to be the guest of a 'sinner.'"

In response to this, the silly tax collector stood up and said to Jesus, "Look, Lord!" (He really used that title!) "Here and now I give half of my possessions to the poor, and if I have cheated anybody out of anything, I will pay back four times the amount."

As if that could save him, after all he's done! Don't get me wrong: I'll be glad to get back the money that fool stole from me. But still. The point is that he's acting as though works don't matter at all, as if G-d could really love him right here and now.

And what's even worse is that that teacher, that Jesus of Nazareth, agreed with him! He said, "Today salvation has come to this house, because this man, too, is a son of Abraham. For the Son of Man came to seek and to save what was lost."

Oh, how my righteous heart cringes at these words. As if "faith" could save. No, no. Scandalous, I tell you. G-d would just never do such a thing. He just wouldn't save a bunch of sinners.

Hmmph. Alas, friend, it is past. I shall not burden you with the raging ridiculousness of this so-called Rabbi any longer. It's time for supper anyway. Don't forget to wash your hands before you eat.

-----------------------
For the biblical account of Zacchaeus' story, see Luke 19:1-10. My prayer is that you find our Lord's scandalous grace as refreshing as Zacchaeus did, for the Son of Man really did come to seek and save the lost. He loved this tax collector, and He loves you too. Praise be to God!

The Message the Mask Never Tells

We live in a busy world today. An airplane just flew over my head, probably carrying some two hundred people, each distantly pondering their own lives, their expected destinations, and their constantly buzzing phones. They probably didn't notice they were going some 200 miles an hour...or flying in the air, for that matter.

Cell phones beep constantly. Our thumbs are always tapping on their bright little screens, our eyes are always down, our heads are always spinning.

Cars zoom by. A dog barks. We squint against the wind, hide our faces from the sun. The boss calls, the baby whines, news reporters scream—and there goes that dreaded alarm again. The toaster dings, your headphones sing, advertisements gleam.

Headaches pound, the pills go down...and life drags on. We're weary, broken, panicked souls—tired, moaning, dulled.

Sunday comes, the church bells ring—or do we even have those any more? The pastor preaches, we all shake hands...lunch and day-long chores.

And all the time we never see that this busyness, this mess—this ain't reality.

Let me put that to you again: This is not reality.

We live in a world where production is key, where work comes first and time never stops. I mean, sure, this stuff is happening. It's "real," in that sense. But I think we know, somewhere deep down—in a place we've all but blocked off—that there's more to it than this. We're yearning for something deeper, secretly hoping all the noise will stop and the bustle will cease. We know that the giant mask of distraction championed by, well, nearly everybody these days is throwing us off, keeping us from that more meaningful message, that "real-er" reality. But we're scared—frightened out of our minds—to take our chances, to quiet our worlds ourselves. Aren't we? Aren't we worried by silence? Terrified at the thought of sitting down and reflecting, at abandoning the agendas and tackling head-on the whispers that flit through our heads in those few seconds where the distractions haven't managed to dull them enough?

Enough.

You know all this, don't you? You're painfully familiar with this busy world. Your heart cried as I described it. You long to settle down. We all do.

So what would we hear if we stopped, if we really stopped—not just the incessant tapping on screens or the unending sound waves bursting our eardrums, but the tiny voices that pester our souls, the quiet whispers that tell us the pain or the masks or the insecurity or the worthlessness is all there is? What if we moved into a silence that was deeper than all that—the deepest vibrations of reality? What would we hear? What message really lies underneath all the humdrum we've built up to drown it out?

Calm your mind down—right here, right now. Be still.

Now take some time to read this:

"For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life" (John 3:16, NIV 1984).

You've heard it before. I know that. But slow down. Read it again:

"For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life."

Breathe. One more time:

"For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life."

What's really real is not the streaking cars, the blinking lights, or the worry they so faithfully share. No, child. That stuff is a mask, a distraction—pulling you from what the silence might otherwise convince you to hear. The deepest recesses of reality pulsate with a different message. Take a deep breath, and listen.

Watch the leaves as they flicker gently in the breeze. Run your hand through the ocean waves. Let your hair out. Smell the flowers. All creation is whispering one phrase, rejoicing in the truth of this well-known yet oft-forgotten verse: Your Father loves you.

Your Father loves you.

You. Yes, you. The one with the shaking hands and the stumbling feet. The one who spilled the milk yesterday. The one who just can't seem to dull her pain or quiet her pounding heart. The one who forgot how to tie his shoes. The one who can't muster up "faith," the one who can't remember a lick of Scripture, the one who never shows up to church on time...even the one who doesn't show up at all, the one who doesn't yet know His name. He's calling out to the liar, welcoming the criminal, the prostitute, the tax-collector, the broken, the bleeding, the clumsy, the insecure, the frightened, the weak, the imperfect—He wants us all. You've messed up. I have too. He knows that. Gosh, He knows that better than we do. But you know what the cross says? It says that, in it all, He loves you. The God of the universe loves you. And He wants you to know that. He gave everything so you could know that—and know that for eternity with Him.

It's a messy world. It really is. And we are messy people—every one of us. But, for ten minutes today—right now—would you just close your eyes and let Him speak over you? Let Him tell you what His love is like. My words are but a poor shadow of the relentless passion of your eternal Father. Let Him tell you. Choose right now to take a break, to rest, and to just know this one thing, the never-ending beat of His heart:

He loves you.

What Wasn't a Dud

My pastor asked a question in church yesterday, a question that highlighted powerfully the points that he was making in his well-crafted and beautifully challenging sermon but which (as I reflected on it later that day) began to work through my mind in a slightly different context than that which he was emphasizing. I guess people call these "tangents." Anyway, the question he posed was this:

How many of you know that Jesus was a disappointment to his mother?

Almost all of us had raised our hands in affirmation as we remembered, curiously, the moment in Mark 3:31-35, when Jesus is told, "Your mother and brothers are outside looking for you." But look at our Lord's response to the messenger:

"Who are my mother and my brothers?" he asked. Then he looked at those seated in a circle around him and said, "Here are my mother and my brothers! Whoever does God's will is my brother and sister and mother." (NIV 1984)

Imagine the absolute confusion—and maybe even the bitter scowls—that would have crossed the faces of those who heard this response. Had He lost His mind??

No. He hadn't. He knew what He was doing, and He was teaching us something extremely important.

My pastor used this passage as one illustration of many that the Gospel is a truth that pulls us out of what he termed "the cult of the nuclear family." In other words, when we are adopted as God's sons and daughters, we are adopted into His family—the church. God's Name becomes the Name to which we acknowledge our allegiance; God's family becomes the family we recognize as our own. And this is an inexplicably beautiful truth!

In addition to this, though, my pastor's question sparked another thought in my mind. Here and elsewhere, Jesus really was a repeated disappointment to His family. Think Luke 2:41-50 and Mark 3:20-21 (which may have been the reason for their appearance in the scene I just described above) for some examples.

