Christian Membership

I have two books on my desk at work right now. The first is called "32 Ways to be a Champion in Business" by none other than the inimitable Earvin "Magic" Johnson (this appeared on my desk the other day with no inscription or explanation and I can only take it to be a practical joke...so if you happen to be the one that left it here, please solve the mystery and present yourself along with an explanation) and the second is a daily readings compilation from C.S. Lewis called "The Business of Heaven." Magic Johnson is not the inspiration for today's entry, by the way...

The Lewis quote centers on the idea of "Membership" and, more specifically, the Pauline / Christian meaning behind the word "member." I recommend you take a quick read through this link as a reference point:

http://tinyurl.com/ku7qfy

Maybe I'm pulling too much out of Lewis's text...or, far more likely, I am carrying way too much baggage into it! I think I am just hard-wired to assume, by default, that God is a generalist...and that the only battle in Christianity is the line that seems to be drawn somewhere between me in my seat and me kneeling at the altar - the "in or out" line of forgiveness that is the foundational cry of evangelical churches: come to the altar and you will be saved.

Not that this foundation isn't critical...but there are after-effects that can sometimes linger when we allow ourselves to be identified simply as "in" or "out." Such a simplistic valuation lends itself to the very definition that Lewis is, I think, rallying against: the unfortunate idea that we are generic 'units' in God's economy.

We are not generic. We are not units. We are not simply one more chip on an othello board turned from black to white. We are individual and important and even critical to His plans. We have a role to play that is exclusively ours. Not that God's will depends upon us, but we are invited to play our part in uniquely fulfilling His will...His plans.

Even more important, I think, is this idea that the body of Christ suffers damage when it loses a member. I don't mean this like the body of Christ is cumulatively 100% and then drops to 99%...I mean it in the sense that losing my pinky-toe impacts my ability to maintain balance and to fully function in the manner I was created to be. And, to me, the idea of "losing a member" isn't about death or distance - it is about letting our brothers and sisters in Christ be taken out by the enemy...or, worse, watching them slumber and allowing them to continue to sleep (the ultimate and most successful of Satan's attacks).

Man, that's like trying to walk when your leg is asleep - or waking up with your arm dangling limp at your side and trying to make coffee!

The promise and hope of Christ is freedom. Out of the pulpit I tend to hear incrimination..."why aren't you free - why aren't you pursuing - why aren't you being more?" (This is not an indictment of my pastor, it is an indictment of my ears.) Among my group of brothers I tend to hear..."I wish he could be free - I hope his heart comes alive - I would love to see him experience this better." Sounds better, doesn't it...but it is still about that person, that "other," and not about "us" as a whole.

What I guess I hear Lewis saying here is that our motivation needn't be purely altruistic because it isn't just about having a good heart for others...it's about having a heart to see the entire body healed! It's about realizing that every individual member, EVERY INDIVIDUAL MEMBER, must become fully alive and functioning and playing his or her part. Otherwise we all suffer.

Lets say I read this morning that 7 soldiers were killed yesterday in Afghanistan. I can make note of that fact. I can, perhaps, mourn that statistical loss. I can even add it to a running total of soldiers "lost" in the war effort this month, this year...this war. But, somewhere in Afghanistan, a patrol is adapting to overcome the loss of a real person who provided unique value to their collective objective. Men are adapting to that specific loss and its impact on their ability to function. Heck, leaders are likely requisitioning new people with similar skills because they can't stop doing whatever that soldier was doing, but they don't have that soldier -- that 'member' of their team -- available to do what they need anymore!

You see...if this idea of "membership" in Christ is more than just an "in" or "out" proposition, I am forced to operate under the assumption that members of the body MUST be fully functional or I CAN NOT FULFILL my role in the body, either. Seems like God would cover this somehow in the bible...oh wait, see 1 Corinthians 12.

So...do I want to see men come alive in Christ and experience the freedom He has to offer? Yes I do. For their sake...and for mine.

Strength and Weakness

I attended my first men's breakfast recently - my first at this church, I mean. I've done a terribly good job of being distant and unengaged at my church - particularly among the general congregation. The senior pastor and I have a good relationship and I'm on familiar enough terms with many...but many more I wouldn't know the names of or wouldn't connect names to faces, if I were pressed.

