The Golden Compass

Things on the church staff email are heating up these days about the soon-to-be-released movie, The Golden Compass. Seems it's a children's fantasy flick whose aim is to undermine Christians, the Church, and ultimately God. According to snopes.com, this is no urban legend burning its way through cyberspace; this is apparently the real deal. I confess that when these types of movies come out (see below with The Da Vinci Code and The Last Temptation of Christ), my eyes glaze over and I groan a bit. "Here we go again," I mutter. Too often, I feel, Christians respond reactively, combatively, and frankly, obscurantly (I think that's an adverb). Once more, we get known for what we're against, rather than what we're for. And often, we don't get the hearing we deserve. I'll wait to render a verdict on this latest challenge (and opportunity).

For the time being, let me just make one observation: if The Golden (my fingers keep inadvertently typing "Godless"!) Compass is all it's cracked up to be, then we have one more very powerful example of the way popular culture, particularly the realm of movie-making, is now being used to attack Christian values and wage spiritual warfare. The main battlefield is no longer the university or print media; it's the movie theatre. This raises a question: how well are we Christians responding in this arena? I'd say fairly well, actually: The Passion of the Christ, the Nativity Story, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe of the Chronicles of Narnia, these are all significant and worthy efforts--ones which may've heated up this recent salvo in response.

Popular culture is the place to engage, don't you think? Certainly, we keep after things in other areas, but this key realm is a golden opportunity, isn't it?

Let's watch how we Christians respond to this latest challenge...will we be known for our reactionary, strident responses--or something more creative and thoughtful? For a solid assessment of The Golden Compass from a philosophical viewpoint, check out: http://www.movieministry.com/articles.php

Defending God?!

I'm sure you've been struck by this week's headline about Gillian Gibbons, the British woman in Sudan who was tried and convicted for naming her teddy bear "Muhammed." (see the latest report at http://www.time.com/time/world/article/0,8599,1689769,00.html) Surely, we can acknowledge, this was a culturally insensitive (and certainly politically-incorrect) thing to do on her part, particularly by an ex-pat schoolteacher who ought to be aware of such religious repercussions in a strict Muslim country. However, doesn't it strike you as terribly unreasonable, to say the least, to spend that kind of legal and political energy arresting, trying, convicting, and punishing a foreign national for this kind of offense--and incurring the international ire of media and others?

But even more so, doesn't this Islamist impulse expose a characterological flaw in this kind of religious devotion? What kind of god needs us to defend against such religious peccadilloes? Certainly not a very big god, I'd say. It made me wonder if a distinct mark of fundamentalism is its humorlessness--and, paradoxically, such an ardent devotion that counterintuitively exposes its relatively weak deity. Pity us human beings when our gods need us to defend them!

And lest we Christians smirk or point our fingers, haven't we done similar things in our history--and most recently in light of popular culture that offends our religious sensibilities? Dan Brown and his DaVinci Code, Martin Scorcese and his Last Temptation of Christ--we've been there and done that, haven't we?

The challenge for us is to trust in our Big God, a God who is so sovereign and so majestic and so mighty and so gracious and so loving that he allowed himself to be ridiculed, rejected, humiliated, blasphemed, stripped, exposed, beaten and trampled upon by religious hypocrites and defiant pagans. This God willingly became vulnerable to human beings who spurned him. He was that strong and that secure. This God doesn't need us to defend him, believe me.

That Niggling Bit

“‘Whoever is faithful in a very little is faithful also in much; and whoever is dishonest in a very little is dishonest also in much.’”
–Jesus in Luke 16:10

I wish you could meet Hannah, our 5 year-old female Golden Retriever. Not that I’m biased or anything, but she’s got to be the sweetest dog around: she was bred not to bark (seriously), she loves children, she’ll sidle alongside you, sit quietly, warm your heart with her big brown eyes, and then put a paw on your lap. She’s perennially happy, but not manic about it. She’s peaceful, friendly, compliant, and wears well over time. A great psyche, she has.

But. But there’s this one little area that’s problematic. For the most part, Hannah is very obedient and responsive—even to inflections in my tone of voice. However, when she’s off the leash, lounging in the front yard, if she sees a rabbit or another dog across the street, all the calling and commanding cannot keep her on our property; she’ll race headlong across the street, deaf to our commands, defiant, stubborn, and willful. We worry that one of these days, a car will come along and that will be the end of our dear Hannah. It’s that one little thing in her character, that niggling bit that 99% of the time doesn’t appear and doesn’t create a problem. It’s that 1% that worries me.

I got to thinking: can’t we law-abiding, church-going, well-meaning, polite and friendly folk be somewhat the same, sometimes? Aren’t we for the most part like Hannah’s 99%--compliant, responsible, trustworthy, honest, even lovable? But. But there’s this niggling bit, this teensy problem buried deep down somewhere in our psyches. The apostle Paul calls it the flesh, defined by some as the “self” spelled backwards, sort of. It’s the persistent remnant of self as god, one’s will still on the throne of one’s life. It’s the bit that given enough leash (or removed from the leash entirely), will dart impulsively after that attractive, alluring something or someone, deaf to the cries of the Master. I suspect that the goal of Christian growth is to convert even this 1%, this deep-down resistance to the Master’s guidance. The challenge is how: how does the goodness of God seep into this little stronghold—and what, if anything, can we do to cooperate with this problem? (Surely a subject worthy of the pastor whose title calls for strategizing the spiritual formation of God’s people, eh?)

I suppose the process begins by identifying the niggling bit and calling it out. What’s your niggling bit? Be honest now!

The Dangers of TMI in a 24/7 Digital World

The recent fires in Southern California, along with their 24 hour coverage on the internet, TV, and radio elicited in me a surprising reaction recently: frustration. Let me explain: I wasn’t frustrated by people’s suffering; I was frustrated because there seemed to be so little I could do about it. Of course, I can pray; I know that (I’m a pastor, after all!). I can also give. But that launches me into a spiral of discernment: do I give to each and every cause I see and hear?! How much do I give, if I give? Aargh!

As I mulled this over, I wondered about the effects of being exposed to so much suffering so much of the time. We are finite people who live in much smaller communities than the virtual world. For the most part, I think we’re wired for a very localized response—to reach out and aid those in our immediate network, those circles of influence and relationships which are part of our daily existence. I’m not sure we have the capacity to carry the world’s pain, to respond consistently and compassionately to the seemingly endless onslaught of wars, natural disasters, crime, etc, to which we’re exposed relentlessly. Sometimes it seems like the only way we can cope is to harden ourselves and quickly click past the images and headlines that greet us every time we launch our browsers and land on our home pages. Ugh.

The question for us as Christ-followers is how do we keep our hearts soft and pliable in a virtual world of information overload? How do we not allow TMI to harden us? Is it a matter of "Think Globally, Act Locally"? What are some possibilities for the disciple seeking to live faithfully in the information age? Tell me what you think!

Ambition

I’ve been wondering about ambition lately. Could be because I’m entering midlife and re-evaluating myself, my vocational trajectory, and my discipleship. Anyway, I’m haunted by a saying I once heard: “I got to the top of the ladder and realized it was leaning against the wrong wall.” Have you ever felt that way?

I worry that sometimes we can pursue a prescribed path for our lives, live out a script that society or our family or someone else hands to us, which we assume is the right way to go…only one day to wake up and discover that, in fact, it had little resonance with God or even with our deepest wirings.

It’s so easy in Christian circles to sprinkle some Christianese into this discussion and talk about having high impact for the kingdom, seeking God’s glory, trying to be at the center of God’s will, etc—all good things if they’re genuine…but what if they’re more show than substance? What if they’re simply our ambition (or even our pride) shellacked with pseudo-spirituality? Am I being too harsh?

What if the gospel calls us to obscurity? Or even to what others might perceive as mediocrity? Is bigger (as in salary, congregations, etc) really better? Could there ever be a downward mobility to following Jesus?

I’m also haunted by what I’ve sometimes observed in those who excel—whether reaching the top rung in professional sports, business, entrepreneurship, entertainment, even church leadership—their paths seem too often littered with the debris of broken relationships, compromised integrity, and neglect. Am I over-generalizing? What does excelling really look like? Can we really excel when we neglect the things that make for personal integrity—nurturing a marriage, raising children, being a good neighbor, getting involved in the community?

I worry that sometimes in church circles (and among pastors, especially), we can bring in worldly ambition, dress it up in church clothes and call it zeal for God and his Kingdom. When, truth be told, what’s really going on is nothing more than the natural impulses of the flesh, which in any other profession or social circle would be named for what it is: ambition. Am I grinding an axe? Did my dinner disagree with me? What do you think?

Excess Baggage Fee

“…let us also lay aside every weight, and the sin which clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us…”--Hebrews 12:1

I think I’ve mentioned here before that I tend to live my faith in a minor key. I seem to be hard-wired to identify with life's strain and struggle, not necessarily its triumphs and victories. Songs or instrumental music with a steady, persevering rhythm speak to me. Sweet notes of sadness tend to move me.