But the problem gets even bigger. Jesus was a major disappointment to His whole nation too. The religious leaders thought He was an absolute fool. The disciples were constantly correcting Him. He hung out with all the wrong sorts of people, told confusing stories that didn't match the reigning theology, couldn't seem to perform His miracles on the right day of the week, had a fit of anger in the temple—and then, gosh darn it, He went and died on a cross.

Why was Jesus such a disappointment to these people? He didn't live up to their expectations. The religious leaders wanted Him to affirm their hard-earned righteousness and their long lists of laws. The disciples wanted Him to step up and overthrow Rome like a good Messiah should. The popular people couldn't understand why the prostitutes and tax collectors were the ones whose company He chose. They all wanted Him to tell them how great they were doing and to bring in the Kingdom of God right then and there—just as they thought He should—squashing all the dirty scoundrels who couldn't find it in themselves to keep the six-hundred-something laws to which the Pharisees clung.

But what they didn't realize was that their expectations were the problem. All those people who found Jesus to be a disappointment were those who wanted Jesus to be something He was not. They wanted the God of the universe to fit into their boxes.

And, let me tell you, if Jesus had done that, we'd all have been dead meat.

By anchoring Himself in the identity given Him by His Father, by constantly listening to the Spirit's leading, by tuning His soul toward the perfect plan of His God—even when it hurt!—Jesus became the world's greatest disappointment, but only to those who failed to realize that their lives depended on that very thing.

Jesus didn't affirm the reigning theology because the reigning theology wasn't right. Jesus didn't listen to His disciples' rebukes because they weren't in line with His Father's plan. Jesus hung out with the lowlife people because those were the ones who knew they needed Him. And Jesus died on a cross because He wasn't interested in overthrowing Rome. He was interested in saving the world—and overthrowing death itself.

You see, if Jesus had lived up to the expectations of those around Him—the ones who expected things of Him that fit neither with His identity nor with His Father's plan—He would have never been the Savior that the world needed.

So what does that mean for us? I think it means a lot.

First of all, we've got a lesson to learn from the mistakes of those whose expectations were off the mark. We've got a question to ask ourselves. Is Jesus a disappointment to us? If so, I think we need to rework our understanding of our own position. We are but humans. He is God. Surely, He knows what He is doing. Surely, if He was willing to give up everything to die for us, we can trust Him. If we find that Jesus is a disappointment to us, the problem isn't Jesus. The problem is our own boxes. Far be it from us to expect God to follow us. We're supposed to be following Him.

Secondly, we may need to adjust the way we look at our fellow humans. Do we expect them to be something they're not? Something God never made them to be? The same pastor who inspired this post in the first place once said in a different sermon, "Everybody's a genius, but if you tell a fish to climb a tree, it'll spend the rest of its life thinking that it's stupid."¹ It's possible, of course, to be disappointed in someone for really not doing what they're supposed to be doing. But, I wonder, what would we see if we looked at others from God's eyes? People can be huge successes in the eyes of their Creator even if the rest of creation doesn't see it. What counts for Him is the heart, not the presence of praise from peers.

And, finally, this means a lot for the way we look at ourselves. Reach down. Think deep. Has anyone told you that you were a disappointment? This may have been a legitimate accusation. Perhaps you were living in a way that you weren't supposed to be living. But, even if that was true, it's not too late to turn around. God can change anyone. But I think far too many people are accused of being a disappointment when the only mistake they've made is failing to live up to what somebody else thought they should be.

To those hurting hearts, I offer this comfort: Your Savior faced it too. He knows. He hurts with you. And I think He wants you to remember this: Your identity in Him is secure, and His plan for you is perfect. You will never be a disappointment to Him because He just doesn't look at people that way. Ever. Child, He loves you. He loves you. Believe that, and let the accusations of this world fly off of your soul like drops of water on the wings of a bird. Rest in His love. It's in that rest—in the anchoring of our identities in Him alone—that we become the very people the world didn't know it needed us to be.

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¹ This quote is not original. It’s been mistakenly attributed many times to Albert Einstein, but its real source is unknown (https://quoteinvestigator.com/2013/04/06/fish-climb/).

The Breastplate: In Context

"Stand firm then, with the belt of truth buckled around your waist, with the breastplate of righteousness in place..." —Ephesians 6:14

It's an incredibly familiar passage. Most of you probably wanted to keep on reciting, moving on to verse 15 and laying out the glorious list of armor, that impressive inventory of all the tools we have been given in our battle against the enemy. Images of noble Roman soldiers float through our heads, sharp noses underneath that striking red-crested helmet, glistening swords, tall sandals standing erect on a dusty road. We imagine ourselves in that armor, every piece polished—and, of course, intricately decorated with the word that Paul assigned to designate it—our heads held high, and our own noses tilted in just the right direction so that the photographer can get the perfect shot.

Or maybe a different image pops into your head—a medieval knight, perhaps. But, if you're anything like me, this passage is almost always just that: an image. Paul's vivid description calls up the stories of blood and dust and victory that used to fascinate us in our youth—and probably would still fascinate us now if we could drag them far enough out of the cobwebbed corners of our rigidly-scientific, grown-up minds.

It's a cool thing to think about. And I think Paul's analogy here was written to carry some of these very images. I think he wanted us to envision the armor, to attach the word "truth" to the concept of a "belt" and the idea of "faith" to the "shield," to see the Christian life as a battle—because, in a lot of ways, that is what it is.

At the same time, though, my own familiarity with these images sometimes messes up my reading of the book of Ephesians. (I blame myself for this, of course, not Paul.) I catch myself reading through the rest of the epistle quite nonchalantly, reading it (at best) as a flimsy stage for the dramatic battle at the end. As I read, my thoughts wind up like this: Yes, yes. Jesus. Yes, yes. Church. Mmhmm. Okay. Oh, love. That's cool. Jesus, church. Commands...ugh. Okay, yep. Um. Oh! There we go. Roman soldiers. Then it ends. Well, that was nice.

What is this? Is chapter six some odd climax to a bunch of nothingness? Is it even a climax? Do we get anything from this imagery? Are these final verses a fancy picture to remind us that the Christian life is a battle and (yawn)...What a nice cloud in the sky...Oh, wow. That one looks like a soldier...

I hope your reading of this actually beautiful epistle has been better than mine. But if not—if the words keep going over your head and the elusive images of sword-fights and statues keep pulling you from a thorough grasp of why this passage (and the context of the letter in which it sits) is so foundational to our life with Christ and with His church—then I invite you to sit with me on just one thing. Let's rest here, on just one piece of the armor, and look at it through the lens of all that Paul has written beforehand. Let's start with the breastplate of righteousness.