I think this stems from my experiencing such dramatic transformation among the small group of men I have come to know and trust well...and the fact that none of them attend my church. Its unfortunate that I find myself unwilling to extend similar trust and risk among others whom I see every Sunday (well, many Sunday's at least). I am, to an extent, working to change that by the way.

As breakfast ended and we came to the time of announcements and the morning's agenda, our pastor was called upon to kick things off. He is better than I at maintaining the daily devotional according to our published "read the bible in a year" schedule and chose a verse he'd read that morning (I believe) to remind us of our need to lift one another up: "We who are strong ought to bear with the failings of the weak and not to please ourselves. Each of us should please his neighbor for his good, to build him up," Romans 15:1-2. His message, generally speaking, was a reminder that we who are strong in Christ should look for opportunities to lend our strength to others who may be weak. He also alluded to the concept that we are each, individually, both weak and strong at different times in our lives and, potentially, in different circumstances. So, in relationship, we are called upon to offer strength into another man's weakness knowing that we might one day be leaning on the strength of others even as we come to feel weak.

I agree. Though I found myself thinking of another concept having to do with strength and weakness...one that had me searching through the Bible in hopes that I wasn't completely unsupported by scripture in this idea: God is made strong in my weakness. Turns out, Eureka! and Hallelujia! that I am not completely off-book (although it was probably a song lyric that I remembered moreso than a scripture reference, to be honest). 2nd Corinthians 12:9 has Paul saying, "But he said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.'"

For me "power" and "strength" are somewhat synonymous (though we could certainly go down a long path differentiating the two) and so I find myself caught between two verses having to do with strength and weakness...one in which I am called to be strong and the other in which I rejoice in God's strength made perfect when I am weak. So, if God's power is made perfect in my weakness and I am called to be strong in the midst of another man's weakness...what am I to make of that!?

I believe God is a God of relationship and that He utilizes His people in the midst of circumstance to deliver on His promises. I believe that genuine relationship among, well, "believers" requires genuine risk and that genuine risk requires our willingness to be genuinely weak. We are not the hero's of our stories - we are victims and perpetrators and the greyness within which we live, while sometimes revealing momentary and unique strength, is far more often a reflection of our deepest weaknesses and failings.

I believe that appearing weak is the most difficult thing for a man to do - and it is often only that: appearing. To be truly weak to the point of truly needing another - any other, particularly a man or a father or a friend - may be the deepest and most compromising crack at the bottom of the dark chasm that separates us from God.

But...

There is incredible hope to be had, not in spite of this weakness but because of it! Among the men whom I trust and love I sometimes, though rarely, dare to be truly weak. In those moments I am begging for and requiring them to be stronger than I. Through that time, among believing men who are for me and for one another, I believe God gives these men His strength - inviting them to deliver on His pledge to perfect His power only in my weakness.

And so, in those transcendent moments, we are fulfilling through one another the promise of God to His people.

Modern Parables and Hidden Meanings

My kids, returning from one of many VBS experiences that my wife has lined up for the summer, gave me a simple definition of the word "parable" the other day: a parable is a story with a hidden meaning. (My kids also carried home words like "propitiation" and "expiation" with similar, straightforward definitions...but ones that caused me to do a little research so that I didn't fall too far behind their newfound and growing theological acumen. Seriously, do YOU know the definition of "expiation!?")

So my kids are talking about parables and I'm at breakfast the next day with my buddies and we're digging into each other's struggles and hopes, etc. And I have this rare moment where I inadverdantly find myself using a parable to make a point instead of making a direct observation. I don't mean, by the way, that I pulled open my Bible and referenced a parable told by Christ to His followers...I mean I had one of those opportunities to use a story about someone else to illuminate an issue faced by my friend.

This story that I told was only loosely on target (I won't retell it here; it's not important) and I actually questioned how much it mattered or resonated at the time. In fact, as sometimes happens when telling a story, it seemed to be less on target the further along I got in the telling. Regardless, I didn't give it much additional thought. I connected the dots as best I could and then moved on. Only later did I get some feedback from my friend, via email, that made me think that this story had mattered in the least (and I'm still not sure how much it mattered; again, not important).