I think it's this wiring which draws me to the sport of cycling, with its often long and lonely hours of pain—and ultimately triumph. I think of this particularly on difficult climbs in the hills and mountains west of Boulder. Today was no exception. With the fall colors ablaze and the first snow around the corner, I wanted to tackle Flagstaff Mountain one more time. I’ll admit it, that ride never gets any easier. It’s a painful slog, kind of like hiking on a bike. As I approach the upper portion of the climb, I’ve learned to hide my full water bottle by the amphitheatre turnoff so I don’t have to carry it up the steep switchbacks cyclists here call “Superflag”—pitches that approach 18% in places. A large, full water bottle is more than an extra pound and a half to tote up the climb…and the climb is already painful enough without it.

There’s a metaphor here, of course. We go through so much of our lives toting heavy loads from our pasts and bad habits in our present. Our ability to endure in faith is slowed and our effectiveness as disciples is diminished as we doggedly drag all this stuff around. Unresolved issues from our families of origin. Resentments and unforgiveness. Old tapes about ourselves. Addictions. You name it. Whatever our baggage, when the challenges come (and they always do), we’re weighed down and our energy flags quickly.

If only we could ditch some of this baggage as easily as a waterbottle on Flagstaff Mountain! I know it’s not that simple. But I wonder: can we get to the point where we can at least identify what excess baggage we’re carrying, and begin to determine its weight? What’s a waterbottle-sized problem we can let go of? A duffle bag? A trunk? Oh, to go through life traveling light!

Embassies, Outposts, and Peet's Coffee

Recently, the founder of Peet’s Coffee and Tea, the Holland-born Alfred Peet, died. Thankfully, he didn’t take his love for great coffee with him. Mr. Peet, since launching his first coffee store in Berkeley, California in 1966, was the impetus behind much of America’s gourmet coffee craze. Though it’s not widely known, Peet’s Coffee was instrumental in advising those who went on to pioneer the ubiquitous Starbuck’s (see http://peets.typepad.com/ for more of Peet’s interesting history!).

By all accounts, Alfred Peet was a stickler for detail. An artisan roaster with very high standards, he created a culture of excellence and a signature flavor (captured so well in his classic blend, Major Dickason’s). Mr. Peet introduced America to a rare coffee experience that was hard to reproduce in large quantities. For that reason, for the longest time, Peet’s coffee was only available in the Greater San Francisco Bay Area. Freshness was a passion of Mr. Peet (just as it remains so for current company leaders). Distribute the coffee too widely and the quality control suffers—the coffee grows stale on the shelf or in the bin. Or, worse yet, exercise no control over how the coffee is made and the brew suffers—too weak or too bitter. With faster delivery options, a culture of fanatical quality control, and ruthless standardization, Peet’s has been able to extend its quality coffees around the country. Now Peet’s Coffee can be drunk from the store in Harvard Square in Boston; in Chicago, in San Diego, and in many points between.

When we moved to the Denver-Boulder area five years ago, one of our greatest adjustments was not having a local Peet’s to frequent. True, we could visit the Cherry Creek store (the only Peet’s in Colorado at the time), but it was out of the way. Indeed, visiting the store was a rare and special treat. When we entered the familiar surroundings, the pungent aroma of deeply roasted, fresh ground coffee gloriously assaulted our senses, and we felt we’d come home. The smells, the signage, the furnishings, the mugs, the coffee paraphernalia, all were the same as we remembered them; we were transported back to our beloved Bay Area. The Cherry Creek Peet’s made us homesick, but it was also strangely comforting.

Now, thankfully, Peet’s has come to Boulder’s new 29th Street Mall and with it, a little piece of the Bay Area. Meeting a friend at Peet’s in Boulder feels much like hosting them in our living room in California. I get to share something special from my native state with my Colorado friend. In some strange way, I've realized, Peet’s Coffee and Tea functions almost like an embassy or an outpost of culture and quality.

Which gets me to thinking…Did you know that American embassies the world over are required to stock only American products? That’s right: even the toilet paper in our foreign embassies is made in America! The foreign ground that our embassies sit upon, be it in Baghdad or Berlin, is considered U.S. soil; when Americans abroad walk into an embassy, in a way, they’ve come home. Naturally, expatriate Americans cannot live in the U.S. embassy. It’s simply a place for them to touch base with home, have certain needs met, and be better equipped to live in their host culture. The embassy is a metaphor for the Church, of course. Whether in Berkeley or Boulder, the Church is an outpost of Jesus’ kingdom, a little place of home in the midst of a foreign culture. Christians enter the walls of their sanctuaries to worship, to find fellowship with other citizens of God’s kingdom, to learn how better to live as exiles in their host lands. But Christians, like expatriate Americans with their embassies, cannot live in their churches. They’re meant to go out and represent their home culture faithfully as ambassadors, periodically returning to the embassy for encouragement and support.

As much as I like Peet’s Coffee, I don’t think I’d always want to drink it in the store. What I do instead is buy a pound of coffee in the store each week and drink it at home or share it with a friend. Even better, I love bringing a Boulder friend to Peet’s for the first time. Sharing my love for this fine experience gives me a new connection with them—and who knows, they might even become a Peetnik like me! I think you get the point. Embassies, outposts, resident aliens living abroad as citizens of God’s kingdom, who knew so much could be found in a good cup of coffee? Thank you, Alfred Peet!

Who Are You?

Who are you? Are you your political party affiliation? Your credentials, degrees, education, professional memberships? Are you your title at work? Your role at home? Your portfolio or bank account balance? Who are you?

I’d love to hear your response. And, if you’re a person of faith, I’m curious how that would inform your identity—and, more importantly, where you’d rank it in your response.

In his marvelous new book, The Dangerous Act of Worship (InterVarsity Press, 2007), Berkeley pastor (and dear friend) Mark Labberton reminds us of the unusual circumstances of Ben Weir. I’ll let Mark tell the story himself:

“Ben Weir, a Presbyterian missionary in Lebanon, was suddenly taken captive on the street near his home in Beirut. He was stuffed into the trunk of a car and driven away, the start of what would be more than sixteen months of captivity. When he awoke the next morning, he was blindfolded and chained to a radiator in what seemed to be a very small room. Ben began to do something he repeated often in those days—he practiced remembering who he was. He would say to himself, ‘I am the same person, child and missionary of the same God, husband of the same wife, father to the same children, professor to the same students.’ He would remind himself, ‘I am the same person I was yesterday. I was not a captive then. Today I am. But that’s the only thing that’s different.’ The circumstances of Ben’s life had radically changed, but his life was still in Christ, just as it had been the day before. He was living in God in captivity. For Ben, this is what shaped his whole experience of being held hostage” (p. 88).

How radically freeing! How often do we, unlike Ben Weir, define ourselves as the sum total of our circumstances? How often do we allow superficialities and situations to determine our core identity? Ben stayed centered because his identity in Christ was big enough and durable enough to define him—despite his setting.

I have another friend struggling with terminal cancer who’s similar to Ben, identity-wise. She refuses to define herself as a cancer patient. That’s not who she is, not at her core, at least. She’s a disciple of Jesus, a beloved daughter of God through faith. She’s been baptized and given new birth in Christ. These unseen realities are who she really is. They’re bigger than chemo, prognoses, and illnesses. That’s who she is. Who are you?

Learning How to Eat

Recently, I was speaking with a new parent about feeding babies and baby food. I confessed that, years ago, as a new parent, I actually enjoyed stealing a taste of Gerber’s sweet potatoes. Even now, the thought of that goopy orange sweetness makes my stomach rumble. But I digress…

Our conversation touched on how, as parents, we go through a journey with our children and their eating. First, for the mother, it’s providing milk through breast-feeding. Soon, formula and bottles are the way to go (and the dad gets to take part!). Before we know it, it’s rice-based cereals, other forms of baby food (including blessed sweet potatoes!), and finally, solid food. My wife’s East Indian upbringing introduced her to the special celebrations families have in that culture when the child is first fed solid food. I guess my point is that there is a continuum of feeding, a growth curve of learning which moves toward independent eating. Over time, the parent coaches the child in his or her eating habits, encouraging wise nutritional choices, so that, in the end, as the child matures, he or she becomes self-fed. Can you imagine what it would be like to have to spoon-feed a healthy teenager pureed sweet potatoes?! You get my point.

Spiritually, it’s not all that different. People are re-born through faith in Christ. At first, as spiritual infants, they’re fed the milk of basic Bible instruction. Soon, we hope, they graduate to solid food and the “meat” of more mature spiritual formation. Sadly, this doesn’t always happen! (see Paul in 1 Corinthians 3:1-2!) In a recently-published pamphlet by the Willow Creek Association, a study of that vast congregation (as well as several other churches) revealed that the Church often does a poor job teaching Christians how to be self-feeders. Church attenders too often rely on the church and the weekly sermon to be their primary spiritual food. If this is the only eating opportunity, is it any wonder that Christian maturity may be stifled? We (especially those of us who help a congregation pursue spiritual formation) must reconsider how we’re helping people learn to feed themselves. Are we providing instruction on the Bible and how best to pick its low-hanging fruit? Are we offering a balanced diet of learning that provides healthy nutrition and models good feeding practices? Most of all, are we urging people to take responsibility for their own eating habits?

I suppose that many of us have heard Christians complain after sermons they don't like, “I’m just not being fed.” That’s high chair Christianity, isn’t it?! It’s time for all of us, pastors and parishioners alike, to move toward independent eating and good self-feeding. Let’s ditch the bib and baby food and fire up the barbeque!