Our first question is pretty obvious: What is a breastplate? The answer is pretty obvious too. It's the piece of armor that covers the chest—all the vital organs from the neck to the waist and, most importantly, the heart. The Romans actually used to call it a "heart guard."¹

So what is it that Paul wanted to make sure guarded our heart? Righteousness. Righteousness. And I don't think he meant our own, because we've never been all that great at being "righteous." I think he meant Christ's righteousness. I think he meant that our hearts should be guarded by an identity that is sure not because we earned it but because our Savior shed His own blood to give it. The breastplate, the heart guard, is Christ's righteousness on our chests.

Why is this important? I think Paul knew as well as we all do that Satan's favorite target is our identity. If he can convince us that we are dirty, miserable sinners whose future is inevitably a repeat of our past, we crumble. We stop fighting, we stop serving, we stop loving, and we stop believing. But if the crux of our identity is Christ's righteousness—if we realize that, because of His death and resurrection, we are called holy (Eph. 1:4, 5:3, 5:25-27)—then we can stand firm (6:14).

The heart of the epistle to the Ephesians, you see, is anchored in the concept of identity. Read it! Look for this! Paul is telling us that, because of Jesus, we are chosen (ch. 1); we are saved and adopted into a family that is united by the Spirit and called the church (ch. 2); we are loved more than we can possibly imagine (ch. 3); and we are empowered to "live a life worthy of the calling [we] have received" (4:1), a life that makes sense in the light of those truths (chs. 4-6). And at the end of it all, there really is a climax—not one that gives stale imagery but one that tells us to watch out. The "armor" tells us that everything that Paul has so diligently explained to us will be under attack.

You see, Paul says, we need to wrap the identity that Christ has made true of us around our bodies as if our lives depended on it—because if we forget who we are, all bets are off. Will we lose? Not necessarily. But we'll be bearing a whole bunch of aching wounds that we would never have even felt if we had let Christ wrap us in His armor.

So the breastplate? It's just one piece. It's just one protector of our identity. But I wanted to focus on this one so you could see just how much we need this armor—how much we need all of it.

What's the enemy telling you today? What lies is he whispering into your ear? What dagger is he thrusting into your heart? Is he telling you that you're dirty? that you're hopeless? that no one wants you?

He's lying. Don't believe a word he says.

Rest in this instead: Your Lord has shed His blood for you to tell you that you are forgiven and clean (I John 1:9). You "were washed, you were sanctified, you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and by the Spirit of our God" (I Cor. 6:11, NIV 1984). There is "now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus" (Rom. 8:1, NIV 1984). In the words of MercyMe, "No matter the bumps, no matter the bruises, no matter the scars, still the truth is the cross has made you flawless."²

The whole point of the epic conclusion of Ephesians is to tell you that it is finished. Christ has won. While we wait for the knees of the rest of the world to acknowledge that reality, we must stand firm. We must remember who we are because of who He is. The breastplate gives us one facet of that identity: We wear His righteousness on our chests.

How do we "get" this? How do we understand it? How do we bury this truth deep in our souls so that it guards our heart against the relentless attacks of the enemy's lies? Paul's prayer in Ephesians 3:14-21 seems to give us the answer. We begin to understand our identity in Christ by the power of the Spirit and in the Church. Yeah, I said it. We can't do it on our own. We need the Spirit. And we need the Church. 'Cuz you know what? All those people sitting beside you in the pews? the ones who have called on His Name just as you did? Yeah. He called them holy too. We wear the armor together, and it all begins in the bottomless love of Jesus Christ. This love enables us to know who we are, and this love enables us to live how we were meant to live. When we get this—together—we've got the armor, and we can stand firm.

Cue Paul: "And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God. Now to Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to His power that is at work within us, to Him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen" (Eph. 3:17b-21, NIV 1984).

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¹ Hollis, Benjamin. “Tools of War: Armor & Shields.” The Roman Military. N.p., n.d. Web. 14 June 2015. romanmilitary.net.

² MercyMe, “Flawless” (2014).

Christianity Beyond Crusoe

I'm sure most of you are familiar with the story of Robinson Crusoe—that fictional hero who, as the sole survivor of a nasty shipwreck, managed to live for 28 years on an island before he was rescued by pirates. Apart from the strangely exciting lists of supplies, the detailed descriptions of his efforts to survive, and the accounts of his battles with nature and cannibals, much of this story consists of Crusoe's highly philosophical reflections on the Bible he had saved from the wreck and his relationship with the God who wrote it.

One of the major themes of these reflections is Crusoe's loneliness; he had been, after all, devoid of all human companionship for longer than I've even been alive. But he finds a remarkable truth even in this, writing:

"I gave humble and hearty thanks that God had been pleased to discover to me even that it was possible...that He could fully make up to me the deficiencies of my solitary state, and the want of human society, by His presence, and the communications of His grace to my soul—supporting, comforting, and encouraging me to depend upon His providence here, and hope for His eternal presence hereafter."

This really is amazing. 28 years of solitude, and Crusoe found that God was enough. And he was right: God is enough. If we had no one else in the world, God would be enough. The truth in that is astounding and sure.

But I think there's a problem here—a huge one. In our Western world, the truth that Crusoe found has too often been distorted. It has been taken too far, misapplied to the extent that we read in it a gruesome lie that threatens to destroy our very selves. Perhaps we didn't tear this lie from the musings of this particularly reflective castaway, but, regardless of where we got it, we did paste it exuberantly on the banner of our prideful hearts, holding it up and chanting in excitement as if it was an essential part of what we'd like to call our "identity." We did let it ride along with our ideals of individualism, giving both free reign as if that was how the world was meant to be. And we throw it in the faces of our neighbors and our Lord; we let it blind our eyes until we are convulsing in our own misery.

What is this lie, you ask? It's the idea that Crusoe's Christianity is a model for us as well. It's the idea that the solitary Christian life, the quiet walking with Christ and no one else, is a viable option—the idea that, even though there are thousands of churches we could join and millions of Christians around the globe, it's perfectly okay to ignore them all. It's the idea that following Christ is something we can do on our own.

Don't get me wrong: If we were stranded on an island for years without another human in sight, God would still be enough. Crusoe's Christianity could be a fantastic model for the person who does indeed find himself companionless.

But the thrill of Crusoe's story comes from the fact that this is not how life is supposed to be. We read his story in excitement not because we relate with his plight but because we deeply wonder what will become of a human who is living in a way no human should have to live. And this particular human finds that God is enough. God is enough.

But the presence of Crusoe's angst is a testimony to the fact that his story is not ideal. Yes, God is enough to satisfy us completely. But He created Adam with the astounding assertion that "it is not good for the man to be alone" (Gen. 2:18, NIV 1984). And instead of reminding Adam that he was not alone (for he had indeed the company of God Himself), God made Eve—another human.

What I'm trying to say is that God is enough—He always is enough. But He has given us other people for a reason. He has adopted us into a family. The Christian life can happen in solitude, if it must, but it is meant to happen in community. Somehow everything makes more sense in a place where every person is living with the full knowledge that God is enough and choosing to live in that together.

