By chance, the other night I caught the last minutes of one of the 24-hour news channels’ documentary about the Kentucky State Penitentiary. The end of the program’s focus on a particular inmate’s release from prison included his hopes for a new life “on the outside,” his uncertainty about what awaited him once beyond the high, thick stone walls surrounding his many-years home away from home, and his belief that whatever was out there would be an improvement over life in the slammer.
I stayed with the final stages of the documentary in part because of a soft spot in my heart for the Bluegrass State, having served a church there for three years while in seminary. But more, I stayed because of this inmate on his way to becoming an ex-con. One scene showed him taking his final walk along the pathway of his cellblock, exchanging brief palm slaps with men whom bad choices had made familiar company. Next for him was a stop in the paperwork office, still in handcuffs and leg irons, then finally down a long staircase to freedom.
It was that farewell cellblock walk that got me. The inmate’s imprisonment nearly over, his personal journey about to take a dramatic turn, I experienced spiritual hope and longing as I watched his processional. But the prison from which I saw myself exiting was not formed of rock and barbed wire; it was made of selfishness, pride, anger, failure, isolation, and fear, to name a few. Inspired by this reinvented Kentuckian, I felt myself making a sojourn toward the exit of my personal prison.
Or, at least I wanted to make that sojourn.
There was a complication. See, the governor had issued my pardon. Upon my acceptance of the release, I would be free. As I walked the cellblock of my prison, I looked into the dank, cluttered, worthless cubicles occupied by my “criminal” elements – the selfishness, the pride, etc. I knew them well. I had made frequent company with them...in my previous stays in the prison.
It was a good thing that the governor had served for a long time, had become quite familiar with my case, and had developed an as-yet inexplicable affection for me – a good thing, because I needed the assist. Without the governor’s altruistic bias, I would be a lifer, for sure. So many times I had been pardoned. So many times I locked myself up again.
The complication was that as I walked the cellblock, sensing freedom within my spirit’s reach, I wondered whether this release would be the one that lasted, whether I would finally take advantage of the cleansing of my personal file. Or, would I yet again waste the offer and return to those cold, lonely cells.
These weeks before Jesus makes his walk to the cross are a good time for us to survey our spiritual surroundings. What kind of prison are you living in? Who are your cellmates? Where do you spend most of your broken life? (If your life isn’t broken anywhere, excuse this post’s interruption.)
The one who walks to the cross is the one who delivers word of your and my pardon. He’s the one who invites us out of our cells into the light of a new day, a new life. And best of all, he’s confident that those who follow him out of prison can make it on the outside.
As I watched that Kentucky inmate walk to his freedom, something stirred in me. It was as if I was lifted above the complications and the failures of my past. It was as if this time I could successfully accept the warden’s kind offer. Call that overoptimism, if you want; I call it hope, a hope that filled my heart, quickened my step, and prompted me to want to catch up to Jesus.
Your cell door’s open, too.
Pray with me:
God, Jesus came to announce my pardon. I have heard that line before...as have you. May this time be different. Not because you’re different – grace doesn’t need to change – but because I’m different. May my walk to the cross sign, seal, and deliver me into a new life. In the name of Jesus, Amen.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Friday, February 23, 2007
Toward the Garden
The institutional church calls these weeks before Easter the season of Lent; I call them a struggle. There is such a storm swirling in my spirit currently, I expect this will prove to be one of the most poignant, troubled, and, perhaps, productive Lenten journeys of my life.
You will notice that “productive” is the only adjective in any way modified in the previous sentence, meaning that I am fairly certain only about the season’s troubled poignancy. Why that certainty? Because my struggle is so profound. Because I’m asking really hard questions — of myself, likely; for God’s response, preferably — and finding very few answers.
Here’s a taste:
“Why have you put me on this road? Don’t you know, can’t you see my failings? There are hundreds, probably millions better suited for what you’re asking me to do.”
“Or perhaps you’re not calling me at all. Maybe I’m just a bad reader of your tea leaves. I assume you’re not so dastardly as to mislead me, so if there’s mistake, it’s mine. But how am I supposed to figure that out?”
“Do you have any idea what it’s like to have rain falling from so many directions? It doesn’t matter how I turn, there is some part of me exposed to the storm. Was that part of your design? If so, just want you to know, it’s working.”
The questions I actually shout to God specify settings and circumstances, of course – more detail than my comfort zoning laws permit at the moment. As Joe Friday of “Dragnet” fame might say, only the names have been removed to protect the deficient.
It’s a risky business, this piece. Readers who don’t know me may question the value of such cloaked confession. The curious, regardless of their connection, may speculate about the underlying culprits. Some may just want to fix it, whatever “it” is.
People in tune with my agenda, however, will receive my words as permission for their own struggles. I don’t want you to heal me; I want you to join me. I don’t want you to fix my failings; I want you to identify your own.
Identify, but don’t expect to fix. It’s worth remembering that from the river Jordan’s baptismal waters Jesus doesn’t rise to head straight for Jerusalem’s cross; and in Gethsemene’s garden, Jesus makes three trips to the prayer chapel before he faces his crucifying accusers. If it took Jesus a while to piece his life together, we shouldn’t surprised by our struggles.