Consider the Flowers of the Field

As some of you know, I love to ride my bike and recently, I've particularly enjoyed riding my new cyclocross bike. A cyclocross bike is a modified road bike frame with cantilever mud-clearing brakes and knobby tires. It allows you to ride off-road comfortably and on the road efficiently and quickly. Plus, it’s so close to a road bike in fit, it doesn’t play with your positioning! Anyway, on a recent early morning ride in the Marshall Mesa open space, I was struck by the wild sunflowers lining the dirt road. Sunflowers always grab my attention with their bright yellow petals and their unabashed cheeriness. They put a smile on my face no matter my mood. On this day, I was enthralled again by the way the sunflowers seem to naturally angle themselves eastward toward the rising sun. It’s as if they anticipate its rising and get ready to position themselves so that they can best view it and absorb its warmth and light. I found myself humming, “Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee,” especially that line, “Hearts unfold like flowers before thee, opening to the sun above.” Those sunflowers made me think of our lives—do we orient ourselves towards God’s warmth and light? The sunflowers do so naturally; they simply do what they’re made for. They seem to want to be in the best position possible to absorb all they can from the sun. There’s a lesson there for us. If we’ve been made to know and love God, if we are uniquely created in God’s image, if our “hearts are restless ‘til they rest in God” (St. Augustine), wouldn’t we want to be angled toward God as well?

And yet there seems to be much evidence that we don’t want this. Or at least act like we do. Much of the time, we live life uprooted: we settle for artificial light and indoor potting soil. Instead of unfolding boldly in God’s presence, we shrink from God’s brightness, wrap our petals around ourselves, coil inward…and wither. Made to be like sunflowers, we too often live like pressed flowers, having once known fresh brightness, we now live life compressed, hedged in by stress and busyness and distraction. What would it take, I wonder, for us to emulate the sunflowers on Marshall open space? Would it begin in trust—genuinely believing that opening ourselves fully and freely to God would bring deep joy? Would it demand a soil change—uprooting from some things or behaviors or relationships which drain us of true life? Would it require intentionality—positioning ourselves before God in a regular way, so as to be bathed in his light? Recall the wise words of Jesus: “Consider the [flowers] of the field, how they grow…” (Matthew 6:28). How are you growing these days?

Do you see why I love riding my bike?

The Grand Put-On

There's a scene in the movie "Wedding Crashers" (not that I ever watched it... ;-) that has Owen Wilson's character and Vince Vaughn's character debate the Scripture to be read at a wedding they've just crashed: "Twenty bucks says it's 1Corinthians 13." To which, the other replies: "Naah, Colossians 3."

I had to laugh. When my wife and I selected Colossians 3:12-17 for our wedding lo these many years ago, we felt we were doing something novel and deeply personal. We had no idea that we were selecting one of the most common texts read in weddings. Now, as a pastor, I just chuckle to myself when I recommend it to young couples (and base my homily to them on it). The text is a good one: basically, Paul commends the Christians to whom he writes to put on, as if articles of clothing, the virtues and character of Christ. Many believe Paul is crafting a homily of his own, a baptismal sermon meant to remind Christians of their baptisms, in which they commemorated their dying and rising with Christ (spiritually) with their emulation of his behavior (actually).

History tells us that early Christians stripped off their old clothing before entering the baptismal pool and were clothed with a pure white garment, symbolizing their new life in Christ, upon their emergence from the water. Paul wants his flock to recall this act (and the faith which inspired it) as an inspiration for them to renounce their old way of life and identify with Christ's new way of living. They are to "put on" or clothe themselves with virtues of compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience, in addition to other behaviors (see verses 12-17).

The issue I've wrestled with over the years has to do with the "put-on" nature of this teaching: is Paul guilty of encouraging spiritual pretense or religious hypocrisy? Is this a glorified "fake it 'til you make it" coaching? Are Jesus' followers supposed to act in ways that are not true to their usual behavior (assuming they struggled with the same bad habits, temptations, self-centeredness, addictions, etc, that we do?)?!

No. Not if we accept Paul's radical premise: believers in Christ, through a decisive act of faith, imaged in baptism, have lived into the Bible's story: they've acknowledged their utter helplessness under the rule of sin. They've accepted the verdict of God's just judgment; they've embraced God's gracious, surprise provision of his only Son as a substitute to take our punishment on the cross. And they've trusted in Christ's resurrection from the dead as a sign of reconciliation to God and an assurance of the reality of their new (and eventually eternal) life. When this occurs for human beings, they are made new at their core. God implants in their hearts a fresh, new humanity that must begin to express itself actually in changed behavior.

So, is this instruction in Colossians 3 a grand put on? Not at all. It's personal trainer Paul's prescribed workout for expressing a health on the outside which has already been implanted by God's grace on the inside. What Paul (and more importantly, God) seeks is an increasing congruence between the heart and the epidermis: that the new life of Christ made real on the inside by faith, conversion, and baptism is increasingly lived out on the outside--in changed behavior. At issue is our ongoing faith: do we genuinely believe we're new--and will we choose to live like it?

Seasonal Spiritualities

One of the biggest mistakes we Christians make is to assume that our spirituality, that is our mode of experiencing, expressing ourselves to, and encountering God, will be a "one size fits all for all time" deal. It's not. How could it be?! Just as there are seasons of life and relationships, surely there must be seasons of knowing and relating to God.

One of my biggest temptations is to measure this season of my spiritual life by the halcyon days of my college Christianity. As my parents were fond of pointing out at the time, I was full of what they called “Sturm und Drang,” a sort of “piss and vinegar”, no-holds-barred, give-it-all-up-for-Jesus-now spirituality. I can verify this: I recently read my journals from this early period and they read like love letters from a couple very much in love during their courtship. And far from despising this, I remember it with fondness—this was a special time of life: I had recently met Christ, turned over as much of my life as I knew to him and was an undergraduate with few responsibilities and much discretionary time. The big mistake would be for me to use this (very young and inexperienced, though fiery and hot) spirituality as a template or metric for evaluating my current experience of God. After all, I’m now 25 years into following Jesus and those heady early days have given way to what I hope is a deeper spirituality forged in the kilns of pain and loss. I look at spiritual life through eyes opened wider to the mystery and complexity of God, myself, human life, and our world at large.

Nineteen years into my marriage, I feel similarly: I love my wife more than ever; but there’s no reasonable way to expect that those blissful sleepless nights of infatuation and utter romantic absorption can possibly continue into this stage. What’s necessary (and far better) is to go on to learn love as an act of will. To listen and be patient. To learn to serve. To hold my tongue when necessary. To commit to continued growth. To keep in step as the tempo of life constantly changes. To hang in there. This is love in mid-life…can relating to God be much different?

What’s needed in mid-life is the grace to deal with the “sames”. When we’re young and in love (whether with God or another human being), we’re very much into the “firsts”—the first girl/boy friend, the first kiss, the first engagement, the first wedding, etc. This gives way to the first job, the first house, the first child, etc. Firsts are heady things, full of excitement and newness. But what happens when “firsts” give way to “sames”—the same spouse, the same job/career, the same kids, same house, etc? A new form of relating is needed. Without this, we’ll be tempted to abandon ship and seek out more firsts (a.k.a. mid-life crisis). Whether with God, or in marriage, family, and parenting, indeed through all the stages of mid-life, what we need is a spirituality sensitive to seasons, skilled and resilient, able to treasure that which is timeless in knowing God while seeking new forms of creative expression appropriate to this stage of life.

Devotional patterns of Bible reading, prayer, study, worship, service, fellowship—these may need retooling. I know they do for me. But I’d love to hear from you: what are your thoughts on seasons of spirituality? What are you finding that feeds your soul right now? What have you had to discard? What feelings arise for you?

I’ll be back with more thoughts at a later date, sharing some of my struggles and insights. I can’t promise many breakthroughs (and perhaps that’s appropriate for a mid-life humility!).

Let me hear from you! Thanks.

White Knuckles or Loose Grip?

Bicycling Magazine can be a place of spiritual revelation. Really. Take the latest issue (July 2007): in an article called "The Weekly Worlds", describing the best 25 group rides in the country, there's a sidebar article on signs of novice riders in the pack. The first tell-tale sign has to do with white knuckles: "The faster the pace, the whiter your knuckles become. Death-gripping the handlebar is a sure sign of anxiety...If you worry about crashing or getting dropped, you're going to ride that way." The solution? According to the writer, good form follows function. Anxious riders need to consciously relax their hands, shoulders, and jaw. This prompts the mind-body connection to de-stress and leads to a more, fluid, supple, responsive ride. The writer even recommends periodically drumming your fingers against the handlebar.

It's a metaphor for the disciple, seeking to follow Jesus: in life's uncertainties, with the threat of illness, tragedy, unemployment, random violence, and the like, it's easy for us to get white knuckles, to grip the handlebar of life too tightly, go rigid, and make things much worse. The loose grip of trust--in which we remember that though we're not in ultimate control, Jesus is--is the way to ride through life. Spiritual disciplines, such as regular prayer, Bible reading, worship, and Christian community, are ways to loosen our tight grip, to drum our fingers against the handlebars, relax, and remind ourselves that life is like an epic ride and that Jesus rides before us, even if the fog and twilight obscure him from view. Clenched up? Take a deep breath, smile, loosen your grip--and know that Jesus will never let you go.

