Category: Faith

Faith is Struggle

The man of faith who has not experienced doubt is not a man of faith – Thomas Merton

Simon’s life was ruined. 

He had seen it coming for a while.  When he first met the Rabbi, along the banks of the Jordan, Jesus had, quite presumptively Simon thought, changed his name to Peter (John 1:42).  Thereafter, Jesus had taken up residence in ‘Simon Peter’s’ neighborhood.  Simon saw him every day: beside the Sea of Galilee, in the synagogue on the Sabbath, in line at Starbucks.  They had even become friendly with one another.  It was interesting to listen to the Rabbi speak.  Simon even had him over for supper one day.  That’s when things got hinky.  Jesus healed Simon’s mother-in-law, who was suffering from fever, and then went on to heal half the town.  He went away for a while after that, but Simon knew it in his bones: the Rabbi would be back – for him. 

And now it had happened.  Jesus had insisted that Simon and his partners take the boats out again after a long and hopeless night of fishing.  It was fruitless according to all logic, but even then, Simon could sense it: the Rabbi was up to something.  Simon yielded with minimal residence.  And sure enough, the Rabbi had been up to something.  The catch was so great it nearly swamped the boats.  They barely got them back to shore. 

That’s when Simon knew: his life was ruined. 

The Rabbi had power.  There was no denying it.  He came from God.  His brother Andrew might even be right.  Jesus might be the Messiah.  And what is one to do when the Messiah takes an interest in you?  When he performs miracles for you?  You follow him, at least if he will have you.  And Simon knew: Jesus would have him.  What would happen to his fishing business?  Who would take care of his boats?  What might he have to do?  Where might he have to go?  Who might he have to go with?  And, worst of all, how would he explain it to his wife? 

Yup.  Ruined. 

And so, before Jesus said a word, Simon blurted out, ‘Go away Jesus!  I’m not good enough to be around you!’

I remember the first time I presented the story of Simon Peter’s call in this fashion (you can read the official version in Luke 5:1-11).  I was a seminary intern with no idea of the firestorm I would ignite.  An elder saint of the church became incensed.   ‘What do you mean Simon thought his life was ruined?’  ‘It was an honor to follow Jesus!’  ‘He left his nets and tackle on the shoreline and went gladly!’  ‘Why are you denigrating such a hero of the faith?’  When I pointed out that Simon really had told Jesus to go away, that this was in the Bible, he insisted that Simon had only said so because of the sudden awareness of his sinfulness, not at all out of concern for what might happen to his life should he follow Jesus.  ‘I’m sure he was aware of his own sinfulness,’ I offered, ‘but still, wouldn’t you be at least a little concerned if you were in his shoes?  I mean, to have your whole life upended on a dime?  It would only have been natural for Simon to have felt some trepidation at the moment of his call.  What sane person wouldn’t? 

To this I was told that if I had stood before Jesus as Simon had, hearing his very voice and looking into his very eyes, I wouldn’t have had any doubts at all.  Or at least, he suggested, with an evolving suspicion of the new seminary intern’s trust in God, I shouldn’t.  ‘When Jesus calls,’ the elder said, ‘people with faith go.  It’s just that simple.’ 

I never convinced him otherwise, and I’m fairly sure I lost the room that day, but let me assure you, faith is most certainly not that simple. 

Scripture certainly doesn’t present faith as such.  Faith, as described in the pages of the Bible, is a real life, flesh and blood struggle with God.  ‘Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the conviction of things unseen,’ is the famous definition taken from the Book of Hebrews.  It is a true and beautiful definition.  But faith is also Abraham, struggling step by step as he makes his way to the Canaan, questioning whether he’d made the right move, wondering what terrors might await on the other side of the next hill, making mistake after mistake once he gets there because he can’t quite bring himself to fully believe all the promises of God, agonizing as he lays his son Isaac on the altar, puzzling over a God who would ask him to do such a thing. 

Faith is Moses, called by God to leave his quiet life as a shepherd in Midian, assessing all he will have to give up, considering the risks of going back to Egypt, wondering how he will explain to Zipporah that they have to go because God spoke to him from a burning bush (how do you think that conversation went?), offering God every excuse his stammering tongue could manage as to why God should send someone else. 

Faith is Jeremiah, quaking in his sandals at the thought of having to speak the truth to recalcitrant kings, first arguing with God that he’s too young for the job, and then, later, when things turned out just as God said they would, complaining that Yahweh had pulled a fast one on him. 

Faith is Simon Peter, trying to shake Jesus on the shores of the Galilee, arguing later on that a Messiah has no business going up to Jerusalem to die, falling asleep in Gethsemane, denying – three times – that he even knows Jesus. 

Faith is Jesus himself, sweating drops of blood in the garden, asking his Father to take the cup from him, crying in doubt, yes, doubt, from the cross, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’ 

Faith is all of this.  Faith is what happens when a person struggles through the reality of what it means to follow a God who never reveals the end at the beginning, middle, or even five minutes before the end of the story, and then, ultimately, follows anyway, believing that, despite their doubts, God is worth following.  Faith is what happens when a person, shaking in their soul, says, ‘Okay God, you’re asking an awful lot of me, and I don’t understand what on earth you could possibly be up to, but in the final analysis, where else can I go but you?  Here I am, send me.  Your will be done.’ 

Frederick Buechner put it this way: ‘Faith is better understood as a verb than a noun, a process than as a possession.  It is on-again-off-again rather than once-and-for-all.  Faith is not being sure where you’re going but going anyway.  A journey without maps.  [Paul] Tillich said that doubt isn’t the opposite of faith; it is an element of faith.’[1]

I write this today because, in my own present journey, I, and others I care deeply about, are being asked by God to take a journey.  It doesn’t really matter what the journey is, reader.  Suffice it to say it may not be all that dissimilar to your own.  It’s just one that requires a lot from us.  It requires us to risk much, to surrender much, to trust much.  And we are willing.  Yet willingness does not negate struggle.  It does not negate doubt.  Struggle and doubt are part and parcel of our willingness.  They are, as Buechner and Tillich said, part and parcel of our faith.  They are part and parcel of what it means to be human.

And, if the stories of the Bible are any indication, and they are, God is okay with that.  He is patient and kind.  Of course he is, for in Jesus, he knows the struggle well. 