I wish there were a quicker, simpler, less painful way to wrestle with life, but there doesn’t seem to be. It seems the only way to get through storms is to hang on, wake up the master, and then learn from what he tells you – which is likely to have something to do with faith, and your lack of it. In fact, as I write this paragraph I hear the Spirit’s still small voice asking why I am no more trusting than I am. “I think you call it practicing what you preach,” says that pesky presence. No, Spirit. Right now I call it a pain.
I can’t know your struggles, or whether you have any. Whatever your circumstance, I wish for you a profound journey to the cross. I pray you will ask lots of questions, cry more than a few tears, let go of some long-cherished but misguided ideas, and discover that you wouldn’t be where you are without the one who’s prodding you along toward where you’re headed, wherever that is. If I do all that myself, maybe I’ll remove “perhaps” from this post’s first paragraph; maybe. But until then, it’s back to the questions and tears and....
Pray with me:
God, you sent Jesus...to die. Now you want to send me...to do only you know what. Make it clear. Speak it loud. Address my confusion. Get me in and out of my “garden” quickly..........or not. In the name of Jesus, Amen.
You will notice that “productive” is the only adjective in any way modified in the previous sentence, meaning that I am fairly certain only about the season’s troubled poignancy. Why that certainty? Because my struggle is so profound. Because I’m asking really hard questions — of myself, likely; for God’s response, preferably — and finding very few answers.
Here’s a taste:
“Why have you put me on this road? Don’t you know, can’t you see my failings? There are hundreds, probably millions better suited for what you’re asking me to do.”
“Or perhaps you’re not calling me at all. Maybe I’m just a bad reader of your tea leaves. I assume you’re not so dastardly as to mislead me, so if there’s mistake, it’s mine. But how am I supposed to figure that out?”
“Do you have any idea what it’s like to have rain falling from so many directions? It doesn’t matter how I turn, there is some part of me exposed to the storm. Was that part of your design? If so, just want you to know, it’s working.”
The questions I actually shout to God specify settings and circumstances, of course – more detail than my comfort zoning laws permit at the moment. As Joe Friday of “Dragnet” fame might say, only the names have been removed to protect the deficient.
It’s a risky business, this piece. Readers who don’t know me may question the value of such cloaked confession. The curious, regardless of their connection, may speculate about the underlying culprits. Some may just want to fix it, whatever “it” is.
People in tune with my agenda, however, will receive my words as permission for their own struggles. I don’t want you to heal me; I want you to join me. I don’t want you to fix my failings; I want you to identify your own.
Identify, but don’t expect to fix. It’s worth remembering that from the river Jordan’s baptismal waters Jesus doesn’t rise to head straight for Jerusalem’s cross; and in Gethsemene’s garden, Jesus makes three trips to the prayer chapel before he faces his crucifying accusers. If it took Jesus a while to piece his life together, we shouldn’t surprised by our struggles.
I wish there were a quicker, simpler, less painful way to wrestle with life, but there doesn’t seem to be. It seems the only way to get through storms is to hang on, wake up the master, and then learn from what he tells you – which is likely to have something to do with faith, and your lack of it. In fact, as I write this paragraph I hear the Spirit’s still small voice asking why I am no more trusting than I am. “I think you call it practicing what you preach,” says that pesky presence. No, Spirit. Right now I call it a pain.
I can’t know your struggles, or whether you have any. Whatever your circumstance, I wish for you a profound journey to the cross. I pray you will ask lots of questions, cry more than a few tears, let go of some long-cherished but misguided ideas, and discover that you wouldn’t be where you are without the one who’s prodding you along toward where you’re headed, wherever that is. If I do all that myself, maybe I’ll remove “perhaps” from this post’s first paragraph; maybe. But until then, it’s back to the questions and tears and....
Pray with me:
God, you sent Jesus...to die. Now you want to send me...to do only you know what. Make it clear. Speak it loud. Address my confusion. Get me in and out of my “garden” quickly..........or not. In the name of Jesus, Amen.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
It's Not Me!
An ESPN radio affiliate asked former NBA star Tim Hardaway for a response to current player John Amaechi’s coming out (acknowledging his homosexuality). Hardaway said,
"You know, I hate gay people, so I let it be known. I don't like gay people and I don't like to be around gay people. I am homophobic. I don't like it. It shouldn't be in the world or in the United States."
The next day, pressured by media scrutiny and public scorn, Hardaway recanted this way:
"Yes, I regret it. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said I hate gay people or anything like that. That was my mistake."
He was sorry he said it.
* He didn’t say he was sorry he felt it.
* He didn’t say he was sorry for being so intolerant and hostile.
He was sorry he said it.
Presumably, if he hadn’t said it, or perhaps had he said it in a smaller forum – perhaps to weekly newspaper, a radio station without consequential network connections, or just “the guys” at the gym – he wouldn’t have felt sorry. Or, if he had not said it at all – if he had said to the radio anchor, “I really don’t know enough about that situation to comment on it” – he also could have avoided the guilt.