Tourists...or Pilgrims?

At a church staff meeting recently, someone remarked that it can often feel like we do church as tourists on a whirlwind itinerary, almost like seeing Europe in ten days. She nailed what many of us have been feeling lately: that the pace of our lives in the larger, multiple staff, program church can sometimes feel like rushing through exotic scenery at breakneck speed, barely pausing to drink in the wonders of God intersecting people's lives. It reminds me of how I once toured the National Art Gallery in London: I proudly boasted to my friends that I did the whole building in under an hour, a sort of aerobic feat of young American cultural ignorance!

My point is that in the large church setting, we can be so focussed on getting jobs done, programs planned, services conducted, meetings met, sermons written, etc, etc, etc, that we get into such a rushed mode that we can almost literally trample over the mysteries of God, inadvertently missing or mishandling them. And that's a shame. Instead of living counter-culturally, instead of slowing down to ponder and savor the rhythms of God's grace (and offer them to others), instead of pausing to be thankful or compassionate, we rush from one thing to the next, checking things off the list. "Been there, done that, got the T-shirt", if you know what I mean.

It seems to me that instead of being tourists, we people of faith are called to be pilgrims--and the pace of a pilgrim is much slower and more deliberate. In ancient times (and even in parts of the world today) pilgrims walk to their destinations. They sleep under the open sky. Pilgrims sing and laugh and chat as they journey together. Pilgrims pause before the wonders; they take stock and reflect; they contemplate and pray. The journey is just as important as the final destination. And on the journey, God is present, shaping a people for his purposes. It reminds me of a pastor friend who once walked the length of Israel--how much more transformational than the breakneck speed of our tourist buses!

The challenge is to (at least occasionally) keep a pilgrim's pace in a tourist's world, to slow down, to question almighty efficiency, to once in a while abandon our to-do lists, DayTimers, and Palm Pilots and...pause. Sit. Breathe. Reflect.

What would happen if you and I did more of this?

Tubes, ICUs, and True Views

It's been a tough week recently. I've been called out to three different hospital ICUs to visit church members in really difficult situations. It's one thing to visit someone in the hospital; it's another to visit them in an ICU. The tension is ratcheted up considerably and the stakes are higher. It's a vulnerable place where our frail humanity is graphically displayed. In all three of these cases, it isn't certain when (or even if) the people will get better. The issue for the family who gather around their loved ones in the room is the maintenance of hope. It's so natural for them to cling to each test result or specialist visit or numerical reading on one of the machines. "Is (s)he getting better?!" "Maybe we've turned a corner!" Hope hinges on medical results. Or so it seems.

What is real hope? Of course, we long for our loved ones to recover fully and quickly. But is this kind of hope big enough? Is it durable enough? How does our Christian faith speak in the uncertainties of the ICU? I go back to my foreground/background post below: hope in the foreground is physical recovery and restoration to health. Hope in the background is ultimate health in the resurrection to come. As someone watching a loved one once said, "I'm praying for healing and it may be that God will grant them total healing in the life to come." That balance of the present and future, of the physical and spiritual, is tough to get right--but that's a true view of hope, it seems to me. What are your thoughts?

Double Vision

At a funeral recently, I encouraged our congregation to engage in what I might call "double vision." Now, by that, I don't mean a blurred focus, but rather, a twin focus: the ability to see and acknowledge both a foreground and a background to the problem of human grief. As people of faith, we need to hold in tension that which is immediately before us (the suffering and death of someone we love) and that which lies off in the background, and may be only dimly visible at the moment (the resurrection of Jesus Christ). If we see only the foreground (a spiritual near-sightedness, if you will), then grief will dominate our horizon, and, along with it despair. By contrast, if we fix our eyes only on the background, considering the hope of resurrection, we can slip into a spiritualized denial system, which can make us "too heavenly minded to be any earthly good" as the saying goes. What's needed is to hold onto both horizons, looking hard at both the reality of our pain and loss and at the same time glimpsing the backdrop of our great hope in Christ's resurrection and the assurance of life after death for all who die in him. What we need are the bifocals of faith!

Why I Like Simon Cowell

Okay, a seasonal confession: I'm hooked on American Idol...again. This year the gals are much better than the guys and so far, most of the voting has reflected the reality of people's talent (or lack thereof). The judges, Randy Jackson, Paula Abdul, and Simon Cowell, are part of the fun. Randy's faux street cred ("Dawg!"), Paula's banal co-dependent kindnesses, and Simon's dry Britishisms create a mix that is by turns warm and caustic, kind and withering.

Simon is growing on me and here's why: in a culture of relativism, grade inflation, and political correctness, where the truth dare not be told (and where truth is discredited as merely the product of one's power, culture, or history), Simon's no-holds-barred responses to performances are refreshing. Simon tells it like it is. He's unapologetic. He gets it right. Sure, he could candy-coat it. Sure, he's often harsh and occasionally mean-spirited. But I appreciate his independence and unapologetic defense of reality. If you want the bracing truth, he's your man.

Of course, for those of us who seek to follow Jesus, we've got to take it a step further: how do we speak the truth, but do so in ways that are loving and helpful? "Speaking the truth in love," was St. Paul's motto. I'd like it to be mine. Dawg.

Warmth, Winter, and the Maintenance of Hope

Today is an amazing day in Colorado, at least here on the Front Range. It's sunny, clear and 64 degrees out. 64 degrees! The record-breaking snows we've had this winter are all but melted and it's delightful to finally see the ground beneath the snow. To provide you with some context: starting right before Christmas, we had snow for five weeks straight. Piles and piles of snow. Snow that didn't melt. Snow that was more akin to Minneapolis than Boulder. And we had cold. Record cold. Minus 15 cold. Cold that wouldn't go away. Cold more like Fargo than Denver. So, for us, this thaw is amazing.

But what is interesting to me as a California transplant is that we must hold loosely to warmer weather in Colorado winters. Indeed, later this week, the weather forecasters say we could have more snow, possibly 3-6 inches of it. What this sets up in me is this "won't get fooled again" feeling which robs me of joy in celebrating today's warm weather. I am tempted to hunker down, to brace myself for the onslaught of another hit of winter. I am beckoned out of the enjoyment of the present and into a dread of the future.

Driving home from noon's Ash Wednesday service, I discussed this with my wife. I realized that this is a metaphor for hope. We live in winter on earth, most the time. The winter of suffering, sin, and death. The winter of injustice, poverty, environmental pollution, war, and famine. There are many glimpses of spring around us (in the good things we enjoy), but for the most part, we live in winter. The issue for people of faith is to recognize several things. First, the big picture: winter isn't permanent. Spring will come--and that's what the resurrection of Jesus Christ declares. And once we're in this Spring, there will never be another winter.

But we still live here and now and so we're reminded of another truth: we need to hold in tension three things: 1) the reality of the good gifts we enjoy (these warm days, temporary though they be) along with, 2) the reality of winter's harshness; and 3) the eternal springtime to come. To focus only on one or two is to miss the big picture and grow either naive and foolish or cynical and hopeless. The challenge is to hold onto all of these truths and to live faithfully in the moment. Sometimes that means popping on the bike for a rare winter ride in the fleeting warm weather. Sometimes that means breaking out the snowshoes and embracing the beauty (if not the hardship) of a fresh Colorado snowstorm. Sometimes that means just waiting and hoping: Spring will come and, even now, with sharp eyes you can see it.

Out of the Ashes

"Hey, you've got something on your forehead. Let me get that for you." Trying to be helpful, I made this remark to a Catholic friend in my pre-Christian days. I saw the sooty blotch and assumed it was an accident, a cosmetic oversight. My friend informed me it was the sign of the cross, made by a priest on Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent. Thus began my education on this ancient Christian holiday.

In the 25 years since, Ash Wednesday has become my second favorite Christian holiday (for those so inclined, you may guess my favorite day in the Christian year. Surprise: it's not Easter!). Ash Wednesday doesn't get much press in Protestantism, even among Presbyterians. It's a quiet, but profound, start to Lent, that 40 day period for contrition, contemplation, humility, and spiritual aspiration. Lent, and its kickoff, Ash Wednesday, invite us to recognize and learn from our deep brokenness before God.

Ash Wednesday commemorates the biblical reality that we are dust and to dust we shall return (Genesis 3:19). Dirt is our inevitable destiny (whether through cremation or decomposition), unless...unless, something or Someone intervenes. Made for eternal relationship with the living God, we rebelled and abused our freedom, choosing to worship self rather than God. Rudely self-plucked from the rich soil of God's life, we fade and wither, we dry up and die. Without a dramatic rescue, a turnabout, some surprise change in spiritual reality, this is our destiny: dust, ash, death. Unless...

Ash Wednesday uses the burnt palm fronds of the past year's Palm Sunday to mark us with the cross--a mark of tragedy and triumph. The cross signifies that there is indeed an "unless"--God has intervened to rescue us from the cycle of death and decomposition. As we pastors mark worshipers, we say, "You are dust and to dust you shall return...but thanks be to God for the resurrection of Jesus Christ."

I am moved each year at the end of the service as I look out upon the congregation, all marked with ash in the sign of the cross. We share a solidarity in frailty. The ground is level: we stand shoulder to shoulder, needy and dependent, and yet affirming our common hope that Christ will bring life out of death and that dust need not be our destiny. Made for life, to life we go!