One of the best pictures of faith, in my estimation, is found in the 32nd chapter of Genesis.  There we read of a conniving finagler named Jacob who wrestled with his faith as he sat by the shore of a river facing an uncertain future.  Long before, he had been given all the promises God had made to his grandfather Abraham, but circumstances were such that he had come to doubt them.  And there, along the shores of the Jabbok, God met Jacob in his doubts, and allowed Jacob to wrestle, both with him and them.  At one point in the match, Jacob cried out to God, ‘I will not let you go until you bless me!’  And lo and behold, God blessed him on the spot.  He even changed Jacob’s name to Israel, a name which means, alternatively, or perhaps at the same time, ‘God fights,’ or ‘struggles with God.’ 

That’s what faith is, a wrestling with God.  It’s the struggle of a human being who wants to know God but doesn’t quite understand him.  The struggle of a human being who, despite their doubts, holds on to God and doesn’t let go.  The struggle that is blessed by God. 

Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.  Don’t let anyone question your right, as a person of faith, to doubt, to ask questions along the course of your journey, to give voice to how you feel in those moments when the mountains loom large, and your faith seems small.  Your struggle isn’t evidence that you don’t have faith.  It is the evidence that you do. 

Because faith is struggle. 

Anyone who says differently is selling something. 

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

[1] Wishful Thinking: a Seeker’s ABC, s.v. ‘Faith.’ 

Believe

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.  He was in the beginning with God.  All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being.  What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people.  The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it…He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him.  He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him.  But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to be children of God, who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God.  And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.  John 1:1-5; 10-14 (NRSV).

The story of Christmas is a story of miracles.  The Gospels tell of the stunning announcement to Mary that she would conceive by the Holy Spirit and bring forth the Son who would be the Savior of the world.  Luke tells of angelic hosts singing ‘Glory to God in the highest,’ as they announced the arrival of the miracle child.  Indeed, the entire Christmas event is from start to finish a supernatural one.  The Gospel accounts of the Nativity make this clear, but it is John who proclaims it most strikingly.  For while Matthew and Luke record the details of what happened, John strikes at the heart of the matter: the mind-boggling reality that Christmas is about nothing less than God becoming human.  The author of creation stepped into his story, became one of the characters, that each of our stories might be enriched by his.  John, more than any Gospel writer, was able to capture the wonder of the event, as he wrote of how the Word, God himself, became flesh and dwelled among us.

Where did he ever find the words?  Surely, they were God-breathed, but we shouldn’t miss John’s own sense of wonder.  John was, apparently, the kind of man who wondered about things.  His was not a matter-of-fact intellect; his was the kind that could soar into the heavens and grasp starlight.  In the mystical prologue to his Gospel, he writes of believing in the name of Jesus, and believing seems to have been what John was all about.  It is the stated purpose of his Gospel: ‘these things are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that by believing you may have life in his name’ (John 20:31).  Over and over, this theme is repeated.  ‘Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe‘ (20:20).   ‘For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him, might not perish but have eternal life’ (3:16).  Yes, John was a believer.  Not, mind you, the gullible sort who accepts every cock-eyed story that comes down the pike, but the kind who looks at the world with critical yet wondering eyes, thinks deeply, and allows his heart to guide him.  Nor was he the kind of believer who simply gives a vague intellectual assent to some propositional truth.  No, John was a BELIEVER – the kind who, once his heart was in line with the subject of belief, was willing to believe with the entirety of his being.  The kind who would not simply believe a story, but would take his place in the story, and live it from his heart.

Tragically, that kind of belief is a rare commodity these days.  Ours is a world that has lost its sense of wonder.  We live in times where to believe in anything is considered childish.  We are conditioned to doubt what can’t be seen, heard, touched, or tested.  Science, once a tool used by thinking men and women who sought to understand and marvel at God’s creation, is often wielded by skeptical reductionists who break things down to their simplest parts in order to dismiss the wonder of the whole.  Unlike the ancients, starlight holds no mystery for us (if you can even see it that is – light pollution has blinded us to its wonder).  We look at panoramic mountain vistas and talk about plate tectonics.  True enough, children still have a sense of wonder, Christmas morning is ample evidence of that, but they too are quickly conditioned to lose it in favor of a more ‘rational’ way of looking at things.  And as far as becoming part of a story bigger than us, well, who has time for that?  Our treadmill lifestyles keep us busy and preoccupied with the mundane and the trivial.  We live at such a hectic pace that we no longer have time to take Ferris Bueller’s advice to stop to look around once in a while, let alone to become part of a greater story. 

And so we lose out.  We lose out on living with a sense of wonder, and we lose out on living a life of meaning.  The beloved apostle John would only have wept, for as Albert Einstein said, ‘the most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious.  It is the true source of all true art and science.  He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead; his eyes are closed.’ 

The tragedy, I fear, is that there may be some reading this to whom such a quote applies (if so, I thank you for making it this far, and hope you will keep going).  You want to believe, you wish you could become part of a bigger story, in fact, that may be the very reason you are visiting this blog: to have belief rekindled.  But having come of age in a world without wonder, such a thing seems impossible at best and ludicrous at worst. 

But friend, it’s Christmas, and Christmas is our chance to regain a sense of wonder.   The Nativity story takes place in a time when people, in a sense, lived on the verge of disbelief.  They lived under the brutal hand of the Roman Empire, and God had seemingly been silent for centuries.  The age-old longing for the Messiah who would deliver Israel had grown a bit thin, and many at the time simply accepted that things would never change, at least not during their lifetimes.  But then the light of Christmas broke through.  Zechariah and Elizabeth discovered they would have a son in their old age.  Mary received the news that she would conceive by the Holy Spirit.  Shepherds, living at the margins of society, were invited by angels to celebrate the Messiah’s birth.  Wise men from the East, astrologers who didn’t really know Israel’s God, trusted in starlight to guide them, and found the place where life could begin again.  All of these people had been struck by the light of Christmas, and all became believers.  All became part of a story bigger than themselves. 

Wouldn’t you like to believe like that?  To wonder again, and become a part of something big? 

You can. 

Like many of you, at this time of year I read and watch many classic Christmas stories: A Christmas Carol; A Charlie Brown Christmas; How the Grinch Stole Christmas; Elf.  And of course, The Polar Express, the Robert Zemeckis film based on the classic Chris Van Allsburg book.  That too has become a classic in my household. My daughter insists on watching it multiple times every year.  You may be familiar with the story, but to recap, it is the story of a boy who has lost his ability to believe in Santa, who nonetheless takes a magical journey by train to the North Pole, where he discovers a remarkable truth: ‘Sometimes seeing is believing; and sometimes, the most real things in the world are the things you can’t see.’