But he said it. So, he was sorry.
Tim Hardaway is my new hero.
He replaces Mel Gibson, the movie mogul whose bigoted rant to a law enforcement officer during a traffic stop last year made headlines and led the “Passion” man into rehab. In a statement following his arrest, Gibson blamed the outburst on his alcohol addiction. Said Mel,
“I acted like a person completely out of control when I was arrested, and said things that I do not believe to be true and which are despicable.”
So – again, presumably – had he not hit the sauce, had he driven past the bar or cast out the unopened bottles, he wouldn’t have said those nasty things, and would not have had to apologize...for the alcohol. After all, he says he didn’t believe the things he said. He just said them...because of the alcohol.
Hardaway’s and Gibson’s explanations reflect a dangerous sleight-of-words. The truth is each man harbors rage and hatred for particular pieces of the human family. Whether based on sexual orientation or ethnic/religious heritage, their venom is real. Hardaway distracts us from his by apologizing for speaking it (but not for owning it). Gibson hopes the “My name is Mel, and I’m an alcoholic,” line will prompt sympathy, not skepticism.
And it may work. As a culture we seem to appreciate, or at least enjoy, how our glitterati extract themselves from pitfalls and pratfalls. Maybe it’s because their failings help us feel better about ourselves. Maybe it’s because we’re genuinely a forgiving culture. The allure of those attempted resurrections doesn’t concern me, however, nearly as much as the phoniness of their cover stories.
Tim Hardaway should tomorrow speak on-air with the same radio host who received his anti-gay bashing. He should say something like,
“My words make obvious that there is something wrong with me. You don’t say that kind of garbage unless there’s something wrong with you. I just want you to know I am not going to stop until I find out what’s wrong with me. Until then, I apologize the John Amaechi, to the NBA, to the gay and lesbian community, and to everyone else I offended. I shouldn’t have said it, of course. But much more important, I refuse to harbor it.”
Mel Gibson should make an appointment with the same officer and dashboard camera to whom and on which he disbursed his hatred. He should say something like,
“The words I spoke to you were my words, not the alcohol’s. Yes, I was drunk. Yes, I am in recovery. But the words were mine. Drunk or not, you don’t say the kind of garbage I said unless there is something ELSE wrong with you. I am as determined to find out why I hate so much as I am to deal with my alcoholism. I apologize, not for being a drunk – that’s my personal burden – but for being a hateful drunk, which is my personal shame.”
Those are apologies I could accept...but won’t get.
Pray with me:
Help me take responsibility for my actions. Don’t let me excuse myself without owning myself. But then be sure to provide for my healing, too. Confession might be good for the soul, but it’s also quite painful. In the name of Jesus, Amen.
"You know, I hate gay people, so I let it be known. I don't like gay people and I don't like to be around gay people. I am homophobic. I don't like it. It shouldn't be in the world or in the United States."
The next day, pressured by media scrutiny and public scorn, Hardaway recanted this way:
"Yes, I regret it. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said I hate gay people or anything like that. That was my mistake."
He was sorry he said it.
* He didn’t say he was sorry he felt it.
* He didn’t say he was sorry for being so intolerant and hostile.
He was sorry he said it.
Presumably, if he hadn’t said it, or perhaps had he said it in a smaller forum – perhaps to weekly newspaper, a radio station without consequential network connections, or just “the guys” at the gym – he wouldn’t have felt sorry. Or, if he had not said it at all – if he had said to the radio anchor, “I really don’t know enough about that situation to comment on it” – he also could have avoided the guilt.
But he said it. So, he was sorry.
Tim Hardaway is my new hero.
He replaces Mel Gibson, the movie mogul whose bigoted rant to a law enforcement officer during a traffic stop last year made headlines and led the “Passion” man into rehab. In a statement following his arrest, Gibson blamed the outburst on his alcohol addiction. Said Mel,
“I acted like a person completely out of control when I was arrested, and said things that I do not believe to be true and which are despicable.”
So – again, presumably – had he not hit the sauce, had he driven past the bar or cast out the unopened bottles, he wouldn’t have said those nasty things, and would not have had to apologize...for the alcohol. After all, he says he didn’t believe the things he said. He just said them...because of the alcohol.
Hardaway’s and Gibson’s explanations reflect a dangerous sleight-of-words. The truth is each man harbors rage and hatred for particular pieces of the human family. Whether based on sexual orientation or ethnic/religious heritage, their venom is real. Hardaway distracts us from his by apologizing for speaking it (but not for owning it). Gibson hopes the “My name is Mel, and I’m an alcoholic,” line will prompt sympathy, not skepticism.
And it may work. As a culture we seem to appreciate, or at least enjoy, how our glitterati extract themselves from pitfalls and pratfalls. Maybe it’s because their failings help us feel better about ourselves. Maybe it’s because we’re genuinely a forgiving culture. The allure of those attempted resurrections doesn’t concern me, however, nearly as much as the phoniness of their cover stories.