The early church understood this. They faced persecution so awful that we can scarcely wrap our heads around it. They had to meet in secret. They knew that every gathering they held could be their last. But they did it because they knew something that we have forgotten in our comfortable, technology-mediated lives: that we can't do this thing without our brothers and sisters.

You see, without community—without family—we miss the beautiful opportunity to know and be known. We miss the chance to be known and loved simultaneously. We never get to taste and to practice God's love. We forfeit the chance to teach and be taught. We throw out the idea of the fruit of the Spirit or the gifts of the Spirit. We risk all sorts of heretical interpretations of Scripture. We dive headfirst into a loneliness that will do nothing but destroy us—and all because we got the idea that we can do without the church. We become the eye that says to the hand, "I don't need you" (I Cor. 12:21).

What better lie could the enemy tell? How better to stop the power of the church than to convince its members that they're better off with their heads in the dirt, ignoring one another and trying desperately to live life on their own? We can't live like this. And, really, why would we want to?

A life in a community that humbly and diligently follows its Savior and Lord is the best life we could ever have. Will it be easy? No. Not in the least. The closer you are to people, the more you butt heads. But how else are we going to learn what love is?

What I'm saying, friends, is that God is everything we will ever need. And He adopted us as His children, drawing us into a family that is meant to live out His love in every imaginable way (Eph. 2:19-22; John 13:34-35). We need each other. And there's nothing better. There's really nothing better. It's a blessing to walk through life with a family—with brothers and sisters all relentlessly pursuing more of Christ. Once we've tasted this—once we've spent even a few seconds in a real community—we'll never want to go back to "going it alone."

So let us follow the example so passionately expressed by the early church. Let us dive deep into a community of believers. Let us know and be known in a place that's safe, a place that's really following Christ. Such places do exist! "Let us not give up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but let us encourage one another—and all the more as you see the Day approaching" (Heb. 10:25, NIV 1984).

It's a difficult call to follow, but we have an opportunity Robinson Crusoe never got. We get to step into a life without masks, a life where we share each other's burdens, and a life where we shout God's praise together at the top of our lungs because we've seen just a glimpse of His great love. Let's do it.

Postscript: Fear and the Eyeglass

I've never done something like this before, but I feel as though the conclusions reached in my last post (Anger in the Eyeglass) could use a bit of clarification—not as far as anger goes, for I think I covered my thoughts on that pretty completely. But there was another emotion that I mentioned repeatedly in my discussion; it lent considerably to my points but was, I regret, dealt with far too casually. This emotion, which I now aim to discuss more diligently, is fear.

I believe my last post explained well that emotions are responses to our perceptions of reality. In light of this, we can come to a pretty adequate definition of fear (as if one were needed—we know it so well!). Fear is that worrying terror, that agonizing and uncontrollable uneasiness that we feel when we perceive something frightening or uncertain, threatening or unexpected. In his book, Fearless, Max Lucado defines it this way: "Fear, at its center, is a perceived loss of control." I think he's right. Fear is that shaky feeling that tells us there's something out there that stretches beyond our own expertise.

With this definition in mind, I think we can begin to deal more appropriately with this powerful emotion.

Now, allow me to do something a bit unconventional. (Yes, I'm sure you're right. Most of what I do does tend to fall under the vast reaches of that word. Bear with me.) I'd like to share my conclusion with you, bluntly and without context, before I explain my reasoning. I want to do this mostly because I feel that, if we were having a conversation about this face-to-face (such things do still exist, by the way), that's how it would come about. Also, I think this conclusion is pretty necessary for you to see how the points I will make actually relate to one another. So, here you go:

Like any emotion, fear tells us something about the world as we perceive it, but I am convinced that no case exists in which fear is telling us that we are perceiving the world rightly.

There, I said it. Now, if you would, join me in reasoning through this.

First off, let us examine what it is that we can possibly fear. What reality exists that we can perceive and respond to fearfully? I think, to classify broadly, that there are two essential categories of things we might fear: creation itself and the Creator who made it. And if we really boil this down, it seems much more logical to fear the One on whom all creation depends for its existence than it is to fear that creation. Because the Creator rules over His creation, if we're going to be fearing anything, we'd best be fearing Him.

This idea is mentioned quite often in Scripture. The command to fear God is definitely common (see Deuteronomy 5:23-29, 10:12-13 and I Peter 1:17, 2:17 for just a few examples). The command to not fear other things is probably even more common (see Moses' command to the Israelites in Deuteronomy 31:6 and to Joshua in 31:8 [cf. Joshua 1:6-9] and the confidence expressed in Hebrews 13:6).

Jesus Himself even seems to make this point. In sending out His disciples in Luke 12, He argues that the fear of men should not be a concern in light of the fact that God is over all. In His words, "I tell you, my friends, do not be afraid of those who kill the body and after that can do no more. But I will show you whom you should fear: Fear him who, after the killing of the body, has power to throw you into hell. Yes, I tell you, fear him" (vv. 4-5, NIV 1984).

He seems pretty frightening, doesn't He? An omnipotent God standing up there with His long beard and longer staff, dictating His sovereign will and punishing any who refuse to comply?

But don't get carried away with this picture. This isn't God at all. How do I know? Well, Scripture is pretty clear on that point. And, Jesus wasn't finished. Read Luke 12:6-7 (which comes, if you'll notice, right after verses 4-5): "Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God. Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Don't be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows" (NIV 1984).

So, in total, what do we have here? Jesus has given two commands: Fear God, and do not be afraid. They're not contradictory. Rather, they form the inexplicably beautiful paradox that surrounds the relationship between the human and the divine.

You see, there is good reason to fear God, to tremble with terror before Him. The Israelites sure did (Exodus 20:18-19)! An all-powerful Being beyond our control is a scary thought, and reverence for and humility before this omnipotent King is an absolute necessity. But what the Israelites learned, what Jesus is saying, and what we need to hear today is that trembling before God isn't the end of the picture. Yes, we must respect Him. Yes, we must realize how great He is. But the fullness of His identity also involves the truth implied by Christ's second command: that this all-powerful King has lavished immeasurable grace on His people, that they might know Him and truly not fear. How does this work? It works because this God loves.

But, wait. It gets better than that—for two reasons.

1. Note that the concept of God's love seems to have two facets in Jesus' discussion in Luke 12  (and, really, in the rest of Scripture). First, God intimately knows that which He is loving. He knows the sparrows; He numbers even the hairs on the heads of His people. He knows everything about us—even better than we know ourselves. We shudder sometimes to think of that. But let your heart rest, for this second part is also true: In His knowledge of us, He considers us worth loving. We're "worth more than many sparrows." It's an understatement. He created us—so carefully—into His image, using every bit of His creativity in fashioning us—each one of us—exactly as He wanted us to be. He doesn't "love" us out of pity or something. No one loves like that because that's not what love is. He looks at us—He never takes His eyes off of us, actually—and says, "Child, you're worth loving." And the scars on His hands prove it. Are we messy? Yes. Undeserving? Oh, yeah. Yet, by His assessment, we are worth loving.