When Concern Becomes Crushing

I continue to be struck by the profound real-world spirituality of the Apostle Paul in his little Letter to the Philippians. Whether it's his calm at the prospect of imminent martyrdom (Ch. 1), his refusal to define himself by his resume of accomplishments and pedigree (Ch. 3), or his approach to the problem of anxiety (Ch. 4), Paul's equanimity seems otherworldly--and strangely magnetic--to me.

In particular, I'm interested in Paul's use of a Greek word, merimnao. It's the word used in Chapter 2 to describe the heart-felt concern Paul's protege Timothy exhibits for the Philippian church. "I have no one like him who will be genuinely concerned (merimnesei) for you." Here, the word is healthy. However, two chapters later, the word shades into a different meaning. In Chapter 4 Paul writes, "Be anxious (merimnate) in nothing." One word, two differerent nuances. Apparently, with little provocation, healthy concern can overflow its boundaries and rise into a floodtide of anxiety. What constitutes the difference? What is the catalyst for this change from health to disease?

I suspect it has to do with the little phrase Paul uses so often in the letter: "in the Lord." Paul's whole identity (and the identity he urges upon his readers) is "in the Lord." Who they are, what they do, and where they're headed are all determined by this profound little phrase, "in the Lord." When Jesus looms large in our imaginations, when his accomplishments of cross, empty tomb, and certain return are the fixed points of our realities, we are quietly and confidently "in the Lord." We are free to exhibit compassionate concern for loved ones and others; but this concern is kept within bounds. Only the Lord has ultimate control over people and events. When we're "in the Lord" we recognize this and our concern stays put. It's not crushing; it's not an overwhelming flood of anxious emotion. Jesus is in control and we're not and we're okay with that.

Concern becomes crushing when we forget our identity "in the Lord." When we're too wrapped up "in ourselves", our concern overflows. We begin to carry for ourselves the weight of contingencies we cannot control and outcomes which are impossible to manage. These are burdens we were never meant to carry. Anxiety crushes us as a result.

I love how Paul's colleague, the Apostle Peter, also addresses anxiety in his First Letter: "Humble yourselves therefore under the mighty hand of God, so that he may exalt you in due time. Cast all your anxiety on him, because he cares for you" (1Peter 5:6-7). "Humble yourselves under the mighty hand of God," he writes. In other words, recognize that God is God and you are not! Let God carry those crushing burdens that weigh down your heart and wreck your soul. Step lightly and lovingly, as "in the Lord" you show your concern, but refuse to let it to crush you.

I suspect that anxiety overwhelms me personally when I lose this all-important reference point for my identity. When my roles and responsibilities, when events beyond my control, tempt me to carry them without reference to Jesus and his leadership, I feel the burden begin to crush me. My healthy concerns have morphed into a diseased distress. God help me (and God help us!) to cast our concerns onto the broad shoulders of Jesus!

Blind Spots

Both my wife and I visited the optometrist this week, mostly routine stuff. During my exam yesterday, as we reviewed photographs of my retina and optic nerve, I was reminded of the physiological "blind spot" all humans have in the anatomy of their eye. The blind spot is the location of the optic nerve, that point where there are no visual rods or cones to receive images. It's where information gathered elsewhere in the eye is transported into the brain. Interestingly, each eye has its own blind spot (since each has an optic nerve in that location) and the opposite eye must cover for the other's blind spot, allowing us to see with both eyes what we could not see with only one.

Blind spots are part of our design, for better or for worse. In God's providence, we're given two eyes so that we may avoid blind spots and see things which would otherwise blindside us. It got me thinking, in a crossroads way, of those blind spots we have in other areas of our lives. These are places where, for better or for worse, we are not aware of how we see things or how we behave. It's as if we operate with only one eye, which usually sees just fine, except for this one spot. It could be an area of behavior or trustworthiness or integrity or spending. It could be a habit or an eccentricity or an addiction. It could be an attitude, a prejudice, or a grudge. Whatever the case, it is a place in our personality where we refuse to look at a particular issue that affects us more than we realize. Blind spots are real--anatomically, behaviorally, and psychologically.

Thankfully, we are not designed to be alone, groping about in twilight due to our blind spots. We are given one another, trusted friends and spouses, brothers and sisters in faith, people who are able to illumine areas which we cannot or will not view ourselves.

Are you aware of a possible blind spot in your life? Can you name it? Are you in relationship with someone else who can help you see here? And can you offer aid to another, guiding them gently and lovingly to view what is necessary?

Sehnsucht

Sehnsucht, (German) f. longing, yearning, pining, hankering.

While I'm sure this is not a word that's been on the tip of your tongue lately, it's an idea I've been thinking about a lot recently. I'm haunted by this German word for that unfulfilled longing that C.S. Lewis described by the word "joy." It's that hunger pang, the gnawing sweetness of which is better than all our attempts to satisfy it. Sehnsucht. It's what propels us in our search for beauty and aesthetics. Ultimately, as Lewis wrote about, and we Christians believe, Sehnsucht is our longing for the beauty and reality of God and life in God. In short, it's a homing device for heaven.

Sehnsucht. I feel this quality in dreams and sometimes in waking life. I can recall more than one dream in which I've gazed at something utterly, unspeakably beautiful (a painting or a scene in nature) and broken down in tears, only to awake sobbing with longing. I feel it when I listen to certain music, usually in a minor key or with a consistent, patient rhythm that captures for me the endurance needed to bear up through life's challenges (Pat Metheny's "Last Train Home" comes to mind...).

I had an experience and an insight into Sehnsucht this past week during a vacation at the beach in Southern California. We returned to Dana Strand beach in South Orange County for visits with relatives. This is the place where, growing up, I spent much time at a family beachhouse. To my dismay, walking the beach this time, I witnessed the utter obliteration of the landscape where our trailer had lodged. Developers were grading the cliffs for huge, multimillion dollar luxury homes. Only Dana Point itself (see above) remained untouched. My fond memories of this place felt chewed up, spit out, and ground underfoot. It felt like the death of my childhood and there was no going back. While the view to the north (and the neighboring Salt Creek beach) were much the same, I had lost that strip of sand which for me was the spot where I learned to bodysurf, boogie board, work on my tan, and enjoy countless good times with friends and family. As we trudged away after that initial return to this beach, my heart was heavy. "You can't go home again," said Thomas Wolfe. He was right.

Or so it seemed. The next morning I awoke early to walk back down to this area. The noise of the graders and heavy machinery was still there--but this time a thought (was it God?) popped into my mind: if what Scripture says about God creating a new heaven and new earth is true (and all that we enjoy here is merely foretaste for a grand fulfillment later on), then I CAN go home again! Indeed, the beauty of Dana Strand will find its glorious fulfillment in the new earth to come. Those halcyon days of sun and fun are not just distant memories; they are a foretaste of much better times and places ahead.

Sehnsucht. Again. A longing that points toward ultimate fulfillment. A homesickness for our true home to come. Jesus says he goes to prepare a place--literally, a mansion--for us (John 14:2-3). Our little trailer #13, as cozy as it was, perched on the cliffs above the beach, cannot compare.

Sehnsucht. Have you felt it? How? Where? Follow your longing where it leads...

A Modest Proposal for Mideast Peace

All right, at the risk of stepping way, way outside my bounds, I'm going to offer today what seem to me like fairly obvious steps the U.S. could take to change its perceptions in the Middle East, and, more broadly, the Muslim world. I write these in response to an unclassifed briefing I read recently, one given to the Joint Chiefs of Staff of the U.S. military. In this briefing on the Global War on Terrorism (GWOT), the presenter was showing the outspoken, determined, and above all, persistent aims of radical Islam: to establish a global caliphate to recapture and extend the Muslim empire beyond its 17th century borders. Al Qaeda and its associates aim at nothing less than the establishment of Islamic sharia law on a global scale. If you thought Afghanistan under the Taliban was bad, multiply that by a factor of a 1000. The main points of the presentation seem to be to alert the U.S. leadership to this widescale vision of Islamism, their decades-long timetable for implementation, and the need to combat these aims on several fronts: diplomatic and military. To be honest, the presentation was chilling. As with Hitler's Mein Kampf, these Islamic radicals are signalling well in advance of making a turn; their aspirations are there in bold print for all of us to read, if we're willing.

Anyway, my modest proposal goes like this:

1) I think we've lost the moral edge in the GWOT. If our aspirations as a nation are honorable (and this is debatable, I realize), we've done a very poor job in getting the word out. Somehow our values and aims, which used to be the envy of the world, have slipped from view. In the Middle Eastern perspective, framed by history, their feelings of inferiority as a result, and by the downright manipulation of despotic leaders, many in the Muslim world today see America's intentions in the Middle East solely in terms of the Crusades: we are, to them, at least, a Christian nation which has invaded some of their holiest territories. We are an unwelcome foreign presence, a country whose arrogance, unbridled wealth, immorality and corruption, not to mention overwhelming militarism, are direct threats to their personhood, security, and religion. Our political and military support of Israel (did you know we support Israel to the tune of $15 million a day?!) is seen as blatant endorsement of what, to many in that area, is at best unlawful Zionism and at worst, human injustice. Remember: when Palestinians see armed Israeli military in their territories, they cannot see beyond the "Made in the USA" label on their M-16s, Apache helicoptors, and F-16s. What I propose is a fresh commitment to a peace and propaganda offensive that depicts the best of American ideals and values. I'd love to see us set foot on this peace offensive with tangible steps: first, the appointment of someone to head a philanthropic effort to bolster U.S. support of NGOs (non-governmental organizations) working in areas of human relief in the Middle East. What if we were known more and more for our support of hospitals, clinics, food distribution, schools, water purification, and the financing of micro-enterprise? Right now, the groups supporting these efforts are Hamas and Hezbollah. Why do you think they've won popular support? If we led with compassion and publicized these commitments widely, it might shift Muslim perceptions. We don't need to wait until a tsunami (Indonesia) or an earthquake (Pakistan) strike Muslim countries in order to lend them aid. We can do it now. Money spent in proactive relief efforts and the building of helpful infrastructure would be a good investment and might save us a whole lot more money down the road in military spending.