Tim Hardaway should tomorrow speak on-air with the same radio host who received his anti-gay bashing. He should say something like,
“My words make obvious that there is something wrong with me. You don’t say that kind of garbage unless there’s something wrong with you. I just want you to know I am not going to stop until I find out what’s wrong with me. Until then, I apologize the John Amaechi, to the NBA, to the gay and lesbian community, and to everyone else I offended. I shouldn’t have said it, of course. But much more important, I refuse to harbor it.”
Mel Gibson should make an appointment with the same officer and dashboard camera to whom and on which he disbursed his hatred. He should say something like,
“The words I spoke to you were my words, not the alcohol’s. Yes, I was drunk. Yes, I am in recovery. But the words were mine. Drunk or not, you don’t say the kind of garbage I said unless there is something ELSE wrong with you. I am as determined to find out why I hate so much as I am to deal with my alcoholism. I apologize, not for being a drunk – that’s my personal burden – but for being a hateful drunk, which is my personal shame.”
Those are apologies I could accept...but won’t get.
Pray with me:
Help me take responsibility for my actions. Don’t let me excuse myself without owning myself. But then be sure to provide for my healing, too. Confession might be good for the soul, but it’s also quite painful. In the name of Jesus, Amen.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
New Feature: Guest Writers
While writing this blog is a joy for me, I recognize that countless numbers of people – principal among whom are Express readers, of course – bear witness to the journey of following Jesus. Hence, from the first vision of what this space could become, I anticipated one day welcoming other writers to the Express’ main page. With the post below this one, my long-time friend and colleague Greg Guy, a congregational pastor in Kansas, brings life to the vision. I encourage you to respond to Greg’s reflections on doubt via its Comments link, just as you would to any other Express posting.
And I encourage you to make your own contribution to the Express. From the 11 previous posts, it should be clear that almost anything is fair game. If it’s a reflection/opinion/inspiration/exasperation that somehow arises from your attempts to follow Jesus, tell us about it. Whether via 25 words or 500, write to let us know what you think, question, or rebel against. We may agree. We may disagree. But we will always appreciate your efforts.
Proposed Express submissions should be sent to me personally by e-mail: ybubill@yahoo.com. I reserve the right to edit, though that will be done primarily for formatting, not for content. (TRANSLATION: I will not be held responsible for what YOU write!)
Thanks for sharing the ride,
Bill
And I encourage you to make your own contribution to the Express. From the 11 previous posts, it should be clear that almost anything is fair game. If it’s a reflection/opinion/inspiration/exasperation that somehow arises from your attempts to follow Jesus, tell us about it. Whether via 25 words or 500, write to let us know what you think, question, or rebel against. We may agree. We may disagree. But we will always appreciate your efforts.
Proposed Express submissions should be sent to me personally by e-mail: ybubill@yahoo.com. I reserve the right to edit, though that will be done primarily for formatting, not for content. (TRANSLATION: I will not be held responsible for what YOU write!)
Thanks for sharing the ride,
Bill
Friday, February 16, 2007
GUEST WRITER: Greg Guy
I have been reading a book entitled, “The Myth of Certainty,” by Daniel Taylor. It has seemed to me for a long time that doubt has a part to play in the life of faith. Daniel Taylor offers this insight,
“Perhaps doubt, rather than something to be crushed, can be made to serve faith. Doubt can only be robbed of its paralyzing and destructive qualities when it is admitted for what it is – which isn’t nearly as much as it appears when not admitted – and is accounted for in the process of faith. Normally doubt is seen as sapping faith’s strength. Why not the reverse? Where there is doubt, faith has its reason for being. Clearly faith is not needed where certainty supposedly exists, but only in situations where doubt is possible, even present.”
This topic of faith and doubt remind me of the story found in Mark 9. A father brings his boy who has an evil spirit to the disciples. They were not able to drive out the spirit so then Jesus becomes involved. There is some conversation between Jesus and the father with the father asking, “If you can do anything, take pity on us and help us.” Jesus responds, The father responded, “If you can? Everything is possible for him who believes.” “I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!” Jesus rebukes the evil spirit, the boy is healed, and the disciples ask Jesus in private why they could not drive out the evil spirit. Jesus replied, “This kind can come out only by prayer.”
I identify with the father who seems to express faith and doubt at the very same moment. I need help with my doubt but not in order to gain certainty. Instead I need help with my doubt in order to take the next step of faith.
Faith for the Christian is expressed in following Jesus. He is the one we place our trust in. Jesus had faith in God and believed that all things were possible, but even Jesus expressed a moment of doubt when on the cross he offered these words, “My God, my God why have you forsaken me.” That moment of doubt was followed by an expression of faith and trust, “Into thy hands I commit my spirit.”
Whatever doubts you are struggling with, I encourage you to consider them a part of your faith journey and then offer this prayer, “I believe; help me overcome my unbelief.”
Amen!
“Perhaps doubt, rather than something to be crushed, can be made to serve faith. Doubt can only be robbed of its paralyzing and destructive qualities when it is admitted for what it is – which isn’t nearly as much as it appears when not admitted – and is accounted for in the process of faith. Normally doubt is seen as sapping faith’s strength. Why not the reverse? Where there is doubt, faith has its reason for being. Clearly faith is not needed where certainty supposedly exists, but only in situations where doubt is possible, even present.”