There is a scene in the movie that really gets to me.  The boy, standing at the center square at the North Pole alongside Elves and other children, watches the celebration begin as Santa strides forth to take the reins of his sleigh and begin his annual Christmas ride.  Alas, the boy can’t see Santa because of the crowd.  The reindeer go wild, and the chain of bells that links them together jingles with a sound that the other children adore.  But the boy, who still struggles to believe, can’t hear them.  Suddenly, one of the bells breaks from its string and bounces to his feet.  He picks it up, almost with tears in his eyes, and begins to repeat, ‘I believe, I believe, I believe.’  And as he does, he hears the bell.  Suddenly, Santa appears next to him and asks, ‘What did you say?’ and with eyes full of wonder, the boy says, ‘I believe.’  Santa goes on to give the bell to the boy as the ‘first gift of Christmas,’ and explains, with words that tell us clearly that The Polar Express really isn’t about Santa Claus, ‘This bell is a wonderful symbol of the spirit of Christmas, as am I.  The true spirit of Christmas lives in your heart.’  You see, the bell represents the boy’s newfound faith, his renewed sense of wonder, his recaptured ability to believe.  It represents that sense of wonder we long for, that ability to become part of something bigger than ourselves.  That sense of wonder the world tries to take from us, but deep down, never fully goes away. 

I love the way the story ends.  The boy, having returned home, discovers that only he and his little sister can hear the bell.  His parents, having been dulled and worn down by the cares of the world, have lost their ability to believe.  And so, with the boy jingling the bell and listening to it with his renewed sense of wonder, a voice – the voice of the boy, now an old man, says something important: ‘At one time most of my friends could hear the bell, but as years passed it fell silent for all of them. Even Sarah found one Christmas that she could no longer hear its sweet sound. Though I’ve grown old the bell still rings for me, as it does for all who truly believe.’

So here’s the question: does the bell ring for you?  When you hear John’s words of indescribable mystery, or the story of the shepherd and the angels, or when you listen to the songs of Christmas, doesn’t your heart just ache to believe?  How wonderful then, that we have something to believe in.  How wonderful that there really is a first gift of Christmas, and it isn’t a bell from Santa’s Sleigh.  It is Jesus, the Christ, the Word made flesh, God with us, come to teach us how to live and love, to infuse us with wonder, and to make our lives part of the remarkable story he is telling.  

For those who long for something to fan the flames of faith, who ache to fill the hole in their heart, who hope to take Christmas magic back from a world that has virtually dug its grave, who yearn for a story to believe in – let the words from the theme song to The Polar Express, words that could well have been written by John himself, speak to your soul:

Believe in what your heart is saying, hear the melody that’s playing,

There’s no time to waste, there’s so much to celebrate. 

Believe in what you feel inside and give your dreams the wings to fly.

You have everything you need.  If you just believe.

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Pastor Brent

Small Great God

‘Oh Great God, are you small enough for me?’ – Nicole Nordeman, from her song, Small Enough

Those connected with First Baptist Church of Collingswood, where I serve as pastor, know what I just finished a sermon series on the Book of Ruth.  It’s the Tuesday after the final installment, which normally means I’m itching to move on to the next sermon series.  As someone once commented, preaching is like giving birth on Sunday morning and waking up pregnant again on Monday.  But this week, before I tend to the next pregnancy, I want to linger with a lesson from Ruth that I must keep in mind.  Perhaps you do too. 

The story of Ruth takes place in the time of the Judges.  This was before Israel had a king, a time when, as the book of Judges tells us twice, ‘everyone did what was right in their own eyes’ (Judges 17:6 and 21:25).  It was a tumultuous time in which the strongest arms strutted across the stage of history afflicting regular folks with the consequences of their selfish choices.  Those consequences included, as they do at any stage of history wherein the powerful throw their weight around: tribalism, civil war, foreign invasion, famine, displacement of peoples, and, at the center of it all, indeed the cause of it all, a shift of allegiance from God to lesser things (aka idolatry). 

Sounds a lot like our world, doesn’t it? 

If there had been newspapers in the time of the judges, or 24-hour news networks, or, worse still, social media, I am quite certain that the news of the day (or whatever it is you call the dubious nonsense in our newsfeeds) would have had us all in about the same tizzy we find ourselves in when we consume the news today  Learning about the breakdown of civility and respect between the tribes of Israel, the fights that threatened their unity, the latest foreign threat, or the displacement of true faith by false religion would have had the same effect on us then as does now the daily onslaught of extremist rhetoric, the prospect of civil war, the invasion of nations, or, for Christians like myself, the coopting of historic Christianity by a particularly venomous form of Christian Nationalism.[1]  We would have been, as many of us often are now, consumed by the big picture of a world going to hell in a handbasket. 

But then, in the midst of those days, comes a little story about ordinary people and their ordinary problems as they navigate their world.  I’ll refrain from telling the whole story here (you can read it yourself), but basically, while the world rages, they have to live and cope with problems much closer to home.  Death in the family.  The consequent financially instability and justifiable concern for the future.  Having to move (twice) as a result of circumstances beyond their control.  And hovering over the story of such ordinary, close to home trials and fears, a question: does the great God of the universe pay attention to ordinary people and their problems?  Is he even able to notice them in a time when the big picture world seems to be burning to the ground? 

Turns out he can and does.  The story of Ruth tells of a great God who is small enough for ordinary folks.  A God who is involved in the ordinary, intimate, day to day events of people’s lives.  A God who works in such events and lives to bring about the most beautiful ends.  A God who, believe it or not, uses this kind of work to save, not only the people immediately concerned, but the entire world, and in ways no one would ever imagine.[2]

As I walk away from the story of Ruth and move to the next thing, I don’t want to forget this.  I don’t want to forget that in a world gone mad, where more and more people seem intent on doing only what is right in their own eyes, where moral compasses seem irretrievably broken, where mad leaders strive for complete control, where civil war and dictatorship are more than just fantastic possibilities, where we literally face the prospect of a world on fire, and where many of those leading us toward the precipice abuse my faith to claim divine sanction for their actions, I need to remember that I cannot be so overwhelmed by the big picture that I miss what God is doing closer to home.  I need to remember that God is at work: in my family, in my church, and in the small circles of relationships I have in the community.  I need to remember that it is there that God is working out the most beautiful things, the things that will not only save the ones I most especially love, but through them, the world. 