2) I think we need to strive for a more outspoken (and balanced) foreign policy that gives prominence to our support of justice for all peoples. We should stand against indiscriminate violence, whether fomented by terrorist cells or by elected governments. We need to champion those causes for which we've been known in the past: freedom for all peoples, individual worth, justice, human rights, equal opportunity, mutual respect and religious tolerance. I'm afraid we're seen abroad as hypocrites: by our interrogations which cross the line, Abu Ghraib scandals, abuses at Guantanamo, suspension of rights and freedoms at home--we're becoming known for what we've destroyed recently, not for what we've supported historically.

3) I think we need to initiate and commit ourselves to international conversation. We need to be willing to talk, even to our enemies or those in the "Axis of Evil." Reagan spoke with Gorbachev, after all. Not talking does nothing except alienate and antagonize. One of the areas in which we've shot ourselves in the foot worst of all seems to be our unilateralism. Granted, the UN has been disappointing and ineffective in many cases, but going it alone has only hurt us as a nation recently. We've lost our standing and our role as leader, particularly morally. In all other areas of the global economy, there is a flattening and mutual partnership of leadership and ideas--why not in our case internationally, in terms of diplomacy? Can we be builders of consensus, creating healthy process as well as strategic outcomes?

4) We must call for an international conference of moderate Muslims, both those within our country and those abroad. Moderate Islam is the best way to confront radical Islam. What can we do to foster helpful dialog and problem-solving here? Symbolic gestures (like Pope Benedict's trip to Turkey right now) need to be multiplied. Can we reach out a hand of friendship to moderate Muslims everywhere and look for points of common concern and endeavor? Can we make a long-term commitment to such helpful dialog, beginning with listening and empathy?

5) We need to do a much, much better job publicizing the friendly, helpful side of the U.S. military abroad. Can we lead not only with our military technology, but with personal diplomacy--of our soldiers assisting civilians in need? Wouldn't it be interesting if the nightly news (and I'm not talking about Fox) highlighted daily acts of compassion by U.S. military (and not just body counts)?!

So there you have it: a modest proposal for Mideast Peace. I think a lot of these suggestions could begin in the Palestinian territories, honestly. In the last few days, Israel's Ehud Olmert seems to want to move quickly toward a two-state solution and with Condoleeza Rice's aggressive support (and most importantly, with the Palestinian leadership's agreement), we could see some positive things unfold. If we can get in the mix and support both the cause of the Palestinian as well as the Israeli, this could ripple out into the greater Arab world with favorable consequences.

Naturally, it will take a while to undo much suspicion and hostility. But couldn't these steps lead in the right direction?

Am I preachin' or just meddlin'? Let me hear your thoughts!

Truly Homesick

Right now I'm reading Randy Alcorn's Heaven, a popular Christian book about the life to come. Unlike many such popular books, Alcorn's has a bit more thoughtfulness and depth--and cannot be dismissed easily by us snooty theological types. I'm only about eight chapters into the book, but already its effects on me are significant: he's getting me to exercise what I hope is sanctified imagination--helping me to reflect more about our future hope. Interestingly, this doesn't seem to promote in me a form of pious denial of the complexities and suffering in this world, but rather it inspires me to a deeper and more profound engagement in this world, motivated and strengthened by an emergent hope in the world to come. Paraphrasing C.S. Lewis: if I fix my gaze only on this world I'm usually frustrated and disappointed; but if I fix my gaze on the next world, I'm freed up to engage, enjoy, and serve this current world, while not mistaking it for the world to come. Put succinctly: if you and I aim at this world alone, we'll miss it; but if we aim at the world to come, we'll get this world thrown in.

Alcorn's big points so far seem to be:
1) In the Bible, "Heaven" actually describes two states and stages: first, the intermediate state, into which believers in Jesus enter upon their death; and, secondly, the final state, which believers enjoy after Christ's Second Coming and Judgment Day. This second state is more aptly described as "the new heaven and the new earth" (Revelation 21);
2) Heaven, especially this second aspect or state, has physical attributes and cannot be wholly spiritualized (as the Platonic tradition has tempted us Christians to do). All that we enjoy in this world, those vestiges and remnants of original goodness which are not altogether obscured by sin, death, and evil, are reliable pointers to their ultimate fulfillment in the world to come.

Point #1 involves two truths, which we often wrongly combine simultaneously: 1) upon their deaths, Christians do indeed "go to be with Jesus" (see Philippians 1:23), but 2) this is not their final state, for their bodies have not yet been raised and the new Creation has not been spoken into being by the One who makes all things new. We can confidently maintain that death ushers us out of the pain and strife of this life and into the restful presence of Jesus (see 2 Corinthians 5:8). There, conscious of his love, we await the end of history as we know it, when he returns to earth, all bodies are raised, reunited with their souls and judged, and the final state for all is determined.

Point #2 sharpens my appetite for the afterlife. It also lights a fire beneath my soggy imagination. I want to extrapolate: if I enjoy certain good things now, how much better will they be later? Think of it: what would it be like to live in a body which didn't age, get injured, sick, or die? What would it be like to relate to people purely, freely, and in love? What would it be like to not awake daily to reports of bodycounts, abductions, starvation, disease, and natural disasters? What would it be like to walk in woods and next to streams untrammeled by pollution? What would it be like to relate to people from other cultures and races with mutual respect and admiration, untainted by suspicion, prejudice, and fear? What would it be like to amble through life with a light step, unburdened by guilt, shame, and regret? It would be like heaven; that's what it would be like.

"We are homesick for Eden," writes Alcorn, for that prehistoric state of grace and peace, which characterizes true human life--and the life to come. A beautiful piece of music, a moment of delicious joy at a spectacular sunset, a lovely interlude with someone we care about--these are whispers of the world to come. Do we have ears to hear? Are our hearts awake? Do our imaginations stir?

Walls, Walls, Walls

Recently, I've been teaching an adult Sunday School class on the Holy Land. Entitled, "The Fifth Gospel," the class has focused on the geography, climate, topography, history, and spiritual significance of Palestine/Israel. For me as the teacher, preparing for the class has been both overwhelming and deeply rewarding. As I mentioned to someone this fall, it feels to me like I've been living in the Holy Land for several weeks now.

As I've taken the class into the modern period and explored with them some of the complicated and painful issues in the current Arab-Israeli crisis, I've found myself standing on the edge of a swirling vortex, which threatens to suck me deeper and deeper. As I get closer to the chaotic arguments, the swirling currents of rhetoric and politics, the pain and confusion at every twist and turn, my mind reels; I get dizzy with the details and contradictions. I admit I sometimes long for the quiet comfort of ignorance, of living distant from the vortex and its pull. How easy it is to settle for stereotypes on all sides, for half-truths which offer the illusion of a calm eddy.

I could write reams about what I'm learning. I could also share with you some growing passions I feel about biblical justice and some suspicions I have about a few of our foreign policies regarding the Middle East. I'll save that for another time. Besides, as a pastor, sometimes it's risky speaking your mind in things "political" (though I'm finding that biblical convictions, when they affect real life, have an inevitable "political" component, especially as they speak to circumstances in the public square).

But I will tell you of one insight I've had recently about Israel and walls. Most of you know that there's a security wall being built by the Israeli government, ostensibly to protext its citizens from further suicide bombings. What most people don't know is that in many cases, the wall has been built well within Palestinian lands inside the West Bank. It's like your neighbor deciding to build a barbed wire fence--ten feet into your property! When it cuts through your orchards and groves, when it abuts your apartment or cuts off your storefront, when it (and the security checkpoint) prevents you from going to your doctor or hospital or job or relatives in nearby Jerusalem, it's a pretty dehumanizing experience. Walls can be very painful, even as they seek to be protective.

In a recent trip to Washington D.C., I attended a conference on the Holy Land Christian Church (yes, there is an ancient Arab Christian Church in the Holy Land!). We heard about this Israeli security wall and its demoralizing effects on the Palestinian people (and especially on the Arab Christians in the vicinity of Bethlehem). It was very sad. At the end of our trip, I took my oldest son to the National Holocaust Museum. I really want to be attentive to the painful stories of both Jew and Arab and this seemed like a good balance. One exhibit in the museum stayed with me: it was the wall erected by the Nazis to create the Warsaw ghetto. It penned in a people the Nazis suspected of undermining their way of life. It was a prelude to ethnic cleansing. It was a violation of human rights and international law. It was a cruel despicable act.