Flash forward to last night. I'm watching Gran Torino on loaner from someone who recommended it as one of those movies I "had to see." It really was a must see, by the way - I highly suggest you rent or buy it. In the midst of this watching I found myself doing what I often do while viewing or reading something proffered to me by someone: I wondered "why is this important to them...what does it reveal about my friend." And, quite suddenly, I finally realized why parables are so important...why this method of telling stories "with a hidden meaning" mattered so much to Christ.

Parables require our active participation.

When someone asks for advice and I give it - when someone has a question and I answer it, they have my answer and they do with it what they will. When someone asks a question and I tell them a story by way of giving an answer, it forces that person to actively search within the story I'm telling in order to understand why I think it is relevant to them. They must participate and digest the story with an eye for "where is the answer to my question in this" that is deeper and truer than any answer I or anyone else could give. Because it is internal.

Of course Christ told parables - they aren't elusive, they are personal and revealing to each of us as we seek to find ourselves within them.

How is this important to my conversation and storytelling the other day...and to my viewing of Gran Torino!? Well, let me try to connect the dots...

1) I realized how vital it was to me (and to other followers of Christ) that He used parables to impact my life - because each is an invitation.

2) I realized the compelling impact it can have on others when I'm willing to risk sharing a story that casts light on their situation, without taking the entire burden of interpreting that story on their behalf.

3) I realized that sharing a story also reveals my heart better to someone than sharing an answer.

You see, just like I watch a movie that someone gives me wondering "why is this important to so-and-so," I believe that we search within the parables we're told seeking for their relevance to us as well as their revealing of the teller's hopes for us. When I watch Gran Torino in this context I am both asking "why does this matter to him" and "how am I revealed in this" AND "what does he hope I find in this - what does my friend hope to see revealed." All different aspects of similar questions. All requiring me to participate.

So while parables may have a "hidden meaning," by definition, the meaning and purpose of Christ using parables is in no way hidden. His parables are an invitation to join Him in the journey. They are snapshots of the things He loves and holds most dear - and He makes them available to us with expectant hope that we'll participate and discover His hopes for us within. His heart is good.

Battling Waves

Back and recovering from vacation at the beach. I suppose a more committed blogger may have spent some of that time posting new thoughts - I spent it avoiding anything technological (all the way from my laptop to my blackberry), and have no regrets!

Lots I might report from my time at the beach and subsequent visit with my father - perhaps this will be the first of a flurry of posts...but the focus of this post is an image that has stayed in my mind's eye since our return - with implications that still seem to be unfolding for me.

My oldest son, now 5 and looking forward to his first year at kindergarten this fall, discovered the fun of jumping waves this year. The beach we visit, Isle of Palms (just north of Charleston, SC), is fairly sedate in this regard - so while I often found myself joining him and his older sister to bounce over the small crests, there was little danger in letting them both explore the water on their own, as well.

Tate's romping in the waves really kept my attention (which is good, since I'm playing the role of lifeguard...not just observer). He doesn't just jump in the surf -- rising up and over the crashing waves, turning his head to avoid the spray of foam getting in his eyes and mouth -- he attacks them! I can remember my own exhilaration as a child, facing the onslaught of the water, struggling to gauge the magnitude, anticipating the jump...or, later - as I grew older, working to time my entry into the wave as it breaks with a boogie board beneath me. Catching that phenomenal ride.

Watching my son, my personal remembrance of childhood seemed palpable - including the rush and feeling of power...even the conversations that I remember having with the water. I don't know if anyone else has done this, but both Tate and I seem to have the imagination and the lack of self awareness that is required to facilitate such chatter with the ocean. Between waves I could see him stretching his hands out to take measure of the water with his palms as his mouth kept moving, too far away for me to hear his words, but clearly ranging from challenging the sea all the way to pleading - for the next wave to be bigger or for a reprieve, I don't know.