If you haven’t lately, pick up a Bible and read the story of Ruth.  There you will meet a God who moves in the midst of a tumultuous world, not just in the big things, but in the small things. 

There you will meet a great God who is small enough for you and me. 

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

[1] All Christian Nationalism is venomous.  What we are seeing today is especially so. 

[2] Again, I’ll let you read the story for yourself.  But when you do, note the genealogy at the end, and note especially where that genealogy ultimately leads. 

Home

‘And so at last they came to the Last Homely House, and found its doors flung wide’ – J.R.R. Tolkien

I was walking Rossco, my wonderfully exuberant Aussie-Shepherd/Border Collie, along the creek, when suddenly, I heard scampering to my right.  My eyes went wide as I saw, of all things, a groundhog racing toward us faster and fiercer than any of his species had a right to move or be.  As he charged up the steep bank, his eyes were like saucers, his mouth open, and his teeth bared.  It appeared that he was attempting to launch a preemptive strike on Rossco (and/or me), whom he most certainly considered a threat.  I mean, what else could explain his running toward us, rather than away from us. 

I braced myself for the onslaught, but when he was about a foot away, thank God, he dove like a submarine and vanished.  I had not noticed, could not have noticed, that just below the lip of the bank, just below our feet, was the entrance to his burrow. 

As I pulled Rossco away (he of course wanted to follow the varmint into his den), the groundhog’s furry face flashed comically across my mind, and I realized that the look upon it had been one of fear, not ferocity.  His mouth had been open, and his teeth bared, not because he was preparing to attack, but because he had been gulping air to fuel his assent up the bank.  His eyes had been wide as saucers because, well, if he had possessed a thought balloon, it would have read, ‘Oh [expletive deleted], that dog is about to kill me!’  I had wondered why, instead of running away from us, he had run toward us.  Now I knew that as the groundhog’s brain processed the danger posed by our presence, a single word had flashed through his mind.

Home. 

And with that, I had to smile.  For in that, I had to recognize, not just the wisdom of the groundhog’s choice of direction, but the smiling presence of God. 

Home.  It is the place where we know we are safe, the place of comfort, warmth, and love.  Think about the word for a moment and you will likely conjure up all sorts of lovely images and memories.  Baking cookies with your mom.  Watching baseball with your Dad.  Sitting by the fire on a frosty night.  Sipping tea while reading a book or watching your favorite show.  Gathering about the table for family game night.  Lying next to the one you love.  Home is the feeling you get when you think of such things, the ache in your heart to experience them all over again.  Even in the absence of the underlying realities that forge such memories, there remains in every heart the hope of their becoming.  We all, in one way or another, share what Frederick Buchner calls ‘the longing for home.’  He writes of home as that ‘something that we feel we belong to and that belongs to us.’[1]  Deep within each of us is a yearning to be home, whether it be the home of our cherished memories or the home of unfulfilled desires. 

And let’s face it: the yearning is real.  The world can be a callous and cruel place, filled with dangers.  As we navigate the riverbanks of our lives, we encounter many threats.  When we do, there is a deep, instinctive drive to run, as the groundhog had run, for the place we call home.  To either return to the place where we have felt safe, warm, and loved, or else to find such a place for the very first time.  To take refuge there. 

Home is like Rivendell, the elvish haven in Tolkien’s world.  I have read The Hobbit every couple of years since I was in the fourth grade, and each time I get to the line, ‘And so at last they came to the Last Homely House, and found its doors flung wide,’ I choke up.  To me it speaks of the longing for home.  In the story, Bilbo and his friends have just escaped the clutches of a clan of trolls, and Rivendell is just the sanctuary they need.  It is home, so much so that later in his life, when Bilbo tires of his adventures, he settles there to ‘live happily ever after to the end of his days.’  We all long for a place like that, a place that is more ‘homely’ even than the comfort of our hobbit holes.  I know I long for such a home.  Not just the home of my childhood (as happy as it was), or even my present home with my wife and children (as wonderful as it is).  I am thankful for the refuge of such homes.  But even so, I long for the home that lies just beyond my grasp, that place that will put to rest, once and for all, the callousness and cruelty of this world. The home that will possess all the best of all the homes we have known or dreamt of, and then some. 

The good news is that there is such a home.  There is, in fact, a Rivendell.  Even better, in that you can be happy there for days without end.  The disciple John describes it at the close of Revelation:

‘I heard a loud shot from heaven’s throne, saying, ‘Behold!  The home of God is among his people!  He will live with them, and they will be his people.  God himself will be with them.  He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain.  All these things are gone forever’ (21:3-4). 

This is the home we long for, the habitation of absolute safety and love.  Our home in God.  Buechner put it this way: ‘the home we long for and belong to is finally where Christ is.’  It is the place for which we yearn most deeply, the place where, in Christ, we shall one day be.

Until then, we walk as ‘strangers and aliens in the world,’ in search of our ‘homeland’ (see, Hebrews 11:13-14).  And as we do, we cherish the foretastes of home we experience even now, for, yes, where Christ is, there is home, and Christ is, praise be, everywhere.  He is in everything that causes us to ache for home.  He is in His Church, in that moment when a song or a word causes that tear in your eye or that catch in your throat.  He is in the bosom of our families, in those moments of wonder that make everything seem worthwhile.  He is in the rainbow that dazzles the sky in the wake of a violent storm.  He is even, as he was for me the other day, in the wide eyes of a panicky groundhog, racing up a creek bank, reminding me of the importance, and loveliness, of home. 

In such things, we catch glimpses of the day when we shall come at last to the Last Homely House, and find its doors flung wide.

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

[1] Frederick Buechner, The Longing for Home: Reflections and Recollections. 

MLK and the Theology of Hope

Say not the days are evil – Who’s to blame?

Or fold your hands, as in defeat – O shame!

Stand up, speak out, and bravely,

In God’s name…

It matters not how deep entrenched the wrong,

How hard the battle goes, the day how long,

Faint not.  Fight on!