Walls--in Warsaw, in Bethlehem, along the U.S. border with Mexico. Walls reveal a lot, don't they? They're a sign of suspicion, fear, and hostility. I'm so grateful that Jesus has come to break down the walls that divide us and that in him we can find justice, peace, and reconciliation for all peoples.

At the Crossroads...Literally

I thought the day would never come. Okay, I'll be the first to admit it: in some ways, my wait has a pathetic quality to it. Four years of longing. Four years of mail-ordered coffee, jeopardizing freshness. Mine is likely a passion out of proportion to its cause. Maybe.

But the day did come. The old Crossroads Mall in Boulder was demolished and in its place the new 29th Street Mall has arrived. And one of its new denizens is none other than...Peet's Coffee and Tea! An embassy of California's Bay Area has arrived. I walk in there, inhale the deep-roasted aromas of newly arrived beans, and I'm home.

It's been a joy to celebrate the arrival of Peet's with my new friends in Boulder. I find we have a new connection. I'm struck by how many members of First Presbyterian seem to frequent the place.

Recently, the Saturday morning bike group I'm part of did a "Peet's Ride". As you can see, we snapped a picture of the event. It captures the "Crossroads" experience for me, the alignment of many of the loves in my life: for cycling, for good coffee, for meaningful connections in the context of Christian community, and for a non-threatening bridge to reach out to others beyond the church context. Fun!

Caring for Creation

I just got off the phone with a reporter for the local newspaper. He wanted some quotes for an article he’s doing about our congregation and other religious communities responding to global warming. To begin with, I needed to let him know of my lack of expertise in this subject. Undeterred, the reporter pressed me for my thoughts. Clearly, the idea of Christians, particularly evangelicals, concerned about the environment had captured his interest. We aren’t your typical tree-huggers, are we? Too often, conservative Christians have been no-shows in environmental activism, frequently responding with the argument (consciously or not) that “the world’s going to hell in a handbasket and Jesus is coming back soon, so why waste time on the environment—it’s souls that matter.” This is a half-truth. Yes, according to Scripture, this world is passing away and will be consumed in fire prior to the creation of a new heaven and earth (2Peter 3:10-12). However, if we pan out and get the satellite view of the subject, we see that creation and its care should still matter to Christians: after all, it’s the handiwork of our loving God; it’s been tainted by our fall from grace and the victim too often of our sinful behavior; and it’s part of Christ’s redemptive concern as he restores all that’s gone wrong with the world and its inhabitants.

Understanding certain gems from the Book of Genesis helps us sketch our theology of creation and its concern. From the beginning, God creates human beings as relational creatures who are involved in four primary relationships: 1) with God, their creator; 2) with their fellow human beings; 3) with themselves; and 4) with their environment (the earth). The relationship with God comes first; loving God and obeying God freely causes the other relationships to find their proper place and harmony in the greater whole. As we know from Genesis, chapter 3, humankind fell from grace by willfully disobeying God (and, if you think about it, by abusing creation for their own selfish concerns, eating the forbidden fruit as an act of rebellion). The first relationship with God is thereby broken and, like cracks on a windshield, the brokenness ripples outward: the relationship between man and woman degenerates into mutual blame; shame over their nakedness betrays the poisoned relationship with self; and, finally, the cursing of the ground because of their sin shows that the environment itself has suffered because of the man and woman’s defiance. Harmony in the four relationships has been shattered by discord; relational intimacy has been broken by betrayal; original beauty has been pockmarked by brazen self-concern.

The story of the Bible is the grand rescue mission of this loving God passionately pursuing human beings and seeking to restore the lost harmony. God is a rebuilder of relationship: first with himself through his Son Jesus Christ, then between human beings, next within themselves (in psycho-spiritual wholeness), and finally with their environment--as they learn (relearn, really) to exercise proper care and stewardship of the natural world.

Why do we care for our earth? Because it’s the beautiful creation of our generous God, to begin with. We do this because God instilled in us from the beginning a responsibility to tend our earth and care for it (Genesis 1:26-28). We are concerned for our environment because we believe Jesus’s death and resurrection are evidence of God restoring widespread peace to these broken relationships, including ours with the earth. Most important of all, we care for the earth because we’re new. As people of faith, as those birthed into new life by identification with Jesus and his resurrection, we are God's new community, the vanguard, the leading edge of a new creation. To neglect the earth, to cast a blind eye to the environment, is to live in the old order, unredeemed and unrestored. It’s to somehow mistakenly confess that God’s newness is only “not yet” instead of “now.”

Rather than be silent in this growing concern for our environment (a sin of omission, surely), it is time we Christians shoulder our responsibility, roll up our sleeves, and lend a hand.

Stretched...and Growing

As I get into my 4os, I'm seeing the value of stretching. Stretching regularly keeps me limber; it helps me prevent injury while riding my bike; it just plain makes me feel better. Without stretching, my muscles tighten and contract; they pull on ligaments and tendons; they cause me to stiffen up, lose correct posture, and generally feel lousy.

Accustomed to living at the crossroads, it makes me wonder: is there another parable here? Without activities and events and circumstances to stretch us beyond our normal comfort zones, can't we stiffen up in our personal lives? Without new experiences which call us out beyond ourselves and demand us to adapt, won't we otherwise allow neuroses and bad habits to contort and twist our psyches?

I think this is especially true in our spiritual lives. St. Augustine famously wrote in his Confessions that God "has made us for himself and our hearts are restless 'til they rest in him." Being in relationship with the living God is innately stretching: we can't contain, control, predict, or otherwise manage God. He's the consuming fire, the burning bush, the rushing wind that Scripture describes. To follow God is to walk on the edge of adventure, to get out beyond our comfort zones, to be stretched away from and out of the contortions of self-absorption. It's tremendously scary at times, no doubt; but it is reality itself and anything short of this is delusion, deception, and denial. And here's the counterintuitive point: to follow God, to allow God to stretch us as we relate to him, yields a deep peace and rest!

Two true stories of my spiritual stretching recently. The first has to do with a family river hike up a dangerously rushing river at floodtide. Twenty of us joined my cousins on this traditional hike up the Black River near Lake Superior this summer. It might have been foolishness itself as more than once we had members nearly swept away in the current. It also probably wasn't very smart to jump off those 25 foot cliffs into the river below, come to think of it. All along, as a parent, I wondered to myself: "At what point do I dig in my heels and demand that my son and I remove ourselves?!" Yet here's the rub: we made it. No one was hurt or killed (miraculously, I might add). And I was stretched to trust God in very palpable ways. I expanded my repertoire of activities; I learned that even after a long season of rehabbing sports injuries, I could sustain a several mile hike that called forth tremendous endurance trudging upstream against the current. My son was okay. I was okay. The whole clan made it. I was stretched and there was an exhilaration at surviving and knowing God was somehow in it all protecting us. It was a strange and wonderful sensation that felt fresh and new to me.

My other story has to do with two recent tragic deaths and the out of control feeling I get as a pastor when I'm plunged into peoples' suffering and called upon to offer comfort and meaning. This is the part of pastoring that I find very difficult. I wish I had advance notice and could ready myself for such tragedies. But, like the emergency room physician, I can't. I can only show up and offer myself and my abilities and hope they're useful somehow. Yet each time I do this, I find that 1) I'm stretched in ways that are good for my innately cautious personality; and 2) God feels closer to me in the challenges than he does in the comfortable, controlled environment I so often construe as "my life."

Are you being stretched right now? How do you respond to such stretching? How have you seen a greater good come from it?

Three Big Questions...

Wednesdays are study days for me as a pastor. I relish these days because they center me; they allow my mind and spirit to catch up with my body. They slow me down. They move me beyond administrivia. They nourish my soul. Today, I'm reading someone who's becoming a favorite writer of mine, N.T. Wright, a superb British theologian, the Bishop of Durham, and, as far as I can tell, a pretty normal guy (which isn't always the case in the rarefied atmosphere of theology). In particular, I am reading Wright's weighty tome, "The Resurrection of the Son of God." It's a magisterial, in-depth look at different views of the body, soul, and the afterlife during the time of Jesus. Today, as Wright was examining the apostle Paul's first letter to the Corinthians, he made this big point: he saw Paul's main intent in writing as getting them to identify themselves as part of the new narrative story inaugurated by Jesus and his resurrection. "[T]his is the story the Corinthians ought to be telling themselves about who they are and how their lives should be shaped. Becoming Christians does not simply free them from the constraints of their previous lives in order to leave them in a moral, or even narratival, vacuum. It weaves them into a new grand narrative..."

Wright, or in this case, Paul, was urging his readers to recall who they were--and what story they were a part of--in light of Jesus and his resurrection. Because of their faith in Jesus and, more importantly, because of what Jesus achieved in his sacrificial death and bodily resurrection, their lives, their identities, their futures, their roles, all of these were permanently changed. The biggest danger for them was forgetting who they were, whose they were, and what they were on earth for.

That's the take-home for today: three big questions whose answers we must keep before us daily. Who are we? Whose are we? What are we here for? Our answers to these basic questions determine the shape and trajectory of our lives. Get the answers wrong and we live in subjection to smaller stories, enslaving idols, yawning boredom. Get the answers right--and more importantly, keep the answers before us daily, and we live life fully, richly, adventurously.