So as my own memories played out live in front of me, I began to connect some ideas...from my son to me to my Father (in heaven - don't really know if my Dad ever spoke to the ocean, to tell the truth). There is an immense feeling of personal power in the midst of nature's power when you are jumping waves, if that makes sense. This huge force is all around you, literally, but you have strength in its midst... to cooperate with it, even to apparently battle against it. A mock battle, of course, but a powerful one nonetheless. Jumping up and being carried along feels much like I would imagine walking on the moon - large sweeping moves are your reward for very little effort. And, in the time that you are caught up in the play of wave-jumping, it seems to be all there is in life...it seems whole and, well, perfect.

Like being in the center of God's will.

But then the unexpected happens. A jump ill-timed. A too-soon wave appears. Distraction enters. Or we are simply wrong-footed. Regardless, the play-at-being-powerful is revealed for the game it truly is as the real power, unrelenting, unaware and uncaring of our fate, suddenly catches us, me, my son, and throws us into and under the water spinning and gasping and desperate for rescue.

Like being in the center of God's will?

You see, though I may not be doing it sufficient justice here, the reason that this scene - exhilarating and joyful both for its rekindling of my memory and for the pleasure I gain from watching my children come alive - has lingered and played out in my mind for more than a week since our return from the beach...the reason I can't seem to shake its implications is this: I live my life all too often believing that God's "universal love" is indifferent to me, personally. I don't "believe" this as something I would tell someone in Sunday school, like its a doctrine of some kind.

No, this belief is far worse, far deeper.

I believe that living in the center of God's will is powerful and empowering and rewarding and exciting...but in the back of my mind, or deep in my heart, I also believe that He is somewhat indifferent to me, individually, and just as likely to throw me gagging and coughing and gasping for breath when I least expect it, as He is to propel me upward into his embrace. I believe it in the way I plan for tomorrow, react to today, walk across the street. It is the deep lie about which the enemy persists - and I too readily conspire to maintain.

You see, now, why this lingers? I desire to swim in deep waters, to risk and be empowered, to catch a wave and turn to find the next one. When asked, I believe God's desire for me is the same - but my fear of His indifference sucks at my feet like a rip tide.

Stale

If you have never written, or tried to write, it might be hard to understand the monumental effort that this particular post represents for me. This is the hurdle point, the wall that must be climbed...I've let things go stale.

Every book I've begun to write, every play, every screenplay...everything short of poetry (because it can usually be tackled in a single sitting, apart from editing and picking it apart later) hits this moment of blockage. This painful period where time and distance have entered between me and the work - and pressing on is the hardest thing in my life.

This "blogging" practice shouldn't be subject to the same pain, should it? I'm starting fresh with a new thought each time I sit down...but there is a continuity of consciousness here that, at the very least, feels the same. Each time I sit down to write I find the well dry or I hate what I'm writing (like I do now, in fact) and i allow it to dissuade me from pressing on.

But I must press on, right?

The truth is that this mirrors my life as well. In the past two (or is it three?) weeks I have seen my walk with God grow somewhat stale and distant... I've not sat with the people in my life that matter most and experienced that "set apart" time that is so necessary to me for proper (upward) orientation. I've not really just been going through the motions as I've had great, rich experiences with my wife and kids...but even in the midst of great times I have felt somewhat stifled. Somewhat small.

Among my little group we would call this "living in the small story." It implies a reluctance to be engaged and to be pressing forward for something bigger and better, greater than myself. Passionate pursuit of the prize even amidst understanding (or perhaps more because of the understanding) that it isn't all about me...but that I do have something important to offer.

Driving into the office this morning I remembered an oddly appropriate scene (well, a very appropriate scene, though from an odd source) featuring the incomparable Keanu Reeves. Please note the tongue-in-cheek usage here.

The Replacements is an odd, funny little movie that starred both Reeves and Gene Hackman, among some others. A story of throw-away football players recruited to walk in as "scabs" during a labor dispute in the NFL (or whatever they called the "NFL" in the film). In a team meeting Reeves describes the feeling of being caught in quicksand...its a great message that likely redeems the entire film.