Maltbie D. Babcock

This past week we marked the day that honors the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.  No doubt you heard and read many eloquent testimonies to his life, legacy, and patient endurance in the face of evil.  Among the words I read were these from the editorial board of The Washington Post:

‘King preached both urgency and patience – nonviolent perseverance in the face of fire hoses, dogs, beatings, lynchings.  Every second of marginalization [for African Americans] was intolerable.  Yet it took a decade after King’s 1955 Montgomery, Ala., bus boycott for Congress to approve the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1955.  Enslaved Americans had been freed a century before.  King did not lose hope.  He kept working.’ 

King understood that it takes patience to overcome evil.  For King evil was not theoretical.  He knew that evil is real and difficult to root out.  In the face of all that he and his partners endured in the struggle against evil, the obstacles that stood in the way of progress, and the slow pace of reform, it would have been easy for him to have lost hope and given up.  Truth be told, there were moments when he was tempted to do so.  But he never did.  He kept hoping.  He kept working. 

In this, I submit, King expressed the Theology of Hope. 

The Theology of Hope always endures in the face of evil.  It knows that in a fallen, broken world, evil exists, and that from time to time, gains the power to, for a time, have its way.  But it does not let that knowledge quench the hope for better days.  It believes.  It perseveres.  It works for better days even when their arrival is delayed.  For it knows, as King so famously said (although it was actually the Reverend Theodore Parker who said it first) that ‘the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.’ 

We need King’s perspective in the times we face.  As a new year breaks upon the shore of our lives, there is much that might cause us to despair.  America is becoming balkanized.  People believe the most bizarre conspiracy theories.  A slow-moving coup continues apace.  The days when people pulled together and sacrificed for the sake of the general welfare seem to be gone forever; individualism, at least in some quarters, has all but triumphed over communitarian love for neighbor.  Truth is both relative and disposable.  Democratic principle, the foundation on which our society has been built, however imperfectly, is under assault and crumbling.  What happens when the very foundations of a society are broken?  When everyone does what is right in their own eyes?  When truth is lost, and people are divided?  History tells the answer: evil rises and takes over.  And yes, my friends, we are witnessing evil rising to do so before our very eyes.

I suppose some at this point may be thinking, ‘Gee, Brent doesn’t sound very hopeful.  Where is his Theology of Hope?’  Please bear with me.  I confess that I am not extremely hopeful about stopping evil in its tracks at the moment.  Evil exists in our society (it always does in any society) and all signs point to its rising.  We may well be entering a period of time unlike any experienced in most of our lifetimes, a period when evil men and women take the reins of power and bring down the veil of darkness.  Just how dark things may get I cannot say.  But darkness does indeed seem to be on the horizon.  To say so is not to express the loss of hope.  Rather, it is to acknowledge current trends. It is to acknowledge the same reality that King knew, that from time to time, and for a time, evil, which always exists, gains in power.   

Hope, you see, is not the fool’s hope that denies the existence of evil, but the solid ground on which we stand even as it rises.  Hope abounds, even when evil seems to gain the upper hand.  I for one, have not lost hope in these darkening days.  For I know what King knew.  Evil exists, and evil may prosper for a time.  This is the reality of life in a fallen world.  But the moral arc of the universe bends toward justice.  It bends toward love.  And if that is true, and it is, then evil will not endure.  It may have its hour, but in the end, it will be cast down.  Love and justice will have the final say. 

Christian faith proclaims this.  It proclaims the Theology of Hope.  As a Christian, I believe in the light that shines in the darkness that shall never be overcome.  I believe in the God who raises the dead, who can turn the darkest days to the bright morning light.  I believe in the day of evil’s destruction and the restoration of all things.  I believe in the sun of righteousness that rises with healing in its wings.  And I believe that, until that day comes, while the darkness may come from time to time, the darkness will last only a night; everlasting joy will come with the morning. 

So what do we do if we live to see days when darkness falls in deepening shades? 

There is a great scene in The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, in which Frodo Baggins, having found himself torn from his beloved and peaceful Shire and cast into the center of a cosmic battle between good and evil, laments that such circumstances have come during his lifetime.  ‘I wish the ring had never come to me,’ he tells Gandalf, ‘I wish none of this had ever happened.’  Gandalf’s reply is remarkable: ‘So do all who live to see such times.  But that is not for them to decide.  All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.’  And then he adds these encouraging words: ‘There are other forces at work in this world beside the will of evil…and that is an encouraging thought.’

Indeed it is.  This is why we can have faith that the moral arc of the universe bends toward justice and love.  Because there is One who does the bending: the God of love and justice. 

And so, when evil days come, we cling to hope.  We persevere.  We endure.  And we work.  We speak truth.  We strive for justice.  We live in such a way that the world sees an alternative to the madness taking place around us.  We show the world a different future as we serve as signposts pointing to better days.  As Gandalf suggested, we do the best with the time given to us.  And we believe that God will use that time, and our efforts, to bring about better days. 

That is what Christian faith does when darkness falls.  It holds, as King did, to the Theology of Hope. 

And waits for morning.

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

The Daily News

‘It comes the very moment you wake up each morning.  All your wishes and hopes for the day rush at you like wild animals.  And the first job each morning consists simply in shoving it all back; in listening to that other voice, taking that other point of view, letting that other, larger, stronger, quieter life come flowing in.  And so on, all day.  Standing back from all your natural fussings and frettings; coming in out of the wind’ – C.S. Lewis, in Mere Christianity

I blame the dang cell phone. 

I wake up in the morning, shuffle downstairs to make breakfast, and there it is.  I don’t know why it should be so enticing.  But before I know it, as I wait for my eggbeaters to cook, I’m on it, fussing and fretting over the morning news feeds.  On the one hand, it’s important to stay informed, especially in the dire times we live in.  On the other, it’s probably not the best way to start the day.  Especially since the daily news doesn’t seem to be anything particularly new.  Basically, and as per the Book of Ecclesiastes, there isn’t much new under the sun these days.  I can summarize the daily news as it has appeared for months, even years, as follows: 

The Pandemic

Covid is still here. Many function as if it isn’t. People won’t get the vaccine or wear masks. The government response is very often incoherent. You are basically on your own. 

Politics

Republican politicians and power brokers are working to end democracy because it behooves them to do so. They are willing to lie, cheat, shrug, etc., to hold onto power. They have no shame. (Yeah, there exceptions, but even these aren’t exactly profiles in courage, and so few they are scarcely worth mentioning). Oh yeah, and Trump Trump Trump Trump Trump Trump Trump Trump Trump Trump Trump Trump…

Democratic politicians and power brokers can’t seem to understand that they have one job: to save democracy. Instead, they are fighting amongst themselves, fiddling while the torches that will burn society are lit. From the naive progressives who dream of the unattainable to the self-serving ‘moderates’ who seem to enjoy standing in the way of even a little progress, we see a party incapable of tying its own shoes. If you thought this ship of fools would save us, you had best think again.