This topic of faith and doubt remind me of the story found in Mark 9. A father brings his boy who has an evil spirit to the disciples. They were not able to drive out the spirit so then Jesus becomes involved. There is some conversation between Jesus and the father with the father asking, “If you can do anything, take pity on us and help us.” Jesus responds, The father responded, “If you can? Everything is possible for him who believes.” “I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!” Jesus rebukes the evil spirit, the boy is healed, and the disciples ask Jesus in private why they could not drive out the evil spirit. Jesus replied, “This kind can come out only by prayer.”
I identify with the father who seems to express faith and doubt at the very same moment. I need help with my doubt but not in order to gain certainty. Instead I need help with my doubt in order to take the next step of faith.
Faith for the Christian is expressed in following Jesus. He is the one we place our trust in. Jesus had faith in God and believed that all things were possible, but even Jesus expressed a moment of doubt when on the cross he offered these words, “My God, my God why have you forsaken me.” That moment of doubt was followed by an expression of faith and trust, “Into thy hands I commit my spirit.”
Whatever doubts you are struggling with, I encourage you to consider them a part of your faith journey and then offer this prayer, “I believe; help me overcome my unbelief.”
Amen!
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
A Splitting Headache
I heard a law firm’s commercial on a Chicago radio station today. The firm’s toll-free number is anything but subtle: 1-***-Get-Split (the asterisks foreshadow the coming editorial).
The ad marketed a divorce lawyer, and began with a woman asking her lover about his plans to leave his wife.
“I thought you told me you were going to leave your wife....?" she asked, exasperation dripping from her voice.
“I would have,” replied the man, “but it’s so complicated to get a divorce these days.”
At the close of an announcer’s description of the virtues of the divorce lawyer offering his services came this heartfelt plea:
“Don’t spend another Valentine’s Day in an unhappy marriage. Call 1-***-Get Split.”
Everything about that ad bothered me. From its context to its conclusion, from its jingle to its view of justice, I held those 30 seconds in contempt.
It’s not that I am unsympathetic to people in difficult marriages. My goodness, as a divorcee myself, I am in no position to cast aspersions. It’s that the ad validates a commonly held dim view of our culture, a view I have not wanted to accept: that we have cheapened the institution of marriage, that we have made too accessible its escape hatches.
Digest a bit of the commercial’s context. First, there’s an extra-marital affair – never, not once ever, a good thing. Then there’s a cheating husband who relies on a tangled legal system to justify his ongoing sham of a marriage. And finally, there’s the toll free number the lawyer’s firm has chosen – “Get Split.” Get out!
Maybe it shouldn’t surprise us that half of all marriages end in divorce, when our culture tolerates marketing ploys such as this one. If we’re willing to lure customers through lurid dramatizations of dysfunctional relationships, if we’re willing to play to the base instincts of people in order to develop a customer base, my goodness, no wonder marriage is in such trouble.
By this column I mean no disrespect toward, no judgment on people who toil in broken marriages. I understand, I know first hand that divorce is sometimes the best choice among a sea of awful ones. But let’s support people through divorce, not glorify the outcome. Let’s encourage people in marriage, not simplify the dissolution of it. If people can’t or won’t make it through their conflicts, if the courthouse rather than the confessional is the final arbiter of a relational breakdown, so be it. But may it not be said of us that we made it worse, or that we helped people find the three digit extension in a phone number like “1-***-Get-Split.”
Pray with me:
God, all relationships of any depth are hard work. Whether family, or friend, or co-worker, every serious connection in our lives is a risk. Help me speak love and hope to people in wounded marriages. Help me offer support and encouragement to people working their way through or following divorce. Help me be an agent of reconciliation, first and foremost through the example of the way I handle my own relationships. In the name of Jesus, Amen.
The ad marketed a divorce lawyer, and began with a woman asking her lover about his plans to leave his wife.
“I thought you told me you were going to leave your wife....?" she asked, exasperation dripping from her voice.
“I would have,” replied the man, “but it’s so complicated to get a divorce these days.”
At the close of an announcer’s description of the virtues of the divorce lawyer offering his services came this heartfelt plea:
“Don’t spend another Valentine’s Day in an unhappy marriage. Call 1-***-Get Split.”
Everything about that ad bothered me. From its context to its conclusion, from its jingle to its view of justice, I held those 30 seconds in contempt.
It’s not that I am unsympathetic to people in difficult marriages. My goodness, as a divorcee myself, I am in no position to cast aspersions. It’s that the ad validates a commonly held dim view of our culture, a view I have not wanted to accept: that we have cheapened the institution of marriage, that we have made too accessible its escape hatches.
Digest a bit of the commercial’s context. First, there’s an extra-marital affair – never, not once ever, a good thing. Then there’s a cheating husband who relies on a tangled legal system to justify his ongoing sham of a marriage. And finally, there’s the toll free number the lawyer’s firm has chosen – “Get Split.” Get out!