Quicksand - that feeling that you are stuck and that every effort you make only serves to make things worse. A missed play that leads to another and another. A day away from a blog or a script that seems to grow insurmountable as each additional day mounts. Yeah...that's just what it's like.

So here is my only hope - in the midst of this, He still shows up. Its a striking reminder, for me, that God's will for my life doesn't depend on me - it only enables me. Even as I struggle to properly orient, God injects Himself into my life in ways that can only be His. In this instance an email about preparations for surf fishing led to one more instance of God using The Parable of the Talents to remind me that he is actively at work.

But that story will have to be the source of inspiration for my next post. For now I have somehow clamored over the wall and found a way to click the "submit" button, and that's enough for me to inject a small measure of life into the seemingly stale story. Enough to slip free from the quicksand.

Still Under the Gate

You know the great thing about this outlet, this process, is that it forces my beliefs to become concrete...and then I am forced to deal with them. So often I find that the ideas in my head are very credible, right up and until I articulate them to my wife or to a friend or maybe even to a son or daughter. Saying things out loud (or writing them down or publishing them online) brings them into the light and gives us a chance to view them for what they really are; to test them against reality.

I spent some of my free time today thinking about my post from last night (drive time is my only real free time these days so long as I don't dial the next number on my call list). If you haven't read that, I'd suggest you take a quick look...this post pretty much picks up where that one left off - with Campbell standing under the gate.

Characterizing Campbell's individual struggle to hold up the gate, his self-sacrifice (or near sacrifice) for his brethren and their cause, as a metaphor for sanctification...well, that was pretty dangerous. I'm not shying away from it because I've already wandered all the way around it today only to land back where I started, but I realize after holding it up and turning it left and right a bit that it needs a little more definition so as not to be mistaken for something unintended.

I fear it would be easy to misinterpret my thought as a celebration of Campbell's strength. Within my application of that scene as a metaphor for sanctification that would seem to imply that I believe sanctification only begins at the point where we begin to fail in our own efforts. We work in our own strength, not God's.

Dangerous. And, by the way, very wrong.

But here's the thing: in the case of Campbell his heart is already sacrificed to the cause of Scotland. He is living into the hope of his transformation. Perhaps it is better to say he has been transformed and now has hope that transcends the fear of death. Love (of Scotland) has indeed conquered death...get it? Regardless, the missing link in my metaphor is to point out that Campbell's strength and sacrifice are a direct outpouring of his love, faith, and hope. The result of his changed heart.

Campbell is not working in his own power. He is living transformed.

The whole idea of sanctification has always been relayed to me in the context of "getting out of God's way." Have you heard this before? This message is steeped in the tradition of the sin nature and basically states, "your heart is bad, you will do evil if you can, as a new child of Christ your only hope is to kill your flesh and let Him run the show." There's that guilt again...everything I "do" only gets in God's way. And there is some apparent measure of truth to that message.

But is that really the promise of Christ?

I love this new picture of sanctification, of Campbell standing under the gate, because it illustrates the change that was wrought in my heart by Christ and the reaction that the change demands of me moving forward. I have a heart for Him (like Campbell's heart for Scotland). I am willing to risk for Him (like Campbell risks his life at the gate). I cannot succeed without Him (like Campbell must be rescued from his own self sacrifice).

I do not celebrate my own strength or Campbell's...I celebrate the strength of the One who changed me and the freedom that comes in risking and sacrificing myself for that freedom. Only to be rescued again and again.

Holding Up the Gate

For Christmas this year my company gave me tickets to the PGA golf tournament that comes through Charlotte, NC. With four kids at home...and one that was just six weeks old when the tournament came 'round a few Saturday's back...I was a little concerned that they'd really, really missed the mark. But my wife encouraged me to slip away and enjoy the gift (this encouragement came well before she gave birth, by the way, but she continued to prod me even after our family grew) and I eventually realized my company's gesture as more than a gesture; this was one of those "perfect" gifts because it really is something I would never buy for myself or prioritize, but it did give me the chance to do something I wouldn't normally do on my own. Yes?