Basically, the news of the day in the arena of politics comes down to this: ‘Autocracy! Coming to a country near you!’

The Environment

The earth is toast. Literally.

The Rich and Powerful

They are going to space, not paying taxes and unaccountable to anyone. They don’t care and there is nothing you can do about it. 

Violence

The nations still rage.  People still think violence is the answer to the world’s problems.  An ‘eye for eye and tooth for tooth’ is making steady progress toward the creation of a blind and toothless world.  Sorry Jesus.  Sorry Gandhi.  The world likes war. 

Racial Injustice

White supremacy continues unabated in America. For all the talk of making things better, it’s getting worse. If democracy falters, look for the return of Jim Crow.

Truth

Just kidding.  There is no such thing anymore.  You are now free to believe anything you want, no matter how divorced from reality it is. 

Entertainment

Some actor/singer/musician/influencer/sports personality just did something stupid. Another had a baby with someone else. Another got divorced. Someone else was arrested. Or gave money to charity. Or won an award and thanked Jesus. Oh, and whatever it is, it’s the most important thing in the world, far more important than ending the pandemic, saving democracy, stopping global warming, making a more peaceful world, ending racism, etc. BTW, who advanced on Dancing with the Stars last night?

White American Evangelicalism

A famous church leader who you should have known all along was no good has: (a) been caught in a scandal; (b) promoted Christian Nationalism; (c) said something racist; or (d) all of the above.  Oh, and Trump Trump Trump Trump Trump Trump Trump Trump Trump Trump Trump Trump…

Sports

The Philadelphia [insert Eagles, Phillies, Union, Flyers…] let down their fans again last night.

Such is the daily news.  Has been for months.  Has been for years.  And probably will be for months and years to come.  Again, it is important to keep abreast of things.  Many of the things I have summarized are as serious as a heart attack, and it does no good to stick one’s head in the sand and ignore the problems of the world.  But at the same time, given that it isn’t really new, should we allow it to consume us?  Should the daily news be the first thing we run to in the morning, or would we do better to run to something else?

I think C.S. Lewis was right.  The first job of each morning, for everyone, but perhaps especially for Christians like myself, is not to immerse oneself in the news of the day, but to push back the noise of the world and listen to that other voice, that still small voice that counsels us to see things from another perspective, and to allow that larger, stronger, and quieter life of the Kingdom to flow into us.  To stand back from all the world wants us fuss and fret about; to come out of the wind once more. 

I think if I started my days like that, rather than riling myself up and only thereafter trying to listen to that other voice, I would be in a better position to face each day.  I would be in a better position to take on the challenges of an increasingly daunting world. 

So I think that’s what I’ll do.  No more daily news first thing in the morning.  And even throughout the day, I will do my best to keep abreast of things without letting them overwhelm me.  Instead, I will begin by listening to that other voice, and let the Kingdom flow into me.  And then, instead of driving myself nuts with what’s happening in the big picture world, I will simply practice my faith by doing small things in the circles of my little picture world that witness to another way. I bet that I will be better for it.

Maybe the world will be too. 

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

Bee Sense

‘Don’t just look to your own interests.  Consider the interests of others’ – Philippians 2:4

I recently spent some time in a community garden watching bees and butterflies.  Pollinators are amazing to observe, and I filmed several video clips and took even more pictures as they drank nectar from flowers.  One thing the pandemic era has taught me is to appreciate the simple things.  Enjoying God, the company of family and friends, and the beauty of the earth are pretty much all I need these days to be content, so spending an hour or so with my daughter and mother-in-law in the garden watching bees and butterflies was a kind of bliss. 

It wasn’t long after this experience that I serendipitously read an entry concerning bees in Peter Wohlleben’s, The Inner Life of Animals.  Bees are fascinating creatures, necessary for the health of our planet, but also capable of teaching lessons.  One such lessons struck me as I read Wohlleben’s discussion of how bees stay cool in the summer and warm in the winter.  In the summer months, the intense activity among bees can raise hive temperatures considerably, which could prove fatal to the colony, but bees have found ways to stay cool.  Worker bees bring water into the hive to cool things down, and the fluttering of wings produces breezes.  In such ways, the hive is climate controlled, and the bees don’t overcook. 

In the winter, warming measures are undertaken.  If it gets cold enough, the bees of a colony will huddle together in ball.  The queen, who must be protected at all costs, is of course placed in the center of the ball where it is warmest.  Moving out from the center, the temperature of course drops, placing the bees at the outer rim in peril of freezing to death, except for one thing: the bees take turns.  They take shifts on the ball’s surface, allowing each crew to take a turn closer to the center and warm up before returning to duty on the outer edge.  In this way, the colony, and each bee within it, has a chance to survive the winter. 

One wonders what motivates bees to look out for one another in this fashion.  Perhaps it is too much to suggest they care for one another (then again, perhaps they do).  It seems more likely that they simply understand that the success of the hive depends on the success of each bee.  If they lose even a single member of the colony, the ability to stay warm collectively is diminished.  Essentially, bees know that they need each other.  Each individual bee therefore considers the interests of the others along with their own.  Each bee knows that unless they look out for the other members of the colony, no one will make it. It is of course natural for bees to feel this way; they are inherently collectivists, not individualists.  They don’t live their lives in terms of ‘me’ and ‘I’ but ‘we’ and ‘us.’  They value one another’s contributions to the collective, and are willing to sacrifice, in this case, a little bit of warmth, for the sake of saving the whole. 

I could run in a thousand directions on this, most of which would produce controversy.  This would only prove the point of this post, but honestly, I’m just too tired to deal with it at the moment (I’m on vacation).  Suffice it to say that we humans could learn from bees.  It breaks my heart, and makes me more than a little frustrated, that some people (I won’t say most, although I confess, I’m tempted these days) can’t seem to understand that we need to look out for each other.  They can’t seem to understand that each one of us has value, and that we need to look, not just to our own interests but to the interests of others.  They can’t seem to understand that if we don’t look out for one another, say, by taking a shot in the arm or wearing a mask (okay, I just went in one of those potentially controversial directions), we will all be impacted detrimentally.  They can’t seem to understand that we should be willing to make sacrifices, for the sake of saving both the vulnerable among us and our society as a whole. 