2. The picture gets even more beautiful when we realize that God doesn't just love—He is love. This is true because of the truth of the Trinity. (For more on this, pick up Frank Macchia's The Trinity, Practically Speaking; it's life-changing.) The Trinity means that God is Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—a circle of perfect love that has existed from all eternity. In His self-relation, God loves; therefore, in His nature, He is love. And the beauty of the Gospel message—and, really, of all of Scripture (even the Old Testament!)—is that this God who is love has opened His arms to include us in that love. We are welcomed into His circle of love, and there is nothing that can separate us from it (Romans 8:38-39).

I think there's no better way to wrap all this back around than to turn to I John 4. What do we see? God loves us (vv. 9-10), "God is love" (vv. 8, 16), and "perfect love drives out fear" (v. 18).

Do you get it, friend? Do you see? God reigns, and God loves. This is reality, and, in this reality, fear is only a signal that we've lost focus, that we've adopted an eyeglass that doesn't match up with the way the world really is. God reigns, and God loves. Nothing can happen to us apart from His loving plan. We have nothing to fear.

Why? Because we've been given a new eyeglass and a new name. By God's grace, we've been given a gift that is beyond comprehension. "For you did not receive a spirit that makes you a slave again to fear, but you received the Spirit of sonship. And by him we cry, 'Abba, Father.' The Spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are God's children" (Romans 8:15-16, NIV 1984).

God's children. Sons and daughters of a Father who loves perfectly. Can you believe it? His love is one so great that it "surpasses knowledge" (Ephesians 3:16-19), and, again, it's a love from which we can never be separated (Romans 8:38-39). Really and truly, this love "drives out fear" (I John 4:18).

All in all, Christ's work leaves us with the beautifully overwhelming truth that we are loved unconditionally and perfectly by the God whose strong arms are holding and guiding all the world. This love is the ink with which He writes the grand story of that world and the stories of our individual lives.

When we really "get" this—when we look at the world through eyes transformed by the truth of His lordship and love—fear dissipates. Peace reigns. And this, my friends, is the proper eyeglass. It is an eyeglass without fear.

Anger in the Eyeglass

I've been thinking a lot lately about anger. I'm not all that sure why. Questions just keep coming up, floating incessantly through my own mind, bubbling off the lips of others, reverberating off walls, and always piping up when I feel the flame of that powerful emotion in my own chest. What is it? What causes it? What should we do with it? What did Jesus do with it? What does that mean for us?

As with most things I write about, I'm no expert on this topic. I've got no series of capital letters behind my name, no claim to have done any research at all on the stuff I'm about to write. But I am human, and anger is no stranger to me. Why not work through it? Why not embrace the questions that keep popping up? A great deal of thought and prayer has resulted in a few conclusions. I'll explain them below. I may be right. I may be wrong. I welcome as much dialogue on this as you care to provide. Feel free to comment below. But please read first, if you would.

Perhaps the best place to begin is to introduce you to the context which fueled—but certainly no longer aligns with—my own thinking. Over the course of my life—and even more so recently—I've heard three statements about anger that just don't seem right. There are more, I know. But these are the ones I've heard repeatedly, and these are the ones that sparked my thinking. Perhaps you've heard them too:

1. Anger comes from fear.
2. Anger is an emotion, but it's a very bad emotion. We need to stop feeling it.
3. We can be angry. We can even cultivate anger. It just has to be "righteous" anger.

There's no chronology to these statements. There's no relationship at all, really. They are just three statements that prompted my thoughts—three statements I heard from multiple sources and couldn't quite believe to be true.

The first has to do with the source of anger. The suggestion of many: fear. This sounds great at first. It even comes with its own fancy formula: Find your deepest fears, work through those, and knock out your anger at the same time. I decided to try it. I thought through some of my fears, considered some instances that had made me angry, and tried desperately to find a connection—any connection—between them. But I couldn't find anything. The stuff that made me angry often had nothing to do with the stuff that I feared. In fact, I found that, in many cases, it was easier to be angry when I was not afraid. There were some instances, however, where I noticed fear and anger arising simultaneously. This, I found, was the key to the whole thing.

You see, fear does not cause anger. Put the other way, anger is not a result of fear. Rather, both anger and fear are emotional responses to something else; both are triggered by a perception of what is happening in the world at a given instant. We encounter reality, and our emotions, in a large way, let us know how to respond to it. Perhaps I can illustrate this by pulling at your emotions a bit.

Imagine with me a tattered, coarse, brown cloth—woven tightly years ago but clutched by so many desperate fingers since then that the threads have separated, leaving tiny holes in the once-beautiful fabric. Dark smudges of soot speckle its surface—probably left from those same clinging hands. Despite these flaws, the aged cloth rests in gentle and lovely folds on the shoulders of an old woman. Her long white hair, arranged in a careful braid, lies limply among its folds—snowy purity starkly contrasting with smudges and tears. The plainness of her hair and her garment, however, are not matched by her eyes. Emerald flames searching deeply, lovingly, the depths of every soul which meets her gaze, her eyes must forever be remembered. They express the depths of her own soul: the pain of loss, the weariness of days of hunger, the strange spark of hope despite the odds against its existence. She lowers those remarkable eyes, and her thin lips part—making way for a scarcely audible rasp: "Some bread, please? Anything will do."

Now try this one:

Think of the same tattered cloth—not on the stooped shoulders of an old woman this time but crumpled on the floor of a dark and damp basement. The light from your flashlight reveals its dirty surface, making its folds seem harsh and set. You rub the back of your neck, wishing the box you were looking for could be anywhere but down here. Slowly, you inch your foot over to the cloth, hoping to move it quickly to the side so that you could step by it to continue your search. You slip the toe of your sneaker under the closest corner and kick the cloth away. Your heart leaps into your throat in an instant. Something black and hairy had been lying underneath. You clap your free hand to your mouth, trying desperately not to scream, and aim the beam of your flashlight—as best as you can with a trembling hand—down towards the dreaded arachnid.

And one more:

Same cloth. Same flashlight. Same dark and hairy speck crouching treacherously in the shaking light. But then you notice something. It's not moving. You peer closer. Dead? No. Ugh. Plastic. Your cruel little brother.

What have I done? I've given you three events. You encountered them, in your imagination, of course; and I can bet that each one triggered some emotional response. The first? Probably compassion. Maybe annoyance, if you're pestered by that sort of scene too often. The second? Fear, undoubtedly. And the third? Anger.

My point? Emotions in general are the result of perception. Fear and anger are both emotions. When you realized the spider was a fake, it was not your fear that made you angry. It was the fact that your brother had played a nasty trick on you.