Maybe it shouldn’t surprise us that half of all marriages end in divorce, when our culture tolerates marketing ploys such as this one. If we’re willing to lure customers through lurid dramatizations of dysfunctional relationships, if we’re willing to play to the base instincts of people in order to develop a customer base, my goodness, no wonder marriage is in such trouble.
By this column I mean no disrespect toward, no judgment on people who toil in broken marriages. I understand, I know first hand that divorce is sometimes the best choice among a sea of awful ones. But let’s support people through divorce, not glorify the outcome. Let’s encourage people in marriage, not simplify the dissolution of it. If people can’t or won’t make it through their conflicts, if the courthouse rather than the confessional is the final arbiter of a relational breakdown, so be it. But may it not be said of us that we made it worse, or that we helped people find the three digit extension in a phone number like “1-***-Get-Split.”
Pray with me:
God, all relationships of any depth are hard work. Whether family, or friend, or co-worker, every serious connection in our lives is a risk. Help me speak love and hope to people in wounded marriages. Help me offer support and encouragement to people working their way through or following divorce. Help me be an agent of reconciliation, first and foremost through the example of the way I handle my own relationships. In the name of Jesus, Amen.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Name a Star After Someone Else!
Well, I’ve about had it. With celebrity, that is.
Britney. Branjolina. Boring!
At the moment it’s the death of Anna Nicole Smith: How did she die? Who’s the father of her baby? When did Zsa Zsa Gabor marry a prince?
Hear me: I don’t care about Anna Nicole Smith! That sounds terrible, I grant, but it’s true. Of course I feel for her family in their grief, and for Ms. Smith herself, given the many challenges that complicated her life. But I don’t care, I have neither reason nor desire to care about her death...
...any more than I should care about the dozens of Iraqi civilians who will die in sectarian violence today, or the 90 year old who wanders in the fog of Alzheimer’s Disease, or the child who stubbed his or her toe for the first time last night.
My objection to our cultural obsession with celebrity is at least two-fold. First, vicarious living is vacuous living. That is, in our culture people read “People,” watch “Access Hollywood,” and manage blog shrines to their favorites, all in a condescending masquerade whose aim is to experience the interest and excitement their own lives lack.
That’s condescending, not to the stars, but to God, because God didn’t go through the trouble of giving each of us our own shot of life, just to have us search for some kind of after-market life through the (mis)fortunes of the rich, famous, and tawdry. God gave us what we needed, in the amount and to the degree we needed it, for the reasons we needed it. No celebrities required.
My second objection to our cultural obsession is that it objectifies and minimizes people. Practitioners of celebrity obsession use their targets because for them the stars serve purposes, meet needs, and fill voids. For such users, the rich and well known are not people – children of God – they are instruments of pleasure and distraction; they matter not for who they are, but for what they do.
Worse yet, many celebs need their worshipers as much as their worshipers need them.
The sad truth is that celebrity obsession will persist as long as do empty lives. Just as plant roots in dry ground sprawl out in search of water, so do empty lives search for filler. We obviously have to offer healthier, more person-affirming filler. His name would be Jesus.
I probably don’t need to tell readers of this blog about Jesus’ penchant for spending time with the indigent, the outcast, the infirmed, and the lonely; seldom did he hob knob with the rich and famous. Neither do I need to remind them of his conversation with Peter following the resurrection, in which he asked whether Peter loved him. Peter, of course, said yes. Jesus replied, “Then feed my sheep.” That is, if you worship me, if I become the filler for your empty life, you will turn your attention to someone else. You will go meet a need, feed a hunger, or stand up against an oppression.
Turns out, faithful celebrity is neither idol worship nor idle living.
And as for “American Idol,” let me tell you. . . . . . . . .
Pray with me:
God, you are the one I worship. . . at least most of the time. Jesus is my fill. . . when I don’t turn to others. You are my only hope. So fuel me, fill me, then use me for your purposes. Help me keep my idols straight and my faith focused, in the name of Jesus, Amen.
Britney. Branjolina. Boring!
At the moment it’s the death of Anna Nicole Smith: How did she die? Who’s the father of her baby? When did Zsa Zsa Gabor marry a prince?
Hear me: I don’t care about Anna Nicole Smith! That sounds terrible, I grant, but it’s true. Of course I feel for her family in their grief, and for Ms. Smith herself, given the many challenges that complicated her life. But I don’t care, I have neither reason nor desire to care about her death...
...any more than I should care about the dozens of Iraqi civilians who will die in sectarian violence today, or the 90 year old who wanders in the fog of Alzheimer’s Disease, or the child who stubbed his or her toe for the first time last night.
My objection to our cultural obsession with celebrity is at least two-fold. First, vicarious living is vacuous living. That is, in our culture people read “People,” watch “Access Hollywood,” and manage blog shrines to their favorites, all in a condescending masquerade whose aim is to experience the interest and excitement their own lives lack.