So who are you? Are you an accident? A mere by-product of chance in a nameless, purposeless universe? Who are you? An animal with animal urges, the highest animal, of course, but an animal nonetheless? Who are you? A creature born to die? The sum total of your strengths and achievements minus your weaknesses and failures? Who are you? A consumer whose primary goals are comfort, convenience, and the steady fulfillment of self and senses? Who are you?!

The Christian, the one consciously living inside the Jesus story, answers with the following: I am a human being, a curious and wonderful hybrid of body and spirit. I'm hand-made by God, known and loved by my Creator from all eternity. I'm the highest of the created order on earth, gifted with a rational mind and creative spirit that reflect the image of my God. Though I've fallen out of intimate relationship with God due to my sinful self-absorption (this turning inward of my God-gaze), God has pursued me wonderfully, reached out to me, given me new life, and secured me to himself--all through the amazing journey of his Son, the man-God Jesus Christ. Because of Christ and his painful death on the cross, because of his victory over death at Easter, I am forgiven, fresh, new, guilt-free. I'm an adopted child of my heavenly Father, a new creation, an heir of Christ's riches. My life has purpose, meaning, security...even adventure. That's who I am. Who are you?

I realize that in answering the first question ("Who am I?"), I've also begun to answer the second two ("Whose am I?" and "What am I here for?"). I'd like to develop these questions and answers at a later date. For now, I'm really struck with this need to live consciously within the greater Story. All day long, I'm tempted to forget this story and buy into lesser stories: materialism (all that's really real and meaningful is the material), hedonism (the highest goal of life is the pursuit of pleasure), consumerism (the best use of my time and energy is consuming finer and finer things), egotism (I'm the center of life and reality). Ugh. These demote the grandeur and glory of what it means to be human. It's so subtle, but these lesser messages and shallower stories are thrown at us all day long. From TV, the Internet, the printed media, entertainment, advertizing, we are immersed in messages telling us who we are, whose we are, and what we're here on earth for. For me, I've got to resist these consciously and purposely by reminders of the Greater Story. I need the repetitive mantra, supplied by Scripture, worship, and Christian community to remind me of my true identity and the bigger story. I am God's child, bought by Christ's sacrifice, secure, loved, and lifted up into a Story much bigger than my own. A story of love and pain and hope.

That's plenty for today!

"I'm on the top of the world..."

Friday, July 14, 2006 will be a personal milestone for me in cycling. This was the day that two friends (Steve and Forrest) and I conquered the climb from Idaho Springs (7500') to the top of Mt. Evans (14,150') on our bikes. What a great adventure! We rolled out at 7:15a.m. in the cool, clear air and began the climb, an unrelenting 28.2 miles at an average gradient of 5.5%. The first rest stop (and brief it was) was at the half-way mark, Echo Lake, at 10,000 feet. Stepping off my bike, I felt nauseous and light-headed, concerned that these might be symptoms of altitude sickness. Thankfully, they weren't; I'm fairly sure I was just on the edge of bonking. A couple of gels, more Gatorade, and some focused prayer were just what I needed. Past the fee station and up the road to the summit, the views were fantastic--the Continental Divide spread out to our north, Longs Peak further north, Denver in the haze and heat to the east, South Park and Pike's Peak to the south and west. Up above treeline we pedaled as the road became bleached, cracked in places, and undulating. We saw marmots and these tiny mice-like creatures climbing the rocks beside the road. The topography felt like moonscape. The switchbacks careened madly back and forth as we continued to spin at a moderate pace. Interestingly, my heart rate stayed relatively low for the whole climb--I averaged 77% of maximum for the whole ride. Up, up, up we went, passed only by two elite-looking riders. The switchbacks in the last two miles before the summit are deceptive: just when you think you might be there (you can almost touch the observatory at the top), you've got several more switchbacks to climb. Before we knew it, though, we pedaled up the last pitch and into the parking lot, to be greeted by our faithful sag-car driver, Linda (Steve's wife), many sightseers and, believe it or not, a real, live mountain goat! Here we were, atop the highest paved bike climb in North America (if not the world--can you think of a road paved any higher?!). The descent was fast and bumpy on the upper slopes, smooth and speedy down below. It was a great day and one I'll never forget. Thanks for reading.

The Point at the End of the Spear

I look for what I call "God-moments" in life. These are moments when my heart is, in the old words of John Wesley, "strangely warmed" by God's presence or activity. I had such a God-moment recently while watching the DVD of the 2006 film "End of the Spear." It's a film about the five U.S. missionary martyrs who gave their lives in the mid-1950s to reach the Waodani people in the jungles of Ecuador. It's a lushly-filmed, restrained account that avoids being preachy or over-the-top religious. The witness of the missionary aviator Nate Saint, who at one point utters the following words to his son Steve, speaks volumes. Steve is anxious about his dad's missionary exploits in the airplane, urging his father to take a gun to protect himself as he reaches out to these notoriously warlike people. Nate's reply to his son hit me like a hammer. Nate explains that his own safety (and the use of his gun) are not necessary: "Son, we're ready to go to heaven; they're not." It floored me...and here's why: Nate's perspective was so thorougly rooted in faith and eternity that he was freed up to spend his life lavishly for a people who didn't yet know the God he knew. Comfort, control, certainty, safety--these were no longer primary for Nate Saint. He was consumed by a vision bigger than himself, motivated by a passion that enabled him to rise above mere self-protection. I was struck to the heart: while I confess formally that I share Nate's faith, I'm nowhere near his kind of freedom and vision. But I'd like to be closer...and freer...and more passionate about eternity, more able to rise above the instinct of self-preservation. I guess I felt pierced...by the End of the Spear.

Deliciously Off-Center

Recently, my wife and I celebrated our 18th wedding anniversary with a weekend trip to Aspen. Neither of us had been before and we were floored by its beauty--not that of the celebrities, mind you, but that of the Roaring Fork valley. In particular, we were stunned, breathless really, at the gorgeous Maroon Bells (left). I'm a bit embarrassed to admit it, but upon seeing them, I blubbered like a baby. I was overcome with emotion at such unspoiled, pristine beauty. For me, it was a direct hit of divinity, a tangible sign of God's handiwork, a delicious (though at the same time painful) arrow into my soul. I tell you, I enjoyed more unselfconscious worship and praise in that moment than I've had in many church services. Somehow, struck with God's artistry and goodness, I was transported delightedly off-center: off the center of my self-absorption, off the center of anthropocentric living, off the center of all that's wrong in the world. I think, in some respects, this is biblical worship: the joy of moving off-center and becoming absorbed by a good and loving God. As N.T. Wright describes it in his very good new book, Simply Christian, beauty is the echo of God's voice, a haunting and delightful ache that can lead us to the heart of our Creator, who is also our loving Father. Off-center...eccentric...not such a bad thing!

Angelina, Brad...and a New Kind of Beauty

Maybe you caught the Anderson Cooper interview with Angelina Jolie recently. I did...and I was mesmerized...by the interview, that is. Here was this icon of beauty, the voluminously-lipped lovely voted by most men in North America and Europe as the woman they'd most like to date, speaking of things unrelated to the red carpet, to films, to new releases, or to glamor of any kind. Instead, she waxed eloquent and passionate about the plight of poor children in Africa. That thud is the sound of my jaw hitting the floor. Where I've come to expect vapid expressions of stunning superficiality, I was getting schooled in justice, poverty issues, compassion, and the like. I was hearing the voice of Jesus and the gospels through an unlikely prophet. I was impressed and amazed. How wonderful that in our world of botox and surgical enhancement, of ephemeral fashion, gossip magazines, and the revolving door of musical-chairs celebrity pairings, here was a gorgeous couple, Angelina and Brad, whose beauty seemed increasingly eternal and spiritual. They were using their celebrity to point to a cause much greater than themselves. And this was not the fashionable Hollywood political posturing we've come to expect: it seemed deeper and more sincere. Thank goodness--thank God--for moments and for people like these. I have much to learn, it turns out, from Branjolie and the new beauty they evince.

Success, Significance, and the Soul

Have you followed the news lately? Bill Gates steps down from directing the everyday affairs of Microsoft to devote time to the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, the wealthiest philanthropy of our day. Warren Buffett gives the vast majority of his multibillion dollar stock options to the Gates Foundation to further their charitable endeavors. A Denver Presbyterian layman gives over $150 million to his foundering denomination...all of these news headlines appear in the space of two weeks. Interesting, isn't it? Something is going on; something different from business as usual. We're watching some of the pillars of industry lead the way--not in more acquisitiveness and accumulation of wealth, but in distributing wealth to the less fortunate, making investments in the poor, the sick, those on the margins of society. Could there be a lesson for us here? Having reached the pinnacle of financial success, these leaders are searching for something more. It reminds me of an adage that seems increasingly true: most people tend to spend the first half of their lives searching for "success"; but in the second half of their lives, many search instead for significance, for ways to make a lasting investment in the betterment of our world. There's a midlife shift toward what I might call "soulishness"--toward things of eternal value. I wonder if the recent example of these tycoons and their new style of investment in significance is a living parable of the ancient words of Jesus:

"For what will it profit people if they gain the whole world but forfeit their life?"

Gates, Buffett, the Presbyterian--they are making a turn, it seems, toward life, toward the soul, toward a signficance not achieved by the accumulation of wealth. Can we learn from them?