Anger, then, is not the result of fear. It is the result of a sense of injustice. This explains why we can feel just as angry about the Holocaust as we can when someone insults us—not because we are afraid of either event but because we feel, deep down, that what happened should really not have happened. We get angry because we sense that the world is not right. Understood this way, anger is a good emotion; it's a signal that something's not how it should be.

This knocks out our second statement. It is dangerous to never be angry. It means we've lost sensitivity to perceiving injustice. It means we've lost the ability to care whether things are right or whether we are okay. More than that, if we say that anger is a bad thing, we run into serious problems when we look at the life of Jesus.

But here is where the waters get a bit murky. Two comments are helpful. First, although anger is a response to a perception of injustice, just because we feel that an injustice has occurred does not mean that one actually has. We can be totally mistaken in our perception of injustice and/or our definition of justice in the first place. Anger is a signal of what we believe to be injustice, but we may not always be right.

Secondly, just because it is good to feel anger does not mean we can cling to it. The Bible is extremely clear on this point. In Ephesians 4, Paul writes, "Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry" (v. 26) and, "Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, brawling and slander, along with every form of malice" (v. 31, NIV 1984). What Paul is saying is that the proper thing to do with anger is to dump it. Right now. All of it.

This wipes out our third statement as well. Notice how often this statement is the passionate declaration of someone who is keeping anger in a tight hold, stroking its fur with an evil grin, and waiting anxiously for the day that bottled fury can be released to wreak havoc on every deserving individual. "It's righteous anger I feel. I have a right to feel this. I need to hold onto it for a little while." Aw, knock it off! Paul said to get rid of it. ALL of it. There's no such thing as righteous anger, and we have no right to hang on to it. Dump it.

So what does all this mean? What do we do now?

First, know what anger is telling you. Let it show you where you are perceiving injustice. But that's it. Let it simply prompt the question, "Is something wrong here?"

Then, give it up. Give it to Christ. If something is really wrong, He may teach us to use our anger as fuel to make it right. How will we know? Because our anger is never to be our focus. Jesus Christ is. Anger tells us something. So does fear. So does compassion. So do all the other emotions. But we aren't to focus on these. We aren't to cling to these. We are to cling to Christ. When you look at Him, everything else falls into place.

Why? Because Christ is our focus and our lens. The more we look to Him, the more we see the world as He sees it. Our perceptions of reality—and the emotions that serve as a response—become ordered. They reflect the world more truly.

The conclusion, then, is this: Anger is not bad. It can show us really well where things aren't what they should be. But the only way we'll be able to see this rightly is if we are looking at Christ. And, once you look at Christ, you'll see something so beautiful that you'll find there's no point to holding on to anger anymore. Seriously, all you'll want to do is hold to Christ.

Swept Inn

Thump. I let my exhausted body fall heavily into the chair beside my bed and rubbed my calloused hands across my face. It had been a long day. A really long day. Travelers had been in and out since early this morning, asking questions about directions to such-and-such a place, bargaining for lower prices on the rooms I offered, rattling on with tales of their dusty journeys to who-knows-where, crunching on food, spilling drinks, talking, laughing...always needing me...Tell me: How did I ever think that this inn-keeping business would be fun?

My hands dropped from my face into my lap, and I leaned back in my chair to stare absentmindedly at the ceiling. It had been a long day, yes. But it had been anything but typical. A small group of young men had come in today, murmuring excitedly about something. Their eyes flickered with a secret joy, and the edges of their mouths seemed to twitch every second as though they couldn't decide whether to carry on their conversation or to abandon themselves in laughter—that happy expression that comes inevitably when you're as lighthearted as these men were today. Sometimes I worried about guests like these, but these men were different. They were excited and eager in their discussion, but their youthful faces bore no signs of mischief. Rather, they emanated a simple and seemingly contagious joy, a fantastic innocence, and a confident peace. I served them their meal in quiet curiosity, wondering what it was that could make young men so happy in a time like this. Nothing particularly happy seemed to be going on around us. Yet, they smiled. And they smiled a lot.

It didn't take them long to tell me the reason for their mirth.

"Have you heard?" one of the youths exclaimed, his dark eyes shining and his cheeks turning pink as he invited me, a stranger, into their vibrant circle.

"Heard what?" I asked.

Another youth piped up in response, his hands flying into the air as he spoke: "Of Jesus of Nazareth! He's alive!"

"Okay?" I wasn't sure why it mattered that someone was alive. Who was this Jesus anyway? Wasn't—oh wait. Nazareth? Nazareth. Jesus? Oh...wait. Jesus. Alive? Alive?!?

I had heard of him. His parents came to me once. That's why Nazareth sounded so familiar. Right—yes. They had been the ones who had taken shelter with my livestock all those years ago, as I had no more room in my inn. (It was census time. Give me a break.) His mother had given birth to him while they were here.

I had heard he grew up to be a revolutionary of some sort, challenging the esteemed teachers and claiming to heal people. I never thought much of it, though I did grow tired of hearing his name reverberating through my halls. It seemed as though everyone had something to say of him. But he died some time ago—three days or so, wasn't it? I was glad for his death. Perhaps some new news would filter through my inn at last.

These thoughts flew through my head as I stood before the youths who had so excitedly addressed me. Images of that cold night some thirty years ago rushed into my mind, almost drowning out the expectant faces of my guests. I must have looked quite funny standing there, pitcher in hand and mouth wide open. Who knows how long it took me to respond? But their smiles never faded.

"Alive, you say?" I muttered. "So he didn't die, after all?" I was a bit disappointed.

"No, no. He did die," the first youth explained. "He was as dead as you could get. But he's not anymore! His tomb is empty, and some of the women have seen him. He's alive!"

My brow furrowed. What could it mean? I talked with the men for a short while and then dismissed myself—awkwardly, I'm sure—to wait on a group of grumpy-looking and disheveled elderly men who had gathered impatiently in the doorway, waiting for me to assist them.

I made it through most of the rest of the day without thinking much of the announcement the youths had given. But now, as I sat alone in my bedroom, the blank ceiling seemed to allow me no other thought. Jesus...alive...

I had always ignored his words. I hadn't cared when he died. But I couldn't help thinking that I did know more of him than I had thought—I had heard so much from the travelers who passed in and out of my rooms...

Before I knew it, I found myself on my knees. I remembered. He had said that he was the way to the Father. He had said that we should follow him.

I wasn't quite sure what that meant—but my heart longed to see. Something big was happening. I could feel it. People don't just rise from the dead. But he did. And I knew that that meant that everything he had said suddenly mattered a lot more.

But would he accept me? Me? The one who had ignored him for so long? The one who hardly knew much of him now? The one who had been cruel enough to let his first moments in this world occur in a manger?

I rubbed my eyes, fearful that I had missed it. But then, out of nowhere, a psalm I had memorized as a boy flooded into my mind again. I found myself praying with it, and, as I prayed, my fear began to change into the same humble joy that I had witnessed a few hours before in the faces of the youths.