Perhaps bees are just programmed to act the way they do.  Perhaps they don’t think nearly as much about their behavior as I have suggested.  But to my way of thinking, that only makes things worse.  We human beings have been gifted with the ultimate grace: we have been made in the image of God (Genesis 1:27).  We have the ability to reason, to think things through, to feel compassion for others, to experience community, to love.  Those of us who claim to be Christian claim not only these extraordinary graces, but the power of God to activate them fully.  How sad then, when we neglect our birthright and ignore the gifts we have been given, when we, instead of considering the needs of others, choose to only, and shortsightedly, consider our own. 

I leave it to you, reader, to consider the myriad of circumstances to which this lesson may apply.  Like I said, I could take this in a thousand directions.  All I choose to say in closing is this: its time we started acting a little more like the bees.

It’s time we all got a little bee sense. 

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

Carry the Fire

‘Sin will be rampant everywhere, and the love of many will grow cold’ – Jesus, Matthew 24:12 (NLT)

Cormac McCarty’s The Road is as darkly dystopian a novel as you will find.  It tells the story of a man and his son struggling to survive in a post-apocalyptic world that is literally cold and growing colder.  It is a world with few survivors attempting to escape cannibalistic bands of men.  If this sounds awful, it is, but the story is nonetheless touching and beautiful.  Hope abounds, as father and son hold on to one another, loving each other deeply from the heart, learning together what it means to live with faith.  Throughout the novel, the father encourages his son with a simple phrase: carry the fire.  The world around them is dark and hopeless, but they carry within them a spark of life they dare not, will not, allow the world to quench.  This is how to survive in a cold world that is growing colder: you ‘carry the fire.’ 

I’ve been meditating the past several weeks on a familiar passage from Paul’s second letter to his son in the faith Timothy.  It goes like this:

‘For a time is coming when people will no longer listen to sound and wholesome teaching. They will follow their own desires and will look for teachers who will tell them whatever their itching ears want to hear. They will reject the truth and chase after myths.  But you should keep a clear mind in every situation. Don’t be afraid of suffering for the Lord. Work at telling others the Good News, and fully carry out the ministry God has given you’ – 2 Timothy 4:3-5. 

I’ve known those words for as long as I can remember.  But they have never felt more apt than they do now.  We live in a time when facts do not matter.  People are following the darkest inclinations of their hearts and accepting as true any cockamamie theory that justifies their expression.  They are indeed rejecting truth and embracing strange myths (e.g., Q Anon, Pizza gate, The Steal).  Elected leaders – and religious leaders – who consciously know better go along with such insanity, believing that they can use said dark expressions to forge political coalitions to remain in, and expand upon, their positions of power.  Sin has been part of the world since the Fall, but ours is a time of descending shadow.  We face the sort of days Jesus warned about.  Sin is rampant everywhere, and the love of many is growing colder by the minute. 

How does one live in such a world? 

Carry the fire. 

That is Paul’s advice to Timothy, his son in the faith.  Not in so many words, but it’s what he means. 

He breaks his advice down into four main points.    

First, we must keep a clear head in every situation.  Rudyard Kipling’s famous poem, A Father’s Advice to his Son, begins, ‘if you can keep your head about you, when others are losing theirs and blaming it on you…’  That seems to sum things up well.   People around us have lost their heads.  But disciples of Jesus must not lose theirs.  We must, as the author of Hebrews puts it, keep our eyes fixed upon Jesus.  While others wander into myths, we must remain deeply rooted in the way, truth, and life of our Lord.  We must, as Rich Mullins sang years ago, continue as the children who love while the nations rage.

Second, we must not be afraid of suffering.  Too many believers have been silent in these times, fearful of the repercussions of speaking truth into the darkness.  Church leaders have feared losing their flocks, ministries, or positions.  Ordinary believers (as if there were such a thing!) fear losing friends and community standing.  Folks, if we’re fearful of such things now, what will we do when things get worse?  Paul wrote to Timothy from prison, awaiting his own death.  The very next verses in his letter tell of how he was being poured out as a drink offering for his faith.  Yet Paul was not afraid of suffering.  He knew it was part of what can happen when you live faithfully for Jesus.  Flannery O’Connor put her finger on the problem of people who don’t understand this basic truth when she wrote, ‘they think faith is a big electric blanket, when of course it is a cross.’  As believers living in a world that is cold and growing colder, we had better be prepared to pick up ours and follow Jesus.  We cannot be afraid. If the world is to find hope beyond the darkness of our times, we must do what we have been called to do. 

Third, we are to work at telling others the Good News.  Some translations put this, ‘do the work of an evangelist.’  An evangelist is one who proclaims Good News.  We who follow Jesus have the best news of all and have been empowered to share it far and wide.  The Kingdom has come.  There is another way to live.  We need not be captive to either strange myths or our darkest impulses.  People must know this. We must stand at the crossroads and live out the values of the Kingdom, pointing the world to Jesus and his way.  To paraphrase N.T. Wright, it is our call to preach hope wherever there is hopelessness, justice wherever there is injustice, peace wherever there is violence, and love wherever there is hatred.  We are to preach Jesus, incarnate, crucified, and resurrected to a world that is cold and growing colder, that it might find the warmth it needs to thrive again. 

And finally, we are to fully complete the ministry that God has given us.  This will be different for each of us.  But every Christian has a ministry.  Whatever it is, whether it is running a global ministry, pastoring a small church, caring for a handicapped child, preserving the beauty of God’s creation, loving the neighbor across the street, or any number of other wonderful things, we are to continue to bloom wherever God has planted us until we are directed to another mission field or else our race has run.  God will show us, each day, what he desires us to do.  Ours is to draw close to him, discern his will, and perform whatever task he gives.  In a world that is cold and growing colder, this may seem to not make much difference at times.  No matter.  We must be faithful to the end.  We must do what is right.  We must follow the lead of our Lord and Savior. And trust the rest to him. 

This is how we live in times such as ours.  We do not give up.  We fight the good fight.  We finish the course.  We keep the faith.  We pass on the torch of faith to those who come behind us.  Just as those who carried it faithfully in the past passed it along to us. 

The world is dark and cold my friends, and things may get darker and colder still in days to come.

