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.