To make the most of the experience I invited my friend John to come along. He's a former resident of Charlotte and still has a loft apartment near downtown, so I was able to benefit from the company of a local native and transition some of the "travel" money I'd gotten from the company away from hotel expenses and into food and fun for us both!

John and I approached the event with a different set of priorities than most badge holders, I suppose. We spent most of the day talking about God, sex, and women... and debating where and how they all intersect. Mostly we talked about God (of course we did - this is a "Christian" blog, isn't it?).

As a brief aside, just so you don't think we're completely lost, we managed to see Sergio blow a drive (complete with his characteristic-too-quickly-released-grip-after-a-lousy-shot that ended with him scowling over his just-dropped driver) and of course a few choice shots from Tiger, among many others. We aren't completely clueless, you know.

Still, more than anything, John and I wandered the grounds digging into varying layers of religious thought. It was in the midst of these conversations that he evoked one image from the movie "Braveheart" that really hit home with me...and has lingered ever since.

Anyone remember Campbell?

I confess, I did not remember the name. Campbell, the elder Campbell, is the father of the recovered boyhood friend of Mel Gibson's character, William Wallace. You remember...Wallace comes back and attends a party and gets in a rock-throwing-fight with the physically overwhelming Harnish Campbell. Harnish launches a boulder right over Wallace's shoulder and then Wallace rattles a small stone off the center of his forehead...Harnish stumbles and falls in a strangely Goliathan manner? Come on...try to stay with me on this, please!?

Like I said, I didn't remember Campbell, his father's name (or his name, for that matter), but IMDB helped me fill in the gaps. Regardless, the scene that my friend, John, evoked is perhaps the single most critical for the character, Campbell...

It's early in the film, Wallace's wife has been murdered, and the Scot's are storming the gates of the English lord. They've caught the English by surprise and have advanced quickly, but now is the critical moment. Campbell, aging father to the red-haired Harnish, is first to the gate and urges all his strength to push it upward over his head, locking his arms just in time to stare into the face of his enemy...who charges straight for his heart.

Wow. Do you remember the scene? It only lasts a moment, maybe 2 seconds if you timed it, but it is HUGE in my memory. The audience knows that Campbell is about to be killed. He is defenseless. He is committed to his task and his plight. He is literally about to die for the cause.

This is sanctification.

Perhaps the only true picture of sanctification I've ever seen, to tell the truth.

"Sanctification." What a terrible and difficult and weighty word. It rarely comes to the surface apart from its implied counterpart: guilt. For me, at least, "sanctification" has always been this horribly futile struggle to "try harder" even as I am reminded of my paltry sin nature that seemingly makes "trying" quite literally futile.

But THIS...this standing at the gate...this risking everything to charge forward toward, well, something...this is REAL sanctification. This is sacrifice. And it happens in community - in relationship that depends on and demands from each other. Where would Campbell be if not for his fellow soldiers?

Understand that as a changed man, a transformed person in Christ, I truly WANT to be more and to do better. I want to go "all out" in the battle. And, with a changed heart, I am better armed to do so. But I can't ever truly win alone. In fact, my only growth seems to come from risking to the point that I MUST FAIL unless someone else comes to my rescue. Unless Christ shows up.

In the film, Campbell's comrades slip under the gate (literally under and around his outstretched arms) at the last moment just in time to glance aside the blow that is so determined to end his life. In my life it is John or Tad or Karl or Mike or my wife or an unexpected or an expected "other" stepping in on behalf of Christ to rescue me only when I am beyond rescuing myself. I don't mean "rescue" in the sense that I am in a deep hole or stumbling in the dark...I mean only to say that I am closer to Christ when I am standing at the gate, exposed, truly alive, lost in my hope and in my role in His story, and utterly dependent on Him to show up (queue blinding light from the sky or heroic rescue from my brothers) and effect my rescue.

John hit on the one illustration that made this crazy idea of being more Christ-like (in spite of my sin) palpable and, yes, even desirable. I'm inspired and encouraged to realize my dependence on Him really does translate to and demand my strength, regardless of the "gate" I'm driven to storm. Regardless of the truth that, in the end, I would be lost at that gate if it weren't for Him.