Carry the fire.

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

It’s Time to Abandon the Empire

‘Whenever the Spirit of God blows like a hurricane through Christian history, it is through prophets and lovers who have surrendered unconditionally to the folly of the Cross’ – Brennan Manning

It was tough living in first century Palestine, at least if you were a faithful Jew.  Herod the Great, and his sons after him, collaborated with Rome to impose Greco-Roman politics and culture upon Israel with evangelistic fervor. The way of Herod, aka the way of empire, the way of wielding power from above to impose one’s will upon those below, was having its way throughout the land. This was the world of Jesus.

In his book, The Jesus Way, Eugene Peterson points out something rather remarkable about Jesus and his time: despite the virtual omnipresence of the Roman Empire and its puppet kings, Jesus pretty much went about his business as if they didn’t exist. Only once did he briefly mention the emperor (Mark 12:17), and it was the same with the house of Herod (Luke 13:32).  He called Herod Antipas a ‘fox,’ which was just enough of an insult to let everyone know what he thought of that family’s wily political ways. Not that he was unaffected by these miscreants. He certainly was. His birth in Bethlehem was brought about by imperial edict. As a toddler he fled with his refugee family to escape Herod’s mania.  As a craftsman in Nazareth he felt the financial pinch of the empire’s oppressive taxation. As an itinerant preacher he walked among centurions and soldiers who jealously eyed him with suspicion.   And at the end of his life he was deemed a political enemy of the state and crucified under orders of the Roman Governor Pilate.  Even his grave was guarded by Roman soldiers. From birth to death, Jesus life was ramed by the politics and policies of empire. 

But he never let the empire dictate the course of his life.  He simply swam in its waters (without ‘getting wet,’ i.e., being contaminated by them) as he heeded the voice of his Father.  Never once did he seek to use the empire’s power to further his message. He never petitioned it for a redress of grievances (though the Gospels show evidence of other religious leaders doing just that). He never asked Herod to implement just laws or further the Kingdom of God on earth. It is striking that during the greatest injustice ever perpetrated, his own arrest and trial, he never once asked either Herod or Pilate for mercy.  In fact, he was silent before Herod, and largely so before Pilate.  To the latter he would only say that his Kingdom didn’t operate along the lines of power politics and violence, as Pilate’s did, and that in any event his life was in his Father’s hands, not Rome’s. In other words, even when the regents of the world stood before him and asked for his input on the subject of his own death, he pretty much ignored them. 

This is not to say he never addressed the powers of his day.  On the contrary, he challenged them at every turn. His every move in life was, in a sense, a political act; a statement in word or action that decried the way of empire and violence. But he never employed the ways and means of the empire to make his case. He never sought political power or assistance. He never enmeshed himself, even to the slightest degree, in the empire’s methods. He simply went about his Father’s business, strolling about the dominion of the empire, showing everyone another way to change the world.

There are of course many reasons why he took this approach. But most crucial is that empire simply wasn’t his Father’s way. His Fathers way was (and is) the way of the Cross, which Paul described as the wisdom of God and the power of God (1 Corinthians 1:24). Jesus knew that using the ways and means of empire to make the world a better place would be useless. Might as well try to make the sun rise in the west. The empire was the empire was the empire, and always would be. There was nothing to gain by becoming entangled with it and everything to lose. Get involved in the empire, pursue its ways, and you’ll only end up talking, looking, and smelling like the empire. You might gain at least a part of the world, but in the process lose your own soul (Mark 8:36). Much better, and ultimately far more effective, to follow the way of the Cross.

Such thoughts race through my mind today in the wake of Donald Trump’s second acquittal in the Senate, supposedly the ‘greatest deliberative body on earth.’  We all knew how it would end. And we were right. If you were hoping for another outcome you were fooling yourself. You were counting on an empire to do the right thing. But an empire is an empire is an empire. It never does the right thing. Maybe once in a blue moon it makes a move in the right direction.  Even a blind pig will occasionally find a truffle.  But in the end, the forces of empire, the power players who long to impose their will on those below them, always manage to get their way. It was empire that created the system after all, and it works exactly the way empire intends. 

I’ve spent several years now lamenting and fighting the empire, or at least the version known as Trumpism.  But after everything that’s happened, Trumpism is still alive, still menacing the nation in the wake of insurrection. I will continue to stand against it, of course, but in coming days I’m going to do better at remembering the tactics of Jesus. I’m resolving to spend less time paying attention to what the empire is doing. Sure, I will vote. I will speak out about issues that matter. I will stand against racism, seek solidarity with the vulnerable, work to preserve the beauty of God’s creation, lots of things.  I may even show up at a protest or two. But I am not going to expend the best parts of myself watching and worrying about the minutiae of what the empire is doing, thinking that by doing so I can somehow will it to do the right thing. The vote today proves what I really knew all along.  It never will.   

So, instead, I’m going to follow the way of the cross. I’m going to stroll around the dominion of empire doing my best to show everyone another way to change the world. I’m going to try to be more like my Jesus (I am well aware of how far I fall short of that standard), the one who went about his business of challenging the empire and its ways without seeming to notice it. My life will still be lived in the shadow of the beast, as his was, and in some ways shaped by the beast’s designs and machinations. But I will not waste my time worrying about those designs and machinations. I will instead seek my Fathers will and place myself in his hands. I will live by the creed of another Kingdom, not the Pilatian, Herodian, or Trumpian kingdoms of the world.   

Will doing this make a difference? I have no idea.  It really isn’t any of my concern. In the inside cover of my Bible I have taped a quote from Brother Dominique, a friend and mentor of the late Brennan Manning. It reads:

‘All that is not the love of God has no meaning for me.  I can truthfully say that I have no interest in anything but the love of God which is in Christ Jesus.  If God wants it to, my life will be useful through my word and witness.  If he wants it to, it will bear fruit through my prayers and sacrifices.  But the usefulness of my life is His concern, not mine.  It would be indecent of me to worry about that.’[1]

It’s time to get out of the shallow end of the pool and live that statement to the full.

Let the chips fall where they may. I will trust God and follow Jesus.  I will follow the way of the Cross.

As Shane Claiborne and Chris Haw say, ‘enough with the donkeys and elephants. It’s time for the Lamb.’

It’s time to abandon the empire. 

Under Christ’s Mercy,

Brent

[1] From All is Grace, by Brennan Manning.