Blessed is he
     whose transgressions are forgiven,
     whose sins are covered.
Blessed is the man
     whose sin the LORD does not count against him
     and in whose spirit is no deceit.
When I kept silent,
     my bones wasted away
     through my groaning all day long.
For day and night
     your hand was heavy upon me;
my strength was sapped
     as in the heat of summer.
Then I acknowledged my sin to you
     and did not cover up my iniquity.
I said, 'I will confess
     my transgressions to the LORD'—
and you forgave
     the guilt of my sin.
Therefore let everyone who is godly pray to you
     while you may be found;
surely when the mighty waters rise,
     they will not reach him.
You are my hiding place;
     you will protect me from trouble
     and surround me with songs of deliverance.
I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go;
     I will counsel you and watch over you.
Do not be like the horse or the mule,
     which have no understanding
but must be controlled by bit and bridle
     or they will not come to you.
Many are the woes of the wicked,
     but the LORD's unfailing love
     surrounds the man who trusts in him.
Rejoice in the LORD and be glad, you righteous;
     sing, all you who are upright in heart!

Oh, the joy of forgiveness! My heart was overflowing with gratefulness. He accepts even the one who threw him out of the inn before he was even born. His love abounds.

I lay down that night in peace. My eyes brimmed with tears of relief. I felt as though I would burst. He reigns. He lives. I couldn't wait to talk to my young guests in the morning. I had a lot to learn, I knew.

But, for now, I could be content with this: My God forgives. My God is alive.

Many are the woes of the wicked,
     but the LORD's unfailing love
     surrounds the man who trusts in him.
Rejoice in the LORD and be glad, you righteous;
     sing, all you who are upright in heart!

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The psalm quoted here is Psalm 32, in its entirety (NIV 1984). May you be blessed as you pray it too!

Yearning for a Name

What defines you? It's an interesting question, isn't it? There may be some answers that rattle off your tongue without hesitation or even conscious forethought. Other answers may seem deeper, embodying a more meaningful connection between your heart and your head. Still others may be completely hidden. These are the ones you only realize when you lose them. These are the pebbles of identity to which you did not know you were clinging—at least not until you see them skipping across the river, thrown by a hand you don't know. You watch them disappear into the swirling water, knowing there's no chance you'll ever find them again. You miss their cool, smooth surface as you realize with bitterness that your hands are now empty. Somehow you didn't think such a small thing could affect so much.

This is what happened to me a few years ago. It felt violent, inexplicable. All at once, the smallest anchors of my identity were torn from my hands—and I didn't even realize I was holding on to them. It happened as my parents separated and (in the course of time) divorced. The pain of a broken family is one that you probably cannot know unless you've experienced it, but let me introduce you to a bit of the taste.

For me, it started with a deep, inexpressible, and undefinable sadness. There was an aching sense of responsibility for my siblings, a desperate desire to reach out to somebody—or maybe for somebody to reach out to me (I didn't know which)—and an almost distant confusion over how to process everything that happened. It almost seemed like the world was moving on without me, blaring its whistle as it huffed and puffed out of the station, leaving me on the bench, drained to an emotionless and staring shadow that not one passenger on the machine seemed to notice.

What about the "identity pebbles," you ask? The realization of their former existence came in the most usually trivial questions. A waiter asks how many are in your party and receives blank stares. It was six...but now, um, we'll have to count. How many? I don't know. A new professor asks where you're from. Well, one parent lives in one city. I grew up there. The other parent lives in another city. Where am I from? I don't know. A friend asks if you're free one weekend. I'm free 'til Sunday at 4:00, I guess. That's when we switch houses for the week. Am I free? I don't know. An application has a blank space for your name. I know my first name. I got my middle initial down. I know my last name legally, but it's kind of hard to write when there's so much weight to it now. What's my name? I don't know.

I'm sure there have been times when these seemingly simple questions have thrown you just like the pebbles in the beginning of this post. Your head spins and you wonder. Your arms flail in the swirling water, and the questioner just looks at you blankly. Your name? Come on. You've got to at least know your name.

But try as you might, you've got nothing. Your mind's blank, and your hands begin to grow clammy as each second passes—warning you of the fact that every bit of delay might mark you as increasingly awkward. You're lost. Who are you?

I want you to know, before I continue, that we're all yearning for a name. In some way, even the people who answer the simple questions easily and confidently are wondering where their identity really lies, what their name really is. Names are powerful. We don't need expert linguists to tell us that. We know that there's deep meaning in whatever group of sounds signifies our existence. Names tell us that we are known. They give us a chance to know. They help to define us as "us," as distinct from the "other." They have meaning. They have power.

But what happens when we don't know the answers to the questions? What happens when we really don't know our name?

I'm convinced that the whole thing is not so much a search as it is a return. We don't need to look for a name, you see. We just need to believe that the one we've got is really ours.

I read a story one time of a man called Innocent Smith. He gave a lecture about names. It was described as follows:

He began rationally enough by dealing with the two departments of place names and trade names, and he said...that the loss of all significance in names was an instance of the deadening of civilization. But he then went on calmly to maintain that every man who had a place name ought to go live in that place, and that every man who had a trade name ought instantly to adopt that trade; that people named after colours should always dress in those colours, and that people named after trees or plants...ought to surround and decorate themselves with these vegetables...What happened at the crucial moment was that the lecturer produced several horseshoes and a large iron hammer from his bag, announced his immediate intention of setting up a smithy in the neighborhood, and called on every one to rise in the same cause as for a heroic revolution.¹

This story really hadn't much to do with the rest of the book itself, but I think we can draw much from it. No, you don't have to be a blacksmith if your name is "Smith" any more than I must live in a meadow ("Dupree"). But we really must return to the name we've been given by One much greater than whoever it was that gave us our surnames. This must be our "heroic revolution."

You see, my friends, the name we must return to is simple and pure and true. It is short and easy to remember, but our forgetfulness of its significance "was an instance of the deadening of civilization," the deadening of our very selves. Live again, then, and remember that this one word is your name. And this is enough. Note that again: this name is enough. You don't need the little pebbles of identity when you have this rock. In fact, you become overwhelmingly grateful when you see those other pebbles disappearing into the gentle current of the river. You might even be the one to throw them. This name is enough—more than enough. Grasp it.

Beloved child, you are HIS.

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¹ The story is from a little book written by G.K. Chesterton and entitled Manalive. If you haven't read it, then read it now. It's short and ridiculously humorous—yet its message is life-changing. 

The Next Part of the Story

The future is a funny thing, isn't it? You never know quite what to expect, really. Yet, there are those parts you generally could expect—or at least logically guess as a result of the natural course of life and the law of cause and effect. But those parts are the ones that always seem to creep up on you. Those are the parts you never seem to anticipate actually happening to you, even if you have no idea why you should be exempt from them.