That’s condescending, not to the stars, but to God, because God didn’t go through the trouble of giving each of us our own shot of life, just to have us search for some kind of after-market life through the (mis)fortunes of the rich, famous, and tawdry. God gave us what we needed, in the amount and to the degree we needed it, for the reasons we needed it. No celebrities required.
My second objection to our cultural obsession is that it objectifies and minimizes people. Practitioners of celebrity obsession use their targets because for them the stars serve purposes, meet needs, and fill voids. For such users, the rich and well known are not people – children of God – they are instruments of pleasure and distraction; they matter not for who they are, but for what they do.
Worse yet, many celebs need their worshipers as much as their worshipers need them.
The sad truth is that celebrity obsession will persist as long as do empty lives. Just as plant roots in dry ground sprawl out in search of water, so do empty lives search for filler. We obviously have to offer healthier, more person-affirming filler. His name would be Jesus.
I probably don’t need to tell readers of this blog about Jesus’ penchant for spending time with the indigent, the outcast, the infirmed, and the lonely; seldom did he hob knob with the rich and famous. Neither do I need to remind them of his conversation with Peter following the resurrection, in which he asked whether Peter loved him. Peter, of course, said yes. Jesus replied, “Then feed my sheep.” That is, if you worship me, if I become the filler for your empty life, you will turn your attention to someone else. You will go meet a need, feed a hunger, or stand up against an oppression.
Turns out, faithful celebrity is neither idol worship nor idle living.
And as for “American Idol,” let me tell you. . . . . . . . .
Pray with me:
God, you are the one I worship. . . at least most of the time. Jesus is my fill. . . when I don’t turn to others. You are my only hope. So fuel me, fill me, then use me for your purposes. Help me keep my idols straight and my faith focused, in the name of Jesus, Amen.
Thursday, February 8, 2007
I Doubt It
Stressed. Irritable. Anxious.
Such was occasionally my mood Tuesday evening as I anticipated the two events on my Wednesday morning calendar. It doesn’t matter what those two events were. Just know you have them, too:
* Daunting tasks
* Pressing responsibilities
* Challenging errands
* Questions you have to ask or answer
* Deadlines you have to meet or impose
* People you have to confront or contend with.
It wasn’t that I knew things would go badly Wednesday; it was that I feared that they would. That’s it! As Tuesday ended, I feared that Wednesday morning could devolve into failure, that the two events in question would produce unwanted encounters and ill-fated results, that either I or those around me would not respond as needed if I were to avoid. . . . . . . .
You know what? I don’t know what I was afraid of. I just know I was afraid. Not nerves-on-edge fear. Not sweatin’ bullets anxiety. Rather, an internal dis-ease, a disturbed personal equilibrium, an unsettled spirit.
It’s happened to me before. Many times before. Every time I have meetings or events like the two on Wednesday morning, in fact. Same feeling. Same discomfort. Same fear.
There was, however, a glimmer of hope Tuesday night, just before I went to sleep. I remember my saying “God will provide.” Translation: God will get me through the morning. We speak that phrase often in our congregational conversation; I say it myself several times a week. But I knew, saying something was very different from experiencing it.
Wednesday morning came and went. No hitches. No catastrophes. No unresolvable conflicts. In fact, both events went well – much better than my Tuesday night frets projected. Driving away from the second event I whispered a prayer something to the effect, “You did it again, God. Thanks.” Translation: You provided. . . . just like I thought you would.
So if I thought God would provide, why the funk the night before? Ask the father in the ninth chapter of Mark whose son’s body convulses in horrific seizures against which the best efforts of Jesus’ disciples are ineffectual. In response to the father’s request that he do something about his son’s condition, Jesus replies, “Anything is possible if a person believes.” The father says he does believes, but adds, “Lord, help me not to doubt.”
I say ask the father about my funk because he’s me! He believes, or so he says. He probably worships regularly, reads Scripture faithfully, and endorses a “God provides” platform. He must have a developed spirituality of some form – my goodness, he knows enough to seek out Jesus. Yet, his son’s well-being in the hands of history’s greatest healer, the father doubts. That’s me.
My Wednesday morning in the hands of the God of every day, of all time, and I doubted. On record that Jesus can lead me through fire, through storms, through untamed wilderness, and I doubted.
The next time Tuesday night doubts arise I probably won’t escape the nagging fears, but I will know to remember that father’s request of Jesus: Lord, help me not to doubt.
Pray with me:
God, you know me better than I know myself. That makes sense: Creators tend to know their creations. So I guess you know my fears, too. Can you help me understand them? Oh, I would love it if you would take them away, but something tells me I will have to understand them before I conquer them. Something else tells me I won’t do that alone. In fact, the next time a Tuesday night arrives, expect me to call on you. . . . As I do right now in the name of Jesus, Amen.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
P.S. I invite you to leave us a comment about your experience of doubt and fear (if you have any, that is; and if you don’t, then don’t leave us a comment – write us a book!). I suspect this is one topic on which we need to learn a lot from each other.
Such was occasionally my mood Tuesday evening as I anticipated the two events on my Wednesday morning calendar. It doesn’t matter what those two events were. Just know you have them, too:
* Daunting tasks
* Pressing responsibilities
* Challenging errands
* Questions you have to ask or answer
* Deadlines you have to meet or impose
* People you have to confront or contend with.