One of those parts crept up on me recently, on the nineteenth of January, to be exact. Somehow the earth managed to go around the sun another time (as my roommate so kindly informed me), and, apparently, I turned twenty. Who knew?

I started this blog in 2012, thinking I had come up with the perfect title: "Thoughts of an Abnormal Teenage Girl." I was convinced that it described me (as well as the general purpose of my internet writings) quite well. This year, however, I hit a bit of a speed bump. Though I can give you my report cards from high school to confirm that I really can do math, the thought honestly never crossed my mind that there would come a day when the counting of years-since-birth would culminate in a total beyond the conceivable allowance for the classification "teenager." Alas, the title would have to change.

At first, this realization was not easy. Not one person had any good news concerning the concept of "twenty." I talked with a lot of people too. "Life only goes downhill from here," they said. "Oh, yeah. That's the prime. Enjoy those days while they last." "You're so old." "Your bones are creaking." Thank you, thank you, thank you. Hmmph.

But as I reflected on the story that has been my life so far, as I bowed in humble thanks before my Savior for the twenty years He has given me to walk this earth and to learn to know Him, I realized that life is indeed not changing much nor over at all but merely continuing in the peace, love, joy, and beauty that has characterized it from the beginning. That's what happens when you walk with God. You see in the past the perfection of His narrative and can look forward to a future that is every bit as perfectly written as the rest of His-story.

Thus, I found that I could look upon this change as yet another chance to admire His perfect prose. What would He do next? I tread this new path carefully, turning over various titles in my head, staring blankly at walls as I pieced words together, and praying for days as I wondered over the journey of this blog, its purpose, its message, its future, and the necessity of finding a new name that described it all. I believe an answer came, as you can now see at the top of the page, but I thought I'd share with you some of the background of this step in the hope that—together—we can grasp its full meaning.

The word "together" is an important one. I pause here to sincerely thank all whose eyes take in the lettering of this line; your willingness to engage with my writing is such a blessing. I view this as a partnership, I value your input, and I thank you for walking with me as we learn—slowly but surely—how to look at life well—perhaps, even, from a new perspective.

That's what this new title is all about, really: taking a new perspective. I'm convinced it's a perspective that comes when you experience the forgiveness, the acceptance, the redemption, and the power of that new life that is life with Christ. When His love washes over you, cleansing and restoring every part of your being, you can't help but see the world, yourself, your fellow humans, and your blessed Savior through a brand new lens—a lens of hope.

I call it an "eyeglass of hope" here. I like the ring better. I also like the subtle connotation of history that the word "eyeglass" conveys. It brings images of the ancient monocle to my mind—but also (I suppose) embodies the various forms of corrective lenses used today to help us see better. I think hope does help us see better. Our eyes behold a truer reality when we view it through the beauty of the death and resurrection of Jesus. There is hope, and when we look at Jesus, we can see it.

But the monocle also adds another level of meaning. It sat only on one eye, remember? One could squint to look through it, but it did not provide perfect vision. It did not enable you to see everything. I think this is the case for us too. "For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known" (I Corinthians 13:12, KJV). By God's grace, we can catch a glimpse of what the world looks like through His eyes, through a lens of hope. There are dark days and lots of clouds sometimes, and we cannot always see as clearly as we would like. But my hope in this blog is to give you a chance to rub the smudges off your monocle, to take a deep breath, and to look—if only for a moment—through an eyeglass of hope.

Christ truly provides a new perspective when you choose to find your home in His love. Let's continue the journey of knowing that together.

"Find rest, O my soul, in God alone; my hope comes from Him. He alone is my rock and my salvation; He is my fortress, I will not be shaken." —Psalm 62:5-6 (NIV 1984)

A Perfect Plan

Wander back with me to about 1400 B.C. You are standing at the edge of a quiet camp, looking at the tall towers of a nearby city in the moonlight. You bite your lip and wonder at the small flame of nervousness that has ignited in the pit of your stomach. What would the morning bring?

You have been told to conquer this city, to destroy it and all the other cities in the land of Canaan. It would be an act of devotion to your God. But how? How does one totally destroy a city with thick walls 30 feet high and a great number of people very much wanting to not be destroyed? You look at the city again. The gates had been closed for awhile now—and not just because it was night. The people were terrified, and you hadn't even begun to attack yet. You chuckle to yourself. At least your seemingly impossible plans wouldn't require a defensive side!

Speaking of "impossible"...Your mind flickers back to the events of a few days prior. No one would ever have guessed that anybody would have made it across the Jordan River during the flood season, let alone two million people on dry ground. You wipe your brow with the back of your hand. That mission had seemed impossible, and yet YHWH had it covered the whole time. Surely, then, He could handle this next one too.

Your thoughts are interrupted by a rustle to your left. You look up quickly and are quite surprised to find a man standing before you with a drawn sword. You step closer to him slowly, squinting in the moonlight in a fruitless attempt to recognize the face. "Are you for us or for our enemies?" you ask.

"Neither," the stranger replies, "but as commander of the army of the LORD I have now come." Aware at last of the holy identity of your nocturnal visitor, you lose no time in introducing your face to the ground which had been, seconds before, beneath your feet. "What message does my Lord have for his servant?" you ask, your head still low.

"Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy," the messenger advised. You follow his instructions then listen eagerly for the rest. "See, I have delivered Jericho into your hands," your LORD continued, "along with its king and its fighting men. March around the city once with all the armed men. Do this for six days. Have seven priests carry trumpets of rams' horns in front of the ark. On the seventh day, march around the city seven times, with the priests blowing the trumpets. When you hear them sound a long blast on the trumpets, have all the people give a loud shout; then the wall of the city will collapse and the people will go up, every man straight in."

Oh. So that's how the impossible would happen.

One week of walking in circles and trumpeting, a final shout, and Jericho was down. Whaddaya know? It worked. All your worries about organizing a siege or discovering the best angle at which to attack the great city proved pointless. YHWH had it this time too. And now the rest of the land was shaking in its boots, The Canaanites had been afraid enough of the millions who had poked their heads up from the desert sands, but now they knew that their destruction was imminent and that it could happen unexpectedly one day through only a bit of walking and shouting. The fear of the unknown would be paralyzing.

You smile as you realize just how perfectly the whole thing had been planned out—and not just this event but all the ones you could remember watching YHWH write: the great escape from Egypt, the crossing of the Red Sea...Even the wilderness wanderings had had a purpose. Now you stood in the Promised Land at last, with one great city checked off the list. You take a deep breath, rejoicing in the perfect air of the land you and your people were beginning to call your own, and joyfully remember the words of your faithful Leader. "Have I not commanded you?" he had said. "Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go."

Your next few years would not be easy, but Jericho would be a constant reminder that YHWH would win. Worry and fear could crumble just like its sturdy walls, for YHWH's plans never fail.

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All quotations are taken from the book of Joshua; chapters 1, 5, and 6; New International Version (1984).