It wasn’t that I knew things would go badly Wednesday; it was that I feared that they would. That’s it! As Tuesday ended, I feared that Wednesday morning could devolve into failure, that the two events in question would produce unwanted encounters and ill-fated results, that either I or those around me would not respond as needed if I were to avoid. . . . . . . .
You know what? I don’t know what I was afraid of. I just know I was afraid. Not nerves-on-edge fear. Not sweatin’ bullets anxiety. Rather, an internal dis-ease, a disturbed personal equilibrium, an unsettled spirit.
It’s happened to me before. Many times before. Every time I have meetings or events like the two on Wednesday morning, in fact. Same feeling. Same discomfort. Same fear.
There was, however, a glimmer of hope Tuesday night, just before I went to sleep. I remember my saying “God will provide.” Translation: God will get me through the morning. We speak that phrase often in our congregational conversation; I say it myself several times a week. But I knew, saying something was very different from experiencing it.
Wednesday morning came and went. No hitches. No catastrophes. No unresolvable conflicts. In fact, both events went well – much better than my Tuesday night frets projected. Driving away from the second event I whispered a prayer something to the effect, “You did it again, God. Thanks.” Translation: You provided. . . . just like I thought you would.
So if I thought God would provide, why the funk the night before? Ask the father in the ninth chapter of Mark whose son’s body convulses in horrific seizures against which the best efforts of Jesus’ disciples are ineffectual. In response to the father’s request that he do something about his son’s condition, Jesus replies, “Anything is possible if a person believes.” The father says he does believes, but adds, “Lord, help me not to doubt.”
I say ask the father about my funk because he’s me! He believes, or so he says. He probably worships regularly, reads Scripture faithfully, and endorses a “God provides” platform. He must have a developed spirituality of some form – my goodness, he knows enough to seek out Jesus. Yet, his son’s well-being in the hands of history’s greatest healer, the father doubts. That’s me.
My Wednesday morning in the hands of the God of every day, of all time, and I doubted. On record that Jesus can lead me through fire, through storms, through untamed wilderness, and I doubted.
The next time Tuesday night doubts arise I probably won’t escape the nagging fears, but I will know to remember that father’s request of Jesus: Lord, help me not to doubt.
Pray with me:
God, you know me better than I know myself. That makes sense: Creators tend to know their creations. So I guess you know my fears, too. Can you help me understand them? Oh, I would love it if you would take them away, but something tells me I will have to understand them before I conquer them. Something else tells me I won’t do that alone. In fact, the next time a Tuesday night arrives, expect me to call on you. . . . As I do right now in the name of Jesus, Amen.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
P.S. I invite you to leave us a comment about your experience of doubt and fear (if you have any, that is; and if you don’t, then don’t leave us a comment – write us a book!). I suspect this is one topic on which we need to learn a lot from each other.
Friday, February 2, 2007
Super, Man!
Sunday’s the big day!
People across the country will gather to cheer and hope, and probably pray for God’s assistance. Excitement and anticipation will build to a fevered pitch as things kickoff.
Some among the audience of millions will be jacked up, passionately loyal, decked out in all manners of dress. Others will sit in bored silence, waiting for it all to end, present only to impress friends or satisfy somebody’s expectations.
I’ll be there as always, with people of my church and perhaps others (we open our party to all people, but few take us up on the invitation). Right now I’m thinking I’ll be on fire by the time it gets started, but I won’t have a dependable assessment of my mood until the second half. [To be honest, occasionally I, too, get bored – a fact that surprises some people, given how big a fan I claim to be.]
Now that I think about it, you may not have any interest in Sunday’s goings-on. If so, this post hasn’t had much play for you; my apologies. But if I have caught your attention, why not leave a comment telling us how you’re looking forward to worship.
Pray with Me:
God, at the moment we’re a society super games and superheroes – but only one God. Help us be your most effective commercials. Plant seeds of your victory in and through the name of Jesus, Amen.
People across the country will gather to cheer and hope, and probably pray for God’s assistance. Excitement and anticipation will build to a fevered pitch as things kickoff.
Some among the audience of millions will be jacked up, passionately loyal, decked out in all manners of dress. Others will sit in bored silence, waiting for it all to end, present only to impress friends or satisfy somebody’s expectations.
I’ll be there as always, with people of my church and perhaps others (we open our party to all people, but few take us up on the invitation). Right now I’m thinking I’ll be on fire by the time it gets started, but I won’t have a dependable assessment of my mood until the second half. [To be honest, occasionally I, too, get bored – a fact that surprises some people, given how big a fan I claim to be.]
Now that I think about it, you may not have any interest in Sunday’s goings-on. If so, this post hasn’t had much play for you; my apologies. But if I have caught your attention, why not leave a comment telling us how you’re looking forward to worship.
Pray with Me:
God, at the moment we’re a society super games and superheroes – but only one God. Help us be your most effective commercials. Plant seeds of your victory in and through the name of Jesus, Amen.
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